A few months ago, I wrote a story (which I’d recommend reading first if you haven’t already) about my mom and her bicycle trip through Switzerland, up and down Susten Pass, and even though we grew up in different times, there were some parallels in our childhoods that I realized only after I’d written most of this story.  It made me smile, and we’ll get to those in a bit, but first, join me in  another trip through the time machine, this time it was on a speeding black bicycle, in Germany, many years ago…

I was 16.  My sister and I had saved up money from our newspaper delivery routes and gone over there for the summer to visit extended family and help our grandparents (Oma and Opa) out.  We had pretty much free rein to do what we wanted, but we loved our grandparents and helped them however we could.

“We’ll be back at 10:30” I told Oma as we went down the cement back steps to get the bicycles out of the shed.  We needed them to ride to the next town to say goodbye to a friend who’d visited for part of the summer. My sister thought we’d be back much sooner, but for whatever reason, 10:30 was stuck in my mind, so that’s when I said – actually insisted – that we’d be back.

Our friend’s name was Philippe, an exchange student from France who was heading back after visiting some – well, I was going to say cousins – but that’s not really the case… He was a friend to Ulrike, who was a cousin of some family friends (brothers Martin and Wolfgang) and their family had been friends with ours for generations – to the point where it was hard to tell where family stopped and friendships started. There was a significant overlap.

To get there, we traveled from Ludwigsburg to Kornwestheim, in Germany, (about 10 km/6 miles) by bicycle because he was leaving that morning to go back to Paris. It would be a long, long time before we saw him again.

With our dad in the military, we’d grown up all over, but spent a good bit of that time growing up or visiting there in Germany, and we learned that one of the things that happened behind the scenes for us when we visited was that someone made a bicycle available for each of us. In my case, someone had made a black, very old NSU bike available to me for the summer. It had been around since WWII or before, and I was told it had been a soldier’s issue bike that had indeed been used back then.  (This is the model. Mine had lost the front fender though, but that front brake, saddle, and that oversized “gepäckträger” – the rear cargo carrier are exactly as I remember them) At some point in its history, it had been “upgraded” and now sported a three speed rear wheel and a gear shifter to match, so one could ride up steeper hills than before, and ride faster on level ground than before.

That was a good thing…

Stopping when coming down from those steeper hills was another thing entirely.

See, that coaster brake was part of the upgrade, but it was either full on or full off, no middle of the road (no pun intended). I learned that if I so much as breathed on it, the back wheel locked up, and I would skid to an abrupt, barely-controlled halt.

The back tire itself was in pretty decent shape. The front tire still held air, but really, that was about it. There was hardly any tread left, and in some places the threads were showing through. The reason for this was that the front brake had not been upgraded, in fact, it was original, and was more of a rubber skid pad in a metal box that was pushed down directly onto the tire via a lever and rod assembly. This did indeed slow the bike down, but had the added effect of sanding the tread off the tire with road grit and the like, so it wore much faster than the back one. In fact, the week before this story happened, I’d gotten a flat on that front tire, and had to patch it, so every time the wheel went around, it’d bump a little as the thicker patched part hit the pavement.

What surprises me now as I write this is that every bit of the detail above, while it is extensive and feels almost overdone, is actually relevant to the story.

So we rode over to Kornwestheim, leaving the house around 7:00 or so because it was one of the hottest summers in Europe in years, and we wanted to go over and back before it got hot.

My sister had Oma’s bicycle – something that was about 40 years old at the time, and I had that soldier’s bike.

The thing about that patch I mentioned earlier is that at low speeds, it didn’t do much. From experience on my paper route, I liked a lot of air pressure in the tires. The good in that was the bike went farther and faster on less energy. The bad was that you felt every bump on the road, and in my case, I felt the bump caused by the tire patch.



The wheel.

Came around.

Once I got going really fast, the patch caused the whole front end to start bouncing and shaking, eventually becoming as smooth and comfortable as, uh, riding a bicycle while hanging on to a paint shaker.

So on the way there, we wound slowly, gently through farmer’s fields and people’s gardens, and there was one left turn right by a small orchard that took us up over a hill.

We’d done it once before, when we’d gone over to visit Wolfgang’s and Martin, and stayed too late and it got dark. Our bikes didn’t have lights, but theirs did. So Martin said, “We’ll ride front and back. You just follow my taillight, and Wolfgang will light up the road for your sister from the back.” So off we went… Martin rode in front, Wolfgang in back, with my sister and me in the middle.  It was early August, there was no moon, so I followed Martin’s taillight up that hill, where we stayed pretty much together, then down the hill, where he accelerated way out in front of me. I squinted against the wind trying to keep him in focus, and then just as I blinked, his taillight suddenly tilted, shot off to the right, and disappeared.

I looked around frantically, it was pitch black, I was going down a hill at about 30 miles an hour, and my only source of light had just disappeared.  In seconds I got to where I guessed he must have turned, and leaned hard right, turned, and hung on until I saw his taillight swing back into my field of view again. We were so far from any streetlights, that his taillight was really, truly, the only thing I could see. I was glad to have a frame of reference again. I’d lost track of where we were in the dark and had no recollection of what the road had looked like in the daytime.

And I didn’t recognize it the morning when we went to say goodbye to Philippe.  When we got there that day, we got to the hill, turned left at the orchard to go up it, and I remember noticing that the road over that hill was typical in its German engineering… It was absolutely smooth. Perfect in every way. You could have laid a ruler on it, it was so straight going up, perfectly straight coming down.

And we sweated a bit as we made it up over the hill. We knew it would be a lot warmer on the way back, so we hurried to get to Martin & Wolfgang’s house where Phillipe and Ulrike were, chatted for a bit, hugged and then waved as Philippe left.

We hung out for just a little bit, got something to drink, then, as we felt the warmth of the day starting even in the shade, we headed back.

And the real story comes on that trip back, and takes all of about 20 seconds…

Now in all of the stuff I mentioned about the brakes, if there’s one thing I didn’t mention (or maybe it was obvious), it’s that I didn’t trust them.

So I had an emergency brake, one I’d tried out in front of Martin & Wolfgang’s house.

It was an 8 foot US Army flare parachute tied to the cargo carrier on back of the bike and held down with the spring clamp there (you can see the clamp in the picture here)

I’d practiced this.

And it worked.  It really worked.

See, if you could reach back, grab it, yank it and all the lines out from under the clamp, and then toss it back hard and fast enough, it would open up with enough of a jerk to where you had to hold very tightly onto the handlebars to keep from flying over them when it opened.

I figured that this was for emergencies only, once you threw it, you were going to stop.

If you didn’t throw the parachute far enough, it’d get tangled in the back wheel.  It would indeed still stop you, but a bit more abruptly, and with a bit less control…

(don’t ask)


The thermometer was solidly into 80 degrees Fahrenheit (a little over 25 C) when we started up the hill again, and I was thankful for the extra gears on the bike and pedaled to the slow, rhythmic ‘kathump’ of the front wheel going around. I don’t know how my sister did it riding Oma’s old single speed bike behind me, but she did it.

As a result, we were definitely not riding at Tour de France speeds. That “speed” up the hill allowed butterflies to flutter by, and grasshoppers played leapfrog with us. A dandelion floated past. There was a gentle breeze from the back, going about as fast as we were, ironically making us even warmer. I was looking forward to getting to the top, because I knew once we got to the other side of the hill I could coast and cool off down that wonderfully engineered road. Right past the gardens, in a little bit of shade, with the orchard at the T intersection at the bottom, where we’d have to turn right.

We didn’t stop at the top, my bike was still in first gear – so I pedaled – hard – for about 5-10 seconds in each of the 3 gears, then ducked down so that I’d cause less wind resistance, and go even faster, and only then did I sit up, lean back a bit, and let the air blow past me, through my hair, everywhere. I held my arms up high for a bit, letting the wind come up the sleeves of my t-shirt, joyfully cooling me off.

It was glorious.

A couple of things happened as I accelerated with my hands in the air. One, the wind was loud enough in my ears that it was all I heard, and two, without my hands on the handlebars, that gentle ‘kathump, kathump, kathump’ of the front wheel at low speed started bouncing the front of the bike all over the place, truly making it into that pedal powered paint shaker I mentioned earlier. All because of that patch I’d put on the tire the week before. Riding with my hands up in the air wasn’t an option anymore, and I had to lean forward and hang on tight to keep control of the front wheel, and the bike, and it kept accelerating as it went further down the hill.

Now this road we were on was the bottom part of a capital T- that turn I’d mentioned earlier by the orchard was a T intersection. <–that’s an aerial shot of the intersection>.  We were coming back this time, from the bottom of the T and turning right…

And turning right was the thing to do.  That was the paved road.  Turning left put you into what was then a plowed field.

