As the week continued, so did those victories. A couple days later we were staring down an eighty mile route, and my initial reaction was absolutely the hell not, no thank you, nope. Up until then, I don’t think I had ever done more than sixty five miles in a day. I got started with everyone, figuring I could tap out if I absolutely had to. Ten miles in I decided it would be silly to stop before forty, that much I could do easily. When we got there, I felt totally fine, in fact pretty good; it didn’t even seem like I had done any exercise. By sixty miles, I wasn’t so much tired as I was ready to be done. This was our usual distance, and it felt strange and annoying to get back on my bike when this was the time I’d usually flop down on the nearest couch. But I had made it this far and dammit I was going to finish. A map mistake bumped our mileage to ninety, but I was already committed. I was doing this, I wanted the victory of rolling into our stop for the night and I was going to get it. And yes, when the few remaining riders suggested powering through the rest of the way I was nervous, certain I’d be left behind. Running out of good music to listen to and just wanting to be done, I pedaled harder, determined not to drag everyone else down. When I hit the front of the group I kept the pace, certain that they were hot in pursuit behind me. In fact, I accidentally led us through a good deal of that last stretch before Riley reminded me that she was in fact the one with directions and we were going to have to make some turns soon. When we finally rolled into our stop for the night, I was stinky, starving and parched — but to my surprise, I felt ok, nowhere near as tired as I had been on Day 1 (see: I’m sore in places I didn’t know existed). When I checked my Strava for the day and learned that I had biked 91 miles in 7 hours of moving time, burning over 2200 calories to do so, I felt even better. I’ve been proud of a lot in my life, but this was a brand new feeling of accomplishment.