It’s a typical summer day, with the
sun shining too-hot and burning my neck. The trail is filled with bent trees,
their branches reaching toward me with little twig fingers as I pedal. The
trail is lengthy; it curves into the highway and suddenly there are cars to my
left, speeding past me effortlessly. I struggle to keep up my pace, but it
feels like I’m going nowhere compared to them.
I’m at a cycling camp for
teenagers with Type One Diabetes, but it’s my first time on a real road bike.
The gears are foreign to me, and it takes a little practice before I begin to feel
comfortable. We’re biking thirty-six miles this morning- a seemingly impossible
feat for a beginner - but the staff members are sure that we can do it.
After a few miles, the view in
front of me blurs, and only the yellow line on the road guides me along. My
muscles start to carry baggage, a briefcase of sluggish inability, and my mind
slows down, swerving recklessly between wanting to give up completely and
needing to continue. My hands are shaking earthquake-fierce, and I can just tell
that my blood sugar is low.
I want nothing more than to pull
over, check my blood sugar, and take a break, but there are people right behind
me, single file, and it’s up to me to keep going. I can’t stop now. I don’t
want to disappoint myself.
I can see the glorious Budget
truck- our water refill station- in the distance. With renewed energy and a tangible
goal set in my mind, I grip my handlebars and pedal faster. Every last bit of
energy I have is coursing through me and put to use; I don’t think I’ve ever
gone this fast before. Everything is
burning, but it’s a rewarding kind of hurt.
I finally reach the Budget truck,
and Chef Ed and Doctor Mike are there waiting for us. Everyone is filling up
their water bottles before continuing on their ride, but I’m fumbling with my
meter and testing kit. Eventually, I’m able to prick my finger, and the
countdown to my blood glucose reading is shown on the screen- 5, 4, 3, 2, 1- and the reading finally appears: thirty-four
milligrams per deciliter. My heart drops, and I stumble over to Doctor Mike.
“I’m low,” I mumble, my trembling
hand showing him my meter. He sits me down on the back of the truck, and Chef
Ed gives me Sweet Tarts. I chew them quickly, not even tasting the different
flavors, and make myself focus on staying calm as I wait for my blood sugar to rise. I try to think of how I got so low, but my mind is blank. That’s the
thing about diabetes- it’s not an exact science. I can never predict how the
day is going to go, and every action affects my blood sugar. Fifteen slow
minutes later, I check again. One hundred and twenty. I’m okay. I take a deep
breath, thanking Chef Ed for the life-saving snack and getting back on my bike.
Doctor Mike tells me that everyone isn’t that far ahead, and I nod.
Starting slowly, I build up my
stamina again. My mind is still fuzzy, and my body feels drained, but the wind
is blowing around me, and the trees are back to guide me along. I see the other
campers up ahead, and strive to catch up to them. They see me and slow down,
asking if I’m okay. I nod, and we start to race, but I still think about my low.
It’s scary, of course, but a low blood sugar is manageable; I can handle it-
and that’s what is important.
No matter how difficult the
situation is, I know I can keep going. I can push myself beyond my boundaries; no
one- and no disease- can stop me. Sure, sometimes it’s like everyone else is
flying down the highway while I’m the one struggling to pedal on the side, but
speed does not determine success; arriving at the destination, however, is the
true sign of accomplishment. And that’s what I pride myself in doing: arriving.
New obstacles come into life every day, making the distance even harder to
overcome. Rather than dwelling on them, however, it’s better to take those
obstacles at face value and allow them to strengthen the journey. That’s what
makes the destination worth it. That strength, of course, and Sweet Tarts.
Word Count: 750
