I’m sure you’ve played the game before: “What would you do if you had only six months to live?”

Believe me, the game is a lot more intense when you’re playing it for real. And the rules are a lot more complicated.

First of all, you’re not actually given six months. As near as I can tell, they only give you a definite period like that on movies and TV, where a nicely defined timeline serves the needs of the plot. Instead, you’re told you have “months, not years.”

Next, Unlike in the game, when you’re given a short period of time to live, it’s because you’re already deathly sick. So things like skydiving, kickboxing, and (worst of all for us) going to Italy can’t be part of your list either. If your daily radiation treatment is enough to tire you out, you’re probably not going to be traveling.

And finally, unlike in the game, in the real world you might have kids who are in school. And you might need to have your husband keep his job so he can buy food, pay the bills, and keep your medical insurance.

So, with those rules in mind, what would you do with your last unknown quantity of months?

Our answer, for right now, is to keep doing things pretty much the way we have been doing them our whole lives.

And you have no idea how happy I am that we are.

You see, the fact that, when confronted with a limited number of days Susan wants to go on living the life she already has is a big relief to me, and a huge credit to her.

Think about it. When confronted with the end of their life, almost everyone wants to spend their remaining time with their family. And since Susan’s raised our kids (and me) so that we want to be with each other, there’s no change here. Everybody’s already in place, and there’s nowhere any of us would rather be.

I’m glad for that.

Even more, I’m glad that Susan is still Susan. I’ve told her over and over how lucky I feel that even though this stupid cancer has ruined her body, it’s left her mind untouched. Susan still has the same personality she’s always had. She still has her memories. She’s still exactly the person I married.

When I think about how it could have just as easily gone the other way — Susan’s body could still be working and her consciousness could have been altered or eliminated — I get a huge wave of nausea.

Earlier this week, I had lunch with a man; his wife of forty years died of breast cancer about ten months ago. He told me that he regrets not having recorded her voice, of not getting down her stories.

I realized how close I’ve come to having this exact same regret. I’ve been given a grace period; I need to take advantage of it. So I’ve bought a tripod for the camcorder. For just a few minutes each night, we’re going to sit on the bed together and talk about things. How we met, how we got engaged almost immediately, how we discovered we were having twins, how I told her as she woke up from a mastectomy to have me tell her I had quit one job, taken another, and put the house up for sale while she was in surgery. What she expects of the kids. What she expects of me (including a promise to not become a bitter and angry man, I expect). How the novel she’s been working on should end (I’m still very hopeful she’ll end it herself). How she feels when making jewelry. What growing up near Venice Beach was like.

Really, conversations we’ve already had, and stuff I already know. But I need to get it in her voice.

I’ll always be angry at what cancer is and does, but I am glad that we’ve been given something a lot of people don’t get: time to take care of what’s important.

And I’m so glad we’re happy enough with what we have that we just want more of it. And I’m glad that Susan doesn’t mind me taking some of her remaining time for my selfish purposes: collecting and saving a little extra of her, so the kids won’t forget, and so I can make do.

I also got email last night from the Twin Six guys saying that the 2008 jerseys will be here very soon.

Who Benefits?
Last year, the pink Fat Cyclist jerseys were specifically for supporting Susan, with half the proceeds going towards Susan’s treatment and half the proceeds going to the Lance Armstrong Foundation.

This time, things are going to be a little different. We’ve got family and friends doing a lot of traveling and driving to help us out, not to mention the expenses that come with something like this. So this year, I’m going to use all the proceeds from all the jerseys — both orange and pink — toward Susan’s fight. In other words, when you buy a Fat Cyclist jersey — no matter what color or gender — every penny I get will go toward helping my wife, and offsetting the costs friends and family incur as they help my wife.

How Soon and where?
The jerseys will go on sale Monday, May 19, at noon Central time, and will be sold from the Twin Six site. I’ll post a link on that day.

How Much?
The 2008 Fat Cyclist jerseys will cost $70.00, plus shipping.

Let’s Take A Look
It’s been a while since I announced the 2008 jerseys, so here’s a reminder of what they look like.

Here’s the Men’s, front view:

And here’s the Men’s, back view:

Here’s the Women’s, front view:

And Women’s, back view:

There will also be an extremely limited number of Men’s jerseys in pink.

