(Writer’s Note: Twelve 8th graders are training for the annual MS 150, a charity bike ride from Houston to Austin. Several teachers including Ms. Williams and Mr. Acosta lead our team courageously. Our latest motto is “No Obstacles.” This is a recap of our first 10-mile training ride.)
Sometimes, life comes to an abrupt halt.
This time, it was a screeching halt on Kirkwood Street, just south of I-10. I was driving three eighth graders to their first MS 150 training ride. We have our gear ready to go—gently used helmets, water bottles, shorts, and nervous excitement.
Before today, we rode circles in the KIPP parking lot; but this was our first real bike ride. We are traveling to Sealy, Texas, for a 10-mile event. In my car, just like before a soccer game, we are getting pumped up. Jennifer is in charge of the music; she has the radio blaring for her two comrades in the back seat. Saida breaks off a piece of my chocolate brownie energy bar. “What exactly is in a Cliff bar?”
Bam. We hit a bump in the road. Bam.
The girls scream at the exact same time.
In one second, our day went from perfect...to near disaster.
Three precious bikes strapped to the back of my car...as sudden as a gust of wind...broke free from the bike rack and skidded down the Kirkwood Street asphalt.
I slam on the brakes, then quickly turn into the next parking lot. One girl gets on the cell phone and called our teammates in the caravan. We need help. Please come quick.
We park the car and run beside the busy street, watching a Good Samaritan pick up our mangled bikes, moving them to the sidewalk and away from traffic. We upright the bikes and try to roll them, yet the wheels won’t turn; the brakes are bent; and the handlebars are twisted backwards. I feel our spirit being crushed as we carry the bikes back to my car.
Moments later, Mr. Acosta arrives with his band of rambunctious boys, boys that are part of our team. They bounce out of the truck, surveying our disaster like Sherlock Holmes. We stand in a perfect circle and examining the broken, bent wheels before us. Can the bikes be fixed? Can we still ride?
A whizzing yellow blur goes by, interrupting our. We double take—there are ten Lance Armstrong’s, one-by-one, cycling into our parking lot. They wear bright yellow biking jerseys, all matching—we can tell by their look that they are serious bikers—they are a team riding, training together. Just like us, they stop in the parking lot of the Shell Station waiting for their team to catch up, waiting to cross I-10 together.
I signal our mismatched bandits. See those bikers? That’s us. That’s going to be what we look like when we ride to Austin.
I called to the bikers. We’re going to ride the MS 150! The bikers yell back: Good luck! You’ll do great. They line up in front of us to cross the street—sleek, beautiful bikes gleaming in the morning sun.
That’s us, I repeat, as I look down at the mangled heap we call bikes.
But can we ride today? Three broken bikes? Twelve broken spirits?
With quiet demeanor, I hear Mr. Acosta’s calm voice. I think I can get us up and running. It will take time, but I think I can.
Zoom ahead an hour, 35 miles down the highway to Seale, Texas. We arrive at our ride, one hour late. It was just us—our MS 150 team—ready to start our first training ride—alone. The race begun long ago; all the riders are long gone down the empty road.
One broken bike is fixed, but two are irreparable due to our accident. We are now down to 10 riders. Two teammates have to stay back to cheer us on—no bike for this ride. Off we go without two—our spirit returning with each circle of the pedal.
We start together in a long line, one rider behind the other, down our first country road.
I am at the back of the pack. It is my job to make sure every rider on our team is in front of me. Jamie holds back, as she is unsure of herself; rightly so, as this her first long bike ride. Cars whizzing past us do not bother her as much as turning a corner on the loose gravel pavement. We practice gently turning, so she her tires do not slide. Each corner brings a new chance to practice; each corner gets easier and easier.
Our teammates pull way ahead. When we look up the road, it is empty of bikes. It’s just the two of us riding quietly. We keep a slow, steady pace. We ride for an hour—a team of two—under a canopy of shady trees and through a sudden rain shower. Just the two of us riding, just the two of us talking.
We are come to a pasture that reminds me of the book I just finished reading:
Out of the Dust. I tell Jamie about Oklahoma and the Dust Bowl. How the dust was as high as the roof of a house. From the pasture, we hear a distinct, loud moo.
What is that, Jamie asks?
Jamie, see that cow in the pasture? She just moo’d at us—she is telling us to pedal faster.
I could hear the smile in her voice...I have never heard a cow moo before.
The day was back to being perfect.
