AN OLD MAN

One warm Sunday morning, several weeks ago, I set out for a bike ride along the American River Parkway bike trail; a ride that proved to be quite memorable. Over the years I’ve come to recognize through lessons learned and lessons lost that sometimes life’s quirky trail of chance and circumstance leads us into situations of random happenstance that hold keys to understanding and provides us with much needed reminders about where the value lies. The difference I’ve found between the lessons learned and the lessons lost is simply understanding when one is standing in front of you.

While cycling west toward Sacramento I came upon a small but growing group of cyclist who were all stopped and bunched up against some red netting that was stretched across the bike trail underneath Watt Avenue. I may have muttered something under my breath and begrudgingly came to a stop, annoyed about this unnecessary disruption to my workout. I moved up next to the other cyclists and could see they were talking with a man standing on the other side of the netting. Apparently the World Masters Track and Field Championships were in progress and the marathon event was being run in part on the parkway bike trail. The bike trail was closed and traffic was being redirected up a dirt hill onto the gravel levy for a 2 mile detour. This didn’t go over well with any of the cyclists, myself included, and we were not a hundred percent in love with the thought of riding our expensive, highly tuned, precisely aligned bikes on gravel. But after a few snorts of disgruntled mumbling and some petty whining from the group, everyone resigned themselves to the inconvenience and went about their way up the hill and onto the levy. For some reason I chose to hang back a minute and let my fellow crybabies get out ahead of me.

I engaged in some brief small talk with the man guarding the net. During our chat I happened to glance down the bike trail and saw what I thought was a person off in the distance, possibly a male. I could scarcely detect that he was moving slowly toward us. Very slowly. He showed very little if any arm movement to indicate a running or even walking stride and I grew curious.  As he grew closer it was clear he was an older man. In what seemed like an eternity he finally made it to where we were standing and as he approached us I could not believe my eyes. He was short gentleman with very tan weathered skin that sagged in several areas on his frail looking frame. He was wearing loose fitting nylon running shorts and a tank top that draped over his shoulders that had long ago surrendered to time. He stooped over slightly as he stood and wore a well travelled baseball cap which covered maybe six grey hairs. His skin looked to be paper thin with the occasional bruise splotch here and there. His lurch gave the false appearance of an aborted fall and the fingers on his left hand were out of alignment and overlapped. He had band aids on his forearms and some type of tape wrap on his right knee. But the thing that stood out the most was what he had on his chest; a race bib. This frail elderly man, held together with band aids and tape was a marathon competitor and he was 92 years old!  He came up to us and vigorously shook both our hands. His eyes were sparkling with excitement and he flashed a smile so wide he could have swallowed his own face. He offered us his gracious appreciation for coming out to support him and wished us a great day. I stood there like a telephone pole and could manage only a pleasant response and a nod in return. With a full smile and a wave he turned and resumed his excruciatingly slow journey back in the same direction he came, presumably toward a finish line. A finish line he would probably not see for awhile. Eventually he disappeared into the distance and I rode away. He will never know what he did for me that day.

A respected mentor from long ago once told me to never underestimate the value of the journey, because the finish line is just a myth. I had a few years yet to grow before I could appreciate what he said. But he was right. That old man on the bike trail had figured it out long ago. His celebration of the journey was clearly evident through his smile and his eyes and to anyone keen enough to notice, there was also a lesson. It’s an over used, under practiced cliché about smelling the roses and I will be the first to confess I’ve flown by my share of them looking for the mythical finish line. I am one who needs the occasional shot across the bow to snap me back into the right frame of mind. The turmoil and conflict so prevalent today in local, national and world events in addition to our constant daily grinds to stay afloat has made it so easy for us to forget our journey and focus more narrowly on events which we cannot control or affect. How many times in our lives do we have the good fortune to have such an important and vital experience thrown into our paths in such a way that we get it?

I never considered for a second whether this old man was a conservative or liberal; Repub or Demo; I never wondered what religion he practiced, if any and what gender he preferred, if any. I did not think about weather he was a brain surgeon or homeless. All I could absorb at that moment of contact with this gentleman was his tremendous vigor with the here and now. His next step was by no means guaranteed to him and it was evident from just a moment’s time in his presence that he not only knew it but embraced it.

The old man probably crossed the line later that day, but the line he crossed was probably no more significant to him then a suggestion to call it a day. He knew well that he had not reached the finish line. And he knew that if the day ever came that he let the finish line come to him, he would have nowhere left to run and his journey would be over.  

I don’t let a day go by without reminding myself of that old man on the bike trail and how my contact with him helped me better define and appreciate my journey. I could be that old man myself someday in the not to distant future. What a lucky man I would be if it were so.

 I cycled 70 miles that day, all part of a carefully crafted workout plan to achieve an ultimate personal goal this November; to get to the finish line as fast as possible. I hope I never get there.