Why's the Bike Still Cooler???

This essay has been found to be depressing... proceed with caution.

Sarah and I just bought a car. God help us we just bought a car. It's official as of this afternoon as I wrote the $3500 down payment and I signed-off on the mountain of insurance charges and financing payments. I have not yet ever bought something of such value, and for the next five years or so we will be paying for the car.

The process of shopping for the car was a thing of dread for me in the years leading up to the purchase. Quite frankly, car salesmen, in the form they appear on the lot, are not exactly the type of people you want to hang out with. Even worse, the type of person that otherwise respectable men become on a car lot when they are wheelin' and dealin' over a vehicle is not exactly reminiscent of a trustworthy friend.

As God is my witness, the rate at which I have lied (either directly or in suggestion) has grossly increased over the last few days. I've pretended to be poorer than I am, I've exhibited a cold and disinterested face when I was really excited, I've lied to a salesman about how much I paid for my new car at the other lot, I've pretended to think when I really had my mind made up, etc...., etc...., etc. All in the name of getting a better deal.

Then, in the midst of the argument, I began to feel passionate about a car. I was enamored with the shiny paint, the smooth ride, the gas mileage and temperature display, and the roof rack. Man it was exciting. For some reason, part of me just wanted the car no matter what I paid for it. It was as if something in me thought that my life would be better with the car being mine. The years of idealistic talk about owning cheap and junky things so that I could live in passionate exploration of the world faded. Now the car could replace the passion.

Last night, while lying in bed attempting to sleep, I felt like a different person... and not a good kind of different person. I suppose that many people would regard me as being stronger because of the recent hard bargains I had driven, but I felt a bit slimier. I felt cliché. I was obsessing over a stupid car. I was becoming impolite and a bit dishonest to get it cheap. Dang it, I was normal American.

I fully realize that I am making a bigger deal of this than it is. I guess better men than me wheel and deal over cars and houses every day. Little lies here... little lies there. It's kind of the name of the game unless you are looking to get ripped off. And I am also sure that better men than me also feel that pesky feeling that their new house or car will make their lives better.

As I sat stewing over my feelings of unscrupulousness and materialism, I couldn't help but feel as though now I had given-in to the modern American way and taken a big step away from the world of my simple-lived climbing, exploring, and ministering heroes. Now I would be driving a nice, plush, and sleek Subaru Outback while slowly creeping in the direction of needing more and more shiny, plush, and “gadgety” things to pad me from the natural world. Next would be a nice pickup and a few snowmobiles, then a boat, and after than a nice home in the suburbs with a two-car garage and a Craftsman lawnmower. After that would come the fine dog and a couple of kids who I would raise into brats through well-placed spoiling. I would never return to New Zealand... that trip would have become a snowmobile. I would never go to Europe and tour the country side or climb in the Alps... that trip would have become the boat. I would never get to live in a village in a third world country for even a week... that trip would be exchanged for house payments. And I would never bike across a country or climb a Big Wall... those dreams would be gone when I became a father and lost the will to lead my kids by living.

That's when I had a bit of an epiphany. First, the heart and abilities given to me by God coupled with my commitment to my dreams are what determines the course of my future, not the car I drive. Second, I have a bad habit of grouping and judging people, particularly middle-class and higher Americans who are not active. To make myself feel special, I like to throw them all into a group and assume that they've surrendered their lives to materialism. Like a bully, my low view of others makes me feel better... like I mean something more to the world... sometimes it's called narcissism. But my grouping only hurts me. Thinking that the slide to materialism and apathy is the standard, I will accidentally make it a reality for myself.

I'm glad I have a fancy-looking car. Now, while driving down the road, I can look just like the people I have judged. Now other people like me can judge me and make up stories about how I am lazy, unadventurous, and materialistic. And as I drive, I can know that I am still different than all of them, just like most of them are different than all of them. I want to be special and extraordinary... just like them, because I am one of them.

The realty check is happening. I needed a new car and I got one. Now I am making payments and am faced with a more realistic perspective on what it is like to pursue my dreams. Car payments have to happen. Can I make going back to New Zealand happen? Can I make cycling across a country happen? Can I make a big wall climb happen?

