Introduction to the Blog

I intentionally gave this blog a conspicuous name, hoping that when I die someone in my family will remember that I did write something down in a blog (for what it’s worth) and perhaps try to find it. This blog is something of a memoir and collection of life lessons, so the reader will indulge me, please, if I write something that is self-aggrandizing and boastful. I have many thoughts that I want to write down but I am in no hurry. I will write when I feel like it.

Any visitor to this blog may feel free to make comments on any post, not just current ones.

The other day Natalie (daughter) and I were alone in my bedroom (Fall 2010). She was looking at my bookshelves when she noticed I had gathered about 20 pink highlighters out of my books (I use them as bookmarks), and she asked me why I highlight my books. She said it would be nice if I would write down what I was thinking when I highlighted my books. I could sense that she understood that although she could not yet understand the books I read, someday she would want to read them and understand what I was thinking when I highlighted them. This blog is, in part, a response to Natalie and the rest of my family.

This blog is a means of sorting out my own position on issues and then purging them from my mind to free up some of my working memory.

In this blog I will make my little contribution toward answering the perennial question, “What is truth?”

Some blog postings will take up Mormon issues or else express a passing thought, but I have no intention of writing Mormon apologetics, nor insensitive criticism.

Some postings will be disconnected, random thoughts and memories.

In short, Spinoza [think of Todd Hansink with tongue in cheek] is not to be read, he is to be studied; you must approach him as you would approach Euclid, recognizing that in these brief... pages a man has written down his lifetime's thought with stoic sculptury of everything superfluous. Do not think to find its core by running over it rapidly; never in a work of philosophy was there so little that could be skipped without loss. Every part depends upon preceding parts; some obvious and apparently needless proposition turns out to be the cornerstone of an imposing development of logic. You will not understand any important section thoroughly till you have read and pondered the whole...

-Will Durant, The Story of Philosophy, p.218

The Anthropomorphism of God

A couple of weeks ago a Church leader gave a talk in Sacrament Meeting about the Resurrection (Easter was coming up). After the meeting this Brother took me aside and said he wanted to get my opinion on something. He asked, “Why do you think it is so important that we teach that God has a body?”

Since I had just heard his talk on the Resurrection of Jesus I had some idea of where he was coming from with this question but it was still a very big question. I paused for a moment and then said, “I think that we over teach it.”

He looked a little confused.

Then I said, “I think we over teach, or overemphasize, that God looks like a man in his prime. You said it yourself, that the resurrected Jesus could walk through walls and rise up from the ground and depart into the clouds (See Acts). So I am saying that it is a very narrow teaching to emphasize that God has flesh and bones and looks like a man. God is more than that. But of course if God wanted to communicate to a human being in a dream, or otherwise, He probably would not appear as a fish or as an electron. God would be astute enough to pick a more effective communication medium. He would appear as something we could grasp. We teach our children (I pointed at Natalie, age 12, who was standing close by) about a God that looks like a man because that is all they can grasp; but surely God is greater than what children can grasp. So that is why I say we over teach the idea of an anthropomorphic God, because God must be more than that. [We over teach this concept when we expect educated adults to literally believe the same things that we teach our children.]

The Brother didn’t seem to want to engage the topic further and he started moving away. I guessed my answer was nowhere close to what he had been wondering about.

Before he got away I said a little more, “It doesn’t really make any difference to me what kind of body God has. I can’t say that I literally believe in a God that sits on a throne tapping his fingers while having a symbiotic relationship with His intestinal flora and having nipples, though if He is omnipotent then I’m sure He could do that.”

He looked at me without knowing what to say.

Then I said, “Well you asked.” And I gave him a big smile.

Now another person at Church thinks I’m odd.

Anti-Darwinism in the Church

I was sitting in a combined Youth Sunday School meeting when the teacher started to say something like, “How could anyone believe in Darwin and believe that we came from apes? We are children of God!” Then one of the smart (sometimes smart-alecky) young boys asked a question, “So Darwin got it all wrong?” His question was not acknowledged.

I sat uncomfortably in my seat and knew that I had to say something quickly before the moment had passed. I raised my hand without knowing what I was going to say but I knew I had to say something. The teacher saw my hand and called on me. I took a breath and tried to speak with a calm voice.

I said slowly, “Without disrupting the rhythm of the lesson, may I humbly interject a point about Darwinism. The issues of evolution have been debated many times by good Latter-day Saints at BYU and the Church has decided that we are not required to disbelieve that all life including human beings could have evolved from simpler life forms. I only want to bring this up now because this is the third time in about the last six months where I have heard the idea taught in Church that we do not believe in Darwin. But the reality is that the Church does not have an official position on human evolution even though most of our parents, grandparents, and many Authorities in the Church have spoken out against Charles Darwin. We, in fact, are not required to be anti-Charles Darwin nor anti-human evolution. The reason I want to make this point clear is because I think there are some kids in this room who might study science in college and decide that there is good evidence to conclude that humans did indeed evolve from lower life forms. And I don’t want those individuals to have memories of being taught anti-Darwinism in Church and thus needlessly feel that they are at odds with the Church.”

The teacher looked at me with a blank face and then moved on.

Some days later I spoke to the teacher to make sure that she was not offended by my comments. She seemed to be okay but has now probably categorized me as being a little odd.

The first book that I recommend on this topic is, Evolution and Mormonism, by Trent D. Stephens and Jeffrey Meldrum. This book gently shows how the LDS Church is not officially creationist even though most members and leaders are.

My Alter Ego

Ken Wilber

http://www.amazon.com/Brief-History-Everything-Ken-Wilber/dp/1590304500/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1267805356&sr=8-3

http://www.amazon.com/Kosmic-Consciousness-Ken-Wilber/dp/1591791243/ref=sr_1_19?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1267805420&sr=8-19

I was first exposed to Ken Wilber when I found his book, A Brief History of Everything, on my Dad’s bookshelf. (I am always attracted to bookshelves.) My Dad didn’t have much to say about the book except that I could take it. He told me that it was a selection of the Mira Costa College book group that met monthly to discuss their selections and vote upon others.

The book sat on my shelf for a couple years while I attempted to start reading it four or five times. Finally I worked up enough momentum in the book that I started to make progress and then suddenly I was hooked. I studied it very carefully and started to really enjoy it. By the time I finished this book I knew I had to know more about this guy.

Ken Wilber is another one of those rare human beings that have had a significant impact in shaping the way I think. Although he seems new agey at first, seems narcissistic at times, and sometimes dresses funny, I still enjoy all his quirky oddness without feeling the need to emulate him in every way or become taken in by his “fan club-cum-cult.” He appears a bit eccentric but, hey, the guy is truly one of life’s originals and he is full of substantive ideas.

I highly recommend one of his books: A Brief History of Everything, and his audio set: Kosmic Consciousness which covers the same material in an interview format. The combination of book and CDs is most effective as each medium has its inherent strengths and weaknesses; together they best introduce Wilber’s worldview. Beyond these two recommended works of Ken Wilber I make no further recommendations though there are still many wonderful intellectual nuggets to find. I have purchased most of Wilber’s books but that is more a reflection of my way of sizing him up. I do the same thing with musical artists as well. I like to know the full catalogue even when I only like part of it. I like to understand the artist as well as his message.

One reason why I have formed an intellectual bond with Ken Wilber is because he was the one that I was reading when I had a few more of those “aha” moments. Wilber taught me a few new things that I really found enlightening. Granted, I could have had such moments while reading somebody else because most ideas are not exclusively original to any one human being, but the fact is I was taught by Wilber. He was the one who communicated many ideas in such a way that I was able to receive them, and they came at I time in life when I was mature enough to pay attention.

The first topic that impacted my thinking was emergence--everything is simultaneously a “whole” as well as a “part” of something bigger (holons). Subatomic particles are wholes, but also parts of Atoms. Atoms are discrete wholes yet they are parts of molecules. Molecules are wholes that form parts of proteins which become parts of tissues, then organs, then organisms, then the biosphere, then the noosphere (see Pierre Teilhard de Chardin). The “aha” was the realization that I am part of something bigger than myself. I was finally ready to trade up to this broader perspective by giving up my more egocentric worldview and it was not a frightening thought but, surprisingly, it was very comfortable. I kept repeating in my mind, “Love thy neighbor as thyself.” This seemed very logical. I started to think of other people as extensions of myself, or, even, myself. This may sound loony but I honestly started to sense a keener kinship to the world than I ever had before. This attitude came from Buddhism through Wilber to me.

After a while I found that I was experiencing a real change in myself. I started to feel a greater ability to detach myself from emotional issues and try to understand them more objectively while all the time believing that in the long run the “truth will out.”

Perhaps the most important idea that I got from Wilber is that I do not have to repudiate things that I transcend; I can transcend AND include.

Ken Wilber is another kindred soul because I see part of myself in him. He is a tireless quester of truth and is not afraid to read all of the world’s best books without waiting for them to be assigned. And although he is ahead of me and different in many ways, we are both questers.

Guy Murchie

The Seven Mysteries of Life: An Exploration of Science and Philosophy by Guy Murchie.

I can’t remember how I first heard of this book--it was probably from reading book reviews on Amazon.com. I must have been impressed with the reviews because I bought one but when I received my first copy I was disappointed to find that the copyright was dated 1978 and every third or fourth page was illustrated with detailed, hand-drawn sketches that reminded me of my high school Biology class where I made similar drawings of cells and plants. My first reaction was that the book was a little less than cutting-edge. Nevertheless it was a new book and I started to read it.

After several nights of reading the book in bed before falling asleep and I distinctly remember that one night I stopped reading, opened my eyes wider, looked at the cover of the book, and I said out loud slowly, “This is a good book.” The next night I said to myself, “Every single page of this book is full of interesting ideas. I could pick any page of this book at random and really enjoy reading each page.” There was no filler in the book at all. Every page, even every sentence was a work of art, thought provoking, and delicious. I reconsidered my opinion of the hand-made illustrations and instead of seeing them as low-tech productions I saw them as the careful drawings of a masterful philosopher, scientist, poet, or artist—I wasn’t sure which.

Guy Murchie began his book’s preface with these words: “When I undertook this work in the spring of 1961, I was quite aware that I would almost certainly be thought presumptuous in attempting to write about all of life in one book. But I have to go ahead in the faith that any such seemingly impossible, if not harebrained, project on such a universal theme could hardly help being worthwhile—largely because of its rarity.”

Rarity is an understatement. Murchie’s book is more densely packed with great ideas than anything I had ever read before. Unlike many popular science books that spend 300 pages restating the same three ideas, or unlike other science books that are impenetrable because of a masochistic writing style that heaps abuse upon any would-be reader, Murchie’s book is a sheer delight to read and constantly surprises the reader with insights about life, the universe, and what it all means—insights that are expressed so freshly that they seem new. Murchie took seventeen years to write this magnum opus and “averaged less than one finished sentence a day during all this time,” he said in his preface. He called his writing, “painstaking” which must be true because I can’t imagine any poet laboring more over word choices than Murchie obviously did. His writing flows, is enchanting and reveals a universe that is more beautiful, rational, and caring than anything I had ever heard from science before--although later I would discover similar joy from guys like Carl Sagan and Richard Feynman.

