On weekends, my friends and I would ride down to the Dead Sea and enjoy heavenly views across the Levant. Upon reaching the Sea, we searched for shade and a ride back up to the top of the valley. We would then extract our bikes and selves from a flatbed, delivery van, or tiny Toyota and ride to a roadside fruit stand before sprinting back to campus to beat the crowds emerging from Friday prayers. I spent the next year in Utah and, after the snow melted, checked out the burgeoning trail networks in Park City and along the Wasatch Front. I escaped without any broken bones, but the pain I endured when the nurse scrubbed my road rash with a rough sponge still makes me squirm. The doctors told me to take it easy for a few days, so I went to work the next day and visited the bike shop in the afternoon to order a new bike. When I got back home, my back muscles started spasming, as the doctors told me they would, and I collapsed onto my bed. I spent the next two days lying on the floor at my parents’ house requiring assistance to eat and use the bathroom. Three months and hundreds of miles of training rides later, I crossed the finish line in Lake Placid.