N.K. Murray

This chalkboard sits in my office, above my Royal Typewriter and has for nearly 2 years now. When I put it up, I put aside my normal serial killer-esque scrawling for something a bit more polished. You could call the above a failure in that respect. (Hey, there are at least some spaces in between the words. . . and I did slow down to write it!) Every so often, I think I need to erase what I’ve written, and put something new and more poignant or something so awe-inspiring that the words will leap off the wall and into my brain and I’ll be able to finish my book.

And then I read what I wrote. Some of these quotes are from famous people. I’ve got a Simpsons quote, a New Girl quote, and an Addams Family quote (to literally no one’s surprise, I should think). Each one was chosen carefully because they spoke to me at the time I scribbled them up there. But the first one I wrote is the one that means the most to me.

You must do the things you think you cannot do.

I have two speeds in life. I either come up with these things that I say I’m going to do and then never get around to do, but still talk about in reverent tones. Or I pull the trigger, say damn the torpedoes and venture full speed ahead laughing somewhat maniacally and with crazy eyes as I prepare. Ironically enough, the things I don’t do are the easier things – a crochet pattern that I haven’t tackled yet, a new veggie I want to plant in the garden, or doing XYZ workout that I just can’t seem to find the time to do. The things I do. . . well, they are small things to say, and large things to accomplish. Like, after my mom died, I started participating in the Ride for Roswell. Hubby got me a bike, and I foolishly signed up for a metric century. Know what that is? It’s 100km on a bike. After not being on a bike for 13 years, I signed up to ride 100km on a HYBRID bike. My brain wouldn’t allow me to consider that I should settle for one of the shorter rides. There was no conversation. It was done. Clearly, I am an idiot.

You could likely script what happened without my help. We started with such promise, making it up the dreaded hill in Akron Falls State Park, and on the way to the cut-off, when we stopped to help a gentleman who had a flat. Cognizant of the time constraints, we did an equally dumb and gallant thing – I gave him my bike pump. Didn’t know him, didn’t expect to see him again.* Just left him there and rode towards the cut-off. Where we were 10 mins late.

I begged. Pleaded. We were only late because we stopped to help! They asked if we were sure we could do it, and I boasted ‘Yep!’ in a confident cheerfulness that would soon leak out of me like that flat tire of the gentleman we had stopped to help. The wind picked up. 50mph headwinds in the back roads of Shelby, NY, and I ran out of water and was riding between 7-9 miles an hour with a solid 40 miles left to ride. I screamed.
Bad things. Things I can’t post here for fear you might question why you read what I write. I was PISSED. And scared that I wouldn’t be able to finish. We finally arrived at the next rest stop and I got off my bike and lost it. Full-on hysterical crying. I couldn’t stop, no matter how hard I tried. One of the wonderful volunteers came up and asked me if I was okay, which, physically, I was fine, but I clearly WASN’T FINE. (All while my lovely friend stood to the side, knowing if she came to comfort me, she would lose it too.)

Hopping back on the bike after a crying jag is not fun, especially with 27 miles left to ride. Somehow, we finished. My friend and I were among the last to finish the 2013 Ride, and I got off my bike and practically threw it at my husband, crying I never wanted to see it again. Dramatic, much? (still here? I swear, there’s a point to this!)

I didn’t hop back on my bike until 2014. I bought myself an indoor bike trainer, and I got back on the instrument of torture. I rode again in 2014. . . and then in 2015, I rode in the police-escorted Peloton on the eve of the inaugural Canada ride. Did the same in 2016, and 2017, but this time, I started a team of friends and family who wanted to support ME in this passion project of mine. Rode again with my squad in 2018, and when I got off the bike in the drizzling rain, for the first time in 6 years I had done the Ride, I didn’t start crying in either relief at being done, or sadness at why I had started. We’re going to do it again for 2019, and this year, I’m heading back to the dragon that nearly slayed me in 2013 – the metric century. Because dragons can be killed.

And then I heard about the Empire State Ride. . . which is exactly what it sounds like – a bike ride across New York State. I admit, I thought a LOT harder about the ESR than I ever did about riding my first metric century. A LOT. Literally everything about it made my stomach tie in knots. The shortest ride was 55 miles, and the longest was 92, with the last 3 miles being uphill. Sleeping in a tent, on an air mattress. Oh god, my lungs. No wait, what about how my ass is going to feel? But mostly, that I couldn’t do it. That I will fail.

But that’s just it. I won’t. I won’t let myself fail. My head is lying to me. Even now, after I’ve signed up and have started raising funds and training for it. I CAN do it. It’s not going to be easy. The Ride organizers call it “The Hardest Ride You’ll Ever Love,” and I am working on believing that last part. Regardless, you’ll find me on my bike July 28th through August 3rd, through sweat and tears with squeaky, whistling lungs and on shaking, exhausted legs. Because I must do the things I think I cannot do.

*Oh, and the guy who borrowed my bike pump? In a CRAZY twist of fate, as we were walking back to the truck among the volunteers packing up the tents and cleaning up (we were THAT late getting back!), the guy I had lent my bike pump to happened to see me and jogged over with it, thanking me for helping him out and allowing him to finish. He actually got stopped at the cut-off they let us ride through and he wound up riding the shorter route. Honestly, I couldn’t have asked for a better ending to the day. (except, you know, not being the last people to cross the finish line for the ride, but whatever.)