In Cycling As In Life; Lessons I’ll Never Forget

This blog is indeed meant to address ideas and issues relating to disability in any form. To me, one of the biggest issues I face regarding my own differently-abled experience is that of grief and loss.

My greatest loss is quite possibly my ability to hit the open road on my bicycle until I can go no further. At which time I’d tack another hour on so as to build strength and endurance for the next ride.

Sounds like terrible pain and suffering to me today and I know that it was then, too. But I wasn’t into the sport of cycling for the physical benefits. I’d ridden a bicycle since age seven and, after nearly four decades on a bike my physical conditioning was never in question.

Rather, bicycling brought with it a cadence upon which the rhythm of my life on any given day could be metered. Turning the cranks, on climbs and on rollers and on the flats. Always in near silence, with the comforting hum of the tires on the pavement and the greased chain, whirring through the gears.

Cranking up the climbs, the short ones, medium ones and the awful-long ones, too.

Then hammering down the descents, screaming along with the roadside just a blur, whether in all-out, balls-to-the-wall, top-gear-damn-I-wish-I-had-one-bigger, bugs-in-my-teeth, hair-on-fire straightaways.

And those twisting and windy descents, every single one of which were special in their own right, even the ones I’d done a million times before. All-out speed wasn’t the only consideration here: The brute strength of the straightaway mountain downhills gave way to the gutsy grace required of a top-speed twisting ride.

And it was always completely up to me as to which of the above I’d take on any given day. Never before and never since has the world felt as if it were mine to do with whatever I wanted.

The possibilities were endless, and weather never stood in the way. Only on occasion would an extra jacket or skullcap be necessary for warmth. And those could be scrunched up and put into a rear pocket. Amazing, those high-tech fabrics.

And those were the glorious days when my riding clothes outnumbered my street clothes. I never wore socks, always shaved my legs and was perpetually dark brown from the sun on my body.

Given the wicking fabrics of my kits and the breathability of my gloves and shoes, moisture of any kind just made my perspiration taste different. On clear days my sweat tasted warm and salty, on rainy days it was just wet. And on freezing days sweat sometimes even became crunchy.

But even on the coldest day I never froze, nor did I ever dehydrate on the hottest. As long as my heart rate maintained its usual place within my comfortable training zone-and after decades of road bicycling I knew it by feel- I was one unit from helmet to my feet. For the next several hours I’d be connected to my bike with hands on the bars, shoes on the pedals and butt on the saddle.

Using every nuance of those five contact points: two hands, two feet, one butt as necessary I was at one with the bike and the road, and I was high as a kite on endorphins, that natural high that comes with extended aerobic exercise.

And the consistent lesson inherent in road bike training was waiting to be learned yet again. And the road can be a harsh, yet fair teacher in that it provides every rider the exact same challenges.

In cycling as in life the ups and the downs are infinitely connected, neither of which can last forever and, with patience and persistence, all can be navigated eventually.

There was no weather I hadn’t ridden before that could ever leave me feeling out of control or precarious-wobbly-slippy-and-slidy. Weather never kept me at home and, even short an arm these days, it still doesn’t. Sadly, not all dangers are about the weather when it comes to sharing the road with other vehicles. But I know that, and I accept it still.

As a man pushing fifty when the odds of a cycling-related traffic accident caught up with me I lost much more than just my left arm and almost my very life. I lost something far, far worse, something that no one else but another athlete who’s experienced similar loss will ever fully understand, no matter how well I put it here.

Throughout my twenties and thirties I spent much of my most productive time on my road bicycle. There exists a flow with traffic that, once joined, I could go for long distances on autopilot.

This allowed me a preponderance of time to do my best and most focused thinking ever. Riding at that comfortable training pace, my heart rate worked as a well-oiled and wondrous physiological machine.

That same increased, oxygenated blood that my powerful heart and lungs combined to provide the reliable strength in my legs also pumped fresh blood to my brain.

