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.
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"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.
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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:
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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.
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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:
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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.
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I was deeply touched and replied:
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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.
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John Jr. wrote again:
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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.
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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....

Knots

One day my father walked with me into the woods to show me a special tree. At first it appeared hardly different than its neighbors but then I noticed that its trunk had been twisted into a giant knot. I wondered, how anyone could tie a knot into a tree trunk. Puzzled, I asked my father.

"Like this," he said, stooping to tie a simple knot in a tiny sapling.

I carry knots of my own; some physical, some emotional. But none as big as that knot tied in the trunk of a tree. My biggest knots are no larger than a limp to remind me of past surgeries or a persistent fear that still affects the choices I make.

If I carried a REALLY big knot I would find comfort in the memory of that special tree my father showed me. Although profoundly and forever altered by events in its past, it still managed to do the things God created trees to do.

I wish I could remember where to find that tree today. I would take my grandson for a walk in the woods.

Eat to Live

I am a vegetarian. I eat only vegetables, mainly leafy greens, fruit and beans. I avoid meat, fish, dairy products and eggs. I have eaten this way for a year. My motivation is to improve my health, specifically to lower my weight, blood pressure and cholesterol. I don't believe that eating meat is a bad thing or that people who eat meat are bad people. People are free to eat just as they choose. I do.

In the last six months that I ate meat I ate almost nothing else. I followed a low-carbohydrate diet, eating mainly meat and cheese. My motive then was the same as now, to lower my weight, blood pressure and cholesterol. It seemed to work for awhile but then my weight loss stopped I became concerned about all the medical warnings against eating so much fat and protien. It just did not feel healthy.

A friend suggested that I read the book, "Eat to Live" by Dr. Joel Fuhrman. Dr. Fuhrman advocates eating mostly raw salads, steamed vegetables and beans, avoiding fats and all animal products. I began reading the book in a bookstore coffee shop, finished it that night at home, restocked my refridgerator the next day and began to eat as Fuhrman suggests.

The Christmas holiday was a dietary challenge. Food was everywhere, all the time. The office was filled with cookies and cakes and candies. Vendors sent gift baskets of fruit and cheeses and sausages and crackers. I had the most trouble with the cookies. I love cookies, especially chocolate chip.

I eat like I once drank; first the man takes a cookie, then the cookie takes a cookie, then the cookie takes the man.

Now that Christmas has passed I am slowly regaining my discipline. I avoid cookies but am finding it difficult to scale back on my daily calorie load. I like volume in my food, lots of biting and chewing and swallowing. That is not a problem so long as I limit myself to foods that are part of my plan; lettuce, green leafy vegetables, beans and fruit. I have gotten into the bad habit of eating breads and crackers; bad because both are high in calorie while low in nutrients. They are fun to eat but offer little more than calories and flavor.

John, my nutrition muse, suggests that I reread "Eat to Live." Unfortunately, I loaned it to a friend who is presently a hospital patient. My book is unavailable. I know what Fuhrman would have me to eat, but I miss the inspiration of his words.

I think I will move to the kitchen and cook up a pot of split pea soup.

Wow, now I'm salivating. I am OUTTA HERE!

Christmas 2004

It was a good Christmas.

Wife and kids drove to Tennessee on the 22nd to spend the holiday with parents/grandparents. I stayed home until Christmas Eve, then drove eight hours from Pennslvania to Tennessee. The weather was dry, roads were clear, traffic was light; a delightful drive.

Wife drove my Jeep (her old Suburban began protesting just before the trip.) I drove a rental (Hertz, full-size Buick, $20/day, unlimited miles, sweet deal.) I returned today, they will return after the New Year.

The visit was nice. I behaved myself; easier now that I have made significant changes in my life (spiritually speaking.) All are well.

On the way back I detoured into the southern Virginia mountains and visited Aunt Betty. It was the highlight of the holiday. Aunt Betty lives alone in a rustic cabin that some might call primitive. I call it wonderful. Few other cabins boast a gazebo elevated above the roof by a central supporting pole, or a private pond filed with fish. Her outhouse was replaced this year by an indoor composting toilet, much more convenient in winter. Running water is gravity-fed from a spring, The inside walls are planked in lumber salvaged from old barns. Her bookcase is filled with titles spanning a spectrum from novels to quantum mechanics.

Aunt Betty came to the mountains years ago, in a converted school bus with her children. The chidren grew and scattered. Aunt Betty stayed in this place that has become a comfortable refuge. She reads, visits, corresponds with friends and family, lives in the company of dogs and makes a life that suits her.

She is my connection to family; my father's sister, my baby-sitter from years ago when I was too small to remember. She tells me stories about my father as a boy, my mother as a young bride, my grandparents as real people rather than the icons they became in my memory.

