Tour De Lopez pt. 2: The Day of the Ride

Steve-O on the day of the ride










By Saturday morning, the only remnants of my asthma episode were a few chronic wheezes and a whole lot of personal frustration. When an asthma attack happens and you could have avoided it, it’s best to deal with it head on. See it for what it was and learn from it: Severe chest pains--that’s bad. Paramedics were called--that’s bad. Not cardiac related--that’s good. Avoidable--that’s the key. I didn’t respect my limits and I paid the price. So I looked at the Saturday ride as the perfect opportunity to get it right. I felt good enough to ride, but not good enough to push myself to an edge. I would need to keep from exerting myself too much, because that’s an absolute trigger. Stay loose on the downhills, take it e-a-s-y on the climbs.

As our ferry approached Lopez Island, we saw the telltale colors of a cycling event. Jackets, jerseys, and spandex strutted colors that would make a peacock blush. The Tour De Lopez ride itself was spectacular--a cool, dry day with lots of smiling people everywhere. Lopez Island is the most hospitable place you will find. People there really do wave at you as you pass them on the road. They smile and make eye contact in the stores. It’s remarkable! On this typically quiet island, the residents treated their cycling guests like kings all day long. Ride support was unsurpassed. While most supported rides might have some fig bars and Oreos, here they handed out fresh shortbread and brownies from Holly B’s Bakery. Lavish.

My lowest gear was sufficient to keep the bike upright on the inclines, even though I wasn’t setting any land speed records. Every hill took a long time, and I realized I was nowhere close to full energy. Steve-O was very patient; I know he thoroughly enjoyed his first visit to Lopez Island, but he didn’t get to ride it like he could have. Cyclists love to attack hills strategically. The more riding you do, the more you begin to think in a certain way. In just the matter of a split second, you assess the contour of a hill and automatically decide your optimum gear and pedal cadence. You’ve already identified the point at which you’ll lift up from the saddle if necessary. You execute the plan exactly the way you thought. Your speed at the crest of the hill is your reward, and the last thing you’d ever want to do is stop or slow down. Steve-O sacrificed that and rode with me, at asthma speed. Welcome to full-fledged friendship, Kelly.

Continue here for the final part of this story.

Tour De Lopez pt. 1

Left: at the Anacortes Ferry.

Right: Evening sky, San Juan Islands


Cyclists love riding the San Juan Islands. They are breathtakingly scenic, they have far less vehicles than the cities, and the ferries work beautifully for people on bikes. My sons still talk about the camping trip we took on our bikes there in Summer 2006. I recommend the Tour De Lopez to any person who likes to ride a bike and has wondered about joining an organized ride event. There are several distance options and lots of support, and everybody shares lunch in the Village at the end. Hospitality, Lopez style, simply cannot be matched. The novice and experienced rider alike can have a great time on this ride. Because registration will open later this month, I thought I’d share last year’s story along with some links and pictures.
Rides are really stories on wheels, and the Tour De Lopez certainly provided a great story line. One might question the sanity of my buddy, Steve-O. He keeps agreeing to go on these organized rides with me. Maybe he does it for the amusement, because riding with me seems to never turn out like he imagines.

Part 1. Getting There Is Half The Fun...Or At Least It’s Supposed To Be

Just after you call 9-1-1 and report chest pains, you have a few priceless minutes to stare at the ceiling and ponder your own mortality, how your current predicament really sucks and was totally avoidable, and how little control you now have over what happens next. That's surreal.

My buddy Steve-O is a great guy and all, but we didn’t really know each other super well yet. I’m sure he was wondering what he’d gotten himself into. This 9-1-1 call launched him into a new kind of relationship with me. While we waited for the emergency folks to arrive, he got to call Mrs. C who was 300 miles away, and use words like “paramedics” and “chest pains.” Welcome to full-fledged friendship, Steve-O.

This happened last April (2009) on the Friday night before the Tour De Lopez. Steve-O and I had looked forward to this for months. We hopped on an evening ferry in Anacortes with our overnight bags and bikes. It was way cheaper than bringing the car onto the ferry, and starting out on the bikes would be more fun. Steve-O and I both have bikes that are super light, fast, smooth riding machines. You don’t add packs or racks on bikes like these. I figured we could just sling our overnight bags over our shoulders as we rode from the ferry to our overnight accommodations. I’d found a place on the internet that looked like it was just on the outskirts of town in Friday Harbor, which is on San Juan Island.

