The Dirt Field

I made a list of my favorite people last night.

Who does that?! It’s weird. To review the people in your life and pick the ones you love the most. It feels ridiculous, like I’m in third grade trying to decide who should be invited to my birthday party. But the list just popped into my head because I knew without hesitation who I’d want to have at my birthday party sharing my cake. I knew because I’ve spent the last few weeks preparing to say goodbye to everybody around me and when I think about these people, my cake people, it physically hurts to let go, even though it’s just for now.

I’m getting in my car today – in a moment, actually – and driving to Arizona. By next Friday, I need to be in Phoenix. There I’ll ride with my team, race Valley of the Sun, and settle down in Tucson for a few weeks before our official team camp. After that comes more racing and travel. The next time I’ll be home looks like mid-May.

The adventure aspect is thrilling. A week-long roadtrip across the country! (And presumably another one in the future, unless I plan on donating my car to California.) The things I’ll see, the places I’ll ride, the foods I’ll eat! The very idea of putting all of my stuff in a car and going out into the world is thrilling.

But behind me I am leaving nearly the entirety of my heart. My husband, my parents, my beloved dogs, my dear friends, my home. Okay, and the M Coupe and my shower. And my favorite sushi place, and the dessert shop with the best cake truffles in the world. How do I choose to drive thousands of miles away from everything that makes my life wonderful?

This is the dream, I suppose. This is everything I have worked towards. I love to ride my bike and want to be the best racer possible this year. This is how that is done. You leave your life behind and go ride where it’s warm and there are mountains, and then you go where the races are in the manner of least resistance. That means not flying back and forth across the country just to use my own pillow and hug my mother. It means not seeing my home for over three months. It means being willing to risk that my dogs won’t remember me when I walk back in the front door. That thought is heartbreaking.

Andrew, I am truly sorry, but I just gave the dogs a lot of cheese in hopes that they remember me fondly. You know where we keep the paper towels and Clorox.

I am scared to end up homesick and lonely, scared to miss birthdays and special occasions and random Thursday nights, but if I pause for any length of time to consider the magnitude of these goodbyes and the sheer distance, I will cry all the way to Arizona. So I am going to keep moving, get in the car, look at my house one last time in the rearview mirror, and then go figure out what life has lined up next.

To the people on my list: Thank you for making it so damn hard to say goodbye. I love you. I can’t wait to see you again soon. We will eat cake.