Comes a Time

Once, coming up Route 3 from the Cape, four-year-old Fiona started a temper tantrum in her back seat. No matter how we tried to first soothe her (and later just get her to shut up) we failed. In both commitment and volume, she was indominable. For one solid hour, she screamed a rage that I had no answer for. It was a first inkling of challenges Fiona would face all through her life to date.

In the early years, I found a tenderness and joy in Fiona’s little person that challenged my ability for self-expression. Her wit was prickly, her smiles beyond charming and her intelligence sometimes terrifying. By the time she was 11, I fully realized I was incapable of winning an argument with her.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t the only thing I was incapable of. From no known source, Fiona was saddled with a confounding anxiety that twisted her days in this world with fears and obsessions over much that she could not control. Right through middle and high school her emotions were volatile, her times at peace few and far between.

As a dad and self-designated “fixer of things,” I didn’t have much to offer. My suggestions to “just not think about it” and “try getting some exercise” weren’t helpful. Instead of towards me, she learned to turn to her mother, the wiser, more patient and understanding parent. With Dad, things turned too quickly to frustration and even anger. All of which she rightly rejected. There were several years where, only the rarest occasions, would find us alone, together having fun.

Running was out of the question. Though, before turning roughly 7 years old Fiona had proved herself an admirable runner. That loose assemblage of #2 pencil limbs and torso all came together in a fluid stride that screamed for a mid-distance future. But, she was done with running before she got out of Elementary school. Whenever I asked her to come out with me, I got an eye roll. Eventually, I got the message and stopped asking.

In college, thriving in her Austin environment though still dealing with her stresses, Fiona, out of nowhere, decided to run a Half Marathon. Our relationship, greatly transformed over the past few years, she asked me if I could help get her ready. There wasn’t much for me to do: Fiona is a driven person and she figures things out very fast. I mostly tried to rein her in and then encourage her as she ticked off one milestone after another.

Sunday, was race day. We flew out to Austin, posted up at our favorite hotel with Drew and his girlfriend, Rose and we made a weekend celebration of Fiona’s event. Still selectively heeding my advice, Fiona went out on Saturday and bought a brand new race outfit. Fashion is her calling, how much does Dad really know anyway?

Predawn at the start line, I met her in downtown on the bike I’d rented for the occasion. She was bursting with excitement, energized by the massiveness of what was going down. There were 19,000 entrants. We hugged, I took what she did not need and promised to see each other at two miles. If she was anxious, I did not see it.

With Lulu, Rose and Drew, we caught her up high on South Congress. She loved the hand painted signs Rose had suggested we make the night before. When she came up on us, in spite of the two-mile climb, Fiona’s smile was wide and painless, she even put on a little spirited burst between the mass of bodies as a convincing display of her strength.

Before leaving the hotel that morning, I’d texted Fiona to “run with joy.” A suggestion I personally still take too infrequently but my daughter seemed to have become the very embodiment of the notion. Every time she passed us on the course, her smile was bright, her pace brisk, her focus absolute.

Around mile 9, I had opportunity to slide my bike on to the race course. By this time the pack had broken up enough that Fiona was able to really hammer. From just off her shoulder, I watched her tiny self weaving by runners with relentless fluidity. My heart was bursting and my eyes were welling as I watched her go.  Above all, Fiona is a fighter. Whether it is a half marathon, a difficult sewing project or her own demons, Fiona is undaunted. On the streets of Austin, she was pounding her first race in over 12 years into a humbled submission.

There’s a personal hierarchy of priority when it comes to “wanting” for our children. Safety, happiness, financial security are all reasonable and popular. For me, I hope that my extremely hard working kids, find value in their effort.

Connecting with Fiona at the finishline in downtown Austin, we hugged and broke down the race. As we walked to find the rest of her “cheering section,” there were a few moments of quiet as she drank deeply from her water bottle. Then she turned to me and said, “that was the greatest thing I have ever done in my life.”

Fiona after the “Best thing” she’s ever done.

Mahalo

The floor to ceiling windows created an L-shaped vista on our Hawaiian Paradise. Below, broke the reliable waves of Waikiki. To the east, we were what felt like eye-level with Diamond Head. I was 15 years old and my mother had flown myself, my two sisters, brother and Aunt out for a weeklong Christmas vacation on Oahu. It was 1980 and my mom was an absolute BALLER.

