I was descending a small single-track, and came around a corner I’ve done a hundred times. The dead, dry mountain grass lay on its side, and as I turned, banking to the left, my wheel slipped. I tried to gather myself, but I knew I was going down. I thought of putting my arm out to brace myself, but I didn’t want to break it, so I instead opted to hold on to the handlebars and hope for a miracle.

It was literally a split second from a controlled descent to impact with the ground.

I know I let out a scream, and the force of the ground equal and opposite to my body’s accelerated force toward the ground caused my scream to bounce, just as I rolled across the ground. It’s funny how certain seconds in life move like slow motion.

As I came unclipped from my pedals with the impact of the ground, I remember rolling a bit, and the back of my head hitting the ground and my helmet becoming slightly detached from my head. My first thought:

Dang! I hope I didn’t break my brand new helmet!

After I stopped sliding along the ground, I pulled my helmet off, and sure enough, I had detached the visor, and I had broken the shell casing around my head. And it wasn’t even a big impact. Grrrr. (Interesting, I wasn’t even concerned about my bike, because I knew it wasn’t that bad of an accident. Funny how your bike becomes a part of you!)

I think the cause of the crash might have been a low front tire. I had kind of noticed on the descent, but I was on my way home anyway, so I didn’t think to stop and check it out.

Before returning, I tried to inflate my front tire, but something was wrong with the CO2 cartridge, and my attempts to inflate actually took the rest of the air out of the tire. So, as I walked my $5,000 bike with a flat font tire home, I got a text from a friend asking how I was.

“No worries about me. I just wrecked on my bike and am hiking home.”

“Are you OK?”

“I broke my brand new helmet, shredded my tire (a little exaggeration for sympathy, but it was popped off the bead and was leaking self-sealer!), skinned my knee, got dirt and weed stains all over my back and side, not to mention thorns and weeds all through my shirt, which I ripped.” (The rest was all true!)

My friend responded: “Maybe don’t do that anymore.”

I thought about that, and later in the day asked my friend, “Should I quit biking?”

“That’s up to you. Is it worth the risk? But maybe quit crashing…”

On Saturday, there I was, doing my first HC climb of the year, the iconic Alpine Loop, approx. 40 miles, and approx. 3,500 feet of climbing. As I was riding up the first portion of American Fork Canyon, around the Timpanogos Cave area, I was doing my thing. Steady and strong and in a groove, but not certainly not sprinting or anything crazy.

As I was riding along, a biker approached me on the left. Not totally uncommon, but usually I like to be the one doing the passing! I looked to my left, and there was an oldish guy (50’s) motoring past me. I acknowledged him and smiled and said, “Hey! Good morning!” I waited for a reply. And he looked me up and down, then stared me straight in the eyes and with a kind of crusty look on his face, simply said, almost tauntingly: “Hi.” Then he looked forward and kept on going.

Good for him, I thought to myself! I hope that I can be in that kind of shape. With younger kids, I’m going to need to stay in shape if I’m ever going to bike with them! But kind of a weird interaction. Some bikers are chatters, some are more serious. I guess I’m a chatter! Whatever! And I didn’t think much else about it.

Then a few miles later, on the climb near Mutual Dell, I saw a familiar figure. I checked out the bike, and sure enough, it was my “hi” friend from just before. Again, I wasn’t showboating or anything, but was just keeping my pace. As I passed him on the left, I smiled and gave him a nod and another “Hey! Good morning!” This time he didn’t turn his head at all, but rather looked straight forward with a ticked off look on his face and didn’t even acknowledge me at all.

So I passed him on by, and thirty seconds or so later, I gave a glance back, and I had dropped him. He was way back there, and I never saw him again.

People are funny! Apparently this guy wasn’t impressed with me when he passed me, and even less impressed when I passed him. Kind of a bummer, because it was a gorgeous day. I was having a good time. It was his choice not to.

