Climbing to the Top

Why are the most difficult adventures often so satisfying? How can pain and discomfort be so much fun we want to do it again as soon as possible? Hard to say.

One reason is the challenge to perform better next time. It’s like running your first marathon. The first time is to conquer your fear of the distance; the next time is to conquer the race itself.

Last Saturday I rode in the 34th Annual Ft. Davis Cyclefest, a 76-mile bike tour in the Davis Mountains of West Texas. It was my first time to ride this event, but I’ve been hearing about it for decades.

The race flyer said, “Ride the Scenic Loop; some VERY hard climbs.” That was a correct assessment. Even so, the climbs were harder than I expected.

What I mean is - I knew they would be tough, and since there is no place for hill training where I live, I knew I wouldn’t be strong.  It turned out to be the hardest physical thing I’ve ever done. At least a dozen times I found myself riding in my lowest gear, mashing down the pedals, trying to keep enough forward momentum to stay upright so I wouldn’t fall over with my feet clipped into the pedals. The hardest thing is you can’t quit unless you want to get off your bike and push it the rest of the way up. You have to keep moving.

On one of the climbs, I believe it was Fisher Mountain, the rider in front of me was weaving back and forth in big sweeping arcs, creating their own version of switchbacks, trying to reduce the grade just a tiny bit. I was too afraid to try that, scared of wasting energy turning my handle bars. I just kept creaking forward.

But I made all the climbs and never got off my bike to walk. I rode all the way up every time. That small thing felt like victory to me.

I can’t wait to try them again. I’ll be better next time (OK, OK, maybe I won’t do better if I get the flue, or if it’s snowing, or if my legs are shot from dancing all night with Cyndi, but besides all that); next time I’ll know what to expect. I have an entire year ahead of me to practice mashing my pedals, and I’m no longer afraid of the distance.

I’ll be better, but I don’t expect it to be easier. As American cyclist Greg LeMond famously said, “It doesn’t get any easier; you just go faster.”

Taking on difficult adventures that include pain and discomfort isn’t about being a masochist. It’s about being brave. Most of us can live every day of our life never knowing if we are brave; so we push the limits to find out. After I climbed my last hill I knew I had used all I had. I was brave enough for one day. I was done.

Except, I wasn’t. Every climb has a fun downhill on the other side, and those downhills are rejuvenating. It is wonderful to fly down the mountain (even though I won’t descend with the reckless abandon of the youngsters who passed me). I started feathering my brakes whenever I approached 35 mph. That was fast enough for me. I kept thinking, if I crash on this road Cyndi will kill me and then sell my bike. (Later, after I got home, I looked at my GPS and discovered I actually hit 36.5 mph as my fastest speed, but don’t tell Cyndi. She thinks I held it at 35.)

It was a great day.  It was hard.  I got faster.  The burger I ate afterwards was perfect. The fast guys up front had showered and napped by the time I crossed the finish, but I’m OK with that.

George Sheehan once wrote: “There are those of us who are always about to live. We are waiting until things change, until there is more time, until we are less tired, until we get a promotion, until we settle down / until, until, until. It always seems as if there is some major event that must occur in our lives before we begin living.” I lived that way too many years; I don’t want to live like that anymore. I’m grateful that at 58 years old I can still have adventures like this, and more, that I have room for improvement.

My prayer, as I got off my bike at the end of the ride, is consistent and true: God, thanks for keeping me safe today, thanks for keeping me fit enough to do things like this, thanks for giving the heart and desire to try, and most of all, thank You for giving me one more turn.

“I run in the path of Your commands, for You have set my heart free.” Psalm 119:32

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The Comeback Kid

This past weekend I road my bike 150 miles for the very first time, in the Cactus and Crude MS150, 75 miles on Saturday, and 75 miles on Sunday. It was a transformational experience. I’m not the same guy I was last Friday before the ride. More than 200 cyclists rolled out of the Apache parking lot in Midland at 7:15 AM Saturday morning under cloudy skies and cool breezes. I began in the middle of a huge group of riders, but by the time I crossed the overpass at I-20, I was alone. That wasn’t my intent, and I would’ve had a better day in a group, but I rode by myself for the rest of both days.

The morning miles felt surprising good, until the halfway point when I started feeling nauseous and lightheaded. It was weird, not what I expected. I thought my back and neck would be the first to go, not my stomach and brain. I blamed it on the cold I’d been fighting all week. Maybe it drained more energy than I thought. Maybe I still hadn’t recovered from last year’s cycling crash. Whatever it was, within the next few miles I fell apart.