Oddly enough, the people I like to judge and group have done some amazing things. Some have climbed big walls. Some have cycled across ten countries. Some have adopted and raised children from villages of third world countries. Some have lived those villages. Some have been war heroes. Some are great authors. And almost all of them have told little lies to a car dealer and have maybe even been so evil as to really want a snowmobile or a boat.

My opinion is that everyone has a remarkable story that they can live. Some of the people I judge have not lived it and are the stereotype I give them. Many people, at least to some degree, are not. I am not remarkable, and I think the slimy feeling I felt was at least partly me being reminded in large scale that I can be materialistic and greedy too. The reality, unfortunately, is that materialism and greed are story stoppers. Wanting a car or a house and then getting it has never made a storyline for a movie. Probably because the God given spirit inside most people realizes that materialism is uninspiring and lame. The best movies are love stories or adventures.

I think that one of the reasons for the success of the people who have lived their God-given stories is that they have seen the non-materialistic and life-loving heart within them. I found mine again today. As I sat eating breakfast this morning, I was thinking for a moment about how excited I was to be getting a fancy new car. Immediately I felt my heart plummet. Fifteen years from now, my fancy new Subaru Outback may be sitting in a junkyard with a wheel missing and half of its engine in another car somewhere. I will be driving a new fancy car. Then that one will end up in a junkyard. Then I will be in another. The process will continue. A series of fancy cars will carry me my whole life. Then I will die... nuts, no more cars.

As I was thinking, I saw my bike next to me. I cross examined my heart. I thought of all of the fun and glorious battles I have had fighting up hills, through the sleet, and through the wind on my bike. I couldn't wait for more. I love that bike, and strangely and in that moment (as well as many others), it meant more to me than the car. The car was $14,995 and the bike was $699. But the bike was worth more... because of what it did to my spirit. Value to my heart is not in dollars and cents, but it memories and possibilities. God, please help me keep it there.

This process of buying a car has taken me from my highly idealistic and judgmental view of the world and moved me forward. Yes, I'm sure I'm still idealistic and judgmental, but now I have seen a new perspective. Only to a materialist does a fancy car mean someone is a materialist. When I judge other people for not living as they should, I am stopping my own story. But in a world where a bike can be worth more than a hot new car, stories tend to happen because our God-given spirit within is running the show. Cars and bikes are just a means by which to have an adventure. They are tools through our lives that allow our souls to love and inspire the spirits of others. Cars and bikes shouldn't make us happy, yet for some reason, mine still do.

Let's Face It... Most Memorable Scenes Are Earned

I don't want to be writing this now. Quite frankly, I would much rather be in the position of having written it so that I could be relishing in my newest piece of fine writing. Unfortunately, aside from two and a half sentences, this piece of writing is not done.

I feel totally uninspired right now... I am just writing because I know I need to so that I can become better. I have an idea for a topic, but I don't feel ideas and emotions within me that are screaming to be transformed into the written word... still I've got to keep going.

Today I went for a bike ride. I awoke from a nap and had a brief argument with my apathetic self. My inner Richard Simmons won out, and before long I was donning spandex and reaching for my bike. I didn't feel inspired to do so. In fact, I was still tired and wanted to sleep. I felt heavy. As I ran through the course of the upcoming ride, I felt overwhelmed as I considered the burning legs and aching lungs which were about to become a part of my day. No matter, knowing it was good for me I had to get going.

My spring semester of college in 2007 was the apex of difficulty in my years as a student. I was sick of being lost all of the time and feeling that I was in way over my head in Advanced Calculus II and Linear Algebra. For heavens sake, I was a valedictorian at my high school, wasn't I supposed to be putting up a better show than that? Quitting wasn't an option, though. I looked for new ways to survive. At times, it was almost physically painful, but I kept going.

Spring semester 2007 was one of my best memories. Bike rides like the one today are some of my most prized battles to remember. Essays like this one, written through inspiration deserts, though not always any good, are my favorite reminders that I am committed to building an interesting and meaningful life story.

