A Navajo Adventure

Last month I joined four other men from my church and traveled to the Navajo Nation in New Mexico. Our mission was to join six Navajo men during the last week of their three- month residency in a drug and alcohol treatment program. As men in recovery ourselves, we had journeyed to New Mexico to share our own experience and to learn from theirs.

The Navajo Nation, like many Native American reservations, has been ravaged by alcoholism and drug abuse. Generations of young adults increasingly are turning away from the traditions and lifestyle of their parents, seeking instead the excitement found in modern American urban culture. In addition to the problem of addiction the Navajos are dealing with child neglect, spousal abuse, unplanned pregnancies and high crime rates.

I always have been fascinated by Native Americans and their culture. I never felt slighted as a boy when chosen by playmates to play the "Indian". Movies often had portrayed them as cruel but I sensed there was an untold story. I learned in college of their tragic history. My trip to New Mexico confirmed for me how greatly Native Americans have suffered while the rest of America grew and prospered. The Navajo I visited displayed only remnants of their rich cultural heritage. Knowledge of their own history and language are rapidly disappearing. It is sad to imagine how quickly the unique Navajo culture that remains might fade away.

Sadly, I found evidence of prejudice nearly everywhere I looked, including in myself. I had expected to sense some degree hostility in the native people. Instead, I found the Navajo to be polite, quiet and reserved. I noticed that the two peoples seemed to remain segregated. I saw groups of white people together with groups of Navajo but I seldom saw them intermingled, except in retail stores. We attended several recovery-oriented meetings while visiting the area; each was attended predominately by members of one group or the other. In one meeting I heard Navajo people share about their feelings of fear and resentment of white people. Twelve-Step meetings like Alcoholics Anonymous and Narcotics Anonymous are safe places where feelings can be expressed honestly and openly. As I listened the speakers sounded more sad than angry. I felt the same.

Every morning began with praise and worship music performed by our six new acquaintances and their teachers. They sang in the Navajo language accompanied by the drumming of a large community pow-wow drum, about five feet in diameter. It was a beautiful and moving service. We followed from printed hymnals and by the week's end we were singing along in their language. It was a very different musical experience from that found in most churches. I came away wishing my own church had a drum.

I was especially moved by one member of the group, a sixty-year old Navajo gentleman. Daniel had been raised a Christian but then strayed from God. He had been addicted to alcohol most of his adult life. Perhaps I identified closely with him because we were close to the same age. At the graduation ceremony, as Daniel sat at the pow-wow drum with the other graduates, his mother rose unexpectedly from her table, moved to the center of the gymnasium and began a slow dance around the drum. She paused at each of the four compass points and raised her hands in thanks. The other Navajo women rose to stand at their tables and dance in-place. The gratitude and pride Daniel’s mother felt for her son’s recovery were evident in her movements. It brought tears to my eyes as I remembered my own mother.

The week spent in New Mexico was an enjoyable and educational experience. We had not travelled there to teach but rather to learn. I learned again what powerful tools belief and faith in God can be when struggling to overcome addiction. I saw evidence of a great change in men who had never before read the Bible or heard the gospel story. (Only two percent of Navajo call themselves Christian.)

Thanks for Reading

Thank you for stopping in to check the blog. I have not posted for many months. If you were a regular reader I hope you will continue to check the blog over the summer. I plan to resume writing as I begin to ride my bicycle on tours of increasingly greater distances. My goal is to ride the C&O Canal Towpath before Autumn.

If you are new to IShouldHaveKnown you will find a collection of true accounts that illustrate some of the adventure that has filled my life. I don't know if they will catch your interest but having lived these events, I have enjoyed a life that was anything but boring.

But then, I am easily amused......

Feel free to comment on any story. I always reply.

Roy

Roy, What Happened?

Glad you asked.

My life has taken a new direction and I have changed careers. In January of this year I left a job in IT management and joined the staff of a small spiritual-based drug and alcohol recovery halfway house. I now spend my days helping individuals to recover from addiction and integrate into the community. I have traded money for satisfaction.