I felt so bad during the last 30 miles I considered flagging down one of the sag wagons and riding with them to the finish. Emotionally bottomed-out, I was convinced I’d never ride long distance again. I felt my cycling future slipping away. I was a poor excuse for a man, I couldn’t ride, I couldn’t run, I couldn’t hike, I couldn’t love, I couldn’t live. I should sign up for interpretive dance and be done with it.

At least a dozen times I had to pull my bike over to the side of the road to catch my breath and settle my stomach. I would’ve felt better had I rebooted my gut by throwing up, but I couldn’t even make that happen.

The thing is I’m no stranger to suffering in a race. I’ve finished nine marathons so I know I can suffer and keep moving. But this was my first time to fall into an emotional pit this deep.

However, I’ve learned you can’t let bad patches define you. You have to keep moving. Pushing past suffering is a learned skill, and I knew from experience this would not last forever. I also knew I would have the best chance for emotional recovery if I finished the event on my bike instead of in a pickup. So I kept riding.

I finally arrived at the finish in Big Spring at 2:30 PM. I was out for 7-1/2 hours. My rolling time was 5:34, which means I spent a total of two hours either sitting at rest stops or beside the road gasping for breath. The good news was my legs, the one part of me that didn’t fall apart, felt strong and ready for another day.

I finished, showered, put on fresh clothes, and took a nap. My future was clearing. I was nervous about what would happen the next day, but excited to find out. I was coming alive.

My friend, Jeff, suggested that I bonked so completely because I wasn’t taking in enough salt at the rest stops. I think he was correct.

Sunday morning, Day Two, I was anxious about putting my bum on a bike saddle again, but it wasn’t bad as I expected. That was a good start.

We rode north all day, meaning we had a tail wind, meaning I had a serious chance at a better day. And it was significantly better. I was never nauseous and never lightheaded. I was always in control. I was never desperate, even on the extended climbs.

At every rest stop I ate the saltiest snack they had – mostly trail mix, and it was perfect. I tried pickle juice, but decided I’d rather get sick again than drink any more of that.

The volunteers at every rest stop were fun and energetic and helpful. However, I did notice they called me “Sir.” As in, “Can I help you with your bike, sir?” “Would you like to sit in the shade and recover, sir?” “Are you feeling OK, sir?” I’m pretty sure it had nothing to do with my aura of authority, but my gray beard and hair.

The last climb of the day wasn’t as difficult as I anticipated. I’d heard stories about the big hill into the town of Post and dreaded it all morning, but I rode right up the hill like a manly cyclist. Even better, after I made the climb, and during the flat portion before the descent into town, I passed a young flatbelly. I blew right past him. It was an excellent moment in my riding career. I was The Comeback Kid.

I finished Day Two at 12:30 PM, a full two hours faster than Day One. My actual rolling time was 4:32, so I took an hour off my cycling time and an hour off my rest-stop time. Part of that was due to a consistent tail wind, but the rolling hills canceled some of that. Mostly I just felt better and rode better.

This was a big weekend for me; a stronger move into cycling. Not only was it my first MS150, but my first ride beyond fifty miles. And in spite of my struggle, I finished hungry for more, with confidence I can do better next time. Every step forward resets your horizon, and I knew I had even better days ahead.

The participants in the Cactus and Crude MS150 raised over $200,000, and I was happy to be a small part of that. It is a gift from God to know that we can change the world doing something we love. Thanks for giving me another turn.

“I run in the path of Your commands, for You have set my heart free.” Psalm 119:32

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Is It Time For a Fresh Start?

Monday morning my laptop disavowed its own touchpad and I had to borrow a mouse from Cyndi. (It was purple, with flowers, very girly.) Next, my laptop refused to recognize either of the two wireless networks in our house. It was an unsettling trend. What might fail next? I turned the laptop over, pulled the battery out for five minutes to give the electrons time to stop spinning, reinstalled the battery, rebooted, and everything worked. All it needed was a fresh start.

And so I’ve been wondering about that myself these past weeks. Do I need a fresh start?

Several friends have commented about my recent bike crash and my perpetually bad knees, and the comments go like this: “Maybe God is telling you to take up something else. Is it time to move on from running and cycling?”

I was asking myself that same question a few years ago, in 2008 to be precise, when I ran the Austin Half-Marathon.

