I had to take a few weeks off from blogging my experience because life, admittedly, got a little rough. I think you can probably agree with me that no matter what side of the political and public health terrain you align, things aren’t exactly easy, and little things—like writing a blog—have become exponentially difficult and emotionally taxing. For me, I’ve started and stopped writing, putting up a few posts on social media and in so doing I’ve realized trying to put my particular struggle into words really doesn’t do anybody much good because my audience is split down the middle: those who are writers and those who aren’t, and the particular anxiety associated with that career (and life, really) at this particular moment is rife in ways that we either know because we live it or we simply don’t because we don’t. For those who are inside of that world, I’m sure my thoughts inspire, at best, eye-rolling, and to my non-writer readers, you call me up worried that, you know, I’ve really gone off the deep end.
The truth is, that happened a long time ago when I decided to take the leap and make my living by the words that come out of my head. I’m sure my parents—who kindly and wisely told me not to become a writer—are silently saying “I told you so”… but here I am, thinking about the CCC and what this journey is starting to mean because it’s not just another organized ride anymore, nor is it just another charitable fundraiser. In other words, if the CCC were Kansas, I’d tell my version of Toto (my 100-lb white Maremma dog who’s towing my bike because there’s no way I’m carrying her in a basket) that we ended up in one of Margaret Atwood’s dystopias—the kind where people eat each other, or maybe I’m thinking of Lord of the Flies. “Freya,” I’d say. “This isn’t Kansas anymore…. I’m not even sure it’s earth.”
Driving home tonight, though, a line from my favorite musical The Sound of Music came to mind: “When God closes a door, somewhere he opens a window.” And I just really had to think about that one because something like that happened on Sunday when I threw all of my fears about doing one particular thing out the proverbial window and clipped into a different kind of bike and said “let’s do this.”
The Sound of … Gravel
When I was a sophomore in high school, I nearly landed a lead role in the school musical. The musicals were legendary, which isn’t surprising given that the town (at the time) was something a highway passed through with a grocery store, a post office and a dive bar. What makes the story remarkable was the fact that I wasn’t a “theater kid”—I wasn’t allowed to take traditional dance classes (ballet, tap, jazz, modern) because I was too stocky to be any good, my parents said. Instead, I did all the sports that required “toughness” and my love for music, singing, dancing as physical expression took a backseat to the left-brained academics of my classes and what I would still call the left-brained use of my body in sports.
But, when I was sophomore it was announced that our school would put on a production of The Sound of Music and even though the music director had no idea who I was, I went to the auditions. I still remember the day he pulled me aside, saying: “You could have a lead role, but you’d have to give up all the athletics.”
No matter how badly I wanted to play the oldest daughter, Lisel, or even the lead, Maria, I did not see my value in the world as anything other than “athlete.” It would be a telling choice, one that followed me into my early 30s as an elite amateur athlete. My worth in the world was made by my physicality and my measuring up to standards completely outside of myself. That year (and arguably many years after), I took a minor part, and learned to live in the periphery of my own life. Literally I was cast as one of the nuns in the choir, one without a speaking role. This happened while I ran the entire season of races, winning state in one of my events.
And, I don’t know, this line reminds me of what happened this Sunday when a friend of mine invited me to do a ride with her in the dirt. I’ve been a roadie for ten years, and the few times I’ve attempted to ride off-piste with Rich, I’ve ended up bruised, scratched bleeding, and in tears. For a long time, learning to ride off the pavement was off-limits. It was too scary, way too risky and not my “thing.”
But I just— I can’t be afraid of everything all the time anymore. It’s just too much to fear the grocery store and (at the same time) what will happen if I crash and skin my knee. I choose to see what happens if I crash and skin my knee. What ensued was a 3.5-hour ride with over 3k of climbing. That’s a lot for a person who felt so low it was hard to wake up every morning. But, breathless and as exhausted as I was at the end, it felt really, really, really amazing.
