This is Part I of a two-part post exploring how and why riding a bicycle and doing inherently difficult things makes you mentally stronger and highlights the struggle that we endure as cyclists. Part II dives into how and why people struggle with stressful situations and how the mental fortitude that is forged through endurance makes us stronger and more capable of handling stress in our lives. Part II also touches on how the endurance mentality molds leadership.
It's an ominous title, I know. And to be fair, it should be. Foreboding, attention-grabbing, but it's not clickbait and it's not something to take lightly. I'm fine. I'm happy. Heck, I'm looking forward to my next bike ride. But deep down, there's always something else. For all of us, something is dwelling deep in our hearts. For me, I've found most of my darkness, but there's more to be found, I also know it's there, I know what it produces, and most importantly I know how to overcome it.
Why so ominous? Why so dark? The truth is, I'm not, and this isn't some Oren from Parks and Rec sort of homage to goths. But it's something like that.
A few Saturdays ago, I found myself riding alone on what ended up being an accidental 100k of gravel goodness through the ranchland of Lingleville and northwestern Erath County. My wife Ashley was a few miles behind but that's usually how it goes. I ride ahead, might wheel back to check on her, might not. It depends on the day. This day, I rode ahead. Cool, crisp fall air blew across the front of my handlebars for the first time in what always seems like a lifetime in Texas--the dreaded doldrums of summer where the heat is incessant, the "false fall" that always settles in around late August and early September only to be followed up by another heat wave. If you know, you know.
That day, I rode alone mostly with Ashley never too far behind. She was enjoying her ride, taking pictures, but I found myself in that athlete's groove where I was feeling strong, wanted more, wanted to feel a little burn and suffering just temporarily even. But I found myself thinking. I found myself contemplating something that came up earlier in the week, and it was something that caught me off guard and something that I didn't entirely deal with internally. A man we had met only once about 10 years ago in Austin, Texas was dying. He made a post on Facebook about it. They decided to cease treatments on his failing liver. He had 3 months to live, but he didn't think he would last that long. I found myself thinking about that, dwelling, pressing in a little bit. It's not often you see or hear of someone who knew they were dying and decided to let everyone know about it somewhere so public as Facebook. And it wasn't anything dark or dreary, just a matter of fact. These were the circumstances he was in, this was his reality, and this was the truth of the matter.
We all need more truth in our lives. There are many truths but only one Truth, but even the truths can be true. As I pedaled along somewhere near wind farm country in northwest Erath County, I thought long and hard about that man. We met him once--one time--on a Mellow Johnny's group ride that left from the old shop downtown. Little did we know that MJ's rides are a little more than "no drop". They're “race in the front business in the back”--the exact opposite of what we're used to in gravel's Mullet Protocol of business in the front, party in the back. We drifted from the group somewhere far from Austin at this point, and this being a "no drop" ride, neither one of us had any real means of navigation to get back to the shop downtown without most certainly meandering onto non-bicycle-friendly roads. Then, about the time we had separated from the group and knew we wouldn't catch them, this man appeared. He was "keeping it casual" in the back--going his pace, riding his ride. We exchanged pleasantries, stopped at a gas station, then he proceeded to guide us back into Austin to his friend's Italian bakery not but a block or two from Mellow Johnny's. We ate, had a coffee, chatted, and ultimately went our separate ways. We kept up for a few months after that but never met up for another ride, tried to get together while in Austin a few times after, but the timing never worked out. Now, that man longs for the warmth of the Texas sun in a cancer center somewhere unfamiliar and away from home.
Four days after his final post, he passed away with family surrounding him.
Perhaps this is where my side of the story should end. After all, there's not much else to tell, but what I know is that meeting this gentleman one time was enough to have a lasting impact on both Ashley and me. We remembered him, remembered the day, remembered the Italian bakery, remembered the thick smell of the Hill Country air. His tiny impact on our lives was profound. After all, how often do you meet a stranger who (effectively) rescues you from being lost only to sit down and break bread with you afterward? In this world? Probably not as often as we would hope.
That was just one of my many ponderings that day on the bike. I was out there for the better part of 4 hours plus stops which made it closer to 4.5 or 5 hours all said. Sure, I stopped and took pictures and videos and enjoyed the ride--I'm not a savage after all, but I sure like feeling the pain on the bike every once and again. It puts things in perspective, and it's a perspective that is often completely lost in our daily lives. I tell Ashley over and over again that, to me, the bicycle is pain, suffering, hurt, but it's also freedom, fun, and joy. It's both things much like this life and this world is both things. But far too often, that's completely lost in how we live our comfortable American lives. We won't starve, we don't have to fight for food or water or shelter, the hardest thing most of us do throughout our days is squint our eyes because our computer screen is too damn bright. Big deal.
I pondered further.
Why can my wife and I, our friends, and our fellow brothers and sisters of the wheel be so resilient when hen seemingly everyone else around us is collapsing? Why do we not feel the fire and flames when we know damn well that we're in the throes of a dumpster fire? Is it because we're just inherently good people? That's partly true, but it's also as much of a curse as it is a blessing. I was brought up by good folks and most of the good things they taught me stuck with me. But, like you and everyone else, I still have my darkness. I have dark days, hard days, and sad days, but in the end, there's a certain resilience that I'm able to tap into to overcome it.