My training had been marginal, more walking than running, and not much of that, because my knee was still sore. Too much body mass and too little running made it hard to motivate myself to hit the roads every day. Yet, I wanted my love of running back. I wasn’t ready to put that phase of life behind me.

I knew the half-marathon would either make me hungry for more, or tell me it was time to move on to something else. Would I step in or step out? Would I say, “I’ll never do that again,” or say, “When is the next race?”

And now, five years later, I’m wondering the same thing.

I’m currently under the care of Midland Memorial Hospital’s Wound Management Specialists - a lingering effect from the bike crash on March 4^th - and they won’t let me do much of anything until I’m healed.

It’s OK. I am more than willing to stay away from running or cycling or hiking or backpacking or yard work or manual labor in order to let this wound heal, but at the same time I am ready to get back as soon as possible. I am hungry to move.

The question of fresh starts is bigger than running or cycling, wounds or arthritis. I don’t want to squander my life holding on too long to something I should leave behind. How do we know if we’re bravely hanging on or merely being delusional? It isn’t always easy to know the difference.

So one morning this week I read this from Psalm 20, “May He give you the desire of your heart and make all your plans succeed.” (Ps 20:4 NIV)

I saw in the margin of my Bible where each year I had written the desires of my heart in response to this promise. However, I also noticed my desires kept changing. I held on to some, let go of others. How could God give me my desires and make my plans succeed if I kept starting over again and again?

But my core desire stayed constant: I want to impact the lives of people. My heart hadn’t actually changed; it just takes a life time of digging to uncover desires from all the debris thrown up by daily life.

Later that same day, after reading Psalm 20 and praying for insight into fresh starts, I received two clues about the true desire of my heart:

I was listening to an audio book by Rich Roll, titled Finding Ultra, about how he turned around his life after discovering ultra-endurance sports. He described an epic endurance event in which he and a friend decided to do five Iron Men-length events in five days, each on a different Hawaiian Island. His description of the effort was brutal, but the more he talked about his suffering, the more I wished I could do it, too. I realized that was an indicator of my own heart, that it has many more miles in it. Rather than think Roll was crazy, my heart wanted to be with him.

And then I saw some photos of another local cyclist who crashed while riding in the Texas Hill Country, and his injuries looked significantly worse than mine. Again, rather than scaring me away from cycling, I couldn’t wait to get back on the saddle.

I suppose I have a life-time of fresh starts still ahead of me, but for now the one I’m most looking forward to is moving down the road again. I can hardly wait to get started. In fact, I’ve already started planning future races.

“I run in the path of Your commands, for You have set my heart free.” Psalm 119:32

 Find me at www.berrysimpson.com, or www.twitter.com/berrysimpson, or http://www.facebook.com/berry.simpson

Waiting For Change

Saturday morning I sat at one of my favorite writing tables, happy for the opportunity, but a little disappointed. I was supposed to be leading a group of men up Guadalupe Peak that day, and let me say that I use the word “lead” very loosely since every one of the guys can hike the trail faster than me. Still, it was our annual Iron Men Spring Adventure and I didn’t go, my first time to miss since we started this, in 2004. I’m a bit surprised that the guys want to go up the same trail again - same mountain, same hike, year after year. But of course, we don’t really do it for the actual hiking; we do it for the time together on the trail. As William Blake wrote, “Great things are done when men and mountains meet; this is not done by jostling in the street.”

To be honest, I was worried all week about how far I could make it up the trail this year. In fact, I’d already decided my secret goal for the day would be the wooden bridge. I’ve been to the top of Guadalupe Peak at least sixteen times so I told myself a partial would be acceptable.

Here is what happened, and why I didn’t go hiking.

Friday morning after working out at Gold’s Gym in Cyndi’s Body Pump class, after we got home, I realized my six-week-old bicycle-crash hip injury had taken a turn to the worse. It went from being a slowly-healing surface wound to a quarter-sized hole in my skin that appeared to be about five inches deep … or maybe twelve inches deep. It looked like a superhighway for infection. It was kind of scary.

Cyndi made me go to the doctor, right away, that same morning, knowing I would try to walk it off in typical guy fashion and treat it myself. Thanks to her, I was in the doctor’s office by 9:00 am.

Doctor Willingham, my primary care physician for the past twenty years, took one look (It was his second time to see this particular injury because I went to his office two-weeks after the March 4^th crash. He asked why I didn’t come in immediately after the accident, and I said, “Because I was afraid you’d tell me not to go to our vacation in Hawaii and I knew I’d have to disobey.”) and said, “This is what I was afraid would happen.”