Team Fatty Fighting for Susan
No matter what jersey you get, the “WIN” is now part of the Fat Cyclist Clydesdale logo. And the inside of your collar shows your support:

I’ve always been excited about these jerseys, but now I’m especially glad that both the orange and the pink ones have the messages of support.

And, speaking of support, thanks to everyone who’s been sending email and leaving comments. I read them all and they give me a huge lift.

I’ve said it before, but I mean it now more than ever: People who say the Web’s a bad place have been hanging around the wrong neighborhoods.

PS: My friend Kenny left the following comment on my blog this morning:

Dear Readers of Fatcyclist.com,

This last week has been truly tragic learning of the down turn of Suzan’s illness. As I read these comments left by all you good people, the over all theme is the same. “What can we do for Elden, Susan and their kids?” I decided it was time to stop wondering and time to start doing. I set up a bank account in Elden’s name at a local bank here in Utah. It is linked to pay pal. The pay pal account is winsusannelson@gmail.com . If you don’t have a pay pal account you can also donate by going to my business’s website http://www.kennysphoto.com and clicking on the link in the middle of the page, where you can donate with the credit card of your choice. Please know that all funds collected will go directly to this bank account and after a two month period will be given to Elden, Susan and Family. Elden is unaware of this account, until now, of course. I’m not sure how he will react to this comment, but if he removes it, I’m going to continue to put it back on his blog and I invite you as fatcyclist readers to also put this on your own respective blogs. I truly believe that we bless our own lives, when we help others, so I hope that Elden will allow us to help him through this very trying time in his life. He truly has touched each one of us, through his writing and his friendship.
Respectfully yours,
Kenny

First, let me say that I’m touched. I’ve got great friends. Second, I’m going to say that right now I actually appreciate help like this. Even though I’ll be tempted to use it to buy another bike, I promise I will use every cent to help Susan with her treatment and to offset the expenses others take on on our behalf.

She apologizes that I have to take care of all her physical needs — I need to help her stand up, keep her steady, make sure she eats, takes her meds, keep her clean, get her comfortable in bed, dress her, and other things.

I’ve told her dozens of times that she shouldn’t apologize for this, and I’m indescribably relieved that I really mean it. You see, one of my secret fears when I was younger was that when Susan and I got old, I’d have to take care of her physical needs–that I’d be a nurse. At the time, I pictured it as frustrating, inconvenient, and undignified.

The reality is a lot different.

Being able to take care of my wife right now means that I am doing something, and as long as I’m doing something I’m generally OK. More importantly, it means that I’m doing something for her and with her, and there’s nothing I like better.

Plus, even though we have family and friends staying with and helping Susan full-time now, I like to think that nobody else is as good at taking care of her as I am. Susan tells me that’s true, and I’m not asking her if she says that just to make me feel good.

Still, she says she’s sorry I have to take care of her. I’ve asked her if the situation were reversed, would I need to apologize to her for taking care of me? No, she says, meaning it.

Well, OK then, I say. You would take care of me if you could, and I’m taking care of you because I can. Fair’s fair.

But still, she apologizes. She says she’s sorry that I’m not getting out on rides right now. I haven’t told her (and she won’t find out from this blog, because she doesn’t read it anymore, although I often read the comments to her) that a couple times this week, I’ve left work to go on a ride and then have skipped it so I could get home a little sooner.

I’ll ride more later.

She apologizes for having to leave me. This is a much harder apology to hear, because often I do feel like I ought to be getting an apology for having my wife taken from me. I mean, how many really good marriages are out there in the world? Shouldn’t someone apologize for splitting us up?

But it’s cancer that owes me an apology, not Susan. I tell her this over and over. She didn’t invite this cancer. It attacked her — us — without provocation, and she has nothing to apologize for.

Really, this is Susan in a nutshell. Even though she’s been dealing with cancer for four years now, even though she’s walking on an artificial hip, even though she’s been robbed of her talents and pleasures, even though she can only sleep with the aid of a cocktail of powerful drugs, even though she has to be literally bolted to a table and radiated daily, even though she’s dying, she worries about and apologizes to me.

I’ve said before that Lance Armstrong’s contributions to the battle against cancer eclipse by far his professional cycling accomplishments. It means a lot to Susan and me that he’d take the time to send a personal message of support.

Singlespeed mountain bike sounded about right.

I rode up the South side of Hog Hollow, a climb that takes half an hour, when I’m in great shape. I didn’t have a bike computer or watch on this ride, though. I wasn’t riding for time. I’m not going to be riding for time at all this season. I’m just riding for me for a while.

