Hi friends! I’m so excited to share the final cover design for my debut book FUCK CANCER: A Tale of Love Pouring in from Every Angle! It will be available for purchase on Amazon as soon as I make my way through the final review process. I’m so close to the finish line!! ❤
Hi everyone! Just a quick note to say hello!
I made it back to the states from Ireland then almost immediately moved from Connecticut to Colorado. Now I’m settled into the stunningly gorgeous city of Boulder and life is grand.
I’ll be switching up the blog this month as I piece together an official launch plan for my first book FUCK CANCER: A Tale of Love Pouring in from Every Angle. I’m so excited and ready to get this out into the world. Please bear with me as the next few months will be ALL about book promotion.
Until then… sending love & light as always ❤
Most people who pedal from Mizen Head (in the south) to Malin Head (in the north) in Ireland do so by a rather straightforward and direct route. As you know, I took a slightly longer approach. I am so delighted to have had the opportunity to share the sights and sounds of my fantastic trip with you all. Thank you to everyone who tagged along!
It seems like it was ages ago that I was at the Aille River Hostel in Doolin, County Clare, fighting with a shower that was programmed to emit warm(ish) water for only ten seconds at a time. I would press the button, scrub the chain grease off my shins as fast as I could while I counted to nine and then straighten up to hit the button again, hoping to keep the stream flowing so I wouldn’t have to stand there and freeze.
One thousand miles along the west coast of Ireland by bicycle is at once miraculous and a little bit disappointing. I really wanted to complete the full fifteen hundred. That was the whole point when I started. I’m not coming down on myself for taking it easy after being hit by a car—I promise I’m not that bullheaded—but I do feel a bit shorted. Not just by the accident but by the daily struggle.
I really underestimated the triple whammy of exhaustion I was in for. Physical exhaustion from riding so many miles with so much elevation gain. Mental exhaustion from being in a foreign country. (No matter how similar you may think Ireland is to the United States, I assure you it is a foreign country.) Plus emotional exhaustion from tackling so much of it on my own.
I wasn’t tired when I got hit though. In fact, just the opposite. I was excited because Noel and I were simultaneously heading for Donegal from different directions. We planned to meet up again because he wanted to do recon work for Wild Atlantic Cycling (which will soon be offering tours of the entire Wild Atlantic Way—send inquiries HERE!) and he hadn’t seen a lot of the northwest corner yet. I, of course, was more than happy for the company. On Day 22 from Ballina to Sligo, in the worst downpours I’d experienced yet, I kept reminding myself with a laugh and a smile, “This is it! This is my last solo ride! I’m not gonna be alone anymore!”
And then—WHAMMO KABLAMMO—I’m sprawled on my back squirming like an insect, unable to get up, unable to say my name, fifty miles shy of Donegal.
It all leaves me wondering on my last day, drinking my last cup of tea at a Costa Café in downtown Belfast… What was the actual point of this journey? I’ve ridden well over a thousand miles in a month before. My record to date is fourteen hundred, so really the mileage wasn’t it. I’ve been to six foreign countries so travel abroad wasn’t the point either.
When we take a journey we expect an outcome, a shift inside ourselves. What did we see? Who did we meet? What did we learn? What will we miss and furthermore what did we miss about home? Are we happy to be heading back?
I will miss the scones. I will not miss the plumbing. I will miss my partner in mileage, the near constant flush of fresh air on my face and the local pubs cranking out traditional Irish music. I will not miss the hotels with twin size beds and no top sheets (seriously people, just you and a duvet cover on a bed made for a child). Obviously I will miss the sheep and the cows most of all. Though I can’t wait to get back to my dogs and my car and tortilla chips. I will miss the quiet nights in the country and the kindness of the wonderful innkeepers who fed me and washed my smelly cycling clothes. Not surprisingly, I suppose I will also miss being regularly disconnected from the Internet. It was a pain in the ass anytime it happened but I know how good it was for me.
All of those memories and experiences tell a great story but they don’t answer the underlying question. What was the point?
Really when it comes down to it I can’t help but think that the lesson, the real takeaway for me is this: I learned how to get picked up at the hospital by someone who traveled fifty miles to get to me even though I said I was OK, which I wasn’t. And furthermore I learned to believe that he was much more worried than he was put out by the trouble of it.
Instead of insisting I was fine, I stopped pushing when I was in pain and took shortcuts away from the coast even though I knew I was ruining the excursion for the person who came to help me. In essence I let myself be broken and vulnerable with another human being.
Help is hard but trust is harder. And the audacity of believing that it’s OK if I’m not always at my best? Zoinks! This is big for me. Really big.
After Malin Head and Muff, Noel gave me a tour (by car) of the Antrim Coast of Northern Ireland. First we ate Morelli’s famous ice cream in Portstewart. Then we continued on to explore the vast beauty of Giant’s Causeway.