So that narrowed down the options quite a bit.

There was only one problem with those remaining options.

Well, actually, several.

One: the turn was essentially blind…

Two: You had to make the turn, because at the top of that T was that orchard with a huge, rusty, chain link fence around it with barbed wire on top.

So ideally, you’d take it tight. You’d line up as far left as you could ahead of time, then swing hard right into the turn, grazing the apex with the bike, then drift out as you hit the top of the T, straightening out and all (this is where I had lost, then found,  Martin’s taillight in the dark from the earlier ride in the dark).

But I couldn’t take the corner too tight because there was a garden right on the corner, with enough bushes and trees to where I couldn’t see around all that to see if farm traffic (Tractor, combine, ox) might be coming down that road… which I wouldn’t see until it was right in front of me, with me closing on it at top speed…

Then again, I couldn’t take it wide, because if I missed the fence around the orchard, I’d fly off the road into that monstrously deep ditch that separated the field beside the orchard from the road. (that would be the ditch I hadn’t seen when I shot past it in the dark a couple of weeks earlier.)


Now that I could see, it dawned on me that I should have been terrified on that first time around, but it was so dark then that I couldn’t see things like monstrous ditches waiting for me by the side of the road.

Also, even though I could see now, I didn’t have time to be scared.

Right then I had to make a lot of quick decisions and line myself up just right, to essentially thread a needle at about 35 mph.

With a bicycle.

Options narrowed, decisions made, I lined myself up to thread that needle and take the turn, when I noticed, to my alarm, an old fellow had just left that garden right at the corner and had settled onto his bicycle, which was just starting to coast the last few meters down the hill.

This changed everything.

I tried to get his attention by frantically ringing my bicycle bell and yelling.

No luck.

I had to start leaning right into the turn right then and realized that I now had to take the turn wider to avoid the old fellow, but I was going much too fast to take the turn that wide, so I hit the back brake, which instantly locked the back wheel. Because I was already leaning, the back of the bike slid out, skidding – so now I was going down the hill sideways, front wheel shaking, but tracking true, a prime example of oversteer if you’ve ever seen it.

This, um, wasn’t good…

To say I was in control at this point would have been wildly overstating things. I let up on the back brake and the bike flung back straight…

…which was good.

Except I was running out of space fast.

I had the front brake left, so I squeezed that handle for all I was worth, the rubber pad met the tire, there was friction, and the bike slowed down for a split second before smoke started shooting out from between the pad and the tire until the pad itself followed the smoke with a “thwip!”, shot out of the little metal box at the end of the rod, and was gone.

Which was when the metal box hit the tire and dug in…

…which was bad.

Losing the already almost shredded front tire right then would be infinitely worse.

So I let off the brake, and realized the old gentleman on his bike was going to be tootling around the turn, right at that precious apex of it, at about 5 miles an hour just as I came rocketing through the very same spot at about 30. By this time, I was leaned over as far as I dared, with that whole paint shaker thing working with centrifugal force against me, every time that tire patch lump hit the pavement, it bounced the wheel off the road just enough to scoot out a bit, making the eye of that needle I was threading with the bike infinitely smaller.

I squinted again, just like anyone does when they’re threading a needle, right? and hey, wait – I had an emergency brake in that parachute, right?

But using it would have required having a stable bike.

(Which I didn’t have).

And enough time to grab it.

(Which I was running out of.)

And having enough distance for it to open.

(Which I already had run out of.)

Oh good.

I held onto the bike, still leaning, threaded the needle made by physics, the fence, and the gentleman without hitting him, and had almost made it straight when I ran out of pavement and the front tire started sliding across the dirt, which had no traction.

Then things got interesting.

After the dirt, there was about a foot of grass in front of the chain link fence, which, according to my sister who was behind me, I apparently rode up, kind of like a banked curve.  Near the top somehow, the barbed wire caught my left arm (I still have the scars) and pulled it back and turned me a little further into the fence, which would have been okay except for the fence post.

Made of steel pipe.

Embedded in concrete.

That I hit with my front wheel.

That shot me out back into the middle of the road, where I landed on my right elbow and spun around on it, grinding it into the pavement until I finally stopped.

I came to, in the middle of the road, facing uphill, wrapped up in the bicycle, to the old German fellow yelling the old German equivalent of “You dang kids! Why don’t you watch where you’re going?” as I tried to get up.

At the rate he was yelling, I didn’t think it would help me any to explain to him that I was in that situation precisely *because* I was watching where I was going.

There wasn’t much to do but let him rant.  I was sure he was going to get mad at me for bleeding all over his nice road…

The last thing I’d been aware of was when the front wheel hit the dirt. I didn’t hear a crash, didn’t see the barbed wire tear at my left arm, didn’t feel myself land on my right arm, none of that. The people in the house behind the orchard heard the everything and came running out and brought us in – did some first aid on me on the kitchen table to do their best to stop the bleeding, and then my sister insisted we trade bikes, so she was riding the soldier’s bike, and I was riding Oma’s, and we slowly headed toward home. But very quickly realized I needed more first aid stuff to keep myself from bleeding more onto that fine gentleman’s road, so we stopped at a pharmacy and got some more bandages, disinfectant, and ointment and then continued riding.

We decided to stop at our aunt’s house, and she cleaned me up and we got me all bandaged up and everything (Somewhere I have a picture of me with those bandages, and with my prized Star Wars t-shirt on)

Then, only then, did we get home (which was right next door)

We walked our bikes up the driveway, past the kitchen window, called into Oma that we were back.  We leaned the bikes up against the shed before heading inside.

Out of instinct I looked at my watch as we climbed those back steps where we’d said goodbye earlier.

It was exactly 10:30.



It got me thinking…

A lot, actually.

See, I wrote this story, and the more I thought about it, the more I thought it’s not so much an actual ‘story’ with a defined beginning, middle, and end as it is the recalling of an event, and I was wondering what to do with it, and then found mom’s story, and the parallels of shared memories a generation apart just threw me.

And maybe, maybe that’s the story.

See, this set of steps that I climbed with my sister, after a bicycle ride that had led to some unplanned stops and adventures…

…was the same set of steps my mom had climbed with her brother, after a bicycle ride, that had had led to some unplanned stops and adventures…

26 years earlier.

Both of us got there later than we’d originally expected.

And the bike I ended up riding after the crash, (Oma’s bike) was the same bike my mom had been riding in Switzerland.

26 years earlier.

I did a lot of thinking about this at the time, like why did I know we’d come back at 10:30?  How did I know that? Was it a fluke? a coincidence? something completely random? (I honestly have no idea and still wonder)

But I remember going up those steps and looking at my watch as if it were yesterday.

As I was writing, I actually laughed when I realized mom’s and my back brakes were just as ineffective, for different reasons, and how our front brakes died in exactly the same way.  Really, that’s not made up – that’s the way the brakes were, and I remember the “thwip” sound the rubber pad made as it shot out, and the vibration in the brake lever as that little metal holder dug into the tire.

And I thought of the little ‘aha’ moments that came from the two stories.

Sometimes, like my mom, you go blasting ahead, hanging on for dear life, and make it around life’s twists and turns.

And, sometimes, like me, you go blasting ahead, hanging on for dear life, and crash and bleed all over things.

In both cases you run the risk of people yelling at you. :-)

But then I thought about my Uncle Walter – riding in front of mom, and his friend Wolfgang, riding behind her, and realized that Martin and our friend Wolfgang had done the exact same thing… showing us the way, protecting us, and giving us someone to follow when we needed a guide, and someone to warn us of danger we couldn’t see (burning brakes in mom’s case) or light our way when we couldn’t see the road at all (in my sister’s and my case).

And I realized we all have people like that in our lives…  People who will do their best to protect us from danger

Even if that danger is us.

I thought about the trust of riding behind Martin…

How I went around the same corner two separate times – and strangely, the one time when I had to trust someone else to guide me, when I literally couldn’t see, and didn’t use brakes at all, I made it.

And the time when I could see, and trust myself, I crashed.

But that first time – I couldn’t see anything but Martin’s taillight.  Making it around the corner was simple. Follow the light and I’d be good.

The next time, well, there were so many more things to consider, and not much time to consider them in.  The paint shaker, the brakes, the parachute, the old man, the number of ‘what if’s’ flew by me so fast they became a blur, and I made the best decision I could at the time.

I just made it late.

And when you do stuff like that, I’ve realized the people around you will often fall into two camps:

There will be those who drop everything and help patch you up and get you home when things go bad, like the folks at the orchard, our aunt, my sister.

And then there are people who will yell at you while you bleed…

Part of life, I think, is knowing which people are which, and maybe having that parachute handy.