As I rode the mile of pavement from my house to the trailhead, I came across Lee Johnson, heading the opposite direction, clearly finishing the ride I was about to begin. He turned around and rode with me for a few minutes, asking — innocently — how my wife was doing.

I told him, answering as honestly and directly as I could, because I know I’m going to have to get used to answering that question. I was relieved that I had managed to keep it together, by and large, through the conversation.

He, like literally hundreds of others in the past couple of days, offered his support and prayers before he turned around and headed home, leaving me at the trailhead to my climb.

And that’s when I totally lost it.

I cried the whole climb up to the saddle of the Hog. Just bawled.

Weirdly, I thought as I climbed and cried that crying makes it harder to breathe and was robbing me of climbing power. And I thought that if anyone saw me right now, I was glad that they wouldn’t see my eyes (though the streaked face, running nose and mottled skin might have been sufficient clues for the astute).

Then I kept on climbing up Jacob’s Ladder, and kept crying the whole way up. I thought about how Susan and at least one of the kids had remarked on Friday that they had never seen me cry before then, and now I was well into a 45-minute jag.

Finally at the top of Jacob’s Ladder, I began the singletrack descent. It starts out tricky, with granite jutting out of the trail, and lots of sandy gravel that makes it easy to slide out. There are lots of different lines, and half the fun of the trail is picking which you’re going to take.

By the time I got to Ghost Falls, I realized something wonderful. I wasn’t crying.

In fact, I wasn’t thinking at all.

The intensity of the ride had fully occupied my mind. For the first time since Susan and I had been to see the oncologist and learned we were out of options, I felt…not happy, but at least not all knotted up. Clear.

Right now, clear is good enough.

So I dropped down Ghost Falls, attacking it a little more aggressively than usual. Using the brakes a little less often than usual. Chasing another moment of peace.

And I got it, too.

Then, as I climbed back up Clark’s in order to drop back down the South side of the Hog to get to Alpine, I felt selfish. I had added at least 3/4 an hour onto my ride time just to help me feel better. That’s 3/4 an hour that I was away from Susan when I could have been with her.

I know. I know. If someone else were telling me they felt guilty for taking an extra 3/4 an hour for himself under similar circumstances, I would tell him to go easy on himself; that he needs to take care of himself or he won’t be able to take care of his wife or family.

But that kind of rings hollow when your time with your wife has been cut short like this.

I won’t be taking any really long rides for a while. But I am grateful for close rides that give me a little time to get away from my head.

Of course, when there are more than 300 comments — every single one of them generous and thoughtful and encouraging — I spend quite a bit more than 20 minutes reading comments, and tomorrow I’m going to read them to Susan.

The point I was trying to make, though, was that when you spend so much time on something on a daily basis, you become pretty attached to it. This blog is by far my largest body of written work, and the people who read this blog represent a much larger community of friends — and now support — than I ever expected to have in this lifetime.

But I’ve spent some time today wondering how I can — and whether I should — keep it up. The answer was pretty simple, but it requires that you accept that — at least for a while — this blog is going to be serious a lot more often than it is funny.

Which is to say, right now I find it very helpful to focus my thoughts about the day by writing them down, and Susan has given me permission to share what’s going on in our lives. And sometimes, that will still be about bicycles and bicycling and bicyclists.

But not as much, for a while.

So here’s what’s happened today, which I think I can — without hyperbole — fairly call the worst one I have so far lived.

Good Start
Last night, I mentioned that Susan was sleeping as I wrote, and how glad I was that she was finally getting some sleep. Well, Susan continued to get a good night’s sleep. Like eleven hours. So I will always be grateful to the Doctor we met yesterday who completely changed her meds regimen and ordered the MRI.

That same doctor called me this morning, asking how the night went. Seriously, the Doctor himself called me. And then he told me he’d been on the phone with Susan’s oncologist and had sent an appointment and had set an appointment for us to see a radiation oncologist today as well. And I’m pretty sure that, once again, the Doctor himself did this.

His name isn’t Doctor Nordstrom, but it should have been.

Closed Doors
Next, we visited Susan’s primary oncologist. It was a short meeting, because she told us that we are out of options. Evidently, the brain is separated from the rest of the body’s bloodstream. Often, this barrier is good enough that even metastatic cancer can’t get through.

But Susan’s did.

The problem is, that barrier is definitely good enough that chemo can’t effectively travel through it.

