Scene of Struggle Workshop Story

Carol, Camping, and Cycling Catastrophes

All my life, my Aunt Carol has held the biggest influence over me. She is brave, outspoken, spontaneous, and just downright fun. I have always looked up to her because she speaks her mind and does what makes her happy. Carol is the “fit” aunt, which means she does all the triathlons, ironmans, and marathons, while managing to make you feel jealous that this 60-year-old woman has a better body and fitness routine than you. She is the kind of person that you can’t say no to, even if what she suggests sounds outrageously crazy.

            On one warm, September night in Carol’s backyard, we strike up a conversation about how we have always wanted to go fall camping.

            “Why don’t we go camping this weekend?” Carol eagerly asks me.

            “Yes, that would be so fun! We could pack food to cook over the fire in my cooler, and we could take your car” I said as I was formulating a plan in my head for the weekend.

            “Or, we could bike to the Carver Park Reserve and camp there!” Carol suggested.

            Uh-oh, I thought to myself as she suggested her new plan. Carver Park Reserve was over twenty miles away from my house and I have never biked that far in one trip in my life. But I knew myself, and I knew that I would end up saying yes because I have always wanted to be spontaneous like Carol, “What the heck” I said, “Let’s do it!”

            That following weekend, she showed up at my house beaming with energy as she packed up her bike-trailer with our tent and cooler of food for the night. I reluctantly put on my lime-green, fluorescent helmet as I braced myself for the grueling hours of biking ahead.

            “All ready?” Carol said with bounding excitement.

            “As ready as I’ll ever be” I mumbled as I warily got on my rusted, ten-speed bike that has been collecting dust in the garage for ages.

            We started our trek to the campsite on the highways before we were able to get on an official bike trail. By mile seven, I was pretty sure I was going to die. None of my bike’s gears were shifting properly; I was pretty sure I already had blisters on my hands from death-gripping the handlebars, so they wouldn’t fly off mid-ride; and my bike chain was making weird squealing noises.  About two miles from our final destination, my bike squealed and what happened next was just a series of unfortunate events. The following happened in a span of one minute: my rusty bike chain broke, the front tire slipped off the path, I flew over my handle bars, the bike consequently tipped sideways, my whole left leg scrapped across the gravel, and then I finally skidded to a stop in a ditch below the path I was originally on.

            “Holy crap, Syd! Are you ok?” Carol yelled as she clamored off her bike and carefully navigated the ditch I was now lying in.

            I calmly surveyed my injuries before responding, “I think I’m fine. My leg’s cut up pretty bad, but the gravel build-up is stopping the bleeding” I joked as she helped me clean my wounds.

            When I finally stood up she gasped aloud. Apparently, the whole back of my shirt was bloody because of the ditch-slide I performed not even ten minutes earlier. After another ten minutes of medical attention, I was finally ready to attempt to fix my bike. Carol, being the expert in all things fitness, was able to repair my broken chain, tighten my handle bars, and patch the tire that I had apparently popped during my fall.

              “I’ll call your Uncle Rick to come pick us up” Carol said as she reached for her phone.

            “Are you kidding me? I did not just go through all of that to turn around now! We are going to finish our camping trip, even if I have gravel embedded in my knee” I exclaimed.

            So, with that, we continued on to have a great camping trip under the stars with only a bear sighting and a gun-shot wake-up, but that’s a different story for a different time.