Youth Group

I’m sharing some excerpts from my in-progress manuscript about Rich’s Ride. You can check out previous posts here.

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After dinner we met in the parking lot of an old warehouse. Bruce and Becky unloaded the trailer while I watched the familiar commotion of teenagers entering the run-down building. Each time the door opened, music blared into the night. These kids were converging on an incredible Youth Group.

Bruce told us these young people arrived mostly by bus from low-income housing projects. We’d somehow overlooked those areas during two days in what seemed like a middle-class university town. I guess we tend to see only what’s familiar, or perhaps what we look for. In this space filled with worship music and adolescent energy, the incredible need couldn’t be missed.

While I waited to speak I spoke to the director of the youth center. He told me that nearly every one of the one hundred kids in the room would go home that night to some form of abuse or neglect—if they had a home at all. Several were homeless, living either in cars or as “couch surfers.” As I watched their worship time I wondered what I could possibly say to impact their circumstances. Then I remembered they were there to worship. It wasn’t me they leaned upon. They’d come to connect with the One who could change hearts and alter the course of lives.

So I talked and tried to be vulnerable. I hope I said something meaningful. They laughed, seemed impressed with the story of the ride, and hung out after to talk and check out the bike. But I was acutely aware that their world wasn’t going to be changed by me or my words. I couldn’t scratch the surface of their needs. But I could do the task Jesus placed before me on that night, and trust Him for the rest. That’s what those kids were doing. In the end, that’s what all of us can do.

You can leave that kind of experience in one of two ways. You might be sad, angry, or depressed about hungry, abused kids who don’t seem to have a fair shake. You can feel impotent in the face of so much unmet need in the midst of abundance.

Or you can choose to be grateful. Grateful for youth pastors and volunteers who don’t ignore these kids, for donors who support their work, for kids whose hearts are still open to Jesus in tough circumstances. You can be grateful for the opportunity to share an evening with these folks, to contribute in your own small way. You can be grateful for the ability to chase a dream and encourage others to chase theirs.

Choosing gratitude doesn’t mean ignoring the needs. It means acknowledging that you can’t solve them, either, but you can resolve to continue to do what you can, where you are, with what you have.

Clear eyes. Full heart.

Please leave a comment here.

# # # # #

If you’ve enjoyed the updates from Rich’s Ride, please check out my blog at BOUNCING BACK.

We’ve got a great circle of folks who look at living life on purpose and following Jesus in the real world. I hope you’ll join us.

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Winning Or Winner?

I’m sharing some excerpts from my in-progress manuscript about Rich’s Ride. You can check out previous posts here.

# # # # #

One of many remarkable experiences on RICH’S RIDE was addressing a high school soccer team in Carbondale, Illinois.

Speaking to a team, especially in a pre-game setting, was a new opportunity. I wanted to say something meaningful without overwhelming them, so I began with a simple question. “When a game ends, how do you know if you won?”

Eyes migrated toward the scoreboard at the south end of the field. A few pointed. Pretty obvious—the team with the most goals wins the game.

“And who knows which team won?”

They hesitated before someone replied, “Well, everyone. You just have to read the score.”

“Of course. Everyone knows which team won. Now here’s a tougher one.

“Who controls the outcome of the game?”

Immediately one player shouted, “We do!”

I waited and let that idea sink in for a second. “Really? You’re in complete control of the outcome?”

Of course they knew better. All good coaches acknowledge issues beyond players’ command and encourage their team to focus on what they CAN control. We listed a few examples of other factors that might influence a game’s outcome: weather or field conditions, opponents’ skill and resolve, good/bad bounces, officials’ decisions. It’s just a fact: sometimes the best or most determined team doesn’t win the game.

Then I changed course. “How do you know if you’re a winner?” Curiously, no one looked at the scoreboard. “And who knows if you’re a winner?”

It was quiet, so I waited. Finally a young lady said quietly, “I do.”

I smiled. “That one’s harder, huh? The scoreboard tells who won, but only you, in here,” I put my hand on my chest, “can know if you’re a winner.”

At this point I felt uncertain about how much deeper to go. I know how coaches feel about cluttering their players’ minds before a game. But I had the sense that this coach would be okay with talking about something bigger than game strategy, and it was sort of too late to stop anyway.

I adapted my notion of “being a winner” from the television show Friday Night Lights, which followed a coach and his team through the craziness of Texas high school football. The team adopted a unique rallying cry that reflected the difference between “winning” and “being a winner.”

“Clear eyes. Full hearts. Can’t lose.”

I explained it to the players.

“Have you ever tried to look in a mirror after you ‘got away’ with something? Maybe you broke a rule or lied and didn’t get caught, or took a short-cut in a practice drill and the coach didn’t notice. Maybe you know you didn’t give your best but somehow it worked out okay and now everyone’s patting you on the back and telling you how great you are. And maybe you smile and accept the praise, but when you look in the mirror it doesn’t feel so good.

“Do you know the feeling I’m talking about, when it’s hard to look at the person in the mirror because he or she knows you’re hiding something?” A few heads nodded slowly. “We’ve all had that feeling. We all know what it’s like to think we got away with less than our best, only to endure that crummy feeling of being afraid to face the person in the mirror. It’s like you almost can’t look, or you want to hide.”

So far this wasn’t exactly a rousing pre-game speech.

“Now turn it around. Think about what it’s like to look in the mirror when you know you did the right thing, when you know you did your best. Maybe you’re disappointed because you didn’t get the results you wanted, maybe nobody else noticed Is it different to look in the mirror?”

Heads nodded.

“That’s CLEAR EYES. When you can gaze at man or woman in the mirror and not be afraid or look away, when YOU know that he or she knows you did it right, you’re a winner. Winners live with clear eyes.

“Now think about the people who care about you: family, friends, teammates. Think about what it’s like when you know you let them down because you didn’t keep commitments or do your best. Maybe it’s gossip, or you didn’t hustle on a play, or you weren’t where you said you’d be. And let’s say they didn’t notice.

“What’s it like to face them around the dinner table or in the locker room? They don’t know, or you don’t think they know. Where does that hurt?”

I pointed to my head. No. Then I put hand on heart. Heads nodded.

“Now think about the locker room when everyone gave it everything they had. Think about how it feels when you know you kept your promise when it was hard, when you made a tough play for a teammate.” They were smiling. “Where does that feel good?”

Several kids pointed to their chest.

“That’s a FULL HEART. A full heart is about love. It means you’re connected to your friends, family, or teammates. It means you’re willing to sacrifice for their benefit, for some goal that’s bigger than self-interest. When you have a full heart, you know it’s not about you. You’ve got your buddies’ backs, and they’ve got yours.

“When you play like that, when you live like that, you’re filling your heart with love. That’s what winners do. Winners live with full hearts.

“If you play, if you live, with clear eyes and a full heart, you’re a winner.

“You may not always win. You don’t control the scoreboard. But you can always—ALWAYS—be a winner!

“And here’s the really amazing thing. We’re wired to live with clear eyes and a full heart. We’re created to be winners. And when we operate like winners, we give ourselves the best chance to win.