The only treatment option we have open to us now, the oncologist said, is radiation therapy. And after that’s done, Susan will be better for a few months, but then the tumors will come back, and the brain can’t take another dose of radiation like that. So, absent a miracle, Susan only has months to live.

Probably, oncologists have to deliver this kind of news several times per year. I guess you get used to it. And the social worker was meanwhile trying to get Susan and me to tell us how we felt about this. I got the sense she really wanted us to cry for her.

Neither of us did. I know the social worker’s intentions were good — she had been the one who took steps to get Susan’s symptoms recognized as more than post-chemo depression — but she isn’t my counsellor, and there was no way she could fix what’s broken.

Susan said to her, “Elden opens up a lot more on his blog.”

“So do I need to start reading your blog to find out what you’re thinking, Elden?” the social worker asked.

I just looked at her, not answering. Knowing that this place wasn’t going to offer us any help or hope, I just wanted to get out, as fast as possible.

I cried a lot on the way back home, though, and Susan and I talked about the things we needed to. I’m not going into it here because living through that conversation one time today was all I’m up to. Those of you who have had this kind of talk know what I mean.

And those of you who haven’t had this talk think you know what I mean, but don’t.

Radiation Oncologist
At 2:30 today, we met with a radiation oncologist — the same one who had earlier taken charge of Susan’s hip. He told us what we can expect: some improvement following radiation, hopefully followed by as long of a period as possible before the tumors come back.

When they do come back, Susan will probably start sleeping a lot.

Then he showed us the MRI. It was like Susan’s brain is full of gravel and BBs. Surgery isn’t an option.

He told us the reason he had shuffled his existing schedule was because Susan’s condition is progressing so rapidly he didn’t want to delay even one more day. He wants to start a series of 25 radiation sessions (five days on, two off) starting tomorrow (Saturday). Susan will lose her hair again. There was a time when this would have bothered us.

When you do heavy doses of radiation, you’ve got to be precise about where you point that gun. So they make a form-fitting plastic mask that fastens to the table and restrains your head, locking it in place. Here’s Susan, having her mask made today.

Having that on her face for twenty minutes leaves an interesting impression:

It also gave her Kramer hair.

One More Talk
As Susan and I drove home, we agreed that now that we had all the information, we needed to tell our kids what is happening. Which we did, as soon as we got home.

I really have never felt so heartbroken in my life. The six-year-old twin girls made their peace fairly quickly, deciding that they’d better hurry up and give mom her mother’s day presents early, and trying to elicit a promise that mom wouldn’t die on their birthday.

I made that promise. I know, I can’t really make that promise, but I made it.

The boys — ages 12 and 14 — understand things better, and they — as am I — are going to be messed up for a while to come.

“Is it OK for me to pray for a miracle?” the 12-year-old asked.

“For sure,” I said. “That’s what I’m doing.”

Compared to this, the conversation Susan and I had earlier in the day was a walk in the park.

And Then Back to Daily Life
After this, Susan and I took the twins to their dance class recital, and then we went through the drive-through at the Purple Turtle to buy everyone their favorite kind of milkshakes.

No limit on the number of mix-ins tonight. Be creative.

And now, Susan’s asleep again, through the wonder of the Ativan and Serequol.

Tomorrow, I guarantee I am going to get in a nice, long, solo ride. Road singlespeed sounds about right, for some reason.

And then the shakes would start, and the inability to hold still.

In the past few days, she’s lost the ability to focus on anything at all, even for a moment, and her coordination is gone. Susan, who has a gift for making beautiful jewelry from silver wire she bends into intricate chains and patterns, is no longer able to tie her shoelace or make a sandwich.

She gets lost on the way from the bathroom to the bed.

Severe depression is common after chemo or between rounds of chemo; the doctors said that’s what this is, and gave Susan anti-depression medication.

Today, though, they did an MRI of her brain, just in case. Afterward, Susan and I drove home, with the Doctor’s promise that he’d call as soon as he knew anything.

We got a call at precisely the moment we arrived home. We needed to go back to the Doctor’s.

“Now?”

“Yes, now.”

There’s no patient in the world who doesn’t instantly know that the news is bad if the Doctor wants to talk to you face to face. And you know it’s extra bad if the Doctor is staying late to talk to you the same day the tests are taken.

The only mysteries then — the ones we talked about on the way to the Doctor — were: how bad would it be? what were our options going to be?

