Off the grid: With friends like these …

I take a lot of flack for doing dumb stuff, but I want the general public to know that I don’t often come up with these ideas on my own. In reality, many of these seeds of ill-considered cultivation are planted by those I refer to as my friends.

This is why it is unsafe to admit that I have no plans on any given Saturday or any time there is a local event on the calendar for which I have not signed up.

I’m still trying to find an excuse to be out of town for that Race the Wolf event on Schweitzer. (Every year, I am told the stories of suffering about that course in which the most pleasant effect of doing the race is being done with it – which is how I feel about laundry and taxes.)

On a recent Tuesday, two such “friends” teamed up to casually inquire as to my weekend agenda, as if they were interested in my gardening hopes or baking regimen. Pouring rain and 45 degrees were forecast. I might have even had some spring knitting in mind.

Before I’d even finished my admission to a relatively docile, if not domestic, weekend, they’d enthusiastically suggested (coerced, cajoled, convinced) I partake in the local gravel race.

I had a vague recollection of snow, hail, thunderstorms and at least a few hitched rides to the finish line last year, when I’d intelligently planned to be away or feigned injury.

There were several claims that so-and-so would never ride again along with various levels of emotional trauma, bicycle destruction and the like. I didn’t know why anyone would do that race.

Unless, of course, they didn’t have anything better to do on a Saturday than pull their dusty, neglected bike out of the garage and ride it through the rain for several hours with the hope that those commuter miles to the store for late-night ice cream had already seasoned one’s rear end. They had not.

The morning of the race, I was stomping around my kitchen, staring at the flood warnings with a definitive scowl on my face.

It’s the expression of a woman who is, for reasons unknown to her but oft-suggested by her therapist, going to do a hard thing she doesn’t want to do.

In the cold rain. Untrained. With the wrong gear. And two of the same flavored energy bars. Ugh.

Only half of my peer-pressuring friends came to the race, which was probably good because I borrowed a fender and pants from the other. As consolation for her abandonment, she agreed to meet me at the hilltop with a cup of hot coffee.

This was, of course, the highlight of my day.

But even before I rounded that muddy corner to see her standing outside her car holding a steaming cup of my favorite elixir, I found myself accidentally having a good time.

First, I saw a friend, who mostly rides indoors, layered in ski gear, grinning, and ready for the longest, most grueling outdoor ride she’ll probably do.

Then, I passed a young woman with her dad as they stopped to repair her flat tire, only to watch them whiz by me just a few miles later. She went on to win the race. Whatever this generation of ladies is that we’ve birthed, they are fast and a whole new class of athlete.

Then, there was an aid station with a gaggle of gregarious supporters, offering cookies, hot bacon and cheer.

It was staffed by a local shop and the generous community of people who are kind enough to volunteer so that we may be fueled and forced back onto the course without delay. Others made sure we safely crossed the highway in the relentless rain.

Nature provided a breathtaking backdrop, as per usual in North Idaho.

The swelling streams and rivers roared through canyons as we rode into the foothills.

The soaked fields of the Selle Valley glowed iridescent with the unfurling leaves of spring. The cedar trees perfumed the narrow roads with their heavy boughs.

By the time I reached that hot coffee, I had been having fun for nearly 30 miles.

I was covered in mud. I couldn’t see through my glasses. Even my teeth were gritty with the stuff, so I knew I had been smiling for most of those miles.

I rolled across the soggy finish line and into the brewery to find my sentiments and my filth were not alone.

The warm room was filled with the noise of live music, laughter, the occasional groans of a stiff body as riders exchanged varied stories of their adventures.

Over a basket of hot french fries and a glass of cider, someone asked me what my summer training plans were.

“I’m just going to say, ‘Yes,’ to everything,” I replied.

So far, it seems to be working out.

Ammi Midstokke can be contacted at ammimarie@gmail.com