Unlike a magician who astounds by what he does not reveal, Guy Murchie astounds by what he does reveal that we have not been seeing but which has always been in plain sight. Murchie is, then, in this sense, a revelator.

Toward the end of his book, on page 614, Murchie wrote some kind words about the prophet Baha’u’llah. I immediately started to worry that the author of this great book that I had been falling in love with, would suddenly reveal himself to be yet another unbalanced screwball. I researched the Baha’i Faith religion that Baha’u’llah founded and encountered what seemed to be a peace-loving-enough community. After reading a list of their core beliefs (and after reading Murchie’s book), I honestly felt that I had never read a one-page list of beliefs written by someone else that I could agree with more than this one. Nevertheless, I knew that what looks good on paper may not necessarily be so beautiful when practiced as an institutional religion. So I haven’t attempted to learn much more about the Baha’is except to find out they conduct meetings in San Diego that I would like to attend once just to get an idea about how successful they have been at putting their wonderful ideas into the realm of organized religion. I wish them well.

I searched for “Guy Murchie” on the internet and learned that he was a tall man and just as gracious and charming, by others’ accounts, as I had imagined him to be. Although I would love to read a little biography about him, it is not really necessary for his writing sufficiently reveals the man Murchie to be one of my all-time favorite human beings whose hand I would be honored to shake while expressing a little gratitude for creating a work so beautiful that I can only describe it as art, an odd choice of words for the book that I would most like to take to a deserted island.

New Scoutmaster

[I never sent the following letter. Writing it was all I needed.]

Dear Scout Parents and anyone else involved with scouting,

I was recently asked to be the Scoutmaster in the El Centro 2nd Ward—a very odd choice indeed. I reluctantly agreed. Over the years I have known many Scoutmasters and there has not been a single one of them about which I haven’t heard someone complain about his performance.

Scouting is another religion, complete with its rules, oaths, laws, mantras, handshakes, ranks, uniforms, and even fundamentalist-type zealots. The job comes with detailed manuals and lots of different expectations from everybody. Frankly, I don’t see how it will be possible to administer the letter of the law and satisfy everybody so I will tell you upfront that I will not be the model Scoutmaster.

I achieved the rank of Eagle Scout largely through my individual efforts, and to make my parents happy. Achieving Eagle never really meant that much to me perhaps because I didn’t experience much group camaraderie in the process. I take very seriously, however, the idea that kids should honor their fathers and mothers, and if achieving Eagle is important to a mother then it should be important to a scout, even if only to make mother happy—that’s what I did. Unfortunately, in some geographic regions of the Church, mothers place much of their self-esteem on whether or not their sons achieve Eagle Scout. To some mothers Eagle Scout means success as a mother while anything less is failure. This was the mentality of LDS mothers when I was a scout.

The Boy Scouts of America was started almost 100 years ago and it used to be extremely popular with young men but today it seems stuck in a time warp and is seriously outmoded to the point of becoming irrelevant and unappealing to modern sensibilities. Someday the Church will probably scrap the scouting program or help revamp it since scouting is really just a transitory or temporal program in the big scheme of things. In the meantime there are usually a few men and women in a typical Stake that obeisantly idolize scouting rituals as some end in themselves instead of a means to an end. I am not one of these people. So, to be clear here, I want to say that I do not worship the structure of Scouting. For me, Scouting is a tool, a means, for reaching the boys and instilling in them the characters and values of the Scout Oath, Law, Motto, and Slogan, which, by the way, I believe with my whole heart.

I looked on the internet the other day to search out ideas that I could use as a scoutmaster. I quickly became immersed in the myriad discussions on how LDS scoutmasters usually do an inadequate job and LDS troops are usually “mediocre.” Interspersed among the diatribes of the scouting fundies are occasional success stories of men who have dedicated their whole lives to scouting—the heroes of scouting. I marveled at how all the good efforts of the “mediocre” scoutmasters could be dismissed with so little appreciation. Is it any wonder why I am apprehensive about entering the fray of scouting since I will probably be just another mediocre scoutmaster at best?

Since I received this call I have been thinking about what my goals should be. I decided that I don’t yet have sufficient background to set all my goals. They will gel in time. My first goal, however, gelled immediately. That is to have fun on Wednesday nights with the scouts. I think it is very important for kids to have fun so that they look forward to going to Scout Meetings (Young Men’s). I have often said, “You can’t teach them if you can’t reach them.” I realize that if I act like a wacked-out scouting Hitler then the boys will harbor their secret doubts about the whole program and their attendance will drop off. So first and foremost I want to have fun so the kids will keep coming back.

I want the kids to form life-long memories of good, clean fun at Church with Church friends and leaders. I want the kids to feel loved by their leaders and develop strong bonds of friendship with each other. I never want the kids to think that their leaders, and therefore the Church, are heavy and pharisaical. We will celebrate all achievements, not just Eagle. Often we will look to the merit badge pamphlets to find ideas for fun activities and we will consider the activity a success if we have fun, learn something, build character, and instill scout values, even if we do not complete the merit badge together. I will be very vigilant to ensure the safety of all boys at all times but I cannot guarantee that boys will not occasionally get hurt. I will at all times be safety minded. I will also be vigilant about bullying, cliquishness, or hurtful comments.

What about campouts? I don’t know how to answer this question yet. I don’t have a large vehicle or trailer that I can use for overnight campouts. With parental support we can probably have some fun times but I can’t do the campouts alone. I do want to do some quota of campouts per year but I have to give this some more thought and talk to the fathers of the boys to see how willing they are to go along. Regular camping with fathers is one of the best ways to make good memories. I remember the first time I took my oldest son, Erik, to Fathers-and-Sons Outing, I was surprised on the drive home when he said it was the “best day of my life”…and then he paused and said “almost as good as Disneyland.” At that moment I appreciated how much more fun kids have when camping than parents. Let’s take our boys camping!

If you have any advice for me I will appreciate it and seriously and respectfully consider it. I may, however, not always follow it.

If you want your son to become an Eagle Scout then I suggest you send him to Scout Camp.

I really want to do a good job as Scoutmaster (good job by my standards, mediocre by fundamentalist standards). I know that I will not follow the manuals with exactness--not even close. But I will pick some goals and accomplish them. I mean, come on, if I start passing out callings like commissary, historian, or bugler—jobs with bogus job descriptions—then scouts will soon recognize the hollowness of the structure and neglect their duties. However, I do believe in sharing the duties and delegating meaningful work yada yada yada.

I do have some good memories of scouting. I particularly loved cub scouts and webelows. I liked boy scouts too for a while. I think most kids grow tired of scouting as they start high school. I will try to remember the things that I liked most about scouting when I was a boy and emphasize those things as Scoutmaster.

Please take a minute to review the values of scouting that I copied and pasted below. I believe in these values and will try to instill them in the scouts. Please help me by, first of all, trying to get to know me better. Please go out of your way to greet me and make small talk with me as often as possible. I look forward to working with you, the parents, as well as with your scouting boys.

Sincerely,

Todd Hansink
New Scoutmaster
April 23, 2008

Tour de Tucson 2007

Tour de Tucson
November 17, 2007
Platinum 04:43:25


My plan for this year’s tour was to train minimally and efficiently for a platinum time. I did not care to set a personal best time but just to go with the flow of my training partners. Basically my training consisted of indoor intervals on Monday afternoons, solo medium long rides on Tuesday afternoons, fast group rides on Wednesdays mornings, rest on Thursdays, long group rides on Friday mornings, and miscellaneous recovery rides on Saturday’s (usually indoors). My program was to be about three months long (any longer would have produced mental burnout this year). Another thing that I tried to do was not think too much about cycling when I wasn’t training. Several of the key rides were low quality due to wind, rain, dental appointments, and whatever else but I adjusted my training to compensate somewhat.

My only preparation race was a climb up La Rumorosa in Mexicali three weeks before the Tour de Tucson. I felt okay the first half but great the second half. Each week I was getting stronger, then everything fell apart. On Tuesday, October 30, I skipped my workout and went to see Mom and Dad. Mom was dieing. She died on Friday morning. I was glad to be there. Her funeral service was Monday morning. The rest of the day was spent eating good food and visiting with family for hours; nobody wanted to say good bye. I was very happy with the quality of Mom’s funeral and all the words that were spoken. I went away thinking that the whole ordeal—the vigil, death, funeral preparations, funeral, familial socialization—was one of the great experiences of my life. In no way should the brevity of this account of Mom’s death and burial within this Tour de Tucson story be misunderstood as being of lesser importance than my training for Tucson.

On the Saturday after Mom died I went back to El Centro to get my family ready for the funeral. On the way I parked in Ocotillo and rode up the grade. It might seem a bit irreverent to ride a bicycle when I am supposed to be grieving but riding solo is psychologically relaxing. On the way up (near the bottom) I caught up to Larry Cowne. I was glad to see him because I really didn’t feel like riding the bike at all and I thought that a little companionship would distract my thoughts. I felt a bit euphoric when I told Larry, “My mother died yesterday.” He started to say a few compassionate words before I spared him the awkwardness by explaining that while I was feeling a little sadness I was mostly happy. Larry didn’t seem too talkative as we rode and after a couple times of his dropping off I decided to leave him to his thoughts and I climbed alone.

A week and a half before Tucson I joined the Wednesday morning group ride. Fred was not there because he was having back problems. Brian informed me that he would miss the Friday long ride because of more melanoma testing. I rode with the group but got dropped by Greg and Brian before the sprint. I couldn’t muster the strength to keep up. By Saturday I mentioned to Pam that I didn’t think I wanted to go to Tucson.

On Sunday I drove up with Dad, Matt, Pat and Emily to see where Mom was buried in Rose Hills. The freshly laid sod marked the spot. Perhaps it was morbid humor for me to ask Dad how he felt knowing that some day he was going to be buried right there, as I pointed to the grass next to where Mom lay. We stood around and talked, and looked at the grave markers of Trent, Grandpa Arland, Grandma Jean, Grandpa Layton, and Grandma Beryl. We went to the Soup Plantation before visiting Pat and Emily’s new house. It was another long but joyful day. When I got home I was exhausted. Monday was a holiday. I no longer wanted to go to Tucson so I spent the day pruning bushes. On Tuesday I cancelled the hotel reservations in Tucson. Fred called me after the Wednesday morning group ride (I did not ride) to wish me well in Tucson. I told him that I wasn’t going and he agreed that that was probably for the best. Pam and I were going to go on some make-shift date to take the place of the Tucson weekend.