I know that in life, if I go down that hill in the dark, I don’t want to go down without a light to follow, and have learned to appreciate the “Martins” in my life for all the help they give, even – or especially when they don’t have a clue they’re giving it.

See, Martin couldn’t see me behind him in the dark, he had to watch where he was going, and while he was there specifically for me to follow him, couldn’t possibly have known how totally dependent I was on his light for guidance.

That made me wonder how many times I’ve unwittingly been the light for someone following me, and not known it…


Or is this just a story about a 16 year old kid doing something that 16 year old kids do, and let it go at that?

Sometimes it’s just chaos, and sometimes, as my son has said, it’s simply this:  “Pop, you are living proof that it is better to be lucky than smart.”

I have a hunch at least part of this story falls into the last category.

Let me know what you think, folks – I’m curious.

Take care – and thanks –




Actually finding the location there on the map was a tremendous challenge for me, both in trying to figure it out and realizing that the memories we have of our own history fade over time.  Somehow, in researching this, I actually got back in touch with Ulrike, and it was she who finally found it for me. I was able to see it through Google Earth, and how much the area had changed over the years.

I was able to actually find the T-intersection (more of a cursive T)

You can see the path I had to take, the gentleman was right at the corner, and the window to the right in the white building is where the table I got patched up at still is.

You can see the path I had to take, the gentleman was right at the corner, and the window to the right in the white building at top is where they patched me up.

I then saw that the “house” (top center) was actually a “Jugend Farm” – a youth farm, where kids get a chance to see what living on a farm is like, and get to actually work and get their hands dirty.  Interestingly enough, it had a Facebook page , so on a hunch, I sent them a message, and got in touch with Markus, who is the son in law of one of the fellows who’d been involved with it from the very beginning.  And it was Markus who took the time to go out and take, and then send me the pictures of what the road looks like now.  He stood right about at the intersection and looked up the hill to get this photo:

Looking up the hill I came rocketing down. The turn looks gentle from here, but swing left (for the photo below), and take it at speed, and it gets interesting.

Looking up the hill I came rocketing down. The turn looks gentle from here, but swing left (for the photo below), and take it at speed, and it gets interesting.  (Photo by and courtesy of Markus Weimer)

And then he mentioned that they’d replaced the fence a number of years ago, but turned from where he was in the above photo and took a picture of the new fence, in the same spot the old one had been:

The car in the lower right is about where the old gentleman was. the trees have sure grown up in the years since I was there, but the fencepost I bounced off would have been where the one just about dead center in the photo is. The ditch is just behind the fence to the right of center in the background. The building in the background was a field.

The car in the lower right is about where the old gentleman was. the trees have sure grown up in the years since I was there, but the fence post I bounced off would have been where the one just about dead center in the photo is. The ditch is just behind the fence to the right of center in the background. The building in the background was a field.

I haven’t been back to Germany since that summer, and it’s clearly been a few years since this happened.  I wanted to make sure my memory was still accurate, so sent Markus an early draft of this story.  He confirmed much about it, and sent me a note with this little bit in it, which, somehow, brought tears to my eyes.

“The building is still there, we are renovating it at the moment. The table is still at the same position right next to the windows :).”

I rolled over in bed and my hand landed on a cold pillow.

That’s not right at any time and it woke me up.  I looked around to find that the living room light was on.

At 4:00 a.m.

That was definitely not right, and I stumbled out of the bedroom without my glasses to see what was going on.  My wife was sitting there in the chair by the window, curtains halfway open. Eyes red. Phone hanging listlessly in her hand.

“Are you okay?”

“My dad went to heaven a little while ago.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry…”

It was a Monday, and the beginning of what one might call a rough week.

I made some coffee, took the day off work, and shortly thereafter, we were using every phone in the house. My wife checked in with family back east, getting details and helping organize things while I made airline reservations and other travel arrangements to get us all there in the next few days.  We’d learn much more later, but it turned out he’d passed away in his sleep. It was how he’d said he wanted to go, so amidst the shock, we were glad he’d gotten what he wanted.

We flew back east to help with some of the arrangements, and had a gathering of family and friends who came to celebrate the life of a man loved and cherished by so many.  We learned a lot about family, and about how there are times when you pitch in and help even when you don’t know what do do, or how to do it.  Friends and long lost family came out of the woodwork, and amidst all the grief and sadness, there was a feeling of simply being blessed by the presence of the people who were there both in body and in spirit.

There were those who listened, those who made sure there was food for all the people who showed up, and those who shared stories that made us both laugh and cry.  I don’t remember all their names, but I will remember how they made us feel, and surrounded by family in the middle of chaos, we felt loved.

Soon it was time to pack up and leave where we had all gathered. We started to put things away only to realize, to our surprise, that much of the work had already been done. Done by willing hands who offered their help when it was needed, expecting nothing in return. We found that things and people had been taken back to the house. Unbidden, they just did it, and the stories, the laughter, and the tears, continued.

My wife would end up staying for several weeks to help out with the myriad of things that needed to be done, but a day or so later,  it was time for me to head west again.  To do that, we first had to head east about three hours through a massive rainstorm (<–news video of the storm and flooding) to get to the airport in Detroit.

Once again, the wipers were barely enough to keep the windshield clear, and the storm seemed to match physically what we were all going through emotionally.  I had to block the emotion out, I’d have time on the plane to think about things.  Right then, I just had to deal with driving and paying attention to what I could see of the road.

We got to the airport, I got out, managed to hug my sister-in-law, kiss Cindy goodbye and get under cover without getting too wet where I got through the beloved security lines and then to the gate, where it looked like this:

The storm looked and felt like something we’d been through not much more than a month before, so I looked it up on the radar and found this:

The storm in Detroit

See the deep red dot at the left edge of that orange blob in the middle?

That’s where the worst of the storm was.

It’s also where the airport is.

And where I was.

It seemed fitting.

What’s strange is that right about then I realized that the reality of the storm we were in couldn’t be changed.  We could only change our reaction to it.  I mean, we could run to stay out of the rain, but we’d still get wet.

That realization helped me see the bigger picture of the storm I’d seen through the windshield, out the window at the airport, and on the weather radar coalesce with the storm we were all going through emotionally.

That, also, seemed fitting.

Because of the storm,  my wife’s 3 1/2 hour trip back with her sister turned into something closer to 5 1/2 hours.  It was raining so hard they had to wait by the side of the road in places because they couldn’t see.  I waited with all the others in the airplane at the airport until the worst was over, and finally, we were able to take our place in line and head out.

Getting our place in line to take off

It took some time, but we finally took off, climbed out of the storm and saw the blue sky again.

Looking back, I got a different perspective on the storm we'd been through

Looking back, I got a different perspective on the storm we’d been through, how we’d gone deep into it, been bounced around a good bit, and then, finally, a sense of, if not clarity, then acceptance…

After a long stop in Chicago, we chased the longest sunset I’d ever seen, all the way to Seattle.

I watched it for hours, most of the flight, actually.

…and it got me thinking…

A lot.

See, what I was leaving behind, was rain, a good bit of chaos, and tears…

But I also left behind memories of a quiet, gentle man who taught not only his kids to play baseball, and who made an ice rink in the side yard for hockey because winters were cold enough to freeze it. Come to think of it, that wasn’t just for his kids, but all the kids in the neighborhood.

I left behind memories, stories of when he’d hunted rabbit to keep food on the table, and the stories of the look of satisfaction he had when he’d got a deer in the fall.  The family would eat well that winter.

I had my own memories – of when I sat chatting with him on the front porch, looking out over his lawn, the bird feeder, and the maple tree he’d planted as a stick, years ago, the same porch we’d sat on side by side when I asked him if I could marry his daughter.

That had been over 25 years ago.

I looked out the window, lost in those thoughts, and then smiled at one more, remembering when he taught me how to pour coffee, and how important it was to pour it *just right*.

Back in the plane, I looked back a bit, and could see the darkness gaining on us.

Eventually we had a glorious sunset in front of us, darkness behind us, but the darkness was faster…

And so it goes with all of us, right?  Each one of us has a flight to take, one on which there will be rough weather. And beautiful weather.

And at some point – there will be a sunset that we all must face.

I pondered a bit more as the plane was slowly enveloped in the darkness, and that glorious sunset slipped away, replaced with a gray, unearthly twilight.

Looking back again, I could see the moon casting shadows on the clouds. The darkness had its own beauty. It was easy to look down, but I felt a strong urge to look up, to see what the sky looked like at night from this high up, so I slouched down in my seat as much as I could,  turned my own light off above my seat, and as hard as it was in that position, I looked up.

And as our plane descended through the turbulence back to earth, the sunset faded, and I looked up into the dark, dark sky. I realized that the beauty of the fading sunset…


…had been replaced by stars.



It’s been a year now since this story happened, and it’s simmered enough to finally write.

