Post 1: The Crux - Aka "Musings while laying in bed and writing on my phone"
Out of desperation, I sat on the side of the trail, my chamois useless against the jagged rocks.
How did I get here?
Maybe I was wrong.
Maybe I can't do this after all.
The Trans-Portugal Mountain bike race was already a monumental task on its own, but my challenge began months earlier when I stared into a foamy basin of urine.
Kidney damage leads to protein leakage, and protein leads to bubbles in your pee, and the toilet looked like the foamy head of a summer ale. It wasn't the first time I had experienced this—autoimmunity has a knack for finding creative ways to fuck with you.
Like many others, my life has been marked by a series of highs and lows. After a difficult 2022, I decided that 2023 would be different, so I signed up for three events—three attempts to prove to myself that I still had it. Trans-Portugal in May, FNLD gravel in June, and Dakota 5-0 in September. But my immune system has no respect for my calendar.
And now I have a choice to make. I can either give up or keep taking steps forward, doing anything I can to make even the slightest progress.
Training for an eight-day mountain bike stage race -- with stages averaging seven hours -- is challenging to perfect but you do the best you can. My best effort involved a 17-hour training week, during which I received one of two monoclonal antibody infusions to eliminate my B-immune cells—the ones that protect you against COVID and other viruses. Regardless of whether my fitness was improving, the training-induced sodium loss was doing wonders to reduce the extra fluid building up on my shins.
With my lab values and compromised kidney function holding steady in the weeks leading up to the race, there seemed to be no compelling reason why I couldn't attempt the north-south crossing of Portugal on dirt and cobbles. In the absence of a clear no, I assumed the answer was yes. So, after arriving at the airport, I was shuttled to Lisbon, having received a last-minute plea from my nephrologist begging me to avoid dehydration.
And now I find myself on the side of the trail, somewhere between Paso de Regura and Fornos de Algodres. It's only the first stage (supposed to be the second, but the airline lost my bike), and my body has already given out. Hours of high-intensity climbing in unfamiliar heat have robbed me of my ability to push on the pedals. I've also lost my ability to sweat. And for the past hour, the fluids I've consumed have rapidly evacuated via alternative means before ever reaching my bloodstream.
So much for avoiding dehydration.
How did I get here?
Maybe I was wrong.
Maybe I can't do this.
And now I have a choice to make. I can either give up or keep taking steps forward, doing anything I can to make even the slightest progress.
Crossing the finish line, closer to the time-cut than my pride allows me to admit, had a metaphorical parallel. Sixty kilometers earlier, isolated from everything I knew, I had hit rock bottom. All my struggles, all my strains, all my physical and mental health issues, manifested in that one bleak moment. And yet, I rose, relying on no one and in control of my own well-being. Apparently, I'm a phoenix or something.
When we look around, we are inundated with apparent perfection. However, we do ourselves a disservice by judging our-self based on an incomplete understanding of others. The truth is, we may not always be able to move with the speed and grace that we prefer, but we can continue moving at the pace we can manage—and doing so makes us superhuman.
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