“There’s no guarantee. We all know that losers sometimes win in the short term. But being a winner, living with clear eyes and a full heart, gives us the best shot at winning in the long run. And that’s what matters.”

# # #

One-shot inspirational speeches probably aren’t the best way to create lasting impact. I don’t know how much those kids really assimilated my message. They smiled and nodded, but I’m sure their minds bounced in a thousand different directions and I was just some old guy on a crazy bike ride. I guess my best hope might be that something clicked with one or two kids and maybe added to stuff they’d heard before.

I do know that the team lost their game, 2-1. Thus endeth my budding career as pre-game speaker guaranteed to produce wins.

I thought a lot about clear eyes/full hearts during the ride. We made mistakes, missed opportunities, and discovered better ways of doing many things. I suppose the scoreboard might argue either that we won or lost. Like the game, that outcome’s mostly beyond our control.

But when you take a God-sized risk and chase a dream, you hit the pillow each night with clear eyes and a full heart.

Please leave a comment here.

# # # # #

If you’ve enjoyed the updates from Rich’s Ride, please check out my blog at BOUNCING BACK.

We’ve got a great circle of folks who look at living life on purpose and following Jesus in the real world. I hope you’ll join us.

Want to receive free updates?
Click below to get Bouncing Back
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Chain Of Rocks (Part 2)

I’m sharing some excerpts from my in-progress manuscript about Rich’s Ride. You can check out previous posts here.

# # # # #

Amazing how much clarity can be gained simply from the perspective of a new day. The next morning Becky and I sat in bright sunshine at the base of that same single lane bridge. A bit of research showed that it was in fact the correct route, and it didn’t look nearly so foreboding in the morning sunlight. So we unloaded the bike, arranged a meeting on the Missouri side of the river, and I set off to finally see if the Old Chain Of Rocks Bridge was worthy of all the effort and anticipation.

Chouteau Island turned out to be a redevelopment area. What looked like a deserted, scary road last night was a re-emerging neighborhood scattered with construction projects. I was still surprised that no signs indicated my approach to what was apparently an important local tourist attraction. At least from the Illinois side nobody was going out of their way to publicize the Old Chain Of Rocks Bridge.

Finally. A small parking lot and an almost secluded entrance to one of the narrowest bridges I’d ever seen. The sign told me this was once part of the legendary American highway known as Route 66. It was difficult to imagine that this thin ribbon of pavement, now open only to cycles and pedestrians, once constituted a portion of a major thoroughfare across the US.

Besides its limited width and being nearly a mile long, the Old Chain Of Rocks Bridge is remarkable for two things. First, it’s really steep! I had to work hard to crank up the incline designed to allow sufficient clearance for river traffic. The bridge also has an unusual twenty-two degree bend partway across.

At the apex I had a great view of the river. I stopped and looked and thought a bit about what I’d noticed about the river as I traveled with it and lived with it. The river’s different that what you normally see from the bridge.

I’ve lived in the Midwest a lot of my life. I can’t imagine how many times I’ve crossed the Mississippi River without paying much attention. At freeway speeds it’s there one moment and gone the next. But when you travel along its length on a bike you have time to notice stuff. Small stuff, subtle changes, things you don’t see from the bridges. You realize that the river isn’t constant, that it’s not just a big ribbon of water. The river has a life of its own, and you can only perceive its nature by being with it for a while. Drive-by encounters won’t do.

I think dreams work like that. When you pass by someone’s dream, it’s pretty hard to understand it. There’s a lot going on that you just can’t see from the bridge at highway speed. Perhaps that’s why others’ dreams are sometimes so hard to understand. When you live with a dream, it looks a lot different than it appears on a quick fly-over. Maybe the idea that seems crazy at from the bridge at freeway speed makes more sense when you travel with it a while. Maybe we should be a bit slower to judge the worthiness of a dream when we bump into it the first time.

Becky and Monte waited for me partway across. We enjoyed splendid river views, shot some video, and chatted with a few tourists who recognized us from a news feature. The bridge is restored with 40’s and 50’s memorabilia recalling the heyday of the Route 66 era. It was fun to wonder about the adventures that crossed that bridge and imagine the dreams people chased along its narrow corridor.

The Old Chain Of Rocks Bridge was a highlight, one of the scenes I’ll always recreate when I picture the ride in my mind. It would have been easy to skip it and move on. We had miles to cover and places to go and it was just an old abandoned bridge. But I’m glad we took time to go back.

When you’re chasing a dream you need to stay focused, but you need to stay focused on the right things. This dream was never about covering miles. The Old Chain Of Rocks Bridge helped us remember that. We’re a culture of freeways and efficiency. But I saw the river more clearly sitting atop the Old Chain Of Rocks Bridge than I ever did whizzing across a freeway bridge. That’s the sort of perspective you need to follow a river—or a dream.

You need to be careful when you’re chasing a dream that you don’t run too fast. A dream is a mystical thing that may not be right where you expect it. It’s worth the time and effort to reach remarkable, out-of-the-way places. Sometimes that’s where mystical things hang out.

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Please leave a comment here.

# # # # #

If you’ve enjoyed the updates from Rich’s Ride, please check out my blog at BOUNCING BACK.

We’ve got a great circle of folks who look at living life on purpose and following Jesus in the real world. I hope you’ll join us.

Want to receive free updates?
Click below to get Bouncing Back
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Chain Of Rocks (Part 1)

I’m sharing some excerpts from my in-progress manuscript about Rich’s Ride. You can check out previous posts here.

Before we get to this week’s excerpt, I have some exciting news. If you haven’t heard already, RICH’S RIDE is getting back on the road again. Here’s what we know so far.

Aaron Smith of Venture Cycling has invited me to join a team for a 500-mile ride from Cincinnati to Washington, DC.  The ride is sponsored by and raises awareness for International Justice Mission (IJM), which works to combat and raise awareness about slavery and sexual exploitation. Project dates are July 12-23, 2012, which included some days for training and speaking and six actual riding days.

I’ll share more info when I know it. For now, I can’t wait to get on the road again.

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I looked forward to the Old Chain Of Rocks Bridge since the beginning of the ride. My Google search for scenic riverfront routes returned surprisingly few options, but an intriguing web page convinced me that I didn’t want to miss the St Louis Riverfront Trail and its Mississippi River crossing at the Old Chain Of Rocks Bridge. However, like many pre-planned episodes of the trip, reaching this historic landmark wasn’t quite as simple as I imagined.

Saturday in St Louis was a rest day. We stayed downtown directly across from the Gateway Arch, courtesy of our new friend Rich McClure, president of Unicorp. It was a great day to just unwind, explore downtown St Louis, shop, and gawk with the other tourists at the incredible Arch that marked the midway point in our journey.

Sunday morning brought a beautiful sunrise and a trip to a church in Alton, Illinois. The plan was to speak there and ride the Illinois side of the river to a trail that connected to the Old Chain Of Rocks Bridge. The weather was perfect. The route was well-marked on my map. I’d do about thirty miles, cross the river, and complete the ride at the base of the Arch. It was the ideal way to commemorate the halfway point of our epic journey.

Beautiful. Perfect. Well-marked. Ideal. Those words should have been sufficient warning, but I’m a slow learner.

