With Gratitude for Cheryl...

All living beings undergo a series of changes from the moment of birth to the last breath before death. You’d think that since change will inevitably take place we would develop an ability to handle change easily. Instead, we hardly notice minor changes and the big ones can shake us at the core. I am currently passing through a period of major change, about to wrap up a twelve-year career of teaching bicycle mechanics. Although I have initiated this change – it is based on my desire to explore the world of clinics and workshops on my own terms – fear of change still arises. It occurred to me about a month ago that there are tools available for people to organize their thoughts, intentions, and goals and that doing a better job of breaking things down into manageable bits and pieces would alleviate some of the fear that seems to be inherent to only seeing the big picture.

Ten years ago, I was in the midst of another period of change. A lower back injury forced me to abandon my dream of racing mountain bikes professionally. After reviewing the results of an MRI with my doctor, she gave me a long list of sports I should avoid (racing mountain bikes was at the top) and a short list of physical activities that would be OK, such as Yoga and hiking. Hiking gave me a good deal of time to contemplate life without racing. This line of thinking led me to Jacquie Phelan and WOMBATS, which then continued on to starting a local club for non-competitive women mountain bikers, and finally took me south to Durango to work at the WOMBATS Jamboree – a four-day mountain biking event for women.

When I arrived at Fort Lewis College the first thought that struck me was “ Oh my gosh, I have a lot of bikes to safety check!” Arriving in waves, sixty-five women ascended the mesa to the commons area at Fort Lewis to attend this amazing weekend event. Somehow I managed to get through all the bikes by the end of lunch, liberating me to join one of the groups heading off for a trail ride. Cheryl Thiele was in that group. She was slight of build, but not fragile, with a mane of brown hair and sun-soaked skin. I liked her immediately for her ease and grace, and for her egoless confidence. We talked and rode; I took small notice of the mental struggle she endured on the descents.

Later that day, I strolled down the dusty, sun-baked path lined by Curl-leaf Mahogany, Prickly Pear, and Sage that flowed into town. I meandered along the main drag and popped into a wonderful little bookstore. New to Colorado and the West, I couldn’t get enough of Wallace Stegner and other writers enamored with the land, so I parked myself on the floor in front of the Western section. A woman from camp had told me about Louis Erdrich and, as I was reading the back cover of Tracks, Cheryl popped her head in the store. She had been searching for old Zuni jewelry, some of which she was wearing on her wrist. I purchased my books and we walked up the street to meet a few dozen women for dinner.

For the first two days of the event we explored the many trails on the land around the college. On the third day, we trucked all the bikes up into the mountains northwest of town. Since I had never ridden any of the trails, I was usually assigned the duty of sweeper. We were tackling some rugged terrain and I would be off the back with some of the technically challenged riders. Recently retired from racing, I relished each opportunity to hone my skill as a teacher. The role of sweeper gave me a chance to explore gentle ways to share what I had learned as a competitive rider and to discover a healthy, smarter approach to riding for myself, one that would not hurt my back.

The landscape was incredible: the scent of pine flooded the nostrils, electric green grasses and wild flowers carpeted the forest floor, and the sun broke through glittering aspen leaves and gave everything a magical glow. To me, it was paradise. Not so for my friend Cheryl, who was beginning to falter under the weight of a demon she could not shake – fear. Encumbered by the frustration of not wanting to be afraid, I hardly recognized her as she paused at the top of a technical descent and quietly cried. Intuitively, I understood her dilemma. The Nationals course at Vail included a horrendous section called Bailey’s Bailout. I rode the entire section sight unseen on my first lap, and bounced through it like a square ping-pong ball on the second. Adrenalin had worked for me in the past, but was not going to help in this situation. I suggested we walk the trail to better investigate each section and discover the best line through. We leaned our bikes against the moist sappy bark of a Ponderosa Pine and got to work. We observed the length of the first section; I talked about carrying some speed to help the front wheel over the rocks, weight back a little but not too far or it would be difficult to maneuver the front end. I showed her the line was better if she rolled off a slightly larger rock instead of trying to steer around it, which would almost certainly through her off balance. We identified a break in the rocks as a place to rest for a brief moment mentally before the rocks gained in numbers and the steepness increased again. We considered the trail a puzzle; by walking it, we provided ourselves with an opportunity to examine each piece, which made it possible to assemble the whole. Approaching it that way disempowered the fear element. We deconstructed the mountain into several molehills linked by dirt, grass, and flowers.

On our way back up to the top, we revisited a few spots and confirmed the best approach. Then, I lowered her seat post and asked her to stay on my wheel, and promised to take it slow. Helmets on, we shoved off. I breathed quietly and worked to balance my attention lightly between the trail and listening to Cheryl grunt behind me. Occasionally, I would offer words of encouragement or remind her of how to get through a rocky cluster. When we rolled onto the dirt I stopped and turned to see how she was doing. She rolled up next to me and unleashed her laughter through a huge smile. Stepping back, organizing our approach, and taking a closer look at the individual elements brought the whole into perspective.

Two years later I became the Colorado Camp Coordinator and Cheryl returned to work with me as a ride leader. Cheryl was the creative author of The Sacred Journey: Daily Journal For Your Soul, and I asked her to conduct workshops on journaling for the participants. She gifted me a copy after our last camp in 2000 but I never used it as a journal. Instead, the pages covered with beautiful Native American symbols became grocery and “to-do” lists. In turning my life upside down (or right side up, depending how you look at things), I am reminded that organizing my thoughts, my goals, and intentions can prevent me from getting tangled in fear’s web of speculation and “what if’s.” I ordered Cheryl’s 2008 book from amazon.com and when I sat down to read her encouraging words, I could hear her voice talking to me, showing me the line through this rocky section of life. Recalling that day in the mountains reminds me that difficult times are not bad times, just as easy times are not always good times. Challenges always come up - they are inherent to the life experience. Rather than feeding fear with judgment and negativity, we can cultivate skills such as courage and determination, offer ourselves some understanding and be patient while we find our line through the rocks. Cheryl’s words reminded me that we all posses the ability to make molehills of mountains, we all have the power to shift our perspective.

Thoughtfully,
Jenny