Day 25: The Ball of Suck Day

August 26, 2010

Date: August 20, 2010
From: Cave in Rock, IL
To: Carbondale, IL
Distance: 89.45 miles
Time: 9:01:07
View Garmin Data >

I suck at this. I am the worst. Most people, the more they do something the better they get at it. Not me. I slowly slide down the slippery sinkhole of gut-wrenching suckage until you can barely make out the top of my head in the goo. I make a slight gurgling wet-lung sound as I go. The surface of the suck swamp ‘plops’ from time to time as I expel air.

Yes, I believe it is official. I am the worst cyclist ever. Worse than that relative you know who can’t even ride a bike.

Today is proving it. Over and over and over and yes, I get the message. This was a dumb idea. But I’m committed now. There is no stopping. All I have to do is keep turning the cranks. Keep the miles ticking by. Face each hill one at a time. Drink. Die. Ride. Pretty much in that order.

And you can’t say I wasn’t given an out for today. Pastor Bob had patiently shown me a short cut from Sebree to Carbondale. One hundred miles compared to one hundred and thirty-five.

“Oh. Hmm,” I said. “I was planning to stay at Cave in Rock.”

He, being polite and hospitable, had told me about great catfish at Cave in Rock, and beautiful scenery, and just how nice it was and how you could catch a water taxi to Elizabethtown. Just charming. Then once again, he pointed at the map he had printed out. I followed his finger as he traced the shortcut route.

“This way is faster and flatter. The other way, though beautiful, is very hilly,” he said, cocking his head and making eye contact.

There was a look in his eyes as they connected with mine. As if to say, “I want to make sure you are hearing me.”

I heard him. But the next day I’d ridden to Cave in Rock anyway because I’m a dumbbum. And here I was, experiencing what ‘a little hilly’ actually meant.

It really isn’t painful being a stubborn moron until you learn the lesson of whatever it is you’re being moronic about.

The morning starts off well enough. In fact, there is a gorgeous sunrise over the Ohio River and I’m up early enough to go down below my cabin and take a photo. It’s a good omen, to have something so beautiful illuminate the day.

I need a good omen. The feeling I have inside the pit of my stomach is dread.

Feet dragging. Slow packing. Not sure how, but I manage to get out of the room and drop off the key by 7.30am.

It’s not long and it’s on. A narrow road with blind curves, deceptive slopes and grumpy surfaces. I’m left struggling on a few steep uphills and find myself angrily giving up and walking. Today. Today will be like this forever. Locals fly by. Dogs bark. Roosters crow.

It’s a short ride to Elizabethtown, but it’s already set the tone for the day. That tone is in the key of ‘slog’ and I will sing it like a canary. One of those coalmine ones who catches a whiff of gas and dies. My face is already a picture of sweat seepage. Need to do a top kill operation on that.

As I roll into Elizabethtown, I realize that it’s really just that I’m tired. Sure, it’s hilly and hot, but I can normally tolerate a lot before my brain shuts down. It’s shut down already. Thinks the rest day has already started, and here am I with a whole day’s worth of riding to do.

Breakfast. I’m going to sit down and have a damn breakfast.

I see a sign for a restaurant and tacked above, another handwritten sign saying, “Fuel for cyclists”. It is a false omen, for when I ride up the street to the front door, there’s a note saying the owners are away for two days. Just my luck.

Down on the main street, I look at the word Restaurant on an older building and decide to take my chances. The place is almost completely empty, save for an elderly gentleman and a woman cleaning the counter.

“Do you do breakfast?” I ask from the doorway.

“Yup, sit anywhere you like.”

I choose a booth, scan the menu and before long I’m looking at a cheese omelet, pancake, coffee and giant orange juice. Pick, pick. Eating is still a problem and I’m not sure why. Surely, I should be packing food away like nobody’s business. Blue. I’m feeling a bit blue. About the day ahead of me and the fear the Pastor Bob’s words have injected into me. I realize in that instant that I have become hill shy. That knowing what’s in front of me is dangerous. That to not know and to be surprised actually helps me get through the day.

Elevation charts, which are always deceiving, are not helping my brain prepare for these things. But it’s too late now. I’ve looked.

The elderly gentleman walks by.

“You rode that thing all this way?”


“Through those hills?”

I nod.

“Be careful. Snake’s liable to get hold of you,” he says, and we both laugh. The only snakes I’ve seen so far have been dead on the road. He shuffles out and I see him take a long look at Precious.

Suppose it is strange. Riding by myself. In this heat. With that rig.

On my way out, I ask the waitress if I can take some ice for my bottles and she tells me to take as much as I need. Some people want to charge for it, but she’s free and easy with her frozen water.

Sucking in lungfuls of courage and pushing back the dread and tiredness, I shove off. It’s not that bad. A few long climbs in the Shawnee Park. Coal trucks galore.

And there before me, a sign for the Trail of Tears. Now THAT’s an omen. Before the end of today, there will be tears alright. Fat, salty tears. Called sweat. It’s getting hotter and hotter and I feel a strange headache stab me in my right temple from time to time. Sure. That’s great. Give me something else to complain about.