My buddy across the street called yesterday in a hurry. He was at the bike shop and wanted to know if he should buy this bike. His wife had given him permission, and he’d been thinking about getting into a little bit better shape and it was a pretty good deal….

Short answer: Yes!

After he got home he shot me a picture of his new steed.

And the following text conversation ensued:

When you get a brand new bike, all shiny and sparkly, tell me honestly: Don’t you let it spend the night inside? And woudn’t you consider sharing the bed with it?

A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. Laozi.

And so the journey begins, anew. December put to bed a good year. January brought new goals and hope for a great new year, along with several extra pounds for taking time off of the bike. February brought glimpses of hope for a great new year with unseasonably warm weather, although in the afternoon, when work trumped exercise in the priority ladder.

And in March, winter finally arrived and delayed the journey. But finally, a chance to get out, and to get out with my very own peloton.

This year undoubtedly holds big things for me. Mountains to be climbed, roads to be conquered.

William Shakespeare

So I took some time off. I caught up on some sleep, I got some extra office work done, and I even enjoyed the extra hour each morning for a couple of months and I wrote a book. Well, the other day I hopped on the scales and I was shocked.

10 pounds! I had gained 10 pounds!!

I couldn’t believe it. I hadn’t changed my diet, or frequency of eating. I hadn’t gone crazy with ice cream or donuts. The only thing I had changed was riding my bikes.

I came to a profound conclusion: Biking helps you lose weight.

And if you think about it, there’s an even more profound conclusion: Not biking makes you gain weight!

So, I started doing the math. 10 pounds gained in just 3 months = 3.3 pounds gained per month. 10 pounds in 3 months. I pulled out the spreadsheet and did some math. And here are the results. The numbers don’t lie. It’s just math.

Summary: Without biking, I will gain 3.3 pounds per month. After only 36 months, I would weigh 270.5 pounds. I’m glad I went to MBA school. These realizations will probably save my life.

But the conclusion I drew assumed a linear weight gain. It assumed I would only gain 3.3 pounds per month. I’m pretty sure that I remember getting on the scales a month earlier, and I hadn’t gained that much weight, yet.

So, the weight gain is probably not linear. I’m pretty sure that the weight gain increased in porportion to my body’s weight. So, I calculated weight gain based on percentage weight gain, and I was even more shocked. And here are the results. It’s just math. The numbers don’t lie.

Summary: After just 36 months, without biking in my life, I will tip the scales at 324 pounds. That’s only 3 short years. That’s just the blink of an eye. Well, I decided to look a little longer term.

I looked at what my weight gain would look like in just 10 years. And here are the numbers. It’s just math. The numbers don’t lie.

Summary: In just 10 short years, if I don’t ride the bike anymore, I will weigh 1,901 pounds. That’s more than a horse! And obviously, horses don’t ride bikes, either.

This was a big ride for me. Not so much that I climbed 1,200 feet in an hour, or not so much that it was about 35 degrees outside. It was a big ride for me because I finally hit my goals of 2,000 miles, and 200,000 feet climbed for the year. That wasn’t an easy goal. It took work, patience, diligence, and long-suffering, but I did it.

I remember a pivotal moment of the year in the first part of September. I was sitting in the dentist chair and pulled up my Strava stats. I had only climbed 100,000 feet. Dr. Murdock came to drill on me and noticed a look of concern on my face. “How are you doing?”

“Not great.” Are things really ever going good if you’re sitting in a dentist’s chair? But today was even different. Today was about soul searching. Today was about Strava. “I set a goal of 200,000 feet this year, and I’m only at 110,000.”

“You climbed 110,000 feet on your bike? That’s incredible. I’d say that’s pretty good!”

“Yeah, but my goal was 200,000 feet.”

I remember well the look on his face. “Doesn’t look too good. Maybe next year! But 110,000 feet is pretty dang good.”

It was pretty dang good. But it was only half of my goal.