We enjoyed a wonderful morning in Alton. One amazing aspect of visiting and speaking in so many different churches is remembering that Jesus doesn’t live in your little building and worship culture. It’s one of those things you say, but when you attend the same church with the same people every week it’s easy to forget Jesus is worshiped and loved by different people in different ways. It reminds me that it’s not how or where we worship, but Who we worship, that matters. The folks in Alton were kind and welcoming and made us feel like part of the family. When you’ve been away from home, dealing with a lot of stress, you forget how much you miss that feeling.

The road along the Illinois side of the river was just as beautiful as advertised—a busy four-lane, lots of Sunday traffic, but nice, wide shoulders. The atmosphere was more hectic than usual because as I traveled south hundreds of cyclists pedaled north as part of a one-day century ride. Between the motorcycles, the Sunday drivers, the cyclists, and everyone gazing at all the sights, it was a bit of a distracting, circus-type atmosphere. It was one of those stretches where Becky lived with fear, but I really enjoyed the ride.

As I cranked along I realized my attention was oddly diverted. As I watched the cyclists traveling in the opposite direction, I caught myself wondering who had the easier ride. I rode slightly downhill with the river, but into a fairly strong breeze. They had the opposite conditions. So I wondered whether I’d rather ride downhill into the wind or uphill with it. Which was easier? As I realized what I was thinking, I thought about how silly the question seemed.

First, it didn’t matter. Unless I planned to turn around, I had my path and they had theirs. Wondering who had the easier task was absolutely pointless.

Second, easier isn’t the point. If I wanted easy I could have stayed home and played video games. The point is to travel well and appreciate my path. Four weeks had passed so quickly, and soon we’d be finished. I wanted to enjoy each moment of this amazing journey without wasting time on pointless speculation.

Finally, by focusing on someone else’s task I looked to my left. Meanwhile, a beautiful stretch of shining water passed unnoticed on my right. This was a scene I’d likely never see again, and I was missing it because I wondered about what someone else was doing.

This sort of comparing is simply wasteful activity. Its only function is taking attention from what’s before me. It’s really an excuse. As long as I’m concerned with someone else who might have more or less, I don’t have to dig into my own work.

What matters isn’t the other guy’s path. What matters is moving forward toward my own goals. Anything that distracts me from pursuing my dream needs to be discarded.

# # #

About fifteen miles down the road I passed through a small town and a park that connected to a trail. The trail follows the top of a series of levees, and every mile or so the trail descends and then ascends again to accommodate a break in the levee for a service road. It’s actually a cool way to construct a trail system—mostly.

Apparently there’s a problem at those service road intersections. Signs instruct cyclists to slow down, yield, but we all know how that works. Since those roads are seldom-used the bikes become accustomed to ignoring the warnings, and I imagine there’ve been a few nasty accidents. At one intersection I encountered a creative attempt at a solution.

It seemed so innocent. I cranked along the top of the levee, king of my world, enjoying the afternoon warmth. I saw the sign indicating an approaching descent, slowed a bit, and rolled over the edge. The idea was to force cyclists to dismount and walk through the gate that created a sharp turn that couldn’t be navigated any other way. It was quite a simple and ingenious solution, except that the turn was too sharp for the handcycle’s long turning radius. Of course I didn’t discover this fact until I was halfway through the gate. I was hopelessly stuck.

I couldn’t back up the steep hill, and it wouldn’t have mattered anyway because there was no way around the gate. I tried rocking back and forth, but I got nowhere. Afternoon became late afternoon as I sat hopelessly trapped by this “safety” gate. After about thirty minutes another cyclist appeared.

“Are you stuck?”

I never cease to be amazed by the unintentionally stupid questions people ask or by my inclination to respond sarcastically. I resisted the impulse to say that I was here intentionally because I actually enjoyed the scenery and it was a nice break from riding my bike. The guy was really very kind and managed to free me from my trap. He also informed me that there were two more similar barriers waiting down the trail.

So I abandoned the bike path, found a busy road with practically no shoulder, and risked life and limb for a couple of miles. Beautiful. Perfect. Well-marked. Ideal.

Finally I caught up with Becky, who couldn’t figure out why I was riding in traffic when I had access to a perfectly good bike trail. I told her about the safety gates. She’d been watching on the GPS. “So that’s why it looked like you were sitting in one place.” Once more I resisted that urge to respond sarcastically. At least that’s how I remember it.

At this point Becky suggested that it might be wise to pack up for the day and complete this ride in the morning. She was probably right. Afternoon was fading along with my positive attitude, and the path along the levees wasn’t as easy to follow as that “well-marked” map indicated. But I was determined to complete my perfect plan, cross the Old Chain Of Rocks Bridge, and finish the day triumphantly at the Gateway Arch.

Determination is a good thing. Mostly.

# # #

Beautiful. Perfect. Well-marked. Ideal.

There were very few times during the eight weeks of RICH’S RIDE when I actually felt frightened and in danger. The next hour or so brought one of those occasions.

The levees wandered away from the main roads, and as evening approached it became a little more difficult to be certain I followed the correct path. In a few spots pavement turned to gravel, which made pedaling harder and the path even more vague. Finally I reached a road which I felt pretty certain would lead me to the Old Chain of Rocks Bridge, though I’d have been more confident if there had actually been a sign confirming that fact. Sunlight was fading. I had to decide. So I turned right and headed down an unmarked two lane road. After a few hundred yards I came to a one lane bridge marked by a rather ominous sign: Chouteau Island. Closed dusk to dawn.

Now you’re thinking exactly what I should have been thinking. It’s getting dark. I have no clue where I am. I’m about to cross a rickety one-lane bridge to nowhere, and nowhere closes at dusk. Anyone in their right mind would have stopped. But I was determined, so up and over this creaky old bridge I went.

Chouteau Island looked like maybe no one had ever lived there. The moment I exited that ancient bridge in the fast-fading light I knew I’d made a mistake. Whether I was lost or not I had no business being out here. In a few minutes it was going to be dark and I suddenly remembered the dangerous reputation of East St Louis. I didn’t feel quite so determined any more.

Phone call. Where are you? I don’t know. I see you on the GPS. I’ll come back over the bridge. Whew! There’s the trailer. We hugged in relief. We both knew I pushed it too far. There were no recriminations, no “I told you so’s.”

There’s a fine line that divides perseverance from stupid risk, and I don’t think that line’s always clear. It’s easy in hindsight to distinguish stubbornness from tenacity, but in the line of fire it’s not always simple. God’s not safe, and neither are God-inspired dreams. When you’re chasing a dream you take some risks, and you just do your best to find courage without recklessness.

However, on that Sunday evening I did find one clear distinction. When it’s getting dark and you’re about to cross a dilapidated single lane bridge with a sign that says: Chouteau Island. Closed dusk to dawn, you’re probably about to cross from determined into stupid.

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Please leave a comment here.

# # # # #

If you’ve enjoyed the updates from Rich’s Ride, please check out my blog at BOUNCING BACK.

We’ve got a great circle of folks who look at living life on purpose and following Jesus in the real world. I hope you’ll join us.