After teaching my classes on Thursday I went home to prepare for the weekend when Pam persuaded me that we could still go to Tucson. I had no intention of going to Tucson but after several positive statements by Pam I started to entertain the idea again of going. I started to think what I could do to salvage my race. What should be my goal? Was I off the bike too much? Would I get over my cold by Saturday? Would it be worth it if I don’t get Platinum? I got on my bike and did a quick 20 mile ride to think it over. It was too late to train (only 36 hours before race time) but I needed to send a message to my legs that they should stop shutting down. After the ride Pam and I quickly packed up and drove to Tucson where we arrived late at night after loosing an hour.

We spent Friday at Bookman’s (used bookstore) and ate at Beyond Bread again. Sometime after 5:00 p.m. Pam and I sat in the third row and listened to Greg LeMond talk about drug use in professional cycling. It was an unanticipated treat to be so close to the guy that I have followed and admired since I first saw him on TV in the mid 80’s. The Platinum Meeting, 6:30 p.m., boring. I did not have any energy to spare on Friday but all the while my brain was preparing my body to give one big effort on Saturday morning.

On race morning I knew I was not at my best but I did have experience with this race and tried to race as smart as possible. The word that kept coming to my mind to describe the beginning of the race was “violence.” After the starting gun, pure violence! My heart raced. My legs filled with lactic acid as faster riders passed by me. I didn’t even try to count the riders that passed me or how many riders were ahead. I just rode my own pace without worrying about loosing positions. I was resigned to just give a steady effort but I was still flying to the first river crossing—last year at 25 mph but this year as much as 28 mph but I was still getting passed.

After about an hour my legs were starting to feel like they were on the verge of cramping. In my first Tour de Tucson I didn’t heed that feeling and I cramped so badly I had to stop. This time I went to the back of the large group that I was riding with and tried to ride a more steady pace. The group gapped me a little with each surge but I slowly pulled back without seriously loosing the draft. I had to balance my need to ride steady with my need to not loose the draft. I was successful. Down Houghton Avenue I recovered somewhat because the downhill was not too fast. At the bottom when we turned left I decided that if I had any ability to pass other riders that now was the most critical time to do it. So I tried as best as I could to work my way back up the group (about halfway up) before the bottleneck of the second river crossing. The second river crossing broke our group into several smaller groups. I rode steady up the steep climbs but had to use my granny gear. Up the long gentle hill of Oracle I found myself strong again. Going down Tangerine Avenue was a little odd this year because our pace seemed subdued compared to previous years. At the bottom of Tangerine Avenue (mile 85) we had a full two minute wait for a train. I had mixed emotions about loosing time but I knew at this point that I was on target to finish with a platinum time so I just enjoyed the break. I looked up Tangerine and saw about five cyclist that were going to catch us on account of the train. I took the opportunity of the stop to say to a rider next to me, “You represent the ‘big man’ well.” He thanked me for the compliment. He later told me that he weighed 225 pounds which is a lot for a cyclist. I weighed about 197 but I am a lot faster as I get closer to 190. In my dreams I weigh 180 and am finishing with the fastest riders.

With about 15 miles to go I started feeling fatigue in my bottom from sitting in the saddle. A little later someone was cheering on the side of the road, saying we only had 10 miles to go. I was really uncomfortable by this point. I could not find a comfortable way to sit and I could not stand up to relieve my bottom because my legs would cramp every time I tried. I was squirming on my bike as time seemed to slow. I drank six large bottles this year due to the heat. There was a very slight headwind on Silverbell Road but we maintained the fastest pace that I have ever done on this road (22.5mph). The last two miles were easy and I was happy to pick up the pace just to finish as soon as possible.

I finished with a platinum time again and I was very happy because of the unique challenge that this race presented. I had to dig deep to maintain the pace and for the last ten days since the race I have been coughing like I have emphysema. That can’t be good. The weather is getting cold and early morning group rides are not very alluring.

Pam was my support team and she knew from experience exactly where (and how) to park right next to the start/finish line, where to stand to take away my warm-up clothes before the start, and to take a picture at the end. Being a spectator at a bike race can’t be very exciting but Pam sees all the effort that goes into preparing for a platinum time and she is very supportive and somewhat amused.

I missed Fred and Brian (not to mention my mother) but at least I have a feeling of closure on this cycling season.

Todd Hansink
November 27, 2007

The Gospel according to my Mom (RIP)

Shortly after my 17th birthday I left home and went to Bolivia for one year as a foreign exchange student. Soon thereafter I left home again to be a missionary in Chile. Mom wrote me a minimum of two letters per week the entire time. Neither one of us imagined what this unusual correspondence-relationship would become. I was surprised to discover a new dimension of my mother through her letters. I was strengthened by them and never at any other time in my life have I felt so close to her. Through her letters she artfully groomed me for adulthood in ways that she may never have achieved if I had stayed close under her wings.

The purpose of this post is to express gratitude for my mother and honor her by assisting her in spreading her gospel, or rather, the gospel in her words, her words of wisdom.

The following five pages contain excerpts from letters that Mom sent to me while I was in Bolivia and Chile. While the letters were originally written to me, the excerpts are relevant to all her posterity and are scripture to them.

I invite all her grand children to fold up these pages, put them in their scriptures, and read them every once in a while. Read these words to remember what was most important to Grandma Connie. Study them to discover truths that can be applied to your lives.

-Todd Hansink



Excerpts From Letters to Todd in Bolivia


September 8, 1979
“My dear son, I’m wondering how you are today. The sun is out here. The same sun that is shining on you, only many miles away. One thing that is close—that’s our love. I feel it strong and distance has no part in that. Today I want you to know that I love my Heavenly Father and his son Jesus the Christ. I’m thankful that He loves and cares for me and that I can go to Him in prayer and know that if no one else understands or if I have a hard time explaining my thoughts or feelings, He can unscramble them and understand. There are no hidden meanings to be twisted around or held against me. I know that when I am in the pits I seem to listen for the answers more intently. I have had answers and revelations come to me as if I were talking to myself. They were not my idea. Twice I answered (that is, two different revelations) ‘Lord, you must be mistaken.’ And the message was repeated. There was no explanation telling me that He wasn’t mistaken but the message came exactly as before. Again I said, ‘Lord, you must be mistaken.” Again the message or instruction came--exact words--as before until I had been told three times. It didn’t dawn on me until about three years later what was really taking place those days. Here I was receiving revelation knowing it was from the Lord and telling Him he had made a mistake. Now tell me, does the Lord make mistakes? Who was I to say that to Him and yet as I look back it was a true reaction and now I get embarrassed about it. Judging the Lord is unreal. I also know He knows I genuinely was having a hard time really getting it in my mind. Fasting is another principle and privilege. It’s the time when you can train the weak flesh to conform to your mind and spirit. I say to myself sometimes, ‘Shut up body. I won’t let you run me. I am the master here,’ and as I do this my spiritual strength increases. I feel worthy to go to the Lord in Prayer. I feel He knows I’m serious and am not expecting Him to do it all but that I’ll do my part. In my next letter I’m going to tell you of an experience that I had that I have never told anyone except your Dad. I wouldn’t tell you but there is a lesson to be learned. [She never mentioned this subject in subsequent letters.] I love you with all my heart…I’m thankful for all my blessings especially for my family. Nothing else is eternal just the gospel and the family unit. Everything else turns to dust. Set Eternal goals my son and ask for your Father in Heaven’s help. I love you, Mother.”

Postmarked November 9, 1979
“Until then my sweet son learn discipline in all things and remember I love you dearly. I depend on you a lot. I’ll help you or give you anything in my power to give if you will seek first the Kingdom of God. God be with you always. Love, Mom”

Sunday Oct. 28 ? [1979]
“…Dad cut the Elm tree yesterday. The trash man hates us…I am thankful for the gospel and the purpose it gives to my life. I see the unhappiness that comes into people’s lives in the Church when they go astray and do their own thing. Oh the misery they bring on themselves and loved ones. They try to excuse and blame their problems on everyone but themselves when actually not one of them has been forced, but has made such decisions of their own free will. They want their freedom to choose but they don’t want the result or reward of their own decisions. My son, if you want happiness, be close to your Father in Heaven because Satan teaches only misery and destruction and is so very clever as to deceive you. You are in my prayers forever. I love you deeply. Be strong and faithful. Love, Mother”

Postmarked November 21, 1979
“My dear son, I am writing you from Grandma Nellie’s house. This is Wed Nov 14 or 15 I don’t know. It is [?] pm. I have just broken my fast. I have been fasting 4 days. My Dad had surgery today…Our life ticks away everyday. Don’t waste time it’s perishable (opportunity is perishable). Seek righteous living every moment of every day. May our Father in Heaven look at your deeds every day and say, ‘Well done.’ God bless you. I send my love, Mother”

Postmarked November 27, 1979
“Hi honey, I got home from Dad & Nellie’s house Sat morning. On the way home after I left Susan’s house the blue Volkswagen caught fire on the freeway…My father is regaining his strength. The breathing tubes are out of his mouth and in a couple of days his throat will feel less sore and he will start to have food like jello, soup, liquids, milk, etc. His spirits are good as they can be. I pray for him. I love him so much. My father has never done an unkind thing to me and I have never been mad or angry at my dad in my entire life.”

Postmarked December 7, 1979
“Dearest (Down in no man’s land) Todd, I don’t know how much you have heard of world situations but the Shah of Iran has been dethroned…Oh this world is truly ripe and ready to explode. Wars and rumors of wars. If we only knew how close we are and barely hanging on that thin thread. My son, pray and repent if necessary and be worthy to be counted among the righteous. This is your only protection no matter where you are. The Lord needs leaders, men of great character, self starters, self motivated to save this Promised Land and prepare for the millennium. He needs pure and honorable men and women to marry and bring this last of the spirits of our Heavenly Father to this earth to complete their mission. God bless you always. We await your homecoming. xoxo Mom”

January 8, 1980
“We are in a gradually worsening world situation. We are afraid Russia will take over Iran next and thereby control the world’s oil…Our only protection is our armor of righteousness and each person stands alone and is accountable. It is certainly comforting to know the Lord is on your side and on anyone else’s that will repent and come unto Him.”



Excerpts From Letters to Todd in Chile


Postmarked September 30, 1981
“Have I ever told you what happens and the peace of mind that comes to a person who keeps the commandments and serves the Lord? The quality of their life does not compare with those who don’t. There is a scripture, ‘Obey those who have rank over you for they watch for you soul.’ If we were only always willing to accept correction and learn from the experiences of others, how much smoother our lives would be? How much pain and misery could we avoid? You can have hardships and problems and still have peace of mind. Be on the Lords side and you can find comfort in everything when He is your companion. I am in harmony with all the Lord taught. I try everyday to perfect my life. I love your Dad more everyday. He is a good and righteous man that loves his family as I do. We have one desire and that is to return to our Father in Heaven as a family. Everything we do each day is with this in mind.”

