T-30: Yes...but

Well once again my decision making is suspect.   I woke up the other morning and said, I am going to take a long loaded run….just to see if I can.  I had Wes drag my big yellow BOB bag out to the garage.  I attached the trailer and went zooming off.  It was an absolutely beautiful morning in Detroit, one of those clear blue spring days where the humidity is low and the air almost sparkles.

I cycle down to the riverfront, where the first thing I see is a fisherman pull a 12 inch walleye from the water.  He is one of the many riverside and boating fishers partaking in the annual walleye run.  The riverfront is teaming with people, even though it is pretty early in the morning.  I am tickled at the range of people enjoying the sight of the glistening water. 

Underground Railroad Monument

There are all ages, all colors, women in hijab, and men in hard hats.  There are youth with pants four sizes too big walking along side hipsters with pants two sizes too small.  There are grandmas with squirmy little grandbabies sitting on lawn chairs watching their menfolk throw fishing line in the water and watch the red floaters bob, bob, bob downstream.  There’s a sailor all dressed in white  
scrubbing the sidewalk leading up the Detroit Princess party boat.  There’s even a few tourists having their picture taken with Underground Railway monument, standing alongside bronze statues, living and metal people peering mightily to the promised land of Canada just across the water.

I am a bit of spectacle with my full touring regalia: helmet and gloves, sun glasses, and most importantly, my low-slung bright yellow BOB trailer.  I see the occasional walker turn a full 180 degrees to watch me go by. It tickles my fancy to imagine they think me some exotic traveler making my way across the city on this beautiful morning.

I leave the waterfront on the other side of the Milliken State Park, past the swaying cattails and invasive phragmytes of the restored marsh.  I note my mileage (on my new bicycle computer, of course) and see that I have travelled just over 4 miles from my Southwest Detroit starting point.  I told Wes I was going to go down to the Belle Isle Bridge and back.  He shook his head ruefully, and said, “That far?”  I stuck out my chin at him: “It’s only 15 miles!”

I curve back to the riverfront by Stroh Riverplace.  I love this part of the Riverwalk, with its restored buildings, boutique hotels, boat slips, and Coast Guard station.  I am intrigued to see a Coast Guard cutter being lowered to the water.  The giant crane looks like a huge praying mantis.

I am still feeling good as leave the riverfront, cross the bumpity, bumpity cobblestone streets of old Iron Street, noting the ten or fifteen new murals depicting the strengths and beauty of Detroit on the sides of a rusting, wreck of old factory.   I am still feeling good as I pass by the big empty lot just before the Belle Isle Bridge.  Years and years ago, it was an industrial site for Goodyear, I think.  It has been too toxic for redevelopment and has sat fallow as long as I have lived in Detroit.  Today, it is abuzz with activities.  All along the fence is banner after banner proclaiming the upcoming Belle Isle Grand Prix.  The lots are being set up as service areas for the racing crews.

Well, here is where I made my big mistake.  If I had “the sense god promised a billy goat”, as my mother would say, I would have turned around right then and there, and started my homeward track.   This was the distance I told Wes I was going to take.  It was a good run.

But no.  Blinded by the beauty and ecstasy of my ride thus far, I turn my bike onto the Belle Isle Bridge.   It is gorgeous to look up and down the river.  There are geese, and swans, and ducks paddling with their babies. I am committed now.  The Belle Isle run, if I circle the island is another 5.5 miles. But hey, I’m feeling good, so why not?

I pull my trailer up the bridge, and notice for the first time, how much drag the trailer creates on a hill.  Flat Detroit is not very good training for the Cascades and the Rockies which start our trip, I note.  I huff and puff up the bridge, scream down the other side, pushed by the trailer, find the corner to the right quite a bit of challenge with the push of the trailer and drive right into….a construction zone. 

All along the river road, giant concrete barriers are being put up along the race route for the Detroit Grand Prix (http://www.michronicle.com/index.php/news-briefs-original/11459-chevrolet-detroit-belle-isle-grand-prix-revs-up-for-summer-classic).  The barriers block the view.  I weave in and out of heavy equipment, teams for workers, and trucks moving racing gear.  The workers stare at me.  I am sure they wonder what kind of fool would bring her bike and trailer into their midst. 

A few miles later, I finally leave the construction zone, then pull into the party zone on the riverfront.  It is a mess.  Even though there are garbage cans every 25 yards or so, there are cans, bottle, wrappers, dirty diapers, food containers and more everywhere.  On the grass, on the road.  It is disgusting.  This is the place where scads of teens hang out on weekend nights.  Every Monday morning, the place is a wreck.  By Tuesday, the debris would be gone, but now, with budget cuts, it is still sitting there on Thursday.

I leave the garbage zone and I notice that I am really starting to get tired now.  I have gone about 10 miles and it is starting to get hot.  I reach for my water bottle…empty.  I am not half way around the island, and I still have the whole way back to go. 

By the time I get to the Detroit Yacht Club, I am only ¾ around the island and I am pooped.  I stop in some shade, move my pannier to the other side because my right leg is hurting and record a note on my phone and call Wes.  I tell him to meet me at our favorite coney island in half an hour.  He asks me if I am all right.  What can I say?

The ride back to the diner is long and hard.  The river is still beautiful, but the temperature is up.  When I make it back to the Underground Railroad monument, I am in “just keep going” mode.  The tenth miles turn over so slowly on my bike computer.  When I turn away from the river and make my way up the gradual climb up to Michigan Avenue, my legs hurt, my forearms ache, and my shoulders are starting to knot. 

I stop at a red light to catch my breath, having climbed the bank of the former Cabacier Creek.  While I pant, a friendly fellow tells me “You don’t need to wait for the light, there ain’t no traffic.”  I wait anyway, glad to be off my bike, even for a moment. 

I meet Wes at the Coney.  I am sweaty, sore, and beat.  I have cycled 18 miles without a break, carrying a 40 pound load.  Wes laughs out loud as we listen to the recording I made of my pitiful self at the Yacht club. “What did you expect?”

I say to him, “Well, I have answered my question.”  “What is that?”  “Can I do twenty miles in a shot.”    The answer is “yes, but…”  After I cycle the remaining two miles home, I have gone twenty miles, sure enough, but I will be sore tomorrow, and not worth much today.

Yes, I can ride twenty miles with a load, but I have also shown, once again, that I am poor, poor, poor at recognizing reasonable boundaries.   And not just on bicycle rides, I assure you.