RAGBRAI--Tour of Triumph

Photo taken by Mary Chind of the Des Moines Register

He appeared feeble. Coffee dribbled from his lips. Wooden tables supported the weight of six--five and a half really.

"Five bulls and an old man," we thought.

"I've ridden RAGBRAI for 37 years," he said as we chewed.

Cyclists numbered hundreds around us, but the table dimmed as if in a Monastery. Strong young men and women sat with us. It was only mere seconds earlier when the lot of us judged an old, bent, coffee stained man with Elvis side-burns.

We hesitated...,"How old are you?" asked one cyclist.

"Eighty-four," is all he said.

Whispers and triumph walk hand in hand.

One and a half hours before my spot opened at the picnic table, pale fog rested against the morning sun in the flaunted hills of Iowa like water in a farmer's bucket. One by one, two by two and by the hundreds, silhouetted riders charged into the screen. Pedaled bulls. Breath and breaths poked minor holes into the foggy heaven, but as quickly the holes repaired into thickness. I heard them breath. I heard the bikes whirr. I felt them spin past me and I felt space fill as I passed them.

RAGBRAI-- the raconteur's happy place.

Layer by layer the fog lifted as if God himself sipped from the mighty bucket. One hour. One day.

"May the road rise up to meet you," Dad recited each morning of last week. The Irish Blessing, a team mantra. The road rose.

"You must love hills," said one RAGBRAI teammate, "You really push those hills!"

"I'm desperate to get to the top," I said. "Don't exactly dig the hills."

Tires flattened, spokes broken, derailleurs busted, ankles cracked, elbows, knees and heads scraped and none left wanting even for a moment. Cyclists in blips and seconds moved from taming the road to soothing the sores and souls of the wounded.

"Do you need help?"

A man and his son stopped to assist my wife. Her tire blew.

"I don't know much about fixing things, but I can try to help," he said. "Do you need a tube? I've got one here."

"I think we'll be alright," I replied, "The fact that you stopped helps already."

He left. He even expressed regret that he couldn't help more than what he did.

"Did he really just offer us his gear?" I wondered.

We got as far as we could really, but I couldn't get the outer tire over the new tube we'd bought days before. A minute later another two guys stopped to help, guys who knew something. They gladly taught us how to roll the rubber over the tube and the rim. One of them even used his own CO2 capsule (not cheap) to fill her tire up to about ninety PSI, forty PSI short of full.

"Thank you so much," said Monique.

"Whatever we can do," he answered. "You sure you don't need anything else?"

"We're good," I said, "Thanks a million, man we're grateful." They left us shaking our heads again.

We were stuck there a bit longer. We'd called teammates and knew several of them had portable air-pumps. Two air-pump carrying teammates would arrive soon. Others rode by in the meantime and asked if we were ok.

Finally our two friends rode up and pulled over. We used his air pump and filled her tire to one-hundred and twenty PSI. I think our friend nearly burst a blood vessel airing her tire. Portables weren't exactly meant to push one-hundred and twenty PSI. Takes strength. Add vessel-bursting effort to a seventy-five mile ride. Says something about a man.

Then we continued our ride.

We blew three tires last week and have similar stories to tell about all of them. My spoke broke and while it was repaired I helped another woman make a decision about one of her own bike problems.

Nothing's paid forward, they're simply paid.

Jesus Christ knows something about that.

The day of the "picnic table incident" A woman flew head over apple-cart into the ditch and shot straight up to her feet like a canon ball, hands thrust upward like a gold-medal gymnast--a human cat with nine-lives. She didn't seem to even realize what happened. It all happened so fast. She made me giggle. No, she made me laugh. No one could believe they'd seen such a perfectly executed flip into the ditch--10.0 on my card. She'd ridden into a crack, lost her balance, hit another rider and took a flip-n-roll.

