SHELTERED

I'm normally not a whiner nor the son of a whiner.  But today I whine.  I'm claiming a mulligan, my one chance to  rehearse events that may sound whine-ish, but hopefully doesn't end there.

You've had those custom-made right-out-of hell days, right?  Well, all the forces of the universe gathered to test my endurance and stamina today.   I was so exhausted from yesterday's eighty mile run that I didn't get back on the bike until ten am.  That's late when you consider interstate traffic, noise, mounting heat, and start-up winds.

I Would need to pedal sixty-two miles today.  But I had made a major goof.  I had not cleaned out my electrolye power pak fluids from my water bladder.  Big mistake. You know what stale urine smells like, right?  By noon my water tasted like what stale urine smells like.  Just imagining that I was drinking urine turned my stomach. Yet, that was the only water source I had.  I managed to get to 1:30 pm when I became dehydrated.  I prayed and tried to stay focused until I could pull into Dutton about twenty miles further north.

I prayed real hard to be spared the ignominy of dying of thirst and dehydration.  I thought, "well maybe I should lay out of the side of the interstate so someone will stop and offer me a ride."  No, I gotta do this myself.

Three hours turned into nine hours.  The heat practically gave me a white cross to place beside the road--"don't be stupid like this cyclist; always carry fresh Power Pak and plenty of water."

The last twenty miles was a crap shoot and the final ten miles was uphill.  No trees for shade.  No towns to stop by to get some air-conditioning, instead, lots of heat. Eventually whining turned toward reflection, focus, and hope.  I knew that if I could make it to Conrad, I'd have a shower in the local motel.  So hopeful was I that, sheltered under an overpass in a sliver of shade, i made a reservation.

Sometimes wind, heat, incipid long climbs, and personal stupidity hit the fan all at once.  So you learn to pray, shelter, and hope.    And when that tiny town finally comes into sight -- you offer thanks.  :)

TEAM MOSAIC

We've all heard the buzz acronym:

TOGETHER
EACH
ACCOMPLISHES
MORE

Whether football huddles or board room muddles or problems that befuddle, working as a team usually accomplishes more than any one individual's efforts.   Whether a thousand employees, one hundred volunteers, or even two bicyclists that pedal long distance, teamwork is critical to its success.

On Tuesday afternoon, June 16th, we had climbed six miles and had summited a mountaintop and were descending when Rick's front tire blew out, throwing the entire bike into chaotic, horrifying crash mode.  I watched the entire disaster as if in slow motion.  Within seconds Rick was catapulted into the pavement and tumbling across the rumble strip into a pile of loose stones.

The scraped skin and abrasive wounds would have challenged even the strongest stomachs.  That's when I would have gotten a one-way bus ticket and headed home. Yet something remarkable happened.  During that dark night after the accident, Rick kept thinking of how he could keep the team together, how we could go on.

Early the next day Rick became a guy of action.  Together we tried to hitch a ride for Rick to return to Flagstaff where he could rent a car.  Amazingly, one car in Flagstaff was available and by early afternoon, Rick was back in the game now serving as the chief navigator, head engineer, and official car driver.

In the past two days with all my saddle bags in the car (four bags), I have been able to pedal over 160 miles.  And throughout the day, I see that white Ford thing waiting for me to get a sandwich or drink or sit in the car's air conditioning for a few minutes..

I have been astonished at how nimbly my colleage could shift roles and continue the tour.  I have been moved deeply by the level of teamwork that has been modeled on this tour.

So keep your team tight, valued, and appreciated.  For TogetherEachAchievesMore.

ANGEL WITH A NEW HEART

We had been going downhill backwards, as my friend and traveling cyclo-colleague Rick would say.  That means, of course, the opposite--climbing--that began in the basin of southern Arizona and increasingly moved us to higher elevations from 1,000 feet above the desert floor to over 8,000 feet to the southern rim of the Grand Canyon.

We had just crested a mountain and now looked forward to a hair-blowing downhill run at eight percent grade.  Midway down more than our hair blew; a front tire on one of our bikes blew and popped throwing the rider off the bike and onto the rocky roadside.

We assessed the damage to bike and body. When you are launched airborne at 15-17 miles per hour onto rocks and debris there is residual damage.   No broken bones, per se, but torn skin, bruises, and blood.

Cars continued to pass us on their way to see the grandeur of the Canyon.  But one guy stopped, got out, and ran over to us beside our dismantled bike.  You okay? he asked with deep concern.  What can I do to help?  Then he disappeared and returned with his only bottle of water.  Here, take this.

Can I give you a lift to Valle?  Before we had fully decided, Randall was already rearranging his truck to put our bikes into the back of his truck.

Only as we scrunched into his cab did we learn of Randall's incredible story.  Randall is a survivor though, not of cancer, but of a failed heart.  Rheumatic fever had claimed his first heart.  A mechanical heart had given him a few more days of life--"a stop gap heart" as Randall referred to it.  Finally, his turn came to receive a new heart.

That was two years ago.  He now rides a bicycle and when we met, Randall was training for his first triathlon.