The clarity of thought and outright physical strength I had the day of my accident with the Jeep had never before been better, and it hasn’t since, either. It occurred when I was returning home.

But August 10, 2012 was merely one among thousands of such days in which my rides pushed both my brain health and physical endurance and strength to newer and better levels.

Yes, my brain was younger then, which made it that much more of an asset to me, and rightfully so. Back then I wasn’t enabled by a smartphone to remember my appointments and medication alerts and even to have a dictionary/thesaurus app at my fingertips.

Having still had the benefit of both hands and excellent hand-eye coordination, yet another ability maximized by years of cycling, I could crank out the words on my laptop as fast as my mind could conjure them. Rarely was my supple brain, always infused with healthy blood flow ever at a loss for words.

If anything then I had too much to say, and my idealistic brain wanted to say everything there was to say at once. Breaking things down into manageable chunks I could process would only have been doable if I’d had one special person in my life then: An editor.

An editor is the only person who could best direct my ideas and energies to maximize my productivity for both personal and professional gain. I simply wasn’t ready to be a freelance writer yet.

Writing then, as now, is still a deliciously simple task, made even harder by my trying to observe the KISS principle I’d learned in college: Keep It Simple Stupid!

But my writing isn’t meant to be simple, and certainly never stupid. In writing, as with riding, the end result is an unsurpassed level of combined emotional and physical healing that cannot be found elsewhere. I’m experiencing those very benefits right this moment, as I write these words.

That low-impact, cardiovascular workout that feeds both my brain and body I’ve only found during lap swimming workouts as a twenty-something amateur triathlete in Ft Collins in the early 90’s.

But as a lifelong cyclist, my pedaling technique was far better than my swim technique would ever be and I eventually stuck with the bike. With the exception of performance enhancing drugs, it’s something I’ll always have in common with Lance Armstrong.

Up until August 10, 2012 and for many years before that I knew that few other riders I encountered out on the road were stronger than me. Curious, I compared myself to other cyclists this way for healthy and positive reasons. Namely, to continually raise my own personal standards for strength and endurance.

The more I approached other riders from behind on the road, greeting them as I passed by, I knew my efforts were paying off. During the week I indulged in my strength and endurance building experiment with other bicycle commuters.
During after work rides and on weekends all other riders were fair game.

Now that I reflect back on it, other guys would occasionally put the hammer down as I passed, equally unwilling to be passed as I was to let him regain the lead.

Sometimes I held him off, sometimes not, but I noticed one thing to almost always be true: most of the guys who raised our pace and kept it high were guys much older than me.

Every so often after a mile or two or three one of them would suddenly come around me and just leave me in the dust. That never failed to fire me up and getting to share the road with such a rider was always inspiring.

Once I caught my breath I’d always let out a loud Woo-hoo!! out of deference to his ability.

In cycling as in life, we learn from those who are better, smarter, stronger and more experienced than us. It was from the men who rode past me and left me behind that I began learning the fundamentals of road bike racing and training.

The weekly Bustop group ride in North Boulder is one hell of a great ride to go casual, all-out, or anywhere in between. But because of proximity I wasn’t able to ride it more than a handful of times and I’m sure my pack riding skills later suffered greatly for it.

Living east of Boulder in Lafayette I found myself spending the bulk of my road bike training time alone on the open county roads nearby.

This was a great way to practice the meditative aspects of cycling. However, race training, even for the solo disciplines like triathlon and time trials was best done in group rides.

Bike handling skills, pedaling technique, riding in an echelon with several other riders to allow recovery between pulls made everyone faster.

Though it makes sense that a group of riders would be stronger than just one, seeing it in action was an epiphany to me. It also made me laugh to finally learn how it was those older riders could suddenly dart out from behind me and leave me behind.

Those guys were recovering behind me and riding in my draft, letting me do the effort while they hung out behind me the whole time, and why not? Then, as their turnoff approached up ahead off they’d go and make their turn, leaving me with no chance to regain the lead.

