AN UPHILL BATTLE

After they rode the first four miles with Daddy, I packed the kids into the car and took off for our much looked forward to first day.

After an uneventful and relatively level first half, we met Gene in the parking lot of a 7-11 to refill his water and give him encouragement.  To be honest, I was thinking to myself that this was pretty much like every other ride he’s done on many weekends; and after waiting an hour for him to arrive I was wondering if we should change our plans to meet halfway each day and the kids and I would just head directly to each new hotel.  Especially after he told us that he’d stopped at another 7-11 to get water and didn’t need our supply.

“He normally rides 40 or 50 miles without me bringing him provisions,” I thought.  “Why does he need us all there now when he can take care of himself?”  We headed off for the second half of the drive to our pleasant little motel in Pine Valley with thoughts of change in my head.
In each small town we passed through, I pictured him stopping to use bathrooms or replenish his water supply.  I was fairly certain our strategy would be altered by tomorrow.

Then we hit the mountains.

Twenty miles of hot arid climbing with no place to turn when in need of water or support.  Every time I had to pump the gas pedal to put the car into overdrive and listened to its struggling engine, I thought of my husband on a bicycle trying to make it up the same climb.  My husband who hadn’t been on a really grueling ride in months.  My husband who had just spent the past seven days sitting in a car for ten hours a day.  My husband who was 49 years old and not necessarily in the best shape of his life.

By the time we got to our motel, I was convinced he was sitting on the side of the road dehydrated and despairing because the mountain had beaten him on his first day.  I gave the kids lunch, filled up the water bottles with ice and cold water, and we jumped back into the car to retrace our steps on a mission of mercy.
By the time we’d driven twenty miles back, I was nearly frantic with worry.  Why hadn’t we seen him?  Had he been hit by a car and knocked into the brush at the side of the road?  Had he been overcome by water loss and rushed to some strange hospital?

The return drive was tense as I tried to hide my concern from the children, but I could sense that Sarah had many of the same thoughts.

As we passed the “Pine Valley 5 Miles” sign we caught sight of a familiar jersey up ahead.

“Daddy!” yelled all three kids simultaneously.

We stopped to offer our now not-so-needed water and support, and to hear a few quick tales of his first day’s journey- including the conversation he was having with some fellow riders as we drove past on our outward-bound search.  By the time the kids and I had gotten back to the motel and settled in he was there.  But my thoughts about changing our planned daily routine had vanished.  I’ll be meeting him halfway every day – at least until we’re out of the 100+ degree temperatures and the 4000 foot climbs.  And I’ll have lots of water with me.

A SHORT MEDITATION ON ANXIETY

Gene is nervous about starting the ride tomorrow.  Although he hasn’t said anything about it to me, I can tell because he’s channeling his anxiety about the great unknown ahead of him into unfounded worry over everything else.  The car that just successfully made a 3,000 mile journey relatively unscathed (except for the air conditioning compressor that blew because of all the bugs we didn’t clean off the grill) is a lemon that’s falling apart before his eyes.  Someone’s going to steal his bicycle from the locked bike rack on the back of the car in broad daylight in the middle of the Legoland parking lot.

I, on the other hand, am quite vocal and open about my anxieties.

I worry that chasing this dream is going to cost us more money than we’re going to raise for Sunrise.  I worry because the perfect house/cat-sitter we finally found is suddenly unnerved about staying in our house because she got bitten by a bug in our bed on her second night there and has asked us to find someone else to take over … now that we’re on the road and have to do long distance what we nearly found impossible to do when we were home.  (Note:  I can’t really blame her, though, because I’d probably react the same way if I was in her shoes sleeping in a strange house that belonged to people I don’t really know and I got eight itchy painful bites in their bed.)  I worry that, while my husband is going to lean out from cycling 3,600 miles and be in peak shape when we get home, I’m going to become a flabby mass of unhealthiness from driving in a car all day and eating every meal in a restaurant.  I worry that my children are going to turn from caring, fun-loving, agreeable people into whiney, bored, adversaries all intent on claiming the same seat and arguing for 3,600 unbearable miles.  I worry that I haven’t given any of this enough thought, and that all my plans are built upon flimsy ideas with no real knowledge or research behind them.

But mostly I worry that we’ll both be so caught up in our anxieties and our planning that we’ll miss the amazing adventure we’re about to embark upon, and the wonderful opportunity we have to slow down and spend some unprecedented time with our children and with each other.

I guess there are times when a little worry can remind us what's most important about the things we do ... or the things we're about to do.