Postmarked January 2, 1982
“Connie’s baby is darling, a full head of very dark hair…What a joy it is to have your posterity grow. I feel like I started out as only one in a family but we are building a wonderful family with many grandchildren…I love them all. I can’t believe I haven’t seen Matt’s youngest, Marie Elizabeth, as yet…The stores here are packed and overflowing—produce so plentiful that it spoils before we can eat it. Yet people all over the world are starving. This is a land of plenty but it won’t always be. However, the Lord will bless and preserve us if we love him and obey his laws. I’m thankful for my testimony of Jesus Christ and I’m thankful for the privilege of living in the great land of America.”

Postmarked January 26, 1982
“It’s so exciting having all these grand children. My folks would have gone crazy and just loved all their great grand children. It was only my Dad’s health that kept him from enjoying the kids to the max.”

Postmarked February 4, 1982
“Everything has a price and it’s usually hard work and guts that make the difference. Discipline opens up a whole new world of opportunities for people and puts you in a class above. I love the term ‘High Achievers’ or the ‘Upward Reach.’ They all denote rising above and that means seeking perfection and becoming closer to out Heavenly Father.”

Postmarked March 3, 1982
“February is a great month. Everything is coming out new. The green grass in the field, the leaves on the trees, and flowers. It’s the sign of a new beginning, a fresh start, new life. This world was meant to be beautiful and shared by all with freedom from fear and hunger. I pray that I will live my life worthy of all these great blessings I enjoy. I’m thankful to have been raised in a home where I could hear the gospel and understand the true purpose of life—free from the mixed up to the insane traditions and customs of people of the world. My mind is clear and I do see and understand. It’s so simple…Each decision has its reward. So it’s up to us. If you want something bad enough you must pay the price. It’s up to us if we fail or succeed. It all depends on that one next step. So think and evaluate and put each step firm so you won’t slide back. I love you. I’m thankful you are my son. I’m crazy about your Dad. He’s the best husband and Dad. Your family is with you in thought. All the time you are in our conversations. Love & kisses and all that mushy stuff. Mom”

Postmarked March 20, 1982
“There is nothing wrong with trying new things but it can’t be because you tire easy when success doesn’t happen bang bang over night. Your Dad was telling an interesting story last night. His grandfather from Norway was a sea man—3rd from the top; I think he said, of the whole ship. Not a very big man but smart as heck. He came to America on a voyage and decided that this was where he wanted his family to live so he bought land and started to build a house and when he ran out of money to build he went back to Norway. He brought his wife to America every time she was to have a baby so that the children could have American citizenship. Then after the birth they would return to Norway. After about 12 years they had enough money and the house was done so the whole family moved to America. Now this took a long time, a lot of planning, a lot of day by day work—but when you stick to your goals you get the reward. Dad says that its plain old guts that makes the difference between success and failure, not just intelligence. But it’s the person with self discipline to see the job to the end that makes the difference.”

Postmarked April 15, 1982
“Dear Todd, I am in shock about Susan moving to Utah…I cannot stand to have my grand children away from me. I haven’t even seen Marie, and Garrit was just getting to know me. He hasn’t even called me grandma yet. But home is where the husbands are. I would go anywhere with Dad because he is my life. Anywhere except Baja that is.” [She just returned from a motor home trip to Baja.]

Postmarked May 26, 1982
“I love the scriptures. I love the word of God and I want to obey all the commandments. I miss your Dad. Oh do I miss him. I couldn’t face eternity without him. I hold his love precious to me.”

Postmarked July 16, 1982
“Dearest Todd, The beauty of this area [Washington] is breath taking, much more beautiful than Hawaii. The trees in every direction as far as you can see and the ferns that are all over the ground. It reminds me, every time I look out the window, of God’s goodness and all things of nature that he has done to beautify this world. This is summer but it rained about four or five times yesterday. A small price for such beauty. I’m so thankful that I live in this beautiful country and that I know and believe the true gospel of Jesus Christ. My life centers around his teachings. Any happiness I have had has been the result of keeping and obeying the principles that Christ has set. I really can do very little to help my children but the Holy Spirit can do everything. My desire is to help my children live their lives so they will be worthy to receive the witness of the Holy Ghost. Believe me, that alone is overwhelming to me.”

Postmarked July 16, 1982 (different letter)
“I am so thankful for my temple marriage and for my wonderful husband. He tries to perceive things the way I see them and visa versa and we try to work out our differences and actually he usually gives in to me more than visa versa. Women kind of love to be spoiled. I know he rules over big things but he lets me rule over little things and it makes me happy. However, he would never deliberately me unhappy. He is very forgiving and doesn’t pout or carry a grudge, etc. He has a short mad memory and not like the elephant memory of a woman. I think I’ll keep him.”



Excerpt From Miscellaneous Letter to Todd


Summer 2003
“It’s too bad that teenage kids go through a certain stage that causes them to be brain dead. I can’t remember who said, ‘If only kids could learn from out mistakes and go on from there.’ I’ve thought of that many times in raising my children. Set the example. Pray always, and love them completely. In these things you do have control. Praise them, teach them, then praise them again with love, build confidence in them—positive teaching only. As a parent you can become discouraged many times. It’s not easy raising children with so many personalities...Speaking of gifts and blessings, I am so thankful for your Dad. Every year he becomes more perfect. He has taken the Priesthood lead in our family. He only uses his time in righteous endeavors. If the Lord called him he wouldn’t feel he had to hide himself for any reason. He is patient, thoughtful, kind, hard working and loving to me. I feel blessed to have him through eternity. We don’t agree on everything. It’s mostly boy and girl things. I like dolls, bows, dishes, things that aren’t broken. I could never be a pioneer. Those people weren’t human. I would be a lump on the ground on the side of the trail. But your Dad likes building forts, sweat running down his face, crawling in a dirty sleeping bag in the dirt, long bike rides with 27 flats. He would be in the lead wagon singing, ‘Come, Come Ye Saints.’ I am reading from this astrology booklet I got at Connie's. Read it if you get a minute. It makes you feel pretty small and unimportant. But if we are, then why could our Father in Heaven give up his only begotten son for me and you. I pray someday the mysteries of the heavens will be available to me. For now, I will try to do what is expected of me. Keep it simple, sincere, and do all things in love. Love, Mom”

My Reflections of Phaedo

[Note to the reader: This post probably reads a little cryptic but some readers might appreciate the parallels between Socrates' asceticism and cosmological myth and the Mormon temple experience which most Latter-day Saints take to be literally true while a minority take it as metaphor. I fall in the latter group. Most readers will understandably overlook this post but this one is dear to my heart.]


My Relections of Phaedo

I recently read Plato’s Phaedo, an account of the dialogues between Socrates and his friends just before Socrates was executed. This story has stayed with me for days and has stirred many spiritual thoughts within me. What follows are a few of my reflections.

Socrates said,

“For ‘many,’ as they say in the mysteries, ‘are the thyrsus-bearers, but few are the mystics,’—meaning, as I interpret the words, ‘the true philosophers.’”

I find it interesting that Socrates refers several times to the “mysteries” (see the Eleusinian, Orphic, Mithraic Mysteries, etc.) because I consider the LDS temple ceremony to be related to the traditions of such mysteries, at least somewhat in its style.

“Thyrsus-bearers” are scepter holders or, in LDS language, “priesthood holders.” The “mystics” are “true philosophers” who “care not for the “pleasures of eating, drinking,…love,… the acquisition of costly raiment(see Matt. 6:25),…or other adornments of the body…he is entirely concerned with the soul and not with the body…he would like, as far as he can, to get away from the body and to turn to the soul…the real philosopher has reason to be of good cheer when he is about to die, and that after death he may hope to obtain the greatest good in the other world.”

(It appears, at least from my 21st century perspective, that Platonic philosophy was the channel through which eastern asceticism exerted its influence in the western Judeo Christian religions as well as Islam.)

Now to restate Socrates more succinctly: “For many are the thyrsus-bearers, but few are the mystics.” In other words, “For many are the scepter-holders, but few the philosophers.” The concept can also be found in Hinduism, for many quest for moksha, but few find liberation from samsara and find nirvana. In Matthew 22:14, “For many are called, but few are chosen.”

Joseph Smith put it this way in D&C 121:34-35:

34 Behold, there are many called, but few are chosen. And why are they not chosen?
35 Because their hearts are set so much upon the things of this world, and aspire to the honors of men, that they do not learn this one lesson…”
36 That the rights of the priesthood are inseparably connected with the powers of heaven, and that the powers of heaven cannot be controlled nor handled only upon the principles of righteousness.

Joseph Smith’s version agrees with Plato but has a more Latter-day appeal.

In other paragraphs Socrates mentioned, the “spirit of prophecy,” “light of truth,” and seeing “through a glass darkly” (I Corinthians 13:12). All three of these terms should be familiar to scripture readers.

It appears that Socrates was influenced by eastern philosophy, that Matthew and Paul read Plato, and that Joseph Smith read Matthew.

Socrates points out that the “rest of the world are of the opinion that to him who has no sense of pleasure and no part in bodily pleasure, life is not worth having; and that he who is indifferent about them is as good as dead.” But the reason for such denial is to disentangle the body from the soul “because each pleasure and pain is a sort of nail which nails and rivets the soul to the body.” Therefore the nails of “fear or pleasure or pain” need to be purged by “temperance, and justice, and courage, and wisdom.” (Reminds me of Gnostic asceticism.)

Socrates makes reference again to the “founders of the mysteries” and regarding their rites “were not talking nonsense when they intimated in a figure long ago that he who passes unsanctified and uninitiated into the world below will lie in a slough, but that he who arrives there after initiation and purification will dwell with the gods.” (Reminds me of LDS endowment ceremony.)

Socrates called such “sanctification” and “initiation,” purification, “And what is purification but the separation of the soul from the body.” The souls who fail to completely disentangle themselves from their bodies take on a ghostly appearance and may haunt tombs. They are “compelled to wander about such places in payment of the penalty of their former evil way of life; and they continue to wander until through the craving after the corporeal which never leaves them, they are imprisoned finally in another body…” (Gnosticism, spirit prison, reincarnation)

The prisons are animal bodies such as asses, wolves, and hawks for the gluttonous, wanton, and drunkard. Better souls can hope for a relatively happy communal existence as a bee, wasp, ant, or human. (Think about the deemphasized doctrine of valiancy in the preexistence.)

“No one who has not studied philosophy and who is not entirely pure at the time of his departure is allowed to enter the company of the gods, but the lover of knowledge only. And this is the reason…why the true votaries of philosophy abstain from all fleshly lusts.” (Gods plural, Greek Pantheon of Gods)

Socrates believed the body to be mortal and the soul to be immortal although he could not prove to himself that the soul could never die. He worried that the soul might grow “weary in the labours of successive births, and may at last succumb in one of her deaths and utterly perish.”