I want to take a moment to say what a great person this particular Doctor we met with today is. He gave up his lunch hour to meet with us in the first place, and then stayed late to meet with us again the same day, so we wouldn’t have to wait another day in dread. At the end of our meeting with him, he gave me his personal cell phone number, with the instructions that I should call him tonight — no matter what time — if things get worse.

That is very unusual for a doctor to do.

Susan doesn’t have just one tumor in her brain, or a few. “There are too many to count,” the Doctor said. “They’re scattered through your brain like dandelion seeds.”

Susan hasn’t cried yet; I only have a little. We’re used to the notion of countless tumors in vital organs. And there’s a measure of relief in knowing what we’re fighting now, instead of being on the endless sleep aid / antidepressant merry-go-round.

For tonight, Seroquel and Ativan to help Susan sleep (at this moment she is in fact asleep, which is the best thing to happen today), plus some steroids to hopefully shrink the tumors to the point that Susan can get back her lucidity.

Tomorrow, we consult with the oncologist. I’m guessing there will be some radiation coming up right away, followed by chemo.

We haven’t given up. We’re not giving up. But I am scared.

I climbed on my mountain bike, rode for about 90 minutes, and then rolled back into the parking lot, planning to go home for the day.

And that’s when I saw Dug, suiting up in the parking lot for a ride of his own.

Dug’s mountain bike frame had recently cracked, so he was planning to ride on the road — up the North side of Suncrest and back down. About a 45-minute ride.

Well, as any cyclist knows, when you accidentally run into a riding buddy, it is a certain sign that you ought to be riding together. “I’ve got my road bike with me,” I said. “Just give me a minute to change my shoes and I’ll join you for the ride.”

I made the switch, after which followed the most peculiar cycling sensation I have ever had. The handlebars felt so narrow. The front wheel seemed so close. The tires seemed ridiculous.

“This,” I thought to myself, “is one weird transition. Other cyclists ought to experience it.”

And that’s when it occurred to me: mountain biking and road biking should be part of a triathlon, but one with three great events, instead of the way most triathlons are: one good event, and two really awful ones.

It wouldn’t be until later that I would figure out what the third event would be. More on that in a moment.

Announcing the Inaugural Fat Cyclist Triathalon
I am pleased to announce that I will be putting on my very first event this Summer: The Fat Cyclist Triathalon (please note this is a triathalon, not a triathlon). I am pretty darned certain you’re going to want to mark this on your calendar.

Here’s how it’s going to play out.

1. Mountain Bike Leg: We’ll begin from my house in Alpine, UT, where we’ll ride mountain bikes up Hog’s Hollow, then down to Sliding Rock — a natural waterslide in the Hog’s Hollow area. The winner of this first leg of the race will be the person who goes down the Sliding Rock with the most panache, as judged by a distinguished panel of three.
2. Road Bike Leg: After Sliding Rock, we’ll ride back to my house, where we’ll quickly transition over to road bikes. Everyone will be required to remark on how strange road bikes feel after being on a mountain bike. We will then ride to Tibble Fork Reservoir and back. The winner of this leg of the event will be the person who can, on the spot, come up with the most clever limerick about a topic which will be provided at the beginning of this leg of the race.
3. Beer-Boiled-and-Grilled-Brats at Fatty’s: Back at my house, the third leg of the race will consist of us all eating exquisitely delicious brats. I will ask Kenny to make bread for the brats, which will make them even more wonderful, if that’s even possible. I will also make Seven-Layer Dip for the occasion. My Seven-Layer Dip is really, really good. On New Year’s Eve last year, Brad declared his intention to eat nothing but this dip. And Brad knows food. Anyway, the winner of this leg of the event will be determined by whoever seems to enjoy the brats most (which is not the same thing as whoever eats the most brats).

Oh, and by the way, if you’re strictly a roadie or MTB-er, it’s OK to miss a leg of the race for the kind of riding you don’t have a bike for. It is not OK to miss the third leg of the race. That leg is mandatory.

Prizes
Prizes will be awarded to the winner of each leg of the event, as well as for other categories which I will make up on the spot. I’m not sure what the prizes will be, but I bet you anything I can get someone else to pay for them, and I further bet that they’ll be better than most prizes at most local races.

Ooooh, you know what would be cool? If there were an event T-shirt. I wonder if I could badger the Twin Six guys into designing a Fat Cyclist Triathalon T-shirt? Only one way to find out, I suppose.

