TLDR: I did my first ever 50 mile bike ride the other day. Hooray! Story below. (Long one, be prepared. Pics to follow later)
A 50 Mile Ride, Finding Ghosts, and Making A New Friend
Obligatory disclaimer: I had ridden an entire decade of 50 mile equestrian Endurance rides 10 years prior, but have never cycled 50 continuous miles before in my life. Ever. Yet, as I unloaded my ebike at the head of the bike trail on this bright and sunny morning, that was my full intention. Yes, 50 miles in one ride. Just to see if I could do it. Just to see if my old damaged knee would take the miles without complaint, to be honest. My goal this coming year was to do some metric centuries, and I really had to have my knee on board for that goal to be realized. And now was as good a time as any to see if my knee and I could form a partnership…or not. I was really really hoping the answer would be yes.
I had one small window of opportunity weatherwise – one decent, clear, calm, uncharacteristically warm…dare I say close to hot… T-shirt worthy January day in front of me before the weather gods flung our entire area to the bitter howling bone chilling winter wolves again. One day. One afternoon to cycle 50 miles. Looking for ghosts along the way.
You see, my route would be along a century old railroad bed, now polished and paved in exquistly milled and professional laid blacktop for bikes and walkers. The train tracks had been relegated to the history books, as had the trains and all those who had traveled on them. A few notable relics and memories were still scattered along the way, however, helpfully pointed out and educationally explained to those thus interested by strategically placed weather proofed signboards. A comfy bench on which to rest was often in attendance, a place to sit and contemplate the remarkable engineering of a century ago in designing and creating the former railroad, the grave of which lay beneath a solid ribbon of flawless blacktop enhanced with a bright yellow painted stripe down the center, marked with the exquisite precision that only the best of lining machines could produce.
No expense had been spared for this trail. It was a catwalk for bikes.
I slipped the front wheel of my bike back on the forks, and loaded the spare battery plus numerous food items into the panniers. One would think I was embarking on a week's expedition into the unknown with the amount of food I had packed, mindless of the many signs I would pass enroute pointing to easily accessible exquisite eateries of gastronomic delights, one or two actually sitting trailside that would require no more effort to reach them than simply turning the front wheel a fraction and then parking the bike.
However, I was leaving nothing to chance. Water bottles loaded, handlebar mounted GPS unit turned on, bike GPS app up and running, wrist GPS strapped tight, tires pumped up and ready to roll, cycling jacket zipped up tight. I paused, debating the necessity of taking my 2nd jacket. It was still chilly, in the high 40s and the warmth wasn't supposed to be at peak until mid afternoon. I shrugged. I'm sure I'd be fine with just my light cycling windbreaker.
I set off, full of anticipation. And got 100 yards down the trail before I abruptly stopped, had a brief consultation with myself on the state of my already chilly arms. Common sense and practicality won that round, and I turned and quickly cycled back to the car back to retrieve not only my 2nd jacket from the car, but to also replace the lightweight headband with a much warmer and more encompassing thermal cap under my helmet.
Yeah, it was still that cold.
And then I was off again, in search of my 50 miles, and ghosts along the way.
The first 25 miles would be, technically speaking, downhill, so I dialed down my assist to half to spare as much battery as possible without my knee noticing. The app promised I would get 57 miles if I stayed at that level. Good enough for me.
The breeze produced by my 15mph speed was chilly, but my elation, and my warm clothing, dispelled any thoughts of the still cold morning as the fist miles disappeared quickly under my wheels. The trail was quiet with only a light scattering of people, most walking their dogs, or walking with friends. We exchanged polite and friendly good mornings as I passed, all in a good mood to be out and about on such a fine day. The trail traversed past farms and open fields, diving into a chilly woodland every so often, only to abruptly reemerge back into open pastorial fields and the grateful warmth of the sun. Every now and then a cyclist would zip by on the opposite side, and we would flash a smile, a nod, and a raised hand to acknowledge ourselves as being the lucky ones out enjoying our bikes, and not be stuck in an office, slaving away.
I was about 3 miles down the trail when I suddenly realized with horror that I had forgotten to start my wrist GPS. Not wanting to stop I attempted several times to push the correct button as I continued riding, weaving out of control with only one hand on the grips while the other hand, in winter gloves, kept blindly mashing the GPS buttons willy-nilly, I finally hit the right button and the GPS began recording. I was a bit miffed, but consoled myself with the fact that I had my main GPS already recording, as well as the app on my phone, comfortably nestled and protected in the panniers. I brushed off my annoyance, gave my attention back to my bike and the trail, and peddled onward.