He left the room and set an appointment for me to see the Wound Management specialists at Midland Memorial Hospital, Monday morning. Then he looked me in the eye and said, “Berry, no running, no cycling, no working out, no sweating.” He would have added, “No hiking,” had he known I had a big trip planned for the very next day. He didn’t know, so he didn’t say it, but it was clearly implied.

As I walked down the hall to pay for my visit the doctor followed me and reiterated, “No running, no cycling, no working out,” as if I were the sort of guy who would go out and do any of those things in spite of his admonition, as if I were the sort of person who would disobey his doctor and feel OK about it.

It isn’t so bad. I’ve had no pain from this injury, only messy inconvenience. But I’m disappointed that it has gone on and on. Healing has taken longer than I’d scheduled.

I always expect improvement to come more quickly than it does. I want to lose weight right away. I want to learn to speak another language right away. I want to get faster right away. I want to run further right away. I want to learn to draw right away. I want to heal right away.

I’ve lived most of my adult life under the assumption that if I’m disciplined and dependable, if I’m a good student of best practices, and if I carry through with what I learn, improvements should come quickly for me.

Yet, they seldom do, and I’m always surprised when they don’t. Apparently I’m not as good a student as I claim to be. At least, not a good student of my own past.

Does anything with lasting value happen right away? Not in my experience. Finding joy in cycling took many months of riding. Understanding the brotherhood created by men sharing a mountain trail took miles and miles. Learning to offer grace instead of judgment took years. Cherishing my one-on-one time with God has taken, well, my entire life.

Rick Warren said, “We overestimate what we can do in one year and underestimate what we can do in ten. Set larger goals and take longer to reach them.”

I suppose healing this physical wound will take longer than I want. Waiting patiently seems to be the grown-up response, and so that’s what I’ll do. But I’m ready to get back on the trail and back on my bike. Maybe next week?

“I run in the path of Your commands, for You have set my heart free.” Psalm 119:32

 Find me at www.berrysimpson.com, or www.twitter.com/berrysimpson, or http://www.facebook.com/berry.simpson

Playing it Safe?

So Monday about two-and-a-half weeks ago, I went cycling on my quick, noontime twelve-mile route.On the second half of the ride I was enjoying a mighty tailwind, riding east on Mockingbird, approaching the hard right-hand turn at the end of Mockingbird and Garfield, when I felt my back tire go flat just before the turn. I kept riding since I was going fast, and the corner was not a good place to linger because too many cars cut the tangent, and because I was full of myself and thought I was smart.

But as I leaned into the turn, my now-flat back tire rolled out front under me.

It happened so quickly I didn’t know I was in trouble until my right hip bounced hard on the pavement. I apparently rolled over on my back, too, since the whole back of my jersey was covered in road grime.

I stayed still for a few seconds, lying in the road. The fall knocked the wind out of me. But I knew I couldn’t stay there. It was too dangerous to lie there where cars turning the corner wouldn’t see me.

I stood up, slowly and carefully, making sure nothing was broken or bleeding. A quick inventory revealed no broken bones, no road rash, and I didn’t even rip my Lycra shorts.

However, my whole body was shaking and my ribs were sore. I didn’t have the energy or concentration to fix the flat. I had my phone with me and considered phoning Cyndi to come get me, but since my bike still worked and I could walk, I decided to try riding home. I was afraid if I sat too much too soon I would stiffen up and be done for the day.

I crept home on my bike, a little over three miles, riding on a sore hip and a flat tire.

By the time I went to bed Monday night my entire right hip was indigo, and it was swollen up with fluid. It felt hard, like a melon, and it restricted my movement.

When I got up Tuesday morning to go to work, I felt dizzy and nauseous.

I wondered if I had sustained a concussion when I fell, but I checked my cycling helmet for any road damage and there weren’t any scratches on it anywhere.

Cyndi suggested I check my blood pressure. It was 30 points lower than usual. That explained why I was dizzy. All my blood was in my swelling hip.

I thought, "I'm 56 years old, I shouldn't be doing this to myself;" but I also thought, "I'm grateful I can still go hard enough to get hurt." It’s possible to live your entire adult life doing nothing but risk management. Playing it safe. Avoiding crashes. Staying home on the couch. I knew I didn’t want to live like that.

I felt like I could manage my wounds with simple first aid, but I was worried that we were flying all the way to San Jose on Friday and Hawaii on Saturday, and how would I make the trip sitting on my sore self.