My mom, Betty, greeting friends at her 25th Wedding anniversary

In addition to the mega suite we shared high up in the tropical ether, we packed countless adventures into every day we were out there. There was the essential visit to Pearl Harbor with the solemnity of the USS Arizona. Mom drove us out to Makaha Beach and we bodysurfed for what felt like hours. The waves were ridiculous and there are some days I still get a twinge from the knee that came down a little too hard after I’d got lost in a savage barrel. Mom piloted us up to the North Shore and we took in the absurdity of the Banzai Pipeline. There was a Luau and I did so much Boogie boarding off Waikiki, my nipples bled for days.

At night, we’d sit up in our big suite and order room service Mai Tais and hoover baskets of Macadamia nuts. There was nothing that we wanted that my Mom didn’t provide.

To this day, I still think of this vacation as the standard bearer for what time off should look like. There wasn’t a moment of tension in the entire group (incredible for our Irish Catholic family) and joy seemed to fill every second. Which is exactly what my Mom had hoped for. Because it was the first Christmas we celebrated after my father had died.

As one can imagine, a parent’s death changes the family dynamic in extraordinary ways. My Dad was a powerful, no bullshit, authoritarian. We did things his way: luckily, he had enough charm and wisdom that this was mostly a palatable endeavor. And my Dad provided a significant income: I never felt rich but I never wanted for anything either. Travel and education were huge for Mom and Dad and they spent on it with ferocity. But my Dad made some mistakes/omissions with his legacy plan. There were a few documents that were not executable upon his death and our family income plummeted by about 90%.

When my mom took us to Hawaii, she blew a large chunk of available cash on one crazy, good time. She could have saved it, made it last longer, done a more “responsible” kind of spending but she chose not to.

During the pandemic, like most people, I had a lot of free time on my hands and I watched many of my colleagues get laid off. This combination of truths led me to finally take a look at my finances, establish a budget and start thinking and planning for the day when I would have no work. My future retirement monthly nut doesn’t look that great, our lifestyle is going to feel very different to how we live now. That’s okay, I know what I’m heading into.

Recently, my immediate family was talking about one Last Hurrah for Fiona’s graduation. Provence was mentioned, maybe Portugal. Fiona has always wanted to go to Hawaii. After an initial enthusiasm for the idea, the responsible part of me (such as it is) started pulling back the reins.

It’s an important question to answer, “what’s too expensive?” Is the cost ultimately measured in dollars or the memories that still return decades later and fill us with happiness.

Can’t take it with you.

58

I’ve outlived my father by 2 years. My body feels fantastic, I don’t have a single chronic issue, almost every day I get out and push myself.

Going to work can be a chore but it’s a place of many friends and laughs. Most days, I do at least one thing that’s of interest to me. The pay doesn’t suck and the things we do feel mostly important.

My marriage is imperfect but my wife still feels more like my girlfriend. We’re always affectionate, she knows how to manage me and there’s no better teammate. With a gun to my head, I’d do it all over again.

Haven’t had a drink or drug in 36 years. In some ways, this is the most significant statement in my life. Everything seems to flow forth from this truth. I live my life on the rails of the 12 steps.

Most days I pray and meditate. My belief in God is unreliable as my understanding of a Higher Power changes all the time. The only constant is that it’s not me and I have no way of knowing what God truly wants for me so I just try and move in a Good Orderly Direction. Sometimes, I think of a Higher Power as a dog (God spelled backwards!). Dogs are loyal to a fault, love you unconditionally and bring unspeakable joy and comfort simply by their presence.

Growing up I was told I would do great things. That has not come to pass and I have some resentment that such a burden was put on such a young kid.

Growing up, I was also teased relentlessly for my “love handles.” My entire community of parents, teachers, coaches, you name it, called me “Hank Handles” for a good 3 years of elementary school. It sucked. But those digs still get me out the door every morning. I know I’m the only one that can make me a victim.

