July 20: Actions Vs. Words

I told her I had a job interview. I didn't get it. I told him I was going to go on an extreme bicycle ride. I never did. I told my parents I went out with a girl that I really liked. She never called me back. I don't tell people anything anymore because it's too easy to get excited about something and share it with everyone you know only to have it fall apart at the last minute. I don't know what hurts more: the actual failure or having to inform everyone you've told that things didn't work out like you imagined they would.

In the fall of 2007 I had had enough. I was working a dead-end job with no sign of change. I was two years removed from graduating college and I had no idea what I wanted to do with my life. I was bored and depressed. I needed a jump start to my life and in September I thought I had come up with the perfect way to do so. I was going to ride a bicycle to every Major League ballpark in the country in one season.

By October I had purchased a new bike and touring panniers (an investment that set me back approximately $1,600). By November I had visited my local AAA for state road maps, pieced them together to create an expansive collage of interstates and highways that took up an entire wall of my bedroom, and had the route highlighted. My panniers were loaded on to my bike and they were stuffed with old clothes to weigh me down. Every day I had off of work I was riding a thirty mile loop to train my legs for the strength and endurance I was going to need.

I had purchased a How-To book on touring and even went as far as writing to the Lou Gehrig Foundation to ask for a sponsorship. I told everyone I came in contact with what my plan was. I would start in San Diego on Opening Day, watch a Padres game before starting off toward Arizona, Denver, Arlington, etc. I would ride to the tip of Florida before trekking north to New York and then back west to Seattle and I would finish in Anaheim. I had it all figured out.

That Thanksgiving weekend, I woke up at 5:00 in the morning and began a journey that would take me from Orange County to San Diego. My plan was to go slowly and take my time so I could end up at my parents' front door and surprise them. As far as they were concerned, I had to work that night and I would be driving home after my shift. It was going to be great to see the look on their faces after I had pedaled over a hundred miles.

It would have been great to see their faces. You see, not only did I have to ride south for so long, but once I got to San Diego, I would have to climb 2,000 feet to reach my hometown of Alpine. By the time I had reached the base of the hill I was supposed to start climbing, my legs gave up. I couldn't go any further. I was forced to call my mom and tell her I needed her to come and pick me up. I rode for just under one hundred miles that day which should have been cause to celebrate, but having to call for help was a crushing blow of defeat.

After taking a long, hot shower I sat on the couch and zoned out while my dad watched his nightly programs and my mom did various chores around the house. My legs were numb and sunburned and my thoughts were elsewhere. I was incredibly vulnerable and my mom took advantage of the moment to convince me that the trip I had just taken would be nothing in comparison to the voyage I had been planning. She made sure to let me know that there wouldn't be someone to come and get me when I was ready to call it quits. She begged for me to reconsider and I reluctantly did just that.

To get amped up about something and want to share the excitement is natural but to have to hang your head and admit defeat is brutal. This is why I don't share anything with anyone anymore. I try to keep my plans to myself and only share them once they've panned out. I've seen it happen to other people and I feel so badly for them when I have to watch their expectations come crashing down around them. It's just easier to hold off for a tad longer before celebrating.