Why? Mid-life crisis I suppose. I had gotten to the point where each day seemed like just a repeat of the one before. I asked myself, "What do you really want to do?" The answer was "to be of service." I wanted to feel like I was making a difference.

I could not have made this move five years ago. I was a much different person then. My motivations and my needs have changed.

I will write in my blog again. It may take a little while to carve out free time just for me but I will be back at the keyboard.

Until then....

Jet Liners, Elephants and Queen Victoria

My wife and I no longer ride together. As my enthusiasm for bicycling waxed hers waned. Bottomed out, really. Bicycle saddles can be uncomfortable for a man. For a woman they can be unbearable. Gradually, I became a solo rider.

But in the time we did ride together there were memorable moments. Among them was the afternoon we were invited by a stranger to view Queen Victoria's carriage, hitch a team of champion race horses then ride cross-country to meet an eccentric millionaire neighbor and his super-model wife who had rescued elephants from poachers and flew the herd home from Africa in her private Boeing 707.

We had spent the morning riding among the thoroughbred horse farms surrounding Ocala, Florida. For our lunch break we chose the shade of a live oak standing at the entrance to a large stable complex. As we ate, a pickup truck turned into the driveway.

"Can I help you?" the driver asked.

"We were just having lunch" I answered.

"This is private property."

"I'm sorry" I replied. "We'll pack up and be gone in a minute."

"No, you can stay. I just need to be careful of strangers wandering onto the property. Please, enjoy your lunch, take all time you need."

As we finished eating and prepared to leave the man walked back from the stables. We made our introductions and exchanged pleasantries.

"You both look like folks who might appreciate vehicles with spokes in their wheels. If you have a minute I would like to show you something in the barn you might find interesting."

We entered a large air-conditioned building containing dozens of horse-drawn wagons and carriages of every description. There were stagecoaches, surreys, wagons designed to haul milk and freight and pioneers; we were surrounded by vehicles from another century.

"This must be a museum." I said.

"No, it is a private collection. I am the ranch manager here. The owner breeds horses and competes in coach-and-four racing. He also collects what you see around you."

"Incredible" I exclaimed. "What is coach-and-four racing?"

"It is native to Europe; teams of horses pull coaches over a demanding course. It is costly, only a very few can afford to participate."

"Is the owner from Europe?" I asked.

"No, but he is as wealthy as a nobleman. Perhaps you have heard of him; Phillip Hoffman, the chairman of Johnson & Johnson."

His name was not familiar to me. I could only imagine the wealth required to own so large a ranch and participate in such an exotic sport.

My wife asked, "What kind of horses pull the coaches?"

"Holsteins" he answered.

"Holstein horses? I've heard of the cow but not the horse."

"It is an old breed, tracing back to medieval war-horses of the 14th century, similar to the Hanoverian. When the English incorporated Thoroughbreds into the line they became smaller and well suited to both riding and driving."

We walked among the various carriages as he pointed out the ones of particular interest.

"Here is a fast little carriage that once carried a Vermont doctor on his house calls. Over there is the very stagecoach that transported passengers between London and Portsmouth in the 18th century."

" And this" he said, "is Queen Victoria's day coach. She used it regularly to travel about London."

I was in awe. Suddenly, my prized little collection of antique cameras seemed insignificant.

"Let me show you the tack room." We entered an adjoining building that smelled of saddle soap and leather. On the walls hung bridles, halters and harnesses. Large horse collars were resting on floor stands, the brown ones with brass balls attached to their tops, the black collars tipped in silver.

"Beautiful!” exclaimed my wife. "Are the horses here now, can I see them?"

"I was about to bring them in from the corral. Would you like to help?"

Eight magnificent horses stood waiting at the stable door. They were a bit smaller that Clysdales, proportioned more like Thoroughbreds than heavy draft horses. My wife beamed as she led them individually to their stalls and brought them green hay and oats.
We enjoyed spending the next hour doing stable chores. When each animal had been bedded for the night our host walked with us back to our bicycles.