The thing I’m most pleased with in my life are my relationships especially within my family. In the roles of husband, father, uncle, brother and son, I’ve done well. When my mother passed, our life together was complete, there were no regrets. My wife is happy. I show up for my siblings. My kids are thriving. My son, at 23 has travelled to over 20 countries. Mostly on his own dime. He leads effortlessly and looks to learn in all things. My daughter focused on fashion at an early age and has stuck with it through college. The internships she’s looking at for this summer are at the highest level. She’s smart, beautiful and works like a sled dog. Every day, she amazes me in some way.

My friends are far and wide across the world. They are a diverse group, each one has made me better. With many, we close conversations with “love.” Intellectually, they challenge me to grow.

I’m not scared of the end. I faced that when I had cancer. My first thought was that my life was well lived, my body well used. I had no complaint.

I don’t have a bucket list. I do have priorities I try to live by. Progress is my “watch word.”

Lefty

There is no efficiency in the activity. The launch point is off, my follow through is limited and there is no whip in my arm. It feels more like a flick than a throw. After 57 years of chucking all kinds of balls, rocks and other objects with my right hand, I am starting over with my left. A brutal case of awful feelings in my right elbow has left me with little option but to seek a new solution. There are two Labs with demanding “Fetch” expectations it’s up to me to find a solution.

Swapping throwing hands has been humbling for me. Though I was never a great baseball player, I always had a decent arm and especially as I got older, I took a teeny bit of pride in out-throwing many of my peers that had succumbed to shoulder and elbow issues. In the dog parks of my life, I’d always been alpha in ball tossing. Not now. These mornings, there’s a sad little hop in my throws. Instead of stepping into it, I kind of mince my way into sending the ball airborne. Distance achieved is maybe 30% of what a healthy right arm gets me. Luckily, my morning walk with the dogs are mostly pre-dawn, nobody sees me. And let’s face it, nobody cares but me. I like being good at things, when they’re taken away from me, a little part of what the kids call “mental wellness” goes with it.

But, I am kind of proud of my new lefty identity. “Good on me for trying,” I say as the dogs race a full 25 yards to track down my best effort (with a decent roll, it’s a little more). Flexibility in the mind has never been my strong suit, that I made changes here rather than just giving up is a promising sign that maybe I still have room to grow. My wife and I started therapy for a third time last night, I’m gonna need it.

A capacity for growth is important to me these days. I’m beyond mid-life crises (I think), so my current restlessness would seem to indicate big changes in the offing. We’ll see. Whatever comes next, I’ll remember to embrace the awkwardness and just fight through memories of “what used to be.” Truth be told, the dogs could give a shit. They still get to play fetch, even if it doesn’t look the same as it used to.

Trust the Process

Two nights before Thanksgiving, my wife and I woke up to a large whooshing sound close by our bedroom window. It was in the middle of a rainstorm with significant wind. I padded over to the nearest window and in the dark, was able to make out a mangled mass of tree that had blown into our sidelawn. At 3am, there wasn’t much to do. I got back in bed resolving to address the situation in the morning.

I was coming off a ten day work week with 12 hour shifts and two cross country flights. With 16 people coming for Thanksgiving dinner there was a lot to do. When the morning light revealed hours of clean up with the fallen half tree, I realized my “holiday” was going to mean a whole lot of work. Assessing the tree situation, I figured I could handle it myself with some lops, a chainsaw and a hearty helping of physical labor. Though the situation looked catastrophic, overwhelming even, it would simplify and resolve with patience, doggedness and process.

“Process” has never been a word/idea that resonates much with me. I’ve been saddled with a mindset that basically leans towards submission if positive returns are not quickly realized. I’m an immediate gratification guy and am besotted with early success. However, I’ve hit a point in this life, where I need to change this mindset. Big changes are coming in the next year and direction and purpose are not clear. I need to make some decisions that require a lot of consideration: process is an essential part of the equation.

Physical pursuits in recent years have given me some positive experience with process. As a bike rider, I really sucked in the beginning and still do to some degree. While running and the attendant race results came easy, on the bike I’ve been thoroughly mediocre for years. Still, I follow training plans, mind my nutrition and scour YouTube for any insight that might make me faster. On practically a daily basis I try to get better though the task at (almost) 58 sometimes seems insurmountable. I trust the process. Some days, I have proof I’m getting better.

