Just a Guy on a Bike... Again

I’ve been riding bikes for as long as I can remember.  My youth was filled with the usual bike related mishaps including one incident where all I remember is waking up flat on my back with my mother bending over me, willing me back to sentient existence.  This pre-helmet-era crash left me unconscious but fortunately, not permanently brain damaged.  My first geared bike was a five-speed Schwinn Continental that I rode many long miles on the back roads of southeastern Michigan.

Sundays while a student at the seminary were marked by leisurely rides through the park in Springfield, Illinois with my wife and our best friends.
By the time I became a father with two girls on bikes of their own, I had graduated to a ten-speed Continental.  It was a tank of a bike with steel everything, except the tires.  That Schwinn weighed more than either of my two young daughters, who danced on the pedals ahead of me as we followed the Illinois Prairie Path to the yogurt store several miles from our house.

A few years later, I bought a steel frame cross bike and rode various distances out and back on the Luce Line Trail between Wayzata and Hutchinson, Minnesota.  All this time I never considered myself a serious cyclist, just a guy who liked to ride his bike. Gradually I let myself get seriously out of shape.  By the time I was pastoring in Tacoma, Washington, biking was nothing more than a fading memory, even though I was only 53 years old.  Then my life changed, radically.

I was preparing a series of messages about the seven deadly sins.  Honestly, I was way too proud about the sins I thought I had under control: pride (ironically), sloth (despite my inactivity), wrath, lust, greed, and envy.  But the last one troubled me: gluttony.  Being seriously overweight at nearly 300 pounds, I came to the conviction that if I was going to preach on the subject of gluttony, I had better face it head on. Thus began a nine-month regimen of eating less while walking, swimming and working out at the gym.  It left me a hundred pounds lighter and pretty fit.

Even though I was as fit and trim as ever, I had never gotten back on the bike.  Then, one Sunday morning a friend overheard me talking about how I could keep off the weight I lost.  He asked if I owned a bicycle and I said, “Yes.”  He offered to meet me later in the week at the Foothills Trail near where we lived.  

It was a cold and damp late winter morning when I showed up in shorts and a sweatshirt with my now very dusty and slightly rusty ten-year-old cross bike. I looked at Michael and wondered if I made a mistake.  He had a bright and beautiful aluminum road bike with integrated brake and shift levers.  He looked the part of a serious cyclist in weather-appropriate tights and jacket, full-finger gloves and a helmet.  On top of all that, he was wearing some strange looking shoes that attached to his pedals, something I had never seen before.  As we headed out on the trail I told Michael to go easy on me.  I struggled to hold his wheel at a miserable 14 miles per hour, but I soon began to wonder if I might learn to enjoy riding my bike all over again.  

On our second ride just a week later, Michael took a left turn we hadn’t taken before and headed up Military Rd.  He didn’t warn me about what lay ahead. It was a mile long climb of over 500 feet, with grades as steep as 20%.  After a half-mile of climbing my legs felt like jelly, and I was forced to stop and rest.  Michael asked if I wanted to turn around and coast back down the hill. With all the strength I could muster I said, “No! Let’s finish it.”  By the time I reached the summit my legs and lungs burned with searing pain, but I hadn’t felt so good in 30 years.  I knew I was hooked!

It was shortly afterwards that Michael shared his dream with me.  He wanted to ride the “STP” and was looking for a partner.  The Seattle to Portland ride is one of the largest organized bike rides in the country. Most riders complete the 200-mile classic in two days. Michael wanted to finish the whole course in one day.  Was I interested in joining him? “Sure,” I replied almost glibly, while wondering internally about my own sanity.

We began our training and I soon realized that my sadly aging cross bike was not up to the task.  In my heart I already knew I was going to become a serious cyclist, so I decided to make a serious commitment.  I plunked down $1000 and bought a new aluminum road bike. I began to take turns with Michael pulling for the two of us.  Soon he suggested that I go whole hog and buy some cycling shoes and clipless pedals.  There was no turning back.  I practiced clipping in and out on the front lawn, but on the first outing I fell and fractured my right arm.  It was already April. The STP was roaring at me like a fully loaded freight train due in the yard on July 17, but nothing could stop me now.  One month after my fall I was back on my bike training hard.  I’ll never forget the first time our computers registered 100 miles during a ride.  Michael and I whooped and hollered. We even took a picture of the digits to make a record of our accomplishment.