"You are welcome to return whenever you like. I would enjoy your visit. We could hitch up a team and ride over to the Jones ranch to see the elephants."

"Elephants?"

"His wife rescued an entire herd from poachers in Africa. She flew them back in her own Boeing 707. It took a dozen flights. The Jones' have a large runway on their place. She pilots all sorts of planes, real nice people."

"Amazing, they must be as wealthy as Mr. Hoffman" I said.

"Probably even wealthier, Arthur invented Nautilus exercise equipment. I'll bet you've heard of him."

Nautilus inventor, Johnson & Johnson chairman, private airport, elephants; what kind of incredible world had we wandered into?

"Here is my card" he said, "Give a call when you want to come up. I'd love to show you around."

"Thanks," I replied and with handshakes we said our goodbyes and rode the several miles back to the car.

For weeks afterward we talked about that afternoon, imagining the kind of day we might have spent had we accepted the invitation to return. But we did not. I believed we would find too little in common, except for the brief time we would share.

Meeting a billionaire and admiring his elephants might have been enjoyable for an hour or so, but then I would have begun to feel like just a momentary diversion in his day. Bored with his elephants and the roar of his wife's coming and going, he may have enjoyed showing us about his estate, pointing out his various trophies. But soon he too would find the moment awkward.

A wise friend once told me, “Men are rich not when they possess the most, but when they need the least.” My needs are few and simple. I am content just to admire such things as the warmth of a summer day, the noble beauty of a magnificent horse and an hour shared with my wife in the cool shade of an oak tree.

What Goes Around Comes Around

Below is a lengthy post describing a brief encounter more than twenty years ago with a man who offered a simple bit of advice. I never forgot his words. Remembering them has helped me at various times in my life when his message was just what I needed to hear.

Recently I read the following email message in a bicycling-related forum.
__________________________________________________________________

"The Legend", John Sinibaldi, passed away in his sleep today January 10, 2006 at 10:40 am. He was 92 years old, and had a short battle with lung cancer. Luckily he was not in any pain, and died peacefully with his family by his side.

John's legacy as a cyclist will not soon be forgotten, as few if any cyclists will ever achieve what he did. National champion 18 times. Olympian in 1932 and 1936. United States Bicycling Hall of Fame inductee in 1997. National record holder. His cycling career spanned an amazing 77 years, all of it on top of the national amateur picture.

He won his first national level race in 1928; his last national championship was this year at the USA Cycling Masters National Road Championships. A conservative estimate puts his lifetime mileage at well over a half-million miles.

However, his cycling legacy extends far beyond his own accomplishments. John spent the better part of the past 30 years promoting cycling as a sport, encouraging new cyclists to participate and helping all cyclists realize their potential. For over seven decades John was an informal ambassador for our sport, and he always rejoiced when someone new arrived for a group ride for the first time.

John had a long and productive life, and both lived and died with great dignity.
___________________________________________________________________

As I read I realized that John Sinibaldi's story was familiar to me. I had read about him before, decades before. I did know this man but I had met him. It was a memorable meeting. I could recall every detail of the encounter, except for his name. I had forgotten it years earlier. With deep-felt emotion I wrote the following reply to the email forum:
___________________________________________________________________

About twenty-five years ago I bought my first real bicycle. Oh, I had ridden as a kid but then polio and a degenerative bone disease left me too fragile and too fearful to attempt strenuous physical activity. It wasn't until my mid-thirties that I became bold enough to try anything as adventurous as flying over asphalt hunkered down on dropped handlebars. My doctor had advised me to get some exercise. "Try a bicycle" he said. "I don't think it will bother your hip."

I bought a bike. I puttered around the neighborhood. It was a half-hearted effort and I was sure that when the novelty wore off I would hang the bike in the garage to collect dust.