I don’t know where all the rumination around the big questions in my life will take me. I just know that like the tree by the side of my house, a solution will only come after some hard work. I’ve been at it for a while and just like limbing that big ass tree, it’s making me tired. Occasionally, it hurts and it’s frustrating. But, there’s a big stack of branches and logs in my brush pile this morning and we pulled off Thanksgiving without a hitch. Similarly, some day, I’ll be beyond the big questions and able to get on with the fun part of Phase 2.

The Case for Exclusivity

The other day in my Apple News feed, there was an article asking, “How to Make Running More Inclusive and Accessible?” It struck me as absurd. A pair of shoes and some clothes you can run in seems just about as inclusive and accessible as you can be. But it’s entirely possible that as a middle aged, white guy, I am not entirely aware of how my sport of choice is exclusive. But seeing the headline of this article did get me thinking about the first time I ran a serious road race and how much of an outsider I felt like at the end.

It was a couple of years after college graduation and I was living with my schoolmate Tom who’d been a very athletic defensive tackle. After work, we divided up our fitness time into lifting pretty serious weight down at a local gym or running, completely flat out around Cambridge’s Fresh Pond or the Charles River. To say we had little understanding of how one was supposed to train for running would be a monumental understatement. From the second we walked out the door to the moment we returned across the threshold, we were in 6^th gear. Injury flare ups were ignored, we pushed through most everything.

Pre-runner me. Alot of weights AND jackassery

Today, I stand at a not very intimidating 5’8” 147 lbs. But back then, believe it or not, your humble narrator was pushing about a buck seventy and yes, I was almost a full inch taller. So, though I’d run for general fitness almost my entire life, I was definitely not built like a runner. Just a few years from football, I was still putting 225 on the bench and banging out reps with relish.

So, when Tom and I decided to try our hand at a 10K along the same river we ran almost every day, we had slim chance of turning too many heads with our performance. Our kit, however, grabbed all the attention we could ask for. For my inaugural race, I wore a powder blue, cotton T-shirt from a lawn service I worked for several years prior. Because my arms were considerably larger than they are today, I’d cut off the sleeves of said shirt. Back then, I did not have running shorts. So, I wore a pair of “bike shorts” with nothing underneath. In case that wasn’t enough of a poor decision, they were cherry red. This is how I toed the line. Whatever Tom wore, I can’t really remember but I am certain it was as absurd and meatheady as my own sartorial choice. At 6’4” and 235lbs, he probably was a bit more of an eyesore than I was.

But, we were both pretty Goddamned fast. In a starting field that was significant, we ran towards the front. In the last mile, on a very hot summer morning, Tom dropped back a bit and I got into a group that, though I looked nothing like them, we all seemed comfortable banging out a 6 teenish pace. They were a bit older than me and decked out in split shorts and singlets with club names on them. Having competed in enough sports over the years, I was familiar with the general animosity they were sending my way, the interloper was clearly performing at a level they felt was reserved for them.

When we got down to the last 600 meters or so, things got serious and though I didn’t drop the group, I finished right in the middle of them, much to theirs and frankly, my own surprise. My time and place left me quite pleased but I was conscience of the fact that while there were handshakes all around for the group that I finished with, only one guy came over to shake my hand. The rest ignored me. I felt something that I’d experienced before after a lifetime of sticking my neck out in unfamiliar places: I was not welcome among these dudes. But, I wanted to be.

I’d loved running my whole life. And in that moment of standing on the finishline as an overwhelmed guy that felt like he had some talent, I wanted to be part of the group that I’d hammered home with.  Standing there all jacked up and looking like someone’s fitness apparel nightmare, I did not fit in and I knew it.

Today, we’re encouraged to be our authentic selves and that is an idea I fully endorse. But like Free Speech, being authentic doesn’t come without consequence and one of them is that some people might not accept you. Groups form because people like to share similarities, just ask any ERG participant, you sign up for the group you most relate to. I related to the way those cats ran and I wanted to be accepted. Inclusion wasn’t going to come from them until I made some changes. And so I did.

I dove into running on my own. There wasn’t anyone to lead me by the hand. I found a store that offered books on the topic, I asked questions, I started doing reasonable workouts and I kept racing. I learned the lingo, bought the right clothes and I was pretty fast. It didn’t take that long and soon I found myself part of a community in Cambridge that was quite large. I lost weight, dressed running clothes and had large groups of friends that I would hit the road and trails with. While we found many things in common, the thing that mattered, the thing that unified us was wanting to go fast. And going fast took a huge effort on all our part and that provided the spirit for our friendships.

