21 Miles [of doom]

Ever since my dad got his bicycle this past Christmas, he's been a biking nut. Every weekend he drives over to public trails a bit far from the house and bikes for miles and miles. For someone who originally was out of breath biking to the end of the small street, he can now do over 20 miles easily. It's admirable, especially considering he's over 50 years old.

Cut to me. I'm 25. I consider myself to be moderately in shape. My main problem, however, has always been cardio. I can do pull ups with the best of them, but when it comes to running a mile, I'm utterly useless. I've got strength, but I lack endurance.

This past weekend my dad discovered a new trail a county over, so we drove up to it, bikes stacked on top of one another in the back of his mini-SUV, wanting to see if it was any good. Parking by a horse range, I waved at the horses galloping along as I rode in circles inside the parking lot, waiting for my dad to properly prepare for our adventure (calculating how many miles we would ride, filling up his water bottle, channeling his Tour de France doppelganger). Finding the trail next to a vast field, we embarked on our journey. Not long in, we came to an old fashion sign that looked like it was right out of a Western movie (font included). On the sign listed the upcoming rest stops on the trail. Noticing that Winter Gardens was only 7.8 miles away (a city I hadn't been to, but heard had a terrific downtown area), we decided to set that as our goal. My previous record for bike riding was 10 miles. 15+ miles wouldn't be too hard, right?

The trail was absolutely gorgeous, a place weddings should be at. Willow trees lined the side and canopied the top. Horseback riders weaved through the trail and went right into the woods. Squirrels ran alongside our bikes, but never jumped in front. They just wanted to check in on us, say hello. I almost expected Snow White to emerge, singing a song, trailed by her seven dwarfs.

The trail itself wasn't too hard. There hills weren't big, just minor, ending before I knew they began. It being a Sunday, many families, walking groups, and rollerbladers were out, waving hello as they passed in the other direction. Bike groups zoomed passed us, each person wearing their own sponsored spandex outfit. My dad, thankfully, kept at my pace which, apparently, wasn't too fast. A few grannies passed me, smiling the whole way.

We went through a few towns while on trail, which isn't too shocking. Suburbs are as common as sunny days in Orlando. We passed a fancy golf course that was obscured from view by mossy vines and lavender which looked as beautiful as it smelled. My thoughts were so us commoners couldn't see in, however my dad, the golfer, informed it it's so the golf balls don't hit us. Fair enough.

Along the trail were benches, water fountains and rest areas. Each rest area had a parking lot (for people to start there rather than at the beginning), water fountain, and air pump for tires. Some even had playgrounds and bathrooms. Around 5.8 miles in, we stopped at one rest stop out of obligation. It was HUGE - we couldn't just pass it by. A corner store sat in the middle, complete with rocking chairs in front and the always present elderly couple slowly rocking and staring out into the distance. Although the store was unfortunately closed, we took advantage of their rest rooms and water fountains. Next to the store was a large field perfect for frisbee, and a small garden fenced off full of colorful roses, carnations and more. Of course I walked through it, taking in each petal. Across from the store were two of the best playgrounds I had ever seen.

(One of them)

Now, I wouldn't consider myself a connoisseur of playgrounds, but I know my fair share. In Tallahassee, while working as a project assistant, I had to visit each elementary school in the area. By doing this, I documented every playground, convinced that Chaires would reign supreme. It's title was ceremoniously lost on Sunday. Aside from the normal swings, monkey bars, and slides, the playgrounds had mini trapezes (yes!), rock climbing walls, rope ladders and more. My dad just shook his head when he realized that I was playing on them, not another kid in sight.

At that point, we had 2 miles left so we went forth towards Winter Garden, down a small hill and into their main street. The Winter Garden rest area was incredibly disappointing in comparison, but their historic district (a few blocks away) was adorable. An old bike store stood across the street from a railroad museum. Antique stores and cafes littered the street, one that was heavily populated by bikers. I was tempted to try out the patisserie (not having proper French food since being in Paris), but declined, knowing I had quite the journey back. So after stopping there for a bit, I took a deep breath and followed my dad back onto the trail.

After passing our favorite rest area 2 miles in, I started feeling tired. By this time it was around 11 and the Florida sun started shining down on me. No, not shining, burning. My mouth was constantly dry and my legs were getting increasingly tired. No amount of rest could cure them, or my thirst. This time, the grannies passing didn't give a friendly wave, they were smirking, grimacing.

The once friendly and pleasant trails looked ghastly, painful. My legs ached and my breath grew shallow. Each pedal forward brought me closer to home, yet closer to my death. I was sure of it. At 5.2 miles in I saw a Buddhist church. I contemplated converting, just so if I died, I had a resting place. I knew I was out of shape, but pushing myself to 15+ miles was ridiculous. I didn't know what I was thinking. My dad, miles ahead, looked back every few minutes and laughed. Laughed at his poor, dying daughter.

With a mile left I caught up with my dad who noticed my haggard appearance. It was there that I looked at the initial map we came across on the old, wooden sign. It was there that I picked up a travel map, a souvenir, to look at the path we took. Most importantly, it was there that I learned how wrong the millage was. We didn't bike 16 miles. We biked 20 by that point.

20 miles.

I somehow made it back to the car, scowling the whole way and not stopping to enjoy the pitter patter of horse hooves. Loading the bikes back in the car, my dad laughed, once again, at my exhaustion, but commending me for my efforts. I did it. I actually biked 21 miles. It might not mean much to many people, but to me it was a huge accomplishment.

One that I don't plan on repeating. We agreed next time we'll bike up to Winter Garden once more. But only dad will turn back, biking the last 10.5 miles towards the car. I, instead, will enjoy a croissant and book at the patisserie while waiting for my dad to pick me up. I deserve it, after all.