Book Beginnings - Spirituality from the Saddle of a Bicycle

Cloudy but Clear

A storm was coming! Not the kind with wind and rain and thunder and lightning. A different kind that is unrecognizable until it has wreaked its havoc. But, it was autumn and all of us knew what that meant: Dappled and dashed golds, reds, yellows and greens splashed against an azure sky. We were in our element.
We were men…they were bikes (bicycles). We were free! Well, at least finished with our work that afternoon until the next morning. Several of us met together on a weekly basis as we could either on Tuesday or Thursday afternoon to get in a couple of hours of exercise and enjoyment. In that regard this day was no different, except it did not start out that way. Things would soon change….for the worse! As cyclists, we always faced the dangers of sharing the road with less than sympathetic drivers, pot-holes, and last but not least, territorial-frenzied dogs who are consumed with chasing and annoying as they can. Notwithstanding, the always-present dangers did not deter us from riding or break our spirits. Nothing could, for long. Like music to the ears, our wheels whirred down the road as we lined up and took turns “taking our pulls” at the front. The trees on the side of the road seemed to bow in abeyance as we passed. Part of our not being torn from our almost religious-like devotion to our rides, owed its thanks to the natural highs we got while riding. At least, once we got “into” the ride itself. Starting out was always the hardest because like so many other things, our legs, necks, backs and thighs did not always cooperate as smoothly and flawlessly as we would have liked. That took time and miles and sweat and perseverance. There’s just something about a boy and his bike – it’s a love-hate relationship that like the moon, waxes and wanes over time. Ah, but we were not boys…we were men! These were not just bicycles…they were elegant, expensive road machines. On the road, we were transformed. Our handlebars crept through our hands and up our arms so you didn’t know where one stopped and the other began. The clicking of our gears, the tucked-down position and spinning of our legs all meant one thing: Speed!
Though there were six of us in this group, we rode as one…usually. Our routes always mimicked our lives – ups and downs, valleys and hills, but always moving in a direction that would eventually turn our bikes and our hearts back home.
Meanwhile, back on the bikes…we usually suffered; some more than others. One question moved among us all at one time or another in a somewhat jesting, somewhat serious way: “Why are we doing this again?” This question is not just about getting on a bicycle and riding; it is about doing anything that somehow makes you stronger, better, wiser than you were before, albeit in small doses but just enough to satisfy or stroke our egos until the next time we mount our machines and head down that always-calling road.
The typical route we rode that day was far from unfamiliar. Though hilly and exhilarating, we forged ahead without a headwind and surprisingly ended up with over 2500 feet of altitude. We had been riding for a little over two hours and had covered about 31 miles when the storm hit. As I mentioned before, the storm was not literally a turn for the worse in the weather – it took a different form.
Before I tell you about that form I need to go back and enlighten you as to why I was even out there riding a bicycle. Please bear with me in this brief autobiographical history.

The First Accident

It was nineteen-hundred and sixty four…and it was dark. I am not here referring to the times although I am sure they had their moments but I am talking about the time of day or night. It was Christmas Eve sometime in the am (which would make it Christmas Day). Being the pre-teen that I was, coupled with the occasion, I could not be kept in the bed – nor could my younger sister. We crept down the stairs which were lit by the blinking colored lights from the Christmas tree downstairs. Our feet, as did our hearts, leap down the stairs as we reached the bottom and were greeted by tons (exaggeration here) of gifts wrapped under the tree. Our strategy was first to be very quiet and not wake anyone but before we realized it we were ripping packages, shouting with exuberance and pretty much beside ourselves with joy…until I saw it: A huge shiny red beautiful bicycle…did I say shiny? I was enthralled and stupefied at the same time. My own bicycle! I could not believe it. I grew up in a rather poor family and we could never afford much but somehow my parents scrounged enough money to buy me that bicycle. What a sacrifice. The only way, I figured, that I could repay them was to…ride that bicycle…and ride I did!
Because of the weather as is typical that time of year in southeast Tennessee, the bike would have to wait until spring to be “officially” broken in…as to what broke who in remains to be seen.
Without keeping you in further suspense…the day began as damp as my spirits and I recall my Mom saying as she left for work, “Don’t get out on that bicycle today!” Not only did I disobey those words but another quote from my Mom came ringing in my ears…later. “Every time you don’t mind (obey), you get hurt.” How prophetic!
A friend of mine, older and (mistakenly thought) wiser said to me, “Dave, let’s go up to the race track and try out that bike of yours.” I took the bait and off we went.
The “race track” was nothing more than a series of humps of hard dirt that wound their way through a patch of woods, just off the highway. We arrive at the beginning of the woods and this “friend” looks up and says “Let’s try something a little different.” We crossed the highway and took the bike up this hill and turned around. From our vantage point we could see both the highway and the shoot of the track straight into the woods. He got on the bike and because it was a little tight on the top bar of the bike, I unbelievably sat on the handlebars. Down we went.
By “down” here I am referring to the word both directionally and literally. By the time we descended and crossed the highway and hit the first hump, we were well up to speeds that are not only inadvisable but unmentionable. We hit the first hump and were airborne.
The one-eighth of a second of exhilaration turned into horror as we nudged into that little thing called gravity. For the first time I got an extreme close-up of that pretty, shiny, red bicycle – face-first! I broke my nose, got a nasty cut above the eye, and fractured both jaws.
My face was ground beef! The guy I was with got a tiny cut on his lip. Maybe he was drafting me as we sailed up in the air. Somehow he assisted me down the highway to a shop where they called an ambulance. I spent the next week in the hospital enduring nose tubes and surgery on the inside of my face, etc. Not fun...even for a twelve year old. Oddly enough I do not recall ever seeing that or any other bike at home again.
So how did an experience like this turn my attention back to the bicycle? In a word, resiliency and time...okay two words. Fast forward fifteen years and the bike bug is back...briefly.

