I was blessed with an opportunity to visit Europe when I was 14.  An offer of interesting choice came to me through my parents.  One choice was a bus tour through the continent.  The other choice was to bicycle through one of several countries.  I was young and full of hormones, so I selected bicycle over the bus tour.  I dismissively called the bus option, “Today is Tuesday, and this must be Rome. “   I wanted to see Europe from the ground up.

I selected the United Kingdom because of the relatively similar language.  I passed on Spain, Italy and France because of language concerns and reality of extreme mountains.

I trained for weeks.  Daily bike rides of five to twenty miles in New Orleans.  I was going great.  Chronically out of shape, my body was feeling good with weight loss and building muscle.

I went to New York City to meet up with the rest of the team.  10 riders and 3 counselors composed our group.  We went via train to rural New York State for three days of training.  I did fine, but the hills were bigger that what trained on in Louisiana.  Legs were good and off we flew to London.

After a few days in London, we went to Southeast England.  The people were nice, but difficult to understand. 

“The Americans and the British are two peoples separated by a common language.”-George Bernard Shaw

The first day of riding was tough.  The hills were not little British mounds.  To a Louisiana boy, these were the height of Everest.  I wrote my parents a revealing letter, “The hills are endless.”  I was toughing it out. 

The second day I began to find my stride.  The hills were easier and all was good.  Tough uphill climbs and wonderful downhill.   I was cruising and life was zipping by.

Then I hit a yellow manhole cover.  Had not seen one in my brief travels.  My bike swiveled left and right.  My thought was clear.

“This is gonna hurt.” 

And I went tumbling.  Remember, I was going great guns.  Downhill.  No team member near me. 

Thank goodness I was wearing a helmet.

I crashed.  Hard.   And stood up.  Systems check time.  Arms work.  Legs are good.  No real cuts.  Back hurts a little.  Face felt fine.

Then a team leader arrived.  This is decades before cell phones.  I felt fine and the team leader said that we needed to visit the hospital.     I saw no blood and felt fine, but off to the hospital we go.

I arrived at the hospital and saw a nurse.  The issue was what I could not see: my back.  The nurse was concerned.  And she called over a second nurse and I heard frightening words knowing the English calm.

“That is a baddie, isn’t it?”

For about 30 minutes, the nurse pulled road asphalt out of my back.

And my brand new Michael Jackson t-shirt was toast.  The sound of asphalt hitting metal pans rang in my ears.

I left the hospital and hopped back on my bike.  Made it to the hostel for the night.

And had a great time riding through a beautiful country.  And I did not see “Nessy” (The Loch Ness Monster) at Loch Ness.  And Inverness was charming.

And I did it.   With the team.

I climbed mountains.  No one helped me; I did it with my body and desire to accomplish.

English mountains are nothing against the French Alps or Spanish Pyrenees, but to a flatlander, they were intense.

And I did it.

No quit.

Just accomplish the climb.