It was peaceful, the ride. No one came from behind and passed me as there was no one behind me at all. I had the wide and flawless trail lane to myself, the trees and the rural scenery all around me, all uniquely mine. I passed by several ghostly relics of the old railroad, but elected not to stop. Not yet. I was on a mission to reach my destination and had only scant hours to do so. The relics had existed for well over a century already, and I had no doubt they would still be there upon my return. I would visit with them then. I kept my pedals turning, my eyes on the road ahead.
The miles passed by, dutifully recorded by all three GPS, only one being short by 3 miles. The rural scenery began to transition from fields and farms with grazing horses to that of outter suburbia. The railroad ghosts began to slip away, too, as houses started to shoulder the trail. Neat houses with neat fenced yards, every house in monochrome, uniform siding. A small city center abruptly leaped into view, squeezing the trail on both sides. Shops and businesses and construction replaced the houses as the trail found itself bisected by busy roads intent upon their own agenda of feeding automotive traffic into a spider's web of intersections. Stop signs now sprung up on the trail, and every now and then a warning sign to heed said stop signs with due caution. Traffic, however, was polite, the cars and trucks agreeably stopping at the crosswalks with friendly civility, the drivers smiling and waving back at my grateful wave as I quickly crossed in their path, intent upon them being able to continue going about their business with minimal disruption on my part.
Outside the little city the scenery changed again, back to a last gasp of countryside not yet tamed. A little creek paced alongside the trail, rushing over uprises of prehistoric rock strata in a free for all of splashing enthusiasm while a long row of houses, partly hidden by a thin row of tired woodland, turned their rude backs to both the trail and the merry play of the stream. The houses didn't invite any interest in the frivolous people passing by on the trail, of which I was one. I allowed them a single disinterested glance, and continued on.
The miles rolled by and the faceless houses were soon left behind, taking their uninspired facades and boring manicured lawns with them as the scenery along the trail changed once again. Industrial sites and massive electrical stations with acres of awe inspiring high voltage wires and machinery now came into view. The streams morphed from unbridled wild currents and tumbling miniature waterfalls in a freedom of their own choosing, to a sullen flow of dispirited water, constrained by stern concrete waterways that brooked no dilly dallying or frivolity. No more splashing, no more leaping over rocks. The streams had been beaten into submission as something vital in it had been taken away. There was no escape, no hope. The water seemed sad and lifeless. And defeated. I looked away, up at my new surroundings, then saw something so visually and emotionally abrupt that I had to stop and stand for a minute to take it all in. There were buildings near the trail. Ones I had never seen before. All were low and featureless, in a big block, the landscape carved away and replaced by acres of blacktop parking. The building themselves also encompassed acres and acres of land. All windowless, doorless, all in the same geometrically perfect boxlike shape, elegantly painted in stark Art Deco grays and near grays. They had been artfully carefully placed to be as inconspicuous as possible, yet failing in that regard miserably. Not a person or car could be seen. It was the buildings, alone and uncompromising, eerily silent and yet stunningly beautiful. I gazed at their immense presence, my eyes tracing over every part of the imposing solid, fortress of structures. A dystopian scene worthy of the 1927 movie “Metropolis”.
I knew what they were, what was inside. I knew why there were no windows and doors, no identifying signs. They were intensely beautiful yet terrifyingly apocalyptic. The world's communication flowed through them, oceans of data along wire rivers, the heartbeat of the internet, the voices of the planet. Yet the air around me, around the buildings, was eerily silent. Not a whisper.
I stayed for a new moments, gazing at the buildings, giving my legs a break as my bike patiently waited by my side ready to renew our ride. I finally remounted again and we set off, continuing our journey, my mind sitting back and contemplating how the ghosts of the railway past had been supplanted by the ghosts of our future. A dystopia viewscape imagined a century ago in a 1920s movie, now reimagined in 2020. It gave me pause, and I became lost in my own thoughts of humanity's future as beneath me my bike, a creation itself of the future, dutifully kept to the task at hand, resolutely and efficiently eating away at the miles.
I came out of my thoughts when the trailside began to change again, back to the familiar houses and privacy fenced backyards and playful barking dogs racing around in canine delight on impossibly green lawns. I stopped to take a drink and attempt to adjust my GPS screen brightness. It was almost too dark to see it in the bright sunlight, so I foolishly began to scroll through the various screens looking for the correct option to press. Within seconds my unwitting fingers had scrolled me into unfamiliar territory and I panicked, trying to find my way go back to the main screen. Like a twisted video game my efforts only landed me on one screen. It said Save your data, or delete it.
