Inspiration

by Bob Setzer, Jr.
The short answer is “Yes,” Bambi, Whitney, and I successfully completely our relay in the Knoxville Mother’s Day triathlon. Caroline, Whitney’s sister-in-law who is recovering from a traumatic brain injury, inspired our participation in this triathlon. We owe many blessings to Caroline. For me, one of those was recovering the joy of cycling.

When I was a boy, my dad and I rode our bikes from Greensboro, North Carolina to Hanging Rock State Park. It was a ride of over 50 miles, mostly uphill, on 5-speed, low-end bikes that weighed a ton. We didn’t train for the ride; we just “did it.” My dad was an ex-Marine. He was of the “grin and bear it school.” When we finally got to Hanging Rock, I suggested we get off and walk our bikes up that long, tortuous climb. My dad wouldn’t hear of it so we huffed and puffed our way to the top.

Some years later, my dad got a decent road bike. Eventually, like most of the good stuff he ever owned, he gave it away, in this case, to me. It was that bike, a vintage 1980s 10-speed  racer, I rode in the Knoxville Triathlon.

While training for the Triathlon, I thought often of my dad. Riding “his” bike made me feel close to him, even though he died almost two years ago. It was as though he was near, enjoying the rush of scenery, the deep, renewing breaths, the rhythmic pumping of the legs, the wind whisking the sweat beads off the brow.

 On race day in Knoxville, my 25-mile bike ride started out easily enough. But once we left the city and entered the foothills of the Blue Ridge, things got tough in a hurry. The hills were steeper and longer than any of my practice runs in middle Georgia. As I pedaled with grisly determination up a 1½- mile incline, a woman with a “53" magic-markered on her calf passed me. That meant a 53-year-old lady was beating me! My pride wounded, what little steam was left in my engine fizzled out. I started to climb off my mount and walk to the top.

Then I thought of what my dad would say. And I thought of that “great cloud of witnesses” Hebrews 12:1-2 hints may be cheering us on at such moments. So I stayed on my bike and kept slamming my legs down, down, down on the pedals, like a 19th century immigrant driving spikes in the transcontinental railroad, one after one after one, seemingly forever. Eventually, I crested the hilltop, and felt the flush of triumph.

Some miles later as the finish line drew near, I saw a faint “53" on a biker’s calf up ahead. It was the woman who had passed me! I pumped harder than ever, feigning a strength I did not feel, gaining on her and eventually flying by her. It really wasn’t fair though, because from some place deep inside, an unseen coach was egging me on. I think it was my dad but it might have been You-Know-Who.

Thanks, Caroline. The triathlon you inspired touched a lot of lives and mine was one.