Meet Bb, one of my crew
If you are going to take this trip with me, this ride across the country from San Diego, California to St. Augustine, Florida you should meet my crew. Let me introduce you to Bb.
Bb is the B*^ch in the back of my head. She is quick to criticize. Quick to tell me I am too tired to go on. Quick to tell me there is nothing left in my legs. Quick to tell me that I am crazy. At night while I am sleeping, or rather not sleeping. She chimes in, “why would anyone want to bike 3000 miles from one coast to another?”
As I am diligently climbing a hill she will pop out of my head and crawl into my ear. “Wow, that is a steep incline. This hill is a beast. No way can you get up this. You should quit now. If you turn around right here you can be home before lunch.”
“Holy crap,” she says, “This sun, this heat is a killer. Feel that water dripping down your cheeks? You’re dehydrated. You won’t make it.”
Bb doesn’t always talk. She can push a picture into your head of a semi crushing you, at the exact same moment that blast of air, hotter than furnace air, sucks you toward the eighteen highway tires whizzing beside you.
And those days when you are tired, and it is hard, those days when you aren’t seeing the beautiful mountains and the blowing grass on the side of the road. Those days when your head is ducked and you are just following the white line on the side of the road. On those days, Bb is ever present.
I am always trying to shut her up. I climb hills singing 100 bottles of beer on the wall so she can’t get a word in edgewise.
I’m settled in my life. 55 years old. Healthy. Happy. A loving man, dogs who adore me, a warm welcoming home filled with friends and laughter. But I still have Bb.