Want to receive free updates?
Click below to get Bouncing Back
delivered directly to your inbox.

Elk River Day (Part 1)

I’m sharing some excerpts from my in-progress manuscript about Rich’s Ride. You can check out previous posts here.

# # # # #

Elk River Day

Friday of week #1 was a late-start day. St Cloud seemed determined to live up to its name as dense fog obscured cars in the hotel parking lot. I was committed to finishing the first week well, but the prospect of riding on back roads with my silly little flag in thirty-foot visibility crossed the line from dedicated to irresponsible.

So I rolled away from the hotel later than planned and encountered detours that redirected my intended route. We were learning to anticipate and accept those inevitable on-the-fly course adjustments. I followed the signs that sort-of marked alternate roads as Becky scouted ahead for best options.

This Friday was one of many days on which RICH’S RIDE showed me that I’m frequently oblivious to what God’s doing beneath the surface. While I worked around weather and roadblocks, the actual bike riding became background for more important events developing beyond my awareness. As I cranked along country roads through deep green Minnesota forests an appointment was being arranged that transformed this foggy Friday into a signature incident.

The hidden story line actually began weeks earlier when I published the initial draft of our itinerary. Our good friend Kathleen noticed that we would pass close to Elk River, which happened to be home to her close friend Kelley. So Kathleen called Kelley and suggested that she follow our progress. She did much more.

When I rolled out of St Cloud that morning, Kelley tracked my movement via the GPS device that translated the bike’s real-time location to our web page. As we meandered through the unintended twists and turns of our impromptu route she realized that I might literally pass within a few blocks of her house. She called Becky and asked if we were interested in meeting and sharing our story at a couple of last-minute gatherings. So while I pedaled along, blissfully unaware of behind-the-scenes developments, Kelley contacted friends in a couple of different groups. By the time Becky told me what was happening we had two speaking gigs arranged later that day.

The day’s ride had to be shortened a bit due to the foggy late start and our improvised afternoon meeting in a nearby park. As the sky cleared we ended the first week of riding in Elk River, packed the trailer, and headed off to talk with a group of home-school students and parents. I always recall this episode of the story as “Elk River Day,” even though I later discovered that we actually stayed and spoke in the neighboring town of Otsego. No reason to let facts get in the way of a good memory.

Honestly, I couldn’t imagine that kids in a park wanted to stop, sit quietly, and listen to me talk about a bike ride. I’d designed my prepared presentation for a controlled indoor setting with PowerPoint visuals, so I was a bit unsure of myself.  But the kids—and their parents—actually seemed interested, curious, and especially fascinated by Monte and my odd bike. The kids asked lots of questions, mostly about dog and handcycle, and we enjoyed a relaxing, unrehearsed encounter that couldn’t have been pre-planned as well as it turned out.

And the theme of Elk River Day continued as the really important stuff still unfolded just beyond my awareness. I knew that Becky had been scrambling to revise our lodging plans. While I enjoyed my mid-day bike ride she searched for an affordable hotel near Kelley’s church where we’d speak that evening. As I finished my presentation and talked with individual kids and parents I noticed that she’d gathered with a small group of moms. Obviously they were praying together.

The first week had been difficult for Becky. I got to ride a bike. She managed equipment and luggage, arranged lodging on the fly, fielded calls and emails, and administered an evolving schedule. She also navigated and tried to keep track of my location so she could keep me safe, fed, and hydrated. In addition, she had to deal with me—no small chore—and help with dozens of small tasks inherent to life in a wheelchair away from our familiar home environment. And she was still recovering from that first-day crash that left her a bit more banged up than she wanted to acknowledge. Her role as the entire on-the-road support team for the project turned out to be more difficult and stressful than we’d anticipated.

Our preparations hadn’t accounted for cumulative effects of the myriad challenges she’d accepted, so when I saw Becky off to the side, praying with that group of moms, I felt grateful for her moment of support and encouragement. And, as usual, I was oblivious to what really happened right in front of me.

God says, “See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it?”

And my answer, sadly, is usually, “Oops, sorry, missed that one.”

As I chatted, Becky told those women that she hadn’t been able to find nearby accommodations. They suggested a few options, including a hotel directly across the street from the church, but she’d already tried them. As Becky shared her frustration and apprehension, one lady said, “Why don’t we pray about it?” So they stood together in the park, hand-in-hand, and talked to God about accumulated concerns, worries, and needs.

As her new friends helped Becky re-load the trailer we talked about what a great afternoon we’d shared and made plans for the evening. One of the ladies encouraged us to try the conveniently-located hotel that had already quoted a price far beyond our budget. I still knew few details as I pulled into the parking lot and waited while Becky headed inside.

She was gone a long time. Finally she returned, slid into the passenger’s seat, and pointed. “Park over there.” Then she related the entire story, concluding with the hotel manager’s offer of a suite for less than a third of the previously-quoted single-room rate.

I don’t understand exactly what happened. I know the events and circumstances, but I won’t even speculate about how it all came together. I’m not sure it’s as simple as A causes B causes C. I think there’s more happening than that.

But…I also don’t think it was all just happy coincidence. I believe God was at work, doing a new thing, keeping His promise to provide.

Here’s what I do know. I know it wasn’t about me. It wasn’t anything I did or caused. While I enjoyed the scenery, Becky scrambled and worked to find a solution. I was just a guy taking a bike ride along a mostly unplanned route from St Cloud to Elk River, completely unaware of an amazing story that God wrote using pretty ordinary circumstances.

And then some people we didn’t know gently reminded us that we weren’t in charge, that this really wasn’t our story. Kelley and her friends helped us re-focus, relax, and remember who we claimed to trust. They reminded us, in the words of writer Mark Batterson, to “work like it depends on us and pray like it depends on God.”

I don’t understand how prayer works. I don’t need to.

The first half of Elk River Day was behind us.

Please leave a comment here.

# # # # #

If you’ve enjoyed the updates from Rich’s Ride, please check out my blog at BOUNCING BACK.

We’ve got a great circle of folks who look at living life on purpose and following Jesus in the real world. I hope you’ll join us.

Want to receive free updates?
Click below to get Bouncing Back
delivered directly to your inbox.

Peanuts And Shells

I’m sharing some excerpts from my in-progress manuscript about Rich’s Ride. You can check out previous posts here.

# # # # #

Some days are peanuts. Some days are shells.

RICH’S RIDE reminded me that attitude alters my perceptions of “peanuts” and “shells.” I can choose those attitudes intentionally or allow circumstances to dictate. It’s a lesson I continue to learn.

Thursday of week #3 began with a fresh sense of energy after a rest day in Davenport, Iowa. The route along the Illinois side of the Mississippi seemed promising—twenty miles to finish the Savannah-Rock Island trail, a short portage through some city traffic, and on to Muscatine, Iowa. The guy at the bike shop sounded absolutely confident and reassuring as he sketched the map. That should have been my first clue.

The initial miles provided splendid early-morning river views and tours through suburban neighborhoods. I was glad we pre-arranged a halfway meeting point in Rock Island because this part of the trail twisted through parks, along levees, and around riverside communities and resorts. Becky couldn’t follow this convoluted path in the car, so I was pretty much on my own for the first part of the morning.

