Hitting the Wall

Last Friday morning, 3 other women and I took several young women in our church youth group on a 2+-mile bike ride (each way) through an abandoned train tunnel in the Cascade Mountains. The only light visible in the tunnel was the pinprick of light marking each entrance/exit, so all bike-riders were equipped with either a bike light, flashlight strapped to the bike or a headlamp. I had both a bike light and a light attached to my helmet, and I was ready to ride. Or so I thought.


I don't own a bike, so I borrowed my daughter Rachelle's. Mind you, I'd never ridden her bike before that morning and it had been several years since my last bike ride, but I felt confident that I would encounter no problems. I believed in the adage: once a bike rider, always a bike rider. Lance inspected the bike before I left and told me that the brakes weren't in top condition, but I wasn't worried since Rachelle and Sara both frequently ride that particular bike. I took a quick spin in front of our house and, sure enough, I could still ride a bike. I was a bit wobbly, but not enough to concern me.

Fast forward to the train tunnel. Donned with a jacket, gloves, bike helmet and lights, I entered the tunnel at the rear of our group. I started pedaling and immediately noticed that I felt a little funny. Dizzy's the word. Not to worry. In a few seconds I'll get my bearings, I thought. The trail's flat--no incline or decline--just straight riding through to the end of the tunnel. I didn't notice--yet--that the sides of the trail were gently sloped down to the tunnel walls.

My bike wobbled as I rode. Were the handle bars loose? Must be. Although I couldn't see the tunnel roof because I was focusing on the ground, I was sure that the height of the tunnel was decreasing. Two thoughts entered my mind: I'm claustrophobic and I have no depth perception (proven facts). Just focus on the beam of light your bike light is shining on the trail and all will be well, I tell myself. At this point, I veered left and experienced my first contact with the wall. Don't panic. Just get back on the bike. How hard can this be? I climb back on, a little more wobbly than before, pedal a few yards, and then come into contact with the left wall again. Good grief! At least I'm not leading the pack or we'd have a pile-up.

I reassure myself by thinking that I can do this. I really can do this. This is the little engine that could train tunnel. I'm on a flat trail, for heaven's sake! I haven't yet seen any skeletons or abandoned bikes in this tunnel, but then again, it's nearly pitch black and I can't really see anything except the patch of trail just in front of my bike.

I continued to ride constantly feeding myself positive messages. Well, it worked. I didn't contact the left wall again. This time it was the right wall I encountered--with my face. I hit the wall with my face, hand and bike. The bike fell hitting my legs. Before I could totally right myself, two of my fellow leaders were right by my side assessing my condition. They were horrified to see what looked like blood all over my face. The "blood" was actually soot. The soot covered much of my face, gloved hands, jacket and shirt. I was slightly scraped up, but reassured everyone that I was "fine." Embarrassed, but fine. Long story short, I made it through the rest of the tunnel without further wall encounters and even made it back (walking the last 1/3 of the way because my bottom hurt like the dickens--not used to narrow, hard bike seat).

I could write about how I accompanied our group to Krispy Kreme--still covered with soot--and how the soot had worked its way to my chest and stomach, and how I had to cover my face with dishwashing liquid to get the soot to come off, and how I still have small patches of soot imbedded into my right palm, chin and left knuckles, but I won't.

I think I'll wait a few weeks before I attempt my next bike ride. I won't be riding in the train tunnel.