Several of us stopped to make sure she was alright and to re-tell the tale. Others, including my wife used our own bandages and salve to patch up the other rider, a 16 year old girl who was stunned and hurt, but able. The road scraped and bled her. No sooner though had we patched her up, put our arms around her and prayed our thank-you's that she rose up to the hill, hopped atop her bicycle and headed out, taking her worried mother in-tow. I understand the gritted journey.

An army of wheels and cyclists left no man behind.

Cyclists rode with radios attached to their bike. The classical guy, the metal guy, the folk guy, the German pub guy, the Christian Contemporary lady, the country girl, the rap couple--they were all there. We had so much fun on the route. One of them rode past Monique and a a catchy country song with lines like "God is great, beer is good and people are crazy" played on his radio. Maybe you had to hear the song to wrap your brain around where you were. Monique did. He was a fast rider but Monique yelled, "Hey sir, could you slow down because I love this song and I'm wondering if we can ride together until it's over?" The faster rider slowed and they enjoyed a great song before he rode off into the wind once again.

One minute, one hour, one day. If cyclists were lucky, they caught up to the guy in the banana suit or the asian dude in the bear suit. Maybe riders heard like I did, one of the twenty-four wiener balloons in one man's helmet pop and laughed. Maybe they found "Team Pie Hunter", a group of riders wearing helmets shaped like pieces of pie, or maybe riders rode with the couple dressed as clowns. Maybe they saw the ladies with colorful wigs and parrot beaks taped to their noses.

They might've pedaled around the young lady who rode a mountain bike and only seven gears through Iowa, and maybe they paired up with another who took her mountain bike through every mile possible. Maybe cyclists met the sixty-five year old man who recently completed a two-hundred mile tour...in one day, and that through Utah mountains. Maybe they saw the guy with a deformed leg, the oversized shoe turned outward and the large custom pedal made just for him, ride through the Iowa hills, smiling and pedaling. Maybe. Maybe they rode with the man who weighed over three-hundred pounds last year, but who trained six-hundred miles, lost a bunch of weight and hit the road. Maybe you rode with the sixty-two year old man who rode ten-thousand miles last year. Maybe bikers heard the mighty cry of the Marine team, "Hooahhh!"

Maybe they rode in line with dozens whom one by one assisted an old man with an extra handle on the side of his bike and a sign on his back that read something like, "Help me up the hill please?" New strangers-turned-friends formed behind him day in and day out, but the line remained. Each rider took hold of the handle and rose to the hills with him a couple hundred feet before drifting off to the back of the line, allowing another rider to take their place another couple hundred feet. Maybe riders saw their privilege.

Maybe it takes might and vulnerability to be the best.

Maybe cyclists rode with the woman who only two years ago had not picked up a bike in twenty years, but whom this year decided she could do the optional one-hundred miles on day five.

My wife rolled into camp 107.6 miles later.

Maybe. Maybe they rode with the man with Spina Bifida whose doctors couldn't have dreamed he'd walk let alone ride his bicycle over almost twenty-four thousand feet of hills in one week.

We all rode with the thousands in the rain. Bikers stopped with hundreds at a warm church to take some coffee and sugar and an excellent breakfast. Maybe they were there when the church lady opened an oven so that cold, wet hands could warm. Maybe they were one of the many awed by the generosity of the janitor who would clean up the next day. Maybe the same home-owner opened his garage to others as he did for my wife and some teammates so they could again escape the rain and warm up.

Maybe. Maybe their support crew humbly, joyfully and unabashedly kept them in tip-top shape. And maybe their support blessed them as ours did us before we left in the morning.

I saw him the next day, I did. Deep, white side-burns defied a feeble cover for the giant inside--a silhouette of other days--the good 'ol days whether they were or not. Bony knees shook as small feet and small stature clipped in. His bicycle swayed left and right as balance eluded him for three seconds. Then there he was, all 84 years of him headed out of another town, down another road. I remembered the coffee stains and the judgement and I rode behind him for a minute, hardly daring to pass such a hallowed road bull headed away from pasture. He's now held together by patience and the wisdom of the journey.