As it turned out, the flights weren’t unbearably uncomfortable. And in Hawaii I even went for several two-mile runs.

I read in my Daily Bible from Joshua 1, and the story got me thinking about how quickly our lives can change. Maybe because I was sitting crooked, leaning to my left side because of my swollen right hip, all because of my own sudden change.

God said to Joshua, “Moses my servant is dead. Now then you …”

As in, “The king is dead, long live the king.”

Moses is gone. Now then you

Just like that.

Even though Joshua had lots of time to prepare for this transition, knowing God had appointed him to be next in line, the suddenness of the promotion must have shocked him.

The discomfort of transitions can surprise all of us. The speed of the actual moment too fast to comprehend. And so, too often we avoid scary transitions by fighting change.

Well, later that night at Starbuck’s in Poipu, with our friends, David and Brenda, I mentioned what Erwin McManus said about drinking coffee with the lid on. We leave the lid on the cup to minimize spilling and protect ourselves from getting burned, but in doing so we also eliminate most of the fragrance. And odor makes up half the taste of good coffee.

And so in life, too often we are so afraid of getting burned we take the safe route (avoid hard relationship questions, never try anything new, refuse to change our habits or preferences, hunker down during times of transition and wait until we feel ready), and in the end, we miss half the experience. We miss the fragrance of living.

We have to go without the lid, cannonball into the moment, and be strong and courageous. Take the lid off, even though it’s scary (getting burned with hot coffee is a real risk and can cause permanent damage to skin and stain your clothes (and so can bike crashes)).

Well, I took my bike to Peyton’s for a onceover to check for cracks in the frame or bent derailleurs. It is now hanging from my garage ceiling, looking clean and sleek and fast, and calling out my name every time I hobble past. I can’t wait to get back on it.

I have no desire to crash again; I don’t know how many times I can recover from this sort of thing. But I’m not ready to stop moving, either. Living a completely safe life with the lid on, sounds even worse. I have to keep moving to feed my heart and soul, even if the risk is an occasional crash.

However, I’ve learned a couple of things that should help. I’ll stop sooner when I have my next flat, and I’m sure I’ll take that one corner slower from now on, even on two good tires.

“I run in the path of Your commands, for You have set my heart free.” Psalm 119:32

Find me at www.berrysimpson.com, or www.twitter.com/berrysimpson, or http://www.facebook.com/berry.simpson

Knowing the Answer

Why do I always want to know the right answer, right away? Maybe the engineer side of me wants to fix the problem and prevent further trouble, minimizing the damage. Or the writer side of me assumes I can see the big picture and describe the full meaning.

I used to believe conflict occurred because God wanted to teach me something specific, and the sooner I learned the lesson the quicker the conflict would end. I saw that as a spiritual principle, whether about school work, or relationship troubles, or sickness, or whatever. I don’t know whether I was taught that, or if I made it up myself.

I don’t believe it now, at least not in the same way. Conflict, and the lessons I learn, are usually months if not decades apart. This became clear to me as I worked on my personal timeline in preparation for the Storyline Conference. I realized I’m only just now finding meaning in events that happened twenty or thirty years ago.

So the night before I left for the conference, I finished reading Wild by Cheryl Strayed. It’s an account of her solo hike on a large portion of the Pacific Crest Trail.

She began the hike mourning for her mother who died at 47, her own failed marriage, and her descent into serial sex and drug use. But like most long-distance hikers, her reasons for hiking changed the further she went. Finally, the movement itself is what changed her; the daily monotony of covering the miles spoke to her heart.

She was a newby when she started. She had never been hiking or backpacking and knew nothing about gear or survival in the wild. (At least she was aware of her ignorance. Worse would be a beginner who thought they knew how to do it.) She wrote, “Every part of my body hurt. Except my heart.”

One thing about the book that personally spoke to me was how she accepted her inability to articulate the meaning of her trip. Making a mental flash forward to four years (married) and nine years (kids) after finishing her hike, she wrote, “I couldn’t yet know … how it would be only then that the meaning of my hike would unfold inside of me, the secret I’d always told myself revealed.”

“It was all unknown to me then, as I sat on that white bench on the day I finished my hike. Everything except the fact that I didn’t have to know. That it was enough to trust that what I’d done was true. To understand its meaning without yet being able to say precisely what it was.”