And then for the last few days of my trip I walked slowly around Belfast and let everything I accomplished, all the miles and experiences, really start to sink in.
I completely understand the shoulds that need to be turned into musts now and I’m no longer afraid to dive in and allow the change to happen. More than ever before, I truly feel ready for the next phase of my life, the one where I’m not alone on my bicycle fighting a gale force wind and a spitting rain by myself, but rather enjoying the ride alongside someone else, even letting him occasionally shield me so I can draft comfortably behind him. That is, until he rushes to my rescue when I really need it.
Thank you for everything Noel. I miss riding with you already. Thank you Paul Kennedy. Thank you Wild Atlantic Cycling. Thank you Wild Atlantic Way. Thank you innkeepers, paramedics, musicians, sheep farmers and more. Thank you to every single person I met, even the feckin’ eejit who hit me.
Sending love and light from my last day in Belfast ❤
Buncrana → Muff via Malin Head
Mileage: 74.9 miles Elevation gain: 4,232′
TOTAL MILEAGE: 1,004.1 MILES TOTAL ELEVATION GAIN: 48,177′
This morning started with some washed out roads from the recent flooding. It turns out the rain from Tuesday (a.k.a. Accident Day) was the worst this part of the country has seen in 100 years.
I cried at the top because I was too scared to ride down the other side. I got flustered, fell off my bike and banged up my knee. For a little while I walked my bike down the far side, until Noel wiped away my tears and said, “I really think you can do this.” And then <<POOF>> all of a sudden, just like that, I could.
There was a bunch of this:
And a lot of that:
Then we climbed to the official Mizen-Malin finish line.
I laughed and I cried (again). I also ate the most well deserved brownie of my life. But we weren’t done just yet. So for a while we cycled through a bunch of this:
And a lot of that:
Until finally, at long last, we got to Muff and the official END of the Wild Atlantic Way.
So many emotions to process through tonight. Thanks to everyone for the incredible love and support. And THANK YOU a million times over to the one and only NOEL BOYCE!! ❤ ❤ ❤
Sending love and light from the end of the Wild Atlantic Way! ❤
Lettermacaward → Buncrana through Glenveagh National Park (Straight shot away from the coast)
Mileage: 53.1 miles Elevation gain: 1,864′
Total mileage so far: 929.2 miles Total elevation gain so far: 43,945′
All the rain paid off in massive waterfalls throughout Glenveagh National Park.
And we took the ferry over Lough Swilly from Rathmullan to Buncrana.
Now I’m settling in with a lovely view from my B&B window.
A perfect day. Can you believe I only have 80 more miles to go? Because of short cuts after the accident and a few issues early on, I won’t finish as many miles as I hoped, but I’ll still break 1,000. Quite a fair distance!
I’m set to hit Malin Head mid-day tomorrow and should finish in Muff before dinner.
Sending love and light from Buncrana. So close! ❤
Donegal Town → Lettermacaward (Straight shot away from the coast)
Mileage: 37.4 miles Elevation gain: 1,499’
Total mileage so far: 876.1 miles Total elevation gain so far: 42,081’
When my best friend Ericka was fighting for her life through the pure evil that is breast cancer people would always say to me, “Oh she’s lucky. It could be so much worse.”
Eight rounds of chemotherapy, radiation, a double mastectomy at 38 years old, breast augmentation surgery, more medications and side effects than we could list, early onset menopause, five years of hormone therapy and, most recently, complete ovary removal—you know, so she could stop the monthly Lupron shots in her ass.
I hated the sentiment so much I wrote an entire book about it. (Coming soon! Click here for more details 🙂)
Now she’s on the flip side with a new perspective on life. Now she is a survivor. Now she is stronger, happier, more vibrant with a glint in her eye and an energy in her heart that was missing B.B.C. (Before Breast Cancer).
I do not for one second mean to compare my minor accident with her experience, but I learned a lot from being close to her throughout that time. The lessons are helping me with all the people who are again saying, “Wow you’re so lucky! The accident could have been so much worse!”
Because they’re right to say that. It really could have been so much worse. I could be paralyzed. I could be brain dead. I could be all sorts of horrible things, but I’m not. My helmet did its job (Thank you Specialized!) and my back took a beating. I’m in pain, sure, but I’m also perfectly fine.
Recovery Day felt worse than Accident Day. Whiplash set in. My throat swelled as if I was coming down with the flu. I had random organ pain radiating from my kidneys and my liver. My right eye started turning yellow from jaundice and my tailbone screamed at me every time I took a step. But today is not Recovery Day. Today is the day after Recovery Day.
My other best friend Joanna’s brother is a professional skydiver. Many years ago she told me that when he first started training one of his friends died in a skydiving accident. All of his trainers told him he had to go back up and jump immediately. They gave him no time to stew about it. The very next day he was on a plane and then he was out of it, falling to the ground with nothing but a parachute on his back.