When?
The Inaugural Fat Cyclist Triathalon will be June 21, the first Saturday of Summer. I haven’t settled on the time yet. When works for you?

Why on June 21?
Because that’s the first weekend after my birthday (June 18, in case you’re curious). So this isn’t just a triathalon, it’s my birthday party, too. And you’re invited.

Is There Anything Special About This Particular Birthday?
There sure is. Two special things, in fact.

(Those of you who never read the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy books should just skip this paragraph.) First, I’ll be turning 42, which means I should, sometime during the course of the day, arrive at the question to life, the universe, and everything. I’ll be happy to share that with you. 

Second, my birthday actually marks me as demonspawn. Specifically, I was born in the 6th month of 1966: 6/66. Get it? Also, I was born on the 18th day, which splits nicely into 6+6+6. So there’s a good chance horns will erupt from my head and I’ll eat a live goat. It’s worth coming by to find out, anyway.

Registration
To register for the Fat Cyclist Triathalon, I’m going to ask you to make a donation to the Lance Armstrong Foundation via MikeRoadie’s LiveStrong Challenge Page. I won’t tell you how much, though anywhere from $25.00 - $50.00 seems like a good amount.

And let me know in the comments section that you’re likely to come, so I can start to get a sense of whether this will be me and a few guys, or a big ol’ extravaganza.

I’m kind of hoping for the extravaganza, to tell the truth.

More Details Soon
The fact is, I just made this whole thing up right now, but I’m dead serious about doing it (and I called Susan to make sure she’s cool with it — she is). I know a lot of you are too far away to come participate in the Fat Cyclist Triathalon, but for those of you who can come, it’ll be fun to meet, ride and eat.

I would not worry about who was behind me and catching up. I would not care how long I was out on the ride. I would not worry about whether I was eating the right food, or what my heartrate was. I would not, in short, treat this ride as if it were a race.

And the day was spectacular.

The Night Before

Most people don’t realize how simple it is to make people think you are a wonderful human being, so I shall reveal the one infallible method to do this:

Boil a copious quantity of brats in a beer-and-onion stew for 25 minutes. Grill over an open flame. Serve on Kenny’s homemade bread with mustard.

That’s it. That’s the whole thing. I took charge of boiling the brats, Kenny handled the grilling and the bread. Lo and behold, we were both recognized as marvelous people by one and all.

Everyone stood around the campfire right at the top of Horsethief — the beginning and endpoint of the ride we’d be doing tomorrow, as well as the campsite for the night — and ate their fill (ranging from 1 to 4 brats per person — I had 2), then just chatted.

Slowly but surely, I’m being won over by this camping thing.

By about 10:30, the group broke up and I headed off to the tent, where I had set up a cot. For extra insulation, I had brought a second sleeping bag. I didn’t really need it, though; it was strictly a 1-bag night.

BotchedExperiment — who was sleeping outside the tent in this homemade all-in-one canvas/mattress/sleeping bag contraption he has created — loaned me a pair of earplugs. These proved to be invaluable, since everybody in the tent (including me, from what I’m told) snored a bit.

Even without taking Ambien (or anything else), I slept fine.

Getting Started

The next morning, Dr. BotchedExperiment admitted he had had a miserable night. When he had packed, he had neglected to include an important component in his all-in-one sleeping contraption: the sleeping bag part.

I can scarcely describe my pleasure in telling Botched that I had brought an extra sleeping bag he could have used, had he only asked.

Poor Botched. Hahahahahaha.

Around 6:30 or 7:00 in the morning (I wasn’t wearing a watch), we started rolling. Normally, I would have made sure I was one of the first ones going, and would have made a point of staying with the lead pack.

This time, I left toward the back of the group, and before long was even further in the back. This would be an emerging pattern, and one that I became increasingly comfortable with.

The place we started from (top of Horsethief) and direction we rode the White Rim Loop — clockwise — meant that the first thirteen miles are on a gently rolling climb. This was a brilliant idea: instead of a hair-raising descent or brutal climb, how about beginning the day with a nice warmup on a wide dirt road? Here’s Brad (sporting the sleeveless jersey plus armwarmers look), Dug, and others tooling on up the road.

And continuing on…

Big, Bad Drop
After a relaxed cruise up the dirt road and a few miles of pavement, we were at the top of Schafer, a switchbacked, rutted out, dusty, rocky 2000-foot descent down the face of a cliff.