Cheryl Strayed addressed one of the lessons I’m trying absorb nowadays: to wait for the answer. Often, that means to wait for a long time. I’m learning to slow down and don’t get in such a hurry to solve the puzzle or know the answer. For lasting change, I believe we have to linger in the moment.

Don’t get me wrong. I believe God wants us to know him and know his purpose in our life, but it was arrogant of me to think I could quickly figure out God’s purpose in the middle of my conflicts. More often, I was lucky to survive, much less be spiritually insightful.

So I need to slow down, and stop being in such a hurry to understand my story. I’m learning to linger in the moment, accept the changes without knowing why they happened, and trust that God will show me the answer when he is ready. Or when I’m ready, or old enough, or wise enough, to handle the answer. This cannot be passive lingering, however, but constant conversation with God.

Well, speaking of conflict and trouble, last Monday I crashed while riding my bike. Specifically, I was turning a fast right-hand corner when my back tire went flat, causing my wheel to skid out from under me. It happened so fast I didn’t even know I was in trouble until my right hip bounced off the pavement. Instantly, I was down. I hit the asphalt hard enough to knock the wind out of my lungs and make my ribs sore.

My first comment to myself was, “I’m 56 years old; I shouldn’t be doing this to myself.”

But now that its three days later and I can move round and sit up without getting dizzy, I tell myself, “I’m grateful I can still go hard enough at 56 to hurt myself. It means I haven’t given up.”

Yet, I can’t help but wonder: what should I learn from that crash (other than to stop immediately upon getting a flat)?

I don’t know, yet. And I’m comfortable with that sort of conclusion. My engineer self, and my writer self, wants to find meaning right away, but I’ll just have to linger a bit longer and listen to God.

“I run in the path of Your commands, for You have set my heart free.” Psalm 119:32

Find me at http://berrysimpson.com and learn more about my books. Or find me at  http://twitter.com/berrysimpson and at http://www.facebook.com/BerrySimpsonAuthor

Performance Enhancing Drug

The first thing I want to say is that chemical intervention in the human body can work like magic. The second thing I should say, or rather, finally, spit it out - Hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhcckk-PTOOO, there, much better - is this: I have a performance enhancing substance in my body.

I know, I know, you’ve probably seen me running or cycling and your first thought is, “Performance Enhancing Drugs? No harm no foul,” considering how below optimum my enhanced performance can be. I would have to use every PED known to the UCI in order to be even slightly competitive.

However, since about 2004 I haven’t taken a step, or run a stride, without thinking about my knees and how to extend them a few more miles. People ask me often, “Are you limping today?” and I always answer, “Yes,” knowing that limping has become my regular walk.

The diagnosis is osteoarthritis, a degenerative joint disease that leads to loss of cartilage, resulting in decreased movement. The main symptom is pain, causing loss of ability and often stiffness.

You might suspect the cause for my condition to be all the miles I’ve run since 1978, but according to current scientific research, you would be wrong. Running has not been found to increase one's risk of developing osteoarthritis. In fact, regular exercise delays onset of symptoms and extends the life of the joint. As in, use it or lose it.

So back to my opening confession: last Friday I got a Synvisc injection in each knee. It’s an artificial substance (made from rooster combs) which acts like a lubricant and a shock absorber in the joint. In the short term, it relieves pain and restores movement. In the long term, it delays knee replacement.

My only complaint about Synvisc is that the FDA only allows injections once every six months. I would install a portal in my knee for continuous feed if I could get by with it. Like a grease zerk.

There is no use whining about my running career cut short by disability. I was never competitive. For me, it has always been about meditating on my feet. Still, I had dreams to go further more often.

Just this week I read from Donald Miller’s Storyline blog:

It’s an aching truth we are not guaranteed our dreams will become a reality.

Dreaming is one of the things that make us human. We imagine a better future and then design a plan to make it happen. For me, I wish I had worked this particular dream a little harder back before 2004.

Donald Miller continued:

I believe a human being has more than an ability to dream. We have a responsibility to dream. And when our dreams don’t become a reality, we must realize our dreams have power all the same. They can motivate those around us. Our dreams can inspire generations who will keep the work going. We must understand the realization of the dream is not so much the gift as the dream itself.

And so, with the help of a performance enhancing drug, or maybe I should call it a dream enhancing drug, I am back to running longer and cycling further. It isn’t a huge change, more of an incremental improvement, but it still counts.

How about you? Do you have dreams still waiting for action? What enhances your performance?

