Lucky Choice 19

Was it luck or choice? Sometimes we make good choices, sometimes we’re lucky. I’d like to say good choices are more important that good luck in life but it's definitely a little of both. Back in high school I was easily motivated by motivational speakers, and thought they were some of the more motivational people I’d heard. One said “you are who you are today because of the choices you made yesterday.” I liked that one. That was pretty motivational.

Well often bad luck and bad choices end up landing people in the ER. Good luck and good choices often keep them out. The other day a woman came in to the hospital as a direct result of a few bad choices that day and it appeared a series of bad choices before that, I’m not sure what kind of luck she had had.

As I picked up her chart before entering the room, I thought I recognized her name. How do I know that name, I wondered. Then it hit me that I had heard that name referred to several times over the years.

I first heard her name 10 years ago, in the summer of 1997, sitting under a cherry tree on the Mall in Washington with my future wife. We had taken the afternoon off work to meet and tour the Holocaust museum. We weren’t yet dating but I was working hard to attract the older professional to the young intern. For some reason she was laughing, telling me this story about when she was in seventh grade and got rejected by one of the “mean girls” of junior high.

Two days ago, I had to hold back telling my new patient that she hadn’t invited my wife to her 13th birthday party in 1985. As a seventh grader, the coolest girl in the junior high, called Elizabeth and said, “I'm sorry you can't come to my birthday party. I can only invite 18 people, and you are number 19.” Cute naïve little Elizabeth was not only not offended but actually flattered to make the coveted list at all.

Elizabeth has always looked back on that day and at that moment of rejection as being a blessing in her life. She and this girl went very different directions. Not that Elizabeth had it in her to become one of the “mean girls”, but by 8th grade they were in different worlds and by high school barely knew each other existed.

Over the years we have laughed about that story, and then a few nights ago, here was that very girl right in front of me seeking my help. She was very pleasant and we had a good interaction. Her parents came in and were very nice. It was interesting to have a slight insight into her past as I talked with her about her present situation. I hope for the best for her and her future, but certain patterns and pathways have been chosen and have to be dealt with over the long haul.

As usual, I went home grateful for number 19 and for the choices she’s made and the luck that I fell upon when she fell for me.

This Time of Year

I love this time of year - everything about it. I love the warm days and the crisp cool nights. I love back to school and a more structured routine. I love the leaves changing on the mountains and the deep blue sky. But for me, nothing says fall like a high school football game.

For the past two weekends, our Friday night family activity was attending a high school football game. Last week it was Cottonwood vs Cyprus. This past Friday Andrew had to work so I took the four kids and went to East's Homecoming game against Granger with my parents, my sister Emily and my brother Richard.

It was such a fun night. My kids were dressed in red and white and Peter even wore a block letter "E" on his helmet. I loved hearing my kids yell, "GO EAST!" I loved the half-time cheerleading routine, the announcement of Homecoming Royalty and the roar of the crowd every time East scored a touchdown. I loved knowing that the kids out on the field and in the stands, would never forget being part of something bigger than themselves. I loved the high school memories that came back as I sat in the bleachers and heard the familiar cheers and the school song. For me, there is a little bit of magic in the air at any high school football game.

It may sound crazy, but I love being a third generation East High graduate and there is a part of my heart that hurts knowing my kids won't go there. Someday, my loyalties will shift from East to Olympus as my kids get older and become involved there. That might be a tough conversion, but at least I know, no matter where my loyalties lie, when I feel that first touch of fall in the air, it will be time to get to a high school football game.

Henry cheers, "GO EAST!"

Isaac, Henry and Abby eating red Tootsie Roll Pops, courtesy of Grandpa.

Fall's "Hottest" Accessory

It has been about ten days since Peter got his first helmet and I can definitely say it's been much harder on me than it has on him.

The first few days were the worst. After ten minutes of wearing it, Peter's poor little head would be sweating so much that the helmet would steam up like one of those terrariums that were so popular back in the '70s. It looked so uncomfortable that I would take the helmet off, clean it out and put it back on his head - only for it to steam up again ten minutes later. Luckily his head has acclimated to the helmet and the steaming issue seems to have decreased significantly.

Peter has seemed pretty unfazed by the new addition to his wardrobe. He has such a peaceful spirit, he just smiles and coos constantly to anyone who talks to him and isn't the least bit bothered by the hardware he's sporting. He has lost almost all his hair since getting the helmet. He is totally bald except for the old man hair that grows from ear to ear, just above his neck. Somehow though, he makes that look work for him.

