I sat under the Team Slugfish tent with my face nose-deep in berry cobbler and ice cream. I tried to chat with another team member when a high-pitched voice on loudspeaker told us the evening program would be delayed due to a rider still out on the route. Then she urged us to go to the finish line so we could cheer her in. People gathered at the finish line, not far from our tent. I looked at my watch. It was nearly 6:30. The course maps made very clear that the route closed at 5pm and that there’d be no support afterwards. I shrugged at all the people passing me. I’ll just politely cheer from my table, thank you very much. I rode so slowly my first several MS rides that I wanted to paste a sign on my back that said, “Yes I’m ok, I’m just slow.” I remember those final hours: smelling the truck exhaust from vehicles waiting for me to pass so they could pack up the rest stops. No one cheered my finish when I came in so late. I’d just roll into a quiet road with a few volunteers taking down decorations. But then someone urged me to get up, so I did. I guess there’s no reason to deny this finisher cheers just because I’m tired and bitter! As I folded into the crowd, I began to feel the energy. OK, so this last person out on the route is riding her very first century. OK, it makes sense now. The first century is the hardest. It was a hot and humid day out. The weather got pretty miserable in the afternoon, but she didn’t give up. Her first century. Then they tell us that this woman riding her first century is also a rider with MS. That’s what we are all about. I glanced around at the crowd. “She’s 3 minutes away,” the loudspeaker announced. Even though many faces showed the tired we all felt after riding a long, hard, hot, emotional route, there was still this unmistakable anticipation. We felt the combined urgency to share the joy steeping underneath the tired. “OK!” the voice on the loudspeaker prompted, “she’s probably getting close, let’s start cheering so she hears us as she comes around the corner!” The claps started, along with the bells, whistles, cheers, hoots and hollers. The entire River Village group stood there, cheering. I started to feel moved. It felt good to clap. But then we kept clapping. And clapping. And she never came. No one stopped, but some people started to look at each other, questioningly. Did we miss her? Did she make a wrong turn? Everyone kept clapping and cheering. I don’t think anyone knew what to do, but no one wanted to be the first to stop. Then. We see a bike turning the corner. The crowd exploded! I saw that she wasn’t alone. A small group of people pedaled down the chute, in a protective, supportive clump. That’s when I lost it. She wasn’t alone. Tears streamed down my face as I clapped. The people around me jumped and screamed like she was a rockstar. As they pedaled in, I expected her to smile from all the cheering. I’ve never heard so much cheering at an MS ride in all my 20 years. But her gaze was fixed forward, he glance unwavering. The determination was still on her face, she needed every last bit. She looked like she could vomit. Her expression brought all the feelings back. All those rides I did where muscles, energy, lungs had long gone and sheer determination was the only thing left pushing you forward. I don’t mean to sound melodramatic or overly severe; it’s hard to capture this amazing feeling in writing. We’ve all been through unsurmountable challenges and came out ahead. It’s the beauty of pain like this. There is some pain that really does make you stronger. No, stronger isn’t the right word. There is some pain that makes you better. Perseverance. Stamina. Bike MS taught me a lot over the years, and I am a better person for it.