Maybe running does need to be more inclusive and accessible. But I know that the transformation I made in becoming a “real” runner served me in every way. It was a humbling experience to learn that the way I was, my authentic self, wasn’t going to get me where I wanted to go. It was me that had to change, not the sport.

Lincoln, Nebraska

With two weeks to go until the end, it had gotten hard to get out the door. Time felt short, responsibilities loomed like thunder clouds and enthusiasm had been replaced by a bit of resentment and a lot of second guessing: WTF was I doing? Was it worth it? Why?

When you’re 57, it’s not unreasonable to be asked why you want to spend a large portion of your free time on a bike (mostly alone). As I think I’ve mentioned before, I don’t have a good answer for this beyond, “most days it makes me feel good.” But, when it’s hard to get out the door, then the “whys?” just become so many little flies swarming around your mental well being. At least, that’s the way it is for me.

Nonetheless, on Saturday, I was in Lincoln, in the dark and a driving rainstorm, getting ready to roll out for the Garmin Gravel World Championships. That’s kind of a large misnomer, it’s not really a “World Championship.” In my case, it was a 78-mile spin on the arrow-straight gravel roads that slice through this part of Middle America’s agricultural sweet spot. I chose the race because it was supposed to be fast. The soaking rain changed that.

In the first two miles, the gravel was more like peanut butter: thick, sticky and an effort just to make the rear wheel spin. Not ten minutes into what would prove to be a five plus hour adventure, I was seriously thinking of just turning around going home. “Why do this? For what?”

I kept riding. Kept thinking of my mantra: present, patient and committed.

A few years ago, in this space, I confessed that my “crazy competitor” had seemingly been retired. I’d lost the ability/need/desire to put myself well beyond the redline. More than once in races, I’d throttled back in the last mile because it just wasn’t important to me to beat the person ahead.

There’s a lot of concessions I’ve made in getting older, this is one that I’d mostly accepted. But part of my mind still longed to go there. It kicked up on some rides, some climbs, some late nights when I lay in bed thinking about the miles that would come in the morning. Like a friend that you love getting in trouble with, I thought about “crazy man” with a mix of horror and affection.

Struggling at the back of the line

At about 38 miles, I had been struggling to hold the wheel of the group I’d ridden most of the morning with. When it was my turn to pull, I was on point and pretty strong. But the second I dropped to the rear, I flailed. It was apparent to me, so I thought, that I wasn’t going to make it to the end with this group. There was no embrace or bitterness of the reality, it was just the truth of my present. Then the road turned to mud, literally.

For three quarters of a mile, up a decent hill, every rider had to dismount, carry their bikes and hike through ankle deep goop. All around me, I could feel competitive spirits wheezing out of lycra clad bodies with all the force of a wide open CO2 cartridge. I thought of what I told my son in the middle of Covid lockdowns, “in every shitty situation, there’s a chance to turn it to your advantage.” With my shoes thick with brown sticky goo, I marched up that hill with purpose, I was in it til the end and this was the day I’d get my crazy back. The group that I was sure would leave me behind, were now in my rearview mirror.

20 miles from home, I hit the gas. Sure, for an ancient being like myself, everything is relative but I definitely started passing people, dropping people and enthusiastically hopping on the wheels of others that, given their years, should have been much stronger than me. It felt great. I was in love with what I was doing.

Always given to bountiful fantasy, I haven’t watched a professional bike race without imagining myself in the situation. How would I respond to attacks? When would I choose to go? Could I ride anyone off my wheel?

At about 6 miles to go, I finally reeled in a group I’d been chasing for about 15 minutes (you can see forever in Nebraska). When I settled in last in line, I was surprised at how they seemed to be sleepwalking to the finish and was quickly made uncomfortable by it. I didn’t want to finish on a soft pedal. And so, when the road tilted up at a fairly gentle angle for a long way ahead, I opened up the throttle passed the group and had that animal feeling of the whole lot of them jumping on to the back of my effort. For a good half mile, I just kept my head down and thought of driving through the pedals as efficiently as I could. Wanting to see the damage I had caused, I turned to find the whole group hard on me. I’d dropped no one, but I had added significant bodies to the following crowd.