This was, essentially, the only time during the day I did not enjoy myself.

My left wrist hurt during the descent, threatening to buckle, which could have mean a catastrophic (i.e., fatal) fall. I was nervous and, frankly, resentful.

The good news, though, was that I wouldn’t have to climb it. Which is good, because Schafer was in bad enough shape that there’s no way I could have climbed that road on my Superfly, much less the single speed.

Brad is a Genius

As the worst, most nervous, twitchiest descender in the world, I had dropped way behind my friends by the time I got to the bottom of Schafer. To their credit, they rode a nice, pokey pace until I caught up, and then we were at the first re-grouping of the day, about 25 miles into the ride: Musselman’s Arch.

And this is where I noticed, for the first time, that Brad’s CarboRocket energy drink deserves to be a huge success. Brad had brought along a couple of big coolers filled with CarboRocket, and that’s what everyone was lining up to fill their bottles with.

I drank it all day, and never got sick of it. Others were saying the same thing. It is seriously the best energy drink I have ever tried.

Kenny likes it too:

And here’s Brad, the genius behind CarboRocket:

Uh, Brad? You’ve got something stuck in your teeth.

Something big.

This Place is Huge
Shortly after I arrived at the first regrouping spot, I saw a bunch of people take off, in a hurry to set a personal best, or to race someone to the finish line. I recognized that usually I would have been one of those people.

This time, though, I was just riding a comfortable pace and taking in the view.

And I was loving White Rim like I’ve never loved it before.

I didn’t worry much about whether I was going fast or slow enough to stay with a group, and as a result I sometimes rode with a good-sized group of people, sometimes nobody at all.

And I had plenty of time to take in the sheer enormity of White Rim. And you know what? It is huge. Mind-bogglingly big, really. It’s enough to make you feel tiny. Here’s Botched, for example, way off in the distance, all by his lonesome.

Isn’t he tiny?

And here he is a few minutes later, evidently happy to see me:

Someone should tell him his bike would go faster if he pedaled it.

Sleepy’s Story

Let me take a break from my own narrative to point out that just a few minutes after leaving Musselman’s Arch, Dug’s brother-in-law, Sleepy, crossed a major milestone: thirty miles into the ride marked — both in time and distance — the longest he had ever been on a bike.

And he was doing the whole thing on my old Gary Fisher Rig, a fully-rigid single speed. In other words, Sleepy did his first 100-mile ride, his first 2+hour ride, his first mountain bike epic, and his first rigid singlespeed endurance ride, all at the same time.

Dug does a good job of telling the story over at his blog (yeah, Dug has a blog now. We all knew he’d get one eventually).

Here’s Sleepy, contemplating the grandeur of the White Rim.

It’s also possible that he’s just wondering about whether he could end his life painlessly by riding over the edge.

Oh yeah: Dug wanted me to take a picture of him at that spot. Here you go, Dug:

The sad thing about this picture of Dug is that you can’t really see the knee-high black socks he’s wearing. Which is too bad, cuz they go great with the pink-and-white basket and the plaid shorts.

Something Is Wrong

Around lunchtime, I noticed something very peculiar. Specifically, I noticed that I felt fine. I wasn’t exhausted, I wasn’t twitchy, I wasn’t half out of my head with race-induced dementia.

I was, in short, enjoying myself.

Also, I noticed that the temperature was bizarre. It was no warmer than 70 degrees. I had a hard time resolving the incredibly comfortable riding conditions to the parched-desert look of White Rim. To have a clear, sunny day, mild breezes (with occasional gusty headwinds), and the exact temperature I set my thermostat to at home just seemed out of character.

I am not complaining.

Lunchtime is, by the way, the traditional time where we take the group picture:

Kenny sure knows how to put together a group ride. (Bonus: How many Twin Six jerseys can you find in this group shot?)

Two Different Rides

There’s a weird thing about riding the White Rim: it’s like two different rides. From Shafer to Murphy’s Hogback, it’s all wide open desert riding, with cliffs off in the distance. Then you cross over and from the Hogback to Horsethief, and you’re right in the middle of the cliffs and canyons, with the river right beside you.

Oh, and there’s a lot of sand, too. Which, by the way, never forced me off my bike. 29" wheels = good.

As I rowed my way through the sand, now 75-80 miles into the ride, I could really feel my left wrist starting to ache. Not bad enough to whine about it, but I whined anyway.