Socrates looked forward to his death with rejoicing because he was anxious to attain that which has been the pursuit of his life. “And therefore I go on my way rejoicing, and not I only, but every other man who believes that his mind has been made ready and the he is in a manner purified.” (Evangelical zeal)

The story took a turn when Socrates started to recount a cosmological myth that enthralled his listeners and filled them with inexplicable joy and hope. On the bottom of eight pages I wrote, “WOW!!!” to describe my reaction to Socrates story. I was equally caught up, quite unexpectedly, by the grandeur of this myth. (Creation myth)

Socrates explained that he had something like a daydream wherein he imagined that he was speaking with Anaxagoras who had all the answers that Socrates desired to know. Socrates imagined that he would first ask Anaxagoras “whether the earth is flat or round.” Then Socrates would next ask about the nature of what is known today as biology, physics, geology, and astronomy. “These hopes [knowledge] I would not have sold for a large sum of money, and I seized the books and read them as fast as I could in my eagerness to know the better and the worse.” Socrates’ hunger for knowledge resonates with me and I reflect that much, but not all, of what Socrates desired to know is available to me in this modern age and I share Socrates’ desire to learn these same things and I have diligently pursued them, in my own way, my entire life.

Socrates described in captivating detail the four principal rivers that circulate oceans above and beneath the earth as they are pushed about by the winds that act like pumps in a manner similar to respiration. There are lakes where souls congregate. There are also lava flows and lava lakes. Souls journey about the underworld—some guided, some unguided. After death all souls who need to be reborn will need to make a journey to a particular lake that serves as a staging are for souls waiting to be reborn. The good souls need a guide to this lake because the path is not well trodden. The bad souls get no such guide and that is why it takes them longer to get back to the staging area.

Socrates calls this process of being “born again from the dead” an ancient doctrine. It is impossible not to see the similarities to the Hindu ideas of samsara, reincarnation, and karma. (Resurrection)

Wow!!!

Imagine the stone silence of Socrates’ friends as they listened enthralled. Then Socrates broke the spell of the myth and bore humble testimony that even though the myth was not literally true, the truth had to be something like it. Socrates’ own words are worthy of being quoted at length but I realize that a person without my background may not get nearly the same impact from them. The following quotes really spoke to me:

“A man of sense ought not to say, nor will I be very confident, that the description which I have given of the soul and her mansions is exactly true. But I do say…that something of the kind is true. The venture is a glorious one, and he ought to comfort himself with words like these, which is the reason why I lengthen out the tale. Wherefore, I say, let a man be of good cheer about his soul.”

“In the number of the [true philosophers] whom, during my whole life, I have been seeking, according to my ability, to find a place:--whether I have sought in a right way or not, and whether I have succeeded or not, I shall truly know in a little while, if God will, when I myself arrive in the other world—such is my belief…for I believe that I shall equally find good masters and friends in another world.”

“…the soul is in the very likeness of the divine,…”

“…and for ever dwells, as they say of the initiated, in company with the gods.”

Then Socrates warns his intellectual followers about becoming cynical, although he couldn’t have used that word yet as the cynics hadn’t been established. I will quote Socrates again at length because his words resonate with me in ways that I have not yet been able to articulate adequately.

“…when a simple man who has no skill in dialectics believes an argument to be true which he afterwards imagines to be false, whether really false or not, and then another, and then another, he has not longer any faith left, and great disputers, as you know, come to think at last that they have grown to be the wisest of mankind; for they alone perceive the utter unsoundness and instability of all arguments, or indeed, of all things, which, like the currents in the Euripus, are going up and down in never-ceasing ebb and flow.”

…and how melancholy, if there be such a thing as truth or certainty or possibility of knowledge—that a man should have lighted upon some argument or other which at first seemed true and then turned out to be false, and instead of blaming himself and his own want of wit, because he is annoyed, should at last be too glad to transfer the blame from himself to arguments in general: and for ever afterwards should hate and revile them, and lose truth and the knowledge of realities.

“…but if there be nothing after death, still, during the short time that remains, I shall not distress my friends with lamentations, and my ignorance will not last, but will die with me, and therefore no harm will be done.

“…that I may not deceive you as well as myself in my enthusiasm, and like the bee, leave my sting in you before I die.”

The End.

Marriage

[Kristina's hand.] Somewhere in my childhood I was taught to look forward to a temple marriage, a celestial marriage, a “marriage for time and all eternity.” I was taught to keep myself morally clean and faithful to my future wife throughout all the intervening years before I should ever meet her. Like all young people I suffered the struggles of loneliness and premature desire. I prayed to Heavenly Father and told Him that I wanted a good wife someday.

Pam and I got married December 17, 1983 and I have been saying ever since that that was the best day of my life. Our wedding and two receptions were relatively modest and I don’t remember much about the guests that attended but never before and never since have people gathered in my honor, bearing gifts, to wish me well. The very best gift of all was my beautiful bride that I unwrapped on our honeymoon night. We both stood naked, side by side, looking at ourselves in the full-length mirror. Adam and Eve.

For our honeymoon we drove from Provo to my parents’ house in Carlsbad. We planned a daytrip to see the Queen Mary in Long Beach but when we got there we thought the ticket prices were too expensive and so we gazed a few minutes at the ship from the dock and then left. Looking back I realize how poor we were then but we never felt poor because we always had hope and a plan to better ourselves and our financial situation.

Now, some 20 plus years later, my older kids are entering the age of relationships which causes me to reflect on the hazards of young people—so uninformed, so naïve, so unrealistic, so foolish, so impulsive—looking for love and companionship. I see a large segment of society has lost hope in traditional marriage yet I think most people still root for a love story with a happy ending. Worse, I see the moral attitudes of young people to be self-destructive and not leading to lasting happiness. Letting sexual impulses rule one’s life seems to be no different than letting hard drugs rule one’s life. While on TV we sometimes see advertisements that send a warning message, “Just Say NO to Drugs,” society has not yet reached the point where it can articulate the downside of misguided sexuality.

Some months ago I was reading a philosophy book by Will Durant, an atheist. Towards the end of the book Durant wrote about youth and love. Much to my surprise his words resonated with me in a way that “churchy” voices rarely do any more. I felt moved as I read his words and I felt an inner confirmation that the path that I had chosen was correct and still the best path to teach to my children.

“Youth, if it were wise, would cherish love beyond all things else, keeping body and soul clean for its coming, lengthening its days with months of betrothal, sanctioning it with a marriage of solemn ritual, making all things subordinate to it resolutely. Wisdom, if it were young, would cherish love, nursing it with devotion, deepening it with sacrifice, vitalizing it with parentage, making all things subordinate to it till the end. Even though it consumes us in its service and overwhelms us with tragedy, even though it breaks us down with its passing and weighs us down with separations, let it be first.”

-Will Durant, The Pleasures of Philosophy, Page 401

Tour de Tucson 2006 No Más!

[Highway 98 along the Mexican border was our favorite training road. We would ride to the distant mountains and back. These three pictures are training pictures, not pictures of the race course.]

No Más!
109 Miles
Tour de Tucson
November 18, 2006

The title for this accounting shall be, No Más (No More). That was the title that popped into my head while I was yet standing in Tucson, post race, around the results board and talking to Brian, Angie (Brian’s wife), Mike Thompson, and Fred: No más! But let me start from the beginning.

After Tour de Tucson 2005
Achieving Platinum last year was a great feeling, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to do it again. I got a membership in the local health club and started pumping weights. Ten pounds of muscle and three months later I was back on the bike. Fred and Brian were in great cycling shape. Both had obvious training goals that were a step up from last year. On my first ride back with the group, Fred and I rode to Ocotillo and Fred beat me over the little hills. My legs were in great weight lifting shape but they became over-pumped on the hills and I couldn’t stand on them. Brian’s goal was the Omnium Road Race in the spring. I could sense Fred and Brian’s intensity hadn’t waned since Tucson 2005 and I knew in my heart that I had to train with them as long as their enthusiasm lasted. So in the spring of 2006 I was mentally committed to race Tucson again, just in time to be forced to reduce my training due to the extreme summer heat.

Thursday, November 16
Pam and I went to Tucson on Thursday night and pulled off the freeway at the Tangerine Road Exit and we drove on the remaining 20 miles to Tucson on the dark, moonless Silver Bell Avenue and examined the home stretch of the race. Ever since last year I have thought about the surge and free-for-all in my group at the finish of the Tour de Tucson 2005. This year I wanted to position myself better and sprint across the finish line as close to the front as possible.
Before getting a motel room Pam and I enjoyed some late-night waffles at the Waffle House. We stayed at the Roadway Inn and were absolutely disgusted by the room. It didn’t even have a clicker.
Friday, November 17

Friday morning we went to the expo, then off to Beyond Bread, a fabulous restaurant we found last year which happened to be right next to Bookman’s, a fabulous used book store where we unhurriedly purchased an armload of books--mostly children’s books and whatever Agatha Christie books that Pam didn’t already have.

Pam and I met Brian and Angie at 5:30 pm back at the expo. We watched a PowerPoint presentation by Dr. Arnie Baker who explained several problems with Floyd Landis’ drug test. The French press as well as other journalists attended the event and made several interviews. At 6:30 pm we attended the boring Platinum Meeting where all platinum riders received their passes to the platinum staging area on race day.

Back at the motel room, this time at Riverpark Inn (where we also stayed last year) Pam jokingly said goodbye to me as I was starting to go into race mode and rehearse in my mind all the events and contingencies that lay ahead. I mixed my bottles with utmost care.

Pre Race
I woke up at 1:00 am and lay in bed until 2:45. I got up and turned on a small light and Pam stirred and said, “Are you kidding?” She stared at me for a moment. “Never mind, do what you’ve got to do.” I slowly prepared everything and then at 4:30 am we went to get our pick of parking spots at the start line. I told Pam that I would rather be early, relaxed, and have the best parking spot than possibly feel frantic when things didn’t work out like I had hoped.
Pam and I set up the Revmaster behind the car, and then sat in the hatchback watching the people arrive. I found and greeted David Bailey who was the next of the Imperial Valley riders to arrive. He arrived early, like he meant business. I gave him a couple of hand warmers. I looked around for Fred who said he would arrive by 4:30 am, but I didn’t find him until after 5:00 am. We warmly greeted each other and wished each other well as we walked together to the porta potties. The last of the Imperial Valley riders I found was Brian. He was staged well in the Platinum area, a giant smile on his face, bouncing up and down like a boxer. He was dressed for cold this year, but the weather was almost pleasant (last year he was uncomfortably cold). I offered him some hand warmers, but he said he already had some. I could tell that Brian had rehearsed his day too. [actually I accepted your two warmers and put them on my thighs.]
I rode the Revmaster a bit between 6:20 and 6:40 am. All platinum riders were supposed to be in position by 6:45 am for a 7:00 am start. I saw Floyd Landis above me in the scaffolding as he spoke a few words to the thousands of riders. Robbie Ventura and a few other notables raised their arms as they were recognized.

My Goal
I felt pretty confident that I could achieve Platinum again so achieving Platinum was a secondary goal. My thoughts were preoccupied with staying with the lead group.

The Race
The start was so fast. We followed the classic wave pattern of traffic jams; going 27-30 mph and then slowing due to congestion. Then repeat. My heart was at its maximum. There was less congestion at the Santa Cruz Canyon this year, and I could jog pretty much at my own pace with my six bottles, unlike last year when I was forced to walk slowly and eat dust.

