Shattered-The Real Deal

“There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.”
― Maya Angelou

Every once and a while I connect with a writer that I just “get.” Maybe it's their style or the flow of words or the subject matter. I'm not sure, but I know there is a connection there somehow, and I'll take every opportunity to see what else they have to say. Earlier this fall I'd participated in a crazy fun mountain bike event called Gnomefest, a rolling knobbie tire gathering taking place each autumn somewhere in the state. There have been ten additions landing at some the best mountain bike trails in Wisconsin. It also attracts a diverse group of people who have little in common but a love of bicycles and fun. Not a bad thing.

I've been fortunate to have met some great people over the years at the event-they come from all over, including foreign countries ! Well, Canada counts, doesn't it? Shona Living is a lover of all things bikes, so it was more than appropriate that she make the arduous 860 kilometer 9 hour drive to Gnomefest. Somehow word had escaped across the border and she couldn't resist a weekend of riding at the Nicolet Roche trails.

Shona hails from Winnipeg Manitoba where she keeps a stable of bikes stashed in the garage and spare bedrooms, mostly of the skinny tired variety. Bikes and Beyond is the local shop keeping them running since she saved up her lawn mowing money to buy one at 16. Seriously, how many 16 year old girls do that? Yeah, she loves bikes. Currently she describers herself as an inner city math and science teacher in search of adventure. She can add exceptional writer to the resume in my opinion as well.

By chance I happened to run into a short blog post by Shona the other day. It was one of those pieces that as I mentioned earlier I could connect with and have an appreciation of. It was called “festive 500 Shattered” and recounts a winter training ride, or perhaps a soul searching spin on the raw icy roads of her hometown. This is serious riding for you'd be hard pressed to find many of us out on road bikes this time of year. As I continued reading the words I realized I'd been in those places-maybe 20 or more years ago, pounding out the miles no matter what the weather. No such thing as bad weather, just bad clothing I'd remind myself.Those are mental toughness miles.

I found the blog post part dairy, part poetry and a good dose of reality and realizing she is baring her spirit and soul and her story. She's one of those writers who sculpts the words into sentences that you feel rather than read. With her permission, what follows is “Shattered.” You can follow Shona at http://shonaliving.tumblr.com/ “Authentic living via a bike.”

• #FESTIVE500
  

Temperature: - 30
Wind: 60km/hr
Bike: ATX cyclocross bike
Companions: none
Clicks: 60
Soundtrack: 65daysofstatic, Electric Quaterstaff and deadmau5
Lesson Learned:
1. Slicks are not a good choice unless you like laying in the middle of a busy street trying to unclip while the oncoming traffic is on it’s way to teach you a lesson you won’t forget.
2. Baptized by the unrelenting wind and cold, I think, am I  going to shatter.
I decided to shatter. There is no coming back from that, the pieces are too small.
3. Always carry lights so you can keep on riding, not having the right gear is not excuse not to ride.
——-
My bike lay hanging on the stand. Slick in the back for the trainer, knobby studded tire in the front from past rides. It was not clean. It was not ready. But these days nothing is ready, I am 30 and single for the first time. My plan has become moments, my life has become enjoying what I have now. And I have this bike, it is not perfect, it is not clean. But it is here. And willing to accept the challenge. Not to say that one day I will not lovingly clean it while whispering over and over thank you for carrying my body over roads so my mind can achieve what it simply can not do when not on the bike. I will. But not today. I am a rider, not a lover and today I ride.
The local bike shop was having it’s annual eggnog. Asking people to join they said “next year” or “it is too cold, too windy, too crazy”, maybe they're are right. But I have one of those souls. And it needs to be cracked. As I leave a bit later then I wanted to and a bit more drunk from the eggnog made on a bike blender someone saids “she is the real deal,” and I think the only deal I have made is to shatter myself into pieces and see what lies beneath.
I choose to ride into the wind. Oh that wind (you bastard). It is a special sort of connection to a route when the wind is blowing that hard, you see every inch of it, you have to slow down, and breathe. It is meditation, it is hell for the mind. It is a battle against you, are you ready for it? Was I ready for it?
Once leaving the city I was eager to eat up the kilometers, though I love hitting the city on the way in, on the way out it is like a little kid, demanding my attention and I don’t want to give it. I was frustrated from the wind that was enough, never mind the lights and cars.
Finally leaving the city limits I reach for my water bottle it drops. The lid shatters off the body. I stare at it. It is that cold. The barrier has been set and the battle has been drawn to full length. I am going to do this?
I want to ride for another 40km.  The eggnog starts to wear off, the fat from the cream starts to turn in my stomach. The wind gets stronger. The light gets lower. Fast moving trucks, lots of trucks, speed by allowing me a split second of relief from the wind. I think they are probably late to reach their dinners, presents and families. Yet here I am fighting a battle against myself, alone. All I can do is remind myself I of all I have, and move on.
I am moving at 15km/hr. I feel like I am moving through plasma, no longer wind but a slow moving goo that is holding onto my tires and dragging me slowly back. I can’t stop. It is too cold. I can feel my eye lashes glued together and all I can do is peer through slits, my toes are numb from the cold, my fingers burn from the lack of circulation. I dare not stop.
I reach the end of the small highway and see the semi’s speeding down the main highway. I have to cross it if I am to do another 20km. I have moved from some shelter to nothing. This is the prairies. We have nothing. We are nothing except space. There is space between mountains, space between hills, and then there is space on the prairies. It is the emptiness you get when your lovers moves out and you are left with nothing except empty drawers that seem too deep for you to fill. It just stretches on and on and the wind is refusing to give me peace.
I decide to turn back. It is getting too dark. I am too old to take these chances. Lights next time. The more tired I get the more my back wheel keeps on acting on it’s own devices and slipping under me. The last thing I need is to go down in front of a truck and watch my mustang of a bike try to defend me against the horribly indifferent tires.
I should have cared for my bike, so it can care for me.
I turn around and head back. And it all changes. Explosion of force is behind me and all I have to do is move my legs. A new paradigm of mind is created, not one of determination but of random thoughts. I enjoy the speed, remembering why I started, remember what it is like to ride and not just crawl. I feel free.
In the city it is dark and cars cut a bit too close. I pull out my ponytail but it seems not to matter. People are rushing to open expensive gifts and consume rich foods. All I can think about is how I love the harshness and how it breaks me where the cracks become larger and deeper.
Returning home re-heat some pasta and jump in the shower. Maybe it was two minutes or ten minutes but the water feels so good running down my spine. I can taste the salt and sand still lingering in the corners of my mouth. My clothes have been peeled off and are hung next to my bike, who is dripping like a lover after long sunday morning rumble in bed.
I take my water bottle and look at it, shattered, no use trying to fix it. Yet still some ice exists around the edges, clinging as if warning what will happen when I leave my house again. I wonder, why do some of us like to be shattered, to be broken, to create cracks in our souls to see how far we can make them. I fill it up and drink from it, enjoying the coolness the ice gives the water. Once finished I throw it in the recycling and go downstairs to look after my bike.