As I rounded the bend in that small Texas town a tingling sensation sandwiched itself between my shoulder blades. A similar sensation, a snap-crackle-and-popping of my wrists, had started some 50 miles back. A persistent pain in my sits bones was fairly excruciating but I stayed seated, forcing my aching legs to pump one-two, one-two. My brain knew we had a long way to go. My body was going to have to comply.

In many of the towns my rider’s group had pedaled through—Belleville, Fayetteville, Bastrop, and La Grange—enthusiastic townsfolk thanked us from sidewalks in woops, hollers, and shouts. One group of merry makers included a fiddler; an impromptu hoe down was happening in a ditch as we peddled past. Another group blasted Sir Mix A Lot’s I Like Big Butts as they danced in the street. Possessing a big old juicy double myself, I appreciated their enthusiasm and gave a high five as I rolled by.

But here on this last stretch some 40 miles from the finish, the merry makers were few and far between, so when I felt that searing in my shoulders I was experiencing it sans happy distraction. My spirits were low as headwinds of 25 mph took the momentum out of my step and the breath from my lungs. Although I’d diligently applied sunscreen my flesh was scorching under the cloudless south western sky. Overhead vultures flew ominous circles—no doubt attracted to the smell of my stinking skin.

So imagine my surprise when—on that lonely desolate road— I saw a singular man, sort of redneck-looking, hoisting a sign of support. The man, dressed in overalls and baseball cap, held up a board with a single word painted on it: HERO.

HERO?

Dripping with sweat and caked in grime, I didn’t feel heroic. What I felt was fatigue. But then—inspired by the stranger’s sign—I looked at my bike computer and found I’d gone 109 miles.

109 miles! On a bike! A year ago I didn’t even OWN a bike. If you’d told me I’d be riding one for 150 miles over the course of two days, I’d have laughed my non-athletic face off.

And then I remembered why I’d vowed to pedal these 150 miles in the first place: to raise money for those who weren’t capable of doing the same. For people with MS the smallest physical feat can be an impossibility, and so the 150 miles I was riding on their behalf and the $1187 I raised doing it, made me—in someone’s eyes at least—a hero.

I wasn’t the fastest one in, but I did finish. At the end, I boarded a bus back to Houston. Physically and emotionally spent, I laid my head on my companion’s shoulder and fell fast asleep. And with that small physical surrender, the hero became—once again—merely human.

—–
This year I confronted the biggest physical challenge of my life, riding my bicycle, Miss Piggy 150 miles in the BP MS 150 from Houston to Austin, Texas.

Due to a cold front and high winds, this year’s ride was—by all accounts from those who have ridden previous years—the most difficult in anyone’s memory.

I did not walk a single hill. I did not SAG, save for one mile due to mechanical difficulties. I averaged a respectable 12.3 MPH. I spent 11 hours total pedal time going those 150 miles.
I am proud of me.

It’s been 6 months, 683 miles, 70 bottles of water, 15 plates of pancakes, and 1 container of crotch cream in the making.

I have been biking my butt off in preparation. And finally, the ride I’ve been training for, the Houston to Austin BP MS 150, it is upon us.

I am super stoked.

See, awhile back I got into biking after some bad shit happened to me. Riding Miss Piggy (my pretty pink road bike) has changed me. I no longer feel like a stranger in this western town, as I’ve explored Houston’s vast expanses on two wheels; from Brays Bayou to Terry Hershey, Memorial, and Cullen Parks, me and Miss Piggy have had quite the tango in this oilman’s paradise.

Speaking of oilman’s paradise, did you know Houston is home to the George Bush Hike and Bike Trail? I like to ride that trail, but I do so with caution. True story: my first time out, I rounded a bend only to be greeted by the rapid staccato of gunfire echoing—from a nearby range—through the bayou. Jilted, I swerved left. I was quick to correct though. On the George Bush Trail you keep to the Right.

So tomorrow I’ll embark on my longest ride yet—it’s 150 miles from Houston to Austin. Thinking back, I still worry about bad shit. But the kind of bad shit I worry about these days is the kind that appears in the aftermath of endurance exercise wherein the excessive consumption of powders, goos, and gels is par for the course.

Wish me luck!