We had an interesting summer last year.

We did a road trip. But, as with anything with us, it wasn’t ordinary.

Oh, don’t get me wrong, there was plenty of ordinary stuff in there – but – well, here, I’ll explain a bit as we go, k? You hop in the back seat, right next to the ice chest, kick the sandy shoes and the McDonald’s bag out of the way so you have some leg room, say hi to Michael, he’s back there, too, and come along for the ride – oh, sorry – no cup holders in the back seat.

There are so many stories to tell here – some of them are behind us – in fact, here – fold the map up and crack the window a bit while I get you caught up. We’re heading west, with no turns for 2000 miles… We won’t need the map for a few days.

So we were headed back to my wife’s home state of Michigan to celebrate – lots of things…

An anniversary…

A wedding…

A graduation…

…it’s the stuff life is made out of, right?

Life had been a bit challenging leading up to the trip – lots of things…

A ton of overtime at work…

Lots of organizing things for the trip…

Lots of – well…

…it’s also the stuff life is made out of, right?

And so while we were looking forward to some fun times, life, as you well know, occasionally has other ideas. And in this case, there was a trip to an emergency room, a hospital stay, a resulting unexpected trip to a laundromat, where some prayers were answered, where we bought the cop car we’re driving west in, and – yeah, a lot of things… things that you just don’t expect when you’re going to visit family for an anniversary, a wedding, and a graduation.

But they were there…


…it’s the stuff life is made out of, right?

But things were a bit stressful, wondering if it was okay to leave, but we were told things would be okay, and so the time came to leave, we said our goodbyes, and tried not to cry – because as you know, there’s always a chance that the last time you see someone will indeed be the last time you see someone, and the last words you say to someone will indeed be the last words…

And you realize, as you leave, that you want to hold on to them for just a little longer…

You want to soak up their presence, their essence, and you want to just be with them for a little bit longer.

You don’t *know* that something bad is going to happen, but the visits are rare, and you have to save up for them, so that thought isn’t just in the back of your mind, it’s actually in front of that.

And so you hug them, put on a brave face, and try to remember everything you learned from them.

So you not only hug them, but you hold on to them as long as you can, and –

– hang on a bit – it looks like a rainstorm ahead…

And yes indeed – it is a rainstorm.

In fact – it’s raining so hard I can barely see – wow this came on suddenly – unexpectedly… Should I have seen this coming? This is not a road I’m familiar traveling, but stopping isn’t an option.

I look in the rear view mirror and see a Semi truck barreling down on me. I’ve slowed down to 35 mph and still it doesn’t seem slow enough… the wipers are flipping rain as hard as they can.  The car suddenly shudders violently in the turbulence as the truck blasts by. The wipers won’t go any faster, and the only car I can see, and that just barely, is the one in front of me…

I can’t follow too closely, because there won’t be time to react if that driver has to stop suddenly. There was a gentle curve to the left starting just as we hit the rainstorm, so I need to stay with that driver – to be close enough to see his taillights to help guide me, but far enough away to be safe. I know I’ll have to let go, so to speak, of that driver, sooner or later, but for now, I have to hang on.

About this time, trying to imagine explaining this later, I ask Michael to take a picture, and he does.

The wipers are on full, and if you look closely, you can barely see the one taillight of that car just about dead center in the picture. The one I have to stay close enough to to see, but not so close that I crash into them.

I can’t believe how hard it’s raining, or that it’s even possible for it to rain harder.

But it does. It rains harder, I can barely see past the hood, much less the sides of the road.

We have to slow down even more.

I want to say “I can’t believe it” – but believing it – or not, is irrelevant… it’s staring me in the face. The deluge on the other side of the windshield just is, and has to be dealt with.


Whether I believe it or not.

Whether I’m capable of believing it or not.

Other drivers have seen a cable guardrail on the side of the road and have decided that slowing down isn’t enough. They had actually stopped on the shoulder, knowing they couldn’t drive any farther, simply because they couldn’t see.

I think about it – but a quick look in the rear view mirror shows the dark silhouette of another truck coming up behind me in the fast lane. He’s doing maybe twice my speed and I realize that I’d never be able to get out of the way fast enough if he were in my lane, much less drifting off to the shoulder full of parked cars.

I glance up and see that his cab is just above the spray from all the cars. That’s why he can drive faster – he can see, but all of us down here are in the middle of the spray, and we can’t see very well, so we drive slowly… and safely. We crawl past the line of cars and see an exit, which we take.

The exit as seen from Google Earth, taken on a much dryer day

The exit to Jamestown, ND, as seen from Google Earth, taken on a much dryer day

It loops around 180 degrees to the right, we make a left turn off it, and find a truck stop that says, in large letters, “CAFÉ”. There’s a parking space right in front of the door, so I pull in and just sit there for a bit.

My foot’s still on the brake, and I’m surprised to find I have to slowly peel my fingers off the steering wheel. One at a time. I hadn’t realized I’d been holding on so tight – but I had been. I had to so I could stay in control, in case – I can’t allow myself to think of the alternative.

Our ears re-adjust to the sounds in the car now that it’s stopped. The engine’s off, there’s no sound of tires on wet pavement or frantic wipers on wet glass. The only sound now is the rain, roaring down on the roof so loud we have to talk loud to be heard over it.

We wait in the car for a bit, wipers finally off, wondering if the rain will let up…

And it’s not letting up, so if we’re going to get inside, we’re going get wet, plain and simple, so taking a deep breath, we jump out, lock the car and run for the door.

We stomp our shoes dry in the foyer and find others have had the same idea, that stopping and waiting for the weather to clear is just smart. There’s a crowd of people congregated around the bathrooms to the right and I hear two women talking, one surprised to see the other’s there. “Oh, I wasn’t expecting to be here, but there’s an accident blocking the westbound lanes at the next exit a mile or so further up, so I came this way.”

Those westbound lanes were the lanes we’d been traveling on.

With the storm, I wouldn’t have been able to see an accident if we’d come up on it.

Waiting my turn, and still trying to come to grips with what had happened, I pull out my phone and look up the local weather radar – I’d never seen anything like this, and from that radar image, it’s clear why it felt so sudden, because quite frankly, it was. It had been cloudy, but no rain, or even a sign of rain, until we came up over a rise just outside of Jamestown. We could see rain up ahead, but there wasn’t any hint of what was to come. Since we could barely see past the hood of the car, trying to figure out how big this storm is would take something else, so I check the scale on the radar map and find the towns of Steele (on the left) and Casselton (on the right) are about 130 miles apart. That means the storm we’re in is about that big north to south, and the part we were driving through east to west was maybe 15 miles of total blindness. It would have been driving by braille, feeling our way along.

Yeah, it was worth stopping.

We go back to the café part of the place and sit down in a booth where the vegetable beef soup, a grilled cheese sandwich, and diner coffee sounds about as good as anything could sound on a day where the water in the air is so thick you can’t see through it.

…and it got me thinking…

The whole trip had been full of so many things.

Some were wonderful. (Put going to Mackinac Island on your bucket list, really)

Some were calmly pleasant. (Sitting on the front porch, quietly chatting with my father in law, the one who taught me how to pour coffee).

And some – like all goodbyes, were hard.

I remembered holding on through our goodbyes as we left, and how much that was like holding on to that car up ahead in the rainstorm, the one I’d seen so clearly until the rains fell. I tried to hold onto it – to stay close to it, so that I wouldn’t lose it.

But I couldn’t get too close.


Too close and I’d run the risk of running into him. Too far, too early, and I could lose my way entirely and crash myself.

I had to stay with them as long as I could, until I could see well enough to get along on my own, and only then let him go.

And I thought more about that, sitting there in that café, with my family, as we ate our soup and sandwiches…

We have to let go of the generation in front of us, right?

At some point in everyone’s life, there will come a storm.

It will be hard to see.

It may come on suddenly, like a tornado.

It may come slowly, like a hurricane.

You will find yourself trying desperately to hold on to the generation that’s always been in front of you.

Leading the way.

Lighting the way.

And you’ll realize that there will be people around you – for whom this storm matters not.

Like the first truck that drenched us with spray.

There will be things that shake you.

Like that second truck that so shook the car.

And you will find that there will be situations where people simply can’t see as well as you can.

And for a moment, they’ll stop.

They know their limits, and they’ve pulled over.

They’ll move again when the road is clearer, when the storm has passed enough for them to see clearly enough to move on.

At some point, that storm will pass enough for you try to make it on home, too.

You’ll have taken a break to think of these things and to strengthen yourself with family, and maybe with the emotional equivalent of vegetable beef soup, a grilled cheese sandwich, and diner coffee, but when you get back on the road to move on, the car in front of you, the one you depended on and simultaneously took for granted, will not be there.


