We were running late, but not by much, and had a few more stops before we would getting home for some rest. The big day -- the RAIN ride, across Indiana, 168 miles in one day -- was the day after tomorrow, and we still had bikes to load, dogs to get to dog-sitters, food to pack, and details to check off. Somehow, magically, it was all happening, in spite of the obstacles stacked against it; the RAIN ride had come together -- people, gear, registrations, time off, family support, transportation, and other things less tangible, like showing up in a best self for something bigger.
But I'm getting ahead of myself. We were a little late.
Karl was driving. "You want to see the Golden Dome on the way to Tim's? Desert cats aren't allowed inside, though."
I was the "desert cat," Karl's nick name for me, having just flown in from the Southwest for the ride. Karl knew I wasn't big on things like golden domes. I was more of a straw-bale construction guy, but it was a treat to see some local glam. Karl, along with his wife Kathe, being who they were, were just terrific hosts. They wanted to show me the sights, things I had not seen for a long time, things like rivers with water in them, towering trees, walls of green undergrowth, ponds, lakes, and wildlife, like fireflies.
Fireflies are mysteries to me. How they light up, where they come from, how they survive have all been sources of wonder. I see them as messengers of light and energy, maybe even divinity, a source of awe.
The Golden Dome and the Notre Dame campus were lovely, but nothing like the fireflies hovering over Tim's rich green lawn as we pulled in. Any tree in his yard would be a giant among the pygmy juniper and pinon forest of New Mexico. They were dazzling specimens to this desert dweller.
Tim and his family were supplying a bike rack that had to be mounted on Karl's truck. Jack, the Doodle dog, would stay at Tim and Kim's while we did the ride. He had to meet Tim's dogs while we assembled his kennel.
Tim and I had done the RAIN ride before. Back then, we did it to remember Will Streeter who had died from melanoma too young, leaving behind two sons, Mark and Eric, and his wife Kathe. Kathe had met and married Karl; together they were the "KJs" and were now helping Eric organize the ride as a kick-off for Eric's new life, post incarceration. Eric had hit a rough patch and had been talking up the ride as a goal and occasion for moving on.
Tim brought out the rack and with characteristic skill and efficiency popped it right on, tightened and ready. We loaded his bike and made small talk.
"Nice lightning bugs," I said.
"Yeah, there seem to be fewer for some reason, but we're glad to see them. Better than fireworks," Tim replied.
I had to agree. The Fourth of July was coming up, and I wasn't in the mood to celebrate with pyrotechnics, especially with fire dangers being what they were in the drought-stricken Southwest.
There would be eight of us riding. Matt, the best friend of Eric, his brother Martin, flown in from his bird touring work in Guatemala, Joel, a cousin and grass-fed beef rancher, Seth, an organic vegetable gardener, Karsten, a math prodigy an professional poker player, Sean, a nurse, father of four, and general strong man, Tim, a man of many talents, including high-end flooring and remodels, Eric, and me.
After installing the rack and dropping off the dog, we headed back to Kathe and Karl's for some much-needed rest. On the way we stopped for some provisions. On a 170 mile ride, nutrition and hydration have to be pretty dialed, but tasty too. Water was good, but Coke had some kick, and, hey, even if I don't normally drink it, if the furnace of effort is hot enough, they say, it will burn anything.
The crew arrived in the morning, and the organized chaos of sorting and packing got mixed up with last-minute repairs -- a stripped seat-post binder bolt, pedal installation, new shoe cleat attachment, and final adjustments.
But, I had to admit, we were a pretty classy group with vintage steel, aluminum, titanium, bikes with an assortment of fenders, racks, baskets, and bar bags. You could say we were pretty old school, retro-riders. Plus we had matching jerseys. Everyone knows that matching jerseys add at least five miles-an-hour to your average speed.
We loaded up and somehow fit everything into three vehicles and found our spots and took off for Terre Haute. The forecast for ride day was rain. It rained pretty hard on the way, but it smelled good to my parched, sun-dried body.
The RAIN organizers hosted a dinner at a local brew pub. Over lean protein chicken and piles of pasta we talked about the ride. Eric was concerned about the weather and the distance we would have to ride. It also looked like we would not have the tail winds we hoped for. Prospects sounded a little gloomy.