Achieving (even minor) milestones
In the past six months, I’d forgotten how good it can feel to play. Or, to try something new and surprise yourself that you’re not as terrible as you imagined. The ride started with a climb up Dog Valley Road. It’s about three miles and gravel-y with loose rocks, so you have to constantly pick your line to avoid the sketchy-stuff. This is complicated by car-traffic, which isn’t terrible, but you know, you’ll probably see one or two on the way up. It’s a climb that a lot of runners know well because it’s a part of the 178-mile relay race called the Reno-Tahoe-Odyssey, which was also canceled this year. Two years ago, I ran this leg, so I knew what I was in for.
My tires slipped out. I bounced along uncomfortably. Luckily, it wasn’t hot, but it was windy, which sucked on the section of pavement we rode from Stampede to Boca to Hirshdale. The new section of the Tahoe-Pyramid Bikeway (which would take us back to Verdi where we started via the Truckee River corridor) was a winding and sometimes pretty technical (OK for me) single track down by the river that was so stunningly beautiful, I just felt lucky to be there.
I never imagined I’d arrive at a point in my cycling-life where riding in the dirt would actually feel… fun. Like, not terrifying, but something like a dance class where you have to think about your steps and how you’re breathing and moving— it’s work, but it’s not impossible. And then there’s the rare moment when— voila, you’re doing it, and you’re fluid like the music itself.
Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t easy! There’s a brutal climb at the end that I wasn’t at all prepared for, and I had to walk my gravel bike up most of it when both tires slipped out, and I just couldn’t recover. But darn it, I got to a spot where I could clip-in and I was back in the saddle, doing my thing.
Finding Windows
Rich and I rode out to the long-abandoned mining camps of Mazuma and Tunnel Camp —located North of Lovelock, NV—for the Fourth of July. This is pretty typical for us— we’ve both had our fill of people-packed holiday celebrations, so getting out—and far away— is pretty much the norm. This was another gravel ride: not as technical, but just as long and as grueling.
We stopped halfway through the ride and Rich spent some moment catching lizards— leopard lizards, collared lizards, and my favorite, horny toads. The silence out there was as vast as the landscape itself, the wide and (mosty) empty Kumiva Valley that seemed to stretch for miles in every direction. Once we were rolling again, the crunch of the tires on the dirt trail and our breathing was about all a person could hear.
These days, I’m finding an unexpected solace on the gravel bike. Maybe it’s because I have to concentrate on the trail, so there isn’t much room in my mind for me to think other thoughts other than to focus on what’s happening in the moment. Maybe it’s something new, or maybe it’s overcoming fears. Whatever the reason, riding dirt feels “right” to me. It’s distance and it’s solitude— and it’s, oddly, like meditation on its insistence on the here and now.
It is also adventure as much as it is art. The temperature climbed to over 100-degrees as I climbed out of the valley and back to the car, it was the kind of courage you pull out of yourself that tells you to keep going no matter how badly you want to stop. It is the reminder that one can always try and learn new things, discover new places and new aspects about yourself that you had no idea existed.
And then, I realize why I was thinking of The Sound of Music all these years later (far beyond when I last sang those old songs.) The line, spoken by the main character, Maria, seems particularly poignant now: “when God closes a door, somehow he opens a window.” In the context of the story, this of course means that Maria doesn’t enter the convent to become a nun, but instead becomes wife and mother to the VonTrapp family, which then becomes a singing troupe that escapes the Nazi occupation of their native Austria. My situation is not quite the same, and yet with the cancelation of events and the danger of a global pandemic I have to wonder if I’ve been given the challenge of the CCC in this particular moment for a reason. (Either that or I have really bad luck.)
I have no idea what the future holds especially in terms of large events like the CCC. Will I ride the roads in California with hundreds of other riders? It’s hard to say what will be safe in a few months. What I do know, however, is that this year will be an adventure like no other that I will ride bravely (and safely) for the sake of a little boy named Carter, even if that means finding Nevada’s secret and tangled network of dirt roads that lead to some of its forgotten past— riding solo, hard miles—and riding them with purpose.
