In Kentucky, all by myself because I could not keep up with my super strong sister-in-law
This fall, I tagged along with the strongest female cyclist I know (my sister-in-law) on the Bourbon Country Burn, a three-day bike tour of beautiful horse country in Kentucky.
The first day was incredible. The weather, the achievement, the scenery. All was perfect. I cycled a nifty 80 km, and all this with practically zero training on a road bike (since I had been busy packing and unpacking all summer long). The second day, I was in pain. I gave my sister-in-law permission to go on ahead, and I pushed through at a saunter, finishing 60 km in about four hours. I was going slower than retirees and was consistently getting passed by every single cyclist, but I stayed chipper, enjoying the views and the weather.
That night, though, every muscle in my body cried out in spasms of pain. I could barely sleep because I had pushed my body too far. I took a Tylenol in the morning, hoping to stave off the pain and at least get another 30Km under my belt. But on day three, after only two kilometres of cycling, I knew I was done for. My body couldn’t take another pounding. I had to return my rental bike, and then walk back from cycling base camp to our hotel, which would have been a two hour slog back on the side of the highway in my condition with my sore muscles — I was walking like a senior citizen. Thankfully, the rental guy happened to drive past me on the highway and offered me a lift home.
My conciliatory ride in a car, not on a bike.
When I got back to the hotel, I stopped by the front desk to get an extra room key. The clerk recognized me (how many Asians go bourbon bike touring in Kentucky?) and quipped, “I admire you. It takes so much discipline to do what you do”—meaning, cycling. I smiled politely and said thank you. But deep inside, I was cringing. All the retirees had passed me! I didn’t even cycle for the full three days! And it’s my own fault! Because I didn’t train all summer long! Discipline? Really? I have no discipline!
And yet on the flip side, the whole shebang was an accomplishment. I did cycle more than I ever have in my life. So it all depends on how you read it—to some, my third day absenteeism would be a crushing defeat. To others, a raving accomplishment.
Athletic defeat is somewhat the story of my life. Exercise is just for fun, just a hobby. But I’m bad at it. Even when I devoted four months to a strict half-marathon training regimen, on race day, I still only came in at the fiftieth percentile for my age and gender category. The following year, I broke my leg learning to skateboard, and had to drop out of the race completely.
Do I see these as resounding failures or successes? Compared to other cyclists, failure. Compared to myself, success. The key, I think, is to consider the baseline myself, and not all the retirees who passed me. (Biking miles and miles and for days and days in your retirement is a thing, by the way).
So that’s that. I’m going to chalk the Bourbon Country Burn up to a victory.
On an unrelated note, here’s a goofy little self-commentary that I recorded in Kentucky, a neat unsolvable logical dilemma that makes me love my husband, Andrew so much more: