The light at the end of the tunnel

About nine or ten years ago, before Cub Sweetheart and I decided to buy a home in northern Idaho, we visited our kids who lived here. They were in their late 20's and we were in our late 50's, when they asked us to bike the Hiawatha Trail with them.

CS is so much more adventuresome than me. He'd still white water raft or hike into the backwoods, while I literally press the breaks going downhill on a bike. But this didn't sound like a big deal. It's mostly flat or gently downhill so I agreed. 

If you don't live up here, you likely haven't heard of the Hiawatha Trail, but it's called the 'Crown Jewel' of the rail-to-trail adventures, 15 miles long with 10 train tunnels and 7 sky-high trestles. It is absolutely gorgeous scenery, and there is something magical feeling about being so high above the forest floor, riding across the trestle and looking out and down. 

When you start out, you almost immediately ride through a 1.661 mile long St. Paul Pass Tunnel, known as the Taft Tunnel. It's considered the highlight of the trail, and is promoted as being 'family friendly, easily enjoyed by a wide variety of people from young children to "super seniors".' It's the part everyone looks forward to. 

This is NOT the Taft Tunnel, but rather one of the shorter ones. 

The main thing I remember about the first time we went on this ride was that our five year old grandson was with us, on a tandem bike powered by his father. Coming back through this pitch dark tunnel - I mean PITCH DARK tunnel, he somehow managed to fall off the back end of the bike and land in the gutter that ran the entire length of the inside edge of the tunnel, a gutter filled with freezing cold water generated from snow melt. Being five years old, he was so overwhelmed he started crying, then he threw up, and I ended up pulling off my top layer of t-shirt and putting it on him because he was sopping wet and freezing and the shirt he had on had to be thrown away. 

The inside of the Taft Tunnel

Ten years ago it didn't occur to me that there was no light inside the longer tunnels, but there isn't. Instead bicyclists wore headlamps on their helmets. At least that's what we did ten years ago. 

This year we decided it'd been quite awhile since we'd been there, and we'd never been, just the two of us, so off we went to take this bike ride again. Drove to the border of Montana where the trail begins. Rented the bikes, grabbed helmets, and took off. 

This year, they did not give us headlamps. Instead they hooked a little light onto the handlebars of the bikes, and the rider could aim them as needed. 

Somehow that fact escaped me. 

Almost immediately we reached the first tunnel, the one that is 1.661 miles long, and rode in without giving it a thought. Within seconds I realized I couldn't see very well. It didn't really surprise me because I've grown used to not seeing very clearly since my cornea transplant five years ago. It's just become a part of who I am. I did realize it was a lot more unhandy in a dark tunnel. 

I also was surprised that I wasn't very stable on the bike either. CS was right in front of me when we started off, but the more I struggled the further behind I fell. He realized I was lagging behind, so he kept calling back at me to be sure I was alright. I kept assuring myself and him I was okay, even though I wasn't. I was staying on the bike sort of reasonably well, even though I couldn't see where I was going, but as soon as someone came toward me, those bikers on the return trip, the glare of their headlamps and handlebar lamps caused a glare on the water that covered most of the surface of the trail. The nearer a rider got to me, the more anxious I felt. The more anxious I felt, the more I wobbled, veering widely from the right to the left. Soon I found myself almost skidding into that ice cold gutter of water my grandson had landed in, and realizing I could easily hit someone coming at me. 

By this time I was somewhere near the middle of the tunnel - that point where it was just as bad to go back as to go ahead, so I got off and walked my bike most of the rest of the way. In the pitch dark, with CS being further and further ahead of me, until finally I knew he would never even be able to hear me if I called out. 

Another somewhat critical mistake I'd made was to agree to a 'cross-over' bike, one generally meant for males, and the bar didn't matter, but that the bike was too tall for me was a big deal, or would be eventually. When I found myself trying to climb on and off the bike in the dark, on a wet surface, my feet didn't reach the ground, so I had to sort of lean hard to the right or left and jump off the bike to land. Yet another challenge I wasn't really equipped to meet. 

At some point I knew CS must have come out of the tunnel, and was waiting on me. As time passed I knew he was surely sitting there on his bike, concerned about me. What had happened? Why wasn't I coming out of the tunnel? I was already pretty stressed and stretched, so worrying about him worrying about me was less than helpful. 

I have no idea how long it took me to finish this 1.661 mile stretch, but it felt like forever. Finally, finally I could literally see the light at the end of the tunnel, and it gave me courage to just keep going. I was going to make it without wiping out, taking someone else out or turning into a blubbery crying mess. 

I knew there were nine more tunnels I'd have to navigate to finish the ride, but I'd gotten through the worst one. I also had to go back through all ten of them, on our return ride, but I didn't focus on it; rather, I just tried to enjoy the view and take it one challenge at a time. Focusing on later wouldn't help anything right now; in fact, it would just make me even more anxious, so I took the stance of 'out of sight, out of mind'. 

The other nine tunnels weren't as big a challenge, and I loved being in the middle of the trestles, looking down and taking in the view. It truly is spectacular. I may also have told God, outloud, how thankful I was that I had very little fear of heights.

Somewhere at the beginning of the return trip, CS and I stopped for a snack and water break, and as we stood there munching on our Almond Joys (I don't know if a candy bar has ever tasted that good), he noticed the light on my handlebars. He, being an engineer, a noticer of details, asked me why it was pointed straight up instead of down. 

'What do you mean?", I asked him. 

"Well, why don't you have it aimed down so you can see the ground", he said.

And for a minute or two time just stopped. I was stunned. 

I not only didn't notice the little headlamp was pointed wrong, I had no idea it was adjustable. It had never occurred to me to look and see where it was aimed, to have it aimed down at the path in front of me, instead of at what was up and far ahead. That it needed to be aimed where I could see what mattered immediately, rather than what didn't matter at all. Mine had been aimed at the heads of all the oncoming riders. Useless. 

CS adjusted it for me, and at the entrance to the next tunnel he checked to see that I could see the path. 

What a difference! I was flabbergasted to literally see the difference having my path lit made. So when we again reached the 1.661 mile PITCH DARK tunnel - did I mention it was dark?, I was so much better able to navigate it. I was still wobbly, but I was able to hyper focus on looking down at the ground and keeping my balance and bearings, and not worry about whatever was all around me. I was able to avoid the glare of the lights coming at me. I was able to be brave enough to stay on the bicycle and ride the entire length, rather than getting off and walking. I was able to stay right behind CS, although I might have been mentally saying to myself, 'Bev, just keep going. Just look down and FOCUS', and I might have counted to 1000 several times to stay mentally busy, because even a well-aimed lamp wasn't going to fix the fact that I hadn't been on a bicycle in years and it showed. 

We finally finished, and rewarded ourselves with dinner on the way home. As we talked over the day, both of us admitted we were surprised how much harder this ride was than the one ten years before. How much harder it was for us to balance on a bike. That adage, 'it's just like riding a bike' - not completely true. Most of the things we know how to do still need to be practiced to keep the skill, and that includes riding a bicycle, especially when you throw in other challenges. 

It also dawned on me that ten years before, I hadn't had a cornea transplant, and my right eye enjoyed processing light a lot more than it does now. Any shiny, bright lights are not my friend, and driving in rain at night is definitely more difficult for me than it was with my undamaged eye. The inside of the first (and last) tunnel was very similar to driving late at night, with rain that had puddled on the roadway. 

Seniors, but maybe not Super ones

And if we'd read the promo about the ride, that it was for all ages, including 'super seniors', I'm not sure we would have called ourselves that. We're determined ones, and if the entire ride had been in daylight we would have muddled through better. But we made it. We finished. We both agreed we were glad we did it one more time, but don't necessarily need to go back again. Especially if we haven't done the homework to get some hours in on a bike regularly before tackling this ride, like a 'Super Senior' would likely have done.

And that little tip about having a light for my path - I'm pretty sure I've heard that before. 

 By your words I can see where I'm going; they throw a beam of light onto everything ten feet in front of me my dark path. 

Psalm 115:105 The Message

That day in the tunnel, I didn't need to see what was up ahead of me. That's true of today as well.  I don't need to see all around me, I just need the path immediately in front of me well lit, and I know where to go for that, whether it's while I'm riding a bike, or just life in general.