It's just not the way I remember it

When I was in my early-to-mid teens I was a full blown cycling-enthusiast or what should have been called a "Cyclo". (Insert Violin screeching "Psycho" music here)
Yes, I wore the tight black spandex shorts. Laugh all you want, at least I had a nice ass.

Back when I was riding and racing all the time I was in great shape, probably the top physical condition of my life so far, which means probably the best shape I will have ever been in by the time I die...sad. In fact, I was in such great shape that my body just didn't respond to the kind of physical abuse then that would put me in a coma today.
I know this for a fact and will explain why shortly.

Before that though, here's a little perspective for you...

During this time in my life I lived in Santa Rosa, California - which is in the heart of Sonoma County, also known as "The Wine Country", but what should be called "Cyclists Paradise"...it's no mistake that Greg Lemond and Lance Armstrong (both multi Tour de France winners) both train in the off-season in Sonoma County among the redwood smothered mountains and rolling hills covered by rows and rows of wine-bearing grape fields...it's just perfect that way.

On any day that allowed me the time to do so - I would take my bike (and my little black shorts) and go for long, long rides...what I would call "Extended Training Exercises" - but what really should have been called "Testing the Limits of the Human Body."
One of my favorite rides was to start at my home in Santa Rosa and head out to the coast by back roads and bike trails laid over old railroad tracks...this ride was approximately 3 to 4 hours roundtrip with no rests or breaks during the ride. There were uphills that would make your body ache just to look at...The downhill’s were straight out thrill rides or terrifying near-death experiences depending on your taste for excitement, hitting 50 to 60 miles an hour on a downhill was not out of the ordinary - it was expected. This was the kind of ride that would have Lance Armstrong repeating his mantra of Live Strong to keep himself going harder and doing better.

I loved it.
It was my life and I wanted it to be my profession. I was well on my way.

I was on my way home from an early evening ride when I was hit by a car, a Monte Carlo to be exact. The car had passed me on the downhill slope of a major city street and the driver hadn't seen me. So when the driver made a right hand turn into a shopping center and pulled directly into my path I was left with no option but to hope that I would not die.
When I hit the passenger side door of the car I was going about 30 miles an hour. My bike crumpled like an accordion beneath me. By the time my shoulder and head hit the car door; my bike was being drawn beneath the still moving car by the built up inertia that was slowly being stopped by American made steel. By the time that the driver knew that he needed to stop; my bike (with me still attached to it) had been sucked underneath the car and was very close to getting run over by the rear wheel of the car.

My bike was crinkled and crushed like an hour old beer can at a frat party. My body was one great big strawberry'd, skinned-up, oozing mess. My bike helmet had probably saved me from any brain damage, as evidenced by the crack that ran down the middle of the helmet and the man-sized dent in the side of that damned Monte Carlo.

I was fine after it was all said and done, I survived.
I didn't have any permanent damage to my body. There were a few scars and abrasions that would make for good story telling later in life, and I had gained a healthy respect for American made automobiles. (Which may be why I only buy American-Made)

The one negative side effect of the altercation between me and the Monte Carlo was that I lost my nerve for racing and riding. I lost the passion for it by default and stopped riding almost completely.

I told you that story to tell you this one...

This whole week I've been on vacation with my wife.
We didn't go anywhere; we just stayed home and hung out with each other and our dogs. No work, no phone calls, no appointments - it's been sweet.
A few days into the vacation the weather was nice enough for me to go on a bike ride, and since I bought a new bike several months ago and hadn't really had a chance to break it in; this would be the perfect opportunity for me to get back into cycling.

Now, in my mind when I think of riding a bike I don't think of neighborhoods full of BMX-riding punks nor do I think of paper-routes in the early hours of the day. I think of throbbing muscle, gritted teeth, sweat, blood and even some tears.
When I think cycling, I think work - Fun, but still, work.
What I neglected to think about when I hopped onto the saddle that fine morning was that I hadn't gone on a serious ride since the Monte Carlo incident which happened nearly ten years ago.

- What I was thinking was, today is a great day for me to get back into cycling.
- What I should have been thinking was, today is a great day for me to start getting back into shape so that I can even think about getting back into cycling.

The route that I intended to take was one that would include some of the same type of terrain that I used to rule and reign over - uphills, downhill, technical, grueling...the whole thing. The whole route was maybe 12 miles roundtrip and in my mind would take me less than 35 minutes to complete...No problem.

Big problem.
About halfway through the first 6 miles of the ride there is a small park that sits at the top of a small hill across from an old-folks home that looks like a Spanish castle and adjacent to a beautiful land preserve where wild deer and small chirping birds make there home...It's picturesque to say the least.

I did not notice the beautiful sites that surrounded me because I was near death.
By the time I reached the top of the hill my breathing was so harsh and forced that my lungs felt like they were on fire. My head was swimming, I was sweating buckets, my eyes were blurry, my ass ached, my hands were cramped, my shoulders were in knots and my legs had the rubbery feeling that should only be felt after you've been working out for several hours...I'd only been riding for about 13 minutes. That was when it occurred to me that this was not the way that I remembered feeling all those years ago. This was not cycling; this was work - not fun, just work. This was about the same time that I realized that I hadn't brought any water bottles and had no money to stop at a store to buy any drink that had electrolytes or hydro-imminos or what-ever-the-hell their called now. I was dehydrated to the inth-degree and was starting to feel the effects of a heat stroke...This was definitely not the way I remembered it.