The spectre of humiliation played in my frontal lobe. The possibility of getting crushed in the next few minutes, thrown on the scrap heap of those that tried and died was quite palpable. Those fuckers back there looked strong AND young. Clearly, I’d gone to soon.

Crazy Man had a different take on things. Just when all seemed lost, he doubled down. I found another gear. I didn’t give up, I went harder. Really hard and instead of blowing up, strength just seemed to be boiling through me. My trusty body rose to the challenge gave me the best moment of my cycling life. The next time I turned around, everyone was gone. I was alone. And for a beautiful few seconds, I had an idea of what Wout Van Aert gets to experience on a regular basis. This old man was stronger than that sprightly group, by a long shot.

I crossed the line in 46^th place out of 500 something. In the 50-59 age group, I came in 9^th. There’s plenty of room to improve there but I felt good with the result.

Why do I do it? Because I love it. And while there are plenty of attempts to describe love, sometimes it’s better for this guy to just experience and not worry so much about explaining it.

Present, Patient & Committed

It was the fourth lap, at most there was 40 mins of racing left. In the tunnel of pine trees though, there was nothing but solitude. No riders here, just the steamy reality of more pushing on the pedals to be done. My feet were burning, each stroke was painful, a big part of me just wanted to pull over by a tree and stop.

For a good four months, I’d been planning on riding the Dirty Kitten Gravel Race in Rapidan, VA. It’s a unique, multi-20 mile lap event that takes place entirely on a working farm. Though I’m sure many like me are drawn to the allure of a gravel race with not one meter of pavement, however, the reality is farmers don’t need to keep their roads too fancy. This one, upon close inspection at full throttle, was corrugated for miles, laced with logging roads thick with mud and given to loose gravel that savagely tried to redirect tires making every corner a proposition similar to running windsprints on the deck of a sinking Titanic. To top all of this off, quite literally is the Kitten Crusher. Coming about 16 miles into the course, The Crusher is renowned for its 20% grade at the summit. But those that have ridden it will tell you, you’ve got a very long, exposed and hot climb to get within sniffing range of that 20%. In other words, you’ve been grinding well before you get Crushed.

To get to the Dirty Kitten, I took a Friday off from work and drove the seven hours down to Rapidan. It’s a part of the world I’m not very familiar with but it’s gorgeous and every bit as beautiful as Thomas Jefferson, George Washington and Robert E Lee would have you believe. Agriculture is still very much a thing there and pastures, growing fields and silos occasionally make way for Civil War battle sites. On my drive, I took all of this in while listening to Eckhart Tolle’s book, A New Earth: Awakening to Your Life’s Purpose. Tolle made a sensation in the self-help world a few decades ago with his tome, The Power of Now. Heavily influenced by Buddhism, he prescribes a life in which one turns away from “The Ego” and its power to corrupt and instead focus on the immediate, the sensory and a non-reactive approach to life. The teachings were immediate for me and some were profound. I’m going through a point in my life where the way I’ve been doing things is no longer working and I am interested in making changes. Could a bike race give me some answers?

In my pine tunnel, it was 95 degrees at least. My suffering was acute and where I finished in the race didn’t really matter over five hours in. Far earlier, I realized that my shot at a podium finish was unrealistic, there were riders my age much stronger than me. Why not just pull aside and rest? Up until that point, there had been difficult sections but I’d powered through with a positive mindset. My mantra for the day was: Present, Patient & Committed. Through 3 laps and change, I’d thrived on the first two elements, I was struggling with the third. One of the temptations of a circuit course, is how easy it is to just bail if you’re not having a good day. Well before that final lap, you can just come through the finish and head to your car. I was told after the race, that many people had done just this. The heat was “unsafe” in some worlds. Not mine.

Instead of pulling over, I slowed down. Took stock of where I was in terms of my heart rate, hydration and nutrition and decided that I’d give myself some time to get back in the right frame of mind. It wasn’t easy, I still had the Crusher to take on for a fourth time but forward progress continued and before long, I was having moments of going full gas.