My mouth went dry. I had scant miles to go to reach 25. I could not lose the data now. Whispering pleads to every software deity in the digital universe, I tried, again and again, to find the first screen. Again and again I was thwarted at every turn, being swept deeper down into the Amazon river of the unit's software by my ever more frantic fingers until I was hopelessly and utterly lost in a digital jungle. I looked up and down the trail with desperation , hoping to finding someone, anyone, to help me. But the trail was empty, barren of people. There was not a soul to be see. I fumbled with the screens again in growing despair. The GPS was resolute and unforgiving, allowing just one screen as an exit every time I fumbled my way through the maze. One screen that popped up at random intervals. One screen with just two options. Save your data or delete it.
Finally, defeated and unhappy, I surrendered and touched the Save option. Magically the main screen reappeared, the counters reset to zero. I sighed, and not in happy way.
“Boy, that was pretty stupid for such an intelligent person” my mind piped up, quite unsympathetically. “Why haven't you read the manual yet? Its not rocket science you know. I'll bet it’s an easy fix. You should have pulled up a YouTube video. Bet it would have shown you how to fix the brightness in two seconds.”
“Oh, be quiet.” I groused, pulling out my phone and hastily checking its bike GPS app. It quite happily showed me all the miles I'd ridden since the start, quite ready to record more as soon as I put my foot back on the pedal. All was not lost. I still had one out of the three GPS recording as it should. With a huge sigh of relief I remounted the bike and began the final miles to my destination.
It was then I noticed a plethora of fit, athletic stay-at-home moms resplendent in expensive running shoes and couture running shorts suddenly populating the trail, pushing high dollar baby joggers sheltering adorably cute babies all bundled up despite the increasingly warming temperatures. Inspired by the laize faire summer jogging attire, I stopped and discarded my second jacket, willfully assuring myself that the air was warm enough to do so.
I was wrong.
A few feet further down the trail my sweat had frozen and I was shivering cold. I stopped again, the jacket hastily replaced and zipped up. It was no time for heroics. I checked the phone app and saw I had literally two miles left to go to reach my turnaround point at 25 miles.
Two miles that were cycled in a blink of an eye, and left me standing on the side of the trail surrounded by a commercial landscape, grinning like a Cheshire cat at the phone app's bold proclamation of my success.
I had done it! I had reached the halfway point. My knee was still agreeable, and all systems were still a go. I was elated.
I looked around for someone to share in my victory, but the only people visible were tiny bits of color dotting the trail in the far far distance. Even the army of mommy joggers had faded away with the suburban landscape at a distance behind me. The railroad ghosts were gone, too, thoroughly dead and buried under the modern pavement, their grave stone a lone wooden sign proclaiming their life, death and burial while also reminding, in the voice of a schoolteacher, those trampling on the gravesite must use their bike bells in passing, stay on the proper side, give way to horses and pedestrians, and thank the parks and recreation for upkeep and maintenance.
So, with just the grave marker in attendance, I celebrated by myself, digging in my stash of food to reward my body for a job well done thus far, and checking all three GPS to make sure they were still working. I checked my bike's battery level, too, the bike app boldly proclaiming I had 27 miles capacity left to use. Plenty enough juice to get home.
I chucked at that silly assumption. Little did the app know that the return journey was going to be at speed. Top speed. Top assist. No fooling around. I had 25 miles left to go, and I was literally going to go for it.
I tucked my food away, turned my wheel back the way we had come, dialed up the assist to maximum, and mounted up. The second my foot hit the pedal my bike raised its head, pricked its ears like a horse sensing it was on the way home, and with an astounding surge of renewed energy took off at a gallop.
Within seconds we were racing along at 19.5 mph, the wind in my face, my smile growing broader as the miles flew by underneath. My bike settled into an effortless lengthened stride, ignoring the headwind and the miles of incline we faced even as the battery pushed its remaining capacity of power to the wheels with frightening alacrity. I was in heaven. I knew I had a backup supply of electrons, so I let my bike have its head and the freedom to run.
The mommy joggers had returned to the trail as a blur of color and friendly returned hand waves as I flew past. Fellow cyclists became yet another blur, exchanging smiles and waves in the fraction of seconds available as our bikes met and passed in an eddy of wind. I didn't tarry, intent only upon getting home with no time to spare.
