Over the weekend, I participated in the
MS150 Bike Tour for the third time. Participants ride approximately 150 miles on their bicycles in two days, (the actual number this year was about 158 miles) in order to rain money for, and increase awareness of, Multiple Sclerosis. This year, in the multitude of personal narrative writings I was required to compose in English class, I wrote about last year's bike ride. To add to the list of English papers I've posted, I will now post the the one about the MS150 bike ride of 2002. And again, I'm sorry about the length, and the melodramatics of this writing.
"When watching from afar, you see no change. It seems that the rider of the bicycle has ridden only several yards in a long period of time. But when you are close up, riding alongside, you can see that the distance traveled is immense. By looking at it with the perspective of an automobile or a train, the distance seems to be nearly nothing. And really, the distance is nothing. The rider and the bicycle become one being, one fluid piece of flesh and muscle and steel and rubber. It is the strong unified being verses the elements around it; the hard cement of the road, the blistering sun in the sky, and the constant wind opposing every push of the foot pedal the rider makes.
Waking up, the day seems no different than the hundreds that came before, and the thousands that will come after. After opening my eyes and dragging my tired body out of bed, I enter the shower and quickly hurry out so as to arrive at my destination on time. As I slip on the tight padded shorts and the sporty tank top, it begins to hit me. The day of the MS150 bike ride has arrived. It is only my second time, but others have been riding for decades before me to raise money for multiple sclerosis. As my mother and I enter the mini-van armed with our bikes, half a dozen water bottles, luggage, and will power, we mentally prepare ourselves for the two days ahead. We will be riding our bikes a total of 150 miles. And it will be hard.
As we arrive at the starting line, we push our way to the head of the crowd so as to be toward the front of the pack. And it is a pack, hundreds of people waiting to go, all collecting themselves for the days ahead. As the bullhorn goes off, everyone starts to ride. But the bullhorn is not signaling the start of a multiple person race, it is signaling the start of an internal race. Each person there is racing against himself or herself to do what he or she needs to do.
And as it starts it’s fun. It’s easy. The morning is early still; the sun has not yet begun projecting its 95-degree rays upon the bikers. As everyone crowds down the Lake Shore bike paths, it seems as if we could all be just biking in the early morning for recreation. And at that time we are. Although we know the ride has begun, it doesn’t seem that it has yet. The mood is still leisurely and the terrain simple to navigate. The muscles in our bodies are slowly awakening from the previous night’s rest. No one knows what lies ahead.
As we ride through the city of Chicago, there are police officers at every intersection, halting traffic for the mob of ambitious individuals. Drivers of cars roll down their windows and question the riders. “What are you all doing, riding through the city like this; riding through this part of the city like this,” their eyes seem to ask us, while their voices phrase the questions more politely. And we tell them. We do not yet throw jealous looks at those riding in cars. The heat has not peaked and our muscles have not tired.
Finally we get out of the city. And as we do, we realize we traded one annoyance for another. There is now much less traffic to be weary of, but there are no buildings to hide the wind. Every bike rider experiences a love-hate relationship with the wind. Hard work spurs exhaustion. And with the humid, often stagnant summer heat, the rider wants nothing more than to cool down. The wind effectively cools down the biker, but in doing so pushes against the already weakening muscles. The cool breeze does not come for free; the rider pays for the small gift in sweat and an ever-increasing fatigue.
As the cars of the city are left behind, so are other people. The strongest riders are far ahead, the weakest are in the back. Everyone else is in the middle. For the bike riders, the day has just now begun. Looking ahead you see several stray bikes and seemingly infinite fields of corn, which surrounds the riders on all sides. There are times when you can ride ten miles without any knowledge of doing so. The scenery never changes. The only way of telling time is measuring the amount of water left in your water bottles.
And water is precious. The heat is oppressive and there is a constant fear that the water will run out and you will still be miles from the next rest stop where enthusiastic volunteers wait to resupply you with water, fresh fruit, and energy bars. You fear that the heat in the air will turn against you and suck all the beloved oxygen out of the atmosphere. Riding past a quiet farmhouse, you smile. The family who lives there heard that a group of bike riders was going to be coming near their home. On the front lawn there is a hose supplied with fresh, freezing cold water, and a big sign wishing us all luck and telling us to use the hose as much as we would like.
As the day wears on, the monotony increases. You become increasingly alone. You fear that you may have strayed from the path, and the thought of having to ride just five extra miles brings you nearly to a panic. But without fail, just as your fear increases, a marker appears. “Multiple sclerosis is a disease of the central nervous system,” the sign informs you, and you are grateful that you are not one of the people affected. Your central nervous system is working, and you can feel it. The muscles in your thighs are pushing the pedals of your bike, your back and stomach are holding your body up straight, and your arms are keeping you a safe distance from the handlebars.
As a stronger rider passes me, they chuckle. “Nice number,” they comment of the identification number on my back; number 69. It means that I was the 69th highest fundraiser the year before. People have been laughing at it all day, but whenever they do I think about how there are so many numbers beyond mine. So many people in this together, so that the highest number is in the thousands. But each rider is in this alone. Each person has his or her own number for a reason. They fight the battle themselves.
Finally it happens. I reach the final rest stop for the day. And instead of feeling exhausted, I feel exhilarated. I have gotten halfway there; halfway through my mind’s mental block of making the mileage. I know that tomorrow I will do it again. I will take my body and ride until I cannot ride any more. Then, I will take it step-by-step, mile-by-mile, push-by-push. I will keep going until I reach my destination. It will have been a different experience for everyone. Some will have achieved their goal, and others will have not done so to their satisfaction. But everyone will keep going. The monotony of the days will have allowed them time for thought, because there is nothing to do but think. Introspection will have won out over tedium. The day will have become exiting for what it was, not what it appeared to be."