One of the darkest mental moments I've ever had was on the bike. I lost my dad some 12 and a half years ago. His birthday was about a month ago. Was that a dark time? Sure, it was, but I've since gone to darker places. No, the darkness that I'm talking about is something different. Losing a loved one is hard, and it really sucks, but you live on, and you continue on. You don't quit. You live on for them, for your family, for the people who trust you and cheer you on--you live for yourself. Yet still, one of the darkest moments I've ever had was on the bicycle. It was Mid South 2024, just 6 or so months ago. I had trained and trained and trained and worked out. I prioritized my eating, strength training, and on-the-bike training over a lot of other activities. Ashley was mostly there beside me through the process (I'm very much a process person), so we experienced the pain together, but I wasn't prepared for what hit me on March 16th.
I slept a very wakeful 4 hours the night before Mid South. Jazzed on the hype of our first time at the event, fresh off of volunteering, and anxious for 100 miles of Oklahoma gravel the next day, I couldn't sleep. I stayed up through most of the night until a melatonin and a white noise playlist from Spotify finally did their perfect work. I woke up the same as I had gone to sleep--mostly exhausted but otherwise calm and ready to tackle the day. We ate breakfast, headed to the start line a couple blocks from our Airbnb, then headed off and out of Stillwater. I was tired, my legs were heavy, and I really didn't have the juice to ride. I wasn't demotivated but I wasn't necessarily feeling it. There was a long stretch before the first stop--almost 35 miles--and a lot of the riding was somewhat herky-jerky until things thinned out.
I wheeled into the mile 35 stop. I knew I needed fuel, sustenance of some kind. I grabbed a Coke. Nothing else really tickled my fancy, but filled up my bottles with Skratch and grabbed a handful of Fun Size Sour Patch Kids (never don't grab the Sour Patch Kids). I hopped back on the bike, it was a dreary day, but fortunately no rain was in the forecast. I pedaled a little further and quickly realized that I was overmatched.
The Mid South was too hard, too long. The gravel was too chunky and shifty, and I didn't have what it took to keep going. "I made it this far," I thought to myself, "No one will care that I stopped, that I quit. I'll just peel off here and call it a day." I thought those things, believed those things. I knew it was true. I was overmatched, undertrained, had no business being there. I was tired, didn't sleep well, and it was time to go back to the finish line and wait for my friends to come in--it's easier that way, right? Of course it is. It's always easier to quit, but would I question that decision? Would I look back and wonder what could have been? Of course I would have, but I didn't care in the moment. It was time to go home. I wanted to go home to Stephenville. I was done with Stillwater, done with The Mid South, and I wanted to be back home.
But then I remembered something Bobby Wintle said on the stage the night before the ride at the rider's meeting. I'll butcher his words, but it was something to the effect of, "You'll want to quit. It'll get hard, but just remember, I'll be here at the finish line waiting for you, your friends will be here, we all will. We want you to finish, we want you to party with us afterward." At least that's the way I heard it. Then, I thought about my dad. He quit. He quit life. Not even a bike ride--he gave up on life. Then I thought about the countless hours of riding, strength training, recovery, pain, suffering, laughs, friends, and family that led me to this very point in my life where I was confronted with a challenge and had to choose. I laughed. I cried at first, but I laughed. Then as I laughed, I almost cried. "I didn't do all of this for nothing," I told myself, "I came here to do something, and I came here to finish."
Beating like a heart
I'm gonna walk through every doorway, I can't stop
I need some time, I need control, I need your love
I wanna find out everything I need to know
I'm gonna say everything that there is to say
Although you've taken everything I need away
I'm gonna make it to the place I need to go
We're all just walkin' through this darkness on our own
"I Don't Live Here Anymore"
The War on Drugs
That song lives rent-free in my head. Some days, it even plays on repeat--it did on that fall Saturday a few weeks ago as I crossed FM 8 and headed across the highway toward Victor. I must have played this song 5 or 6 times on repeat. I've listened to it 100s of times. It's one of my favorites. It's become an instant favorite since Bobby introduced me to this band. I'm not entirely sure what this song is about, but it brings back feelings of yesterday. It brings back a nostalgia for what once was, what we "used to have", and for the good ole days. Nothing wrong with that.
We're all just walkin' through this darkness on our own
That lyric gets me every time. It's not because I believe it; it says something about the darkness we all endure. We all have to go through our periods of darkness and go through our tribulations, and our darkness is our own and it's unique. We're all just walkin' through this darkness on our own. In the end, it's you who has to deal with your darkness. You have to overcome the things that beset you and exorcise your demons. This is what I do on the bike. People ask how far I ride or how long and they laugh (or gasp) and say, "I could never do that!" They're right. They can't. And I'm a long way from being the craziest person I know--I've got a friend who rode the Mega Mid South during Mid South Registration Weekend: 300 miles in (mostly) one go.
But these other folks? They can't do it.
It's not because they're physically incapable. They just mentally don't want to commit. And yes, I get it, people have lives. I'm not demeaning the fact that some folks prioritize a cadre of other things above fitness--I get it. I just don't have a lot of the things in my life that require that extra attention--a couple of cats and a basset hound do just fine for us. Most people, those who can commit to the time, don't choose to commit to the mental side of it. What was it Bobby Jones is credited to have said? "Golf is played on a 5-inch course between your ears." Something like that, and whether or not he said it, I don't know. The point is that riding a bike, playing golf, playing any sport, or participating in anything that requires endurance, requires a certain level of mental fortitude and the ability to overcome when you're at the point of exhaustion or when it's easy to quit. That gets lost on so many folks. People change their screen brightness on their computers because it's "challenging" to their eyes. That's not a challenge, it's an inconvenience. That brings me back around to the conversation Ashley and I had only a few nights ago.
CLICK HERE to read Part II of this two-part series.
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