The steep hill mocked me, unforgiving, as if it knew I had barely pushed through the 10 that had come before it. We had 20 miles left before reaching Freeport, Maine, our destination for the day, and I gripped my handlebars tighter and willed myself forward. My quads burned, my backside numb, as I questioned why I had signed up for bike camp when most of my 15-year-old friends were spending their summers at the mall or by the pool.
I looked around at my fellow riders — a scrappy quartet of aspiring cyclists — and suspected they, too, had been influenced by “Breaking Away,” the ‘70s coming-of-age film about a young man obsessed with Italian cycling. My fixation with the movie had somehow convinced me that pedaling alongside roaring 18-wheelers on I-95 was a reasonable summer activity.
“Let’s go!” Patti, our counselor, called out in a chirpy voice. Petite and tan, with one long black braid running down her back, she seemed impossibly grown-up — though she was only 29. She also appeared to function on half the sleep the rest of us required, and she never, ever ran out of energy.
“Remember,” she said, pushing off her bike with a lean, toned leg while glancing over her shoulder, “hills don’t last forever.” When that elicited no response, she added, “And tonight? Lobster.”
She was referring to a seafood shack serving the famous crustaceans that awaited if we survived the day. Lobster did sound nice. Still, I could hear it — the laughter. The hill was taunting me. I wondered if Patti could hear it, too. “You’ve done the others,” she continued. “This hill is no different. You just keep pedaling. Take it one stroke at a go, and it’ll be a piece of pie.”
I wondered if there would be pie with the lobster.
We shifted on our bikes, the rhythmic click of gears and teenage groans filling the humid August air. My overstuffed panniers — the saddlebags clipped to the back of my bike — made it extra heavy. We had already ridden 30 miles that day, making this the longest stretch of our three-week journey.
Patti kept pedaling. She rode steadily, glancing back long enough to make eye contact — believing in us long before we believed in ourselves.
I stood on my pedals and leaned into the climb. One stroke. Then another. Every muscle protested. The wind from the passing trucks rattled my balance. But my focus narrowed on our leader.
“You are stronger than this hill,” she called out, breathless.
At 15, I thought Patti was teaching me how to bike long distances. What she was really showing me, though, was how to break down the impossible. Don’t conquer the mountain — conquer the next pedal stroke.
We made it to Freeport. The lobster was sweet and well-earned. I don’t remember what, if anything, I had for dessert.
But I remember this: When a challenge feels overwhelming, don’t fixate on the distance. Instead, I focus on what’s directly in front of me, as I did on that hill — and take it one steady stroke at a time.
Happy reading!
Alona Abbady Martinez
alona@bocaratonobserver.com