I pulled into the little park and pointed my bike in the general direction of the first water fountain I could spot which was next to a tiny baseball field.
Wearily I got off my bike and stumbled toward that water fountain only to find that some wise-ass had pushed a wad of chewing gum down the spigot of the water fountain...I'd never wanted to beat up a little leaguer so badly in all my life.
When I finally scraped enough of the petrified gum away from the spigot to where water would spurt out I leaned down to sip the water and knew from the swirling vortex before my eyes that I was very close to blacking out.

And so, out of a sense of desperation and self-preservation I put my mouth to the spigot and sucked as hard as I could on the little bit of water that was coming out...
Thank God there was no one there to see the spectacle that I had become - Oh Wait! That's right, there were people watching, A Lot Of People...Dozens in fact. Old people out walking there miniature poodles and pugs and Pomeranians, suburban soccer moms out with other suburban soccer moms for a brisk morning walk around the park in their matching little sweat suits designed by J-Lo - or as I like to call her; Jenny from the block, there were also two off-duty or on-break firemen who were having a great-ole-time walking around the tiny baseball field talking about how much they were looking forward to their shifts being over so they could head home and crack-a-brew.

So, there I was.
Beet-red, sweating like I just circled the sun in fur-lined cold-weather survival gear, about to pass out, sucking on the spigot of a little league water fountain in my little black spandex shorts for all the world to see. The situation was dire. Dire.
The old people and their miniature animals eventually faded into the background, the soccer moms headed off to whatever PTA meeting they had scheduled and I was left alone with the water fountain and the ever-circling, ever-shorts-and-boots-wearing, ever-mustache-bearing, ever-chuckling-out-loud; Firemen.
I really should have asked those guys for oxygen but my pride couldn't bear it.

30 minutes later I was lying flat on my back in the grass next to the baseball field when I realized that I would not be able to make it back home under my own power...I swallowed what was left of my pride and called my wife on my cell phone..."Baby, could you come pick me up?" - the hardest 7 words I've said this whole week.
When my wife pulled into the park and got out to help me stow my bike in the back of the truck I thought to myself, "Well, it can't get much worse, at least I didn't pass out." - of course at that same moment the two firemen rounded a corner and saw me packing it in with the help of my wife and I guess that they just couldn't resist but to make a comment just loud enough for me to hear. I think they said something about catching the bus home or getting bailed out by the old lady or something to that effect...It was all the same to me, it had officially just gotten worse. Now I was catching a rash-o-shit from a couple of guys that could've doubled for Magnum P.I.
I was ready to call it a day and never leave my house on a bicycle again.

You know, when people say "You Can Never Go Back"; I usually take it to mean that I can't go back and undo the mistakes I've made or go back and say the right thing rather than the wrong thing, the best compliment rather than the gentle jibe that turned into the fight from hell.
But, I guess "You Can Never Go Back" can also be taken as a warning that my body isn't made of steel like it was when I was 5 years old - when no fall, thump or bump could ever hurt for longer than 1 minute...A warning that my metabolism isn't as fast as it used to be and that beer and steak from last night is actually sticking to my ribs and gifting me with the waistline of Homer Simpson and not the six-pack of Brad Pitt...A warning that my desire to jump on a bike and feel the same sense of exhilaration that I did 10 years ago does not outweigh the reality that the last 10 years of my life have been spent on the discipline of my spirit and not the discipline of my body and that going back, now, can not, in fact, be done.

So, I won't be going back.
I'll try and go forward, I'll try and get my body to a place where it won't die when I need it to be strong. I'll determine in my mind to make an effort at being the best I can be now.


Our spiritual journeys feel this way sometimes don't they?

At times we look back at our lives and think "I'd really love to feel that way now." or "I'd really like to feel God now - the way I did then."
The difference here is that where as we can not go back physically and be in the same shape we were in several years ago, we can not go back and right a wrong or change a situation so that the outcome will be better. We just can't do it. "You Can Never Go Back" is true in this aspect, we can't.
But it's not that way with God, the lifespan of our spirituality is not bound be the laws that our physical bodies are and God doesn't know what "You Can Never Go Back" even means - God says you don't have to go back, you're right there...you always have been. There's no spiritual exercise that can build enough spirit muscles to make it easier to communicate with God and feel his presence, it just doesn't work that way. No amount of repentance for past-wrongs will make it easier either, because God isn't looking at our past-wrongs as reasons to shun us but as reasons to love us and forgive us...and our past-wrongs have no bearing on whether or not God is far or near from us...he's never been further from us than the air in our lungs.

So, we can go back.
But do we really want to do that? Would that be the best answer?
Rather than going back and seeking out a past-experience or a past-hope; shouldn't we strive to go forward and let all things in Christ be new to us and fresh...like it's the first time, every time?
Is that possible?