The monotonous days that lack inspiration are become some of my favorites. Not necessarily when they are happening, as they still compel me to wander around with a "baditude" that sometimes involves whining and howling like a mashed cat. The reason that they are my favorite is because they always seem to have a payback... and usually it is a good one.

Before the severe thunderstorm that rolled through and cancelled the 24-Hours of Rapelje mountain bike race I was in this last summer, we had a beautiful afternoon of riding. The winds were almost nonexistent and the temperature was nowhere near that of the inner circle of hell that is sometimes achieved on the plains of Montana. Each of the laps that I rode were a blast. What made them especially amazing were the videos that were playing in the on-board DVD player of my mind.

I remember a particular point in the race in which I was racing up and down a series of hills on a nice piece of singletrack. As I cranked hard on the pedals, I started to think back to the first of my regular rides that I began on my new mountain bike that March. I remembered riding the streets of Oamaru with exhausted legs from a hard day of riding. I remembered my long ride in the desert hills by Alexandra in which I became a bit lost and ran out of food and water before eventually finding my way back to town. I recalled pedaling and balancing with all my might as I completed a series of deep and improbable fords through the Ahuriri River. I recalled the series of rides that I sometimes had to force myself to do after returning to the United States... some through the 40-degree rain of early May, some through the arid, blast-furnace, 35-mph winds that grace eastern Montana, and some through lazy and dead-calm evenings.

I recently read a book that mentioned that a good life story is made of memorable scenes. That moment on those hills by Rapelje, in my opinion, was a memorable scene. The thrill of bouncing up and down the hills at top speed is interesting in itself, but when coupled with the reflections of all of the "training" rides that had helped me achieve the skill and fitness to make the intensity of that moment possible, that's what made it memorable. That scene was paid for by days of pushing through numbed fingers, burning lungs and chapped lips, and the countless rides that happened regardless of lack of inspiration or a surplus of lethargy.

Memorable Scenes are sometimes earned during the weeks and months and years before they actually happen. The scene itself is just the payback. Thats why, in my opinion, the hard moments are some of the best... they create Oscar Winning scenes.

On my way back from my student teaching in New Zealand, I found myself thinking back through all that I had done during my time in college. The MSU graduation, the one in which I would be walking, was happening as I traveled home. I was now officially a BS in Mathematics. It meant a lot to me, not because I had a diploma or a new title, but because Advanced Calculus, Linear Algebra, and Honors General Physics II were dang hard battles and I had survived them all. They were monotonous, humiliating at times,... the works, but they had made me stronger. The flight back from New Zealand was just a standard flight, but what made it a memorable scene for me were the battles that had happened for the previous five years.

And now we are here, and I am still writing. The end is near and though I now feel somewhat inspired from some of the ideas this essay has forced me to explore, this is still largely not a memorable scene. That comes later... maybe. For now, I will continue to write. I hope that both you and I enjoy the payback if it eventually comes.

We All Can Live a Good Story... Who's Writing It?

I just read the delightful book by Donald Miller titled A Million Miles in a Thousand Years. Now, I'm not going to lie, during the first sixty pages or so, I had my doubts. By the time I had reached about page 120, however, I had secretly become engrossed in the world of how my life is a story in the making. Then, by the time the back cover was closed and I had scanned every word on the rear of the book for any additional information to be gleaned from genius Miller, I was left in a state of intense pondering of my new outlook on my life.

The most remarkable idea from the book was his depiction of our lives as stories being written by God. As anyone who has done any writing will attest, often the writer has a plan for his work, but as the characters of the story develop, they tend to go off and do their own thing. Then, not wanting to erase and rewrite the section where the characters wandered off of the plan, the author picks up the story and reworks it to fit the change the characters introduced.

I am reasonably certain that this is very true of me. As a general rule, the best stories are exciting... full of adventure, risk, courage, and challenge. Thinking back over my history, I can think of many circumstances that demonstrate to me that the author of my life has in mind a Pulitzer Prize-winning novel. Unfortunately, I can also think of decisions that I have regularly made that have eliminated memorable scenes from my story and left several pages of rambling nonsense in their stead.

