Lou and the can collector “For I was hungry, and you gave Me something to eat…. To the extent that you did it to one of these brothers of mine, even the least of them, you did it to Me.” MATTHEW 25:34-40 Lou Terzo (pictured) was cycling down the street in Hartford, Connecticut, when the words of Matthew 25 really hit home. Terzo tells a story of a passing encounter with a local man on a bike during his first ride with the Brake the Cycle team: “The guy saw our matching shirts and pedaled faster. He said, ‘Hey, what are you guys doing?’ I said proudly, ‘We’re on our way to Washington, D.C., and we’re doing this bike ride for poverty awareness.’ And he said, ‘Then you’re doing this for me.’ I looked at him thinking, What? But I noticed that in each hand he also held a plastic bag filled with empty bottles and cans. He told me that was how he supports his family. But I didn’t know what to say to this guy, so I said, ‘I’ve got to catch up to my friends,’ and I started biking away. And he called out, ‘Hey, what’s your name?’ I yelled back ‘Lou. What’s your name?’ I could hardly believe it when he said, ‘Matthew.’”

The support vehicles follow the bikers, taking turns pulling over on the narrow roads to account for each member, distribute snacks, and offer an encouraging cheer. The tree-lined rolling hills of central Connecticut create a vibrant tunnel through which to ride. Tiger lilies grow fiercely along the sides of the road, causing fiery streaks in the landscape as the cyclists blaze past. But there are slower moments as well. “When the hills are tough, I say prayers,” says King. “I usually measure hills by how many Hail Marys I say. They keep me focused on why I’m doing this, as opposed to [thinking about] the pain and the heat.”

I’ve been invited to ride with the team for a portion of this final stretch, but it doesn’t take long before most of the cyclists are far ahead and out of sight. I’m tired and hot. The 10-year-old turquoise mountain bike I’m riding is rickety and heavy, and missing one of the gearshift levers. My movement toward the top of each hill is barely perceptible. I’m not a particularly skilled rider, and a part of me feels foolish for being on the road in the first place.

Chatterton — one of the team’s strongest riders — is still cycling behind me. “Keep it up,” he encourages. “You’re doing fine.” But I do not feel fine. I feel guilty for holding him back; I feel like a burden. But Chatterton pedals along peacefully, letting me go at my own pace. He can’t climb the hills for me, but his presence helps, and I’m glad I’m not alone.

“I figure you can either complain about the hills or embrace them,” Chatterton told me earlier. I think about his words as I push a bit harder on the pedals. The road ahead doesn’t look any shorter, but I finally feel like I’m moving forward.

Outside of the St. Vincent de Paul Place in downtown Norwich, Connecticut, a folding table with sandwiches, chips, and fruit stands to one side of a large, raised platform. Later, Bishop Michael Cote will offer his congratulations and appreciation to the cyclists. A plaque will be presented, speeches given.

Inside the building, clients eat at the community meal center, and a few come outside to see what is going on. Th e team is feeling energized, accomplished, and, Carmel admits, a bit sad. After all, the ride is over — sort of. “We’re done for this week, but we still have a mission,” says Lou Terzo, 62. “Th e church we visited last night, they want us to come back. That’s always a good feeling.”

“Last night,” cyclist Anne Merrer, 29, adds hopefully, “one girl at the presentation wanted to start a collection and a justice group at her school.”

Carmel smiles. “It’s a new generation. I told her: ‘You’re going to do wonderful things,’ and she gave me a big hug.”

As we stand there chatting, a voice interrupts. “Excuse me,” calls a woman with short grayish hair. She’s come from inside the St. Vincent de Paul Place, and she rolls up behind us in her motorized scooter. Grinning broadly, she reaches out and taps Terzo and Merrer. “Thank you for what you’re doing for us,” she says. With humble smiles, they reach out, in turn, and grab hold of her outstretched hands. CD

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Kerry Weber is associate editor of Catholic Digest.