Holly Purdy • September 17, 2026

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Eight Friends, Sixty-Seven Miles, and Several Questionable Decisions

Eight Friends, 67 Miles and Several Questionable Decisions


At 10:00 Tuesday morning, eight women and eight bicycles will gather beside the red caboose at the Kalamazoo trailhead. There will be 33.5 miles between us and Victoria Resort—and absolutely no way to pretend we misunderstood the plan.


This adventure was Julie’s idea. That should surprise no one. Julie is always ready to go somewhere, try something new and persuade seven friends that riding 67 miles in two days sounds like fun.


I’m Holly, one of the owners of Victoria Resort. I took Julie’s idea and decided it would also be the perfect opportunity to experience the Kal-Haven Trail the way our future guests might. I will spend the next two days aggressively encouraging everyone, partly because I believe in my friends and partly because enthusiastic reassurance is my contribution to the team.


Someone will take our picture beside the caboose. We will look rested, confident and remarkably clean. It will be the last photograph in which all eight of us can stand upright without making a noise.


Julie will already have her helmet fastened and one foot on a pedal while the rest of us are still checking our bags and privately wondering whether riding bicycles as children counts as training.


“Let’s go!”


Then our wheels will begin to turn. The first few miles will be glorious. Cool air will move across our faces. Sunlight will flicker through the trees. Birds will sing, our legs will feel strong and we will briefly believe we were born for long-distance cycling.


Marcia will celebrate the first mile marker as though we have reached Lake Michigan in record time. “This is amazing!” She will say the same thing at mile two, mile three and probably while riding past a particularly attractive shrub.


Before anyone is hungry, Cori will reach into her bag. “Sweet or salty?” She will produce granola bars, dried fruit, chocolate and several snacks no one remembers seeing her pack. By mile five, it will become clear that Cori is not carrying emergency food. She is operating a mobile convenience store.


The trail will pull us beneath a canopy of trees as the sounds of Kalamazoo fade behind us. Soon, there will be nothing but bicycle tires, birds and eight women attempting to carry on three conversations while riding in a straight line.


Sometimes we will travel together. Sometimes we will stretch into pairs. Occasionally, one of us will stop to take a photograph without warning, creating an eight-bicycle traffic pattern that no transportation engineer would approve.


At every road crossing, Nancy will count helmets. “One, two, three, four… ”No one will move until she reaches eight. Nancy’s count will become our safety system, our attendance policy and the reason none of us is accidentally left at a blueberry farm.


The trail will give us our first lesson in belonging. We do not have to ride at the same speed. We only have to remain part of the same mildly disorganized parade.


By the time we reach Bloomingdale, our bodies will begin submitting formal complaints. Our shoulders will feel tighter. Our hands will need a break from the handlebars. When we step off our bicycles, the ground will appear to move even though it is behaving perfectly normally. We will attempt to sit on the grass.


Joan will watch eight athletic women discover that bending their knees is no longer automatic. She will make one perfectly timed comment, and we will laugh so hard that standing back up becomes even less likely.


Helmets will come off. Shoes will be loosened. Lunch wrappers will crinkle, and Cori will continue producing snacks from a bag that apparently opens into another dimension.


We will have ridden approximately 17 miles. Our halfway photograph will show eight flushed faces, windblown hair and the dawning realization that “halfway” is both encouraging and deeply concerning.


At the Kalamazoo caboose, we hoped we could do it.


In Bloomingdale, we will know we can do it—as soon as someone helps us off the grass.


Before we return to the trail, Jen will lift her water bottle and begin a group cheer. We will respond with the enthusiasm of women who have just remembered there are another 16 miles ahead. Jen will try again. By the third attempt, we will be shouting loudly enough to alarm everyone near the depot. It may not improve our cycling, but it will prevent anyone from forgetting us.


West of Bloomingdale, the trail will carry us through blueberry country. Warm earth and leaves will scent the air. Sunlight will heat our shoulders before the trees pull us back into the shade. The scenery will remain beautiful. Our bicycle seats will become significantly less beautiful.


Conversation will grow quieter. We will shift our hands, stretch at crossings and occasionally stand on the pedals—not to gain speed, but because every part of our bodies would like to renegotiate its current position.


I will move up and down the line offering encouragement.

“You’re doing great!”

“We’re getting close!”

“Look how strong you are!”


My friends may begin asking me to define “close,” but I will avoid unnecessary details.


As we cross a wooden bridge, our tires will create a hollow rhythm beneath us. For a moment, we will be suspended between where we started and where we are going. A bridge does not remove the obstacle. It simply gives us a way across.


That is also what friends do—although friends may accompany the encouragement with chocolate, sarcasm and unsolicited opinions about your bicycle seat.


Someone will ease her pace, and another rider will pull alongside. Water will pass through the group. Cori will provide another snack, and Jen will begin a quieter version of the cheer. At the next crossing, Nancy will count eight helmets.


This is encouragement: no dramatic speeches and no one pretending the ride is effortless—just friends staying close and continuing forward together.


Then Lori will say something that changes the mood of the entire group. Bells will begin ringing. Joan will add a comment that makes us laugh when we thought we were too tired. Eight weary cyclists will become a traveling party again.


Late in the afternoon, Victoria Resort will finally appear ahead. Marcia will raise both arms as though she has won the Tour de France. Jen will begin our cheer, and Nancy will count us one final time. Eight.


We will roll into the resort together, climb off our bicycles and immediately discover a new walking style.


After 33.5 miles, a cold drink will taste extraordinary. A hot shower will feel like a luxury spa treatment. The sauna will loosen muscles we did not know we had, and our beds may inspire genuine tears.


Once we have recovered enough to move without making sound effects, we will walk the two blocks to Lake Michigan. The sun will begin to lower, spreading gold and orange across the water. After following one narrow trail all day, we will stand before a lake that seems to have no end.


For a moment, everyone will grow quiet. Then someone will ask how we plan to get back to Kalamazoo. We will agree not to discuss Wednesday until after dinner.


Later, we will gather around a fire pit at Victoria Resort. The heat will reach our faces while the evening air cools our backs. S’mores will pass from hand to hand as the day’s least comfortable moments become its funniest stories. Separate flames will join to create warmth and light, much like eight friends coming together to create one very noisy adventure.


That is joy.


Joy is not the absence of sore muscles. It is laughing about them with people who understand exactly why they hurt.


Wednesday morning will arrive in our legs before it reaches our eyes. Our feet will touch the floor carefully. Coffee cups will require two hands. Breakfast will disappear quickly as we avoid eye contact with the bicycles waiting outside.


Julie will be ready first. Of course she will. This was her idea.


Shortly after noon, we will put our helmets back on and begin the return ride. The trail will be the same 33.5 miles, but we will be wiser now. We will know where to stop, when to eat and which stretches require a group cheer.


When the Kalamazoo caboose finally appears, relief will travel through the group like electricity. Bells will ring. Voices will rise. We will use the last of our energy to finish together.


Our final photograph will bring us back to where we began. We will be dusty, tired and standing in ways designed to avoid bending our knees. But the uncertainty behind our first smiles will be gone.


The trail will have given us belonging.

The bridges will have shown us encouragement.

The fire will have left us with joy.


And 67 miles will have given us enough material to embarrass one another for years.


Julie gave us the adventure. Who will plan yours?



Victoria Resort will be waiting at the end of your first day with hot showers, comfortable beds, sauna time and a place to laugh about every questionable decision that brought you there.


www.victoriaresort.com

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