Lessons Learned on the Trail: One Girl, One Bike and Ninety Miles of Hating Myself

Mush. My brain seemed to stop functioning logically after about mile 30 of my 90 mile bicycle ride on the Cowboy Trail across the northern Nebraska Sandhills. I knew what I was getting myself into when I decided to attempt the trail back during this winter, and it lived up to the hype I gave it in my head. My day started before dawn in O'Neill, Nebraska at the small town's entry point onto the trail. I was soon waving goodbye to my dad, who had dropped me off, and headed west. The trail through town was paved, and I had no problem achieving my average speed, flying past the sleeping houses and businesses typical of small-town, Nebraska. And then I hit the crushed limestone of the trail that follows an old railroad corridor through the sparsely populated northern third of the state, and I ran into trouble. It had been raining off and on for weeks, and the trail was soggy with moisture. I had hoped that it would dry out in the sunshine the day before, but no such luck. I was forced to make ruts in the trail as my bike sank an inch and a half into the muddy mess, and my average speed was drastically cut in half. My hopes of finishing the 115 miles in 9 or so hours sank, just like my bike.

The evening before my ride. Way too much enthusiasm...

I pressed on, keeping myself moving forward at an agonizingly slow pace purely by force of will. I wanted to quit less than five miles into the ride. I kept hoping the trail would improve, dry out, and stop sucking so much of my energy, but I was disappointed over and over. Around mile 10, after battling the muck, I gave in and headed to the highway that parallels the trail for the majority of the section. Finding another burst of energy, I made good time as I flew along, getting blown about like crazy by semis headed the opposite direction. Then the trail turned away from the road, and because I had committed myself to biking the Cowboy Trail, not the highway, I re-entered the trail and experienced yet another drastic decrease in speed and energy. It was around mile 30 that I started to get upset. I am a very positive, confident person, or at least I try to be, but some times I reach a breaking point and I can't turn back. I was so fed up with the trail, with the mud, with the rain, and most of all with myself. I have never in my life been so negative about myself. Thoughts such as "why did you think you could do this trail" and "you don't have the skills or the ability to even start it, let alone complete it" circled around in my brain until I realized that I was having difficulties seeing the trail through tears.

Never, in all of my hiking, biking, rafting, or any other crazy adventure I've decided to do, have I told myself that I couldn't do it. Shit, I decided to break my hiking distance record on a whim. I rarely even have the thought that "maybe this isn't a good idea." Sure, I take risks, but they're calculated risks that I am confidant I can match and overcome. And here I was, on the bike ride that I have wanted to do for three years, came back up from Texas in order to finally accomplish it, and I was telling myself that I couldn't do it, and that I shouldn't have ever thought I could. And what's worse, I believed myself. I spent half of my morning alternating between trail and highway, and was on the highway when the rain shower in the distance became the rain shower that dumped on me, making me cold and wet, on top of everything else. I spent most of twenty miles crying, pushing forward purely because I couldn't face myself if I failed at accomplishing my goal. I am not the type of person to give up, and if I have my mind and heart set to something, I find a way to get it. Around mile 57 I thought that I would have that glass-half-full mentality again, that I'd find my groove and be relieved that half of the ride was over. Once I actually reached 57, I wanted to quit. Again. Still. The only thoughts in my head were about how I have 57 more miles of that shit to look forward to, how I was making absolutely horrendous time, and that I would be lucky to reach Valentine and the end of the trail by dark. But I kept going, because that's what I do. I'm stubborn to a fault, and despise failing; if I seriously don't think I can do something, I don't even bother starting it. Why waste my time?

So I kept pedaling. Around mile 60 I finally relaxed a little bit and actually noticed that the surrounding landscape had changed. I got a, well, not second wind, maybe a twenty-third wind, but I got another burst of energy and a little bit more optimism. At mile 70, when I passed the last significant town before Valentine, I recommitted myself to my bike and my journey, and sent my dad and sister a text saying that I was definitely going to finish this, that I was going to make it, even if I had to crawl and drag my bike along behind me. And I was going to be treated to one of the fantastic Sandhills sunsets while riding through the grass covered dunes. And then I managed to ride my bike straight through the biggest patch of thorns in the whole frickin' world, and my fragile optimism and self esteem blew out with both of my tires. I pulled over from the trail to the shoulder of the highway so that I wouldn't re-puncture my tires if I ever got going again, and settled on the pavement to remove my bike tires, tubes, and start finding and painstakingly removing each and every thorn in both treads. I lost count of the thorns after I pulled 51 out of my my first tire. I don't know how I managed that, but unfortunately it's not an exaggeration.

I sat my sore butt on my backpack and kept plucking thorns out with my multi-tool. Less than five minutes after I stopped biking, a gentleman in a truck stopped to see if I was ok and if he could do anything. He went to the last town I passed, telling me he was going to go get his air compressor to help speed things up when I was ready to inflate my new tire tubes (which I was carrying.) Not ten minutes later, another older couple stopped and asked if I was ok and if I needed help. In all, six different cars with various people pulled over and asked if I was alright and what I needed/if they could help. I explained what had happened every time, as I held up the tread I was working on and showed them the thorns. As one of the men went on his way after determining that I had what I needed, I thanked him for stopping and checking on me. He answered with a wave and "That's Nebraska for you." How true of a statement is that? I was and still am astounded at the friendly, helpful attitude especially prevalent in the western part of my home state. I am thankful for every single person who stopped to help, whether they were actually able to help me or not. It was honestly just the thoughtful concern of strangers that made my whole day better. One mother, Lucy, and her son Kirby stopped, and after I explained what had happened went to their home, brought me some tire sealant and an ice cold water and sat down on the side of the road to help me get tubes back in my treads and the tires back on my bike. As we were finishing re-installing the tires, the first man who had stopped came back with an air compressor and helped fill my tires up. Another man stopped at the very end and gave me a cleaner that helped get the dirt and grease off of my hands and arms, so that I wouldn't get my handlebars slick.

Guys, I know I moved to Texas, but Nebraska is awesome. With many thank you's, I finally headed up the road to continue on my journey, but I had wasted a significant amount of time with the flats. Not even five miles from where I started again, my dad and sister drove up behind me and pulled over. I stopped to talk, to tell them what had happened, and to discuss the rest of my journey. I was exhausted, still frustrated with the trail, extremely sunburned, and still had many miles to go before I got to Valentine. At the pace I was going, there was no way I would make it to the end of the trail before dark. And biking on a unfamiliar trail at night, alone, wasn't the best situation for me to put myself in. With a lot of disappointment, I admitted defeat and recognized that I wouldn't be finishing my goal of 115 miles. However, I still was determined to beat my biking distance record, so shortly after stopping to talk to my dad and sister I got my ass back on the saddle and rode on, pushing myself as hard as I could to just beat my own record. Dad and Alisha drove back and forth, sometimes keeping the slow pace with me as I used every ounce of energy I had to make it to my secondary goal. As I crested the last hill, I saw them pulled onto a little side road, marking the end of my ride. 90.22 miles after starting my trip early that morning, I pulled up next to the truck and at least beat my own distance record. Next time, I'm doing the whole damn thing.