Now that I am used to the helmet, I find it quite endearing. He really looks pretty cute in it and the helmet seems to accentuate his eyes and cheeks. Given the choice, I wouldn't make him wear it, but I think we're actually going to survive "The Year of the Helmet." Heck, we already have 10 days down - just 355 more to go!

Really, does it get any sweeter than this?

FLOTOJA: Brothers In Arms

Lotoja 2007: I am heavy and I am their brother. I would not have made it from Logan to Jackson Hole yesterday without my band of brothers. I thought I was more prepared this year, having done it last year with minimal, inconsistent training. I was wrong.

Things started great, I felt good and we had a great rhythm. We passed where I had been separated from the group last year by a flat tire and I looked forward to climbing the first big hill as a team this year. It is not as steep as most of my training rides but very long. A third of the way up strawberry pass I just felt like I was tiring more than usual. I wondered if I hadn’t eaten a good enough breakfast, did I not get enough sleep, were my tires flat? I couldn’t seem to keep pace with the group. Training solo, it is one thing to get to the top of the canyon at your own pace, which is often 6-8 miles an hour, but our group (the Cutters) was steadily climbing at about 10-12 mph and I could not maintain that pace, and in just attempting to was taking a lot out of me. Nathan and Paul dropped back and encouraged me. Nathan rode along side of me and told me a funny story he had just told Paul. The other four were progressing to the feed zone near the summit while I was escorted along until we joined them at the top. From the top is a great, long gradual descent where we coasted at 45-50 mph for 8-10 miles. I was feeling better as we approached Montpelier.

As we stopped at the feed zone in Montpelier, mile 80, I was in need of a good rest. I had regained some energy as we flew down the descent from Strawberry pass, but the group was determined to keep breaks short this year, to minimize delays and improve our time from last year. This is where I had met up with them last year after stopping with two flat tires. Everyone was ready to go except me, I didn’t feel all that rested, or refueled but really wanted to stay with Nathan and Paul. I secretly hoped they would not feel determined to continue at the speed they were capable, along with a couple others in our group. Within minutes of leaving Montpelier I felt about as weak as I have ever felt on a bike. I knew I could not maintain the pace they were setting. I struggled to not fall back and worked to stay in the line, benefiting from drafting and just the motivation of being together. I just kept dragging though. It was a very minimal climb and I knew it would only get worse as we approached Geneva summit. I told Paul, I felt terrible, that I wanted to just go lie down. Again, both he and Nathan dropped back to see if I was okay. Nathan asked if it helped for him to stay just one or two feet in front of me, while Paul was just ahead of him looking backward more than forward just to see that I was still hanging on. I felt as if I was pulling Abby and Isaac in their trailer, only without the constant cheering they always give me as we crawl up big hills with them in tow, “Go, daddy, Go daddy, I think I can, I think I can” all the way up 39th South. I felt like I was pulling dead weight.

Even with them slowing to help, I fell back still, and finally waved Paul off and said, “Go on, I can’t keep up.” I wasn’t giving up completely, I wasn’t going to quit (although I was in a sense) I was just going to inch up the hills at 3-4 mph and then cross the windswept star valley on my own, hoping to join a random group, at best making to Teton Village well after dark if I even made it at all. All I knew is I couldn’t hold these guys back any more. They were well trained, machines, capable of much more and I had bonked at just over 80 miles. Last year I had never felt this bad, I had never felt like I hit a wall. Maybe the flat tires had helped me because I took the first hill at my own slow pace while the other guys waited for me in Montpelier. This year that faster ascent left me drained and fatigued, I felt I had nothing more to give.

So, I tried to quit. Nathan and Paul held on and said I’d get my second wind, let’s get to the top of this hill. I somehow barely hung in there until the road steepened and then I just clung to Nathan’s back tire and followed him up. As we got about half way up, Paul sprinted up the hill to tell the rest of the Cutters that we’d be at the top soon, and not to abandon me just yet. They waited graciously at the top. Nathan stuck with me and together we caught the group and I felt invigorated, strengthened and capable again.

We flew down the other side and then across several miles of flats and I felt like I was riding again rather than dragging. Up ahead coming quickly we had Salt Water Pass which is the steepest and highest at 7600 or so. I was feeling much better and knew that if I could get over this, I was in it for the long haul and would make it to Jackson. There we were; the hill started to rise in front of us. This is the stretch considered the KOM. They clock each rider from the base to the peak and crown the King of the Mountain to the fastest climber. As our group lunged ahead to give it their best attack, Nathan, Paul abandoned any individual glory or personal victory even just among our own group and showed that they were going to the top with me.

