10/06/2026
Part 2: Eight Friends, One Dead Battery, and Somehow Still Enough Energy for PIckleball
By the time Victoria Resort came into view, I had stopped offering enthusiastic reassurance and started concentrating on the very personal relationship between my lungs and the next breath.
The ride had gone remarkably well. We had stayed together, enjoyed the trail and made it through the miles with enough snacks and laughter to keep everyone moving. Then, with about five miles left, my bicycle battery died.
There is a particular kind of betrayal that occurs when an electric bicycle quietly becomes a regular bicycle. One moment, you are enjoying an adventure. The next, you are discovering exactly how much assistance you have been receiving.
Joan took one look at me working the pedals and found the bright side. “Well, at least it happened to the youngest of us.” I would have offered a response, but I was saving my breath for survival.
Then she offered to take a turn on my bike so we could share the work of those final miles. Lori offered next, followed by the rest of the clan. We could switch bicycles, they said. Nobody needed to pedal the heavy one all the way alone.
I stubbornly refused, although the offers stayed with me through every remaining mile. These women had already ridden nearly thirty miles themselves, yet each was willing to make her own finish harder so mine could be easier. As tired as I was, I felt the warmth of that friendship. I kept pedaling with the lovely knowledge that if I changed my mind, someone would be right there.
When we finally reached Victoria Resort, I steered onto the grass in front of Cottage E, climbed off my bicycle and lowered myself to the ground. For a while, I had no further plans. The sun warmed my face as I lay there catching my breath. Around me, bicycles were parked, helmets came off and my friends began enjoying the considerable luxury of standing still.
Marcia was delighted that we had made it. Jen was ready to celebrate. Nancy had all eight women safely accounted for, and Cori was ready for celebration with some craft b**r. Julie looked pleased with the adventure she had talked us into, while Lori and Joan seemed to be assessing whether I intended to spend the night on the lawn. I closed my eyes and let the sunshine reach me.
Yesterday morning, belonging had meant being one of eight women beside a red caboose, ready to try something together. By the time I reached that patch of grass, it meant knowing seven friends would willingly take a turn carrying my share of the work.
After a break, we climbed into the Mule and headed to Three Blondes for dinner. Riding somewhere without having to pedal felt like an amenity I had previously failed to appreciate.
At the restaurant, we settled around the table with the appetite of women who had spent the day earning dinner. The food was fantastic, and craft b**r and other drinks arrived as we began retelling the ride.
Cori’s favorite was the pumpkin b**r. After a day spent producing snacks for everyone else, she had found something she was especially happy to enjoy herself.
Julie listened as we revisited the adventure she had started. Every stop, every joke and every questionable decision seemed better with dinner in front of us. Marcia remembered the caterpillar and the beautiful stretches of trail. Nancy could confirm that we had all been present for them. Jen kept the conversation moving, and whenever a story needed one final observation, Joan supplied it. Lori brought us back to my last five miles, which had apparently been more entertaining to watch than to ride.
I was grateful to be sitting among them, eating, laughing and discovering how quickly an exhausted cyclist can recover when someone else brings the food.
Naturally, after dinner we returned to Victoria Resort and played pickleball under the l lights. Our legs had obviously not received enough torture.
The courts glowed against the evening sky as we traded our handlebars for paddles. Getting into position required a little negotiation with our muscles, but once the ball started moving, so did we.
Jen brought enthusiasm to every point. Marcia found reasons to celebrate the good shots, and Julie appeared to have an entirely separate supply of energy reserved for activities that could be described as fun. Nancy paid attention to the score while the rest of us occasionally became distracted by laughter.
Joan and Lori helped ensure that even the less impressive shots contributed something to the evening.
By then, nobody needed to perform particularly well to enjoy herself. We had already accomplished the difficult thing. Pickleball gave us a chance to be playful together, to cheer a shot, laugh at a miss and move around simply because we wanted to. Although, after a while, some of us wanted to move directly into the sauna.
The group eventually divided between the sauna and the firepit. Those seeking warmth for their muscles settled into the heat, while the others gathered around the fire and continued sharing stories from the trail.
The flames lit familiar faces, and the adventure began taking on the shape it would have in our memories. The hardest moments became the stories we interrupted one another to tell. My dead battery, which had seemed quite serious five miles from the resort, was already becoming a reliable source of entertainment.
I thought again about the bridge we had crossed and the way friends help one another through a difficult stretch.