When the day of the STP arrived, Michael and his wife picked me up at 4:00 am.  We left Seattle at 5:15 in the morning and didn’t arrive in Portland, Oregon until 8:15 that night, but we made it.  We had trained well and the weather was great. It proved to be a rather uneventful ride that didn’t weigh heavily on either our bodies or minds until the last 20 miles.  The thrill of victory was written all over my face as I crossed the finish line.  It finally registered in my head, “I’m a cyclist!  I’m a serious cyclist!” 

The STP was just the beginning.  I began gobbling up miles as though I were a glutton at a Thanksgiving feast.  My favorite ride became a 60-mile jaunt to Puget Sound and back.  I would regularly ride a solo century to Mercer Island.  Over the next four years I undertook every cycling challenge I could cram into my busy schedule as Senior Pastor of a large church.  

I rode a century for the benefit of a new charity called Ride4US.  I did the Courage Classic, covering more than 150 miles and climbing three mountain passes in three days.  I attempted the Ride Around Puget Sound (168 miles) but quit at 111 miles in a drenching rain. (A wrong turn had taken me down to the Hood Canal and forced me to do 700 feet of needless climbing to get back on course.)  I rode the Tour de Blast, climbing Mount St. Helens. The most beautiful ride of all was from Monterey to Cambria on Highway 1 along the California coast. A friend battling cancer asked me to join his Team in Training group on the Honolulu Century.  The most difficult ride was the day another friend and I started at the foot of Mount Rainier and climbed all they way to where the road ends at Sunrise. Then we turned around and rode back down the mountain.  It was 140 miles and 9000 feet of climbing in 12 hours.  

By now the members of my church were well aware of my cycling exploits. They honored me for Pastor Appreciation Month with the gift of a new high-end carbon fiber road bike.  It was the same bike used by Tour de France champions!  It was sleek, light, fast and beautiful, a better bike than I could have ever bought myself.  It was a better bike than I deserved, for the caliber of cyclist I had become.  Yes, I was strong and could ride a long distance, but I wasn’t fast.  Nevertheless, the road was calling and I was answering on the best bike I had never dreamed of owning! It was as though I was possessed.  I couldn’t get enough time or miles on the bike.  I had become a cycling fanatic in a cycling frenzy!

When I received a three-month sabbatical leave from my congregation, I decided to spend part of the time raising funds for Ride4US by riding my bike from Canada to Mexico.  Over three weeks I rode from the Canadian border in Washington State, down through Oregon and California, to the Mexican border in San Diego.  I treasured both the miles and the adventure.  The sights, sounds and smells of the Pacific Ocean provided an ever-changing kaleidoscopic backdrop for my ride.  It was the cycling odyssey of a lifetime and I relished every mile of it.

Two years and several thousand miles later, I took an early retirement from full-time ministry and moved to Texas to be near family.  I envisioned myself circumnavigating the Texas Hill Country, pounding out century after century in my newly acquired leisure time.  Instead, I found that my life as a cyclist had entered a new phase.  

As I explored the roads and hills around our new home, I experienced the pleasure of going on shorter rides at a more relaxed pace.  I realized I didn’t have to ride my body into the pavement to achieve something of value on my bike.  Now my average ride is 20 to 30 miles.  My average pace is 13 not 18 mph.  My purpose is to celebrate the bike, not conquer the road.  My goal is simple, to enjoy the ride.

In addition, I’m once again experiencing the joy of riding with a child.  This time it’s my grandson who scurries ahead of me, like my daughters did so many years before.  Sometimes, I pull my younger grandson in a trailer while my older grandson rides along.  It’s a totally different kind of riding than the fierce, hard-driven endurance cycling that marked my middle 50’s.  It’s more like the riding I did before I became a “serious cyclist.”  It’s riding my bike just for the fun of it.

I’m thankful for the season in my life when centuries were the norm. I had some terrific experiences.  I saw some tremendous sights.  I made some great friends.  I conquered some significant challenges, both physically and mentally.  But I am also thankful that just as I began my life simply riding a bike, now I can wrap it up by riding my bike for the fun of it.  It’s good to be just a guy on a bike… again.

