Revenge on a Sierra Club Bicycle Trip  🍷🚴🍷🚴🍷🚴             🚴

One by one, participants in our Sierra Club bicycle trip gathered at the campsite. They ranged from burly to buff to gnarly. One young rider could have reached around and set his water bottle on top of his calf. Then, my sister and I arrived. We ranged from doughy to squishy. The others fine-tuned their derailleurs while we struggled to pry the staples out of the airline bicycle boxes. We were there to coast across Maui, breathe in the scent of tropical flowers, stop for pineapple drinks. Clearly, the other participants were there to conquer Maui, humble it, bring it into submission. It was a fine way to celebrate my thirtieth birthday.

We pitched our tents on the black sand beach and walked to the water’s edge for our first plunge into the Pacific Ocean. I jumped right into the crashing surf, while my sister settled on the beach. After coasting underwater, I stood up, back to the ocean, and was chatting with her when suddenly, her face froze and her gaze moved up past my shoulder. About then, I was smacked down by a huge wave, rolled right up the beach, and deposited at her feet. When the water receded, my sister looked­­ like someone who’d seen a body sit up in a coffin. When she was sure I was breathing, she comforted me by noting, “You look like a big breaded shrimp.” It was true. I was covered in sand, inside and outside my bathing suit. My long hair was a sand mat. A variety of medical and dental specialists would discover sand during future examinations for a long time to come. Back home, you’d pay good money for a full-body exfoliation like that. It was not the last humiliation on this trip for this far-from-serious bicyclist.

In the morning, we crawled out of our tent to watch the sun rise over the beach. The trip chef put large griddles on the fire and made the most delectable breakfast I have ever had–macadamia nut pancakes with coconut syrup. Most nights, we had Mahi Mahi on the grill. I gained ten pounds in two weeks biking around Maui.

Good days were those with the crosswind at your back; you could put your feet up on the handlebars and ride the breeze. (I’d have to cut off my feet to do that now.) It was less fun when a semi-truck loaded with pineapples sped past and blasted us with hot, fruity, exhaust fumes. On tough days, we rode into the wind, and on the toughest day of all, we rode up Haleakala, the volcano. It took 8 hours going up and half an hour coming down. We were embarrassed when a 70-year old participant easily passed us. “Same steady pace, up or down,” he called out. Near the top was a little plateau. That was a relief as the rest of the trip was straight up riding; you pedaled or you slid back down the hill. We dismounted and caught our breath in this meadow, surrounded by a large herd of cows. Lots of cows. And two bulls, one black and one brown. (Bulls are humongous when viewed from a bicycle.) Riding behind me, my sister called out, “If I were you, I’d stay away from that black bull.” There were about 30 black calves and just two brown ones.

We reached the top, very proud of ourselves. A row of outdoor showers looked so good in that tropical sun. As I stood under the cool water, my eyes adjusted their focal length. On every ledge in the shower was some sort of lizard. Their eyes were bugging out and their tongues wagging, no doubt gossiping about my helmet hair.

There was one big mystery on this two-week adventure: no matter how far we rode and no matter how small the backpacks, when we gathered for dinner, one of the other riders always produced a bottle or two of wine from home and some plastic glasses. All the other riders were from wine country, either California or Australia. We hailed from Michigan and Iowa. Before, during, and after the meal, they talked about the wine, argued about the wine, and as the evening wore on, surrendered to the wine. We were disinterested, but polite. After a week, we were bored stiff with their wine obsession. We surreptitiously rode to Hasegawa’s General Store on the Hana Highway. We were plotting– not murder–but our last meal. And, what a delightful meal it was! After dinner, we told the others it surely was our turn to treat as they had been most generous with their wine for the past two weeks. I presented our bottle, wrapped very professionally in a white towel, label well hidden. I stood before them and said, “We are so impressed with your wine expertise, so we are going to have a taste test. Let’s see who can identify this wine.” We poured a glass of pale pink wine for each bicyclist. They sniffed it. They held it to the light of the setting sun. They swirled it. Finally, they drew a small amount into their mouths and swished it all around–teeth, tongue, tonsils, and gums. Finally, down it went. “It’s a nice Rose’,” one said. “I agree. Very nice,” said another. “I don’t know. Maybe a Riesling.” “Definitely Napa Valley.” “Fruity.” “Fungal.” “Feisty.” They all agreed on one thing: it had a lovely bouquet and an especially good finish. More like finish remover, we were thinking, because we had rescued one of their nice wine bottles and filled it with Boone’s Farm Strawberry wine. No amount of fancy bike riding would neutralize their humiliation. And, no amount of humiliating riding could dampen our satisfaction at our own little Maui conquest.