A number of the memorable scenes I have eliminated from my story involve me turning-around or pulling-out when I should have kept going. In 2005, my roommates and I took off on an early July morning and made way for my second ascent of Granite Peak. The day started warm and clear, but as we approached the 9500-foot mark with about 2-miles to go before base camp, it began to rain. We sat in the trees and waited for it to break. It broke all right... into sleet and then snow, and then thunder. After an hour or so, we were back at Princess Lake, contemplating retreat with our tails between our legs. After another half-hour or so of waiting, the rain and snow continued. We pulled the plug and went home.

The remainder of the day was marked by isolated thunder storms rolling through the area. We made it home, and after a lovely night in our comfortable beds, we awoke to crystal clear skies. Throughout the day, I monitored Granite Peak from Absarokee. Not a cloud in the sky came near the mountain for the entire day. I tracked in my head where we could have been had we not turned tail and ran. "Dang it!" I thought. "It would have been a bluebird summit after a nice soggy battle to earn it... why didn't we just set up camp and hunker-in for the night?"

Granite Peak Failure 2005, as I affectionately named it, is still a sore spot in my heart. In fact, often when faced with a tough decision of weather or not to choose the path of risk and adventure in my story today, I remember that day. More often than not, the memory compels me to say yes to avoid the same heartache again.

Granite Peak Failure 2005 is not the only sore point that I remember. There are many other similar stories ranging from turning tail on other mountains to simply repeatedly saying no to an after-school adventure in the interest of watching TV. They all seem to be missed opportunities to follow the story that the author of my life is trying to write. Sometimes I find myself sitting back and wondering what the story of my life would have been like had I accepted the opportunities that came my way. How much more wilderness savvy and confidence would I have had I said yes to some of those mountaineering adventures? How much stronger of an endurance athlete would I be if I had thrown aside the remote control and went for a run instead of losing myself in a fictional Hollywood story?

It is easy to get depressed thinking about all of the "could haves" and "what ifs." I am beginning to realize that the failed stories aren't all bad if administered to the mind in the proper doses. Dwelling on how big of a loser I am for having failed Granite Peak in 2005 and having sat around when I could have been running is really not that helpful. However, when faced with a new adventure of which I am slightly afraid, remembering the years of bad feelings for being lazy or a coward tend to be a strong aid in making a decision to follow the interesting story before me. Even at that, the negative memories are still limited in their power. I am beginning to believe that one of the strongest tools the author has to get us back to following the great adventure he is writing is to cue us to remember the great adventures we have had when we have said yes to following the lead of his pen.

It was interesting that as I was brainstorming to find instances where I have said no and been disappointed, and instances when I have said yes and have flourished, it was much easier to remember all of the times when I said yes to adventure and challenge. You can bet that the reason for the improved memory recall of the good scenes is because they are naturally more exciting to me. The forces of evil in the world try to get me to be lazy and afraid to stop living the story, but we all have our desire for exciting and memorable scenes to combat a boring life. The desire that we have for good stories is, in my opinion, a powerful tool in following the heart of the author.

About two years ago this month, I was at a student teaching orientation meeting and I was faced with one of the most monumental decisions I have ever made. There came a point in the meeting in which the students who were planning on student teaching overseas had no more reason to be there, and we were excused. It was officially the point of no return for me... the point at which my thoughts of going to New Zealand to student teach were going to begin becoming more than just empty plans, but rather a regulation commitment. I rose from my chair to leave and I could feel chills going down my spine and pressure in my chest. It felt surreal that I, the conservative and uncultured person that I was, was committing to over three months of living 8,000-miles from home while doing my first ever teaching. A memorable scene was beginning.

I only had a couple of minor panic attacks as the day of my departure approached. I remember wanting it all to be over with a few times, but as the last days before I left progressed, I became strangely calm. It was like my emotions were accepting what was happening... it was like it was natural for me to do... a chapter of a story of which I was supposed to be a part.