The rain developed slowly, initially a light, almost pleasant drizzle that became a wind-driven downpour as the path emerged onto an exposed levee. I finally found shelter in a picnic area of a small community park, and Becky and I chatted by phone and laughed as we realized that we were probably within a few blocks of each other and had no idea exactly where we were. Bike-shop-guy’s sketchy map wasn’t as helpful as we’d imagined, but there wasn’t any emergency. The rain subsided and that enticing patch of blue sky was just down the road as I resumed my journey toward Rock Island.

That cloudless patch remained tantalizingly close, apparently just on the opposite shore, while I cranked along in a constant sprinkle and a strong west wind. But it wasn’t bad, and I really had no choice anyway because my support team couldn’t locate me. Suburbs melted into city, but that didn’t matter much because I still had a few miles of trail. At least, that’s what bike-guy’s map told me.

The “trail” quickly degenerated from a dedicated path to a series of narrow bike lanes on heavily traveled roadways. Our designated rally point was still a few miles away. Suddenly I was navigating city streets, roadside puddles, and impatient city drivers. And construction zones. Seemed like every other block involved some sort of construction, and the first territory claimed by the crews was the bike lanes. I merged with traffic several times, hoping that texting kids and frazzled parents wouldn’t miss my flag flapping in the breeze. After a few blocks dodging in and out of whizzing traffic and wondering which distracted driver would end my ride, the trail magically reappeared. I cruised along the shoreline, separated once again from cars and noise and danger.

Around the bend, a temporary construction trailer blocked the path. I sat in the project staging area, a jumble of trucks, heavy equipment, parking lots, and sidewalks with no hint of proper direction. Contractor vehicles buzzed everywhere, men and women in hardhats moved gear and equipment in all directions, and I was clearly in the way. I noticed a handful of orange-vested workers digging around some unseen obstacle, so I called out, “Any idea where I go to re-connect with the bike trail?”

I just wanted to escape their work zone and find a way around the trailer. Seemed like a perfectly reasonable question, but I guess it came across differently to the man who started toward me, brandishing a shovel.

“You get that fancy #$%&-ing bike outta here or I’ll show you a @$%#-ing trail.”  He hoisted the shovel like a baseball bat and I got the distinct sense that my head might somehow resemble a hanging curve ball. I briefly considered pointing out that this was Illinois so he was probably a Cubs fan, which meant that he’d most likely swing and miss, but he didn’t look like he was in a joking mood. Since I wasn’t interested in testing my bike helmet against the shovel, I figured it might be best to move along. So I wandered through the confused mess of the construction site, ignoring irritated stares, until I re-discovered the trail.

As I cranked away, and my heart rate subsided, I wondered why that man got so angry with an innocent request for help. I was just trying to do something good, to live out this crazy dream and share hope with others and raise some money for a worthy cause. What transformed him into a hardhat version of Babe Ruth threatening to smack me into the bleachers with his mud-caked bat?

I was a bit frustrated by a blocked trail, a hand-scrawled map that promised more than it delivered, and a morning filled with minor, irritating interruptions that delayed my progress. I was chasing a God-sized dream. RICH’S RIDE was a God thing. Every day I prayed for God’s blessing, for a clear, safe route as I moved forward in pursuit of a worthwhile goal. Hundreds of people covered my efforts with faithful prayers. So how could God answer those sincere prayers with a guy who cursed and threatened to knock me into center field?

As I cranked away from Babe Ruth I remembered an important truth: It’s not about me! It’s not about my dream or my goals.

My project wasn’t the center of Babe Ruth’s universe. His world was cold, dirty, hard work, and I was a guy in a fancy bike jersey on a goofy-looking tricycle who got to play around on a work day while he struggled to make a living. Maybe he was hung over, or his wife yelled at him as he left for work. Maybe he didn’t know if he’d have a job once this project ended. Maybe he’d just had enough of people discounting his efforts.

Perhaps he prayed that morning that God would bless his efforts and allow others to understand and be a bit more tolerant and appreciative. Maybe he wondered about God’s answer to his prayers as he stood ankle deep in mud, drenched by hours of rain, digging for who-knows-what to satisfy an impatient boss in the warm trailer. And perhaps he wondered why God would send a guy in a silly bike helmet and a spiffy bright yellow rain jacket on a weird-looking bright yellow bike looking for a stupid trail.

Maybe the construction guy was frustrated by a morning filled with minor, irritating interruptions, by people like me who perceived his work as “getting in the way” of their important activities. Who knows how many other cyclists had already complained because his hard work interrupted a bike ride?

Maybe we both wondered that morning about God’s response to our prayers. Maybe we both needed to remember:

It’s not about me!

I hope I didn’t seem impatient or irritated when I asked for help. Maybe I did, or maybe I didn’t do anything wrong. Most likely this was simply a guy frustrated with a cold, miserable day, and this interaction wasn’t my fault at all.

But in that moment I didn’t try to see life from his boots. I wanted to get where I wanted to go, and this trailer blocked my path. This construction project that meant so much to them was an obstacle to me.

We both wanted God to honor our prayers. I believe He did exactly that, but I also believe He answers from a broader perspective I can’t imagine. I need to trust that He sees what I can’t.

I need to remember that it’s not about me.

I’m just glad Babe Ruth didn’t decide to use my head for batting practice.

Please leave a comment here.

# # # # #

If you’ve enjoyed the updates from Rich’s Ride, please check out my blog at BOUNCING BACK.

We’ve got a great circle of folks who look at living life on purpose and following Jesus in the real world. I hope you’ll join us.

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The Unseen Story

I’m sharing some excerpts from my in-progress manuscript about Rich’s Ride. You can check out previous posts here.

# # # # #

This is what the kingdom of God is like. A man scatters seed on the ground. Night and day, whether he sleeps or gets up, the seed sprouts and grows, though he does not know how. All by itself the soil produces grain … Mark 4:26-28

God is doing a new thing—all the time, all around you.

In La Crosse, Wisconsin we received a lot of media attention. Over a two-day span our project was featured on television, radio, and in the newspaper. As a result, lots of people recognized the bike and the trailer and knew what we were doing. We felt like minor local celebrities as we prepared to head south.

Our hotel was in the heart of the city, but I discovered a fairly manageable route along a bike path leading to the edge of town. However, as we unloaded the trailer we encountered an unexpected complication: Octoberfest. Downtown streets were closed to traffic for the city’s annual parade. I could escape on sidewalks, but Becky was trapped for a couple of hours. The car and trailer weren’t moving until the parade passed.

It didn’t seem like a big problem. I could take off, and Becky had some extra time to relax. Then she and Monte could enjoy the parade. No problem.

As usual, I meandered a bit before finding the bike path. I had to swallow male pride and ask for directions a couple of times. But eventually I located a trail that took me through parks and neighborhoods to the outskirts of La Crosse. At that point I joined a truly beautiful stretch of road.

