Lotoja!!!

It’s Lotoja tomorrow!! Yaaaaaaay!

For those of you who aren’t familiar with the strange term, Lotoja (pronounced “low-toe-juh”) is the bike race from Logan, Utah to Jackson Hole, Wyoming. Get it? LO(gan)TO JA(ckson). It’s the (this is my favorite) LONGEST one-day bike race in North America. It’s 206 miles long, over Snake River Pass and two other mountain passes, through three states, 1000 cyclists, and all their support teams. (http://www.lotojaclassic.com)

It’s more exciting than Christmas.

And my little brother will be racing in his 13th Lotoja this year. (I say 'little', even though he's 4 years older than me, because he's at least 50 pounds lighter than me. Ha ha! That scrawny kid.)

I’ll never, ever forget his first year. He recruited me to be his feed zone support. I thought it would be cool, standing in a block-long feed zone, handing water bottles and feed bags off to Joel as he scooted on past. I had no idea it would be the most nerve-wracking experience of my life. Of course, that first year, Joel was nervous, with the prospect of racing over 200 miles, but I had no idea how hard those nerves would hit me. The first feed zone was in Grace. I remember standing by the side of the road, feed bag in hand, shoulder-to-shoulder with a hundred other nervous support crew members, fighting for real estate on the curb of the street. And the groups of cyclists would race by, going soooo fast, each rider looking exactly the same as every other, snatching bags and bottles as they whizzed past.

What I if I missed him? What if he missed me? It was another 30 miles to the next feed and the zones are the only places he can get water. I don’t know what rider he is. I don’t know what pack he’s in. I can't remember his race number. How will I know if he sees me? Feeding a cyclist is pretty much a ‘leap of faith’ operation. You stick your arm out of the crowd of supporters and into the fray of cyclists and pray that your rider grabs your bag. Then, you taste sweet relief for about 15 minutes, until you realize you get to do it all over again at the next feed zone.

It makes for a very long day.

And that’s not even counting the hours spent watching these cyclists fight, and work, and push, and struggle over the passes, through the wind, sometimes the rain, the one year it snowed, the crashes, the attacks, the chases, the sweat, the tears, the pain, the triumphs, the whole shebang.

And THEN, the thought hits: my brother, my scrawny, adorable brother is in the middle of all that. Every time we’d pass his pack in the support car, it’s hard to even breathe, impossible to talk or cheer him on out the window. I forget how proud I am of that boy until I see him on his bike. Lotoja is a yearly reminder of all the amazing things that skinny guy does and is. I have no idea how Mom handles it. He’s not my kid and I can’t even put into words how awesome he is. It’s physically impossible to form the phrase, “That’s MY boy,” when he’s racing.

What an emotional ride.

Then, Joel married Megan, and blessedly, she does the support now. Lotoja has turned into a fun day for me. I’m not nervous and anxious for days beforehand. I’m excited this go ‘round. I look forward to seeing the kids and playing with them while Megan waits in the feed zone, elbowing for position, participating in the organized chaos. It’s not that I hated being in the feed zones; it’s just a much more relaxed experience these days.

So, here’s my hats-off to this year’s riders! Hope it’s a great day, the weather cooperates, there are no casualties, flat tires, or crashes. Ride hard, be safe, and have FUN! I know I will.