“Sometimes you win,

sometimes you lose,

sometimes it rains.”

-Ebby Calvin “Nuke” LaLoosh

My father taught me, “when life gives you lemons, whine and complain that your brother got a moped and all you got was some crummy lemons.”

I spent the past two nights writing this journal entry and then deleted it by mistake. Idiot. Even Fast Billy Scheffer, the Microsoft-savant guy that can fix anything computer-like couldn’t help. You know what I mean. Everyone has someone like him around. So here I go again…

We have encountered a bit of a navigation snafu (Jason gives me 5 cents for every fancy word I use). Bob Myette, my roommate last and this year is one of our support crew and today he is behind the wheel of the RV. Bob is a lethal combination of being both enamored with electronic gadgets as well as unable to even FIND the big red ‘ON’ button with a map and two flashlights. Upon starting our day of running, he immediately entered into our GPS our day’s final waypoint destination which is the address of our hotel for that night. The problem with this is the GPS system wants to take us on the most direct route. The most direct route is not our running route. Seems Captain Ron has a problem with runners and bikers on super highways. Like the kids say, he’s so old school. Getting back to Bobby, he keeps listening to the lady say turn and he keeps turning. >From the back seat, I feel the turn and remind him about the “straight ahead” directions. He gets back on route. The nice lady in the box recalculates and tells him to make the next turn. He does. I correct him. Again. Now, please help me save typing by going back 6 sentences and reading them over and over FIVE TIMES! I finally realized what he was doing, pulled out the nice lady in the box’s umbilical cord and hid her amidst my sweaty clothes bag. From then on we had no incidents from the navigationally-challenged Mr. Myette.

Sometimes we run, sometimes we bike, sometimes we eat candy. Today, we had a hard day. There were only three TREKers to cover 152 miles. Although we could have run in the dark, it was neither safe nor necessary to “prove it all night” as The Boss would say (Billy gives me 5 cents for every music reference I make). So in addition to our daily run, we biked.

I like cycling. But I wish that today we were TREKing through something with a nickname other than ‘The Green Mountain State’. Maybe we can find which one is ‘The Flat State’ for next time. What I don’t like is signs that have a picture of a truck going uphill that says ‘15% grade’. I also have a certain level of distain for ‘emergency stop turn-off ramp ahead’, ‘check brakes NOW’ and of course my personal least-favorite ‘no shoulder’. They are all not good. But here it is. Staring up at Mt. Ohmygosh is me, my bike, and my biking bibs/shorts. I look like a cross between George “The Animal” Steele and “King Kong” Bundy of wrestling fame. Not even Matthew McConaughey could look good in those skintight, skimpy things. Actually, this is one of the many things that Matt and I have in common. But that is for another time. I must now wrestle with this steep, long incline.

I get up out of my seat and commence what will become a 2.5 mile steep uphill, lactic acid producing, dizzying effort to see if I can conquer this beast. My breathing becomes labored to the point of my mouth drying and lips chapping. I now get to experience nature. Ahhh, the wonders of life at their finest. Actually, it is at this juncture that I notice a pair of vultures circling above me and hear them discussing which one is going to get the drumsticks. They won’t get me! Next, I encounter the universal New England state bird, the Black Fly. Biking at less than 4 miles per hour, the gnat-wannabees take advantage of my speed, or lack thereof, and I get mouthful after mouthful of them. While I appreciate the protein, a peanut butter and salami sandwich is more what I had in mind.

After verbally challenging the mountain in a Joe Versus the Volcano moment, I come to the realization that I would either A) get to the top; B) get to the end of my mileage requirement, or C) implode and meet The Lord. I push on to the top. Finally, I crest the summit and can catch a little of my breath. Now, boys and girls, you may be thinking what goes up must come down. He’s got it easy. He’s got it made. He’s got smooth sailing from here. Au contraire, my friends.

Before I can even realize it, I am barreling down the mountain at high speed. Suddenly thrust into sheer terror mode, I figure the horror of the motorists in the cars passing me is not a Kodak, but a ‘honey, quick, hide the children’s eyes!’ moment. Imagine seeing a 215 pound guy on a 2 pound bicycle barreling down the highway at 40.5 mph with tires thinner than Bob Myette’s wallet when the dinner check comes to the table. For an added level of difficulty, the road is being repaved and they have just graded the macadam. The sign says ‘scarified road ahead’. Good description. I am scared out of my spandex. There is a kind of leave-your-judgement-at-the-door, ignore-the-uberfear (yes, that IS a word, Jason – I just made it up…nickel please) that you have, just go for it panic-laden fright. Throwing sanity, er, caution, um, intelligence to the wind, I get in a tucked position and hold on for the white-knuckled ride to the bottom. And another thing – I don’t know why I am wearing a helmet. I guess I just want to be a good example to my kids. But seriously, at this speed, a helmet is not protection. I can picture myself, G-d forbid, hitting a seam in the road in my skimpy outfit, still clipped in to my pedals, dragging my bike behind me careening and skidding across the highway, sparks-a-flyin’. I think the helmet would serve little help in the protection department. It would probably only end up being a good way to keep my head intact enough so my next of kin could identify my body.

We almost always stay in very nice, if not otherwise fancy-ish hotel. Tonight, not so much. We arrive at a motor lodge in New London, New Hampshire. It is a quaint town with such nice people at the front desk. However; the rooms are reminiscent of life in the cold war era Soviet Union. The sheets and towels were no more than 7- or 8-thread count. The pillows and mattresses so old that the stuffing is now sawdust. There was a note taped to the wall where the thermostat SHOULD have been that said there was no temperature control, please call the office for ‘help’. The ‘help’ was the desk lady saying that the maintenance guy would be in later. I wrapped myself in toilet paper to keep warm and crashed for the night only to awaken freezing cold in the morning. Apparently when the maintenance guy gets there each night, it is to SHUT OFF the steam for the heat. Conserves hot water, you know. Which also, for those of you scoring at home, means no hot water for the shower. To be showering at five in the morning is bad enough. Doing it with cold water is worse. But the piece de resistance was that the shower was so small I had to stand outside, soap the walls, and then get in and spin around – a trick I learned from my buddy David years ago when I weighed over 300 pounds. Had I still been at that level of morbid obesity, it would have been a trip to the autospray truck wash for me. Just for the record, be careful where you apply the engine degreaser. The final surprise was a man’s worst nightmare…NO REMOTE FOR THE TV! I know, I know, guys – take a deep breath. I calmed myself down, regrouped mentally, and pulled the bed across the room so I could reach the TV during a sleeping position.

After 2 days of 50 miles of biking and running, my tushie is swollen like I have two softballs behind me. My TREK teammate Bobby Ell, a great guy, great runner and great cyclist gives me some advice when he sees that I can’t sit straight up due to the pain. When I ask him what to do to ease the pain, he says, “just wait until it goes numb and you won’t feel a thing. I do. It does. I am once again excited for the next day.

But in the end, we were safe, happy, and further on our journey. Straight ahead!

See you on the road,

Larry

PS: If you liked reading this, please let me know by donating $8.88 more to our fight against childhood obesity. You can probably find that in your car’s ashtray. If not, look in Martha’s ashtray. I love that I married a rich woman who doesn’t smoke.

Click the following link to help…

http://www.active.com/donate/trekusa/larryherman