But then, I read an article in the paper one day about a local senior citizen who had been a champion racer in the 1930s and still rode every day to stay healthy. I was impressed. My bicycle no longer seemed like a child's toy. I started riding every day and I got stronger. I kept a clipping of that newspaper article taped to the garage wall. It was my motivation.

One Saturday morning I rode to the part of town where this gentleman lived, determined to meet him. I wanted to tell him how his story had encouraged me to ride and to thank him for the inspiration to reach beyond the limits of my self-confidence. After circling the neighborhood for two hours I met up with him at an intersection and rode beside him for several blocks. He accepted my compliments and thanks with gracious humility and he told me this when I asked him to share with me the "secret" of his stamina.

"If you want to do something for the rest of your life," he said "just do it every day." I thanked him. And with that he wished me a good ride, stood in his pedals and disappeared down the street.

Many years passed. I rode for a few more years until my hip prevented me from saddling up. I moved from Florida to North Carolina and then to Pennsylvania. The news clipping got lost in the moving and I forgot the name of the old man on the bicycle but I never forgot his advice. Often I wished that bicycling was something that I might have done for the rest of my life but I was not able to bicycle for even one day.

Then, in my late fifties, my old bum hip was replaced with a titanium implant. "Can I bicycle again?" I asked the surgeon. Sure, he said, I don't see why not.

So, after I learned to walk again, I started to ride. I taped a sign over my work bench in the garage. "If You Want To Do Something For The Rest Of Your Life Just Do It Every Day." I ride every day now and often I think of that old Florida cyclist who must certainly have died many years earlier. I wondered, had he managed to ride every day? I wished I could have thanked him again for this second round of inspiration.

Now I can. I again know his name. Thank you Mr. Sinibaldi. I have never forgotten your words. I am riding every day. I know now with certainty it is possible that I can ride for the rest of my life.
___________________________________________________________________

I wrote that description of our meeting and its effect upon me as a tribute to the man who had kindled in me a life-long passion for cycling. Unexpectedly, I received the following email a few days later from his son:
___________________________________________________________________

You will never know how touched we were by your email. Nobody down here had any idea about what you've gone through, or that a short conversation with my father could have changed someone's life. I am so glad you shared this with the bicycling forum (and then that Ken forwarded it to me).

Can I ask a huge favor? Would you submit your letter, exactly as it is, to the St. Petersburg Times? Seeing it printed in the paper would mean so much to so many folks down here who knew and loved my father. Or, you can give me permission by email to do so.

Again, thanks for sharing, and we wish you a lifetime of cycling happiness!

John, Jr.
__________________________________________________________________________

I was deeply touched and replied:
__________________________________________________________________________

I never knew your father. Our only encounter was the one I described. But our meeting that day and the few words of encouragement he offered me had an impact on my life that he could never have imagined.

My faith in God was slow to develop and only now, at 60 years old, am I coming to appreciate how subtly His hand guided my life. Looking back over the decades I begin to see how seemingly random events and chance encounters have steered me to where I am now. I am just where I need to be. And it is nothing short of a miracle that I have made it here.

Meeting your father was one of those encounters. The message he gave to me, which seemed at the time almost silly in its simplicity, has echoed in my head and my heart at various times when it seemed chaos might engulf me. It has helped me to understand that order and stability could be restored in my life by practicing simple acts daily and establishing healthy routines.

Perhaps God puts people in our lives just when we need them. I am sure that has been true at times in my life. I suspect that your father was one of those people. I will think of him often as I crank out the miles on my road bike, and I hope I can do that for the rest of my time here.

Thank you for contacting me and letting me know that my words offered some comfort to his family. I hope that you will continue to find comfort in your circle of family and friends and in your faith.

I asked my own son to proof read my post to the bicycling forum before I sent it. He said "Dad, you should also email that to the St. Petersburg Times." So I did, just minutes after I emailed it to the forum. If you check with the Times and they are unaware of my email, you are welcome to pass it along to them.