My mind, as was often the case, became bored and had wandered into my archival library of trivial information, coming back with an interesting tidbit of how the massive, ground covering gallop stride of that great Champion racehorse, Secretariat, was likened to the spokes of a wheel in its perfect efficiency. There was even a video of that brilliant horse showing his leg placement, and how it was the most elegant, most powerful striding ever seen. I glanced down at my own wheels, the ground continuing to flash past at close to 20 miles per hour. My mind peering over my shoulder at my bike wheels, informed me that Secretariat could run at 49 miles per hour. “That means that Secretariat could have done this whole ride in 60 minutes,” it added, looking over at my GPS to check the time. “How long has it taken you to go 25?” I frowned at the question, checking the elapsed time while doing some mental calculating. “A heck of a lot longer than 60 minutes,” I replied. “Besides, Secretariat could only run that fast for a mile,” I added, straightening up to look at the black ribbon of trail ahead of me, a line of impeccable precision, flowing ever more narrow until it became a pinpoint in the distance. “I, on the other hand, can ride at 20mph for 50 miles,” I finished smugly, and blithely peddled on, letting my mind return to the archives of my brain, poking around for more interesting trivia to uncover.
At 12 miles left to go, a red light on my bike controls flashed, warning me that my battery was at the point of exhaustion. I quickly pulled over and stopped on a side path that was meandering down to the trail between two suburb houses in a large suburban development. It was the ideal spot to let my bike take a breath while I changed the now depleted first battery for a fresh one.
“Aren't you going to keep using it up to the point where it blinks?” asked my mind inqusitively. It had reemerged from the archives a while back and had been sitting, bored, waiting for some excitement. “You're not down to the end of the battery until it starts blinking. Why not run it all the way out just to see what happens?” it suggested. “Maybe the bike will start bucking and kicking like that other ebike did when you ran that one's battery out, remember?” My minds eyes widened at the memory “Boy was that a trip!”
“Yes, yes it was,” I admitted, remembering that moment with heart attack clarity. “And no, I'm not going to run this one out. Period. End of discussion.” The tired battery was tucked away in the panniers along with my thanks for a job well done, and the new battery clicked into place. The bike controls, delighted at the surge of fresh power, lit up like a Christmas tree. My bike, completely refreshed, was eager to go.
However, I waited a few seconds, yielding onto the grass as an older gentleman on an elegant road bike gently passed me on the narrow pathway. He exchanged a soft smile and greeting with me, the epitome of the classic old gentleman cyclist on his sedate chromed steed. I guessed he had emerged from one of the trailside houses to enjoy a warm hour or so slowly taking in the scenery of the trail from atop the saddle. I watched him ride off, austere and stately, more in keeping of the manor born. What was his caliber doing here in suburbia, I mused?
My mind rolled its proverbial eyes, shook its proverbial head, and gave me a nudge. Time to get moving.
I checked to make sure everything was secured, and mounted up. The bike, full of energy and eager to get underway, leaped into a gallop once more, making short time of the miles left to reach the upcoming city. I gave my bike the proverbial reins to race at will while I enjoyed the passing scenery in fast motion – the rewinding of the trip in reverse. The bored houses with perfect lawns flashed by, the dystopian buildings became a blur of solid grays, and then small city came back into view.
So did the ghosts of the past.
True to my earlier promise, I stopped at the first relic to take pictures of the ruins and read the helpful information signs that detailed each ghost’s rich and active history, now sadly long gone. A few more cyclists and dog walkers had populated the trail. The way became a zig zag of people and stop signs, and I slowed the bike to a more reasonable pace as a courtesy. There would be plenty of rural miles left to open it up again to a heady gallop. This, however, was a city, and decorum ruled . I was all about decorum. My adopted middle name was decorum and would remain so for the duration of the city miles.
Upon reaching the far side of the city where managed civilization gave way to rank and file nature, I stopped for a moment on the side of the trail to catch a drink and a snack before the final push of miles. As I did so two older gentlemen casually passed by on their bikes. We exchanged nods, and they rode on, not in any pressing hurry, going my way. I repacked my food, did a fast check of the bike app which was dutifully still logging the correct miles, mounted up and took off. The two gentleman had ridden a distance up the trail, which was gradually sloping upwards, but their speed was nothing compared to mine. I reached them in less than a moment, politely alerting them that I was “on your left, please” as I swung into the oncoming lane. They obliged willingly and I thanked them as I zipped past at 19 mph, promptly putting them out of my head once they were behind me.
