Dawn broke over Tai Lake on day one of the 300KM ride, painting the water pink and silver. Dad and I adjusted our helmets side by side, “Saturday” (my steel road bike) and his black road bike leaning against each other like partners. “Stick with me, kiddo,” he said, grinning. “We’ll cross that finish line together.” I nodded, but my stomach fluttered—300KM over two days felt huge, even with “Saturday” beneath me.
The first day was smooth. We rode with our RAW group, chatting as we circled the lake’s western shore. Dad pointed out herons standing still in the shallows and laughed when I tried (and failed) to race a breeze. By sunset, we’d knocked out 160KM and collapsed into our hotel beds, legs sore but hopeful. “Tomorrow’s the home stretch,” Dad said, handing me a banana. “Just 140KM more.”
Day two started cold, the lake mist curling around our bikes. We’d ridden 80KM when Dad suddenly slowed, gripping his right calf. “Cramp,” he gritted out, pulling over to the side of the road. I hopped off “Saturday” and knelt beside him—his leg was tight as a rock, veins bulging. Our group slowed, but the ride marshal said we had to keep moving to meet the cutoff. “Go,” Dad said, pushing me gently. “I’ll catch up with the support van. You can’t miss this.”
I hesitated. We’d trained for months together, talked about finishing hand in hand. But Dad’s jaw was set, and he winked. “Remember Yang Cheng Lake? You crushed 120KM alone. This is just more of the same.” I climbed back on “Saturday,” my throat tight. The group waited for me, but the ride felt quieter now—no Dad’s laughter beside me, no him calling out, “Nice sprint!” when I passed a milestone.
At 250KM, my legs burned. I sipped electrolyte drink and thought of Dad—how he’d stayed up late fixing my mountain bike tire on Hengsha Island, how he’d built “Saturday” just for me. “I’m doing this for both of us,” I whispered to the wind. The lake stretched ahead, endless but calm, and “Saturday” glided on, steady as a promise.
When the finish line came into view—red banners flapping, RAW mates cheering—I saw Dad leaning against the support van, his calf wrapped in a bandage, but smiling like he’d won. I pedaled harder, tears stinging my eyes, and crossed the line to a roar. Dad limped over, and I threw my arms around him. “We did it,” I said. He hugged me back, tight. “You did it,” he corrected, but his voice was proud. “I knew you would.”
That night, we sat by the lake, eating hot pot and rubbing our sore muscles. Dad looked at “Saturday,” then at me. “300KM,” he said, shaking his head. “My kid’s a warrior.” I grinned—because it wasn’t just me. It was him, and his cramp that taught me to keep going alone. It was “Saturday,” carrying me when my legs wanted to quit. Most of all, it was the promise we’d made: to finish, no matter what. And we had—together, even when we were apart.