This busy highway paralleled the Wisconsin side of the Mississippi River, separated from the water only by railroad tracks. As the morning brightened I watched river activity and enjoyed gorgeous bluffs towering above the road. A nice, wide road shoulder provided plenty of separation from cars and trucks speeding past, and dealing with traffic was a small sacrifice compared to the beauty of the surroundings. This was one of the rare times when the road provided uninterrupted river views, and miles melted away as I took in a postcard scene.

At first I was startled when several drivers honked horns and waved. Then a few miles down the road a cyclist pulled out of a driveway and said, “I’ve been waiting for you. Mind if I ride along?” He explained that he just wanted to ride a mile or two to honor what we were doing. I realized what was happening. This guy, and all of those drivers, recognized the odd-looking bright yellow handcycle from the media coverage.

I felt a little like Forrest Gump, and I kept waiting for someone to yell, “Ride, Ride, Ride!” It never happened, but all through the day I was buoyed by smiles and waves and honking horns. I hope those people realized how much their small acts of encouragement meant to me.

I’d covered about twenty miles before I saw the trailer zooming past. I rolled to a stop and listened as Becky recounted the fun of the Octoberfest parade. It’s not every day that you get to sit on a curb next to a man in lederhosen drinking beer at 9 o’clock in the morning.

I was a little sorry I missed that.

The remainder of the day’s ride passed uneventfully. Warm temperatures, beautiful river views and friendly supporters made this an especially pleasant, memorable road. People smiled and waved from front yards and along sidewalks in the small river towns. And all along the way a wonderful story unfolded just beyond my perception.

We’d arranged to end the day in one of the towns that lined the shore. I cranked onto the main street and saw the car/trailer parked just ahead. I noticed that Becky waited inside the car, which was unusual, but didn’t think much about it until she emerged and walked quickly toward me. She appeared anxious about something.

“See that man?” I turned and saw a guy watching us from across the street. “He’s been following me most of the day. Every time I stopped I noticed his truck. At first I thought I was being paranoid, but it’s the same guy and the same truck.”

Becky had apparently attracted a stalker.

Your mind invents horrible possibilities when you’re being stalked in unfamiliar surroundings, so I was more than a little bit concerned when the man started to cross the street toward us. I briefly considered having Becky get Monte out of the car, but I chuckled internally at the notion that his goofy, floppy-eared appearance would actually intimidate someone. The man approached slowly.

As he reached our little staging area, he stopped, scuffed his feet, and stared at the ground. He started to speak a couple of times, then hesitated. He wanted to begin a conversation but couldn’t find the right words. Sensing now that he didn’t pose a threat, Becky greeted him and broke the awkward silence. As he relaxed we listened to a heart-wrenching story.

Like so many others we passed that morning, this man saw our story on local television. He drove to our announced route hoping for an opportunity to meet us. He spotted me cranking along, then saw the trailer, but couldn’t summon the courage to approach. So he followed nearly forty miles waiting for the right moment. Then when we finally stopped he stood for a long time because he didn’t want to interrupt.

He wanted to talk about his boy who struggled with a rare and especially difficult form of diabetes. At age eleven his son was beginning to understand the realities of his disease. He realized that he wouldn’t be able to participate in many of the same activities as his friends, and he was angry. His dad was clearly a compassionate, caring father who didn’t quite know how to talk to his son about the emotions he felt. What he wanted to tell me—the reason he followed us all morning—was that he appreciated seeing our story because it got them talking. My silly bike ride opened the door for dad and son to talk about overcoming a difficult situation.

He wanted to thank us for sharing the story of the ride, for the blog and the videos and Monte’s weekly writing. They looked at that stuff together and talked about how it’s possible to do interesting, challenging things even with a disease or disability. He said it was the first time they’d been able to really talk about the disease and its effects, and that they looked forward to following the rest of the ride together. He followed us all morning to tell us about his boy, to say thanks, and to shake our hands.

Then he turned and looked deep into my eyes. “It breaks my heart to see him so sad and angry. I just want to help him, but I don’t know what to say. “What should I tell him?”

How should I know?

Did this guy chase me for hours thinking I somehow knew some magic words that would fix an un-fixable situation? Except that’s not what he really wanted. He wanted to connect, to know that someone understood. He wanted—needed—the human connection of a handshake and a look in the eye. He knew there weren’t any magic words, that he and his son faced a difficult path together. He knew it wouldn’t be fixed, but he appreciated knowing that it was shared.

“Tell him he’s special. Tell him he’s got gifts and talents and that he can do whatever he wants with them. And keep telling him that.

“Tell him not to let what he can’t do keep him from doing what he can do.”

He smiled and repeated that last line to himself. “Don’t let what he can’t do keep him from doing what he can do.” He smiled, shook our hands again, and walked back to his truck.

# # #

During the next six weeks there were days I didn’t feel like writing a blog post, days when I was tired or couldn’t think of anything to write. Sometimes I wondered if it mattered, if anyone would care if I skipped a few days. When that happened I thought about an eleven-year-old kid and his dad. I thought about other people I hadn’t met, who didn’t or couldn’t follow us for an entire morning. I realized the incredible blessing I received each time I had the opportunity to share a small bit of this amazing experience.

This is what the kingdom of God is like. A man scatters seed on the ground. Night and day, whether he sleeps or gets up, the seed sprouts and grows, though he does not know how. All by itself the soil produces grain … Mark 4:26-28

I wonder how many opportunities we miss by insisting on our own notions of worthwhile outcomes, or how often we quit when seeds don’t germinate immediately. Mostly we never fully appreciate the effects of our actions. Persevering, doing what’s right, keeping commitments, and following the path—those are hard things when we can’t see that the effort and sacrifice make any difference. Maybe that’s why Jesus used so many planting analogies.

RICH’S RIDE scattered seeds. God put those seeds in the right lives and added fertilizer and water. Results from the ride sprouted and matured in places and ways we would never see. We needed to proceed with faith, hope, and love, trusting that God would use our efforts even when we didn’t understand the specifics. Knowing that God’s at work, and that He always works for good, has to be enough.

God is doing a new thing—all the time, all around you.

Please leave a comment here.

# # # # #

If you’ve enjoyed the updates from Rich’s Ride, please check out my blog at BOUNCING BACK.

We’ve got a great circle of folks who look at living life on purpose and following Jesus in the real world. I hope you’ll join us.

Want to receive free updates?
Click below to get Bouncing Back
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Top Of The Hill

I’m sharing some excerpts from my in-progress manuscript about Rich’s Ride. You can check out previous posts here.

# # # # #

Some hills never end.

That, of course, is a lie. Even the longest, steepest hill leads to an eventual summit. The pain and struggle always end. You crank up a difficult ascent with faith and hope, with confident assurance that perseverance will be rewarded.

Cycling uphill is a pretty good metaphor for the difficult seasons of life. The enemy attacks those facing serious disease, grief, or financial struggles with the illusion of an infinite, never-ending climb. Staring up an apparently endless incline is one of life’s most discouraging experiences, because when you can’t see the top it’s easy to imagine it’s really not there. What’s the point of persevering toward an apparently nonexistent goal?

When there’s no end in sight it’s easy to give up, but faith provides this encouraging reality:

There’s a top to EVERY hill.

