I rode 200km on my bike for charity
Wendy Gordon, 61, pushed herself to the limit to ride 200km for the inaugural “Ride to Conquer Cancer" charity fundraiser to raise money for the Chris O’Brien Lifehouse.
"You can't be serious!"
"Impossible!"
"I don't believe it!"
These were the reactions of my family. My husband said nothing. Too shocked. I knew it sounded ridiculous.
But I had already confided in one other. He said, "Of course you can! You will do it! How much time do you have?" "Eight months" I replied. And so it began ….
The next week I turned up at my indoor bike training class with one goal, and this one person who believed in me, my trainer: I would ride in the inaugural "Ride to Conquer Cancer", a bike ride event over one weekend. Two hundred kilometres. I would raise money to help bring into being the Chris O'Brien Lifehouse, a centre for excellence in research and treatment for cancer sufferers.
Yes, I had just turned 61. No, I didn't have a bike. No, I had not ridden a bike since I was twelve. Never had a bike with gears, never had cleats.
My training began, hour long sessions, twice a week, then three times a week. Then two hour sessions. Four hours on Saturday and Sunday afternoons as well. Cross training, resistance training to simulate hills, training in pedalling techniques, learning to use different muscle groups to avoid fatigue, speed training, planning nutrition and hydration, monitoring heart rate, learning the warm-up and cool down exercises, pacing myself, avoiding cramps.
Who knew there was so much to it? I had thought it would be just to get on a bike and keep going.
Guidance to buy a bike. Courage to start riding outside …specialist bike paths, around the lakes, along the river, then the road. Twenty kilometre rides in heat, with wind. Building up to eighty kilometres at a time, ninety kilometres. Learning how and when to change gears, adapting to cleats, leaning into curves, body position …. Inevitable tumbles, some bad falls. Impossible hills. Heart lurching as I was attacked time and again by swooping magpies in spring, snapping at my helmet, sounding like a cracking whip!
Many adventures, new friends. But lots of blood, sweat and tears.
In native bushland, on a bike path, swerving around a bend, I see a bride spreading out her gown – with her photographer …. No time to stop, so a successful swerve into the bush and out again. Same for a family of ducklings. Again for the young lovers listening to their music, the old couple …. Why on a bike path?!
Ah, but the small child … running straight into the bike path! Another swerve, but it did not feel right. Something was wrong. This was not just long grass alongside the bike path! I was sinking, sinking into a canal of murky water, cleats still attached to bike. I struggled to keep my head up, grabbed some reeds. How to unclip cleats, and free myself from the bike...? Finally I emerged, a horrifying sight of green slime trailing from my helmet, my face, my clothes, my bike – streamers announcing to all the folly of my undertaking. The child looked at me in terror.
Flinging off as much slime as I could, embarrassed beyond words, praying my bike, gears, brakes - everything – would still work, I hastened from the scene, praying also that my remote car lock and my mobile phone would survive their dunking, praying that I would not meet anyone I knew. All was well. A hurried change of bike clothes in the car (yes, at my age!) and a grim determination to finish my training plan for the day kept me at it. "Think of your reason for doing it!" I told myself.
The months passed, and as the day approached I confided in my trainer: "Do you know they have cars come along to pick up any who can't finish? I don't want to be in the 'sweep-up'! And I don't want to be last!" He promised: "You won't be swept up, and you won't be last!"
As the day approached I started to pray that I would be sick, unable to compete, that something would happen so that I could withdraw honourably. I became terrified. Two hundred kilometres for a novice was ridiculous!
The day before the event we had to take our bikes to the starting park, and lock them in for an early start. The weather was horrendous. Biting wind, gale force at times, sheets of rain, all buffeting the car as I drove down, black ice in the nearby hills. I will never finish the event, I thought glumly. But surely they will cancel if the weather is bad? This might be my answer!
The next day dawned, calm and still, perfect weather for riding. As we gathered, all 1600 of us, I noted that they were mostly very athletic looking young people, with a smattering of older ones who looked as though they had been riding all their lives. Fear gripped me. But we were riding for those who had cancer, the most difficult journey of all. I could do it. And I would.
We were away. I followed my training, pacing myself, recalling with clarity my trainer's instructions, and everything came together. I reminded myself of my reason for riding. The cancer journey is harder. Keep going. On hills I overtook the younger riders, those who had not trained as much ("just jump on a bike and keep going"). Down hills I flew, setting new speed records for myself!
It was exhilarating, amazing. The kilometres flew past. I finished the Saturday's 105 kilometre ride by lunch – and was in the first third of the field. Would the Sunday ride be more difficult? No, I had prepared well, trained to reach my peak on this weekend. I finished by lunch again, also in the first third of riders. Reaching the finish line to the cheers of the spectators was very moving, the climax to the most difficult thing I have ever done, and the most satisfying and fulfilling. This was my personal "Amazing Ride"!
I did not know it then, but my sister-in-law would be one of the first to be treated at the newly built Chris O'Brien Lifehouse, which made my amazing ride worth every ache and pain, every difficulty, and all the blood, sweat and tears. My ride was my gift to her and to all who are on the hardest journey of all.