When I told my mother-in-law about GOBA she laughed at me, literally. It was one of those sarcastic percussive laughs that is almost part surprise coupled with the undertone of an inside joke. Her face quickly faded when she realized that I was, in fact, not joking. In the end she wasn’t the only one.
It seems as though most people who aren’t cyclists are accustomed to friends running marathons, something tells me no one would have blinked if that’s what I chose to do. I guess running is more pervasive.
Still I was bound and determined to prove to my detractors, as well as myself, that I could do this. Thus, under no circumstance would I be “SAG-ged.”
During a tour or race Support And Gear (SAG) vehicles drive along the route and stop at rest points. Their function is to help sick or injured riders as well as those who have a problem with their bicycle. Of course there also are those who didn’t train enough and are not capable of completing the ride and need assistance as well. Often a person who is picked up by the SAG vehicle simply didn’t train enough.
The first day of GOBA followed an incredibly hilly route from Mansfield to Orville. In fact after the rough day that everyone had I’ve learned it’s best not to mention that I’m from Mansfield to avoid mock vitriol.
I was one of the last people leaving Mansfield because I wanted to spend at least breakfast on Father’s Day with my wonderful hubby, who would be on his own with the kids,for the next seven days. In retrospect this was a colossally bad idea.
Still, I made good time getting to the morning snack stop, and even though I had to walk a few hills, did well on the next leg too. It really was a gorgeous morning and I was having fun.
The people who ride GOBA seem to be the nicest people on earth. When people learn it’s your first GOBA they start talking about your next one, it’s like joining a tribe. Strangers encourage each other, show you pictures of their kids. Interestingly, this terrible mother can’t participate in the kid bragging show and tell since she dumped all the photos off of her phone before leaving because she wanted more memory for her trip. Ironically, in doing so I am on this trip without my memories (at least the photographic record of them.)
The towns were so welcoming. Mansfield did a great job with fun and encouraging signs and the best snack stop of the day hosted by Oak Park Tavern.
In between towns entrepreneurial kids set up lemonade stands. The best of which included a free show. The kids did criss-crossing cartwheels in formation. When I asked how much the tea was they said,”Fifty cents.”
Then one little girl chimed in, “Wanna see the show?”
“Well, how much is that?” I ask.
“It’s free now, no one would pay us for it,” she said.
It was a clever sales tactic really. I gave them a dollar and told them to keep the change.
After lunch it got much warmer. That’s when things got interesting.
At one point I passed a charming man who lives in a house with more furniture and appliances on the porch than I have inside my home. He released his beast, which I am fairly certain was a hell hound. The snarling, slobbering creature bared his fangs at me from the top of the hill on which he resides, barked, and then ran straight at me. No matter how tired you are, you are Lance Armstrong-fast when being charged by a hell hound.
Just as the beast was literally nipping at my heels and I was wondering if I should kick him or not the appliance collector calls, “Fever! You git over here!” Thankfully he retreated.
Eventually I walked up every hill, often having to stop at the top for several moments and catch my breath. I had a headache my heart was racing, I felt nauseous. Still, I’d rather walk the hills than be the lame-o that needs SAG.
I gave myself some pretty amazing pep talks. Reminded myself of all the times I did something that seemed impossible and stuck it out. “You hiked the Alps; you delivered a kid with a giant head without drugs after twenty-two hours of labor; you survived a three generation family road trip to the Grand Canyon; you’ve got this,” I’d think to myself.
When it came time for the afternoon snack stop I felt nauseous. I didn’t eat anything, just drank a lemonade. I thought maybe I’d eaten too much lunch.
I was at the fifty mile mark when I stopped to rest and give myself another little pep talk.
That’s when I vomited.
I’m happy to report I missed both the shoes and the bike. I am not happy to report that resulted in me being “SAG-ged.”
The doctor diagnosed dehydration. My blood sugar was also low. So, I wasn’t cleared to ride today, which felt like more of a failure than the SAG wagon.
Then I talked to my husband. While I fully expected to be chastised for not drinking enough, instead he was encouraging. Then he offered to come pick me up. I immediately said,”No.”
Then I realized—wait a minute I’m not a failure. This is just a bump in the road, one I (mostly) rode for fifty miles by myself today. I’ve got this.
This post was originally posted at gobatracygo.Tumblr.com. You can follow Tracy there as she posts and pedals her way through the Great Ohio Bike Adventure.