Encouragement had been more than the things we called out along the trail. It had been Joan offering to pedal my bicycle, Lori immediately volunteering and everyone else joining in. I had finished those miles myself, but their offers had changed how it felt to finish them.
Around the fire, that encouragement settled into joy. We could rest, laugh and enjoy what we had done together. Nothing else needed to be accomplished that night, and eventually even Julie was ready to call it a day.
We headed back to our cabins for showers and sleep, parking our bikes in the garage like eight innocent objects with no responsibility for our condition.
In the morning, we piled back into the Mule for breakfast and headed to Six Chicks. We had come for what they are known for: cinnamon rolls and breakfast. After yesterday’s ride and our additional decision to play pickleball, we were prepared to appreciate both. Coffee arrived, conversation warmed up and the cinnamon rolls gave us another excellent reason to be glad we had made the trip. Cori’s pumpkin b**r had been a highlight of the evening; breakfast was making a strong case for its own place in the story.
After breakfast, we went back to Victoria Resort to get ready for the ribbon cutting. Having my friends there made the moment especially meaningful. They knew the work, hope and heart we had put into the resort, and now they were standing beside us as we celebrated it. The day before, we had arrived together as tired cyclists. That morning, they were there to share something that mattered deeply to us.
I looked at their faces and felt that same warmth I had felt when my battery died. Their support could take the form of an offer to pedal a heavy bicycle or simply showing up for an important moment. Either way, I knew I could count on them.
Victoria Resort was a place I hoped would give guests room to rest, reconnect and make memories. My friends had just helped me experience all of that for myself.
Then the ribbon was cut, the photographs were taken, and another part of the day began quietly insisting on our attention.
Our bicycles were waiting. They stood exactly where we had left them, ready for another 33.5 miles. I checked my battery. Then I checked it again. Joan watched with interest. “Planning to use all of it this time?” “Every available bit.”
We gathered our bags, filled our water bottles and put on our helmets. Cori checked her supplies, Nancy counted us into readiness, and Jen encouraged everyone to smile for a photograph before we sat down and remembered yesterday. Julie was ready first. Of course she was.
Soon we were moving along the trail again, leaving South Haven behind. Our legs needed a few minutes to accept the arrangement, but the familiar rhythm gradually returned.
Trees shaded the path, conversation passed between riders and Marcia began pointing out things we had missed on the way in.
The trail felt more familiar now. We knew we could cover the distance, and we knew how to help one another do it. We spread out when the riding was easy and drew together when someone needed company. At each crossing, Nancy counted eight.
Near a wooden bridge, we stopped for water. The sound of our tires over the boards brought yesterday back, along with the reminder of how much encouragement we had carried across those miles.
Joan pulled alongside me. “How’s the battery?” “Still alive.” “Well, our offer still stands.” I smiled at her. I believed it.
By Bloomingdale, we were ready for lunch and another careful descent onto a bench. Cori brought out the food, Jen revived our spirits and Lori began discussing which parts of this trip would improve most dramatically in the retelling. “The last five miles,” Joan said, looking at me. I had to agree.
When the red caboose finally appeared, excitement moved through the group. We rang our bells, called to one another and used what remained in our legs to finish together. Nancy counted eight one last time, and we climbed off our bicycles with the careful movements of women who had thoroughly enjoyed themselves and would be feeling it tomorrow.
We gathered for our final photograph, dusty, tired and leaning into one another. Sixty-seven miles earlier, we had stood in this same spot wondering how the adventure would go. Now we had stories about a dead battery, pumpkin b**r, pickleball under the lights and cinnamon rolls worth getting out of bed for.
As we lingered beside the caboose, Marcia looked around at us.
“We should make this an annual event.”
For a moment, nobody answered. I glanced at Julie, expecting her to immediately begin choosing dates. Instead, she looked delighted that someone else had suggested it first.
Jen was already nodding. Cori said she is not bringing the snacks, next year. Nancy wanted to find a date when all eight of us could come, and Lori reminded us to leave enough time for pickleball.
“Pickleball again?” Joan asked. “Should we tell our legs now, or let it be a surprise?”
I laughed, remembering how readily every one of them had offered to pedal my bicycle when the battery died. There were seven good reasons to come back standing right beside me.
I wanted another evening around that fire with these women. Another dinner, another ride, even another questionable decision to play pickleball.
“I’m in,” I said.
Joan turned toward me.
“Good. You have a whole year to charge your battery.”