Did faith play a role in your recovery?  

Randall couldn't say enough about how God had been with him through the valley of the shadow of death.  When was so sick that he just wanted life to end, God was present with him and sustained him.  He now has a new life, a deep faith, and is present for two daughters and son and wonderful wife.

Though battered and bruised, Rick and I took note of a real hero who discovered God in a failed heart and new hope.  He was at our moment of need an angel . . . with a new heart.

WHEN CHURCH LIVES INTO GENEROSITY

One observation as I pedal thousands of miles each year and sleep in dozens of churches along the way: generosity is an intentional value and culture we create.

In some churches I encounter, unthinking "no's" or  "we aren't set up for that," or "have a nice day," are the first words out of the mouth.  Behind such pragmatic, knee-jerk responses are more than concerns for liability or church rules for use of facility. These are good people, but they've not yet discovered the power of generosity

One pastor, after hearing I was in ministry for nearly 40 years and an ordained elder in her denomination, for example, reluctantly bid me stay at the church provided I put down a $100 deposit.  Fear says, "you just never know what they might do to your fellowship hall."  (Truth be known, Rick, my traveling colleague, is a recovering pew stealer and attends PSA-Pew Stealers Anonymous.  But it's easy to catch him--he pulls it behind his bike.)

But most often, however, we encounter churches that are discovering the power of being generous.  Others are in transition. And when their church policies have not kept up with their generosity, they have offered to put us up in a motel--which we always decline with gratitude.

If worship is a response to God's goodness and not just a rush or feeling comes when we sing our songs to God on a Sunday morning that we label, "worship," then generosity is one of the fruits of true worship.

May you become more generous with each new day and week.  Today, scour the social landscape for opportunities to bless and extend grace. Startle your friends, put the kabash on whine, flabbergast your spouse, baffle your boss with the intoxicating grace of generosity.  After all, Someone has already beat you to the life of generosity, now we just need to show up and open the door for heaven's generosity to come bounding out.

EVEN IN LIFE WE ARE IN DEATH

When you bicycle long-distance, eventually you'll notice them.  A white cross here, a couple of days later another one there. Simple white crosses stand as sentries at the side of our roads to tell a story.  Roadside deaths are especially heartbreaking----a drunken driver hits your loved one, a texting tragedy, a forgotten signal, too fast, too much testosterone, or just plain horsing around. But in the end these tragedies sit beside the road silently proclaiming a story of how fragile life really is.

Today I passed three markers all along a busy highway.  Grant was only 16 and when he died.  He'd probably jumped on his bike for a quick ride just north of Tucson, never dreaming that he would not return to his family.  Now his bike stands next to the road white like an angel.  A jar sits next to the flowers around his bike with a letter in it.

Jim was sixty-five when his fateful day arrived.   His bike, too, is painted in an eerie flat white hue.  He too marks the road--he was a bicyclist, he lived, loved, breathed, but the bike became his last companion.

But the most touching moment for me came at a quiet roadside under a shaded tree. A single tiny Christmas stocking hangs at an odd angle on a corner of the  white iron cross that sits over a bricked square, presumably where the child sleeps.  The child's cross faces the Angel of the Desert--the San Xavier Mission Church.

These roadside white markers remind us how precious life is and how fragile life can be.  As a bicyclist, I am always aware of the road--is the driver racing up behind me texting?  Veering toward the shoulder?  Do I need to ditch? Yet in that gossamer, flimsy line between life and death I have learned to put my trust in God.  If I am convinced of God and his larger vision that supercedes even life itself, then I can ride across the country in a confidence that more is riding on my life than this fragile life or in being just another roadside marker.  You minimize risk, but you become free of white-knuckling it through life, too afraid to risk or dare.

So next time you pass one of those white crosses or see the flowers and letters banking a roadside ending,  remember the fine line that separates us from two worlds But also remember  that there is One who loves you beyond the moon and back with
a love that won't let you go--even when a roadside marker stands as your silent
sentry.



http://tinyurl.com/border2border2015

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Welcome to My Blog

This blog has a start point, end point, and viewpoint. The start is now, today, June 1, the blog's end is July 15th.   Between these two points are viewpoints of encounters, observations, conversations, passions, unexpected outcomes, humor, compassion, and faith.

DAY ONE:  THE JOURNEY BEGINS

Thus begins the bicycle adventure of two redirected guys who happen to have bikes and like to adventure.  In 2013, Rick Stiles and I pedaled our recumbent bikes from the Pacific to the Atlantic.  In 2014 we got dumped off at the Arctic Ocean and wended our way back to the lower forty-eight.  And today we begin a new adventure to pedal bikes from US/Mexican border to the US/Canadian border.

The remainder of this week we'll ride from Townsend to Billings as part of a fine tune training ride, then on Friday catch a car ride down to Nogales, Sornora, Mexico to begin bicycling north to Canada.

I'll include pictures, record timely conversations and a miscellany of what might be of interest to you.  So thanks for checking in on our adventure.  I hope that you'll join our travel team if only vicariously.  That means a lot to us!