I'm a young bull. I will rise and meet the road that rises with me. But my nostrils flare by the example of the mighty and the unafraid who's courage ne'er wanes and who's life remains unfeigned.

Whether they rode last week with balloons in their helmets, or rolled with the hearts of hosts of angels, they revealed the wisdom of our years, the tenacity of spirit, the practicality of skill, the happiness of laughter, the satisfaction of effort, and enabled the vulnerability of joy.

And even when they whispered, I engaged in and witnessed a tour of triumph.

The Watchers

He said, "I want to be the same as Uncle Rick."

Children understand mistakes. They don't mind that their parents, uncles, aunts, grandparents and friends make them. They hate hypocrisy, however, and I believe their little "hypo-dars" can spot hypocrisy and differentiate that from a mere mistake. Too many adult children disown their parents and very few of them are angry about their parent's mistakes. I met a man in a small group a few days ago who simply said, "He calls himself my Dad. I just can't stand the hypocrisy." I don't know really what he meant, but his bitterness seeped thickly and belied a relatively cool and simple response to a question about his family.

My Dad-in-law took his motorcycle driver's test yesterday. He didn't work it out this time and I suppose he felt a little foolish. The test isn't as easy as it looks. He said something like, "I feel a little dumb, but I loved the ride here and I loved the ride back home. I'll take the test again in a couple weeks." He has a permit y'see, so must ride with another motorcyclist until he achieves his full license. I'm that guy for the most part. I'm watching. I'm good with dad's mistakes. And his mistakes yesterday did not belie a man after God's own heart. He bore good fruit, and I was watching.

My wife's bike tire went flat on our morning ride. We were disappointed. God provided a bike shop close by, but the shop hadn't yet opened. She said, "Oh well, we'll ride this afternoon. Ride home, get the car then pick me up. I'll hang at boomer's coffee shop until you're here or until the bike shop opens."

Love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, and self-control--the Holy Spirit's fruit--delicious, juice-filled fruit. We rode through a construction zone, a mistake. But my bride didn't belie her fruits by hypocrisy. I was watching.

Monique shaved my head so I'll stay cooler next week when we ride the week-long bicycling event RAGBRAI. My five-year-old nephew watched in wonder as my hair fell to the ground. I could tell his proverbial light-bulb was turned on full. Monique shaved and my nephew Aaron finally said, "Auntie Monique can you do that to me and I want to look like Uncle Rick!" Aaron's hypo-dar read-out said I was safe. He wanted to be like Uncle Rick. I sat somewhat impatiently on my chair, shirt off, shorts on, hair-cut bib on. My nose itched, my neck itched and I got hair on my tongue. But Aaron's hypo-dar was clear, the young man was watching and he wanted to be like me. He wanted to look like Uncle Rick. He wanted to be my little twin. Long term, if he wants to look like me, what does that mean for him? I should want to know.

Later he sat on my lap and leaned against my chest. He turned and I felt his small hand graze over my buzzed head. He did the same to his own head, then leaned against me again.

I've made mistakes. But that day all was clear on the hypo front.

When asked why he didn't go to church, one gentleman said, "Because all Christians are hypocrites!" He's right. I've been a hypocrite. The moment I did something against God's will I hypocrited (is that a word?) God's name. I don't have to say God's name out of context to take his name in vain because the moment I disobey God's will I've taken His name and made it vain. I'm a sinner therefore I need a Savior. Some days there are blips on the children's hypo-dar. I wish that weren't true. But life on this side of eternal life is met with the same unconditional love as the other side of eternal life. I'm glad about that. But what about the blips? What about the oft heard, "He calls himself my dad..."? What about...

Open the closet, wade through your skeletons and bring out, then attach your own hypocrisy meters and wear them like a pace maker on a bad heart. Whatever is true, noble, right and pure; whatever is admirable, excellent and praiseworthy, I urge you to think about such things.

You do, and your children will be there when you're old.

They're watching.

Thou Shalt Not Litter

I don't have writer's block really. I can't seem to focus on a subject. In fact I have too many of them. Too many questions. In one single minute on Sunday I had five random thoughts, most of them somewhat deep and all of them taking me down a different rabbit trail.

