It was strangely quiet as I rode my bike home from work today.
Even as I rode down a large residential street, all I could hear was the cicadas, the hum of my bike chain, and my own slightly-labored breathing. It is not terribly hot out, but it is humid, and the bright afternoon sun filtering through the trees adds to my exhaustion.
I turn onto Park Avenue and begin to coast down what my friend Dave and I have affectionately dubbed "Killer Hill." That nickname, however, is only for the uphill ride. The downhill ride is exhilarating. I lean slightly over the handlebars as gravity relieves my aching leg muscles, and the wind dries the sweat covering every inch of my skin. However, I must push my tired legs into service once more at the bottom of the hill. I am exhausted, and I am only halfway home.
I have climbed that hill a couple of times before. The first time, I had to dismount and walk the bike up the hill halfway up. The 2nd time, I stopped halfway again, but managed to make it up the rest of the hill still on my bike. I had to stop at the top, because I had lost control of my asthma. I had stood there, wheezing, struggling to catch my breath while my concerned best friend looked on. My mental control took over once more shortly after that, and I was able to finish the ride.
The memories of that hill were what caused me to alter my planned route this morning, a move that ended up adding 2 or 3 miles to my journey to work. That extra distance pushed my energy and muscle reserves past what they were used to, something that I was feeling more and more as I made my way back home.
I stop at a small park right next to the Cedar River to rest. As I sit down in the shade of a pavilion, it is no longer strangely quiet. There are children playing on the baseball field across the park, and there are a lot more runners and cyclists passing on the trail I had just turned off of. My heart is the loudest sound I hear, beating so hard I could feel it pulsing in my ears. I turn inwards once again, to let my mind regain full control of my heart beat and my breathing. Though my body has nearly reached its limit, my mind is running at full speed. I compose this narrative. I think of some ideas for art. I think of my boyfriend, waiting for me to reach home. Thoughts flit through my head quickly, never staying long. After resting for a little while, I continue on my way.
By the time I return home, I have pushed myself pretty far past my limit. The last mile was the hardest; mostly uphill, and no shade from the merciless sun. Dehydrated, exhausted, and lightheaded, I finally rolled through the lawn to my front door, and inside to relief, at last.
Its amazing how far I've come, really. Last summer, I couldn't even walk outside the house without feeling the urgent press of my asthma, always threatening to consume me. I lived in such fear of it that I didn't even ride my bike, that summer. This year, somehow, I have managed to not only control my asthma, I'm doing better than I have been in quite a long time. I will never be able to ride tens of miles effortlessly, nor will I ever be a super-athlete that races and competes. The hill I've climbed so far still looks pretty impressive when I turn and look back on it.
"Killer Hill" doesn't seem so bad after all.