Growing up

Actually, before I fast forward to the next “event” let me tell you a little bit more about this life of mine, although I promise not to go back as far as Dickens did in his Copperfield novel whose first chapter is entitled “I Am Born.” I would not consider my childhood as a normal one due to the unfortunate fact that my father was an alcoholic and my mother had to work all the time so we could eat, have a roof over our heads, etc. There were many instances as a result of that alcoholism that would land my father in jail and our family in distress. As I started junior high school, it was somewhat embarrassing to have to wear hand-me-down clothes from my two older brothers, but that was better than the alternative. Although our family finally got out of that place where I grew up, we moved into a nice home in the county. By this time I was in high school but had to change to a county school since we no longer lived in the city.
My high school experience was not a pleasant one. Due to the long hair I had which was not as frowned upon in the city high school, the county high school had other policies. I was given a choice: Either get my hair cut or leave school until I do. Well, needless to say I did not get my hair cut and I was not rebellious! J My leaving high school began a journey which would last a little over three years.
Now don’t get me wrong. It is not as though I was a total pagan out there. Well, actually I was but…J
My parents, when I was growing up, made sure I was on a bus to church every week, whether I wanted to go or not. It was only until I was old enough to say “No” that I stopped going. I thought it didn’t “take” or something like that…or did it?
Anyway, after leaving high school, obviously I had to get a job, even though I still lived with my parents. I worked locally at various places and meanwhile, my friends introduced me to something I thought I was looking for: orange sunshine. For those not familiar with that particular name, it was LSD. I think that there was always something “missing” in my life and this was just one more thing to try and fit into it. St. Augustine has said that “God has made us for Himself and our hearts are restless until they find their rest in Him.” This pretty much summed up my life at this point except, “was God in orange sunshine?” (More on this time period below).
I turned to yet another “relative” that I thought, at the time, might be able to help me: Uncle Sam!
Before I tell you about my Army experience, let me just add one more event that happened to me during this time.

Atlanta

Before my parents were divorced, I got into an argument with my oldest brother and we actually fought. I was so mad (and immature) that I packed up what few clothes I had and left home – at about midnight! Where was I going? Here is what happened: I walked down to the road from my home and started hitch-hiking. A guy picked me up and I got into the car and he started down the road and he said “Where are you headed?” “Atlanta”, I blurted out, not knowing why. He immediately laughs, pulls over and stops and says “You need to be going in the opposite direction if you are going there.” I thanked him and got out and continued walking and hitching rides. I remember it was a warm night and quite clear. I remember looking up at the stars in the sky and for some reason, felt that God, whoever He was, was watching over me. It was surreal. And no, I was not on drugs that night.
Well, another guy picked me up and asked me where I was going and when I told him, he wrote a name and phone number down on a piece of paper and gave it to me and said “Call this guy when you get there.” I got there early the next morning and called the guy and he and a girl came after me. We talked and ironically enough, this guy was from my home town and he had been friends with my oldest brother!
Wow! He took me to their apartment – I got a haircut-I got a job at Denny’s-I worked there for two months, made some money, left some under my pillow for them and took the bus back home! What an experience! Did I deserve that? No! Did it change my life? No! Not yet…

You’re in the Army Now

I joined the Army in Aug 1972 for three years. I went in as a Pay-Disbursing specialist in specialized training. That would come later in Indianapolis, IN during my Advanced Training, after my Basic Training in Fort Knox. For a while it was good – I was eating better, getting in better shape, learning to respect my sergeants.etc. But something else introduced itself into my life...again: Drugs – i.e., Marijuana, Hash, etc. I began experiencing with these things and during a surprise inspection the Sergeant and others came into our barracks and demanded we get our lockers ready for inspection NOW. We did it hurriedly and in my haste, I took the bag of grass and stuck it up one on my jacket’s arms (hanging in the locker). I thought that was ingenious. HA! By the time they got over to my locker they looked down on my mat and said, Private, what is that? I looked down and there on the nicely, neat folded up jacket lay my bag of grass right on top of it, having slid down the jacket arm into proper place to be seen. I was speechless. They took me and the grass to the office and thus began the interrogation. They had me convinced I would be breaking blocks and stones for years in some quarry as punishment for this. I looked out at the window as the tears rolled down my face – my life was over – I joined the army for a fresh start, a new life, and now this. It was over. I was through. I had no life yet. While still crying, the Sergeant came to me and said don’t ever get involved with this again and you can leave and this never happened. I could not believe what I was hearing – a reprieve. I Later found out that the first guy they talked to, if he talked and turned the rest of us in they would not do anything to him; hence, when they caught us, by the same standards they would not do anything to us….except take our dope….which we didn’t care. The incident was removed from the books and all was forgiven and forgotten.

