Mountain Bikes and Climbing

 In my last post I made a reference to biking and a couple people suggested I get my bike out. Well, it has taken me over two weeks and a running injury to get my mountain bike out. Both of those are out of character for me. 1 – It has never been this late in the season and I haven’t been on my bike. 2 – In all my years of trail running I have never fallen and gotten hurt (this was a crushing blow to my runner’s ego J).

Mountain biking has always been a mirror for my life. As soon as I my tire takes hold of the dirt the ride will play out in a perfect symphonic reflection of my life in that point in time. Yesterday was no different. Lifting my bike off the hooks in the garage I could feel the weight bear down on my shoulders and the clumsiness of an upside down bike sway awkwardly above my head. Grief, I thought to myself. The heavy awkwardness of grief became visible as a mountain bike. But I love my mountain bike; it has taken me some amazing places and taught me some great lessons. Is it too much to hope that grief will also take me places that someday I will see the value in?

My choice of trails couldn’t be more aligned with the current status of my life. A nasty climb, a climb that is relentlessly steep, 2.3 miles of dry dusty dirt gaining over 1500 ft of elevation. I roll onto the trail and dodge around the wide green gate that separates this trail from others, “Private Property” the signs says.  Yes, grief is private property so, feeling like I meet the criteria, I see no reason for me not to continue on the trail. At the top of the trail you are greeted with a green picnic table under a wooden shelter. Given the fact that I haven’t been on my bike at all this year I tell myself I don’t have to make it to the picnic table at the top, I can turn around anytime. But I know I won’t. Not because I am a  talented climber, but because I love the downhill. So, I will grind my way to the top just so I can experience the fearless descent that raises my heart rate and I push the limit knowing falling down the mountain is much worse than falling up while climbing… but I like it! . It usually takes me 3x’s longer to get to the top then from the top down.

The trail forks and to the left the trail becomes narrow (singletrack as we say in Colorado) and rolls along the ankles of the foothills for a couple miles before appearing again on the side of the main road. To the right (which is what I take) the trail stays wide enough for a jeep, it’s dry, and rocky with little tuffs of plants spotting the middle line like lines on a road, only much more irregular. And it rises abruptly announcing its existence. When I woke up on October 9^th my road forked. One fork was the life I expected, gently rolling along the ankles of life undulating ups and downs that everyone has eventually ending on the main road with everyone else travelling their lives. Without having been given a choice I faced the trail to the right that day. And now I am physically living out the last nine months mounted on 26 pounds of grief.

I dropped my head, relaxed my shoulders and without much thought readjusted my gears so that I could spin up this first section. As I turned the pedals around and around and my breathing began to become audibly louder I glanced up the trail and saw another biker spinning his way up as well. I was reminded of the parents who had also lost children that reached out to me after Brandon died. They were further up the climb, still grinding away, but took time from their own slog to show me that it can be done. I was so grateful for those Mom’s and Dad’s in those first days. I desperately needed to know that people keep moving ahead even if it’s steep, rutted out, hot and unbearable at times. I needed to know that parents didn’t just give up and recklessly abandon the climb.

I did meet one parent, a Mom, who had abandoned the climb. I knew she had lost her daughter 4 years earlier and I reached out to her to meet for lunch. Our lunch was an awkward exchange of anger and resentment with her leading the charge. She would hunt for the smallest shard of anger in my words and pounce on them eager to fertilize them and grow them into something that would smother my desire to continue to climb. It was as if she wanted to pull me off my bike and drag me back to the green gate, forcing me to let go of my hard work that had gotten me that far. In ownership of my own climb, I was very angry in those early days (and still am sometimes). It wasn’t hard for her to find places to dig in, I gave her plenty to work with and she eagerly took them. She filled my head with how horrible the Holidays would be, how she hadn’t moved on, how her other child was in therapy (maybe it should be her in therapy), how her marriage had suffered, how she avoided social situations. But, in all this she did give me a wonderful gift. She showed me what I could and would become if I didn’t continue to climb, even if I had to get off my ‘grief bike’ and push it over rocks while leaning heavily on the handle bars gasping for air (yes, I have actually assumed this position while climbing and there is usually lots of cussing as well). As much as I hate this climb, as much as I wish Brandon was here now, as often and as much as I want to quit climbing, as exhausted as I am from forcing the pedals around one more (expletive) time… The alternative is not an option for me. I don’t want to be that person and some days it takes everything I am to not become that person. Brandon was fiercely determined and if I believe the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree he must have gotten it from somewhere! So I will grind away!