One – I am an extremely flexible person.
Two – I am an extremely inflexible person.
Yes, I know they seem to be mutually exclusive statements,
but they’re probably two of the first things my husband or anyone else who
knows me well would think of if asked to describe me.
Let me explain.
In a former life (a.k.a. before I had children) I was a
professional dancer with a very successful livelihood in the theater. Even amongst professional dancers, my ability
to kick myself in the face during a can-can dance or do a split in any
direction at the drop of a hat was envied, and helped me land many a job. As I’ve gotten older, though, I’ve had to
work hard to maintain that limberness, stretching after every yoga or Pilates
class and making sure that my leg still reaches well above my head. Although it doesn’t serve any more to get me
hired for shows, it’s a lovely parlor trick and very impressive at the gym.
On the other hand, my parents will gladly regale anyone who
asks with stories of my legendary stubbornness and inability to detour from my
planned course of action. They tried
their best to make me as flexible emotionally as I was physically, but they
pretty much failed in their efforts.Even when Life with its varied fickle circumstances conspired to aid my parents in their Sisyphean struggle, I was stubborn enough to muscle through and pretty much get what I wanted; and when I didn’t, I had a hard time dealing with the change in my plans.
I’m not much better at it now.
Imagine me, then, on a trek across the country. Our route is mapped out. Our hotels are booked. Our belongings are meticulously packed. And we’re on a tight schedule to make it to San Diego in time to visit Legoland for the boys and spend Sarah’s birthday at the San Diego Zoo. There’s no room for variation in the plan.
Add three children, a nine year old minivan, and Life’s on-going determination to teach me a lesson I’m stubbornly refusing to learn.
You can guess the rest.
The inaugural deviation in my tightly arranged strategy came on the very first day, when we pulled away from our home two and a half hours later than scheduled. This, of course, threw everything off and in order to reach our first necessary stop we ended up driving through the night. It actually put us a little farther along than we needed to be, so I felt an uncharacteristic satisfaction with the change.
That advantage was soon lost, though, when only two days later our air conditioning broke down in Oklahoma. I remained calm because the three hour delay wasn’t going to effect our arrival in San Diego. Even the extra hour necessitated when the tech found a bad tire, didn’t faze me too much; although the additional hour when the tire shop found another bad tire started to bring out my normal change-induced stress.
Back on the road, we made up the time and I relaxed.
Fast forward a week and a half.
We’re ending our first week on the road with Gene’s first century ride – that means 100 miles. In fact, he’s riding 106 miles through the mountains, climbing to about 7100 feet at his highest point.
The temperatures in Arizona are hovering around 112. Even the air conditioners are having trouble dealing with this fifth day in a row of unseasonably – even for Arizona – hot desert weather, and there are fans in every store supplementing the automated cool. There are heat warnings everywhere. The very young, the elderly, and anyone with respiratory issues should stay inside and avoid strenuous activity. Gene has asthma, but insists on not amending his schedule so early in the journey. Perhaps after sixteen years of marriage, I’m beginning to rub off on him.
We carefully plan (there’s that word that gets Life so riled) how to handle the heat, the climb, and the length of the ride. The first part goes perfectly. He leaves in the relative cool of 5am and we follow three hours later, meeting him along the mountain route with cold water, a banana, and a three-child cheering section.
The next part of our plan (there it is again) involves the kids and I taking a break to explore historic Prescott, Arizona then catching him a few hours later to repeat the hydration, sustenance, and support. We arrive in Prescott to find the road through town blocked by the police … for the three hour parade that opens Rodeo Week!
We have no other choice so we park the car and join the celebration. Watching the parade then rooting on the contestants in the Boot Race while eating fry bread. I’m actually starting to like this flexibility thing.
After a fun-filled day we head on to our motel in Ash Fork, Arizona, a town so tiny that it only has a gas station and (miraculously) two motels … neither of which anyone should even think about staying in.
We approach the Copperstate Motel, the one with our reservation, with tired feet and the knowledge that Gene is following us with even more tired muscles. No one’s there. When I look around to find a manager, everything I see said “Run away as fast as possible!” Broken down cars, trash, pieces of cookware, rusted out grills, and too many signs of a not-so-pleasant semi-permanent element in the few occupied rooms.
I listen to my gut and we run to the Ash Fork Motel.
It’s less dangerous feeling; but, after asking to see a room before checking in, the kids and I all agree we can’t handle the smell, the dingy threadbare sheets, and the grime in the bathroom.
We retreat to a Chevron station near the interstate to recover from the shock of almost staying in one of those dives and gather our wits. Luckily I actually have cell service, and call Gene to advise him to ride the extra mile and a half (knowing he’s coming off a 106 mile ride, I cringe at leaving that message) and meet us there.
“Oh, honey,” sympathizes the cashier glancing at my three children, “you don’t want to stay at either of the places here. They’re really only used when the weather gets so bad that the truckers can’t use the interstate. Then we have a regular little city going here for a couple of days, but other than that no one stays there. The closest good motel is in Williams about 17 miles away.”
Seventeen miles away! How can I ask Gene to ride another 17 miles? I can’t. Painful as it might be, I know what we have to do.
When Gene catches up with us, we load his bicycle on the back of the car and drive to Williams. The Motel 6 we check into looks like a Hilton to the four of us. Gene doesn’t quite get why we’re so gaga over the clean room, fresh sheets, and spotless bathroom; but he didn’t experience the Ash Fork near-nightmare firsthand. And all five of us appreciate the comfortable beds. Especially since in the morning we have to get up at 4:30 to drive him back to Ash Fork so he can start the next leg of his ride where he left off.
The flexibility thing isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. I think I’d rather put my leg above my head.
For Gene's very different view of the same journey, check out his blog at www.ConnorsArmy.blogspot.com
To learn more about Connor's Army go to www.ConnorsArmy.org
To see exactly why we're doing this go to www.SunriseDayCamp.org
To make a tax deductible donation go to https://www.wizevents.com/register/register_add.php?sessid=1809&id=1056
No comments:
Post a Comment