But it’s beautiful. I stop from time to time to snap a photo that is probably only interesting to me. Want to remind myself later of how the landscape changed. How the trees turned from one tribe to another. What the grass was like from one day to the next.

Rollers. Rollers. Long, long rollers fill my morning with pain and joy in equal measure. The thrilling downhill to get momentum, the sharp uphill where it all runs out. Many times, I don’t make it to the top and there’s a scramble of gears as I try not to hurt Precious. Sometimes the gear selection is just plain wrong, and I find myself standing and groaning as I Try. To. Turn. That. Crank. Over. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn’t and I grind to a slow, uphill halt. Quickly clip out before I fall. Walk it. Push. Argh.

The day soldiers on with me in it. Face flushed red and radiating the heat of a nuclear bomb, I am dragged along by it. Up down. Up down. Up.

The sign has a picture of a truck and 9% above it. I fly down the hill. Fly. Really fly. Navigate over the rough, narrow bridge at the bottom before seeing how far I can get up the other side.

Dog. Then there’s a dog beside me. A great lumbering beast of a bloodhound. He makes no sound, save for the click of his nails on the road and the heave of his breathing. His jowls flap and his tongue is flying like a flag.

I stop, mid-hill, not sure if this beast is about to eat me whole.

“Go HOME!” I say in my big girl voice and he slopes off to the bushes. Sniffing around. I see bushes move, hear twigs snap under his weight, then he pops out and looks at me.

I watch as he lopes over the road to the other side and into the bushes there, his giant head glued to the ground one minute and flinging saliva around the next.

It’s steep where I’ve stopped, so I push the bike a little further up to where it’s not so steep. Push off again.

He disappears. And then he’s beside me and running. Then down in the ditch and running. Then crossing the road, still running.

And then he’s gone.

I pull up at the top of the hill to catch my breath, suck down some water, and look back. Nowhere to be seen. A car passes.

Clipping in, I wobble off.

All slobber and languid lope and he’s right back with me, looking at me from time-to-time as if to ask, “Where are we going?”

Each driveway we pass has me hoping it’s his. That he’ll give me one last look and go home. Because it’s hot out here for a human on a bike. I can’t imagine what it’s like to be a running dog. Worry. That dog is gonna stroke out. Worry. Why won’t he go home?

Finally, a long downhill where I figure I can lose him. I hammer down and he’s gone. Safe. Free. Cruising along and argh! there’s this heaving form of fur and sweat and flapping tongue right beside me again.

When I have to walk up a hill, he wanders around patiently biding time until I get to the top. Then he runs with me again. His movements are relaxed, but I can tell he’s hot.

A crossroads ahead. A gas station. I’ve pulled away from him again, so I don’t know where he is, but after I park the bike I see him jog in through the pump area towards me. His mouth is white with foam, his coat glistening with sweat.

“I’m getting you some water, Dog,” I say.

In the cool air of the store, I explain the situation. A girl looks out the door.

“Aw, Winston,” she says in a tone part love and part ‘aw, grandpa’. “He likes to follow the bikers in.”

“He’s been with me for three or four miles,” I say after we get outside, then watch as he inserts his massive head into a bucket of water. It’s a load off my mind. He will live. He is loved.

It’s sad to leave Winston behind, but also a relief to have someone to hold him while I ride away.

Goodbye, sir. Ours was a brief relationship. A beautiful distraction that got me through a tough part of the day. But now, I must away. I must make it through this entire day.

Now it’s a real slog, but I just keep on going, mentally checking off miles and calculating arrival times. Drinking. Turning pedals. Counting down.

It starts to cloud over, and it’s sort of cooler. But it doesn’t get really cool until I turn into the Crab Orchard Wildlife Refuge. It’s pretty and shaded and the hills seem to have abated. I begin to enjoy it again. About 10 miles to go, which is a signal to me that I can actually start getting really greedy with the water. I’ll make it to Carbondale ok. I’ll make it on what I’ve got.

Like most things I’m close to getting, time stretches out until its almost unbearable. An idyllic scene. Seen it. beautiful lake. Yeah, yeah. Where’s the town.

A few climbs are thrown in to make me really work for it. The light is sinking, but it’s still not headlight time. As a precaution, I flip on my rear lights. Not much further, right?

In town, I take the main drag to go find some hotels. What’s a few more miles between friends? I end up in a Quality Inn with a funky smell, but I don’t care. It’s next door to a wing joint. My goal is clear.

Later, one beer in my belly and quite drunk from it, I feel pride in having stuck it out. Even with the doubt. Even with the pain and the heat and the general lethargy, I made it through and tomorrow I can sleep in and not do anything I don’t feel like doing. It will bring me back so that I can do another brick of days.

I just wish I didn’t suck so much at the whole bike riding thing.

Go to next day (after Day 26 rest day) > Day 27: The Misdirection Day

  1. Reply


    August 26, 2010

    Bike writing. You excel at both! Thanks for having us along for the ride…

  2. Reply


    August 26, 2010

    And photography.
    And fundraising – look how close you are to your goal!