Out of my head for exactly 10 seconds, that is, until I happened to glance in my mirror and notice, in surprise, that one of the two had hunkered down, putting pedal to the metal in a valiant attempt to race his bike fast enough to catch up to me. My own bike ignored the challenge and continued up the incline at near 20 mph. I kept watching in amusement as the cyclist, putting all his effort into the chase, was laboriously yet slowly closing the distance as I simply pedaled along effortlessly. Closer and closer he came until he was within speaking distance, still pedaling hard. My mind elbowed me with a knowing nudge. “He's trying to say something” it said. I popped my Bluetooth earbud out, interrupting my music, as I turned halfway to face him.
“PLEASE don't tell me you are trying to race an electric bike” I said, both earnestly and amused.
“Of course I am” he gasped with a laugh between labored breaths. I slowed just a touch to be polite.
“Well, you have my utmost admiration for doing so,” I exclaimed. “Not many are crazy enough to try that, especially going uphill.”
He smiled, his words still punctuated with gasping breaths as he ran out of steam, his bike rapidly slowing down. “It was fun” he puffed as his bike, now exhaused of human power, rapidly drifted behind. “Thanks for the diversion!” he called out.
I waved a cheery acknowledgement over my head, and peddled on.
The trail took to the woods, still steadily climbing up and up. My bike ignored the incline, intent upon getting me to the site a few miles further where a particular ghost I wanted to see up close and personal was located. It was an ancient stone bridge, one of last of many that used to carry the horses and carriages, as well as early automotive vehicles, safely over the railroad tracks below. There was even an early photo of this one bridge with a proud engine pausing for a photo op beneath the finely chiseled and mortised stone arch. It was a photo bursting of the glory days when the railroad was king, and the bridges were attending generals, commanding and moving the troops of traffic overhead. The king was now long dead, the army of bridges removed one by one leaving this solitary old soldier as a reminder of days gone by.
Upon reaching bridge I stopped and rested my bike off the path so that I was free to examine the structure up close. Stepping up to the solid wall of mortised stones, I let my hand drift softly over the rough rocks, tracing the faint marks of bore holes still remaining from a time when these rocks, still in the cradling arms of their mother earth, were blasted free by dynamite and human sweat. I looked up at the arch itself, attempting unsuccessfully to discern if there were any tell tale coal smoke residue left from decades of train smokestacks passing underneath, then, shifting position to view the outsides of the bridge, let my eyes travel down the sides of neatly spaced stones. The bridge walls were a work of art, unchanged by weather or time.
I stepped back with phone in hand to take few pictures of the bridge, and noticed off in the distance down the trail that the two older gentlemen had at last come back into view. I paused, waiting to see if they would close the distance between us, but they turned off and stopped at the welcoming benches conveniently placed for weary cyclists to rest after battling the long slow incline.
Checking the bike's app again with satisfaction that it was still doing its job, I set off on my bike to hit the highest point of the trail before it descended downwards towards my final destination. There were a number of newly implemented traffic circles to funnel busy traffic at that rise, and I rode with care, keeping eyes and ears open to negotiate the trail crossovers. It wasn't until I crossed the second intersection that a familiar bike reappeared in my mirror. Right behind me, as a matter of fact. I chuckled, but kept my eyes and all senses on the road, the merging circle traffic at my side, and the final road crossing before the trail could breath a sign of relief, plunging with determination into the safe woods and green pasture land again.
For a few moments I cycled like I was alone, moving up to a 19.6 mph pace on the flat, keenly aware that my shadow was keeping up, tucked safely and discretely into my bike's slipscreen. He did that very expertly, too, not imposing, not crowding, but still taking full professional advantage of the welcoming break from the headwind. I let it go for a few moments, then, without looking backward, casually tossed over my shoulder asking if he was enjoying the draft.
“Yes,” he replied happily. “Yes, I am. Thank you!”
I smiled and looked in my mirror, noticing that something was missing.
“Where his your friend?” I called over my shoulder.
“Oh, that's my brother,” he called back. “He's somewhere back there. He'll catch up later.”
I slowed my bike and looked at him with undisguised surprise. “You actually left your brother behind?” I chided. “What kind of brother are you?”
“He's 70,” my shadow said with a laugh , pulling up abreast of my bike. “He told me to go have some fun and he'd see me later.”
I glanced down at my GPS to see we were at 18mph, but he was maintaining that speed with ease this time. It did help that the trail was on a decline, so the pace was, reasonably speaking, reasonable.
“Your brother needs an ebike,” I announced uncategorically to my new companion. “Preferably a Class 3. A 28mph ebike. Then he'd easily keep up with you.”