All that you have of that car, the guidance, the wisdom, the acceptance is what you learned from it before and during the storm…

While the person who was ahead of you in the car, and in life, will be gone, those memories you were able to bring from their life into yours will live on.

All of what you were able to bring into your life, you’ll be able to keep with you.

That which you didn’t is gone forever.

Be safe out there, folks.

Hug the friends and family you have while you have them. You never know when the storm will come.

And you don’t know when it will be your turn to be the driver up front.

We were in Albuquerque awhile back and were doing some touristy things when I saw an image I wanted to make. Given that I didn’t have my Nikon with me, I had to use my phone – which, frankly, has a pretty decent camera, but I was trying to go for a wider shot than I could get with it.

It was a church in Old Albuquerque, “The Church of San Felipe de Neri“. It was Monday, the area was quiet – and I saw the white crosses on the church, and saw the wall and gate surrounding it, and thought I could try to make an image that had the archway the gate was in framing the church and the sky. To do that, I’d have to get down on my hands and knees and get the camera as low as I could get it, so I’d be looking up and be able to contrast the crosses on the church with the deeply blue Albuquerque sky.

I thought about it – and then got down on the sidewalk with my phone, slowly skootching forward like a Marine, on elbows and hips, constantly looking all over the place, to make sure I wasn’t going to crawl into anything, but also keeping my eyes on the crosses, because of that archway I was trying to frame them in.

I came close, but wasn’t quite ready to take the photo when a gentleman walked up and saw I was on the ground. He immediately wanted to help me up, as he thought I had fallen. I tried to explain that I was fine, but he insisted on helping me up. My trying to convince him that I was on the ground on purpose simply didn’t compute for him, so I took his hand, and tried to get up, slowly and carefully.

This would have been okay, had I not injured my knee several years ago, and in the process of letting him help me get up, it dislocated (which was a touch on the painful side), stretched a tendon in the back, and then popped back into place (which was also a touch on the painful side).

I thanked him to be polite, chatted with him a bit, and walked back and forth just a little, gently testing my knee to make sure everything was okay. It was, relatively speaking, and we parted, kindly, as he and his grandson went their way and I went mine – and he had no idea what lesson he’d just taught me.

See, I was on my own journey to that cross, and I was going at the speed that was right for me, and it was working.

The fellow, I don’t remember his name, insisted on ‘helping’ me, and it got me thinking…

See, I wasn’t ready for his help.

In fact, because of his help, I re-injured my knee as I was getting up.

But the journey to the cross was my own to make. Not his.

And the journey to the cross had obstacles for me that he couldn’t see.

And he had no way of knowing that by “helping” me, he actually hurt me, a pain that has since healed, but took several weeks to do so.

And it makes me think of the times we see someone we think needs help.

Do we provide them that? The help?

Do we listen to them to make sure that the help they need is the help we’re giving them?

Or do we try to help folks in ways that only make sense to us?

I thought about that a lot, and as I was going through my images, and realized the image that I’d wanted to take was not there. I never did take it the way I wanted to.

In fact, here’s the first attempt at it – one I took standing up, a panorama – and you can see that the tops of the steeples are cut off (which is why I was down on the ground in the first place)

And it got me thinking again.

Because the fellow helped me, on his time, not on mine, things didn’t work out the way I wanted, the way I’d planned.

I walked around a little more, gently shaking and testing my leg while taking a few more photos, finally ending up on the right side of the above shot with this one:

And it’s there that I saw the beginnings of the image I really liked.

And I walked up, and framed it, and then made an image that I’m quite happy with, this one below:


I like it.

I really do.

It reminds me of how beautiful things can be if you let them happen in their own time.

So even though I didn’t get the image I wanted, I did get one I liked, and I wouldn’t have done that had I not wandered off to the right to do it.

Which I wouldn’t have done had I not needed to shake off the pain in my knee.

Which wouldn’t have happened if…

…it makes me ponder things even more.

What would have happened if the gentleman hadn’t insisted on helping me up?

Would I have gotten a shot I’m as happy with as I am with this one?

Or would I have been satisfied with some variation of that first shot up there?

I honestly don’t know.

Sometimes bad, painful stuff happens that turns out well in the end.

I know God works all sorts of strange things into my life – into our lives – and I’m never sure when the story is actually finished.

Doesn’t make the painful parts hurt any less, not by a long shot, but as I look at the picture above, I don’t wince at the pain in my knee…

I smile at the image I was able to capture because of it.


It’s hard to believe it’s been 8 years, but it has.

I’ve learned that for those of you reading the stories I write here, a number of things happen.

Sometimes you come here on purpose.

Sometimes you come here by habit.

Sometimes you come here by accident (you wouldn’t believe some of the searches that get people to this blog).

But what you always get when you come here is a story.

Sometimes you get a lesson mixed in with that story.

Sometimes the story makes you laugh as you see me learn that lesson from my own mistakes.

Sometimes the lesson makes you wince as you see the pain in the story.

And sometimes, in some of the hardest stories, I’ve heard from some of you, that you see yourself in either the story or the lesson.

I’ve learned, to my surprise (and I’m being quite honest here) that people thought I was good enough at writing stories that several have honored me in ways I cannot comprehend, by asking me to tell a very specific story.

Their story.

Out loud.

To everyone they cherish and hold dear; their family, their loved ones, their friends.

It is a story that they have lived, that they have asked me to tell,  but they won’t ever hear.

And this brings us back to me being amazed that those eight years have gone by already.

Back then, my friend Glenda asked me to tell her story.

And it came easily in some ways.

It was very hard in others.

I stood in front of a crowd of her family and friends 8 years ago, and told this story of my friend Glenda.

June 1, 2007

Glenda first caught my eye when she sat down beside me in Dr. Bob Chamberlain’s “History of Western Rhetoric” class over in Peterson Hall at Seattle Pacific University. She was different because unlike all the other college aged young women in the class, Glenda had her daughter, Daisy, sleeping on the floor beside her. Class time and nap time happened to coincide, so Glenda did what worked, and Daisy got a head start on a lot of freshmen by sleeping through a very early college education.

I learned a lot about Daisy, and her brothers and sister in the next few years. I also learned a lot about Glenda.

This was a mom who clearly loved her four kids, and these were four kids who clearly loved their mom. One time, a few months after we graduated, Glenda asked if I would watch them while she went into the hospital for a few days.

This meant a couple of things.

  1. Glenda, though in the hospital, didn’t have to deal with or get four kids up and ready for school or daycare every day
  2. Tom, not in the hospital, got to learn what it was like for Glenda to get four kids up, fed, dressed…

No, wait, almost dressed – first have to find their socks…

“Where did you say you put your shoes?”

“What do you mean you can’t find your homework?”

“There isn’t a dog to have eaten it!”

“I’m supposed to sign what?”

…pray that at least the socks matched, and get them out to the bus stop in time for school.

That haggard looks of the other moms waiting with their kids at the bus stops made so much more sense after that.

I understood so much more what it was to be a mom in those few days.

And I learned a lot about Glenda.

When it was time to visit her in the hospital, it was – well, I am still amazed at how she was able to get four kids packed up and ready to go – anywhere – on time. It was just amazing. She loved to tell this story – and always with that wonderful laugh of hers.

When Tom the Mobile set of Monkey Bars got to the hospital room, four kids either on me or around me, I saw in Glenda’s face the exhaustion that comes from being in the hospital, from all the poking, the prodding, the middle of the night waking you up to give you your sleeping medicine, and so on. But in her eyes, I saw something different. I saw a sparkle, a relaxation, a rest, that is only seen in a woman’s eyes – no, a mom’s eyes when, for whatever reason,  she’s had a chance to recover a little from being a mom by being away from the kids, and then when she gets to be with them again.

She tells the same story from another viewpoint, seeing her kids scamper into the room, at least one of them (Daisy) still hanging from a very bedraggled me, when our eyes met, she remembers me saying, “Two! Only Two!” – I couldn’t imagine how she could be a mom of four, but she was, and she made it look easy.

She did that a lot in life…

We lost touch for a number of years, then ran into each other at a cancer survivor’s support group. We hugged, as old friends do.

…and then the reason for our meeting there, in that place, sunk in to both of us.

And you know what?

She made cancer look easy.

She made raising four kids look easy.

She planned enough to where there weren’t many surprises for her – except this one, and even then, then she handled it the same way she always did.

Glenda made dying look easy.

She loved those kids, she loved her husband Mike.

A few weeks ago we talked, and it was clear to her that time was short. We chatted about all sorts of things for a while, and toward the end of the conversation she said, “Tom, can you do me a favor?”