May God bless you and your family.
___________________________________________________________________

John Jr. wrote again:
___________________________________________________________________

Thank you again. I hope you don't mind, but I chose to read your email at the eulogy (out of about 300). I thought it captured perfectly how my father touched folks - even though that was never his intention. All he ever wanted people to do was to enjoy life, ride their bikes, and treasure their loved ones.
__________________________________________________________________________

This morning in church our pastor spoke of possibilities, among them the possiblity that our actions can affect the lives of others in positive and unexpected ways. His message completed a circle of understanding in me. What goes around comes around, all things are connected, there are no coincidences. One man shares openly and honestly with another, influencing in a positive way with just the words his listener needs to hear. Decades later that same listener unknowingly encounters the first man's descendents and shares his own words which are just those that need to be heard. Coincidence? Perhaps.

Still Alive

No, I did not fall of the edge of the Earth. I just got very busy. Not with anything particularly important, just busy.
I have been bicycling. As is my way, I have turned an enjoyable activity into an all-consuming obsession. It is just so great to be back on a bicycle.
My weekend casual bike rides turned into daily training rides after work and then I began planning a bicycle tour. I bought racks and panniers and a backpacking tent and sleeping bag.... I just bought everything needed to begin some serious bicyclc camping.
For months now my reading has been limited to tour journals on crazyguyonabike.com It is a wonderful site, filled with first-person accounts of bike camping adventures across states and countries and continents.
I am planning a modest adventure of my own, to ride the C&O canal towpath, end to end, from Washington, DC to Cumberland, MD. One-hundred eighty-five miles, camping along the way. It should take about four days to complete the trip.
I guess I am anxious to live stories for a while rather than just tell them.
I wil try to post here with some regularity and report on my training and preparation for the trip. And I will create a journal with photos to describe the trek.

Rapid Progress

Today I surprised myself. Less than two weeks after purchasing a bicycle I completed a circuit of the Harrisburg Greenbelt, a twenty-plus mile bike path that circles the capital city of Pennsylvania. The previous day I rode about ten miles of the path. Before that the longest ride on my new bicycle had been only five miles. This morning, emboldened by yesterday’s success, I decided to test my endurance and commit myself to the entire course.

This may have been a less-than ideal day to make the attempt. The temperature was in the mid-nineties. The first half of the ride was comfortable, but the heat soon sapped my strength and I was forced to stop and rest every couple miles after the halfway point. I am glad that I brought two water bottles as well as food.

Before purchasing my new Trek I had not been on a bicycle for more than a dozen years. After hip-replacement surgery two years ago I nearly lost hope of ever returning to the serious bicycling I had done in the eighties. But last year my surgeon changed his opinion about high-mileage cycling. He agreed that I could resume serious training, so long as I started gradually and stopped to consult him at the first sign of problems in my hip joint.

I am encouraged by my rapid progress. Although the strength in my legs is slow to return I am seeing improvement every day. The extra-low granny gear in the new bike enabled me to stay in the saddle while climbing hills and only once did I need to dismount and walk the bike to the top of a steep grade.

The terrain here in central Pennsylvania is hilly. Having chosen the proper bike will enable me to ride often and far. The frequent hill climbing should rapidly increase my strength and lung capacity. I am anxious to see the changes occur.

My muscles are tired tonight but I sense no protest from the titanium and chromium-cobalt hip implant. The marriages of mechanical technologies both above and below my saddle offer the promise of years and miles of flying over the asphalt. I am excited by the prospect.

Thank you God for the skill of my surgeon, my ability to earn the price of a bicycle above the cost of my needs, and for your grace in granting me this time to be alive.

A Poem About Roads

This poem was featured in a recent Writer's Almanac, the Public Radio short feature produced by Garrison Keillor, the host of A Prarie Home Companion. It is about roads, a topic which has always fascinated me. It also is about why we do the things we do.













The Calf-Path
by Sam Walter Foss.
(Public Domain.)

