Most people question the crazy ideas I come up with. Renting out our house for example, with all our stuff in it, though we’d only be gone for the summer. Taking on a second job, though simple and accommodating, though we might not be too desperate for money. Spending the entire summer living in a one-bathroom, technically-two-bedroom house with eight people, three cats, and two dogs. Just to name a few.

My extraordinary concoction of plans for Father’s Day, as soon as Bruce said he wanted to see Fort Donelson, a national park and Civil War battlefield about sixty miles from Mayfield in Tennessee, would probably lead most people to think I am truly insane. Yes, the high today was 98 degrees, and yes, I was determined to ride my bike those sixty miles, even though it meant waking at four in the morning and leaving, quite literally, at the crack of dawn.

There is no way that one blog post can capture the ride in words that would adequately describe it. Where would I begin? With the picture I took of cornfields as the sun shot up, the dew so dense you could literally see moisture lingering in the air? Of riding through downtown Murray, past the 1800s stone buildings, the magnificent courthouse, then making three short turns and finding myself on a narrow country road that curved through a dense forest, over streams, past an ancient cemetery, and into the bright morning sun that blossomed the cornfields into shades of yellow and green? Of the many turns I had to make as I navigated through the back roads, my only way of knowing I’d crossed into Tennessee being one labeled, “State Line Road?” Of the turn onto a rocky red-dirt road that meandered through a forest thick with shade, a crossing deer, vibrant butterflies, and hills I had to climb with my not-so-adequate road bike? Of the heat that crept in slowly after eight o’clock and by ten had me taking breaks in the shade, shaking with sweat and hunger, thirst, every fifteen minutes (when my original goal was to stop every fifteen miles)? Of the four-lane highway with its wide shoulder at the end of the route, the one I’d tucked in my mind since last week’s camping trip with my favorite road sign of all time: bike route? Of the bridge where the Beatles played in my ear, “All You Need is Love” and my emotions ran so strong I didn’t know if I had tears or sweat in my eyes, or both?

No. It was the end, the very end. My beautiful “bike route” that I had worked so hard to arrive at had hills as high as mountains, each more than a mile long, some more than two. With the temperature rising to near ninety, I didn’t know if I’d make it. I had to stop at mile fifty, mile fifty-five, mile fifty-eight. With just over two miles to go, I drank the last bit of my Gatorade and lay in the (what I thought would be cool) grass under a tree. I wasn’t asleep, or passed out, or dying of heat stroke, but I knew I could if I kept going without taking a decent break. And I just couldn’t figure out how I could tackle one more ginormous hill with the thirst in my throat, my body having seeped out three Gatorades in sweat that soaked through every pore of my skin, down to the bone.

I was staring up at the giant maple above me and the thin wisps of clouds that moved just slightly on this windless day, refusing to cover the sun for even a moment, when I heard a voice that I at first didn’t recognize, I was so delirious.

“You need a ride?”

And there he was, in his Hawaii shirt, pulled over on the side of the road, walking towards me, ready to put the bike on its rack. Oh, how I wanted to say yes, yes, yes! What was another 2.5, I’d made it this far?

“No, I’m almost there, I want to do it, but do you have anything for me to drink?”

Without hesitation, he rushed back to the car, bringing back the ice-cold Gatorade he had ready for me for the end, the very end. Not for one second did he try to coerce me into putting the bike on the rack, to giving in. He could care less if I rode that bike to the end of the world or if I slept in with him on a Sunday morning, on Father’s Day, as long as I am happy.

I stood up, a bit wobbly for a moment, told him I loved him, and sent him on his way. One more huge hill later, after drinking down my Gatorade, I made it to the fort. There he was, parked in the shade, waiting for me, at the very end, the very end of the trail. Just as I know he will be waiting for me, loving me, until the very end of my life.

Most people would say I’m crazy, and they’d be right. But no one understands that craziness better than Bruce, no one loves it like he does, and that is why I love him so much today, on Father’s Day, and every other day.