On the sag wagon
Forced downtime always easier with a little help from your friends

Many of you have heard of my friend Emma. You’ve probably heard me talk about her or read something I’ve written about her. She’s made a name for herself in my world because of our harrowing mountain bike rides, or my harrowing attempt to keep up with her. You might have seen her name on race rosters or on Strava with some QOMs on segments that many others do not want to attempt.

But if you haven’t heard of Emma, that’s OK. She actually keeps a low profile (which I keep breaching). She doesn’t update her social media or brag about how good of a cyclist she is and how fearless she is when dabbling in the many of her other outdoor pursuits. She is the sort of person who is effortlessly cool, so much so that sometimes it’s annoying.

One hundred percent of those times it’s because I have, yet again, found myself on my bike looking down some terrifying mountain or cliff, and it’s probably about to rain, and the ground is covered in 10 feet of snow, and she’s off in the distance smiling, laughing and having a grand ol’ time. But by the time I catch up to her, that annoyance is gone, and I’m also smiling and laughing, because as it turns out – a lesson learned from Emma – riding down a sketchy trail, postholing in deep snow or battling wind and rain is actually fun. 

And if she sees you are not having fun, she offers words of support like “You can do this,” “This isn’t that bad,” “You’ve done things that are harder.” Which maybe aren’t her exact words, but she is the inspiration for that internal monologue that replays in my head when I come up against something on my bike that is hard or scares me. 

“Breathe,” she always reminds me while I’m battling a technical section. She’s probably the only person on this planet who continuously catches me not breathing, because that’s what I do – or rather I don’t do – when I’m scared. 

I wouldn’t admit it to Emma that I was scared three weeks ago when she showed up at my door at 5:15 a.m. to take me to my appointment; my toothbrush still in my mouth and my hospital bag ready to go. 

Moments before, I was pacing, and every once in a while, stopping to remind myself to breathe. I reminded myself to breathe when I gathered all my items, and reminded myself to breathe when I put on my shoes and zipped up my jacket. I had to breathe through my nose when I was brushing my teeth, and one more big breath when Emma asked, “ready?”

We drove in the dark toward the hospital, and getting out of her truck and walking toward the entrance felt similar to rolling my front wheel to the top of a scary, technical downhill. As I checked in for my surgery, I could feel myself getting lightheaded; it could have been because I hadn’t had anything to eat or drink since the night before. It also could have been because I wasn’t breathing, but when I heard Emma say she would stay with me until they rolled me off to the operating room, I took a breath.

She sat by my hospital bed and cracked jokes as my nurse poked needles into my arm to start my IV. She asked questions of my doctor, took mental notes and kept my belongings safe when they rolled me off to the OR. Then, when I woke up hours later, she helped me put my shoes on (amongst other things) and took me home. She made up my couch, which would remain my recovery area for the next two weeks, walked my dog and did my dishes while I was asleep. She summoned the rest of our amazing friends to help me with food, walk my dog or keep me company, of which I will forever be indebted. 

She has since driven me to the grocery store or to hang out with friends, since I cannot drive or ride my bike.

And so this is to Emma, and the rest of my friends who have shown up with meals or a friendly hello, who have walked my dog or helped me lift something heavy, who have washed a dish or watered my plants, who have gotten me out of the house, and who have made me laugh to help me heal, so I can get back on my bike soon. Thank you for being the absolute most amazing humans and friends, and continuing to remind me to laugh and breathe.