The Education of Shelby Knox

June 16th, 2008

Good morning from Bunk Hill Camp Ground, located somewhere in the middle of South Carolina. Don’t ask me where.

I woke up this morning to a brilliant orange and purple light coming through my tent, a beautiful sunrise made even more illuminating by its reflection off of the crystalline lake situated right behind our camp. When I get out of my tent in the morning, I see five colorful tents, a large bug tent covering all of our cooking and eating gear, and our silver van with the light pink bike rack on the back. As I write, Nora Dye, organizer extraordinaire, has contorted her monkey-like body into some sort of painful looking yoga position – and the rest of the campers are still snug in their sleeping bags.

Yesterday we left electricity, real showers, and the internet in Charleston to ride the thirty miles to the next campsite. Before we left, some of us stopped at a bike shop for minor repairs and to pick up some gear. (I got really awesome riding gloves; Becky Turner, AKA “Hot Rev”, purchased an entirely new riding uniform because her other clothes “stink-bad”, and Vanessa got her bike Dean back in tip top shape.) As we were leaving the store, the winds started gusting and the clouds that had been cooling us in the morning started to look a bit angry. We decided to go on, hoping we could either beat the storm or take refuge in the van if it got too bad.

The only way out of Charleston, at least to where we were going, was over a long bridge situated over the Atlantic Ocean. As a new rider, I looked at it a bit warily – but when there are 12 other people heading full speed toward it, there’s not much time to reconsider. We formed a “critical mass”, biking term for taking over a lane with a lot of bikers, and merged onto the bridge. We were twelve powerful women emerging from a storm, taking over the road and asserting our power as a group. My expectations for this trip were fulfilled right then.

I pedaled Grace Artemis up the hill that it took to get to the top and let myself fly easily down the other side. Perhaps a bit cheesy, but I felt like stretching my arms out to the sides and screaming “I’m on top of the world!” When I got to the end of the bridge, everyone commented on my certainly goofy grin. Oh, well – it was SO cool.

Grace Artemis was named in honor of my grandmother, who would lovingly call me Grace during the youthful years where I had very little balance or ability to do anything physical. (Artemis is the protector of young women – and the goddess of virginity. What could be more perfect for me?) The name took on a new meaning as we pedaled the thirty miles yesterday, with me not at the back but always in the top three or four riders – I feel balanced and powerful and yes, graceful, on a bike, similar only to how I feel while swimming. Perhaps after all these years of thinking that was the only sport for me, I have found another I can succeed at!

I am being called to cook breafast now! BYE!