Understand this is the lady who trusted me with her most prized possessions, her kids. And she did it regularly. There was a trust built up there over the years, and I figured that this “favor” wasn’t going to be, “Can I borrow a cup of sugar?” or “Can you feed the cat while I’m gone?”

But I didn’t know what to expect.

“Sure Glenda, anything.”

“Can you speak at my funeral?”

What do you say?

You don’t.

You just do it.

Because that’s what friends do.

She told me it was going to be a “fun” eral – and to remember something “fun” about her.

She wanted me to tell the story of the kids when we visited her in the hospital, because it made her laugh that wonderful laugh of hers so often, so I did…

And I can tell you that I did indeed, only have two.

It’s Memorial day as I write this, and I’m in a pensive mood…

I was at Chris’s memorial service yesterday, and I’ve been to a few of these lately – and among the food on a table was what appeared to be a rather out-of-place crumpled up McDonald’s bag.

I didn’t think much of it until I heard the story behind it. See Pat, the fellow who brought it, had been best friends with Chris, and they’d spend hours driving around, sometimes in Chris’s tow truck, sometimes not, and as often as not, they would end up stopping at a very particular McDonalds, where the two of them would order 11 cheeseburgers.

The question was asked, “Why 11? And who got to eat six of them?” and Pat said he wasn’t sure exactly where it came from, likely Chris going through the drive through with his truck to get some dinner, a hankering for cheeseburgers, and the clerk asking the simple question of “How many?”

Chris and Pat shared the unspoken question with a look, shrugged their shoulders, and next thing they knew, they had 11 cheeseburgers to share and accompany the conversations ranging from the nature of gravity to the physics of electricity and radio waves as they waited on the next call.

And over time, it became a tradition.

Every time they went to McDonald’s, they ordered 11 cheeseburgers.

In a bag.




It became almost sacred, the way Pat told it.

And it got me thinking…

I’m in that stage of life when it’s becoming obvious that there’s a changing of the guard going on, where you realize, sometimes slowly, sometimes with a stunning realization, that you’re now the very close to being the oldest generation living in your family, where you used to be able to have conversations with grandparents, parents, uncles, aunts, who simply aren’t there anymore for you to have conversations with.

And with Chris, I realized that it’s not limited to people older than you.

It made me wonder, what kinds of little things will be precious to you when someone close to you leaves this life to live on in your memories?

I really started wondering…

There are friends who know, for example, that I will only call them a butthead if they’ve earned that privilege. (Of course, I have to explain to them that it is a privilege, a badge of honor, to be called that, only then do they get it)

I think of my dad, who I used to simultaneously love and get frustrated with, who loved me as best as he knew how, and I realize I miss hearing his greeting, “Hello sonshine.” Or yelling at us to shut the living room door as we ran out it.

I think of Glenda’s peaceful presence, and her laugh, as she took life, and death, in stride and made it work.

Betty – how we were able to take off the day to day masks we wear to protect ourselves, and just talk about the stuff that really mattered.

I think of people who are still part of my life, and realize there are things that are inexplicably special, things that have become the “11 cheeseburgers” of our lives…

The Grand Coulee Dam.

“How are things in Gloccamurra?”

“Delays, Delays…”



A shoe shine kit.

A jar of homemade Quince jelly.

An Egg carton.

A yellow superball.

A root beer can.

Sitting quietly with a friend at an airfield, then seeing it from above.

A phone call from a long-lost friend.

A tennis ball cannon made of a bunch of pop cans and masking tape..

An old Saab.

Two rocks, now shiny, that I’ve carried around in my pocket – one since 1997 (my son’s first day of kindergarten) one since 2010 (his first day of college)

“Hey Du…”

A pair of red Converse High Tops.

And so many others.

It’s not what they are, it’s what they symbolize.

Things that in and of themselves, mean nothing to someone who doesn’t share a history with you, I mean, it’s a bag of cheeseburgers… it’s a greeting… it’s an old car.

But for Chris and Pat, it was more than a bag of cheeseburgers – it was friendship, (and it was theoretical physics) and it signified that all was right with the world.

And maybe – just maybe, you’ve got your own version of a bag of 11 cheeseburgers and a bunch of memories.

What are they?

Write as much or as little as you’d like, but I know we all have them, I’d just never seen it done the way Pat did it yesterday.

And as little as I knew Chris directly, the hole he leaves in people’s lives is very real.

I was talking to my mom about a story I was writing awhile back, about a little bicycling adventure in Germany about 37 years ago, and she chuckled a bit, and then started to tell me a story that had happened 26 years before that.

And it made me smile.

You know how you talk to your parents and forget that they were young, once, too? That’s how it was with mom in this conversation. As she told the story, the mom I was seeing in front of me transformed into a much younger woman, full of youth, life, laughter, and stories.

She talked of adventures that I’d never heard, but then she got to telling the story of the trip over the Susten Pass.

The Alps.

In Switzerland.

On a bike.

And I saw the time machine show up, with the door wide open, beckoning us inside.

We stepped in and I started to listen to a fun story that I’d heard before, but the more I listened the more I realized I’d not only heard the story before, but there was a connection to that story I was writing.  We’ll get to that one in Part 2.  But for now, I leaned forward and listened, and I recorded it.  And then realized she’d written it down years ago.  She sent me a copy – we found some pictures, and I’ve done a little bit of editing below, but the story’s hers, so sit back, and imagine hearing the story below in mom’s German accent about the trip she, her brother Walter, and his friend Wolfgang took, from Germany, to Switzerland, and back.

That said, here’s mom:

“While Walter was still in Seminary in Frankfurt, he, Wolfgang and I had planned to tour Switzerland by bicycle during their summer vacation. In those years the roads were not nearly as crowded with cars as is now the case.

Mom’s view of the road to Susten Pass… then…

It was beautiful!

I had traveled to Switzerland by bus, by car and by train but I never enjoyed the scenery more than when I toured it on a bicycle. Instead of driving past mountains in minutes, it might take a whole day of riding to finally get close to the mountains we were able to admire for so long. We had plenty of time to let the beauty really sink in.

That year, Walter had a summer job in Winterthur (Switzerland) with a surveyor. His friend Wolfgang and I traveled through the Black Forest to the Swiss border and further inland to meet and team up with him for our tour. The nights we spent in youth hostels which were all over the country.

Near Steffisburg we stopped and asked a farmer if we could pitch our tents on his property. Herr Wittwer (the farmer) agreed, but then took a look south toward the Niesen, the nearest mountain, and shook his head.

“I better get some straw down for you in the barn. See those dark clouds pushing through between the mountains? That’s a nasty thunder storm and it will be here in a few hours. That way, no matter what the weather does, at least you’ll have a roof over your heads and stay dry.”

I gladly accepted his offer but Walter and Wolfgang pitched their tent outside. I took my sleeping bag into the barn, bolted the big barn door shut and nestled down in the big pile of straw. I was less afraid of the mice in the barn than the lightning and thunder outside and a soaking wet sleeping bag. You see, our camping equipment in those days was very primitive. Our tent did not have a floor. So while the tent might have protected us from water coming from above, there was nothing to keep water from seeping in under the edges.

And, just like Herr Wittwer had said, the storm didn’t wait long to reach us. As it got closer, not only was the thunder much louder but the echoes bouncing back from the nearby mountains were like a continuous amplified drumroll.

I was so tired from the many hours of pedaling the bike in the hilly country I fell asleep in spite of the noise. In my dreams I wondered why the whole barn was being torn down and why human voices were mingled in between the booms of the thunder, and why did I keep hearing my name in between all of this?

During the eerie stillness of a moment between thunder claps the human voices finally reached my consciousness and I recognized my brother’s voice: “Irmgard, open the door, please open the door.” The rain was coming down in torrents and Walter and Wolfgang had soon seen the wisdom in my decision about sleeping in the barn. There was plenty of straw on the barn floor for all three of us and like contented cows Walter and Wolfgang bedded down on the dry straw for a much needed night’s sleep.


The next morning, Walter and Wolfgang had to wring out their tent and clothes from the storm.  Not only was our camping gear primitive but our bikes were at the beginning of multiple-gear-development. Walter’s and Wolfgang’s bikes each had three gears. That was the most that was available at the time and really, who would want or need more than three gears anyhow? Right?

I would soon see the benefit of those three gears, as my bike had only one.

In the lowlands, the one speed bicycle Mom pushed over Susten Pass

Walter’s and Wolfgang’s bikes also had special (caliper) brakes, the ones which grab the sides of the rims of both wheels.

Mine did not.

My bike had a different system. Under the handle bar on the right side was another, thinner bar reaching to the center of the handlebars. There it was connected to a bar going straight down to the rubber front tire. There was a u-shaped metal frame attached (about 1 x 1 1/2″) and a hard rubber pad was slipped into that frame. By pulling the brake handle up, the rubber pad was pushed down against the tire, which slowed down the bike somewhat. The other braking possibility was the coaster brake in the hub of the back wheel. By pushing the pedals backwards, the back wheel would apply the brake.

