Grinding Gears

This last Sunday I left work and jumped on the turnpike to head to Texas.  Roadtrip to see my Dad, and Mom, but this was for my Dad's 70th birthday.  My wife and I bought tickets to take my Dad to see WWE Smackdown at the BOK.  I was on my way to pick him up and hang out.  He is a huge fan of wrestling, Professional Wrestling that is.  Has been since I can remember.  And, I remember watching wrestling with my Dad on TV, well as long as I can remember watching TV.  That is a lot of TV wrestling watching.  It's a pure miracle that I am so well adjusted.  Or am I?

Monday came early and we set out to ride, me on my bike and my Dad in the follow truck with the dogs.  I was on a mission to bag some climbs.  There are not too many "climbs" in the Texas Panhandle, but there happens to be two massive (by panhandle standards) climbs 40some odd miles from my parents front door.  I set off to slay these two dragons and call it a day.  The weather was very beautiful, but the wind was forecast to be out of the North, it was out of the South.  Headwind/crosswind all the way.  Two hours and some change later we were descending down into the canyon.  I could see my prize across the way.  It was daunting, and staring me in the face.  I flinched.  Totally underestimated this climb.  I felt beat. Scared.

I stripped off my armwarmers, hat, and unzipped the jersey.  This was going to be a battle.  Man I did not do my homework on this climb.  I had already, in my mind, won this thing.  About a mile into this slog, I cracked, there was a small explosion, one might call it a Pop.  Yeah, that was me.  Done, with a big fork sticking out of my back, not even half-way up.  I don't know what it was that hurt the worst?  Lungs? Legs?  D -all of the above and other things not even on the list were calling in damage reports.  "Captain, we've lost contact with the brain, the legs are out of power, and the lungs have imploded.  Imminent and total destruction."

Not to ruin the story, but if you are reading this -then I had to write it, so I am still alive.  There was no way I was going to willingly get off of my bike with my Dad in the car behind me.  Gravity was going to have to pull me to the ground, unconscious, eyes rolled back, mouth foaming.  I could not stop even though every fiber of my existence was a deafening roar to quit.  I would like to write that I "dug deep" "went to my special place" "gutted it out" "buried myself in the pain cave", but these would be lies.  Knowing my Dad was with me, I forced every labored pedal turn one over the other in a slow display of "square pedaling", out of sheer pride.  That's right, Pride. 

I had cracked, but I wanted my Dad to see me, to be proud of me, to show him that I could fight and be his son.  I wanted to be able to look my Dad in the eye and know that he was proud of me.  My Dad would have been proud of me if I had stopped at the start of the climb.  I wanted him to share my victory against this climb as if it were his own.  There was no stopping, I turned myself inside out for pride.  I was so spent, I was finished.  We pulled into the rest stop/scenic overlook to potty the dogs and to have a look at the beast from the top.  I pulled off my jersey and changed into street clothes, put the bike in the pick-up bed and hopped in.  Finished.  I had one more climb to do, but not today.  I won a battle, but the war is still there waiting.  Like General MacArthur I shall return.  I will live to fight another day, my Dad at my side pushing me up a small canyon wall in the Texas Panhandle.

Cheers, Dad