In cycling as in life, it always pays to ride smarter, not harder. Those guys taught me that very basic lesson and I’m glad for it. I’m also glad for one other key thing about riders who see each other on the road. That is, our willingness to always stop by another cyclist who might need some assistance.

It’s always possible someone could use a tire patch or a compressed air cartridge for their pump or some water or a Clif Bar, etc.

It’s a protocol we all live by and though our opportunities to help are pretty slim, it’s good to know you’re never alone out there. I’ve even seen a driver park their car off the road to lend assistance, too. And even though it’s been years since I was out on a road bike I always carry flat repair items, just in case.

Such camaraderie and unconditional helpfulness seems in woefully short supply these days. But every cyclist knows-and will always know- that this positive ethic will always be a part of our culture that we can depend on, no matter where we are riding.

All this seems like a mouthful, I understand. But these are just a few of the memories of my wonderful days as a dedicated road bicycle rider. And within seconds they may flash through my mind when I happen to see a lonely rider out on the country roads near my home.

Those memories are fond ones, and I’ll be eternally grateful to have them. But that profound sense of loss at not being part of that culture anymore except vicariously through other riders carries with it some sadness, at times.

Though it’s cold comfort, I remind myself that the end of my days as a powerful bicyclist came as I was doing what I did best and loved most: Making myself an even stronger and better cyclist.

The memory of it all still gives me goosebumps, and having written about it here today reminds me that it’ll be okay from now on… Just different, that’s all. And that’s not a bad thing.

Trust Is Beautiful

There is a certain personality disorder that has as one of its more pronounced symptoms the need for the afflicted to continuously chip away at the trust of those around him to the point where none is left to be found.

Only then, it’s been observed does the afflicted person take action, trying to rebuild that trust they so wantonly squandered in the first place. Then, once the person has achieved their goal of rebuilding that trust, he again squanders that trust until none exists, and the cycle repeatedly continues.

Of course, the afflicted person requires validation of his existence, something he cannot do alone; others must be his foil. And, in order to feed the cyclical nature of the afflicted’s illness, that foil must repeatedly submit to his charms which may easily be rebuked at first but, over time wins the battle of attrition and sees himself as “emerging victorious” over his foil. You know, of course, what comes next.

The old phrase “Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me” seems to capture the essence of this superficially good behavior on the part of the afflicted. This good behavior, however is little more than malice wrapped up in a smiling face and contrite attitude that has only one end in mind-the crushing emotional breakdown of the person to whom this apparent good behavior is directed.

Whether it’s the alcoholic, the philandering spouse, the abusive mate, the child abuser, the serial rapist/robber/pedophile/murderer/attacker, etc. that portends to have a conscience and is begging forgiveness: “I swear I’ll never ever do X again, I mean it this time, please believe me, etc.” is his mantra.

But true sorrow does not require a mantra; it only requires saying “I’m sorry” once or twice.

True forgiveness, how’s, is just that: True. It’s the ultimate act of vulnerability that one person can extend to another person or, as I swear I sometimes do, extend to the world at large.

Just as an opportunist might seek a worthwhile target for a given self-interest, a foil/fool/victim/unsuspecting bystander, etc. might be seeking someone to justify his existence by finding someone to forgive.

How perfect is that? On one hand, an abuser seeks a victim upon whom he may perpetrate his emotional and or physical trauma. And on the other an overly trusting individual wanders into his trap and is cleanly eviscerated at the hands of his sudden tormentor. It’s almost as if the victim wanted to suffer.

From a distance, it seems perfect: One, with a smile on his face but malice in his heart seeks to validate himself by springing that malice upon someone. The other, with a smile on his face and a smile in his heart is simply looking to find or to continue finding the peace that makes his existence worthwhile. If sudden bad fortune should befall him it’s not a bad thing. No. He might actually make his world good again, perhaps even better than before by summoning the mettle to forgive.

