CHILLY HILLY

Twenty years ago my older brother signed us up to pedal in what is considered by the bicycling community as one of the best organized rides in the known universe, the Chilly Hilly. On the day before the event we went to the pre-ride convention and bicycle-stuff swap.  We sauntered about looking at new technology, drooling over ultra lightweight equipment that, at least, would lighten the pocketbook. We watched in awe as expert mountain bikers jumped their two-wheelers over a pile of logs, a picnic table, and a few people. There were thousands of bicycle enthusiasts anticipating the opening event of the season.

I can recall the day being spectacular, warm for a February 23rd; not a cloud in the sky, the surrounding bodies of water sparkling with the snow covered Cascades and Olympics shouldering up on the horizons.  After spending the day cruising around we drove back to my house.  The first thing I saw was my very pregnant wife talking with an old friend who just arrived.  They weren’t chuckling it up, rather talking with animated concern. 

“What’s up?”  Asks I.

“My water broke.  We need to get to the hospital”, answers my wife.

“No way!” I respond with sensitivity.  After all, due date was 5 and1/2 weeks away.

“Are you kidding?” (This was harder to say as my foot got deeper down my throat.)

“See you tomorrow morning?”  My brother, whose mind was still on the ride, said, indicating that our sensitivity, was inherited.

That night my son, Ramsey was born.  Barbara, my wife took no pain-masking drugs, immediately terminating any possible future sympathy I might have shown for previous paper cuts. My brother called, briefly asked about his new nephew and then asked what time we should meet for the 33-mile ride.

“Uh. . . I don’t think it would be a good idea if I rode tomorrow.” I whispered, demonstrating that I was learning about being more sensitive.

“Ahh. . .You would be back before they even wake up,” He responds.  I stuck to my guns; he went on the ride, and, in fact, got to the hospital just a few minutes after mother and son woke up.  Fortunately, I was actually there when their eyes opened.

That leads in to this: Barb, Ramsey, and I finally rode the Chilly Hilly on Sunday after the boy interrupted the ride 12 years ago.

Like the day he was born the weather was spectacular.  The ride takes place on Bainbridge Island, a 35 minute ferry boat voyage across Puget Sound from downtown Seattle.  The island is the focal point for the book and movie Snow Falling on Cedars, a story about the many Japanese immigrants that farmed on the island and then lost their land and hope when they were interned during World War II.

4000 cyclists of all ages, sizes, and shapes, riding all manners of two-wheeled technology crammed the early morning boats.  The bright sun, reflecting off the Olympic Mountains to the west and the Cascades and Seattle skyline to the east accentuated the traditional colors of the Northwest of aqua blue and forest green.  But, in February the Sun provides little heat.  Hence: The “Chilly” in the name. 

In a few minutes we discovered the origins of the “Hilly”.  Oh. Baby.  My son kept asking how Lance Armstrong would do.  “He would scoff at this.” I gasped.  I knew this since at least 2000 colorfully lycra-clad, svelte, longlegged, riders and 100 obese, centenarian ladies passed me. 

We toured among the evergreens, the undulating road dappled with sunlight.  We exchanged greetings with people as they ripped by.  Occasionally, we passed folks, using the tortoise and hare philosophy.

Besides a great ride, the feeling of being part of a common event involving a wide variety of people, engaging in a healthy, positive experience is exhilarating.  It is another item in a long list of what is good about life.  It was a special birthday riding along talking about everything from Lance Armstrong to the history of the island and cramping, screaming, thighs.

Yes, the quads can speak. 

Their vocabulary is limited but the message was clear: “Stop! You moron!  If you don’t we WILL put an excruciating expression on your face!”  They did. And then I stopped.

I walked around for a few minutes like a penguin until my quads only whispered.

Cresting yet another long hill that featured stunning views of the water and mountains, a race volunteer provided motivating words,

“Only six miles to go!  Steep downhill! Big curve! Then! Just two more hills and you are done!”

If my Quads weren’t sniveling I think I would have dismounted and belted him.  Ramsey was too far ahead to get him to stop and spin a few Tai Kwon Do kicks at the volunteer who got to the top of that hill via car. (I saw it parked behind some trees.)

I caught up with Rams because I can roll faster down hill than he can.  We rode to the finish together as the sun was hovering above the Olympic Mountains. 

Barbara?  At one of the refreshment stops she took a certified shortcut back still pedaling 20 miles.  When we rolled in she was reclining in the sun reading her book.

We were tired in a relaxing, satisfied sort of way joining thousands of our fellow citizens in an unspoken camaraderie. 

Some of these things keep getting a little more difficult with the recovery taking a touch longer.  But, they will have to take me out on a litter before I stop challenging myself to do just a little bit more while enjoying these adventures with my family. 

Have a great week!