As I flew from Billings to Denver, I remember looking out the window, and then feeling a fascination with the beauty and detail of the world taking hold of my spirit. I marveled at the detail of the ravines and hills of the snowy landscape below and couldn't help but think about how my eyes were about to see such new and distant areas of the world that my perspectives of the earth were about to change forever. During that trip, I got to see the legendary city of Los Angeles, I got to see the Pacific Ocean in both the light and the dark as I thought of Magellan on his death defying trip across it by boat hundreds of years before. As we approached Fiji and I saw my first Pacific island, I thought long and hard about my grandpa and how he had spent several years fighting his way through islands not unlike the one I was about to set foot on. Sitting in the Fiji airport, I pondered how strange it felt to be on foreign soil for the first time as I looked out over a few homes and realized that third world countries really do exist. Eventually, as we flew in to Aukland and then Christchurch, I was filled with excitement as I gawked at the landscape of the country that would be my home for the next three months.

My fascination with the world was my companion in that it was a presence the took the place of the friends and family members who were not with me. I befriended and worked with a lot of new people in New Zealand, but I still did the majority of my traveling alone. I liked it that way. Being alone with my fascination to keep me company was nice. Before the trip, I never knew just how nice it was. I often would discuss decisions about where to go next, or how nifty a mountain or lake was with myself and God. It was some classic quality time, and the memories are causing me to grin like an idiot as I sit here and write. Especially when I recall the scene on a trail in Fjordland in which a European man came around a corner and caught me talking to myself... he was surprised to find I was alone.

New Zealand was quite a memorable scene. During a two-week break I had from student teaching near the end of my stay, I went on a trip in which I explored by biking, running, and driving the southern half of the south island of New Zealand. After an action packed day of exploring near Milford Sound, I laid in my tent with my spirit buzzing with excitement. It was an incredible experience to move, explore, marvel, and talk with God about my fascination with the world. The memories of that day, and the days that followed, are so potent to me that I sometimes find myself avoiding thoughts of them so as to not have to feel the heart-wrenching draw back to that time and place.

And Now I wonder... what if I would have not stood up at that meeting? I almost didn't. I was afraid. But I did. And it set a whole new course for my life.

A lot of the events in our lives are easily forgotten, but for the time that I was in New Zealand, I had a high definition video camera rolling and recording the most absurdly minuscule details. I also spent a lot of time learning that talking to the author of the book is easy, and that he is a fun guy to spend time with.

Recently I decided to be a wild man and I bought a road bike as another means of moving and exploring the world. I started with some smaller rides as I got my biking muscles back into shape, and within a few weeks, I was beginning to dream of new and big places to explore. Before long, my plans had enlarged to include giant 100+ mile day rides and multi day tours that were hundreds of miles long. Thinking of tackling such feats made my soul begin to buzz with excitement. I thought of doing a bike tour to Colorado, and then fear of pain and logistics countered. Before long I remembered how the times I turned away from a challenge tend to only deliver lack of memory or bad memory that lingers in the back of my mind. Then, I thought back to the feeling I had in my chair before committing to my trip to New Zealand. It was the feeling of anticipation of something that is big and remarkable, something that would make a good story. I can almost see the author whom I spent so much time chatting with as I explored New Zealand looking at me as if to say "do it!" He is reworking my story to throw in another great scene, and with the potent memories of New Zealand rolling through my mind, I can't help put slap a goofy grin on my face and thank God for the crazy story he is planning on me living.

Le Vent Noir

The Black Wind is blowing.

At dusk it races through the streets.

At night it speeds toward civilization.

Its presence is announced by a quiet whirring and the shimmering glint of cold metal.

Hark! Upon the wind rides a powerful beast.

His breaths are hoarse... his eyes gleaming with fiery determination.

Drool seeps from his lips and he snorts his flaring nostrils.

He is a hideous thing... his large thighs clad in black... his face glistening with sweat.

He approaches quickly as he propels the wind stronger.

Alas he arrives and prepares for his feast.

(I wrote this poem to impress my wife... yeah, it's about me and my new bike)