A Bicycle Built For Two

For my French class at my last semester at BYU, I was assigned to attend a lecture about the French way of life. The one I chose to attend featured a seasoned French cyclist who had written a book about how riding a bike was good for the soul. I wish I could remember more of the details, and normally I would, except it just so happened that at the time, I was recovering from a concussion I had procured while dancing with a freshly returned missionary. A lot of things around that time are a blur! Anyway, it turns out that he was a veteran of the Tour De France. He claimed that it is the hardest race in the world. In my mind, I thought. Phhht! No it's not, the Iditarod is! I had an experience this weekend that taught me that we were both right.

Maren always told me that if I wanted to go bikejoring, all I needed to do was ask. In the past, I've tried to make several different appointments to go out with her, but fate proved to be a stumbling block-between schedule conflicts and Kahlua getting killed, it seemed like my training was never meant to be. Finally I gave it one last shot and scheduled with her for this past Friday, and it worked out.

I had to wake up 5:30 am so that we could beat the still overly hot temperatures of the day, but I had barely fallen asleep at 2:30. I didn't feel tired at first, I was up and raring to go! My mom dropped me off at the shop where I waited for Maren to meet me. We drove up to the Squaw Peak trail, where Racer already had the rest of the team. We had brought with us one of new rescues, Timber, so that she could be trained to pull. I thought Maren was going to hook me up to her, because she had more reason to actually obey me, but Maren told me she wanted me to choose one of her dogs. Each and every one of them is a racing machine. It sounded very ominous.

I decided I wanted Zilla, Maren's Australian Shepherd/ Husky mix. I've met her before, and she was sweet. I figured that because she had a shepherd's heart, she would have a merciful soul.

I thought I had dressed warmly enough for the occasion, but once we got out there, the very air in my lungs froze. The trees were beginning to change colors and there was a definite autumnal chill in the air. Maren made me wear a helmet and a pair of over-sized biking gloves. I had no idea why I would need them, but I really came to appreciate them later.

Maren hooked Timber up with Sage, appropriately named for her ability to teach the novice dogs of Maren and Racer's team how to pull. I wondered if maybe I should just sit back and observe them for oh, I don't know, a couple of years? Nevertheless, I put on a brave face as they hooked Zilla up to Maren's specially-made mountain bike and kept those thoughts of 'how do I get myself into these situations?' to myself.

It's a very intimidating thing to put your life in the hands(paws?) of animal, especially if you're not it's owner. All Zilla would have to do is stop suddenly for me to be thrown to my death, and she would never have to worry about lugging my carcass around ever again. In theory, I'm supposed to be the one in charge, the one setting the pace and giving the directions, but anyone who has ever worked with Huskies knows that's not always going to happen.

I gave out the shout " Hike, Hike!" and off we flew. (Musher's don't really yell 'mush'. That's Hollywood stuff). I found a new appreciation for all kinds of things on that trail day: brakes, paved roads, cushy bicycle seats, etc. Zilla and I pounded up that dirt trail up in to the mountain like her heart was going to break. I took back the scoffing I had mentally sent that French bicyclist that day; I felt that because the Tour De France was held in temperate July and wound all over scenic France, and wasn't quite the same distance as the Race to Nome, it couldn't really compare to the Iditarod. But that day, on that trail, I learned that bicyclists must have callused fannies, because mine was very unaccustomed to the jolting and bumping of a rocky dirt road. (and I really don't have much padding back there, you know), I also know that bicyclists must have iron lungs and thighs that constantly burn, because both of mine wore out on the way up. Maren was behind me, and she decided to give me a second dog, Sage, to help me finish. I felt like a complete and total wuss.

The real thrill came on the way back down. Maren took Sage back in order to keep me from zooming off into oblivion, and she told me that this was the easy part. I figured I'd be okay. Zilla was totally compliant with me and was responsive to anything I said. She is the most mellow of the dogs on the team, and I was right, she has an understanding heart. I felt like I had had a grasp on the idea, and was finally in control. But I'll tell you what, as we turned around and went back down the mountain, I think I had the fear of God inside of me. I don't think events that are animal based are placed in the category of extreme sports, but they should be. Anything that involves cooperation between human and animal in order to succeed is a real feat, and I honored mushers all the more that morning. I knew my time had come and that I was about to cross that ol' river Jordan into that giant dog park in the sky, when Maren taught me the command for slow down and how to pump my brakes.

In the end, I arrived back at the trailer shaky, colder then I could remember, my hands numb and my bummy sore. But I felt more alive and more happy then I have in a long time. It was the same feeling I got when I visited that kennel in Alaska. I loved it, and I'm going to see if I can schedule again next week. Only this time I'll bring another pair of gloves. And maybe my bootie pop.