The Price You Pay

I’ve rarely pushed my body to the extreme. It’s when I can see the best I can be. And the inevitable pain that follows. Normally I don’t set out to push myself that hard.

It usually happens by accident.

Sunday morning. I push my bike out onto the sidewalk. My helmet fits snug against my head. My spandex bike shorts cover my non-existent butt.

I straddle my bike. My entire mind and body ready for my trek. A trek that would push me to the absolute brink.

My bike descends onto the Santa Ana bike trail in Huntington Beach. A perfectly groomed run way that lets me pedal as hard as I can, as fast as I can, for as long as I can.

My legs like pistons, firing to the downbeat of the techno-music blasting in my headphones. Every now and then, I take a toke of water.

I feel great.

I feel alive.

The miles melt under me. Time slips by.

I stop in Yorba Linda. About twenty miles. 

This is awesome! Unbelievable! I’m part machine. Part man.

I turn around. Twenty miles back. The off-shore ocean breeze pushes against me.

But my legs, my pistons keep pumping. Stroke after stroke, mile after mile. All to the beat of techno.

There it is. My exit. My eyes close. In my head, the crowd screams. The announcers yell over the loud speakers...

“This is incredible! This unknown rookie, with no butt, from backwoods Michigan came from nowhere and is now winning the Tour de France! Amazing! He shows no signs of slowing down! He’s almost there! Ohmigod! This is incredible! The finish line just keeps getting closer! And there he is! Cliff has won the Tour de France!”

Sweat pours down my face as confetti falls all around me. Champagne rains down on me.

I stumble into my bedroom. My legs jellified. The shower head washes off 40 miles of road. 

Who knew I had this natural ability? To be able to just bike and bike … Next time, I’m going for 100 miles!

I drink a glass of water. Lay down in my bed.

A smile creeps across my face. I close my eyes. Sleep comes for me.

I am awesome.

The next day …

I am dead.

My head bangs away. It’s the worst possible hangover. How can that be? I didn’t drink.

Every pain receptor in my head fires at the exact same time. Like a thousand termites are eating my tiny brain.

My stomach heaves.

The room spins fast. The toilet continually moving to my right.

I can’t walk. My body barely functions. Somehow I toss my head like a basketball into the toilet.

Hurl.

Hour after hour creeps by. And I feel every nano-second. I try drinking more water.

That night, sleep finally takes pity on me. I pass out.

The next day, I feel better. Either I recovered or the termites ate all my brain.

“You bonked,” my friend Dana said. Dana and her hubby are professional bikers. 

“Bonked?” I scratch what’s left of my head. “What is that?”

“You sweated all the minerals and water right out of you. You didn’t replace either. You should have drank at least a gallon of water and gatorade. But you didn’t. So your body gave out."

I didn’t know.

But I didn’t care.

For someone who has never been good at anything sport related, I was proud of myself. Proud because I pushed myself hard. I found out what my body could take. Of course I paid the price the next day. I was certainly at my worst.

It was the best of times. Followed by the worst of times.

And it was awesome.