Now let’s think about some of the obvious flaws in Kelly’s plan, and see if it might explain why a 9-1-1 call was in the making: no bike rack, heavy rider, 15 lb. bag starts on my shoulder but keeps shifting and hanging around my neck. Far from being in riding shape to begin with, let’s go uphill for two miles in the chilly night air, while the strap to my bag is pressing in on my windpipe. I was also keenly aware that it wasn’t just my bag that was providing the extra weight. I was the heaviest I’ve ever been and I hadn’t been exercising like I should. Now, throw in some testosterone-induced stupidity that usually flares up only with men during man-cations. It’s not like I haven’t had asthma all my life. I’m not sure what I wasn’t thinking. Steve-O, didn’t appear to be struggling at all. Kelly must then not appear to be struggling either, right? Guys learn that early in life.

A mile or so riding uphill from the ferry landing, it felt like my heart was pounding out my ears. I was in the lowest gear and it still wasn’t helping. It was getting quite dark and of course, we had no lights, so we needed to get to our destination quickly. I’d never actually been to the place we were staying, and it was farther out than I imagined. We finally arrived and I managed to get off the bike without collapsing, but the next few minutes are sort of fuzzy. We still hadn't eaten, so we were trying to see if we could order a pizza. I wasn't all that hungry, though; I couldn’t get my breath, or think very clearly, and I was scared. It felt like there was an anvil on my chest, and my inhaler wasn’t making any difference. It was getting worse, not better. Honestly, this had a different sensation than asthma. This was chest pressure. Steve-O and I both wondered the same thing, but neither of us said it outright...maybe I was having a heart attack.

You can’t get pizza delivery on this island, but paramedics are in plentiful supply. That’s way better than the other way around when you’re having chest pains, even if you’re hungry. An EKG revealed that my heart was fine. A nebulizer helped me breathe better. No pizza, however. My drama sort of overshadowed everything else, and any hope of dinner had disappeared. I was trying to put myself in Steve-O’s shoes. On an island with no car, chewing on a protein bar after watching his neighbor get his chest shaved and heart monitored by the locals. Do I know how to show a buddy a good time! He stayed cool through the whole affair, because that's just who Steve-O is. After the last "visitors" had left, we called Mrs. C to let her know it was “just” asthma. Relief, embarassment, exhaustion.

Couldn’t even think about whether I’d be riding on Lopez tomorrow. That would have to wait. ‘Night, Steve-O.

Continue here for part 2.

I did it for the money. And the road bike.

At the very top the 'Stupidest Things I've Ever Done" list is the time when I agreed to be in a pharmaceutical study. Back in the early 90's My doctor told me I fit the profile to participate in it because of my chronic asthma. Among other things, they'd induce asthma to see how well the medicine worked. I agreed to do it. Stupid! I'd go in there once a month and breathe in this crap that made me have an attack. Then they'd "bring me back" with a breathing treatment and send me on my way. What an idiot. But I did it for money. Yes, for a brief period of time I was an asthma prostitute. It was stupid and I wouldn't do it again. I'm not proud of what I did, but don't judge me. I knew the whole time that I was "just another pair of lungs" to them, but I didn't care at the time. I had designs on getting that money.

By the time my check for $750 came I knew exactly what I was going to do with it. I had a good dependable mountain bike, but I wanted something a little more nimble and efficient for riding on the roads. I found it at the nearby bike shop, a Schwinn Passage with a sale tag hanging from the handlebars: $749.99. I did everything I could to not appear impulsive when I finally bought it with my stupid inhaler study money. The truth is, it captivated me when I first saw it. This maroon and black Schwinn shined, and it looked fast just standing there. It was pretty light and stiff for a cromoly bike, and the components were just good enough to make me feel like I was riding first class with the elite riders. Fifteen years and thousands of road miles have gone by, and a newer sleeker bike is now hanging in the garage. But my "inhaler bike" is still with me, now on the trainer, and I love it.