Coming out of the canyon I felt powerless for about a mile then my heart rate started to settle down. As my heart rate decreased, my leg power increased. I started passing people. Then as we turned left from Old Nogales Road to Los Reales Road there was a small accident as we rounded the corner. I turned outward to the right and went into the dirt. Now with both feet out of my pedals and a little congestion around me, I saw the lead riders riding off. I charged them as soon as I could. I charged for about 10 minutes hoping they would slow down for a short while. Finally I bonked (an anaerobic bonk). I had gone anaerobic for too long. This was a huge disappointment for my mind because I got dropped for a reason other than my fitness and out of my control. I looked back for the group that I had just left. They looked like ants on the horizon. I was in “no man’s land.” My effort to catch up to that first group was a gamble and I lost! I consoled my mind by saying to myself, “Nothing ventured, nothing gained.” Now what was I going to do? I cruised until the pack caught up to me and then accelerated to stay with them. I felt my first cramping feelings in both calves and both quads and just tried to recover. I was disappointed and unaggressive for a long while.

Going down Houghton Street I heard a thud behind on the right side (I usually ride on the far left side. I hate getting boxed in) and I asked the guy to my right, “Was that a water bottle or did someone just go down?” He said, “Someone just went down.” Then on my left side, across the yellow line, a tandem passed at about 40 mph. I commented to another rider next to me, “Why do they have to pass so fast? They are not going anywhere. It’s not like they are going to break away. They are just being a hazard.”

The Sabino Canyon crossing was softer this year, and I couldn’t ride it like I did last year. I got through the creek bed, but didn’t feel as good as last year climbing the hills out of the canyon. Coming out of the canyon the big group split into several smaller groups all visible ahead and behind. Eventually these groups collapsed back into a larger group again. I was still suffering from negative thinking, but while riding up Oracle Road I felt my power returning.

I spent the rest of the race looking forward to a sprint finish. I never cared about my time; I knew a Platinum time was assured as long as I didn’t have a mishap, so my whole focus was the finish. I analyzed last year’s finish dozens of times in my head. At the bottom of Tangerine Road a rider hit a sign and went down. For every mile after Tangerine Road I was planning my finish. Up Silver Bell Road we were crawling slowly into a slight headwind. For the first time all day riders started to converse one with another. The pace was easy. Some complained of being tired. Others, like me, were waiting. I was going to move with the surge and finish aggressively. As we approached about mile 105 I whispered to the rider on my right, “Any minute all hell is going to break loose.”
Moments later I heard a sound just ahead on the far right: “Oh bicycles! Clack, clack, clack!” I took air, lost sight of everything, felt impacts to my body on all sides. I was sprawled out and wondered if I was going to get run over. My brain went through a process analogous to a computer shutting down and rebooting. My brain executed its diagnostic tests and slowly started directing my actions. I felt pain in my right hip. It took a few moments before I dared move my body at all. I rolled to my elbows and knees and took another inventory of my body parts. The girl rider ahead of me moaned out, “I think I broke my collar bone.” On my other side I heard, “I think I broke my knee! I wanted so badly to finish this race.” I made it to my feet and without focusing my eyes on anything in particular I said, “What happened?” The guy with the hurt knee answered as if I were talking to him. He explained that he hit a rock and went down. He pointed to a rock the size of a golf ball. The others who had fallen or stopped were all long gone now. Just four of us remained there. I picked up my bike and without noticing that my brake was rubbing I attempted to finish the race. Before I pedaled off I looked at the girl who was standing on the side of the rode in shock. I wish I had had the presence of mind to say something encouraging to her, but I said nothing. Her sad face lingered in my memory, but I later reasoned that she had to be a tough girl to be riding as fast as she was.

Post Race
I crossed the finish line and Pam asked with a puzzled face, “What happened?” I quickly told her. We walked over to the results board to see how much time I had lost. We saw Brian and Angie before 12 noon, so I knew that Brian had made Platinum again. We waited for Fred. Fred didn’t make it. Fred was the strongest man in a group that died. Fred looked strangely mystified by his Tucson experiences. This was not the moment to analyze Fred’s race, but I later thought that Platinum groups are formed in the first 30 minutes of the race. After that there is really no jumping ahead to a platinum group. After the first sorting out was over, I never felt like I had to struggle the rest of the race. In a phone conversation, Brian expressed the same thoughts.

Pam felt sympathy for me because of the crash and my road rash. And she doted on me like a good nurse. We got in the car and quickly drove north on the freeway. We could see hundreds of cyclists on the frontage road and on Tangerine Road. On the way home we stopped at the Red Lobster in Yuma. Pam was fun to be with, and I thought that when the kids are all gone we will be a happy old couple.

Afterthoughts

I have always been a health nut and I really love cycling, but I have serious misgivings about the dangers of riding fast in the Tour de Tucson. At this point I am disinclined to ride it again but, like Pam said, “You never want to have another baby right after giving birth.”

[The photo is of Highway 98 "The Grade" between Ocotillo and Jacumba]

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My good friend, Brian McNeece, also wrote of his experience of this same race. His website is no longer active, so no link is possible.

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El Tour de Tucson 2006: The Center Does Not Hold
by Brian McNeece

Performing an event four times usually means that you arrive with enough experience to pull it off with excellence.  Third time the charm must mean fourth time the guarantee.  In the case of a 109-mile bicycle race, however, the long duration of the intensity can still leave one searching for answers when things don’t go as planned.

That was sure the case for me.  My training partners Fred and Todd had put in a four month regimen designed to get us ready to break the five hour “platinum” barrier once again.  Fred, who hadn’t yet broken that barrier, had put in extra hill sessions climbing the yawing Mt. Springs grade to make sure that he had the legs to stay with a strong group at key points on the course.  We all had become knowledgeable about nutrition and hydration for a five-hour effort.  But despite our preparations, in each case, something happened to disappoint us.

An Auspicious Beginning

Saturday, November 18 in Tucson broke with temperatures in the low fifties and just a hint of a breeze.  By dawn, most of the 4000 riders for the 109 mile race were already in place.  Todd had arrived earliest to be well-positioned in the second row of the platinum group.  David Bailey, who was racing for the first time, had to settle for another 30 yards back in the gold section.  I waited until 5:30 but still was in about the 7th row of platinum.  Fred was a little behind David Bailey.  Friends from Mexicali had also arrived and were excited as the sun rose to the tune of Queen’s “I Want to Ride my Bicycle.”

Even though I had prepared for the cold by dressing for snow and handing my extra layers off to Todd’s wife Pam.  Even though I had tapered for two weeks prior to race day.  Even though I had dug deep into my reserves on my training rides.  Even though I was an experienced racer with three tours under my belt.  All these even thoughs didn’t keep me from slipping into a sort of dull stupidity as I rode the first 8 miles to the Santa Cruz wash.  I could have passed a few people in that critical section.  But instead I just held my place and took the wheel of the rider in front of me.  Of course, the pace was fast.  We were going a consistent 27, and without a moment of warm-up, I wasn’t in sprint mode. But still, in retrospect, I’ve told myself over and over that the key to this race is to ride as hard and as aggressively as possible in the first 30 miles.
 I’m getting too critical already.  For in fact, my starting position itself put me way up in the ranks.  And just sitting in with this group meant that I was a couple of hundred people ahead of David Bailey and Fred Fischer.

After the Wash: Push Until Tetanized

At the Santa Cruz Wash, we dismounted our bikes and began to jog them through the three-inch pad of coarse brown sand.  Some cyclists carried their bikes; I found that I needed to lean on my bike for support simply to keep moving through the thick sand.  By the end of the quarter-mile crossing, my shoes were filled with the stuff, and my lungs were burning.  As usual the wash strung out the bunch of riders into a broken line with one, two or three rider clumps.  I was at my physical limit at that point and just struggled to keep a wheel.

Heading south on the Old Nogales Highway the strung-out lines began to congeal again, but now into a single file group that began to work together a little.  A group of ten began to grow into a mass.  Up ahead I could see another group forming.  Some stronger riders came by me and took the lead, raising the pace from 21 back to 24.  By and by we caught a group and were again close to a hundred strong and five or six wide on the roadway.  We surged and slowed at speeds up the 30 miles per hour.  My breathing was labored but I didn’t feel I was out of my league, didn’t feel any possibility of being dropped like I often do during a criterium with my own age group.  In fact, I took a pull to bridge my section of the pack when a strong attack over an overpass created a gap.  I had no problem bringing us all back together, though I was definitely looking for recovery as we approached the right turn on Irvington that led up the first incline.  Around this time, I felt a tap on my chest.  It was David Bailey passing on my left.  “Man, you’ve been working,” I commented.

I was surprised that he had already caught us (it was about mile 27) for as I say, we had been hitting a torrid pace for the last ten miles or so, and the sections before that were not conducive to passing.  In other words, David had been extra fit and very aggressive right when he needed to.
Turning uphill on Escalante, I noticed my legs were already very tight.  Not a good sign.  I stayed with the crowd up the hill and by the time I got to the top, I was worrying about cramping.  Damn. What’s up with that?  Cramping in the first 30 miles?  I would have another 80 miles to ride.  What did I do wrong?  Not enough water?  Too many calories in the bottle?  My oatmeal that morning had not been very well cooked in the paper coffee cup I’d used and the old motel microwave.  Did that undercooked oatmeal soak up my water ration?

Already I began riding in protect mode up the next section of uphill.  A few people passed, but for the most part I was keeping up with traffic. 

About mile 35, just at the top of Freeman Road, where the course yields its first lovely downhill, my legs stopped working.  They hadn’t reached the state of total tetanizing, but pretty close.  I pulled to the side to let anyone behind me pass and stopped pedaling.  I needn’t have bothered, for I was already the last guy in the swarm.  I watched the pod glide ahead.  No one turned around.

Painlessly Alone

 And so I coasted a little and pedaled a little down the hill.  No longer needing to concentrate on the wheel in front of me, I sat up and looked at the spectators looking at me.  At the bottom of the hill, the traffic control was kind enough to stop traffic for just one rider.  Before the left turn onto Speedway Boulevard, I looked back up the hill to see if my pursuers were bearing down on me yet.  No sign of anybody.  Just an empty road.  Suddenly I felt like I was no longer in the Tour de Tucson.  Might was well just cruise now.  I’m not going to fight like a dog in no man’s land for another 70 miles.  My race is over.  No chance at platinum now.  I tried; I failed.  I pondered all these thoughts, but not with any desperation.  That was that. 

Again I came to an intersection where the volunteers blew whistles and raised their hands to guard me against the automobiles.  “Thank you,” I called to them, and kept rolling.  My legs were more comfortable now.  No imminent freeze ups in the thighs and calves.  So I just kept up a reasonable pace without strain.  I looked back.  Another giant swarm of riders was now visible.
My Gente to the Rescue

I took a right on Houghton Road. After another mile or so, the trailing group came up on me.  A bunch of them passed me, and I found a place in line.  My pace went up a couple of miles an hour, but right away, I noticed that the intensity level of this group was below the one that I had cramped up in.  In fact, compared to the skittish, surging character of the first group, this one was almost soporific.  Ah, my gente, I thought.  I can keep up with these guys to the end. 

