Tour de Whatcom: Sometimes Your Body Has Other Plans

I had a plan.

Of course I had a plan.

I was going to ride the Tour de Whatcom metric century—67 miles of beautiful Whatcom County scenery.

I had my camping gear. I had my bike. I had my route.

What I apparently didn’t have was a good night’s sleep.

And, as it turns out, I also didn’t have my cycling shoes.

But let’s start at the beginning.

Camping at Larrabee State Park

I decided to camp at Larrabee State Park for the Tour de Whatcom weekend. I figured staying nearby would make race morning—or, more accurately, ride morning—a whole lot easier than getting up at some ridiculous hour and driving from Seattle.

Before the ride, I had some time to explore the campground, so naturally I went for a walk.

I took a leisurely 1⅓-mile walk through the woods and managed to see a lizard, a White-crowned Sparrow, and two deer.

Not a bad little nature tour before I’d even gotten on the bike.

The campground itself was a lovely place to spend the night, although my sleeping arrangements didn’t exactly produce the restful night I had hoped for.

I tossed and turned and generally failed at the whole “sleeping before a big ride” thing.

Still, morning eventually arrived.

And that’s when I discovered my next problem.

Where Are My Cycling Shoes?

Somewhere between packing all my camping equipment and getting ready for the ride, I had managed to leave my cycling shoes at home.

I’m not sure how I accomplished this.

Cycling shoes are not exactly a tiny item that accidentally disappears into the bottom of a bag.

But there they were.

At home.

And I was not.

Fortunately, I had my comfortable barefoot shoes with me.

They weren’t exactly my first choice for a 67-mile ride, but they would work with my flat pedals.

So I made the executive decision to go with what I had.

Then I had another executive decision to make.

How much was I really up for?

After a restless night, I wasn’t feeling particularly energetic. The weather wasn’t exactly screaming “Let’s ride 67 miles!” either.

So I decided to listen to my body.

Instead of the metric century, I chose the 44-mile route.

And honestly?

It was the right decision.

Chilly, Wet, and Eventually Just Right

The morning started out chilly, and as we headed toward Birch Bay, we encountered some light rain.

I was wearing my windbreaker, and for a while I was very happy about that decision.

Eventually, though, things warmed up enough that I shed the windbreaker and relied on my fleece arm warmers instead.

This is one of the things I love about riding in the Pacific Northwest.

You can apparently experience three seasons before lunch.

The route took us through beautiful farmland and eventually toward the coast around Birch Bay.

Even though the weather wasn’t perfect, the scenery made up for it.

There’s something particularly satisfying about riding through an unfamiliar area and getting to see it at bicycle speed. You notice things you would never see from a car.

And occasionally, you find things that make you stop and take a picture.

A Bicycle, a Road Sign, and a Very Convenient Last Name

One of the memorable sights along the way was a decorated memorial bicycle.

It was one of those unexpected little roadside discoveries that makes a ride more interesting.

Then I came across something even more personally entertaining:

Elder Road.

Yep.

There I was, riding through Whatcom County, minding my own business, when I discovered a road with my last name on it.

Obviously, I had to stop for a photo.

Because how often does a cyclist get the opportunity to document photographic evidence that an entire road has apparently been named after her?

I’m choosing to believe it was done specifically for me.

Nobody has provided evidence to the contrary.

The Ride I Actually Needed

By the time the ride was over, I was glad I had made the decision to shorten the route.

Could I have forced myself through 67 miles?

Probably.

But that’s not always the point.

One of the things I’ve learned from doing long-distance cycling is that there is a difference between challenging yourself and ignoring what your body is telling you.

That day, my body was saying, “Maybe 44 miles would be plenty, thanks.”

So I listened.

And instead of coming home exhausted and miserable because I had stubbornly insisted on completing the original plan, I finished the ride with a smile.

Sometimes the smartest thing a cyclist can do is change the plan.

There’s always another ride.

There will always be another metric century.

And there is absolutely no prize for making yourself miserable just because the number you wrote down before the ride said 67 instead of 44.

Sometimes the Best Adventures Are the Ones You Didn’t Plan

Looking back, the Tour de Whatcom weekend wasn’t exactly what I had planned.

I didn’t ride the 67 miles.

I didn’t have my cycling shoes.

I didn’t get a perfect night’s sleep.

I rode through chilly weather and light rain.

And yet, it turned out to be a wonderful little adventure.

I got to camp at Larrabee State Park, take a peaceful woodland walk, see wildlife, ride through farmland and along Birch Bay, discover a memorial bicycle, and find a road bearing my own last name.

Most importantly, I got to spend a day doing something I love.

And I came home smiling instead of completely wrecked.

Maybe that’s the real lesson of this ride:

The plan is only the starting point.

Sometimes you have to adjust.

Sometimes you have to improvise.

Sometimes you have to ride 44 miles instead of 67.

And sometimes you have to accept that your cycling shoes are sitting comfortably at home while you’re standing in a campground wearing barefoot shoes and wondering how the hell you managed to forget them.

But that’s okay.

Because the adventure doesn’t have to go exactly as planned to be a good one.

In fact, sometimes the unexpected parts are what make the best stories.