I DID IT!!!

I did it. I got off the bench and entered the game. I’d been sidelined by injury but even though the event was slightly premature to have healed completely, I just had to do it. But right up to the start, maybe especially as I was standing with over a thousand other riders at the 40-mile start line, I found myself reconsidering my decision.

A few months ago, somehow I managed to reinjure a ligament and develop tendonitis in my left knee. I’ve been resting, icing, using compressions sleeves and elevating as much as I could given my busy life.  I’d downed anti-inflammatories and gave up dancing. For me, these things are a big inconvenience. I’m an active adult who needs to stay active or it’s whine time.

Often when I am recovering from an injury, I have a focus for my healing – a backpack or in this case, a bike race. It was the ninth year I was scheduled to ride in El Tour de Tucson and the race was not an event I was prepared to give up – even just this once.

The El Tour is special. Cyclist of all levels, including semi-professionals and complete novices ride together along one route with four different starting points. Although each route’s riders start separately, at some point each new group of starters merge with other riders who have already been riding for hours to the colorful, noisy finish line in downtown Tucson.

And there I was, at the 40-mile start. I had signed up for the 55-mile route but in a rare moment of sanity, I decided to downgrade my expectations for a knee that still twisted at odd times bringing ringing pain. The 40 might still be a stretch. Wearing my bike shorts and jersey, a black copper compression sleeve over my knee, I slung my leg over my bike and tucked my foot into the pedal cage.

BANG! And we were off. The 40 attracts a lot of first-time riders and it often shows in the number of accidents, both major and minor, that occur in the first two miles. The ride starts up in Oro Valley, a comfortably posh townlet in the northern suburbs of Tucson. Haven ridden the route before, I knew the first several miles is the hardest part of the race, proceeding up a long hill before dipping back down into a wash and then repeating the effort another mile or so for another wash.

The first 10 miles or so of the race basically traverses the end of a bajada created by the Tortolita Mountains, a lushly rolling and washy desert with many water courses, significant (Honeybee Wash) and insignificant. This means the route, after leaving the excessively well-groomed Rancho Vistoso master-planned community, tends to gently rolling terrain over Moore Road, made bumpy by heavy vehicles, horse trailers and lack of maintenance.  I like this part of the race. Mountains are all around and few houses can be seen. But I especially like what comes next, the long 7-mile glide down Tangerine to the Interstate.

My bike, a pretty ivory-colored racing bike I creatively named Ivory Pearl, loves hitting speeds in excess of 25 miles per hour down this stretch. I have been known to let out a few yeehaws here. Sometimes, Ivory is going so fast I no longer can peddle, having no gear wheel big enough for that size revolution. Gotta fix that. I’m sure Ivory can hit 30 mph with bigger gear wheels.

Seventeen miles into the race, a line of portapotties and an entire platoon of colorful riders and their bikes announce the first really big ‘rest stop’. Here you can fuel up on bananas, oranges and maybe some cookies or other sugary treat. You can also drink orange juice or fill up your water bottles. And you can take advantage of the portapotties. I stopped to check out the portapotties and my knee.

Portapotties were as I expected them to be; the floor was suspiciously sticky.  Portapotties need bull’s eyes in the urinals on the walls. At least it didn’t smell too bad. I was reminded why I often prefer finding the nearest bush. My knee? Doing good I thought. But just to make sure, I downed some more anti-inflammatories and rubbed my ear in the spot my acupuncturist assured me was the pressure point for that pesky knee.

Then off again, this time going under the Interstate and onto the frontage road from Marana, the northernmost suburb of Tucson, all the way to Downtown. Eight miles from the finish line, for as many years as I can remember, the last rest stop has offered richly chocolate brownies with enough carbs and sugar to get the weariest rider those last few miles to the finish. My knee, really hurting by then, needed tending and, after grabbing a handful of brownie (I have my priorities), I limped over to a folding chair with a footrest. I spent several valuable minutes massaging my knee, rubbing my ear, and pressing the pressure points for my knee in rapid staccato before getting up to finish the race, hoping for the best.

Virtually a few blocks from the finish, the route turned west, away from the Downtown area, leading us riders down through Rio Nuevo (Tucson’s somewhat deservedly maligned redevelopment project), circumnavigating the eastern base of ‘A’ Mountain (named so for the University of Arizona) and then on to 22^nd Street for the short incline up to 6^th Avenue. My knee, more than a little sore by then, was signaling me it was time to quit. My brain was having a pointed discussion with my knee – something about it being a wussy - all while my reason was trying out various combinations of gears – low/low, high/high, low/mid, etc. trying to find the combination that would cause the least pain with each revolution of the bike gears.

Finally! That blessed gold spire of Santa Cruz Catholic Church, a landmark that screams just a few BLOCKS to go! I was peddling slowly, trying to figure out whether peddling slowly just prolongs pain or eases it overall. But when I turned onto 6^th Avenue and adrenaline took over, somewhat blunting the pain, I adjusted to high/high gear to get more road per revolution and rode to the finish line like a champ.

I’m not the least bit competitive. I don’t golf or play competitive sports. I don’t ride, or hike, or climb mountains in order to best someone else. I do it strictly for myself – to remind myself of the physical limits of my body and my will. Sometimes, as in this ride, it is my will that takes over and my body must do its bidding. I suspect that’s true of most athletes, whether in competitive sports or sports like mine in which the journey is often the prize.

I am left wondering which is best – mind over matter or matter over mind? I suspect that mind is what really defines champions and heroes. But does it really matter as long as that precious journey has been worth it?