Simple Gifts

Recently, my daughter and I pedaled 360 miles across the Show Me State from Weston to Louisiana with cyclists from 28 states and five countries.  At one point while climbing a suicide hill against a fierce head wind, face burning in the heat, suffocating in the humidity, sweat saturating my body, I cursed aloud.  “Oh my GAWD!”

            A voice in my head resonated back, “Got the exclamation correct.  A little mental misspelling, but glad I have your attention!”

            I was only on my second mile with 56 miles to go on the first day! 

            One never knows when …, but for me when I am physically spent, energy depleted, completely empty..., during what seems to be the strangest times, the Lord engages me transforming events - the most recent, the Bike Across Missouri – into sacramental moments.

            I’m in “the zone” when seemingly ordinary events in my life are made sacred.

As the first 58 miles unfolded, I was moved to revisit a question I’d asked many times.   What did the early Christian communities look like?  “Those who believed shared all things in common.”  Acts 2:44. We’re all in the big BAM together to support and motivate each other, to conquer the head winds, climb endless hills, expire the heat – stay upbeat!  Cycling - like high speed video - captures the twists, turns, the elegance and simplicity, the details one misses – savoring the sacramental in the ordinary!

Weston – Kearney:  58 miles

Immediately climbing the steep ascent from the Missouri River, like a migration of monarchs nearly 800 cyclists wavered into powerful head winds.  Her gales beat fear into respect for her relentless force.  Excitement rose with each rest stop, quality time with my daughter.  Another fourteen miles completed as I’d catch her.  We shared landscapes, wildlife sightings, conversations with others and precious cold water or Gatorade. 

            I waved thanks for the highway patrol or town sheriffs occasionally escorting us giving peace of mind in racing traffic.  Drenched in sweat, afternoon heat bearing down, humidity stifling me, too short of breath to speak, I spy our Iowa neighbors as depleted in the same condition.  We lay back totally exhausted beneath the shade intoxicated with joy.  All we offer are smiles – and that’s plenty!  We finished Day 1.

            After pitching our tent, Eva and I hiked to the pavilion, an oasis of refreshment overlooking an amphitheater.  Folks reclined upon every available bench.  I moaned lounging in the comfort of a plastic white lawn chair.  Our 5-star hosts, the Kearney Knights of Columbus provided a variety of summer fare among cable spools and benches.  All along our route, small town vendors offered delicious food at amazingly low cost.  Strangers soon became friends breaking bread together.  Canadians rattled perceptions of American politics rousing laughter and thoughtful conversation.  They introduced us to friends with whom they’d reunited from Virginia.  A visiting Australian professor of anatomy at Missouri University generated further cultural exchanges.

            Completely tuckered out, a husband and wife sighed as they exited a SAG van (a support vehicle).  The mechanic assisted them removing their bikes from the carriers.  The sun burned darker tans.  For the majority of the day, they fought 17 mph winds and climbed hills some steep 10% grades.  Word quickly spread they’d completed only 31 of the 58 miles.  Those who saw the pair arrive figured they’d be disheartened.  
           “Not at all.  Something good about feelin’ this tired.”  He smiled squeezing life into his wife’s hand.  “To be with her and to ride among you guys, to see such beautiful country … They’re simple gifts.”  85 years young he battled cancer with his beloved of 83!

Excited, Eva ran up.  “You won’t believe this.  The showers are in a semi-trailer and they’re clean!  They hose ‘em down with bleach.  Each vents cool air from overhead.”  Her eyes rolled as if she’d bathed in luxury.  “The shower felt sooo good!” She got it right.

Fresh smelling, clean port-a-pots with toilet paper made our luxury list.

Avoiding extinction, whippoorwills stirred fond visions of my childhood scouting on the Potawatomi reservation.  I glanced over a hillside littered with bikes, all fine equipment.  None secured or locked.  Most carried tools and spare parts to share.  Occasionally, coyotes howled encouraging me to ponder the vast galaxies hidden from urban living.  Infinite brilliant heavens settled me lifting the yoke from my shoulders. 

Kearney – Lexington:  58 miles

I rose with difficulty sleeping in the heat.  A 4:30 AM group launched under headlamps to beat the rising temperatures and wind.  Smaller communities formed with the various morning departures.  Repacking our tents and gear, we rolled onto the pavement at 6:30 AM.  Bobwhites serenaded us through tunnels of forest canopies bordering the Watkins Mill Lake area and beyond. 

