Peanuts And Shells

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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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.

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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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