This was my moment of truth. Was 110,000 feet good enough? It was a good year. But it wasn’t good enough for me!

I went over the stats in my head. I had started biking seriously in April. April through August = 5 months. I realistically only had 2 ½ months left. The last couple of years froze on December 1. I had had a pretty good year, and there were plenty of very good excuses: school was starting, daylight savings was ending, it was getting cold, nobody really even knew about my goal but me, and it was probably a crazy goal anyway. This was my moment of truth. Was 110,000 feet good enough? It was a good year. But it wasn’t good enough for me!

I determined right there in the dentist’s chair that I was going to go for it. I was going to get my goal, no matter what. From that first part of September through December 10, I doubled down and I hit my goal. Yeah, I only got one Kudos for that ride. But that’s because Strava doesn’t allow you to give yourself a Kudos. And that’s the most important Kudos to me. I made a very tough goal, and I accomplished my goal. And I even got a PR and a couple of other achievements on the ride to boot.

So yeah, Dr. Murdock was right. I’d had a pretty good year through September. But that wasn’t good enough.

What was good enough was that I was true to myself, and I hit my goal. And that matters. Big time. To me.

2,000 miles. 200,000 feet. Gooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooal!

As the Red team kicked the ball off, one of their forwards took the pass, and with the determined face of a warrior, broad shoulders of a gladiator, and the resolve of an M1 Abrams tank, single-footedly dribbled through our first, second, and third lines of defense, then teed up the ball and kicked it through the back of the net while my Blue team looked on in shock, unmoved from their opening positions.

Goooooooooooooooallll!

Those little girls were good. I looked at my watch. Only 16 seconds had transpired. My rosy outlook changed as I realized that this could be a very long game. I swallowed. Heck, this could be a very long season! What had I signed up for?

I gathered my Blue troops and instructed them. And bless their hearts, those little Blues ran faster and tried harder than I had ever seen! But time and again, the Reds stole the ball and dribbled and passed their way through our defense and put the ball into the back of the net. At one point as we were walking back to our positions after yet another goal, Makayla said, “Coach? I think this is going to be a lot more difficult than we thought it was going to be.”

At one pivotal point in the game as we were finally advancing the ball and were on the verge of scoring our own goal, our right forward approached me and raised her hand and said, “Coach? Can you tie my shoe?” Then, to my horror, I looked back at our defensive line, and 3 little girls were sitting in the grass, laughing, and throwing blades of grass into the air, having the time of their lives, completely oblivious to the expressionless, machined Reds who were once again stealing the ball and dribbling down the field and scoring yet another goal. Only rubbing salt in the wound, the ringleader of our picnic defense was my own little girl who was laughing with delight. It was humiliating.

Coach? I think this is going to be a lot more difficult than we thought it was going to be.

– Makayla, 7 years old.

I had hoped for a perfect season, a season of highlights, a season to never forget. I wanted to win league Coach of the Year honors. 16 seconds into the season and all that was out the window. But to my defense:

1. We were out-manned from the beginning. Err, uh, we were out-girled from the beginning! Of our 12 girls on the roster, only 7 were there for kickoff. The Reds had 12 players there. 9 on the field, and 3 substitutes. They were a well-oiled, focused, disciplined machine. Like a Russian Olympic hockey team, they would constantly substitute waves of 3 girls with fresh legs every few minutes. Like the ocean, the relentless waves just kept coming and coming, beating our little substitution and rest deprived Blues down mercilessly.
2. Sponsorship. We got the roster from the city recreation center. And to the left was a column where all twelve 6-7 year old girls names were listed. To the right, there were 2 columns that said “Willing to Coach?” and “Willing to Assist?” And all the way down, “No, No, No, No, No” were checked. Until my little girl’s name. “Yes, Yes.” There you have it. Who were our sponsors? Who was going to help us succeed? Outside of practice, who was preparing our little girls for the game? I imagined that the Reds roster probably required mandatory parental coaching sessions with speed and agility and skills minimum requirements to be met in order to suit up for game day. What were my girls’ parents doing? Apparently, nothing.

