Site icon Home | Crossing the Yarden

December 11, 2013: Getting Back on

Unlike the last blog post, the following actually happened the way I am writing it.

A few years ago, Lawrence and I were zipping down the Bat Ayin trail on our bikes.

It’s a very steep, fast, and technical trail. I am much better at endurance and climbing than finesse. He was, as usual, way out in front.

But I decided to chase him down and opened up the brakes. I picked up a lot of speed and sure enough, could not handle it and hit…something. All I know is that when I opened my eyes, a very concerned Lawrence was standing over me with a worried look.

My helmet had broken and my jersey was shredded. I was a bit dizzy but could at least discuss what we needed to do. We decided that Lawrence would ride home and get his car, and I would, somehow, walk or ride to the end of the trail, very slowly and carefully.

And that’s what we did. My thoughts weren’t 100 percent clear (by the way, I was wearing a helmet as everyone who ride a bike should. The impact had cracked it, which quite frankly, was a lot better than if it was my head that was cracked.) (At least in my opinion.)

But here’s why I’m telling you this story.

Getting back on the bike was neither a show of strength or courage or inspirational or anything. I did it because I had to. I had no other choice. Laying with my back on the rocks forever was not an option. It wasn’t for me and it would not have been for anyone else.

Get it?

Right now, I have no options. So don’t be that impressed that I am able to make it through each day. Most days, I would much rather stay in bed then do anything at all. Like the ride, I am not always thinking clearly and sometimes — most of the time — it hurts like hell.

But tell me what else am I supposed to do? I have four kids who depend on me. There are no choices or decisions or alternatives to continuing to live my life.

Yeah, I wish more than anything that Stella had never gotten sick. But she did. And then she passed away. And so did a big chunk of me.

It makes no difference now. No matter how it feels, I have to ride to the end of the trail.

And as I ride, I keep meeting more and more people with the same story to tell. I call it the “club.” Membership is reserved to those who have lost a loved one to cancer. Life picked each one up and smashed them headfirst against the rocks.

Yet they all say pretty much the same thing.

You just get back on your bike and keep riding.

So even if I look a bit shaky and beat up at times, that what I’m trying to do.

Exit mobile version