One justifies himself by hurting, the other by saying “Oh, that’s okay.” It’s not unlike John Cleese playing the overly forgiving Englishman in the Monty Python movie. He’s constantly being terribly physically injured in some awful way by someone but doesn’t wish to leave the other feeling badly about what’s happened.

“I’m okay, it’s only a scratch,” he says despite the torrent of blood gushing from his temple, “Just a flesh wound,” he says another time “it’ll be right as rain tomorrow,” limping away.

Seeing these scenarios in print does not do justice to the comedic brilliance with which these seemingly graphic scenes are portrayed by the actors. It takes gifted people to make something like this both humorous and, unfortunately for many of us, painfully true. We undoubtedly see ourselves somewhere in these scenes.

Unlike in Monty Python movies, constantly prostrating yourself before others in the hopes of not getting stepped on or run over is neither healthy or natural. We do not exist, not one of us, solely to absorb the anger or hurt of anyone else at our own expense. Yet, though fully aware that when we stick our neck out to forgive we may well have our head chopped off we nonetheless forgive despite the danger.

I’ve done it many times myself: Trying to convince myself I was safe in the face of all evidence to the contrary I have knowingly subordinated myself to another person who, unsurprisingly took the opportunity to once again step on me.

Like Linus’ sister Lucy, who holds the football and encourages Charlie Brown to kick it knowing full well she’ll pull it away again at the last minute we all know what happens next.

It all boils down to Trust. One relatively simple concept that, depending upon how you learn to look at it early in life can make or break your adult experiences.

“Trust bandits” is the term that author/psychologist Ken Magid and Carole McElvey applies to children in their book High Risk - Children Without a Conscience. As the compelling blurb on the cover states: “They grow up to be charmers, con artists, amoral entrepreneurs, thieves, drug users, pathological liars, and worst of all: psychopathic killers . . . and they are often the product of even the best-intentioned families. Who are these children without a conscience?”

Having been raised by parents who had terrible trust issues with their own childhood families I came out of my own youth with a toxic mixture of fear and distrust of the world around me. That wouldn’t have been a bad thing in and of itself if I never left the protective little bubble I grew up in, fraught with terrible energy though it was.

Rather I believed there was something much more and much better than what I’d always known at home and I longed for the day I could be free to go find it.

Then, I reasoned, I could leave all the awfulness behind and be on with my life. And I was largely right about that; I could no longer be hurt by those who took such sadistic pleasure in tormenting me. Though their actions and words would continue to ring in my ears and wring my heart at times I continue to walk through this world, now in my early fifties hoping to find a place where trust as I extend it to others is reciprocated in kind.

It’s a conditional means of seeking trust to be sure, but I’m as yet unaware of a better way to go about it. It’s also a self-defeating way of trying to find trust in the world, for no one will ever extend the same trust to me that I believe I’m extending to them.

Given its subjective nature, two specific examples of trusting situations can never be compared equally. Even if it were possible to do so, I’ve learned that I wouldn’t know how to respond to someone I could “implicitly trust” because I’ve never learned what that means. By the time it became evident that I should learn, too many hearts had been broken and too many feelings so deeply hurt that I can’t bear the idea of risking that again. The more I realize I still need to learn about trust the more I believe this is true.

Enter Sophie, my source of boundless love and trust without conditions. She’s my service dog and we’ve been together almost forever; nine years and counting. We’ve shared all the things that make up a life together, the good, the bad and the downright hellish.

For the record, those hellish times are a direct result of my poor judge of character and overall bad judgment in sizing up a situation. I naively wandered into the path of danger and dragged her along in the process. Today we are both paying a physical price for my mistakes, and that’s enough said on that subject.

But the good times about, riding for miles high in the Rockies along an old railroad line converted into a trail. Sophie was only about two then, but a very strong and hearty gal, and I remember happily thinking how we had her whole life ahead of us.