Mercifully, 40 minutes later they blew the whistle again and the game was over. We got shut out. We didn’t score once. They scored a dozen times. I walked to our sideline, soaking in sweat and embarrassment, and unable to look anyone in the eye. We got in the car where I finally felt safe to vent to my wife. She tried to reassure me. “Your team is the kind of team they make MOVIES out of!”

Ouch. We were that bad, huh?

As we left the field, I told my little girl that we were going to practice together every day that week. My wife said that that was one of the best things she’d heard me say in a long, long time.

Later in the day, I was alone in the car with my little girl. I had been going over game film in my head all day, trying to construct a successful plan for our little 6-7 year old girls. I remembered our co-ed team from a year ago. The coach’s little boy was the star of the team. The coach’s little boy was fast. The coach’s little boy knew how to dribble, how to pass, how to score. The coach’s little boy was awesome. The coach’s little boy. Maybe the secret wasn’t the coach’s little boy, but the coach.

So, I said to my little girl, “What was the hardest part of the game today?” Maybe, I thought, at our next practice we could focus on passing or dribbling.

My little girl replied, “The hardest part of today’s game was getting the ball and putting it into our goal.”

For a 6 year old, that was a pretty astute analysis. She got right to the root of the problem. She nailed it. That pretty much summed up our team and the challenges we’d face going forward.

Then she added, “We didn’t score any goals today.”

Ouch. I really did want those little girls to have a good experience. In reality, probably even more than I wanted to be Coach of the Year, I wanted them to have success. I wanted them to have fun. I wanted them to win. I thought for a minute and said, “Do you know what? I’m going to work really hard to be a better coach for you girls!”

And without skipping a beat, my beautiful little girl replied, “But daddy, you already are a GREAT coach!”

Her criteria for a coach were obviously different than mine. For me it was about wins and losses. For her, her coach was her daddy, and her coach was…….  Well, before I get too carried away with myself, I need to remember that she was the one rolling around in the grass laughing! But maybe I did meet some of the criteria for at least being a good coach.

And what about our sponsors? What about the parents? Do you know what? They signed their girls up for rec soccer! Good for them! Their siblings are playing with them, and we have great parents. And I signed up to be the coach. And we’re going to figure this thing out this season!

(As I write this blog post, the league doesn’t keep score or track records (they say the focus should be on having fun blah blah blah), but we currently sit at the midpoint of the season with 3 wins, and 2 losses. Not too shabby. More details on our movie-script Cinderella season to come!)

In reality, James Lawrence in the previous 49 days had just completed 49 complete Ironman distances in 49 days in 49 states. Incredible. Unbelievable. Inspiring. Amazing. Unthinkable. Crazy. Today he would make history, completing his 5oth.

Having just completed his final 2.5 mile swim, this time in the open waters of Deer Creek Reservoir, James got on his bike and addressed the group of about 60 riders. “I’m overwhelmed. I can’t even say anything or I’m just going to be crying all day long.” Knowing what he had accomplished, we all looked on in awe at the Iron Cowboy. He smiled, and I guess I was expecting him to say something profound. He looked up at the group assembled to accompany him on his 112 mile victory lap, and he said, “Let’s roll.”

Appropriate.

His trainers had addressed us saying “unless something catastrophic happens, like a major bike accident, James will complete the #505050 today. Please keep a safety pocket around James, and let him be the first rider down the canyon.” I certainly didn’t want to be that guy who ruined everything! So, I found a spot in the peloton a few lengths from the front and started riding. This was my first ride in a legitimate peloton. It was amazing.