We could see the top, I remembered it from last year and pictured my dad at the time proudly cheering us on as we made it to the top. I hoped he’d be up there and wondered if he’d be surprised that I was still going. Of course he hadn’t known I almost quit a few miles back, but he had sensed fatigue and general uneasiness from me at the previous feed zone. Nathan and Paul flanked me on either side it seemed as we steadily cranked our way up. There are many steeper climbs out there but at mile 109 this takes everything you have. One foot over the next, I stared at Nathan’s back sprocket and inched upward. With focused breaths, one per two pedals we were almost there. Like biking sherpas they had literally willed me to the top. With a few feet to go, I had very little strength but a very slight bit more motivation, so I stood up for a few final cranks that picked up the pace and got me to the top. As the road flattened I reached my arm out and touched Nathan’s back and then Paul’s and said thanks guys.

Nathan, Paul and Me at the summit.

We were all buoyed by the sign warning truckers of steep inclines for the next 20 miles. I turned to both of them and said “I love you guys.” But they couldn’t hear me. Then I started to cry. Right as we summited I just felt that gush that you can’t hold back but you can’t quite describe which makes normal breaths different from crying breaths. No one could hear the extra sounds in my exhales. My eyes welled up with tears and I was sniffling away for the entire descent. In spite of my sunglasses it felt exactly like racing down a canyon with no eye protection with the wind making your eyes water uncontrollably. I was still sniffling a little at the bottom.

I have never felt that in all of sports, whether it be individual or team. It was like being carried across a finish line. Me reaching out to thank Nathan at the Summit

As we flattened out, I was back. I was 100 percent, My second wind had truly arrived. We churned across star valley in single file, taking turns leading/pulling. I liked last year with just 5 of us rotating and taking turns pulling. Here we were in a line of about 20 and the pace was a little faster than I would have wanted but we couldn’t afford to fall back at all and lose that momentum.

I was still feeling pretty good, but as the flat miles through Star Valley seemed endless with a constant cross wind, I finally caught a familiar Ford Explorer out of the corner of my eye as it passed us. I threw up my left arm and waved and could see through the back window that Elizabeth had seen me wave and realized it was us. This alone was a new bump of adrenaline, just seeing Elizabeth and knowing that she has packed four kids in the car and driven them 200 miles from home to watch me, and cheer me on. Now I felt great. We were flying along and up ahead I can see that they had pulled off to cheer as we passed them. Elizabeth was there with Abby, Isaac and Henry, Mom was there with Marian and Maren and Paul holding a sign for Nathan saying “Go Dad”. My eyes filled up with tears again and I started crying again as Elizabeth, Abby, Isaac and Henry waved and cheered as we passed. Elizabeth told me later that Isaac was overheard yelling, “Welcome to Hollywood, Dad.”

The cycling gods must have been smiling on me or, it was Elizabeth’s perfect timing, because it just so happened that it was my turn to lead, so I ended up in front of the line just as we passed them, so they think I’m Lance Armstrong. Only a Lance Armstrong who really does believe its “not about the bike”, but its about living life with a family, about balance, about believing in your wife and her believing in you, and wanting to give your time to your kids and to be there for them.

Go Daddy!

Last Minute Encouragement

I was now completely different rider at mile 155 than I was at 80. Next is the greatest stretch of the ride, through Snake Canyon. Somehow, although we are headed upstream towards Hoback junction it feels almost flat because there is a constant tail wind. The river is beautiful with kayakers and rafters below and plenty of pullouts for our loyal fans to leapfrog with us and pull over and cheer. Everyone has new energy here it seems. I was flanked by my brothers and around every few turns I was being cheered on by the people I love above anything else in life. Elizabeth and the Kids, and my Mom, and Dad and Alex, and both of Elizabeth’s parents along with her sister’s Laura and Emily, Nathan’s family, Paul’s wife Kim and her family. It was an amazing stretch of the ride as we snaked through the canyon.

Fixing Nathan's Flat in Snake Canyon

As we eventually passed through Hoback junction and the gradual slope through Jackson Valley we caught a shining, crystal clear view of the Tetons rising in the distance; I knew we had made it. We all knew very well that it was still 11 miles once we got into Jackson however. Right up to the end I took turns pulling and rotating and feeling good. It wasn’t so surprising that we'd come from Logan as it was how far I’d come from Montepelier. We crossed the finish line together and hugged and I again thanked Nathan and Paul for not giving up on me and not letting me give up.

