Kaleli, Mueni, Isaac and Dickson: For welcoming and accepting Ruth and me as partners in your ministry.
MCF beneficiaries who have travelled across Canada with me—Lydia, Paul, Mumina, Mary, Charity, Rama, John, Benedict: Your presence on the road with me has been a huge encouragement.
David Balzer, media coordinator for Spoke ’99 and GrandpasCan 2011: You have been instrumental in helping me use cycling as a platform to make a difference. Your expertise and creativity in delivering the story to the media has opened many doors.
Paul Boge, media coordinator for Spoke 2005 and GrandpasCan 2012: Your presence on the road with the MCF contingent was invaluable in creating awareness for them to tell their stories.
Media, local and national: You have made it possible to spread the word about MCF all across Canada.
Bikes and Beyond: You have provided premium bikes and service for me. Thank you, Phil Roadley and staff.
Larry Willard, publisher, Castle Quay Books: You were keen about this book project from the first time we communicated. Thank you for believing in it. It has been a pleasure working with you.
Marina Hofman Willard, executive editor, Castle Quay Books: You kept us on track and on schedule. Thank you for your expertise and for making this such a positive experience.
Donors: Thank you for your support of MCF. Together we are making a difference.
Event sponsors: You make it possible for me to do what I do.
Support crews: Thank you for your tireless and selfless service to keep me on my bike.
Prayer warriors—friends, family, the MCF family: With God all things are possible.
1. The End: RAAM 2008
Click.Click. Click.
Click. Click.Click.Click.Click.Click. Click.
Click.Click.ClicClicClicCliCliClClClCCC.
The ticking of my wheels picked up speed as I crested the slight hill and started moving downwards again. Behind me, I could hear the revving of the support crew vehicle taper off as they, too, coasted with a bit more speed. That slight uphill was nothing compared to what I had already experienced in the first five days of the ride.
Five days? I asked myself. Has it really been that long?
Is that all it’s been?
* * *
“Hey, Arvid!” Ruth called out of the side of the van, pulling up beside me. “Up ahead is the McDonald’s they were telling us about. Free food for all Race Across America riders and crew.”
Biking 20 out of every 24 hours takes a toll on the body, and there’s almost no way you can replenish the energy you’re expending. With that much output, you’re forced to take in as many calories as possible—through whatever means possible. Milkshakes and Big Macs had become some of my favourite. This would be a great place to load up. I needed somewhere between 8,000 to 9,000 calories in 24 hours. If you’ve ever tried to eat that much, you’ll realize it’s more or less impossible. Which is why I was losing weight. It was day five, and I’d already dropped a few pounds. By the end of the ride I would be down 5 to 10 lbs from my starting weight. A quick weight-loss program if I’ve ever heard of one.
“Sounds good,” I said. “We’ll stop there, and I’ll take a short break. Can’t waste time,” I added as they drove ahead to the golden arches in the distance. I was alone in my thoughts again, with only the sounds of my bike ticking and the hum of the tires on the road.
Ultra-marathon cycling is a solitary sport, one that puts you against the road. There are other competitors out there, but the battle comes down to you versus you. In the end, if you lose, it’s you defeating yourself.
I snapped my head up just in time to turn into the parking lot, taking my foot out of the right pedal and coasting to a stop. Josh was there to grab the bike from me as I lifted my foot over the frame. I shook my head, trying to clear a slight pain that seemed to have settled in at the back of my neck.
“Do you want a Big Mac, Dad?” my daughter, Stephanie, asked. “Vanilla milkshake?”
“And a Coke,” I nodded, my throat a little hoarse. I couldn’t tell whether the headache was from a lack of sleep or something more serious, but the caffeine couldn’t hurt. By this point in the ride I needed every pick-me-up that I could get.
“Rider 132.” Someone was coming my way, looking at his clipboard. “Arvid Loewen?”
“That’s me,” I responded, taking a sip from the bottle and stripping the gloves off my hands. Over time it seemed like they fused to the skin, the sweat bonding them together.
“So you’re a solo rider?” He put the clipboard on the ground and lifted a camera to his shoulder, adjusting the lens.
“That’s right,” I answered. “Solo. All 3,000 miles from coast to coast.”
“How are you feeling today?”
“Tired,” I responded, laughing out loud. “Not sure what else to expect.” I stretched my leg out, feeling the tightness in my hip. People always asked how I could possibly sit on a bike seat for 20 hours a day. I usually told them that by the time you stayed on a bike that long there were far more significant things to worry about. The pain in your butt was only the beginning of your problems.
“You’re nearly halfway there,” the man said. I wasn’t sure whether it was a comment or a question. Halfway, I thought, halfway would be nice. It’s all downhill on the other side, isn’t it? It’s a little ridiculous to think that biking five days continuously would only get you almost halfway, but traversing the entire continent in less time than many people drive it is no small accomplishment.
“Nearly halfway,” I admitted. I didn’t like thinking about it, though. I was stuck in the middle of the ride, and there was a lot of ground yet to cover. Those on the outside seemed to think that, somehow, past the halfway point it was bound to get easier. With ultra-marathon cycling, with anything ultra-marathon, the biggest challenge is always yet to come. The ride’s not done until you cross the finish line, and not a millimetre sooner. I was a lot more than a millimetre from the finish line.
“How has your ride been going?” he asked. I didn’t answer immediately. How can you sum up five days of intense heat (the Mojave Desert), oxygen-thin elevations (the Rocky Mountains), torturous mental exertion (sleeping less than two hours a night), mind-numbing terrain (the flats of the prairies) and more challenges than you’ve ever experienced in your life? To answer his question would have taken a few hours, but I didn’t have the time, because ultra-marathon cycling adds another mental component to the drama: everything, and I mean everything, is on the clock. Every pit stop, every fitful nap, every bathroom break, every second of every day is a part of your time. Already, sitting outside and waiting for my Big Mac was starting to feel like a waste of time, though my legs appreciated the break.
“It’s been going well,” I said. “As well as I could have hoped.”
“What do you think are your chances of finishing?” He moved his eye out from behind the viewfinder, as though he wanted to see, without looking through a lens, what I was about to say. He wanted to catch my reaction.
Stephanie reappeared with my Big Mac, and I took a moment to set it down on the table beside me, then plunked down and got ready to eat. He was still looking at me, waiting for an answer. Finally I decided to give him one.
“Fifty-one percent,” I answered.
I wasn’t sure if I believed what I had just said. I was in a fog, mentally not even close to 100 percent, and the ride was taking its toll on my mind and my body. Though I am a prairie boy and the bore of the terrain didn’t bother me, five days of sitting on my bike was having an effect.
“Are you going to get anything, Josh?” Steph asked. Josh, her husband, was part of our crew.
“We’ve