The second week of RICH’S RIDE began in the southern suburbs of St. Paul. Chilly, gray, drizzle greeted us at sunrise but gradually faded as we left the hotel and unloaded the bike beneath a service station’s protective canopy. After a three-day weekend of speaking gigs and much needed rest I felt recharged and anxious to get moving.

We already knew the day promised a chance to practice our commitment to flexibility. A spring flood destroyed several bridges a few miles south, diverting all vehicles into a major highway construction project with narrowed lanes and no shoulders. Internet sites described cycling in this construction zone as “dangerous and strongly discouraged.” Maps didn’t indicate a viable detour.

I met Becky about thirty minutes later where the road repairs began. While we discussed options a construction worker stopped his pickup and asked if we needed help. Becky explained our dilemma and asked if he knew of a safer alternative to this six mile construction zone. He suggested riding on the other side of the river and described an obscure detour along back roads to a bridge that crossed into Wisconsin. We found the rickety old river bridge and entered our second state of the ride.

Our personalized bypass led to a lightly traveled two-lane blacktop. Eastern Wisconsin greeted us with striking beauty, wonderful early-fall colors, and quiet, peaceful surroundings. The road twisted through thick forests and orchards that provided great cycling scenery and poor traffic flow. Only local vehicles bothered with the meandering route on the eastern side of the river. We accidently discovered a perfect route except for one minor detail.

In Wisconsin, we met some serious hills.

These were different from the ups and downs we encountered during the first week of the ride. The designers clearly didn’t consider my skinny arms when they created a lovely farm road that snaked along an unbroken succession of long, difficult climbs and exciting descents. Since every mile-plus uphill section led to a corresponding downhill it seems like descents should balance out climbs. But in practice that’s not how it works. I spent virtually the entire day climbing, and struggled with mental challenge and cumulative physical effects as one ascent followed on the heels of another.

To illustrate, I spent about fifteen minutes climbing one particular mile-long hill, then flew down the other side in three minutes. Repeating that result ten times in a row covers twenty miles—ten uphill and ten down—in three hours. That’s half an hour coasting downhill and two-and-a-half hours climbing. That’s why it seems like you’re crawling uphill most of the time—you are!

I spent more than five hours of riding time to cover forty miles of hills. It was the toughest, longest day of cycling I’d ever done. But before this begins to sound like complaining, look at this blog excerpt from that day:

Becky waited as I crept slowly to the top of one especially difficult climb. “How was it?”

“It was tough.” Then I smiled. “And I’m really glad we’re here.”

This is why we came. We didn’t prepare and plan and train to do easy, flat trails. There’s plenty of that at home. I could be sitting in an office, or staring at a ball game on TV. This is exactly where I want to be.

I feel great. We’ve been blessed with wonderful weather—though I wouldn’t mind if the wind blew a little more from the north. We’re working hard at something we believe in. We’re touching hearts.

When you’re fortunate enough to be in the middle of something like that, you don’t mind a few hills.

Sometimes life’s like cycling in those Wisconsin hills. We all encounter seasons when it seems like it’s a continual grind up an endless ascent. But the endless part isn’t true. Even when the summit’s around the corner and you’re discouraged and tempted to quit because you’re certain the climb will never end, it’s good to remember, in cycling and in life, that there’s a top to EVERY hill.

Cycling those hills taught me that the climbs are a valuable part of the ride. I’m tempted to imagine the obvious pleasures of a route without ascents—speed without effort and gain without pain. Why can’t cycling consist solely of exhilarating descents?

On that eastern Wisconsin day I cranked through spectacular surroundings past idyllic farms and lush woods hinting at changing fall colors. But zooming downhill, I hardly noticed any of that. Blasting along at twenty-five mph with my backside four inches off the ground, there wasn’t much opportunity to check out the scenery.

Climbing was slower and harder, but that’s when I noticed the beauty around me. There’s a significant difference between enjoying the difficulty and appreciating the opportunities it provides. A friend once reminded me, “Life ain’t all about bein’ easy.”

Downhill’s the more dangerous part of the ride—and perhaps of life. Fast increases the potential consequences of a mistake. Easy incites a wandering mind, precisely when focus is most essential. Smooth provides temptation to coast and lose sight of the prize. Too much unearned progress creates a sense of entitlement that makes the next climb even harder.

Consider it pure joy, my brothers and sisters, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith produces perseverance. Let perseverance finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything. (James 1:2-4)

I’ve struggled with this verse, that day helped me understand that the hills are a gift. You have to learn to appreciate and embrace all parts of the ride. I still don’t enjoy or look forward to cranking up long, challenging ascents. But I understand that they’re part of the journey for a reason. Greater challenge offers greater opportunity to grow and develop.

Nobody gets stronger riding downhill. Pressure and resistance enhance mental and physical toughness and endurance. Challenge fosters character and courage. “All downhill” sounds fun, but there’s a shallowness to a life filled with hollow thrills devoid of authentic, earned achievement. Greater challenge offers greater opportunity. The hills of eastern Wisconsin offered just about all the opportunity I could handle.

There’s a top to EVERY hill.

Please leave a comment here.

# # # # #

If you’ve enjoyed the updates from Rich’s Ride, please check out my blog at BOUNCING BACK.

We’ve got a great circle of folks who look at living life on purpose and following Jesus in the real world. I hope you’ll join us.

Want to receive free updates?
Click below to get Bouncing Back
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Paul Bunyan’s Shadow

I’m sharing some excerpts from my in-progress manuscript about Rich’s Ride. You can check out previous posts here.

# # # # #

Paul Bunyan and Babe the Blue Ox greeted us at the shore of Lake Bemidji. Nothing like an eighteen-foot-tall pipe-smoking lumberjack and a colossal blue ox to put things in perspective. We munched sandwiches between Paul’s gigantic work boots and speculated about whether the spread of Babe’s horns matched the legendary claim of “42 axe handles and a plug of chewing tobacco.”

A woman approached, greeted us, and introduced herself. “Hi, I’m Lori, and I’m president of the Bemidji Chamber of Commerce.” She wanted to know our story, apparently curious about bike jerseys, dog, trailer, and handcycle. As our unofficial spokesperson, Becky quickly fished out a business card and explained our mission. Out of nowhere this complete stranger became an instant, enthusiastic project member. She made phone calls, and a reporter/photographer appeared. Becky’s phone rang during our interview, and we had an appointment with a television crew the following morning.

We also found out about the Paul Bunyan Trail.

The newspaper reporter was a cyclist, so he had a special interest in our project. As we chatted he asked, “Are you looking forward to the Paul Bunyan Trail?” His matter-of-fact question implied that everyone knew about the Paul Bunyan Trail and of course that was my intended route out of town. My ignorance clearly astonished him. “You HAVE to take the Paul Bunyan Trail!”

So we completed the interview and headed off to check out the Paul Bunyan Trail.

At first sight, I wasn’t impressed. This supposedly major bikeway was so obscure that we drove past it twice without spotting the trail. I guess I expected some kind of important-looking marker at the beginning of a trail named after a larger-than-life legend. Instead we discovered a nondescript blacktop path that followed a side street for a block or so before disappearing into the dense woods. Paul Bunyan’s trail couldn’t possibly accommodate those “42 axe handles and a plug of chewing tobacco” horns.