These days we would call that Exposure Therapy. The basic premise is if something you know you want to do causes you any kind of fear for any reason, then you have to immediately go do it. You can’t put it off. You can’t think about it. You just do it.
I ache today. I feel twenty years older than I am. But worse than that, I’m afraid to get back on my bike in the rain and I’m afraid to ride on a busy road. Two days ago I learned that it doesn’t matter what I’m wearing—fluorescent yellow, fluorescent green and fluorescent pink w/ flashing white and red lights, for the record—or if I’m riding on a bike path with the right of way—I was—I can still get mowed down by a car and sent to the hospital.
Quite honestly the experience was a bit traumatizing. On a stretcher in the emergency room, soaking wet with my teeth chattering, it became abundantly clear how wrong I was when I said that sitting on a cement wall eating yogurt in the middle of nowhere between Belmullet and Ballina was the loneliness place in the world. Being there by myself was a choice I made. But the hospital? Nobody goes to the hospital alone.
I’ve been having trouble dealing with this fear. I’ve been short-tempered, nervous. I’ve seriously wanted to just quit and freakin’ go home already. Last night the rain actually made me cry. Even so, deep down I know I need to rally because here’s the thing: Fear is a liar. And anything in life worth doing is gonna be at least a little bit scary.
This morning I’m well rested. My eye has turned back to white and my throat feels normal again. My mild concussion seems milder. Shooting pains have downgraded to strong dull aches. I’ve plied myself with ibuprofen and anti-inflammatories, and I am getting on my bike.
I’m not being stupid about it though. I have a secret weapon to help me do the crazy scary thing I need to do. Someone who has been in this position and understands first hand exactly what I’m facing. That’s right, Noel’s back.
He came to the hospital in Sligo to help me, got me fifty miles to Donegal to rest and recover, and is riding my last three routes with me. Let’s all take a minute to give a hand and a shout out to Noel Boyce, shall we? I couldn’t even try this without him.
We’ve decided to take it easy with a short direct route away from the coast. For the first two hours I flinch every time a car passes. As we pedal through beautiful countryside in a driving rain, Noel says hi to the sheep for me because I’m wincing too much to do it myself. “Be easy on her,” he says to them. “She’s had a rough couple days.”
It’s a slow wet grind. Difficult but necessary and he’s right there next to me the whole time.
Once we get to our B&B I feel a lot better. The physical pain remains but the fear is shrinking back into the darkness where it belongs.
The sun peaks through the clouds.
I stop to talk to a goat.
And when I look up I see the beauty all around us.
Bruised but not broken, sending love and light from Lettermacaward ❤
Ballina → Sligo
Mileage: 49.6 miles Elevation gain: 1,739′
Total mileage so far: 838.7 miles Total elevation gain so far: 40,582′
It’s no secret that the Irish love tea and I am completely with them on that. I’ve easily had 45 cups so far this month. Tea is everywhere you go at all hours, day or night. I can’t count the number of times I’ve been politely asked, “Would you care for a wee cup of tea?” And I’ve emphatically answered Yes! every time.
So I wasn’t tremendously surprised when a nurse served me tea at the Sligo University Hospital this afternoon. This was, of course, after I’d been cut off by a driver, somersaulted over my handlebars, cleared the car and landed squarely on my tailbone, back and neck. And I have to say, the tea helped a lot.
As the driver was cutting me off, I remember thinking What is she doing? Oh my god why is she doing that?? as I desperately squeezed on my brakes. But the flood-like rain and the weight behind me from my packs made it impossible to stop. I skidded into the back left side of the car and immediately went airborne.
I don’t remember flying through the air but I do remember landing with a thud. For a while I was lying on the ground unable to speak. In my head I was yelling to myself Get up! Answer these people. Come on, you know your name! But I couldn’t respond. I was like an upside down cockroach with my arms and legs flailing in the air trying to figure out how to roll over.
When the ambulance arrived I just kept repeating myself. “I can’t go to the hospital, I have to get to Donegal.” Donegal being another fifty miles away. Left to my own devices I’m sure I would have gotten back on my bike, ridden a few hundred yards and blacked out. Thank goodness the paramedics didn’t let me make that decision. They calmed me down and I got to take my first ambulance ride. Yay vacation!
The police, paramedics, nurses and doctors who helped me were phenomenal. I am very sore but not broken. Diagnosis: bruised tailbone and a mild concussion, my second in less than a year. (Remind me to tell you about the time a hammer fell on my head and I couldn’t form a sentence for three days!)
Tomorrow is a rest day and then I get to make yet another big decision on whether to finish this trek or not. I can’t help but wonder whether this accident is karmically tied to yesterday’s solar eclipse or yesterday’s blog post. One thing I can tell you for sure: I’ll never complain about Irish faucets again!
Sending love and light from my recovery bed ❤