A decade later, my new riding mentor/buddy, my foster father-in-law led me on an attempt at an Iron Butt qualifying ride. (The Iron Butt Association is made up of folks that love to ride long distances on motorcycles. To get in, the minimum qualifying ride is 1,000 miles in 24 hours. The organization's logo calls us the "World's Toughest Motorcycle Riders.") The FIL did everything: he planned a route; got paperwork and witnesses together. All I had to do was follow him and not crash.
1 for 2 is good right? And no, I didn't lose him, that wasn't the part I screwed up.
I probably shouldn't have ridden the 450 miles home, but how was I to know I had a concussion and a broken arm? What's surprising is that both I and the bike were able to make the trip. After I got out of the cast, I tinkered with it trying to get it to run in a straight line without fighting me. I got it as close as possible as it turns out. I fought the bike and my mental state as I got back to riding after an accident that could have easily been much worse.
Five years later, a different home, and a different bike and another try at an IBA qualifying ride. This time it worked. I had never been on so much pain in my life as I was that day on a bike clearly not suited for my frame for this ride. But as we came over the hill and I could see the lights of town below us, I was jumping up and down on the begs and screaming out of excitement. There was no question, riding was now my thing. I had to ride. It was my release and my only hobby.
I had at least two work trips every year and that provided me with an excuse, funding and destination. All I had to do was pick a route that let me see as much scenery or ride as much technical road as possible. Finally, five years after our successful IBA run, I had a work trip that was at the shortest 850 miles. I looked over maps until I found a way to make it a new IBA qualifying ride. I did the paperwork, I prepped, and I went. I rode in temperatures down in the teens overnight and then snow from Provo to Denver. I proved to myself that I could do it and I could do it alone. I started riding in the Tour of Honor and between that and work trips I was putting down 900 or 950 miles a day on a regular basis.
I've seen so much and feel truly blessed. I have wonderful memories of many rides. Right now I'm thinking of the alphabet roads of southern Wisconsin, Walker Lake in Nevada, the mountain passes and canyons of Colorado, the coastal canyons and high-country forests of California, so much of Arizona, and the Salmon River area of Idaho.
But when I got sick, I gave up riding. Thanks to the kindness and generosity of friends and strangers, I had a trike. I've tried a decent ride, but the summer heat beat me. I haven't taken a large ride in 7 years now.
My daughter got her first bike at 20 years old also. And she just recently took her first solo ride of several hundred miles. She had more luggage that her bike was designed to. She had cool weather, warn weather, and heavy winds. Sure enough, she seems to be her father's daughter as that hasn't deterred her at all.
But that first big ride of mine, well, I was nervous. Now, I'm planning a 400-mile day ride with the son and the FIL. The funny thing? This ride is nothing. But it's been so long since I've done anything like this that I'm finding myself nervous. So, what will happen? I've gotten too comfortable not riding. Will I be able to give it up, or will the flame reignite?