But I was still having a terrific time. At one cliff, about five guys got a big sandstone boulder and rolled it off the edge. It fell for about a five-count, and then exploded into dust, while many of us looked on, laying on our bellies and peering over the edge at the drop below. I was a fool and didn’t get a picture of this, but KanyonKris did, and it really gives you an idea of how far down that boulder had to fall.

From the left, I’m the third one on his belly. The one in the orange jersey. (I hope it’s OK that I stole your photo, Kris — it’s extraordinary.)

Almost There

KanyonKris, Adam Lisonbee, and I climbed Hardscrabble together. I pushed a lot, and so did Adam. However, Adam had a better excuse than I did: this was the second day in a row he had done this 100-mile epic.

Kris, meanwhile, was on a mission to climb the whole thing. I encouraged him as best as I could by singing "Eye of the Tiger." This was highly effective, mainly because it made him want to get away from me.

I wondered aloud to myself, "On a 100-mile ride, from mile 90 on all I can think about is the finish line. If this were only a 90 mile ride, I would have spent miles 80-90 thinking about the end. Why can’t I just enjoy the whole ride for what it is?"

To me, this seemed like a very sage question, and worthy of sharing. Mostly, people shook their heads and said "whatever." Pfff.

At the top of Hardscrabble Hill, Dug gave me half of his ice-cold Diet Coke with Lime, making him the best friend that has ever lived.

Moment of Strength

The way we had set up this ride, the last thing you have to do is climb up Horsethief. I’m not sure how long of a road it is — maybe 1.5 miles? — but it’s steep and it switches back over and over and over. Here’s a great shot of it by Adam Lisonbee:

For some reason, I wanted to show that I could clean it. On my singlespeed.

And I did it. I cleaned that road on my singlespeed. But it wasn’t so much a ride, as an exercise in rowing and ultra-slow-speed balancing. Several times I came either to a complete or near-complete halt, with my cranks in the 6 and 12 positions. It was more a matter of luck and fear of embarrassment that I didn’t fall over. Magically, Adam managed to get a picture of me doing this climb in such a way that it looks as steep as it felt:

Plus, Kenny and Brad were yelling encouragement from the top. Which helps. A lot.

Afterward

After finishing this ride, I felt something unique and new: I felt fine. I have never finished an epic without needing to sit and sip water and basically baby myself. But this time, not having killed myself during the ride, I felt tired — worked over, even — but not demolished.

I liked it.

We loaded up — Dug, Sleepy, BotchedExperiment, and me in my BikeMobile — and headed home, planning to gorge ourselves at Ray’s Tavern in Green River. A perfect end to what I would consider a perfect day.

But we had to stop for a moment to let BotchedExperiment throw up.

And then we had to stop for a moment for BotchedExperiment to throw up. Again. But that’s his story to tell.

And I hope he will.

Oh, except for one strange anomaly: there are two dedicated candy stores. One of them is Choclatier Blue, a high-end, handmade candy store where each chocolate is a work of art (and is priced like a work of art). I go there on Christmas, Valentine’s Day, Susan’s Birthday, and our Anniversary.

The other place is called the Peppermint Place, and they mostly just sell stuff brought in from other candy manufacturers. Kind of a cutesy downscale Mrs. Sees.

But I recently discovered my brand new favorite candy at the Peppermint Place: Candy-Coated Sunflower Seeds.

Behold:

The idea is simple: They’re just like Peanut M&Ms, but with sunflower seeds instead of peanuts. 

And they are so delicious.

The brilliance is obvious, when you think about it. Just think about what you like about M&Ms, and you’ll realize Sunflower M&Ms are even better.

• It’s not the chocolate that makes M&Ms so great; the chocolate is pretty pedestrian. It’s the candy shell crunch around the chocolate. And since sunflower seeds are tiny, you get more of that candy crunch with a handful.
• Peanut M&Ms are too big. I like the way they taste, but they’re the wrong size. A handful is just five or six. A handful of Sunflower M&Ms is like a thousand.
• The peanuts in Peanut M&Ms are too powerful. Mostly what you taste and feel are peanuts. Sunflower seeds are relatively soft, mellow-tasting and don’t overwhelm the chocolate and candy coating.

In one hour, I head out to Moab. I’m going to buy a five pound bag of these things for the ride.

PS: Turns out they’re available online. Click here or just Google chocolate sunflower seeds.