I did a little sightseeing with my daughter last month, from the seat of a bike.
We rode 150 miles in one weekend, our first stint with The Multiple Sclerosis Society’s MS 150 Bike Tour. Local chapters of the MS Society host rides to raise money and awareness for MS research; the Minnesota chapter trekked from Duluth to the Twin Cities, from the lip of Lake Superior to White Bear Lake.
We rode with 2,600 folks, who’ve raised around $2 million so far. Most of the riders were individuals, but some were on teams, dozens of people in the same bright jersey, sometimes with a team cheer. The Beer Team’s cheer went like this: The captain yelled “Beer!,” the riders hollered “Team!,” and then they all went “Mmmmmm.”
My favorite team name was Multiple Sore Asses for Multiple Sclerosis. But there were also the High Plains Drafters, Stevie’s Wonders (the loudest, but not biggest team), the Banner Bunch (“Last one done is a rotten banana.”) There were the Purple Pumpers, named after — I kid you not — the portable toilets. The Pedal Monsters, a group of grade-school girls in yellow T-shirts. Team Harmony never sang, which baffled me. Turns out their name comes from the constant spats between a brother and sister, who sometimes have to be separated by their teammates.
Then there was the General Mills team, Spoons ‘N Spokes. There were 132 of them, the biggest team of all, and they wore jerseys with a big, bright Trix Rabbit on them — his face and bike helmet on the front, his tail and toe clips on the back.
General Mills, like presenting sponsor GMAC RFC and other corporations headquartered here, had more involvement than an employee team. Mills — its local nickname is “Generous Mills” — served up Saturday’s Breakfast of Champions with Lucky Charms and Golden Grahams, Nouriche yogurt and pancakes catered by Chris’ Cakes, whose chefs manned table-sized griddles and flung cakes across the serving line for riders to catch with their plates or hands or, for that one woman who turned away too soon, her head.
Mills showed up at the rest stops, too, where boxes of Nature Valley granola bars, Gardetto snacks and Chex Mix lay open for carb-starved riders. One farm along the route had signs posted in the yard, Burma Shave-style, with the Trix Rabbit cheering: “Keep on peddling!” (Yes, “peddling,” even though most of us were pedaling by too fast to notice.)
And for the characters who rode alone, we made up nicknames. There was Yellow Pants Guy, who wore yellow sweatpants under his khaki shorts and was filming a documentary about the ride for a friend with MS and, maybe, for the Sundance Film Festival. Tights Guy wore purple striped tights even when it warmed up above 50. Gatorade Lady trucked a dozen big bottles of it in the wire basket on her three-speed.
There was an amazing array of riders, people you wouldn’t imagine on a bike if you saw them on the street. There were fat guys, old guys and enough kids to make you slightly ashamed that you were winded on the hills. We all took on 150 miles, just a bunch of regular people in helmets and Lycra. (And yellow sweat pants.)
It was the kind of ride where you cringe when you see a crack in the pavement at Mile 82, and from about 10 a.m. on, all sensation radiates out from your ischium bone. You wear your helmet for so long that you forget you have it on and have to check every so often to make sure you didn’t leave it at the last rest stop. Peanut butter and jelly become ambrosia; even the Gatorade starts tasting less noxious.
By 4 p.m. you feel like crap. As you hobble to the shower truck, you remember that someone else feels worse, every day, and that’s why you’re here. It’s a comfort to be part of something big, a little link in the chain that keeps turning with Yellow Pants Guy, the Trix Rabbit and you to make life a little easier for someone you love, or someone you don’t even know.
It’s good to be part of the mix.