As we got on the road, our group took up a full lane of traffic as we wound around the lake. As we approached an ascent, riders adjusted their spacing a bit, and the stronger climbers passed the weaker climbers, and the peloton reshaped like an amoeba. We crossed the dam and the big descent started down Provo Canyon. I looked ahead and I was trailing someone by about 12 inches. I looked to my right, and there was a guy I had never met before 12 inches from my handlebars, and another twelve inches to my left. I looked down at the road, I could see the individual rocks in concrete road beneath me. One small mistake from any of these guys and my flesh would meet the pavement below like cheese to a grater.

I glanced at my speedometer and was amazed to see that we were averaging about 35 miles per hour down the canyon. I had traveled by car hundreds of times before, yet I had never traveled down the canyon with the adrenaline I had now. I was going 35 mph, and I had to keep hitting my brakes to keep from running into the riders ahead of me. The aerodynamics of the peloton pulled us down the canyon. I hardly pedaled, and when I did pedal, I hardly had to pedal. The peloton took me in and took me with it down the canyon.

The sounds of the peloton were unforgettable. You could hear the freewheel clicking of those around you, and you could hear the brake pads of other riders controlling their speed on the descent. You could hear the hubs of some bikes, and you could tell the expensive rides. And there were sounds from other bikes and you would hope that they wouldn’t fall apart ahead of you. And there was the sounds of riders breathing. A friend happened to see us coming down the canyon. He said that we sounded like a huge swarm of bees. It was breathtaking!

I’ve ridden quite a few miles in the saddle, but I’ve never been a part of a group like that day. James led the group, and we all protected him with a cushion around him.

We pulled into the Riverwoods where our pack of 75 riders were joined by a few hundred more riders. After a brief stop, the peloton formed again and took a few turns through the Riverwoods, snaking through the streets, then headed down University Avenue. As we cruised through downtown Provo, I looked behind me and could see that we took up a couple of city blocks. As we approached some traffic lights, they turned red in the middle of our group, but nobody stopped. And the cars with the green light didn’t seem to mind. It’s not every day that you see a million dollar bike ride!

On the south side of the lake after a brief water break, I somehow ended up pulling the peloton behind me. I didn’t want to hold up the group, so I pushed it a little. Me and a couple of other bikers I’d never met before ended up pulling away from the peloton as we rounded the lake. It was a comfortable pace, but after a half hour or so, I looked back and saw the peloton behind me, slowly gaining on me, slowly pulling me back into the group. Eventually, I relented and rejoined the group. It was so much easier with the aerodynamics of the group around me.

I’ve thought about that ride a lot. My life was literally in the hands (or wheels) of riders around me who I’d never met before. One small slip and there would be a huge mess. But by working together, each taking a turn pulling, each shouldering the burden of a headwind or a crosswind, all of us benefitted, and all of us traveled much faster than we could have traveled alone. On the far side of the lake, occasionally, the leaders would wave their arms and ask for fresh legs to pull the peloton. Riders would willingly take the lead position, and the former leaders would rest in the peloton.

The power of the pack isn’t unique to cycling. I love to see birds flying in formation, and seeing the lead bird fall out of formation only to pick up the end of the line, until the next leader falls in behind.

There is power in the peloton. There is power in being attached to those around us. But just as those around us can help us, if you surround yourself with those who aren’t willing to work, who aren’t willing to shoulder the burden, who aren’t willing to suffer, they could pull you down. How do you know if you’re in a good group?

The Iron Cowboy peloton was a good group.

We’re all involved in lots of pelotons as we interact with those around us.  Even driving down the freeway, I don’t know who is in the car next to me, but I depend upon them. And hopefully he’s following the rules of the road — not drinking, not texting! The margin of error is so slim that inches could spell disaster. What kinds of circles do I find myself in?  Family. Marriage. Work. Church. Education. Each of those circles are so vitally important. And like the peloton, each of those individuals are interdependent upon each other. Sometimes we pull. Sometimes we get pulled. But if each is working toward the same good goal, the power can be amazing. Each member is vitally important.

I love the power of the peloton. I love the pelotons of my life.

KOMQOM