“I run in the path of Your commands, for You have set my heart free.” Psalm 119:32

Find me at http://berrysimpson.com and learn more about my books. Or find me at  http://twitter.com/berrysimpson and at http://www.facebook.com/BerrySimpsonAuthor

Wounded

I felt very brave to go cycling Friday morning. It was foggy and 45*F. I changed the lenses in my shades from dark to rose-colored so I could see better in the fog. I had new batteries in my flashing red light so motorists could see me better. I was ready to go.

So I rode away from the house only to circle the block and come back home to put on my tights and jacket. I still don’t have a handle on how much to wear when cycling during the winter months. It’s a different calculation from cold weather running. Runners underdress in cold weather, but cyclist have to overdress since we create our own wind chill.

It felt strong to ride fast down “A” street in the cool air with no wind. I even slowed before making the hard right-hand turn into the paved alley just north of the Dakota Apartments.

But I didn’t slow down enough. I made the turn, something I’ve done dozens of times, but when I crossed a big wet spot on the pavement, something else I’ve done dozens of times, both of my tires lost purchase and my bike skidded out from under me. I landed hard on the asphalt on my right hip, elbow, knee, and palm.

As I floundered on the ground trying to get back up, a nice woman drove down the alley toward me. She had seen the entire fall, so she rolled down the window of her tan Tahoe and asked if I was OK.

I slowly wobbled up to my feet. All my bike’s parts seemed to be in working order since I’d used my body to protect my bike from hitting the ground. I didn’t see any blood or torn clothing to hint at serious physical injury.

I said, “Thanks, I’m fine. More embarrassed than hurt.”

She said something like, “OK, be safe. I’ll bet you are sore tomorrow.”

The damage to my body was minimal since I was going slow enough to fall straight down and didn’t skid. I readjusted my equipment and myself and rode on down the alley to Lancashire Road, planning to finish my scheduled 38-mile ride.

But not for long. My hip began to ache, the fog was no longer fun or exciting, and my early morning courage faded. I realized I was done for the day, so I turned around and rode back home to take a hot shower.

Standing in my closet, I carefully peeled away my layers of cycling clothes to assess the damage. I had scraped the skin off my right kneecap and had a growing, palm-sized bright purple bruise on my right hip. Neither hurt right away, at least not as much as they appeared, but I knew I would feel differently the next day.

Later that morning, as I sat in my favorite booth and wrote in my journal about cycling wrecks, I thought about those other wounds that haunt us. The scrapes and bruises to our heart and soul that come from moral failures or personal defeats or thoughtless family or friends, or even the wear and tear of daily life. Those hidden injuries affect everything we do.

Showing off our physical wounds is part of the fun. I often say, “Without a scar there isn’t a story, and without a story, it’s like nothing ever happened.”

But those wounds to our heart, we tend to cover them up. We hide them, thinking we’re protecting ourselves by covering over.

Sometimes we even hide them from ourselves and we don’t know why we behave the way we do. Why we back off when we should be brave, why we slow down when we should fly, why we fail to speak up when someone close to us needs it most.

My wounds from falling will heal soon. But our wounds of the heart last longer. Partly because they are so hard to identify, but also because they tend to hit us in our softest points.

Maybe we have to remove a few layers before understanding how damaging those old wounds can be. Sometimes we may need help with the layers, being too sore and damaged to peel them back ourselves.

As far as cycling is concerned, my plan was to get back on my bike as soon as possible. Moving often flushes the soreness away, something I’ve learned after 34 years of running.

Of course, getting back in my bike won’t heal the skin abrasions. Those take time, and even then may leave a scar or two. My hope after any fall like this is that I will come out of it a better and savvier cyclists.

That has certainly been my experience with deeper wounds in my heart. After treatment and healing, I am a stronger and smarter man. And braver. Brave enough to go out again the next day.

“I run in the path of Your commands, for You have set my heart free.” Psalm 119:32

To learn about Berry’s books, “Running With God,” go to www.runningwithgodonline.com , or “Retreating With God,” go to www.retreatingwithgod.com ,… Follow Berry on Twitter at @berrysimpson or on Facebook … Contact Berry directly: berry@stonefoot.org … To post a comment or subscribe to this free journal: www.journalentries.org

Simple things

Just as you received Christ Jesus the Lord, so go on living in him—in simple faith (Colossians 2:6, Phillips) I asked my friend, Randall, “When do you reach the grandfather stage when you don’t have to do every single thing your granddaughter asks?”