This system was sufficient for normal country.

But his was not normal country.

This was Switzerland.

Our rather ambitious plan for that one day was to get over the Susten Pass.


Susten Pass, looking East

We had to get an early start so we would get as many kilometers behind us during the coolness of the day, and to do that, had to leave before the tent and everything could dry. At the base of the mountains we made relatively good progress, but when the road started climbing, things changed. Often Walter and Wolfgang could have gone a while longer with their extra gears, but no matter how hard I tried to pedal, my bike came almost to a standstill when the incline got too steep.


It got a bit steep once we started climbing…

So we had to walk.

Hour after hour we followed the serpentines up and up. Looking over the edge we saw the road wind up like a snake in tight curves.

Panoramio’s view of the same road to Susten Pass, now. Courtesy of AGW (click on photo for original)


After seven hours of walking, pushing our bicycles step by tired step, we finally saw the sign:

“Susten Pass 2224 meter”.

We’d finally made it, the three of us were hot and thirsty, and Walter’s cold, wet tent was slowly drying.

We took a short but well deserved break at the top and strengthened ourselves with “Landjäger“, bread, some good Swiss chocolate and water.  And we even allowed ourselves a few minutes to lean back and appreciate, admire and enjoy God’s handiwork in that beautiful setting. But since the ascent had taken so much longer than anticipated, we couldn’t allow ourselves too much time to enjoy the scenery at the top, so after a few minutes of cooling off to the point of being a little chilled, we saddled our bikes and looked forward to a fast, fun run down the switchbacks to the lowlands again.


But the other side of the pass was in full sunshine, and the further down we got, the warmer it got, so we let the bikes fly down the mountain road and loved the feeling of the wind in our faces, cooling us off after the long climb up the other side.

A long-held sigh of relief escaped from each one of us.

Going down should be a breeze, right?  We couldn’t help but wonder how much shorter the down-hill time would be.  We’d make up all the time we lost, it would be great.  Walter rode in front, Wolfgang in the back, with me in between, and even though it was easy (and fun) to let the bicycles go fast and hang on, it wasn’t safe to go too fast or we’d lose control on the many hairpin turns. It was good that Walter and Wolfgang had those new brakes, because it was all downhill, and we had to brake constantly so we wouldn’t overshoot the hairpin curves.

But remember, I didn’t have those brakes.

I had two other brakes.

I had that pad of rubber that was pushed down on the front tire by a lever I squeezed with my right hand, and I had the coaster brake for the back wheel that worked when I pedaled backwards far enough to make it work.

And remember, while this system was sufficient for normal country. also remember that this was NOT normal country.

This was Switzerland.

And we went down the mountain.

Elevation from Susten Pass to Wassen

Elevation change from Susten Pass to Wassen. Downhill all the way.

And we went fast.

Our leg muscles, finally rested a bit from the 7 hours of walking and pushing our bicycles up the one side of the pass, welcomed this change of pace on the other side very much, and for a few moments, the scenery enveloped us at a level you just could not get in a car or a bus.  It was exhilarating.

I’d just gotten to feeling comfortable on the bicycle, riding fast enough to be fun, but braking enough to be safe. I think it was maybe 5 kilometers, when I heard Wolfgang behind me yell “I am smelling burned rubber’. We all stopped at the first spot we could get off the road to check for the cause of that smell.  Sure enough, With all my braking, that rubber pad that was my front brake had gotten so hot from the friction that it started smoking, wore out and disappeared, never to be seen again. After we stopped and inspected it, we decided that it was safe to go on, but slower, and more carefully, because since there was no bicycle repair place at that elevation, we had absolutely no choice to slow me down but to use the other brake in the hub of the rear wheel.

I tried my best not to use it excessively and just let it roll on the straight stretches but pushed the backpedal-brake system to it’s limit to make it safely around the first hairpin curve and the second, and the third and so on.

We may have gotten about 10 (don’t know how many of course) kilometers behind us , when I heard Wolfgang’s voice again loud and clear: “Your hub is smoking”.

He was such a nice friend and biking buddy but I sure didn’t want to hear his voice again, especially not with more bad news about my bicycle.

And even more especially, about smoke.

But, what choice did I, did we all have?

We all stopped.

The brake was so hot that it didn’t work very well anymore, and that wasn’t safe.

So we had to walk.

What choice did we really have?

And we walked, and walked, down the other side of Susten Pass, holding our loaded bicycles back, and we let it cool down.

It gave us more time to enjoy the Alps that so many people want to see.

How can you get tired of so much beauty?

We weren’t tired of the beauty, but we were getting tired of walking.  We checked the brake on my bicycle, and it had finally cooled off, so we started to coast downhill again.

We’d spread out a little bit by then, and the breeze cooled me off, and I realized that the brake, not being used right then, could cool off too the next time it got hot.  So that gave me an idea, and I let the bicycle go down the hill as fast as it would go… The wind was rushing in my ears, and I could barely hear Walter yelling at me that I’d get myself killed if I rode that fast. I braked hard at the next curve, heating up the brake until I could feel it weaken, leaned deep into the turn, made it around, and let the bicycle fly again. The brake cooled off while my brother’s frustrated shouts faded behind me.

But remember, this was Switzerland.

And soon the brake overheated again, so we had to alternate walking and riding for the rest of the afternoon until we finally made it down into the lowlands at dusk, where we found a place to stay for the night.

Over the next few days we got out of the Alps and into Later, we stopped near the town where Walter had worked, and I wanted to write a postcard to our mom so that she would know we were okay. After all, it had been many days since we’d been home. Walter said we’d get home before the post card did, so I didn’t get one.

We kept heading north on flatter ground, eventually making it to Germany, and much later,  finally made it to our hometown, where things looked like – well, home.  Wolfgang headed back to Frankfurt, and we made our way home, walking our bicycles into the driveway beside the house.  Our mom heard us go by  through the kitchen window, and on hearing us, came out onto the veranda to make sure we were okay.  Once that was established, the first thing she said to us as my brother and I climbed up the back steps was, “You’re back! What were you thinking? We were worried you’d fallen down a mountain, What kept you from even sending a postcard?”

We stepped out of the time machine, mom and I, and laughed at some of the adventures she’d had, and then I told her a similar story, also of a brother and sister, coming back from a bicycle trip, climbing up those same steps, and explaining to the same mom (her mom, my Oma) why we were late.

But that’s for part 2, coming in a few months.

Take care out there, folks.

The time machine surprised me this time.

I was making a sandwich for lunch the other day and saw it sitting there, looking just like the bottle of Thousand Island dressing in the fridge.

It reminded me of a young boy and his uncle, who was making him a sandwich.

“Ham or bologna?”

“Uh… Ham?”



“Thousand or mustard?”

“Uh… Thousand?”

Uncle’s hand in the plastic bag of bread, “Two slices or three?”

Eyeballs of young nephew got real big…

“You can have three slices?”


“Okay,” (feeling like a king) “Three slices then…”

A certain uncle made two of the biggest sandwiches that nephew had ever seen, with relish, and lettuce and all that is good in sandwiches.  And he made one for himself, and one for the nephew.

And they both sat on the porch had a most wonderful lunch, I still remember, to this day.

After close to 30 years with Ballard’s Troop 100, Scoutmaster Paul is hanging up his hat, and I started thinking of the one thing about Paul that stood out.

There are so many wonderful things I could say about Paul, but there was indeed one thing that stood out above all else, and it seemed to encompass all those other things. It was The Paul Mile.

See, when we were in the troop, the phrase we often heard the phrase, “Oh, it’s a Paul Mile.”

We didn’t know where that came from until our trip to Norwegian – where we had to drive for about 5 hours before hiking in to one of the most beautiful spots on the planet.

Paul had said, simply, that it was a mile from where we parked our cars to where we were camping, so – well, a mile’s a mile, right?

I looked at it on the map, measured it with dividers…


It was a mile.

But what we didn’t take into account was that the mile was “as the crow (or seagull, or mightily thrown rock) flies,” not as a scout walks.


Not as a scout, distracted by every bug and stick and rock walks.

Not as a scout, who’s wearing a pack for the first time, walks.

Not as a scout, who’s seeing the miracles of the outdoors for the first time, walks.


On the way, scouts learned how to build fires.

And how to camp in the rain.

And the mud.

And the snow.


Scouts learned about responsibility, and being prepared.

And they learned about being just a little more than prepared and to help those who were still learning.

Lessons were passed on from Paul to scout, and then from older scout to younger scout.


On the way, scouts conquered their own fears.

They climbed mountains and crossed valleys.

