I love praying in the cathedral of nature. It’s the main reason I moved with my family to Colorado.
What experience can possibly compare with the bliss of cross country skiing in fresh snow on an isolated trail in Alderfer/Three Sisters? Or running on a sparkling summer afternoon on a cliffside trail through Corwina Park, picking my way around rocks and roots? Or riding my road bike at top speed down Lookout Mountain Road, the wind whistling past as the ground blurs beneath my feet?
Sheer glory. Ecstasy. Often I forget how little space there can be between bliss and disaster.
But the recent experience of a friend’s boyfriend has abruptly reminded me how narrow is that gap. He was having a wondrous mountain biking adventure in Lyons a month ago, riding on his favorite trail. Michael lost track of time and suddenly noticed the shadows getting longer on the trail. In his hurry to get to his car before darkness fell, he hit a rock a little too fast and cartwheeled over his handlebars. His helmet didn’t do any good when his neck – and head – were pushed forward too far upon landing and his spinal cord was severed. For hours, Michael lay on the trail, unable to move, his bike on top of him, struggling to breathe.
And the only reason Michael is alive today is because he had told Beth where he was riding and when to expect him back. When he was late and failed to answer her attempts to reach him by cell, she called Search and Rescue.
He is grateful to be alive — but Michael is paralyzed now, and his life is changed forever. He’ll never ride on that trail again, experience that thrill of the wind whistling past his ears. He will never even walk on a trail again, or on a sidewalk, or even in his living room.
I realize this blog is sort of a downer, but take one message away from it — when you set out onto the road or a trial, tell someone where you are going and when you will be back.
And be grateful! With every ride now, I think of Michael. When my lungs feel they’re going to burst as I labor up a hill, I think of Michael’s struggle just to breathe every day, and of those who can’t do what I can do – and I ride for them. Now every ride is a prayer, and I’m grateful for the ability to pedal my legs up and down, to breathe in big breaths, to experience pain and joy in the outdoors.
And I can tell you this: I always tell my husband where I am going and when I’m going to be back.
Be sure you do the same.