"I doubt I'll make it all the way," Joel said.
I said "Same. If I have to pack it in, that's okay though. The point is to just be here and ride with Eric."
Nods around the table.
"Besides, it's already a success. I mean we made it here. Eric got us all together, and that's the real achievement."
"Still, it would be nice to ride the whole distance," Eric said. "I want to give it a shot. I want to cross that line in Richmond with you all."
The miles looked very long from where I sat in that noisy pub. It was going to be the real deal of going deep into endurance and pain, in spite of the sweet food and drink. I had my own doubts, coming off of back surgery eight weeks earlier. But we were here to go deep, not to make great time or claim personal glory. This ride had been an homage to a lost father, and now we were riding for a son trying to figure it out after a stint in prison. Father and son, trying to remember, to gather strength, to connect by sharing a journey, to invite challenge and find out how we would meet that challenge. Fear. Anticipation. Excitement. All braided together. This was a collective effort to make a difference, teachers, farmers, guia de aves, craftsmen, brothers for a long day, maybe a longer time, all fanning an ember of humanity that is doing the right thing, something bigger than the self. Generosity, kindness, consideration, and hard work shared over the day would make the miles fly by.
After a cold brew with Karl, Kathe, Tim and Kim, we retired to the YMCA to sleep in the gym, another shared novelty of the trip. I dreamed of tornadoes, sleeping under the giant A/C unit blowing down from the ceiling.
Morning came early. The ornithologist brothers, Matt and Martin, identified nighthawks and herons on the way to the line up. They would point out bald eagles, red-tail hawks, yellow breasted warblers, and other birds throughout the day. They noticed and paid attention better than almost anyone I had met before.
Through the city and out into the country we rode. The miles lay in front of us, seemingly endless, through flat, straight, farmland, to twisting, rolling, tunnels of green around rivers and lakes, past cornfields, people out mowing on a warm Saturday, past water towers and villages. Some roads were narrow lanes, others wide highways with some speeding traffic.
A truck coal-rolled us; a woman told us to ride a different road because she wanted more highway; most people waved. One person had set out signs for free pickle juice shots. There is nothing like cold pickle juice when one is cramping and spent. The delights of this world are as necessary as the craving of the soul sometimes. We are here to see, hear, feel, touch, and swoon at kindness when it is offered.
There has always been a tendency of some people, on the other hand, to see enemies, to divide the world into a competitive us and them, and then to be hostile and aggressive with the "other." It seems that current prevailing leadership has given more permission for acting out aggression, and that jacked-up pickups with buzzy, aggressive-tread tires take some pleasure in passing bikers very close. We had to be careful, street-wise. It's always a choice, that embrace of world views: some people will see in everyone a fellow traveler, a friend, while others see a threat, a "less than," maybe dangerous, other. It depends on the worldview we feed as to which we embrace and embody.
After about 60 miles, Eric's knee pain shot up into a sharp, overwhelming level that made riding further impossible. He had to abandon.
He had been training hard and perhaps strained something in the knee that might be seriously injured if he continued. Our reason for riding was going to have to take the hard road of wisdom. I would gladly have traded places, but the option wasn't available.
Eric took off his event number and changed out of the bike kit. He took on the role of support person for the rest of us, who still rode for him and for his vision of gathering us together.
It may just have been me, but we seemed to coalesce even more at that point. I, for one, had to go beyond the "fun" of riding, and instead surrender to something else that pulled me forward. I put my head down and just went deeper than I thought I could, only to go deeper again when I felt I could go no more.
We stayed together, though talking less. The final miles were a blur of exhaustion, but the rain came down hard as a police escort took us home.
We rolled together across the finish line and found Eric, who took his place in the center of the band of RAIN brothers. Yes, we had made it, and Eric had made it possible through something of a persistent, steady, focused vision of community and shared purpose.
I walked to the shower, somewhat beat and delirious, through a field of lightning bugs, weaving their way through the dusk, looking for each other, in the light they shone.
(This is a work in progress. Feel free to comment or add anything I missed.)
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