Cutters 2007

Dad was the ultimate support crew

Paul blowing a kiss to fans

Finish line welcome

My Love/Hate Relationship

This past weekend Andrew took part in LOTOJA - a one day, 206 mile bike ride from Logan, Utah to Jackson Hole, Wyoming. This is the second year that Andrew has participated in it, and I can honestly say, I both loathe and love this event.

I really hate the training that goes into accomplishing Lotoja. For months before the race, everyday I either hear, "I am going for a ride", "I need to go for a ride", or "I should have gone for a ride." I hate the endless conversations it requires to figure out the logistics of the race; where to stay, what to eat, who will drive, where should we meet, whose car should we take. I hate the decisions of what shoes to wear, what jerseys to wear, which helmet to buy, what flavor Power Bars to get. Gatorade or Perpetulant? Pasta or peanut butter? I find the whole process leading up to the race completely mundane, time consuming and exhausting (and yes, I realize I shouldn't be exhausted by this since I'm not the one who is actually on the bike.)

This year, I had decided long ago, that I wasn't going to go to Jackson. With four kids - including a new baby, the thought of driving to Jackson alone was more than I could handle. However, a few weeks ago, Andrew invited my parents and my sisters to come along, and caravaning with my family made the journey seem much more manageable.

On Saturday morning we loaded up the car and headed to Jackson to watch Andrew race and I loved every minute of it. So, what do I love about Lotoja? I love the drive through gorgeous mountains and canyons. I love the faint smell of fall in the air when the windows are rolled down. I love seeing Andrew on a bike and the smile that spreads across his face when he sees our little family cheering for him. I love leap-frogging with Andrew up Snake River Canyon and seeing him lead the peloton up the hill. I love the unity I feel as my kids and I watch and cheer as Andrew strives to complete such a grueling feat. I feel like we're all in it together as he works for the finish line. I love that my kids can see their dad working so hard and accomplishing a goal. (I hope they are learning major life lessons from him.) I love being at the finish line and feeling the unabashed love I have for Andrew as he completes his race.

This year, I loved having my parents and my sisters there - not just because I always enjoy spending time with them - but because I loved having them cheer for Andrew and seeing him a different environment (not to mention seeing him in Spandex.) My sister, Laura, was a great photographer for the event and I loved having help wrangling my kids.

Today I am still on a high from being part of Andrew's Lotoja. Today I love the race and I love that Andrew did it. Nine months from now, I'll probably be back to loathing the event, but until then I'll enjoy the memories of watching my husband ride up the canyon with the sun behind him, the river to the right of him and our family up ahead of him, loving him and cheering our hearts out.

Andrew and his team (Cutters) are leading this pack; about 45 miles from the finish line.

Andrew, cruising up the canyon. I don't know how he is smiling at this point.

Our little family, celebrating with Andrew at the spectacular finish line. GO DAD!

Grandpa's Birthday!

One of my fears in starting a blog was that we would do things or write things to make our life sound more interesting than it actually is. Well, this post is the first indication that it was a legitimate concern.

Last Saturday was my dad's 65th birthday and to celebrate he chose to hurl himself out of a plane. To further celebrate he took my husband and my brother with him. I don't know if skydiving is something my dad has always wanted to do, or if he was coerced into it by my brothers, but it was a pretty great way to spend his birthday.

All seven grandkids were on hand to watch the big event, and strangely, they all seemed unphased by the fact that their grandpa was jumping out of an airplane. Even I was fairly unimpressed by the feat until I looked up in the sky and saw the speck that was their plane and realized how far they were actually jumping. At that point, my stomach dropped and I wondered if letting my father and my husband skydive at the same time was the best idea.

My anxiety was gone once their parachutes opened - and watching them float gracefully to the ground was amazing. I loved seeing my dad's excitement about the dive and hearing him repeatedly mention what a great way it was to spend his birthday. It was a fun day for all of us - except for Andrew who seemed completely nauseated by the whole thing. Oh well. I guess skydiving isn't really his thing.

In any case, we love you Dad! Happy Birthday and many, many, many more!

One last kiss for Henry before Andrew boards the plane.

A big smile after a successful landing.

The jumpers with their certificates: my dad, Janelle (David's friend) my brother David, and Andrew. (Henry is just relieved to see Andrew safely back on the ground .)