Now, seven or so years later and our pace has slowed considerably. Sophie no longer brings me bunny rabbits as a present, though she still stalks them until they run away. Squirrels will always flummox her though she’s too ladylike to ever allow herself to get too publicly frazzled about it. She largely ignores deer but reserves the right to charge one anyway if the mood strikes her. Other times a curious deer could look through our front door and Sophie couldn’t care less. Sophie considers her feelings for cats on a case-by-case basis, preferring feral cats because they run away. These days, though both of us are equally likely to walk right on by a cat and, if it’s got enough mettle to keep still we may never even notice.

And, like me sometimes, we’re still learning sometimes painful memories about our world. About three weeks ago, for example, poor Sophie got skunked. It was a terrible experience for her and for me, as I was helpless to do anything but watch. The odor was so overpowering I could not approach and comfort her and, in a strange way I felt kind of scared.

Of the two of us it’s Sophie who is always the strong one and the smart one, the one I can count on. Suddenly, in the context of Sophie being skunked I found myself adrift in a sea of inadequacy and even confusion. I didn’t know what to do.

That last part, in case you were wondering is one example of a “bad” thing we’ve experienced.

But I like to remember watching her run full speed through the snow, burying her snoot as she goes, emerging with an ear-to-ear smile and a face full of snow. Watching her rolling in a snow pile, as she did earlier today, with the same puppy-like joy as ever.

As a puppy though, she didn’t need pain medication to help her feel so spry. Regardless, I’m grateful for the chance to make it happen and to watch it again, as if for the first time.

Swimming she loves like no other, and she’s swum in more places than I’ll ever recall. Some of the more notable include: Horsetooth Reservoir, Bellingham Bay in Washington State, Lake Mead, many little lakes throughout our world travels in the high country, the Sea of Cortez and plenty of other places where the water was deep enough-and where she was quick enough-to go in for a dip before I could stop her.

My favorite will always be the Sea of Cortez or, as I like to call it the Sea of Dan Cortese (he was an old MTV celeb, if I recall). It was almost exactly a year ago that we were there:

The water was so warm and shallow, with no waves, really and I’d go out maybe 25 yards or so and just feel the January Mexican sun as I floated almost motionless on my back. Sophie would sit at attention on the sand, watching me. I know this because every so often I’d roll over to have a look at her. There she’d be, waiting and watching.

After resuming my floating position for a bit, I’d occasionally be startled by something that felt like a head butt. Sure enough, it was Sophie swimming out to check on me, make sure I was still alive, etc. After all, she is my seizure dog and if I’m going to insist on lying motionless, even out in the Sea of Dan Cortez then so be it, she’s gonna come check on me.

And that’s not even the best part! I’d give her lots of love and a big hug and tell her how much I love her, then challenge her to a race back to shore. Keep in mind her little doggie feet weren’t touching bottom…

As we swam back to shore, if I tried hard I could keep up with her with just one arm. Swimming completely under the water I could look over at her paws as she swam. I didn’t care if the warm salty water would irritate my eyes later (they never did) I have always loved watching her swim. Having known her before she could swim and also knowing how she came to learn many fond memories always come to mind.

Watching her doggie paddling along from my vantage point underwater and underneath is a magical image I’ll never forget. There’s something so beautiful about how she does it, how graceful yet strong despite what I believe really should be an awkward sort of affair. But Sophie, like so many things, makes it look easy and delicate.

The other thought that crossed my mind at these times is directly relevant to the subject of this post: I recall imagining being her height and how gutsy she is to swim that far out to in such deep water just to check on me. If the roles were reversed would I be able to do that? I’d like to think so, but I remember how scared I was the first time I got into the deep end of the pool. Wow, she is a brave, beautiful doggie.

I know it’s a long-winded way of getting to my earlier point but that example of swimming with Sophie in Mexico in January, 2017 is the sincerest and most unconditional example of Trust I’ll ever have the good fortune of knowing. It’s better late than never and, where I can I’ll do my best to take what I’ve learned about trust all along, including from Sophie, and extend it to others.


Thanks, girl!