Battenkilled

186 days. 

As of today, that's how long it's been since I've had a drink. And right now I can't see myself ever going back there again. Drinking was another place; very quiet, very dark, very secretive. I made my own island in the evening, the girls' asleep in their beds, A out for the night, mindless television made much more interesting by the vodka swimming around in my veins. And it had such control over me. In the early evening, while sitting with the girls while they ate dinner, I would look out the window to West Street and watch people spilling out of the buildings, crossing the street to what I always imagined was a wonderful bar, or to their house in the suburbs where a drink would be waiting to be enjoyed out on a patio overlooking the lawn. The evening was a bad time for me. Everything I saw brought my mind to drinking. The simple act of the sun disappearing from the skyline would send me into a tailspin: You shouldn't drink tonight. You drank too much last night. If you aren't able to stay away from the vodka in the freezer, you know you have a problem. Then: It was such a stressful day. You deserve a cocktail. So many other people have a drink after work - why can't you? And of course, I would have that drink, then a second, then a third. 

Today, I am once again familiar to myself. Today I'm that person that I used to know. 

I didn't really start drinking until I was in my early twenties. Before that, I was an athlete, running up to 40 miles a week, playing softball, competing in horse shows. I never thought of drinking then. Without my knowing it, all these things were my medicine, what protected me from depression, from hopelessness. As soon as I stopped pushing my body in sport the downward slide began, a slide that only began to slow when as a 45 year-old mother of two I began to figure out the connection between endurance sports and contentedness, something that would come as no surprise to a lot of people, but only occurred to me less than a year ago. 

Which leads to what the title of this post is about. The Tour of the Battenkill. Battenkill is part of the Spring Classics for cyclists that's held in Cambridge, New York. This year they started a granfondo on the same course - 65 miles of sharp, steep climbs on gravel roads and asphalt. This was my friend S's idea. Her husband was racing on the Saturday in a category 4 race, and S and I would do the granfondo the next day. We looked at this as training for the 100 mile New York GranFondo we're doing in May, but neither of us expected it to be as hard as it was. 

The day started out cold and windy, and everyone, including S, went out really fast. I kept looking at my Garmin to see that my heart rate was way too high that early on, but I wanted to keep up, so I pretty much ignored it. Then the rain started. Then the sleet. There was a bit of mud in certain sections that sucked every bit of speed out of the bike. The first really hard hill (after a steep son of a bitch that I had to get out of the saddle to finish) I walked up at the half way point. S was at the top, waiting for me. This was very early on, around mile 15 I think. I knew that I had to change my strategy, and when the hills got too hard I would get off the bike, stand there for about 30 seconds while my heart rate went down, then get back on and finish the hill. This worked for all but the last major hill, where my legs began to feel achy and jelly-like, a profoundly unpleasant feeling that I've had only a few times, and usually within 20 minutes of finishing a hard ride. But this time I was only at mile 45. I have to say that I got scared. I got scared of the wagon, two miles back. Scared because I didn't know what was ahead. There were a scattering of riders around, men, and I passed most of them on the hills, which felt good, but I honestly didn't know if my legs had enough left to finish the ride. 

I don't remember much of the last 15 miles. My legs turned the cranks, my shoulders screamed, I fought gusting headwinds then rode out the tailwind - but at that point even the downhills didn't feel very good. I went as fast as I could, slogging down dirt lanes, then blustery roads busy with cars, weaving through farmland. I ate a ton of gels, chews, mini snickers, a banana, but I think part of the problem was that I didn't hydrate enough, and the food stops were very far apart, the first one 30 miles in. It was lonely. I questioned my sanity. Families jumped up and down at the end of their driveways, ringing cowbells at the top of the worst climbs, and as much as I would want to stop I couldn't - I couldn't get off the bike and walk past them. Instead I grimaced, breath catching in my throat, legs burning, arms pulling at the bars. Each hill I climbed made me think that there was no way I could do another, but then I did, again and again and again. More men fell off behind me. I kept thinking of the wagon, I kept going. 

Then the signs started to appear - 10 kilometers to go, 6, 5, then down to feet. Only a few people were left standing at the finish line, but it didn't matter. S was waiting at the side - she had finished 4 minutes ahead of me, and told me that someone told her that the wagon got me, and that she was so proud of me for finishing. Five and a half hours on the bike. A marathon of suffering. We quickly rode to the parking area, S complaining about her shoulders, her knees, her neck. My legs felt awful. Like my bones had been removed. Spinning a small gear felt awful. I was supposed to drive home right after the race, a four hour drive, but I could barely get my bike in the car, could barely take my shoes off. I called A and told her I'd be staying another night at the Marriott in Saratoga Springs. I drove back, following S and her husband, my head buzzing with adrenaline. 

It never felt so good to feel so, so bad.