A Posthumous Witness from My Beautiful Valentine

The thoughts that follow were written by my wife Diana while she was hospitalized during her treatment for stage 4 lung cancer.  They are completely unedited.  I just ran across them on my computer today.  I had to share them with you, because they are such a beautiful illustration of her faith.  Her positive attitude in the midst of suffering demonstrate why it was so easy for me to be her caregiver.  Today was a very hard day, to be without my Valentine.  But these thoughts reminded me of how she suffered (without complaint) and made me think of how much better off she is with Jesus.  I miss you terribly, Sweetheart!  I still love you this Valentine's Day, as much as ever.  The picture is from last Valentine's Day.

An Afternoon of Contemplation

In between spiking fevers and sweating through the bedding, and being oxygen dependent there are just so many things to be thankful for.  Simple things like my best friend in the whole world, and life long partner has been with me constantly.  Today it was such a blessing to take a shower after four days of sweating through fevers and hospital grunge.  How many people in this world do not have availability of clean water, even for drinking let alone bathing.  I’ve been drinking gallons of water, which means frequent trips to the bathroom. 

I had the opportunity to listen to our church service today, to know how many hundreds of people here in San Antonio were praying for me this morning, plus my Facebook and CaringBridge friends.  It was amazing even though I wasn’t able to be in church, I could still hear the message by live streaming, although I went in and out with the fever.  In another place or era that luxury would not be available. In marriage you see their spouse at their absolute worst but love them anyway.  That’s how Bob has been to me.  He made me feel loved and acceptable, just like Jesus.  Years ago someone spoke of “Jesus with skin on.”  When I looked into Bob’s face and heard to jokes to help us keep perspective, I couldn’t thank God enough.  Some of the news we heard this morning was less than positive.  One of the things that I have hoped would happen was to see my grandsons confirmed, so that they have Jesus in their hearts and lives, so that during the challenging times they know who to go to and where to go for help.  Things that I have so much taken for granted seem so good.  I have my own teeth at age 66 and can bite into an apple without difficulty.  I’ve worn glasses since age five in Kindergarten and to be able to sit and watch the football games… thank you God for my sight.  However long the Lord still gives me life here on earth, to be able to have oxygen so I can breathe more easily, is a true blessing.  Our girls are such a blessing.  We couldn’t have children of our own but God had a better plan.  We were able to adopt little babies who are now women of whom we are very proud.  I really had hoped to see my grandsons confirmed, but I know that our daughters will share our Christian faith with them. 

Last night right at sunset the hospital bed was high enough to see out the window and watch the cloud shapes and different colors.  It reminded me of looking out the window of the car in the back seat as Dad was driving home from the lake in Michigan, and how I would watch the clouds then and dream.  My dreams were so limited.  God had so much more in store for us!  I had a card on the window ledge and a yellow butterfly landed on the window right by the card with dragon flies on it.  It made me smile.  The people who have taken care of me, both as an outpatient for the past year and in the hospital have been so loving and caring, and so positive.  That’s the impact I want to have on others… to be positive.  The littlest, simplest task now totally wears me out.  We’ve taken time to reminisce over anniversaries and trips that we’ve had through our 43 years.  This has been a positive experience in that way.  I wouldn’t necessarily have chosen it, but it’s given us perspective.  I still can get over all the sludge that has built up in my chest, but Jesus is going to take it all away.  We have recently purchased cemetery plots so that the girls wouldn’t have to deal with that.  It’s been an opportunity to witness through out tombstone.  We wanted people who would come to the little Texas Hill Country cemetery to know what hope in Jesus is like.  We have one headstone.  On my side it has John 14: Peace I leave with you. My peace I give unto you.  On the other side it has Ephesians 2: By grace you have been saved though faith in Christ Jesus.  Over the years my personality has changed so that instead of worrying I have become much more relaxed and happy.

While talking to one of the doctors on call today, his faith was very evident because he said “God has the final say.”  How many people have not heard or accepted that so that when they face a trauma like this they fall apart or despair.  I didn’t feel that way at all.  I don’t want to go home without Bob, but that’s all in God’s hands too.  We don’t have to worry about unsanitary conditions like so many areas of the world.  We don’t have to worry about our lives being snuffed out because of our faith in Jesus.  The concern for the lost is heavy on my heart.  After hearing the doctor hear about going to any length to try to stay here on earth as if that’s their only hope makes me sad.  I’ve thought about how the places you’ve lived and the people with whom you’ve rubbed shoulders have impacted who we are at this point in life.  I can remember as a kid being such a worry wort.  “What if I got a B instead of an A on my report card.”  God worked all those things out over the years.  Now I can stare death in the face and know that God will work this out too.