One day through the primeval wood
A calf walked home as good calves should;
But made a trail all bent askew,
A crooked trail as all calves do.
Since then three hundred years have fled,
And I infer the calf is dead.
But still he left behind his trail,
And thereby hangs my moral tale.
The trail was taken up next day
By a lone dog that passed that way;
And then a wise bell-wether sheep
Pursued the trail o'er vale and steep,
And drew the flock behind him, too,
As good bell-wethers always do.
And from that day, o'er hill and glade,
Through those old woods a path was made,
And many men wound in and out,
And dodged and turned and bent about,
And uttered words of righteous wrath
Because 'twas such a crooked path;
But still they followed—do not laugh—
The first migrations of that calf,
And through this winding wood-way stalked
Because he wobbled when he walked.
This forest path became a lane,
That bent, and turned, and turned again.
This crooked lane became a road,
Where many a poor horse with his load
Toiled on beneath the burning sun,
And traveled some three miles in one.
And thus a century and a half
They trod the footsteps of that calf.
The years passed on in swiftness fleet.
The road became a village street;
And this, before men were aware,
A city's crowded thoroughfare,
And soon the central street was this
Of a renowned metropolis;
And men two centuries and a half
Trod in the footsteps of that calf.
Each day a hundred thousand rout
Followed that zigzag calf about,
And o’er his crooked journey went
The traffic of a continent.
A hundred thousand men were led
By one calf near three centuries dead.
They follow still his crooked way,
And lose one hundred years a day,
For thus such reverence is lent
To well-established precedent.

A moral lesson this might teach
Were I ordained and called to preach;
For men are prone to go it blind
Along the calf-paths of the mind,
And work away from sun to sun
To do what other men have done.
They follow in the beaten track,
And out and in, and forth and back,
And still their devious course pursue,
To keep the path that others do.

They keep the path a sacred groove,
Along which all their lives they move;
But how the wise old wood-gods laugh,
Who saw the first primeval calf!
Ah, many things this tale might teach —
But I am not ordained to preach.

Back in the Saddle

I’ve been riding my new bicycle for the past three days, discovering that whatever strength I once had in my legs has fallen victim to years of inactivity. I am left wheezing like the old man I fear I rapidly am becoming.

Fifteen years ago I considered myself a gonzo road warrior, logging two hundred miles a week across flat Florida roads on my eighteen-speed Fuji Touring Series IV. Each evening after work I rode a familiar twenty-mile circuit through the streets of Saint Petersburg. My turn-around was at the edge of Tampa Bay; circling the inverted-pyramid visitor center at the end of the municipal pier, past the Cessna and Piper aircraft at the airport, along the cruise ship port and Coast Guard station, through the FSU Marine Science campus and ending with a long sprint to home in the northwest corner of the city.

On weekends I often rode to Fort Desoto State Park, which spanned the keys at the bottom of the county. It was a thirty-mile journey from the house to the fort. The ride home was occasionally accented by brief tropical squalls that left the asphalt steaming for an hour. Once a month I rode a century, one hundred miles in the saddle that was completed in a painful struggle against muscle fatigue and heat-induced mental confusion. Only during the air-conditioned drive home would I experience a rush of elation and sense of accomplishment.

That was then; now I marvel at how quickly my legs turn to jelly, how intensely my bottom begins to ache, how numb my palms become gripping the handlebar. But as I dismount at the foot of the driveway and remove my helmet, I feel that old familiar grin creep across my face.

Damn, it’s good to be back in the saddle.

Hello Again

It's good to be back. It has been several months since I last posted. Much has changed, especially within me.

I have begun to get physically active again. After 14 years off the bicycle I am back on the road. With a new Trek under me and a world of unexplored asphalt I am anxious to rediscover the me that once enjoyed 200 miles a week and the rush of endorphins coursing through me veins. My new titanium hip implant is finally paying dividends.

I feel spiritually renewed. I have explored my faith and reconnected with a Higher Power I had ignored for decades. It feels like coming home.

I am reacquainted with my body. A recent fourteen-day fast has helped me to recognize and abandon some bad habits. Eating has evolved into something more than just recreation or refuge.

And, I am anxious to write again.

Let me tell you about it....