Until that moment in the pines, I hadn’t thought of anything else since 8am but riding my bike, grabbing wheels, working with others, drinking, eating and paying attention to difficult corners and random course vagaries (I almost ran over a water moccasin). In other words, I was fully present in what I was doing. In my head, there was only the moment. Not the story that I would tell. Not the voice I’ve been listening to since childhood. Not the adult in me that questions the wisdom of the situations I regularly find myself in. The day was pure, my effort complete.

A hard crash half a mile from the finish was a sharp reminder to pay attention til the very end.

Rolling across the line, there was no “victory” to celebrate. But there was a glorious peace I felt sitting on a cooler, trying to get fluid down. After a few minutes, a young man approached me who seemed to recognize me, though I couldn’t for the life of me, place him.

“Hey, you’re a beast” he said. “I hope I can ride like you when I’m your age.” Though I didn’t recognize, Nick at first, he soon got me up to speed on the work we’d done together out on the gravel. We talked for fifteen minutes, I was frankly touched he’d thought of me at all.

In Tolle’s book, he promises his readers/listeners that if they live an awakened life, their purpose will come to them as an unmerited gift. Some day, they’ll just know what it is they are to do.

I’m not sure why I felt compelled to drive fourteen hours to have my head beaten in on a very, hot and humid day. But for that six hours, I was all in on what I was doing. And at least one person found inspiration in my effort.

I am not sure where the currents of the moment are going to take me. I’m fairly certain it will be a place where I spend more time than less doing the physical things that give me joy.

Recovery

In the end, the result seemed preordained. At the base of the final hill in Bushnell Park, Drew dropped the hammer on his closest rival and powered up the incline with a subtle but emphatic surge. As had been the case all season, here at the State Championship, he crossed the line in first place.

After celebrating with his teammates and speaking with his coach, we found each other in the uneven mix of sweating, exhausted athletes and beaming/concerned parents, friends and coaches. I pulled my son to me and as our heads came side-by-side he said, “One whole year to make up a single second.”

One of the great moments of parenthood: seeing a child achieve their goal.

The year before one second had prevented Drew from being a two-time State champion. For 365 days, he’d allowed that defeat to motivate his training, give him focus and a passion for leaving a mark at his school. After this State Championship, he went on to win New Englands and place 8^th at the Footlocker National meet in San Diego. For years to come, tribute to his accomplishments would hang from the rafters of his alma mater’s athletic buildings.

In 12 step parlance, there are three areas of recovery: spiritual, mental and physical. 36 years ago, I first walked into the rooms of AA. Mentally and spiritually, I struggled with many of the concepts and my own conviction that practicing the principles would make me better. However, I thoroughly embraced the idea of recovering physically. At just 21, I had not drank or drugged for a huge amount of time but I had pursued intoxication on an epic level and especially in the last year of my abuse, the physical toll had become almost as painful as the shame and guilt resulting from my behavior. A devoted athlete, I had punished my body with cocaine, pharmaceuticals, psychedelics and untold gallons of alcohol. It was not unusual for me to wake up with monstrous hangovers that included serious kidney, liver and heart pain. You know you’re an alcoholic when your chronic bad back is caused by toxic kidneys.

So, while the best approach to AA is realized by those that assiduously follow the prescription for spiritual and mental recovery, I focused on my physical rebirth. In my first three months of sobriety, I lost 25 pounds and became a dedicated runner, tennis player and weightroom denizen. Over the subsequent years, my passions for fitness flowed into different areas but with the exception of the early years of my kids’ lives, it never took a backseat to any other pursuit including work, social standing or even attendance at 12 step meetings (to my detriment).

In recent years, I’ve thought quite a bit about my love of fitness. It hasn’t made me rich or really brought in a harvest of fellowship. There are a few close friends I’ve made along the way but the truth is most guys struggle to get their head around long runs and century rides. But for me, fitness has kept trouble at bay long enough to let those other two areas of recovery get better. Mentally I’m doing alright and these days spirituality is growing into my deepest interest. Yes, that probably has something to do with being closer to the end than the beginning but the point is getting interested at all. Prayer and meditation is a fuel I wish I’d embraced more intensely long ago.

One of the basic tenets of the program is that we dedicate ourselves to serving others. I haven’t been great at that either. But when it comes to physical recovery, I have succeeded in passing on “what was so freely given to me.” My son loves to run. And while I claim no part to his success at the sport, I definitely passed on to him the joy that can be found in the wilds of our aerobic frontier.

