Dead Ahead

 

 

 

          I glance down at my bike's speedometer and note that I am hurtling downhill at 43 miles per hour.  The wind whistles through the ventilation holes of my plastic helmet and caresses my face, which I keep tucked to lower resistance.  Gliding through the nadir of the hard top road my bicycle and I swoop into the ascent of the subsequent rise.  My legs pump while my hands grip the handlebar and my thumbs, in turn, click the bike into lower and lower gears.  The resistance on my legs increases as the momentum from the descent wanes.  Now it’s all push with my legs, which ache from seven previous miles of pedaling through the summer, early- morning mist.  As I draft great gulps of air, the exhilaration of my rapid descent has been fully replaced by the grinding toil of the subsequent climb.  My shirt is soaked with sweat. 

          Progress slows and there is a moment of disheartenment when my screaming calves and burning throat plead to me to quit.  I glance into the small, circular mirror mounted on the end of a thin plastic arm that projects from the left side of my helmet.  Lance is right behind me, his legs moving like pistons, head down, arms bent and relaxed; he is gaining ground.  The sight of his specter rededicates my will to winning the argument with my legs, and I resolve to maintain the intrepid pace.  Then the hill crests, the resistance on the pedals lessens.  I move up one gear, then another.  A couple hard pushes and the bicycle begins to move with ease,  the wind resumes singing past my ears and now I’m gliding, faster, faster.  A look in the mirror reveals Lance far behind, cadence slowing, his head is bent in defeat. 

          After a little heart thingy seven years ago, at the age of 48, I was forced to confront my mortality and embrace the limited nature of life.  My ego, unwilling to compromise at first, finally conceded the point.  I realized that I had to change my ways. So, the television was discarded and a yoga mat purchased.  All meat and most fat left my diet, replaced with lots of dark, green leafy stuff.  Each morning began with exercise.  At first this was satisfied with a walk five minutes up the street and five more home.  The walks gradually lengthened and eventually, after months, evolved to a jog and ultimately a three-mile brisk run.             

Then my girlfriend, now my wife, gave me the single most influential, and most appreciated, birthday gift I ever received - a mountain bike.  I returned the favor on Jen’s next birthday and now we ride all the time when the weather is nice.  We pedal on local trails along canals and abandoned roads, through the tree-bordered paths of our scenic countryside.  We spot birds, sort out the wildflowers and take in the great outdoors on two wheels each.  But most mornings I arise and begin this ten mile ride alone, until I spot Lance in my mirror.

"Why," someone asked, "is it Lance?" 

It makes perfect sense to me:   "Isn’t Lance the premier bicyclist of all time?   And, more importantly, didn’t Lance beat death?" 

"Yes and yes, but why does he chase you every morning?"

          The answer, of course, is because I put him there.  It’s like the two fellows walking along the trail who round a curve to find themselves confronted with a big, angry and hungry bear.  In the moment of paralyzed stupor the one asks the other for any suggestions.  The second, never taking his eyes from the bear, announces his intention to turn and run.  The first questions this idea,

"Do you really think you can outrun a bear?" 

"I don’t have to," the other replies, "I just have to outrun you." 

          It’s an old joke but appropriate.  I just have to out-pedal Lance.  He’s already out-pedaling what were both trying desperately to elude. 

          Now, after beating Lance up that hill, I slow my pace, relax my body and begin to wonder:  What kind of life is spent looking in the rear view mirror?  It’s the limited nature of life that gives it meaning.  Savor the present.  I must live my life moment to moment and each moment to its fullest.  I must give up Lance and never look back. 

          I take a deep breath and pedal idly now, comfortable in the afterglow of my epiphany.  But as I revel in the morning air my trance is suddenly invaded by a cold shadow that moves over me from behind, accompanied by an icy breath on my left shoulder.  A tingle ascends my spine.  I jerk my head up to see Lance in yellow shirt, far ahead and moving further in the distance.  I never saw him pass.  Fear envelops me as cold fingers slide around the back of my neck.  Frantically, I yank my head forward and pump my feet in a panic.  I don’t dare look in the mirror.  Nor do I gaze about me to dwell in this particular moment.  Lance has slipped out of sight.  As I pedal furiously, my eyes are set on some distant point on the road, dead ahead.