I stayed relaxed all the way into mile 48 at the Sabino Canyon crossing.  Unlike Santa Cruz Wash, which is a wide open sand wash, Sabino Canyon is approached by a meandering dirt trail through a dusty wooded area.  Some parts of the trail are firm enough to ride. But many patches are very soft.  At the platinum meeting the Amazonian babe at the lectern admonished us to get off our bikes and hoof it through there.  But I tried to keep one foot in the pedal and use one foot for stability, like a scooter, through the soft parts.  My strategy was successful as I was able to clip back in halfway through the trail and ride to the actual dried creek bed where sand makes everyone get off. 

The hubbub there is always impressive.  Organizers have set up about 10 porta-potties; numerous volunteers man orange and banana tables, while others stand on both sides of the trail with one-gallon jugs and two-gallon containers of water.  The two-gallon containers are a bad idea because the spigot offers but a thin stream of water.

Riders scatter pell-mell here depending on their plan of action.  I sought a guy with a wide mouthed gallon jug.  “I got your bike,” he shouted, as I fumbled to open the top of my water bottle.  I had thrown away an empty bottle already and drunk two of the others, which I now refilled.  That meant I would have three more full bottles for the last 60 miles, or six total.  Incredibly, Fred had told me that he could complete the race on three water bottles.

I pushed my bike through the rest of the sandy crossing, up the embankment, clipped in and headed up hill nearly alone.  The off-road crossings split people up.  The next section includes a short but very steep incline lined with cheering, exuberant spectators.  Even with my 26 cog in the back, I labored up the hill.  At the top I passed a few riders and tried to keep a nice effort going down instead of yielding to the urge to rest. A couple of guys passed me.  I saw that we were a fairly evenly distributed line of riders quite a ways up.  Since my legs felt better but still not particularly powerful, I felt I had to ride tentatively.

Dog Day in Them Thar Hills

As soon as we turned uphill again on Snyder and then Sunrise, people were passing me.  Thus began the hilly section of the course.  Sunrise to Skyline to Ina and Oracle.  Rolling stretches of probably 4% hills of about a mile each.  Some of it must be downhill, but for some reason, it all seems up.  Nothing too demanding but it gets your attention and usually keeps cyclists single file and humble.  I got passed there when my legs tightened up again.  I basically felt weak and unable to ride aggressively.

Then the hills calmed down and I was once again riding in a group, where I took my place at the very back.  I stayed there for a good long time.  Just before we turned from Oracle onto Rancho Vistoso, I found that I could move up the group.  I took a turn at the front then dropped back four or five riders.
 Rancho Vistoso is a four lane boulevard with a planted median.  It’s at the highest part of the course to the north of Tucson.  We were strung out there again because of the climbing. I felt better because of the flat road and kept up a steady pace with a couple of people behind me.  Little by little our group grew with stronger riders coming from behind and weaker riders being overtaken.  Four miles of Rancho Vistoso is followed by about four miles of Moore, a slight downhill where we all took quiet turns with no one yelling like a maniac and nobody riding off the front. I’m writing this two weeks after the Tour, and now I realize that we had a fairly good group up there; everybody seemed to be on the same page.  No one was overwrought; it was a small group all keeping the same pace. I wish I had noted our rate of speed.  I still didn’t really think I was going to be platinum; I was just trying to ride as strong as I could, not cramp, and not spend more time than I needed to at the front. 
Born Again

I remember that I led the group around the left turn that is a prelude to the long lovely downhill of Tangerine Road.  Looking over my shoulder, I saw that my group had dropped back, so I let up a little.  Of course, then they came right by me.  That was the last time I took the front until we hit the bottom of Tangerine Road at the freeway seven miles later. I was surprised because there were four or five guys in front of me, and if I remember right, only two or three of them changed places at the front for the whole ride down.  We weren’t ripping the asphalt up, and that surprised me too.  Last year I grabbed the wheel of a guy and a gal on a tandem that hurtled along at 33-35 mph and wouldn’t give up the front position for a bribe.  So this year was a similar pattern.  When I get in front, I pull and then I move over.  Not these guys.  On a ship they would probably strap themselves to the tiller.  Never give an inch!  Don’t tread on me! Pull or die! 

Unlike last year, Tangerine Road in 2006 barely topped 33 mph on the downhill.  At the bottom, however, our lead guys were about stove in, for there I was at the front of the group as we crossed the railroad tracks and headed south east on the frontage road against the wind on bad pavement.  I was pedaling all of 14 mph for a bit at the end of my pull.  The group came by me and we naturally formed a double line rotation.  The group was still surprisingly small with only about 8 of us.  I took another pull.  I looked over my shoulder and saw two riders riding erratically at the back.  They both went down, and one began cursing. Somebody simply lost concentration at about 19 mph. 
Group Groping for a Leader

Our group seemed to find an identity again and we were working well.  I realized that I felt pretty damned good. We were up to 20 mph again as the road swung west again and slightly uphill.  Moments ago the wind was in our face; now it gently helped us along.  We turn a few turns at rotation, with the fading rider in the right lane shouting “clear.”  Just like last year, however, this felicitous synergy soon dissolved as riders didn’t come forward to take their turn.  Were they unable or unwilling?  Did this reveal something about their character that they would not offer the group their contribution out of a desire to conserve their energy, out of fear, or just a selfishness that comes natural to some people? Do they say, if I don’t do it, somebody else will. I wonder what goes on in those other minds of these strangers all around me.  I have no recollection of any of them, not their jersey colors, their bikes, nothing.

I know one thing; I had plenty of ganas left.  I wanted to go as fast as I could, for about now, with less than twenty miles away, I was again feeling that platinum was possible. My complete collapse at mile 30 seemed like a long-ago story, and I had re-entered the valiant cadre of real riders.  We tried to re-form.  Somebody shouted, “Come on, you guys, pull through!”  But this job fell to about four of us.  Then one young buck rode away and didn’t look back for a minute.  Oh well. Finally he realized that his efforts were futile, and he drifted back.  Just like last year, I pulled the group hard left on Lambert that leads uphill west of the rocky hillside over a saddle point.  The young buck came around me, but nobody else.  So I got on his wheel, and when he drifted right expecting the relief shift, he smiled when he saw it was me and said, “I guess it’s you and me.”  I nodded and put my head down for the rest of the climb and led the group to the saddle where some firefighter volunteers held out bottles of water.  Don’t mind if I do.  I snagged one from a young woman who filled her uniform nicely.  Wished I had thanked her.  Mr. Young Buck passed me again and now I drifted back. 

Semi-conscious on Silverbell

We were on Silverbell now, with 16 miles to go.  Our group now lapsed into that strange state of semi-consciousness that we all encounter on Silverbell.  The road heads southeast, trending slightly uphill with some very gentle undulations.  Magically, the groups coalesce into giant millipedes, two or three cyclists wide each pedaling zombielike at a much reduced cadence.  Fatigue, both mental and physical, has turned the body and mind into an automatic pedaling machine, and attention has compressed into a dull rotational dirge. 

But that’s not how I felt.  My legs did feel weak, but I wanted to go faster.  Now that I knew I was well stocked with water, I drank of the elixir liberally, way back in the pack.  Then I rolled up to the front and took another turn, just like on a training ride, about a minute.  I picked up the tempo at least one mile per hour to about 21.  Then I drifted back, and the tempo would again slow, like a drill motor with a dying battery.  Bullshit.  I went to the front again and pulled.  When I drifted back this time, a big guy, a guy big enough that you wouldn’t expect to see him this close to five hours, gave me a pat on the back.  I guess that just about made my day.

Third Wind? 

Around that time, four guys in yellow jerseys easily passed us and took their place at the front.  “Great,” I called out to no one. “Fresh horses.”  I go no response, no smiles, no nods, no amens or halleluyahs. For a time, the Mellow Yellows rode well.  I saw that their jerseys had Spanish on them.  When the pace again slackened, I went to the front alongside them and shouted, “Vamos, compas! Dale gas!”  When they said nothing, I become suspicious.  And when I picked up the pace at the front, I rode away from everybody.  If these guys had no gas left to give, it was over.  Well, that was fine, because once again, my heightened effort set my legs to cramping.  My ambition to be a hero was over too. 

I drifted back into the millipede, downshift and pedaled more slowly, more softly and drank down the water bottle given me by the firefighting princess. No more the crusader, I accepted my place in the matrix, dropped my head and didn’t look left or right in case someone might catch my eye and ask me for an effort.  Not really.  I was hoping for one last recovery. 
Mexicali Compadre Appears

Good news came when a familiar jersey passed me.  Hey Mexicali, I shouted to the green and red and white back.  ¿Quien eres?  He turned and I recognized Edgar Perea, whom we know as Garo.  “Hola Garo!  How are you?”  I stuck out my fist and he grabbed it.  He looked about as happy to see me as a San Diego Padre fan on a rainy day—in other words, morose.  But it wasn’t so.  He was just as tired as the rest of us.  Probably not one in fifty of us had actually ridden a full 109 miles nonstop as a training ride like we were riding today.  We were pedaling on fumes.  “¿Vamos bien por el platinium?” he asked.  “Are we in good shape for platinum?” By now, I knew we would be under five hours; that was why I was getting so motivated.  The only thing left to do was to better my time from last year.  “Si, Garo, vamos muy bien.”

To the Wire with Nothing in the Tank

Seeing Garo got me worked up again.  I realized that if I could work my way to the front of this swarm, I could save maybe up to half a minute over the stragglers.  So one more time, I moved forward.  There were about three miles left. It took me a while to find an opening in the heavy traffic so that I could “change lanes” and get to the left and pass people.  Unfortunately, once I got up to speed to pass about twenty folks, my legs cramped again.  Damn it!  I held my place as other folks had the same idea and passed me.  I spotted a woman in purple and black. She was a thickly muscled gal in her thirties who had passed me long ago on the hills of Ina and Oracle.  I was glad to see that I had caught her, and glad that she had done so well, for a time under five hours for a woman would put her in the top twenty female finishers. 

The group’s energy level rose like the hair on your head as we entered the commercial area of that part of Tucson.  Cones in the road meant we were close to the finish and the danger level once again spiked. I gave up any idea of advancing in the pack and tried to be on high alert for weaving riders or falling cones.  Sure enough, a cone fell in front of me but I missed it.  We swung left onto Congress with one mile to go.  Speeds were now back to 24 miles per hour with riders intent on finishing at top speed.  I stayed on Garo’s wheel even as we turned right onto Granada.  Miss Purple was just in front of him. 