In my sobriety, like so much of my life, I’m pretty much a B student. There’s nothing wrong with that. If I worked harder, stayed more focused I’d probably be better for it. But I haven’t. Though it is nice to know that some of the physical recovery I shared with my family ended up as a significant success for my son.

Who Will Help?

There was such a completeness of the rainfall, it felt almost suffocating. Sheets of it came down heavy and gray. With temperatures hovering around 50 degrees, despite the mid-June date, there wasn’t much inviting one to come outside and play. More specifically, the thought of riding a bike through the Green Mountain woods for 7 or so hours just didn’t have the appeal it did when I’d scheduled the VT Monster back in January.

Heading into the lobby for my third cup of morning coffee, I’d already texted my wife: Thinking about bailing, nothing about this looks fun. She wrote back that she supported whatever decision I made and that the real deal was all the work I’d put in training for this day. She was right, the training was the real benefit. At this point in my 57 years, racing was just the cherry on top of my fitness sundae. But, then I thought about my nephew Rowan.

Down in Fort Bragg, NC, Rowan was at Selection School for the Green Berets. He’d been there almost three weeks and I’m sure he was deep in the pain cave. Before he closed the door on the outside world, I’d written him that hard things sharpen our edges. They make us better. Here, I was thinking about turning tail and heading home. That didn’t really square with what I was preaching.

Rowan after graduating from Ranger School

Out in the lobby, on my coffee run I saw a burly Thirtysomething with two bike bottles. “You going out there?” I asked with a flip of my shoulder at the soaking misery. With hope and excitement and concern all on his cherubic face, he answered in the affirmative. “I don’t think it’ll be that bad and I can take it slow.” Positivity bubbled out of him as he added, “There’s supposed to be a let up between 9 and 11!”

Going home suddenly felt like lying to my mother or cheating on a test. Easy to do but hard to live with.

Back in my hotel room, I decided to just do the 48 mile ride instead of taking on my 78 mile goal. Even if it was hellacious, in the abbreviated effort I’d get some exercise in and be done in 4 hours or so. My Thirtysomething friend made me feel soft in the power of his enthusiasm. He was up for the challenge, I took more than a little inspiration from that.

In the parking lot by the startline, I was further motivated by the group assembling for the 78 mile ride that I was not going to do. They looked cool on their gravel bikes. Their kit was a good assemblage of many items I coveted and a few that I had. Despite being drenched, they looked like a group I wanted to be a part of and for the last time that morning, I texted my wife: Fuck it, I’m doing the 78.

On a normal week, I spend about 12 hours on my bike. Throw in a couple of runs and gym sessions and all told, I’m putting in about 16 hours on physical fitness. To be honest, The Reason Why is hard to pin down. It definitely makes me feel good, I like being healthy and I’m haunted by father’s early demise and the incessant teasing I experienced about my “love handles” growing up. Are those reasons good enough? A definitive answer eludes me, I just know that I love the feeling of getting it done, it’s what I’m hard wired to do.

The 78 miles ended up being one the best experiences I’ve had at an event. The course was amazing: hard, super steep with multiple bike handling tests. Despite the first couple of hours in the rain, I loved being shoulder to shoulder with fellow riders. There was some chit chat and an opportunity to get to know one young woman that had traveled up from DC for the day. She hadn’t thought twice about bailing. From the beginning to the end, she had a big beautiful smile on her face. Even when it was all mud freckled.

A couple of months ago, Rowan was thinking about resigning his captaincy in the 82^nd Airborne and going to Business school. Whatever he does, the guy will continue succeeding. However, after being accepted to school, he just couldn’t let go of his desire to get into Special Ops. It’s his professional brass ring and by the time I post this, he’ll know if he’s on his way. He’s told me before, he just wants to see what he can get out of himself no matter how gnarly things get. I’m not at his level by a long shot but I think I understand him a little bit.

From what I’ve been told, in the Selection School, Green Berets are judged first and foremost by how they help the team. My Thirtysomething friend in the hotel lobby helped me get out in the rain. So did Rowan. So did my wife and my fellow riders. In my life, that’s the way it always is. Big things never get done by just me, they come when I accept the help of others.