# # # # #

I’ll confess that my confidence wasn’t exactly bolstered when Becky called the TV reporter later that evening. “Paul Bunyan Trail? Yeah, I’ve heard about it, but I’m not exactly sure where it is. No worries, though. I’ll find it.”

No worries. The morning of Day 2 would begin with an early-morning television interview, and then Monte and I would follow that skinny blacktop ribbon into the woods. I imagined being hopelessly lost as bears chased me down a dead-end path to nowhere. I recalled my friend (and pastor) Rob joking that if a bear chased me I should be sure to get a picture…at least I thought he was joking.

Jamil appeared bright and early and unloaded her camera gear while Becky and I (well, mostly Becky) wrestled the handcycle from the trailer. We completed our interview and learned that Jamil planned to follow us for a few miles to get some “action” shots. Since the bike trail was a converted railroad route that didn’t follow roads, she and Becky had to figure out where they could drive to intersect the trail. So with some small bit of confidence that we’d meet again somewhere, I called, “See you in Hackensack!” Then Monte and I headed off into the forest.

The Paul Bunyan Trail is a rails-to-trail program. A state  government & nonprofit partnership bought an abandoned railroad line, ripped up the tracks, and paved the trail. The result is a beautiful pathway through small towns and pristine woods, no traffic except where the tracks crossed a road. Much of the trail is literally a tunnel through overhanging trees which were just assuming their autumn colors. Since railroads avoided steep grades, inclines were negligible. As a way of getting my journey off to a positive, inspiring beginning The Paul Bunyan Trail was perfect.

Monte trotted beside me in this forest wonderland, so I cruised easily so he wouldn’t tire too quickly. Since we didn’t know where we’d cross a road, or whether Becky and TV lady Jamil would find us there, I decided it was best to take it easy.

About a half hour later the trail approached a crossing. Monte’s ears perked up and he broke into a full run as he spotted Becky and Jamil waiting on the road. If I didn’t know better I’d swear he was showing off for the TV camera and making sure everyone knew he was the true star of the show.

We shot more interview footage and Jamil took a few more action shots. Monte’s running was done for the day, so he jumped into the car. Another goodbye, and I cranked slowly away from the crossing. The early morning’s somber uncertainty dissipated as bright, sunny skies appeared. I attached my Go-Pro helmet camera and captured some of the glorious surroundings as I cruised around lakes past picturesque fishing resorts. For the next few hours I encountered Becky and Monte occasionally when the trail crossed a road, but mostly I just cranked along steadily.

Two days and eighty-nine miles on The Paul Bunyan Trail helped me get mentally centered. I knew the rest of the ride wouldn’t be quite so pristine, but for now it was a great opportunity to settle into the rhythm of the long daily rides.

The second day on Paul’s trail did present one significant obstacle. About halfway through the morning I rounded a bend and had to jump on the brake. I’d wondered about bears and other critters, but I suddenly confronted an odd question. “If a tree falls in the woods and completely blocks the trail, does it make a sound?”

Okay, so I didn’t really care about the sound, but I was stymied by the large tree in my path. No way to move it, nobody in sight, no cell coverage. No u-turn—the path was much too narrow for my bike’s eighteen-foot turning radius. I was stuck with a single less-than-attractive solution.

I had to back up. Since there’s no “reverse” gear, that meant pushing myself backward with my hands on the pavement. I tried to recall when I last crossed a road, but I’d sort of gotten into a rhythm of cranking along without really attending to details. The distance didn’t matter anyway, because there wasn’t another alternative. I had to just back up until I reached a crossing.

About a half mile of this awkward technique finally backed me onto a street, and I discovered that a gravel road paralleled the bike path. So I cranked past the fallen tree to the next intersection and rejoined the trail. Minor diversion, problem solved, valuable lesson learned.

This sort of journey rarely follows the script. Obstacles appear, but mostly they’re diversions. It’s best to accept them as part of the adventure. Then you can concentrate on finding a way back to the trail and moving forward.

Here’s the helmet-cam video from that amazing day.

Can’t see the video? Click here.

Please leave a comment here.

# # # # #

If you’ve enjoyed the updates from Rich’s Ride, please check out my blog at BOUNCING BACK.

We’ve got a great circle of folks who look at living life on purpose and following Jesus in the real world. I hope you’ll join us.

Want to receive free updates?
Click below to get Bouncing Back
delivered directly to your inbox.

The Middle Of Nowhere

I’m sharing some excerpts from my in-progress manuscript about Rich’s Ride. You can check out previous posts here.

# # # # #

I learned a lot during RICH’S RIDE. Some of what I learned was new, most of it was reminders of stuff I already knew. It’s interesting to learn new stuff you already knew.

Here’s a new thing we all know:

Stepping out in faith takes you to some scary places.

# # # # #

I cranked along on a nameless back road in Arkansas. All I saw for miles in all directions was cotton fields and occasional collections of dilapidated shacks. When you live in America you’re aware of poverty, but this was a level of palpable hardship to which I wasn’t accustomed.

I hadn’t seen Becky for quite a while. The cotton harvest was in full swing, and aside from an occasional truck hauling a huge cotton bale to the local gin I had this road mostly to myself. It was a great time to reflect, to wonder about the stark differences that can exist within a single nation.

Finally I caught sight of the familiar white Subaru towing the RICH’S RIDE trailer. Becky drove past, made a u-turn, and eased to a stop on the shoulder in front of me. She and Monte waited as I rolled behind the trailer.

By now this was a familiar routine—stock up on food, refill water bottle, scratch Monte’s head, and chat for a few minutes, a time to re-connect and figure out next steps. As we talked, we noticed a young man walking toward us.

He’d emerged from an especially rundown, decaying shed. Tarpaper over the windows, holes in what passed for a roof, door flapping in the breeze—it was the sort of building I wouldn’t have thought someone lived in. This African-American man stopped about twenty feet away from us and drawled quietly, “I hear y’all are raisin’ money.”

He caught both of us off guard. We didn’t expect anyone to come out of that old building. We didn’t expect to be approached on an apparently deserted stretch of country road. And we certainly didn’t expect someone to know we were raising money.

Becky muttered, “Uh, yes, we are.”

And the man said, “Wait here.” Then he retreated into the shed.

We were both frightened. Neither of us said anything, but we both believed we were in danger. I remember thinking that Becky should jump in the car and get out of there. I was pretty sure we were about to be robbed, or worse. But we were both frozen, uncertain, and we waited because we weren’t sure what else to do.

A few moments later the young man reappeared and walked slowly toward us. As he approached Becky he reached out and handed her a twenty dollar bill.

“God bless y’all for what you’re doing.”

And he turned and disappeared back into the old shack.

We sat on the side of that lonely road and shook our heads. We tried to imagine what twenty dollars must have meant to someone who lived in
that sort of home.

Later we understood what must have transpired. We’d received quite a bit of television coverage in the area. The man must have seen one of those
spots and recognized our trailer as we parked on the road in front of his house.

I judged him based on his appearance and the house in which he lived.

God saw his heart.

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