            Like wine at the wedding feast, free ICE cold water offered in Richmond invigorated the tiring body.  Exuberant strangers toasted a young couple on break from graduate school celebrating each other on their first anniversary.  First year reflections delighted others.

            An impressive tent city spread throughout Lexington’s Goose Pond, a crumbling stadium some imagined as Roman ruins.  Eva quickly posted pool directions to group messaging.  The cool waters exchanged our elevated body heat soothing, massaging, mending worn muscles.  Youth swirled down slides and invented games.  I smiled remembering “when.”  I was grateful to rest. 

During supper, a woman who owns a B&B in southern Mexico described how she ships her bike from a friend’s residence in Houston to a rendezvous point to meet a gentleman from Michigan.  Annually, they plan three weeks of cycling somewhere in the U.S.  They’ve ridden in friendship for nearly 30 years.  Both are in their early 80’s.

            Returning to the Goose Sauna Bowl, Eva and I rejoiced, “No mosquitos or jumping spiders in our tent!”  Other bugs we lived with.

Lexington – Marshall:  52 miles

Moonrise 4:45 AM.  Completing our routine; filling water bottles, checking tire pressures, packing and lugging gear to SAG station, lathering sun screen, and eating cereal bars, we entered the serene, quiet.  Slow methodical strokes welcomed morning reflection while waking the body and alerting the mind.

            At a tiny park, our riding crew from Oklahoma, Ohio, California, Texas gathered in the shade to rest and reload with water and fruit generously supplied by Higginsville residents.   A stereo jockey pumped Jimmy Buffett and the Beach Boys into the green space.  His music enlivened folks.  The party felt good and wished they could stay!

It’s not the legs, sometimes the neck and shoulders, but the butt, time in the saddle that antagonizes most cyclists.  I offered thanksgiving often for my grade “B” rated shorts withstanding the shock and vibration delivered by the grade “F” road surface.  Hats off to civil crews constructing grade “A” surfaces!

            With too much momentum risking safety to stop, inspiring scenes become fleeting glimpses of the Spirit, like life moving too fast to appreciate, to soak in the essence of profound moments.  Two machines, a locomotive and a cyclist, met on opposing routes.  Both powerful; one has might; one has might and Spirit! 

            Combines harvested wheat.  Wind created oceans rippling shades of green.  Surrounding fields of corn and soybeans fixed elements from the soil to bear fruit in the fall.

            The Crazy Girls, a pair of good friends, elementary teachers from Illinois, “themed” each day.  On Wacky Wednesday, they promoted wearing thongs for “Thong Thursday.”  Group chats conjured various erotic images of “thongs.” My daughter and I burst into laughter as we passed the crazy girls; flip flops teetered on their handlebars.  Both grinned wildly.

Tripling Alma’s tiny population, we traced streets lined with John Deere mailboxes.  BAM swarmed their park in shifts.  We joined South Dakota and the Nebraska Numb Nuts among others feasting on baked potatoes, pulled pork, and ice cream at 9:30 AM.  Locals celebrated their fundraiser as we joked and refueled.

Many churches along the rolling landscapes opened doors simply to offer bottle refills, moments of peace, rest, and perseverance to go forward.

Eventually, at a later rest, we caught our deaf friend from Chicago and his daughter, an attorney from San Francisco.  He read lips quite well.  We rounded the corner of a shed where several bikes parked.  He tapped my shoulder for attention.  A voice app through his cell phone communicated as he pointed to a sign.  “Obviously, cyclists don’t know how to read!” 

Cheers to the programmers.  We laughed with others who made this moment sacred.

A good-natured BNSF train engineer joined our tent community.  A gentle breeze swept over my sweating body.  I rested, sleep deficient on a humid night.  This trip I never entered my bag.

Marshall – Moberly:  65 miles

Panic overwhelmed a young cyclist as a car passed sending him off the edge.  Jagged asphalt shredded both tires and tubes.  The motorist felt awful.  Cyclists converged quickly pooling resources.  Forty minutes later and two new tires inflated with tubes, a reaffirmed young one returned to ride with his crew.

            Consuming nearly thirty bottles of water sprinkled with Gatorade each day, I welcomed children’s fifty cent lemonade.

            Passing countless family and community cemeteries, we hoped the healthy buzzards circling each day represent no bad omens.

 “He’s not joining us to eat.  Kinda crotchety,” my daughter checked as she went to grab a bite to eat.  I discovered the elder Wichita Falls resident to be rather private.  He described rides in the torturous Texas heat of summers past.  I commented I knew of “teaching” hospitals willing to outfit him with much lighter, better-fitting, more dynamic prosthetics than the outdated, deteriorating knee-socket piece he used to conquer so many previous rides.