And some traveled to countries they’d only read about.

They grew more than their faraway parents could possibly imagine.


They ate.

Some learned how to cook.

Some learned how to cook well.

And as they grew up and grew older, they ate better than they expected.


They laughed.

And told jokes.

And lived stories they would recount years later.


They waded in the Pacific

They floated down rivers, and showered in waterfalls,

They swam in lakes cold enough to – well, they were cold.

They made friends.


And they grew from Tigers all over…

To cubs in the pack…

To Scouts, in Troop 100.


And while some of the steps were longer than expected.

And some were steeper than expected.

And, living in Washington, a lot were wetter than expected,

Looking back, they were all better than expected.


And on one cold, clear night, shivering on a Pacific beach at the end of the most memorable of all Paul miles, some saw stars in the heavens they’d never seen, before, or since.


See what scouts didn’t know is that a Paul Mile, like life itself, isn’t about the destination.


It’s about the journey…


Take care, Paul, may your Journey continue.


Paul Hendricks, Camp Meriwether, Oregon, 2006

Paul Hendricks, Camp Meriwether, Oregon, 2006

The Roush family, including Michael, Eagle # 128

I was walking in to work the other day, a normal day, just another guy on his cellphone, walking down the sidewalk, in my case, talking to my mom on the phone… Most days when I walk this sidewalk, I walk it lost in thought, shifting gears from personal life to work life, thoughts drifting… the background noise of traffic, the cars, the buses, the jackhammers and the like, was just that, background noise, when a fellow rushed past, and did something I had never seen before.

Well, I had, but not there.

See, I usually walk down this one street past a church – you can see it here.

Like most people, I walk down this sidewalk without looking, without seeing…


Not only are the sounds background noise, but the sights are, too, if that makes sense.  They are so often ignored, rarely acknowledged.

But this fellow appeared from around the corner.  He was wearing faded, torn jeans, worn running shoes, and an old dark blue jacket that barely covered what it needed to cover.

I wasn’t sure whether to dodge out of his way or brace for impact, but I did dodge, and kept walking.  Curiosity turned me around and I looked back to see he’d stopped running.

He’d stopped alright, but he wasn’t standing.

He was kneeling.


He was doing more than that.  He was praying in a way I’d definitely done, but very rarely seen.


He appeared so deeply, profoundly distraught that I was speechless, and I stood, rooted to the spot.  I added my prayer to his, but couldn’t decide what to actually *do*.

I couldn’t tell what he needed physically – I mean, he’d run around the corner so fast, so he was physically okay. He was praying, and praying hard, and to interrupt seemed… I don’t know, out of place?

My mind went all over the place…Why was he there? Was his family in danger? Hurt? Had he done something wrong and was there literally at the feet of Jesus, asking for forgiveness?

I didn’t know.

And I didn’t ask.

I felt very much like one of the characters in the story of The Good Samaritan – only I wasn’t the Samaritan who helped the fellow.

I was one of the other guys.

Who for whatever reason, didn’t help.

And it got me thinking.

Like the other guys, I had my reasons, all of which have the strength of wet toilet paper when I look back on them.

How many times do we not help someone out when we could?

How many times have we let someone down when we could have helped them up?

How many times…

Then I got to thinking just a little more about the figure this fellow was kneeling at the feet of…

The fellow whose birth an awful lot of the world is celebrating in one form or another this month.

The first bit of the story – the one of The Good Samaritan – quoted from the book of Luke,

25 On one occasion an expert in the law stood up to test Jesus. “Teacher,” he asked, “what must I do to inherit eternal life?”

26 “What is written in the Law?” he replied. “How do you read it?”

27 He answered, “‘Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength and with all your mind’[a]; and, ‘Love your neighbor as yourself.’[b]

28 “You have answered correctly,” Jesus replied. “Do this and you will live.”

29 But he wanted to justify himself, so he asked Jesus, “And who is my neighbor?”

Now at this point, it says clearly in that last verse, that he wanted to “justify himself” – He was an expert in the law, Jesus knew that. This guy was looking for a way out, a loophole. He was trying to do something that should be familiar to all of us: find a way to obey the law and be comfortable doing it, so he asked that second question:

“Who is my neighbor?”

Unspoken there is the question, “Who isn’t my neighbor?” “Who do I even have to acknowledge?” More simply put is this: “Who can I ignore?”

And then Jesus told this story:

30-32 “There was once a man traveling from Jerusalem to Jericho. On the way he was attacked by robbers. They took his clothes, beat him up, and went off leaving him half-dead. Luckily, a priest was on his way down the same road, but when he saw him he angled across to the other side. Then a Levite religious man showed up; he also avoided the injured man.

33-35 “A Samaritan traveling the road came on him. When he saw the man’s condition, his heart went out to him. He gave him first aid, disinfecting and bandaging his wounds. Then he lifted him onto his donkey, led him to an inn, and made him comfortable. In the morning he took out two silver coins and gave them to the innkeeper, saying, ‘Take good care of him. If it costs any more, put it on my bill—I’ll pay you on my way back.’

36 “What do you think? Which of the three became a neighbor to the man attacked by robbers?”

37 “The one who treated him kindly,” the religion scholar responded.

Jesus said, “Go and do the same.”

 (from the book of Luke, chapter 10, The Message Translation)

So a little history here:

A priest walked by…

He. Walked. By.

The priest… the holy man who should have been able to do all sorts of things to help the injured traveler, not only walked by, but actively avoided him by walking on the other side of the road. Understand, this was not, shall we say, a good neighborhood. (the road from Jerusalem to Jericho was known to have bandits and the like, but you’d think someone seeing an injured person would try to help that person, rather than walking off to the side and avoiding him.)

But he didn’t.

It wasn’t convenient.

A Levite walked by…

Levites were special people according to the Bible. They were from the tribe of Levi, They were supposed to watch over and take care of the priestly duties in the Sanctuary. They couldn’t inherit land like all the other tribes, and they had extra responsibilities, but they got the best of everything in return. That didn’t mean they were perfect, but they were definitely considered special. Some translations imply that the Levite actually went over to look at the fellow, but then went on his way, not touching him, as that could have made him unclean. (there were many rules about touching dead bodies, which would prevent people from doing the things they were supposed to do), so that was his excuse…

And he kept walking.

It wasn’t socially acceptable.

It’s just that both he and the priest were walking *from* Jerusalem, meaning their tasks, ritual and otherwise, were done. They were going home. Their duties were done. The excuse of being unclean would have been pretty much a wash.

And then a Samaritan walked by.

Understand, at the time, the country of Israel was split into the northern and southern halves, and while those halves could trace their lineage back to common ancestors, they had definitely diverged in culture, beliefs, and – well, prejudices.

It got to the point where people would not only walk to the other side of the road to avoid each other, but would actively go out and try to wipe each other off the map (see here).  We see this kind of stuff on the news even today.

The Samaritan was treated as not only an enemy, but a much less than second class citizen, one to be avoided, one to not speak to or associate with.

So when Jesus talked about Samaritans, he wasn’t being gentle about it, he was being pretty hard core, and telling the Jews there to love their neighbors.


Not just when it was comfortable.

Not just when it was convenient.

Not just when it was socially acceptable.

And he used what they thought was the lowest form of life on the planet to get that point across, with all the gentleness and finesse of a sledgehammer.

“Here, see this guy? The injured one? The Hurting one? The one down on his luck? He needs help, and he needs it now. And you guys are too ‘Holy’ to do it. So who does? The guy you hate (the Samaritan) helps the guy you say is one of your own more than your holiest of people. Take that and think about it for a bit, THEN tell me who the neighbor that you’re supposed to love actually is.”

So much harm has been done to people in the name of religion.  Be it physical harm, psychological harm or whatever, to the point where Christians are parodied, and become caricatures of what God meant us to be.  And the people causing harm in the name of religion (on purpose or by accident) are missing the point altogether.  The folks who need our help are often ignored, rarely acknowledged, or are simply relegated to the same background as the normal sights and sounds of the city.

What did Jesus Himself say we should do?  He put it in pretty simple terms.  You’ve heard of the 10 Commandments.  The religious types of his day, trying to trap him, asked, “What’s the most important commandment?” and in that story above, Jesus narrowed it down to two.

There’s quite a bit said in the Bible about the “Body of Christ” – and for a long time I had a hard time getting my head around that concept…

Then I realized that we – those who are supposed to be following Christ, imperfect as we are, are His body here on earth.

We are His hands.

We are His feet.

We are the ones who are supposed to help…

And I realized that that traveler from Samaria, reviled by so many in his day, still had lessons to teach 2,000 years later…

Tom Roush

Enter your email address to subscribe to this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.

Join 730 other followers

October 2015
« Sep    

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 730 other followers

%d bloggers like this: