“Percocet?” I said a little too loudly.
“Yeah, or Percocet would be great,” he laughed and glanced
over at me conspiratorially.
It was late Saturday afternoon and we were walking down 6th
Street in Ocean City, heading to the bus that would take us back to Cherry Hill
after finishing an 80-mile charity bike ride to benefit MS.
This was the fifth time I’ve done the ride. The first three
times I was in my late twenties – back when I was much, much younger, much much
stronger and much, much less rigid. We slept in boarding houses in lumpy beds,
drank beer transported in backpacks and got up at the crack of dawn to ride back
the next morning.
While I was raising children, losing cartilage and gaining weight, I often fantasized about doing the MS ride again. I’m not sure why. There were plenty of other things I had done in my youth that would be much more fun to relive. But once I planted the seed in my brain and threw it out to my sister, Emily, and lifelong buddy, Mary Anne, it was a done deal. In 2014, the three of us rode our bicycles 80 miles from Cherry Hill to Ocean City, New Jersey. We didn’t ride back because there was now a one-way option. Good thing, because sleeping in sub-par conditions off-season at the beach was one thing I wasn’t about to do at my advanced age.
While I was raising children, losing cartilage and gaining weight, I often fantasized about doing the MS ride again. I’m not sure why. There were plenty of other things I had done in my youth that would be much more fun to relive. But once I planted the seed in my brain and threw it out to my sister, Emily, and lifelong buddy, Mary Anne, it was a done deal. In 2014, the three of us rode our bicycles 80 miles from Cherry Hill to Ocean City, New Jersey. We didn’t ride back because there was now a one-way option. Good thing, because sleeping in sub-par conditions off-season at the beach was one thing I wasn’t about to do at my advanced age.
I joke about being an old hag, but actually, my
self-perception is that I’m 34 years old. 44 tops. I meet new people and assume
they’re my age only to find out they are way younger. I don’t miss by a year or
two. I miss by decades. I am continually shocked when I catch glimpses of
myself in the mirror or worse, in selfies that accentuate my eye bags, forehead wrinkles
and crepey neck skin. If it weren’t for my stiff joints and range-of-motionless
knees to remind me, I’d honestly believe that I am still a spring chicken.
Which is why, hepped up on over the counter
anti-inflammatories, I was so surprised by the greeting we got as we pulled
into the first rest stop at mile 19 at 8:30 Saturday morning.
The MS ride is filled with an incredible amount of really nice, really encouraging, really helpful volunteers. They make food and serve food. They ride in sag wagons and fix flat tires. They hang motivational road signs on poles and paint directional arrows on streets. They stand in pot holes so we don’t ride in them and they stand at the rest stop entrances en masse hooting and cheering, tooting horns and clanging clangers.
The MS ride is filled with an incredible amount of really nice, really encouraging, really helpful volunteers. They make food and serve food. They ride in sag wagons and fix flat tires. They hang motivational road signs on poles and paint directional arrows on streets. They stand in pot holes so we don’t ride in them and they stand at the rest stop entrances en masse hooting and cheering, tooting horns and clanging clangers.
If I heard “thanks for riding” once, I heard it 1000 times.
Though 19 miles is longer than I usually ride on any given day, Mary Anne and I were cooking. (Sister Emily, in a last minute switch, opted to ride the 45-mile route with our friend, Mike Reynolds. They started south of us and we texted back and forth at rest stops so we’d know what was coming and where we’d meet at the end.) We felt good. We felt strong. We felt young and able.
As we turned into the driveway of the elementary school that hosted the rest stop, we smiled back at the cheerleaders who were screaming and chanting and inspiring us.
Though 19 miles is longer than I usually ride on any given day, Mary Anne and I were cooking. (Sister Emily, in a last minute switch, opted to ride the 45-mile route with our friend, Mike Reynolds. They started south of us and we texted back and forth at rest stops so we’d know what was coming and where we’d meet at the end.) We felt good. We felt strong. We felt young and able.
As we turned into the driveway of the elementary school that hosted the rest stop, we smiled back at the cheerleaders who were screaming and chanting and inspiring us.
But, and I swear I’m not imagining this, more than one of
them looked us in the eye with wonderment.
“Wow!” they exclaimed giving Mary Anne and I huge thumbs
ups. “Way to go, ladies!”
We peed in the (very clean; it was still early)
port-a-potties, hydrated and chewed a handful of cashews in five minutes flat and went on our
merry way.
I’m not a fast rider, but I can hold my own. And, I can keep
up with Mary Anne who, long and lean, is way younger ( almost a full two years), rides
fearlessly and even went on a bike trip through central Cuba last winter. Neither of
us could hold a candle to the Tour de France factions that swished past us aerodynamically
correctly in rapid succession. Nor did we want to. Just as long as we made it
to Ocean City before Mack and Manco’s closed. We wanted our pizza.
At mile 57, in the middle of the online dating story (I had moved
on to my friends’ sordid tales after Mary Anne gently reminded me I had already told her that story back at mile 38), we were passed by
two men about our age.
Now, remember, I have a skewed sense of age so let’s assume that they were closer to 40 than 60. But the point is, they were not kids. As they pedaled past us in their spandex, they gave us the obligatory thumbs up. And when the one handsomely bearded guy glanced over his right shoulder he said, and I kid you not, “Way to go, ladies!”
Now, remember, I have a skewed sense of age so let’s assume that they were closer to 40 than 60. But the point is, they were not kids. As they pedaled past us in their spandex, they gave us the obligatory thumbs up. And when the one handsomely bearded guy glanced over his right shoulder he said, and I kid you not, “Way to go, ladies!”
And when, some four or so miles from the finish, after
panting our way to the top of the second bridge, the bridge purposely arched at
an angle so high that a 13-story ocean liner could cruise gracefully beneath
it, yet another man said, “Way to go, ladies!” I responded with a finger rather
than a thumb.
“It’s not like we’re 90 years-old!” I ranted to Mary Anne. “It's not like we're missing limbs or are 400 pounds or are hunchbacked. I mean, I know we’re not teenagers, but we’re not so old that being able to ride 80 miles should be so shocking! And besides, who are these guys anyway? They’re older than we are.”
“It’s not like we’re 90 years-old!” I ranted to Mary Anne. “It's not like we're missing limbs or are 400 pounds or are hunchbacked. I mean, I know we’re not teenagers, but we’re not so old that being able to ride 80 miles should be so shocking! And besides, who are these guys anyway? They’re older than we are.”
Mary Anne simply raised an eyebrow.
I don’t know if it was the pre-medicating, the handfuls of
cashews I crammed in my mouth or the Diet Coke I had stealthily stashed for
hydration, but when I got off my bike in Ocean City I felt just fine. I didn’t
ache. I didn’t pain. I didn’t dread the bus ride back to Cherry Hill. I almost
(and I do say almost) wish we were staying overnight in the lumpy beds and
riding back the next day.
I felt so good that I actually felt a tinge of pleasure when I overheard the millennial man-child
in the Gore Tex capris begging his girlfriend for pain killers.
But, because I'm old enough to know better, I stifled the words I wanted to spew.
“Way to go, Pops! Way to go!”
But, because I'm old enough to know better, I stifled the words I wanted to spew.
“Way to go, Pops! Way to go!”