“Oh, I don't think he’s ready for an ebike yet,” replied my elderly companion, a semi pro cyclist for a very short time way back in his 20s I was to learn later. He kept pace with my bike with practiced ease. It now made sense to me, his desire to race an electric bike. Old habits die hard, or not at all. An electric bike is a powerful lure, especially to a former racer who still worked hard, decades later when the hair had long turned gray and the body less willing, to keep in shape. He was explaining how his even more elderly brother still managed, but only once or twice, to keep up on the hills on their joint rides.
“Oh, yes he does need an ebike!” I countered with conviction. “ Then he could have fun smoking you!”
We both laughed, maintaining our friendly conversation as the miles rolled on, our bikes evenly matched. When I asked if he would go back in his vehicle to pick up his brother, he told me with a big grin that his brother had driven them there, and still had the keys. Classic typical brother behaviour, that one. I laughed out loud. Made me want to shake the brother's hand.
As my companion's destination finally arrived and he slowed to exit off the trail to relax back and wait for his brother with the car keys, we exchanged parting sentiments of hopes to see one other on the trail again someday in the future. With a final wave goodbye I continued on, a few miles from my own destination.
In no time at all the head of the trail came into view. I slowed, and casually let my bike roll the last few feet to my waiting car. My tiring legs wobbled a bit as I dismounted, but the elation that I had reached my goal of 50 miles was all I needed to keep me upright and grinning. So did the enthusiastic thumbs up and admiring congratulations and conversation from a fellow cyclist, just getting ready to embark on his own ride, when I told him of my success, announced with all the pride of a 5 year old displaying a blue ribbon won in a science fair. An honest and admiring verbal pat on the back from a total stranger, and I felt like I ruled the world.
It was all such a heady feeling…until I opened my phone app to reveal in the miles accumulated, and to save the data.
I felt my jaw drop and the blood drain from my face as I looked at the digital screen.
The mileage was not there. In fact it was no where. It was gone. Completely and utterly gone. Wiped clean in less than a second two miles before I finished. For some incomprehensible reason, as the phone lay safe and secure in the panniers while I cycled along, the app had, all on its own volition, without asking permission from anyone, closed down, deleted all the data for the day, and reopened to record only the last two miles.
Two miles. That was it. I stared at a screen showing just a short straight line of a mere two miles.
All the efforts of the day, all the rechecking at each stop along the way, the last being at 47 miles, to make sure everything was working as it should, all the assurances of the app that it was doing its job, my last and only intact validation of achieving my hard won goal…was gone. I tried frantically to find my lost data in the app, but nothing I could do would make those miles reappear again. Nothing.
At that moment the air around me turned blue with an explosion of very unladylike language of an intensity that would have scorched the leaves off the trees - had there been any leaves on the trees left to scorch - and curled the blacktop under my feet. I was beside myself. Beyond furious, beyond livid, beyond rage. I was apoplectic. Yup, that's what I was. Apoplectic.
I felt my mind wrap a consoling arm around my shoulder with a small squeeze of sympathy. “Don't worry,” it said as I continued to stare at my phone in helpless disbelief. “It may be gone, but you know you succeeded. You did it. And,” it reminded me, “you still have that data on the one GPS. You just have to patch it together. Not a big deal. It's just secondary validation anyway.” My mind gave my shoulders another small squeeze. “Keep celebrating the fact that you've finally ridden your first 50 miles on a bike. And you're doing great.”
I sighed, the anger and disappointment melting away. My mind was right. Nothing could take away that wonderful afternoon, those 50 miles shared with my electric bike, all the fun and heady exhilaration of cycling down the trail. It was all mine now. One for the history books.
I felt my joy gently return as I finished loading up my electric bike into my car. My bike had performed brilliantly, the batteries perfectly, my knee was happy and had taken on its fair share of the burden of propulsion with no complaints, my body a touch tired but still capable of more miles, and my enthusiam undimmed. All things considered, I had done good.
I slipped into the drivers seat, and called my husband as my car, smoothly and as soundless as my electric bike, made its way out of the parking lot. My husband's voice came over the speakers, happily asking how my ride had been.
“It was AWESOME!” I crowed with renewed glee. “I rode 50 miles! And I feel great!” After congratulations were offered and small talk exchanged, plus promises to share all the full and colorful details once back, we said our goodbyes as I merged into traffic.
I glanced back at my electric bike, snug and safe inside my electric car. I sighed, tired but happy, the road stretching out in front of me as I pointed my silent car’s nose towards home.