Germany

As I boarded the plane for Germany, once again I had a faint hope that not only was I leaving a familiar territory (the U.S.), I was also leaving behind my past. Unfortunately, this was not to be.
While stationed in GY, I worked over there in the Finance Office and my duties were somewhat sedentary. I would get up out of bed in the barracks, put my green khakis on, and head to the kitchen to eat. After that I would walk down to the Finance Office, walk to my desk and began working on whatever. After work I would walk back to the barracks, change clothes and then do pretty much what I wanted, when I wanted unless I had CQ or Guard Duty. I could sit in my room, drink beer that was in the beer machines right there in the barracks. Or I could fill my bowl of hash and stoke it up to an evening of highs and lows with the lonely howls of my music spinning from my turntable. This was my life for the first 6 months of service in Germany. Now what?

Death and Resurrection

As I write this next section, please keep the following in mind:
"Ah, sirs, let me tell you, there is not such a pleasant history for you to read in all the world as the history of your own lives, if you would but sit down and record from the beginning hitherto what God has been to you, and done for you; what signal manifestations and outbreakings of His mercy, faithfulness and love there have been in all the conditions you have passed through. If your hearts do not melt before you have gone half through that history, they are hard hearts indeed." - John Flavel, The Mystery of Providence (Edinburgh: Banner of Truth, 1963; first published, 1678), p. 118.
After getting settled into the barracks there in Furth, Germany (just outside Nuremberg), my Sergeant decided to put me in the room with a black guy from Brooklyn – he also just happened to be the only Christian in our company (Finance dept). This guy radiated a joy and a peace that was not only disturbing – it was threatening. Because of this little thing called “conviction” from God, every time he walked down the hall, several of my friends and I would avoid him. We even ducked into a bathroom once when he came down the hall and hid behind the door and he came in and asked what we were doing. “Nothing, Joe.” That was his name. He would share things with us about God but again, we were so “convicted” we did not want to hear it. I would come in late at night, after having been stoned or whatever and he would be sitting up in our room playing Christian contemporary music and reading his Bible. I would just lie down on the bed and we would talk about God and other “religious” things. One evening, I found a little tract he had in the room called “Chicken” and I put it in my pocket and walked down to the Chapel. It was sometime in mid-August of 1973 – the air was unusually cool and the Chapel was empty, but unlocked. I opened the door and went in and took a seat near the back (Baptist upbringing) and began to read that little tract I had (I still have it). After reading it and thinking about my life, I realized two significant things: I was nobody heading nowhere. I needed help, change, hope, a new life. I got up and walked up to the front of the Chapel, fell down on my knees and started weeping. I wept out despair, loneliness, selfishness, and heartbreak. I then prayed a simple prayer asking God to take this nothing of a life and change it for His glory. He did! Something happened inside me that night. I stood up a new man. I knew I would never be the same. I was born again – spiritually to a life that changed, challenged, and kept me in His hands. Here is a little poem that seems fitting for this time:
I walked a mile with Pleasure; She chatted all the way; But left me none the wiser, for all she had to say. I walked a mile with Sorrow, and ne'er a word said she; But, oh! The things I learned from her, when sorrow walked with me. ---Robert Browning Hamilton
More to come…

The "Rest of the story"

To bring all up to date, you may want to go back and re-read the first paragraph so the rest of this will fit in and make sense.
I appreciate the memories and help of those with whom I rode on that fateful evening. We headed down Treadway Trail and being downhill, I would say we were averaging somewhere between 20-30mph when it happened. Some dog from one of the homes, whose attention we obviously had, attacked! At least, he came out after us and somehow turning back from going after the first rider, he "played chicken" with the second rider - yours truly. Again, somehow he got tangled up in my bike and I decided to play Superman - except my powers reversed and I came down head-first toward the ground. From what I have been told, I had a pretty severe brain hemorrhage, a punctured lung, blackened eye, broken scapula, etc. Due to other purposes from our benevelent Creator and the prayers and thoughts of many, I made it through the night, stayed a day or two at the Med Center and then was transferred to the Rehab Center. I spent a week there and one day, my memory (though not of the accident) returned. I spent almost 3 months at home recuperating, returned to work in Dec and retired by the end of Jan. My retirement was not entirely based on this accident and it was not a disability retirement. Suffice it to say that it was "Time to go."
Finis . . .