We visit like people did a century ago. We share coffee and conversation, watch sunsets and moon risings, enjoy each other's company and silence.

I love my Aunt Betty. I would love to tell you more about her, and I will.

I hope that you all had a Merry Chrstmas and will enjoy a happy and healthy New Year.

Roads

Roads fascinate me. I don’t mean just highways built for automobiles. I am fascinated by the very concept of a public way by which people may travel from where they are to wherever they want to be. The road is the ultimate symbol of freedom in America. We each are free to strike out upon it to seek our fortunes, to hit it if we feel unwelcome, to mosey on down it when the mood strikes us. The road carries new people into our lives, entertains us with the view of a world passing by our door and offers a welcomed route of escape from imminent danger.

Certain public ways are special to me; most special is the Appalachian Trail. I was a young boy when I first learned that a continuous footpath ran 2,160 miles from Katahdin in Maine to Springer Mountain in Georgia. I immediately resolved to one day walk its entire length. While I have yet to complete the trek I do manage to hike at least some portion of the trail when my travels happen to intersect its course. Each visit to the Appalachian Trail seems magical and I often feel the urge to continue hiking, leaving the world and its problems behind for others to solve.

The Lincoln Highway was America’s first trans-continental road, conceived in 1913 specifically with automobiles in mind. It was designed to connect New York and San Francisco with a well-graded gravel roadway. Early motorists, forced to navigate muddy and unmarked, single-lane tracks once they strayed from local streets, could at last venture to travel from coast to coast with a reasonable expectation of completing their trip. In the years that followed, numbers rather than names designated federal highways. The original route of the Lincoln Highway today is comprised of portions of US 1, US 30, US 530, US 40 and US 50. US Route 30 passes within 20 miles of my home.

The DuPont Highway runs north and south through the state of Delaware and was the worlds first divided highway. T. Coleman duPont offered to build the road in 1908 and donate it to the citizens of the state. Conceived as a broad transportation corridor consisting of parallel one-way paved dual-lanes, gravel farm service roads and rail tracks, the road was completed as only a single-lane paved highway in 1924. The state did not want to assume the cost of maintaining such an ambitious project. Delaware soon led the nation in highway construction and in 1933 the DuPont Highway was finally widened into a dual highway. Today it is known as US Route 13. Much of my boyhood was spent in towns along or near its path.

Traveling the Pennsylvania Turnpike was a twice-annual ritual as I accompanied my grandparents to Minnesota to spend the summers at their lakeside home. It was like no other American road; cloverleaf interchanges, roadside picnic tables, modern service plazas with restaurants, gift shops and gas stations, exciting passages beneath mountains through long, lighted tunnels. The tollbooth attendants wore crisp uniforms and were always courteous. I imagined that working in the tollbooth must be the greatest job in the world; meeting so many nice people on their way to exciting places. Today’s typical interstate highway is more modern, but turning from a narrow road onto the Pennsylvania Turnpike in 1951 was like being rocketed into the future.

Hiking any trail through the wilderness fires my imagination. I am conscious that my footsteps follow in those of Native Americans who hunted and lived for generations on the surrounding land. I am reminded of the pioneers who struggled through dangerous and unknown terrain in search of safety and a meadow that they could claim as their own. I imagine the wild creatures that preceded man by millennium and blazed these pathways by instinct between sources of water and food. Wilderness trails are like time machines, transporting me to a world that existed before man had need even to invent the word “progress.” Alone on a trail I do not always feel comfortable but I always feel that I have returned to a place where I belong.

I am intrigued by the short stretches of abandoned road I sometimes spy paralleling my travel route. They are victims of obsolescence, snippets of once important and well-traveled roadways that lost their value when greater speeds dictated a need for wider lanes, shallower curves and higher banking. Sometimes these orphaned paths assume a new role as extended driveways to houses that once sat near the thoroughfare but now are set well back from the new route. Some lucky few homeowners gained possession of a private bridge, originally built to carry commerce and travelers between communities but now crossed only on ones way to school, work or the grocery.

What I like most about roads is that each one is an invitation to explore. I enjoy coming upon a road and being almost surprised as my hands turn the wheel unconsciously toward the new path just because I find something interesting in the way it curves down into the trees. Or, perhaps a sign suggests that changing course and going that way now will lead me to something of interest.

Any road that ends at a stop sign is a public way, a path I am free to follow if only I want to. I love to mosey on down the road on a Saturday morning with no destination in mind. Every intersection becomes an opportunity for adventure. The paths I choose seldom disappoint me. It seems to matter little whether I turn left or right. If I show any preference it is, like Robert Frost, to take the road less traveled.