Scripture says in Ecclesiastes that "there is nothing new underneath the sun...". Yet all of us respects originality. We respect new fashion, original ideas, new stories, personality changes, original parenting techniques, original tattoos etc.

Wisdom given to any of us by parents, mentors or friends often pares down to, "Think outside the box." If nothing is new underneath the sun, if there are a specific set of rules, if there are boundaries that are not to be crossed, then what does it mean to "think outside the box?"

I was born with a birth defect that might've killed me, shouldn't have allowed me to walk and most certainly could not have allowed me to get rid of my leg braces. I have limitations--I'm not the fastest Joe in the world and I'll never win a balance contest. However, if you want me to teach you how to fall properly, I'm most certainly an expert! Is that thinking outside the box? I'm within my circumstances, but have learned how to use what I have somewhat originally. Do you want to learn how to fall properly? My services are cheap but I don't pay your hospital bills should your "trip and fall" learning curve be steeper than some.

SO I won't win a marathon or a sprint...but what happens if I didn't have to be on my feet? Bicycles! Motorcycles! I know my limitations--I'm not great on my feet, but I'm awesome off my feet. I know my limitations--my calf muscles are small and insignificant, so in order to ride well I need to develop my hamstrings, quads and my thighs. I know my limitations, I know my boundaries. I need a car that sits a little higher and that has excellent back support--or I need a motorcycle. Sounds weird, right? Think outside the box--I can lean into the bike, my back really has no support but it's allowed to stretch and lean and I'm allowed to move relatively freely. I don't have to lift myself out of a motorcycle in the same way that I have to lift myself out of a car. And, with a little adjustment of the shifter, I can adjust the bike to fit my right foot.

I fit within my boundaries--it's just that one or two of those boundaries are flexible. I won't murder, steal or cheat on my wife--those are fixed boundaries, but I can't see myself in a box from which I just think my way out of. I'm going to ride my bicycle 500 miles in one week, in just over a month. What's so amazing about a Spina Bifida on a bicycle? Everything and nothing. I ride as if I know I can. I ride because God gave me legs. You're amazed, and I'm just doing what I can. Maybe I'm limited in my scope? Being on a bicycle is normal to me...an absolute joy for me...then what would be thinking outside the 'box' for me?

Gravity is a rule right? Even astronauts must succumb to limitations caused by atmosphere and gravity. They can't enter or leave the atmosphere at, or from, any angle--astronauts follow a very particular flight path. I have Spina Bifida, I can't escape that. Therefore everything I do, including a bicycle ride, must follow a particular regiment - a specific "flight path" - in order to successfully navigate the limitations imposed by Spina Bifida. Because I know those things, I'm rarely held to any particular distance or dissuaded from many challenges. I'm on a bicycle all the time. I've biked all over the world--Alaska, Amsterdam, Adel (IA), Ashworth Road (nothing significant about Ashworth, I just needed a fourth "A" word). Boundaries stretch.

So nothing is new under the sun, people haven't changed much, the world hasn't changed much. Everything is, at the very core, familiar. Denise at her blog called "A Sacred Longing" said, "I tend to cling to the familiar. Hide in the usual. Wither in the expected." I'm not distressed by the common. I enjoy my routine. But within the common routine, realize that some inescapable boundaries are also stretchable. Our lives are made of moments that look much like slipping on a littered banana peel that you yourself threw to the ground and stepped on--on purpose!

We turn "life-litter" into walls, impassable boundaries. We slip and trip, then retreat. We can't seem to move beyond them, most often because we fear everything beyond them, even though the self-devised boundaries, your walls prove more damaging than anything beyond them. Thou shalt not litter!

I'll never become a ballerina--my boundaries don't stretch that far. But I'm going to eat my banana, and I'm going to throw the peel in a can well off my path. Then I'm going to gear up, clip in, and ride.

If you are interested... here's my first RAGBRAI ride: