Last month, I was reminded how satisfying it is to get away to meet up with good friends. No one would ever pick us as likely friends. Our professional interests are diverse—from big corporate to non-profit; from entrepreneurial to tenured. We connect because of a shared interest in off-beat pursuits and travel. The unusual is our usual.
It had been awhile since our last non-Zoom gathering. We agreed to move our cell phones off the table so we could be present to each other.
The televisions around the hotel bar were tuned to March Madness basketball games. One friend posed an interesting question: “Could a sports coach say something so inspiring to alter a player’s performance, possibly change the outcome of an important game?” Each of us had a turnaround story to tell.
When the conversation came around to me, I agreed that the right words could stretch performance. They couldn’t be trite but had to be spoken from an honest, soulful center. I also added smugly to the programmer in our group, “AI can’t speak from the heart.”
“Yet,” he replied quickly.
My story took place during the popular Seattle-to-Portland 200+ mile bike event. It’s known as STP around the Pacific Northwest. There are some super riders who race hard and finish in one day. But for thousands of saner people, the event is all about the community of riding in the precious July sunshine, camping or RV-ing in groups at the mid-way break, and then taking the train or a loaded RV home from Portland after the second day ride.
At a well-stocked rest stop a little past the 70th mile, I called my husband for a check-in. Physically, I was struggling. I hadn’t hit the wall of complete weariness, but close. I could count on him to meet up with me wherever I wanted, but so early in my first STP? My goal was to reach the popular midpoint break in Centralia, Washington which meant I had about thirty hard miles ahead.
My husband must have sensed that I was thinking about quitting early. I expected him to say something like, “Whatever you want to do, is fine.” But he caught me off guard and simply said, “I’m proud of you, sweetheart. Really proud of you.”
I didn’t drill down and ask why he was proud of me; it didn’t matter. My husband had never told me this, and not since. It’s just not his way. He’s an understated man who was raised in Alaska during the rugged pre-pipeline days. He’s not one to get wound up over small matters or cheer for something that’s undeserving. He is, though, a keen observer of the nature of things.
After the phone call, I refilled my water bottles and fueled-up carefully with different kinds of food offered at the rest stop. Thank you, REI.
I took off with a renewed attitude. Nothing bothered me, even a sharp stone that required a fast tire change in a gravel gully on the side of the road.
That day I road to mile 128. I still had a few more miles in me but decided to break for the day. My first “century” ride was inspired by my husband. His words made all the difference.
Perhaps when we say the same things too often, our message loses its power. The “I love you’s” and “I’m proud of you’s” become too ordinary to be heard.
In each of our stories, one person cared enough to notice our indecision, fragility, weakness or fear. They didn’t ignore us. They reached out so we could reach our own kind of higher ground.
The last word of our afternoon came from Paul. He said, “Imagine what would happen at our workplaces or in politics if more people bothered to share one kind, thoughtful word just before someone walked away.
