We didn't want easy

A few days into our West Coast trip, we camped at Deception Pass in Washington. We got to talking with other campers, and Shan started telling the story - his run across the country, our bike-and-run up the East Coast, the journey we were currently on. I stood beside him, doing what I always do, smiling like a dork, his biggest fan.

At some point, I was ready to talk about my role: hauling our gear, handling all the logistics that had to happen so both of us could keep moving. Before I could get very far, one of the men cut in.

"Oh, 40 miles a day on a bike? Piece of cake."

I studied his face for sarcasm. There wasn't any. Just cheerful, good-natured ignorance.

Shan hadn't really caught it. When I mentioned it later, he told me to let it go. He wasn't wrong. But the comment stuck.

The thing is, whether you're crewing from a support vehicle or a bike saddle, supporting a runner over thousands of miles is logistically, physically, and emotionally relentless. You're working and navigating and problem-solving while simultaneously worrying about your runner: Are they eating enough? Are the aches manageable? Is today a hard day or a really hard day?

On a bike, I also had to manage my own body. If I couldn't keep moving, we couldn't keep moving. That meant maintaining at least the same physical endurance as Shan, day after day, while also handling everything else. I tapped into every project management instinct I had, and found reserves of grit I didn't know were there.

Our trailer — a 90-liter Radical Design — carried a tent, sleeping bags, blankets, tools, clothes for two, food, and my laptop. On flat ground with a tailwind, pulling it was almost enjoyable. Add a sustained climb or a headwind and we were firmly in type-2 territory. Day after day of that wears on you in ways that are hard to explain until you've done it.

A few weeks after Deception Pass, I was white-knuckling the handlebars as gusts of 30 to 40 mph shoved the bike and trailer sideways, dangerously close to traffic.

Piece of cake, my ass.

One of the hardest moments across all of our trips came in Garibaldi, Oregon, a small fishing village just north of Tillamook (i.e, the Tillamook with delicious cheeses and ice cream). I'd had neck issues in the past but nothing recent, no warning signs. Then one night, intense muscle spasms dropped me to my knees. In the early morning hours, I was lying on the bathroom floor calling out to Shan for help. He woke up and helped me into bed, where I lay flat on my back, afraid to move. I could see the fear in his face. There was nothing he could do, and I think that helplessness was harder on him than he let on. I wasn't feeling great about it either. I couldn't imagine sitting upright, let alone towing a trailer for another 1,200 miles. I wondered if the trip was over.

In the morning, we decided to head to the nearest urgent care in Tillamook. With no support vehicle and no other obvious options, we packed up the trailer together, attached it to the bike, and I saddled up. It was a straight shot from our motel - only 10 miles - and a hero dose of Advil was doing its magic. As Shan cheered me on, I pedaled out of the driveway onto Route 101 and made it about a quarter mile before I had another flat tire.

Deception Pass guy, if only you could have seen this.

I was given steroids and muscle relaxers, and within 24 hours, the muscle spasms subsided; I was almost back to myself. We kept moving. Our trip was not ending early!

People sometimes ask why I don’t drive the campervan on these trips. There were times I asked myself the same question. But the whole point was for me and Shan to share in the experience - doing our separate things, but exposed to the same elements, moving through the same country at the same pace. Driving the van would have been easier. But we didn’t want easy. We wanted together.

On an especially windy, rainy afternoon crossing into California, I got a pretty good reminder of exactly what we'd signed up for. It was getting late. I needed to pick up groceries. Shan was at the Airbnb waiting patiently - cheerful and unhurried, as always - for me and his clean change of clothes to arrive. I was muscling up another never-ending hill when I got a flat tire. Again. This one required tweezers - a new addition to my toolkit, and the only way to efficiently remove those tiny slivers of radial tire metal from the rubber. I changed the tube on the side of the road, my fingers frozen, wind and rain stinging my face, tractor-trailers spitting road grime as they zoomed past. I grumpily texted Shan: “I have another flat tire, this sucks.” He responded in his usual optimistic way: “You got this!”

I had no choice but to believe him

https://video.wixstatic.com/video/9dad2a_5e148c85781548c9a31541ea23e26c86/1080p/mp4/file.mp4

And somewhere between the flat tire and the grocery store, I did. I picked up my phone, hit record, and told my story. I was grumpy, cold, wet, and tired; my legs ached. I was fighting to pedal uphill, into the wind, into the rain. After a few complaints, my voice changed, and I reminded myself what we were doing. I was riding my bike the entire length of the West Coast. The Pacific Ocean stretched out beside me. This was the ride of a lifetime, even the parts that were kicking my ass. Especially those parts.

This is what we signed up for. All of it.

*In the next post, we dive into what a day actually looks like