Just when I thought I could cycle solo, the chiweenie kept pulling me back in. I awoke at 4:30 a.m. to pedal before Helios brought hell to Phoenix. It’s a mere 85 degrees at dawn.

If I finish in less than 2 hours, I can be off the road before it’s 95, and inside under the air conditioner when it hits 112.

Our pup is usually the last out of bed. But bike rides are “fun.” She sits up front, wind in her face, taking in all the smells of ducks, dogs and new neighborhoods. She doesn’t have to run or pedal or even stand…

Carol Baskins in the bike basket.
The low 6 a.m. sun crosses the east side of Carol Baskins’ face as she reigns from her bike basket .

When I put on the soft-core-porn cycling shorts, she shot out of bed. Followed me all over the house, out to the garage and all around the bike. Licking my legs and crying to go.

“It sounded like you kicked a baby,” the wife said 5 hours later (after she awoke)

Carol goes.

I’ve ridden with her before. Sure, the big square box and the extra 10 pounds on the front of the bike can “slow” us down. Sure, there’s no fast turns and fewer places to put my hands… but what’s slower speed and some numbness?

But damn… this morning I could hardly get the bike to move. My eyes are stinging as my eyebrow-dam can’t hold back the puddles of perspiration.

I’m hitting my inhaler every mile. My legs are burning. I’m 3 gears higher (easier) than usual. I can’t get any cadence. It would be easier to climb a mountain.

In the first four miles, I thought, I was just having a bad day. A bonk. Too much fat on me or in my diet, or too many days off the bike. Carol is disappointed. Looking back and licking my hand — the chiweenie sign for “go faster”. There’s no wind on her hot face. We haven’t zoomed past any other bikes or birds or big doggies…

I stop to let her out. Check the bike, all good.

  • Mile 5, this is NOT just asthma. Is this a heart attack? No jaw pain. No left arm pain. It stops as soon as I stop.
  • Mile 6, is this muscle weakness muscular dystrophy? Is it MS? There’s just no power pushing the bike.
  • Mile 7, this shit is Lou Gehrig’s disease. I can barely keep the pedals going round. I may faint in this heat.

We hit a hard bump. The front wheel squeals and screams. Her basket bumps the brake line.

Carol’s basket tightens the brake line. A bump in the road is as good as a squeeze on the brakes.

“God damn it — what the fuck else could go wrong on this ride…”

Carol says nothing.

I clear the basket, pull some slack in the line. Turn the brake “adjuster lever” down to make more room between the brake pads and the rim. Breathe, just breathe.

Start again.

Sweat, breath, burn. Do I stop and call 911 now? Hell NO. Just push through. If I die on this bike ride, I die. Better than rehab or chemo for whatever fatal disease this must be.

I take solace that Carol will be taken care of after my demise. She will whimper or drop her head and look out through the top of her eyes and any passerby will come to her rescue — while they ignore me as the life leaves my broken body on the burning hot sidewalk.

Mile 8 and 9, I’m sure could be my last. But the road is flat, and I find a gear I can push to keep upright. Carol looks back at me with sympathy — like the last person to limp through the marathon 12-hours behind the winner.

Mile 10 — stopped at the light at McKellips Road. It’s going to be a long light. Not quite to the halfway point of this 25-mile death pedal.

I have time to catch my breath and check the brake lever again. It’s down.

Gray brake lever down. Even Carol knows something is wrong with this picture.

Dumbass…

Down tightens the brakes.

Gray brake lever up. It’s a miracle cure.

“Up” adds slack to the line, allows the pads to move away from the rim (measured in millimeters). The basket hit the line, the lever down put ever so slight pressure of the pads to the rim. It didn’t make a noise. It didn’t feel like I was stopping.

Who knew that brake lever “up” could cure heart disease, muscular dystrophy and Lou Gehrig’s?

But it damn well does… Second half of the ride is ever so slightly downhill ( a 0.085 percent grade). A tailwind growing from the East as the radiation and heat from the dawning sun pushes the air out of its way.

The wheels spinning free. The legs with new found cadence and power. The wind chill in full effect. The sweat blows away from my cooling face. The chiweenies’ ears point up in the breeze.


Carol Baskin — ears up.

My brush with death over. Just like the last little piggy, I dance on the pedals and Carol Baskins and I go “wheeee” all the way home…

Strava stuff

If this bullshit was familiar, this story also appeared on Strava as a “post.” https://www.strava.com/athletes/536426/posts/25305856

Because if there’s no data it didn’t happen — here’s the Strava link to the ride: https://www.strava.com/activities/9633279057