“It does me fine.  I don’t need some #### new gadget.” He tossed the tough-skinned joint aside. 

As I began to track my daughter, he called to interject.  “I do know … I couldn’t make this ride solo.  Good to have all you guys around.”  He wasn’t so crotchety.    

My daughter giggled, “Aren’t they cute?  They’re from New Mexico and dating!”  Her eyebrows danced with anticipation.  “They take turns paying for meals.  He’s 5’8” and she’s 5’6”.  She told me ‘they’re young 79’s!’”  A day later, she indulged Eva with a slice of pie.

            As we soothed muscles in the shallow pool, I listened to a father recently remarried.  Both, he and his wife served in the military.  Both suffered through abusive first marriages.  His 12-year old son struggled with the new blended family.  Undistracted, father and son built upon accomplishments, successfully tackling the week’s physical and mental challenges together while stripping away anger and disappointment.    

            Ominous clouds banked in the south gradually overtaking camp.  Coyotes howled.  Distant thunder rumbled warnings.  Lying head to head, Eva and I marvel as spectacular spider-lightning flashed cloud-morphing creatures crawling clandestinely across the midnight sky. Radiant bolts enchanted fireflies to illuminate a forest into a June summer night’s dream.   An hour of nature’s visible grandeur collapsed under destructive winds and torrents of rain.  Our fragile tent bent, swayed, flexed, but did not break or leak.  We endured for three hours plotting our course to distant buildings if forced.    

Cellular alerts sprinkled the peace in the storm’s wake.  They warned of flash flooding.  Fortunately, the damaging waters were north of our route.

Moberly – Mark Twain Lake:  75 miles

Engorged creeks created mini rapids through fields and forests.  Lacking sleep, cyclists silently migrated single file.  Sometimes we share more in silence, simply being present in the moment.  I contemplated Nature’s magnificent display of power without wrath.  She presented a cool morning.

Beneath flat brimmed hats, Amish farmers manipulated simple tools staking the foundation.  Soon their faith community would gather to raise a new barn.

We climbed from the river valley.  Several paused over the rising waters of the Missouri.  Glasgow residents prepared the trophy treat, chocolate covered frozen bananas!  Like butterflies on nectar, cyclists delighted in their hospitality. 

 Winds amplified.  Clouds broke.  Heat elevated humidity.  Ice cold watermelon stands replaced lemonade.  Farm children giddy to serve slices and cyclists eager to indulge them, listened to a humorous leathery, bearded Texan advertise his state’s Hotter ‘N Hell Century. 

Sixteen miles later, a state conservationist detailed the Union Covered Bridge constructed by the Union Army in 1871 for post-Civil War travel west.  Acres of golden yellow flowers lined pavement leading into Florida, MO, Mark Twain’s birth place.  I imagined a boyish Samuel Clemens hooking catfish and frolicking in the Salt River below with Huck Finn, Tom Sawyer, and Jim wandering the Missouri hills.    

            Thunder echoed across the lake waking me from my first decent sleep since BAM began.

Lightning struck close and often.  Winds that shattered numerous tent support poles the night before subsided.  Heavy rains chased coyotes and whippoorwills into dawn’s stillness.

Mark Twain Lake – Louisiana:  52 miles

Before ascending into Louisiana, we sat mesmerized as a garter snake slithered between us, weaved around wheel spokes, and gently circled itself into a relaxed coil. 

 Though we’d suffered no flats, I’d somehow bent my rear derailleur.  A KC preacher I’d passed earlier approached from behind to assist.  As he stabilized my bike, I bent the derailleur into alignment.  I praised him for the critical favor as we faced two 800 ft. vertical ascents in the final seven miles.  Slow and methodical, he continued to inspire a small group of us before our final ascent.  Later, I learned this same upbeat man-of-the-cloth rode the Missouri distance in memory of his sister.  No hill high or steep enough could interfere with his memorial mission.  He was not the only who felt her presence.

             

            As my daughter and I arrived, we celebrated with those before us and those following us in dipping our tires in the Mississippi River.  We watched barges push upstream against the mighty currents.  Grinning wildly, I rejoiced to rendezvous with my wife in Louisiana.

   

            “Those who believed shared all things in common.”  Acts 2:44. We shared struggles and accomplishments in common, formed new friendships, exchanged our stories, shared our possessions, laughed often, came to one another’s aid.  We encountered Goodness and formed community.  Many promised to meet in the future, somewhere, somehow on another sacramental journey!