Letters from Fellow Emeriti

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From David Lamb

Here is a report of a recent bicycle expedition in Venezuela that almost did me in. Following a sports medicine conference in Caracas, eight of the speakers--I was the oldest by at least 14 years--were told that we would be flown to a small desert island, Coche Island, for a 10-mile mountain-bike ride on paved roads, followed by an afternoon at a small beachside resort. We drove a few minutes to an airstrip--the "Presidential Airport"-- smack dab among the skyscrapers, went through a ludicrous security checkpoint, and boarded a two-engine plane outfitted with a dozen seats in front and the mountain bikes piled behind us, unsecured. (A couple of the guys did not even bother putting on seat belts, so if there had been turbulence, bikes and bodies would have flown about.) We flew for an hour and landed at an unattended airstrip, where, after assembling the bikes and applying the sunblock, we riders took off for the "leisurely" ride. It was 100 F and about 70% humidity; given that the maximum distance I had ever ridden (probably 50 years ago) was probably 3 miles, I was glad it was to be a short, easy ride.

The first 30 minutes or so were, in fact, on paved roads with little traffic. But then we deviated across the desert, much of which was muscle-bursting loose sand. After an hour or so of this misery, we asked one of the leaders--an Eco-Challenge competitor--who had done this before how much further it would be, and we were told "About 30 minutes, not more."

Finally, we got back to some hard-packed desert. At about the 2.5 hour mark, we were back on roads, passing through small poor villages and then out into a deserted landscape with no shade. Suddenly, I looked up and could see no riders ahead of me; I looked back and saw nothing but desert.

I thought I must have missed a turn. I turned off at a shed that offered a bit of shade, but as soon as I got off the bike, my legs started to cramp up furiously. I had visions of myself writhing along the roadside, only to be "rescued" by a pickup truck filled with terrorists, who would hold me for ransom--which no one would pay. Finally, after a few more minutes, riders appeared on the horizon behind me. (Somehow, I had gotten ahead of the other riders, who had stopped at a refreshment stand for a drink.)

My muscles cramped less as long as I continued pedaling, but for the rest of the trip, I felt that I was on the verge of having cramps from my neck all the way down to my fingers and from my pelvis to my toes. Anyway, the trip was not 10 miles long, but 25 miles and 3.5 hours. Still, I managed to finish even before the youngest guy, who was about 25. I drank at least 4 quarts of fluids but still lost about 7 pounds.

On the one hand, I feel good that I could finish the ride, but on the other hand, I feel stupid for having agreed to go on this venture without having insisted on more details. I'm still playing tennis 4-5 times per week in the Tucson area and hoping that the knees continue to hold me upright for at least a few more years.

Jack Wilmore, Charlie Tipton, and I have formed the Southern Arizona chapter of the Exercise Physiology Old Timers Association, and we get together for lunch on an irregular basis to solve most of the world's problems. We all send regards to everyone.

From Roy Shephard

You may be interested to note that on November 11th, I shall be installed as the first president of the Argentinian Society of Exercise Physiology

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