  3. Reply


    August 26, 2010

    Reading this entry sucks. I realize that this was a few days ago but even with the twitter (…Day 25 btw, I don’t feel so sucky now) i sit here stunned. You are riding solo, that alone (bad pun) adds extra stress. If I could reach across the many miles I would give you a big hug. You are some where in Missouri and I’m hoping someone following your journey puts out a big sign “Janeen stay here for a while”

  4. Reply

    Jay zzOtherlandzz

    August 26, 2010

    Most of us can only aspire to your level of “suck” on a bike.

    Thanks again for sharing your adventure, I’m already looking forward to the next installment!!

  5. Reply

    Nurse Betsy

    August 26, 2010

    Good thing you had Winston to keep you company. If you suck at bike riding…….Then you are doing an amazing job. Well done Noodle. Well done. I can only hope to aspire to your greatness.

  6. Reply


    August 26, 2010

    You think YOU suck, Noodle? I go anaerobic just sitting here reading your daily logs! Now that is really sucking. You are doing great by comparison!

  7. Reply


    August 26, 2010

    Keep the faith in your riding and your photos, you’re doing fantastic and your snips of your voyage is something I love, and no doubt many others. They are always interesting to learn about so many places that I frankly haven’t ever heard of before. Always great to look through 🙂

    Winston sounded fantastic, and no doubt surprising to see such a large hound pounding along next to you as he was. Really glad he was there at the right time (not sure if asking for a dog to be there is ever a right time other than this once) to give the distraction and company you needed. I know it’s not much of a conciliation but we’re all there doing our impersonations of Winston all slobbery and panting following you in awe.

    Last night after coming home and reading your blog, my six year old nephew dropped in and wondered what I was reading and the pictures I was looking at. After explaining he decided he wanted to go for a proper ride. Off we go on his first ride not on a field or car park and your inspiration had him pushing himself further and further. He did over 10 miles and has some sore legs now but wants to badly carry on and is rattling off all kinds of places locally he wants to be able to ride to. You’re an inspiration!

  8. Reply


    August 26, 2010

    Wow. If that’s sucking, I can’t wait to see you when you get good….

    Keep it up. We’re all rooting for you.

  9. Reply

    Richard from Melbourne

    August 26, 2010

    Glad you don’t feel sucky any more, but then I don’t think you sucked 5 days ago either! Cycling that distance with heat and hills does not count as sucking.

    Oh, and is Winston included in Precious’ “chased by dog” count?

  10. Reply

    josh in Upstate NY

    August 26, 2010

    Oh how I love the long horned cow! Just think, the most beautiful parts of the ride are still in front of you! I know…too much road in front of you to think about that. But keep the spirits up and know we are all cheering for you! Enjoy the suck, I wish I was there with you instead of the cube farm I write this from.
    Ride on!

  11. Reply

    Ann in Pennsylvania

    August 26, 2010

    Hang in there. You and Precious are doing great! Wish I were out there riding with you every time I read your blog.

    Gotta get yourself a whistle: THE solution for scaring off dogs with less friendly personalities than Winston.

  12. Reply


    August 26, 2010

    Wow, if you think YOU suck at hills, you should see me! What I think of as a hill, would probably only be a bump in the road to you. A couple weeks ago I made it up a 2-block-long hill (probably 3% grade) in my neighborhood and I felt like I’d climbed Mt. Everest! Thought my lungs would explode.

    Keep pedaling and don’t get discouraged. You’re doing great! Glad you had Winston to keep you company for a while.

  13. Reply


    August 26, 2010

    Everybody has those kind of days. I am sure the next day you woke up and realized that you don’t suck!
    You ARE an inspiration and and excellent “bike writer” (I stole that from someone above)!
    Winston sounds like a great dog. One of God’s special creatures sent to help you through a tough time. Keep up the good work!

  14. Reply


    August 26, 2010

    Don’t forget to pronounce it “Missoura” like the locals.

    I love Winston.

  15. Reply


    August 28, 2010

    I wish I sucked as bad as you. Or something like that. I hope you get my drift. You’re brilliant.

    I share your the frustration of being unable to eat when I am out on a tour. I think this leads to some of your biking blues.

    Many years ago I rode in the back of a long, articulated bus on the San Francisco Bay Bridge when the rear of the bus started oscillating like mad from side to side. Scared the daylights out of me. As luck would have it I was a summer intern in the federal office in charge of motor vehicle safety so I asked the experts in the office what caused my wild ride. Low air pressure in the rear tires. Long story short, be sure to keep Zimmerman’s wheel properly inflated.


  16. Reply

    Suzanne Michalik

    August 29, 2010

    Congratulations! This is just awesome — as a challenge, as writing, as a web site, as a bike (and rider!) … I just made my contribution.

    Good work all around!

    Can’t wait to greet you when you make the finish line … in Portland?

  17. Reply


    August 30, 2010

    Have you considered riding back across the country to give me further inspiration and reading material? Because I’m going to really miss this when you’re done! Just a thought:)

  18. Reply


    September 1, 2010

    Winston was like a little furry angel! Sounds like a tough tough day – glad you made it through!

  19. Reply

    Catarina Adib

    October 28, 2010

    Hello my friend.iam hawk . How are you ? your post is so great

  20. Reply

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