A few spectators clapped and cheered as we crossed the finish line and coast to a stop amid the throng.  Garo and I shook hands and embraced.  Although he is a very strong rider, this was his first platinum finish after a few tries.  How coincidental that we who had ridden together in the Valley would finish in exactly the same time. 4:52:33.
Probably 60 riders from my group had finished ahead of me, completely filling one of the chutes.  The volunteers got panicky as we backed up.  I sized up the situation and diverted into the other chute, which was empty.  “Don’t worry,” shouted a kind lady.  “You’re times were already taken.”  I knew that.  I clipped back in and pedaled to the end of the chute, dismounted and expertly slipped off my timing chip and handed it to the Boy Scout at the end.

Jorge the Road Warrior

In two shakes Angie was there to greet me and take my photo.  Jorge Arredondo from Mexciali suddenly appeared.  He reported his time of 4:32 with quiet satisfaction.  I was apoplectic.  “4:32!” I shouted.  I think he was too stunned to speak. Later he learned that his true time was 4:42, which still put him as the top finisher for the Imperial and Mexicali Valleys.  Shortly afterwards, Joel Hernandez said hello; Garo reappeared with another fellow from Mexicali whom I didn’t know.  Again, how strange that we would all see each other with no effort amid hundreds of riders and spectators.  Angie took a picture, and then we went off to the results area to find Todd and Fred.

Four Musketeers Debrief Their Disappointments

Todd was there already.  At the first sign of him, I could tell he wasn’t happy.  A crash with 3 miles to go foiled his plans of finishing at the front of his group.  But even with a severe impact to his left hip and road rash on both arms and shoulders, he lost just three minutes to Jorge, David Bailey, and Joel Hernandez’ group and finished in 4:45.  “No Mas” was the title of Todd’s Tucson narrative, a result of his double disappointment.  Aside from his homestretch crash, Todd had tried to bridge a gap early in the race and failed.  Like me, he had to recover during the middle section of the course.  Unlike me, he was the victim of circumstance and had gotten gapped by a faster group when he had to slow for a fallen rider.  Despite a ten minute sprint to regain the fast guys, he couldn’t bridge.

As Todd and I commiserated at the results board, Fred and Mike Thompson arrived.  Mike, a great hill climber from S.D., hadn’t trained much, and found he just wasn’t in a good position for platinum.  He missed it by four minutes.  Fred joined our morose debriefing with his tale of being stuck in an uncooperative group.  “I pulled these guys for about 40 miles,” he muttered.  The result of his group’s recalcitrance: 5:09, another tough day for our man Road Tuna Fred.
Cool down, Rub down, Melt down.

We went our separate ways.  Angie and I got back to the Inn Suites, where a hot bath and last night’s leftovers beckoned.  Salad and pasta for the second time tasted mighty good.  Then it was off to the Jacuzzi, where I hoped to trade stories of battle with other veterans of the campaign.  I wasn’t disappointed. 

Jacuzzi Stories

Joe, a suave looking 50+ from LA, related that his only sub-five hour ride had been in 1983, a year before they instituted the platinum classification.  He’d lost 30 pounds since January and had pulled down a 5:30.  The glint in his eyes told me that 23 years since his first El Tour, he was on his way back to the knife edge of ambition. 

Dan, a wiry 46-year old, didn’t mind repeating his time to anyone who asked:  4:41:55–ten minutes faster than his previous best.  Joining us in the spa was the coach of a hockey team from Tennessee and an innocent bystander, both of whom sort of listened to the talk of Arnie Baker, Landis, cramping, and race dynamics.  Dan also related that he had fought through cramps and was saved by a little white pill, which turned out to be the very familiar E-Caps product that Fred and I eat like candy to no avail.

 I told Dan, “But cramps basically result from overexertion,” my point being that water and pills, vitamins, electrolytes won’t prevent or cure them.  You ride beyond your muscle capacity and they freeze up.  Training at race effort must be the only solution. He demurred, admitting that overexertion causes cramps (duh), but the magic pills were the answer.

Later I brought up the subject with Tony Darr.  His answer: “Motor pacing. You’ve got to get your legs going at race speed.”  And so began a Tony pep talk on the great team we’re going to have next year, how Monty has designed a jersey for us and will provide helmets, glasses, matching shorts, maybe shoes, even.  Sure Tony. And we’ll have massages daily, with the crew washing and adjusting our bikes while we lay in bed with our legs elevated. Sure. Order me a groupie, would you. Christine Armstrong will do.  I hear she’s free right now.Just give me a Jacuzzi and a few like-minded middle-aged maniacs to talk to.  That’s enough for me.

Slowing to a Crawl

Our Tucson stay ended pacifically.  Saturday afternoon Angie and I drove up the hill under the giant A cemented in place about 80 years ago.  We took in the panorama of the great city of Tucson, lulled into sleepy inaction by Mexican music from families lolling nearby.  The lights of the convention center reminded me of the excitement at the Expo the night before and the anticipation that very morning: race day at the Tour de Tucson.  In the distance, the low tan hills dotted with saguaro and sage made for an expansive tableau.  I love the openness of the desert. 

From there we quietly, slowly drove to El Torero, a family Mexican restaurant in Old Tucson, stuck in an ancient two story building at the back of a dirt parking lot.  El Torero had been serving food since 1956, with some of the original waitresses still carrying trays.  We noticed right away that this was not a cycling crowd.  The building, servers, and patrons made for an Imperial Valley ambiance. Thick men in flannel shirts and jeans, a Mexican family with the chubby daughter, Mom and Dad with Grandma and the college going son—it was hometown at El Torero.

Next morning at the Inn Suites breakfast buffet, the contrast couldn’t have been greater.  Lean, sharp-eyed cyclists wearing their trophy t-shirts from this year’s Tour and other events lined up for the fruit and the waffles. 

Where Do We Go From Here?

All of this makes me very reflective about this big chunk of my life.  Training for the Tucson effort is more than just riding four days a week.  It also means avoiding caffeine so that when I use it, I get a performance boost.  It means conscientiously doing my stretches and strength exercises for the back and arms, taking my vitamins and glucosamine for the hip and knees, keeping the pull-ups going for upper body strength, not drinking wine or beer with friends prior to a big training session or a race.  All of this is the life of a serious athlete.  It’s keeping the center tightly held together.  But it’s a healthy lifestyle–one that goes against the grain of the mainstream in this country.  In today’s America, it seems most natural for a man my age: thick and solid, not easy to move.  We are becoming a nation of squat, low-speed, high torque bulls.  Powerful but low to the ground and unyielding. 

Meanwhile, we cyclists seek the trim, svelte, quick-response look, ready to react, accelerate, and pounce on every opportunity. Or perhaps we do so just in our fantasy world, which lives on the bike. 
 Even after a training ride, I ponder my reactions to events.  When Benjamin attacks a mile from the finish, why do I chase?  Don’t I know he will fade in another 200 meters, and I will catch him all the same at my steady pace?  Why did I let up after the hill and lose a gap of 20 yards?  I need to teach myself to hold that effort, keep the faith, struggle on.  Do I appear to be making too much of this simple activity of big boys riding bikes?  Probably so, but just as card players say that one plays a poker game the way one approaches life, the same goes for cycling.  Perhaps more so.  It’s a marvelously rich allegory, or metaphor let’s say, for the way we conduct our lives.  Or the way we would conduct our lives if we could only throw ourselves into the business of living as we throw ourselves into the somewhat make-believe world of cycling.

No Full Time Pack Fillers Allowed

I wonder about the guys I rode with those last 20 miles of El Tour de Tucson.  I wonder about the slackers in Fred’s group, who, even though they stood an excellence chance of being platinum riders, didn’t make the individual and collective decision to test their limits, to launch off full tilt boogie for their shot at what had to be their goal. What do they do for a living?  Are they living like they ride, or escaping their pressurized life on a bike?
Just being in the race, in the hunt for a sub 5-hour 109-mile bike ride shows that they had the right stuff.  They had already set themselves apart from the ordinary humanity who live and die by the TV remote control.  Yet they couldn’t take the logical next step and take the risk of trying too hard and failing.

If I can ride a sub 5-hour 109-mile event through a cooperative effort with complete strangers, if I can communicate with these strangers and rotate my turn through a leadership role, well then I can also do the same thing in any social venue.  Start a business, run for office, write a book, lead a community organization.  Lead means knowing what the pack will do, knowing how to shepherd the flock as the flock helps shepherd you.  Another metaphor from cycling.  But the point is that the individual discipline and constant effort that anybody puts in on an event like El Tour and the tacit cooperation that allows riders in the 40s and 50s to average 22-23 miles per hour are the same ingredients for success in any endeavor.

Unlike Tony Darr, I don’t see cycling as such a consuming activity on its own merits.  Being part of a racing team and maybe winning a race or two is exciting, sure.  The adrenaline on the starting line is a powerful stimulant.  The strategy during the race and the outcome can keep one’s mind in gear for weeks puzzling over what could have been. But when it comes right down to it, racing feeds the child in all of us.  The man or woman in us desires something more.  There’s that social and moral imperative that I certainly feel: one must make a difference.

And we can make a difference.  Somewhere.  I’ve never wanted to be an administrator at IVC for the very reason that I didn’t feel that I could make a difference.  The constraints of the bureaucracy, I’ve always felt, would reduce who I was to just the place I occupied.  That may not be true, but that’s how I’ve felt.  John Anderson told me he ran for Superintendent of Schools for the County because he wanted to make a difference.  Again, I wouldn’t feel that way.  But there are other places to make a difference, and I think it’s up to all of us to apportion a part of our time, at least to that kind of goal. 

Last weekend I climbed our local Mt. Signal, an iconic peak rising 2500 feet from the desert floor.  It was my 15th ascent.  I’ve become sort of the hometown expert on this mountain.  Though it’s not so high, it’s nothing but a pile of loose gravel, pebbles, and boulders that keeps footing tricky and quite rugged.  For most folks climbing it is a one off event.  But over my many trips up, I’ve noticed that the mountain keeps shrinking on me.  What once was an imposing, confusing set of climbing options has become an integrated whole in my mind.  I’ve memorized most of the mountain, at least on the northern approach, and analyzed that whole into sections that each I see now to be just short, easy transits.  Though I still require four full days for my quads to return to normal, it’s not painful.  Climbing Mt. Signal is like El Tour de Tucson in that after facing both a few times, they come into sharper focus and become more doable. 

My personal goal for El Tour?  Did I mention that? Last year I finished 28th in my age group—way down the list from the front runners among the 50+ set.  In my idle fantasies, I hoped to rise into the top 15.  When I cramped up, I abandoned that dream, but that didn’t stop me from counting off the + symbols on the results page that indicated 50+.  After all, I did ride more than a minute faster than the year before.  Did I reach 25th place after all?  No luck there.  I actually dropped down to 34th place way, way behind Wayne Stetina, age 52, who came in 17th overall in 4:19:06 and averaged 25.6 miles per hour.  But I can take solace that 8 of those 50+ riders finished less than a minute in front of me.  Motor pacing…  Maybe Tony has something there.