He said, “Well, can you say no to your daughter, yet?”

Good point.

Our Thanksgiving week started Sunday afternoon when Cyndi brought our 2.73-year-old granddaughter, Madden, to our house in Midland, from her home in Mansfield. We had her all to ourselves until her parents, Drew and Katie, drove in Wednesday evening.

Madden is delightful. She talks all the time in (what seems to me to be) highly complex sentences. And she wants me to do everything with her. “Pops, let’s hop across the street together.” “Pops, come sit beside me and read to me.” “Pops, I want some cheese” “Why did you switch cars with Gran, Pops?” “I want to do it myself.” “Pops, can you make a funny face?” “I want to do it myself.” “Let’s go down the big slide together.” “Pops, watch out for the goose poop on the sidewalk.” “I want to do it myself.” “I want you to do it with me.” And, like that. It was great, but exhausting. I haven’t been on two-year-old duty since 1985, and I’ve lost most of my endurance. But simply hanging with Madden simply made me happy.

The thing is, because I wanted to spend as much time as possible with Madden, I didn’t go running or cycling all week. It was a good trade, but I missed moving down the road. I also missed Cyndi’s Wednesday morning Body Pump class, staying home in case Madden woke up.

I finally got to run Thursday morning, in the Midland Turkey Trot 5K.

My daughter, Katie, won the women’s race outright. Of course she did. I didn’t win anything. For one thing, I’m slow, but also because I was in the same age group as Popcorn (Boston qualifier) and Craig (Ironman triathlete). So there was no pretending I had a chance. I did finish ahead of the woman pushing a stroller, so I had that to brag about.

I could have gone to Cyndi’s Body Pump class Friday morning but instead I opted to stand in line outside Sam’s Club with daughter Katie. We tricked my son-in-law, Drew, into going to Cyndi’s class. It was satisfying to see him sore the rest of the day, being the workout beast that he is. It made me feel better about my own soreness from chasing Madden.

To maximize family time, I put all my exercise thoughts toward Sunday afternoon, hoping for a long and fast bike ride. It would be my big comeback, my reentry into routine. My chance to start moving again, as well as burn off holiday snacking.

So when it was finally Sunday afternoon, I got dressed to ride (after some premium time with Cyndi), but when I grabbed my bike from the ceiling hooks, I discovered the back tire was flat.

Not a problem, however. Still excited about finally moving, I quickly changed the tube and raced away down “A” Street.

I was about a mile-and-a-half from home when I realized the shimmy in my back wheel wasn’t from gravel in the road but from another flat. I had to creep back home, keeping my weight forward on my front tire. I changed the tube again.

My second time to leave home, I made it a half-mile before feeling the same unstable shimmy. Bummer, another flat. I was starting to lose my excitement about this Sunday afternoon ride.

When I removed the tube, I saw it was doubled back over itself, overlapping about three inches near the stem. The folding had caused the flat, and it was the second time I’d seen the exact phenomenon that afternoon. The tube must have crossed back on itself while I aired it up. Both flats were my fault; I was in a hurry. I’m not exactly sure what I did wrong, but I suspect I should have put a bit of air into the tube before fitting it between rim and tire.

By then, my brilliant Sunday afternoon had morphed into Sunday evening. It was too dark ride safely, no matter how much I wanted to log some miles. I was quite disappointed. All I needed to top off my excellent week was a simple bike ride, but now the opportunity was gone. I didn’t know what to do with myself except to drive downtown to check my post office box. A weak cure for frustration, I know, but I had to move myself somewhere, even if in my truck.

Later that evening as I told my sad story to Cyndi, I wondered where I had gone wrong with my plan for cycling Sunday afternoon.

But I hadn’t gone wrong (other than poor flat-fixing technique). I had invested my week in the best things of life; the simple things, like chasing my beautiful granddaughter around the house, and standing in line at Sam’s making obscure wisecracks with my daughter. Those simple things bring me the most joy in life.

So I started making plans for Monday. I was certain I could squeeze twelve fast cycling miles into my lunch break. What could be simpler than that?

“I run in the path of Your commands, for You have set my heart free.” Psalm 119:32

To learn about Berry’s books, “Running With God,” go to ww.runningwithgodonline.com , or “Retreating With God,” go to ww.retreatingwithgod.com ,… Follow Berry on Twitter at @berrysimpson or on Facebook … Contact Berry directly: berry@stonefoot.org … To post a comment or subscribe to this free journal: www.journalentries.org