Many of my life's most valuable lessons were learned on two wheels. From the day when, as a 5 year old I swung my leg over my first bicycle - a painted over, army green, girly framed, solid rubber tire, fixed-gear ride, salvaged from the side of the road before garbage pick up, which I rode until it literally broke in half at full speed on a cobbled stone sidewalk; all the way up until my last (motorized) track missile which I traded in for married life, I've never ceased using these ubiquitous devices to express my physical need to learn about the world around me.
I remember one particular afternoon, when I joined a group of friends to go for a long ride out of town on our tricked out BMX bikes. To us, these bicycles served as much more than transportation; we raced competitively at the national level, leaving our fragile teenage identities intrinsically tied to the shiny tubular vehicles. Going out of town, in those days, meant navigating the sharply mountainous mediterranean geography that surrounded us, on small 20" single speed bikes not designed to climb anything more than a set of doubles or a half pipe. A time when a cellphone was a brick-sized novelty in hollywood thrillers, and helicopter parents were… parents who owned helicopters?
There we were in all our splendour, miles from home, drenched in sweat, slowly zigzagging our way up the kind of scenery postcards are printed with, at a pace barely that of a couple out for a romantic stroll. The rhythmic sound of heavy breaths, dry squealing sprockets and off-road tires on hot asphalt helping us keep pace. That's when it happened...
"Flat!"
A flat front tire, screeched the painfully unmistakable sound of the aircraft grade aluminum rim shredding against the unforgiving pavement. Carrying any kind of tire repair equipment in those days was the equivalent of John Rambo taping a first-aid kit to the side of his M60. It just wasn't done.
The group stopped, in silence, struggling to catch our breaths. No help to be seen. Home base an hour and a half away (on full tires). A long series of hills surrounding us for miles. "What do I do?…" I asked.
More breathing.
Finally, after a minute or so, the silence was broken, and by such a sweet and timely word of wisdom that I shall never forget it.
"Grass…" Said a fellow rider between breaths, nodding towards the most abundant resource at our disposal. And that's how I got home that day.
It was a lumpy, lonely, long, ride back. But I made it. And I was ecstatic. So much so, that I couldn't help but brag about it to anyone who would listen. "Dude! So I got a flat and guess how I made it back?!…" For days, it was all I talked about. Always on the prowl for someone who hadn't heard about my pneumatic adventure. It felt gratifying to tell others about the eluded peril and watch them revel in the unexpected solution. With so much practice, my story telling grew to such a level that you may have thought I was the most fortunate rider in the group, and that the puncture was the equivalent of a lotto win. As if my audience was supposed to wish they were the ones who got stranded on some remote mountain, thirsty, tired and scared, limping home on some thrown together fix worthy of laughter.
I remember one particular afternoon, when I joined a group of friends to go for a long ride out of town on our tricked out BMX bikes. To us, these bicycles served as much more than transportation; we raced competitively at the national level, leaving our fragile teenage identities intrinsically tied to the shiny tubular vehicles. Going out of town, in those days, meant navigating the sharply mountainous mediterranean geography that surrounded us, on small 20" single speed bikes not designed to climb anything more than a set of doubles or a half pipe. A time when a cellphone was a brick-sized novelty in hollywood thrillers, and helicopter parents were… parents who owned helicopters?
There we were in all our splendour, miles from home, drenched in sweat, slowly zigzagging our way up the kind of scenery postcards are printed with, at a pace barely that of a couple out for a romantic stroll. The rhythmic sound of heavy breaths, dry squealing sprockets and off-road tires on hot asphalt helping us keep pace. That's when it happened...
"Flat!"
A flat front tire, screeched the painfully unmistakable sound of the aircraft grade aluminum rim shredding against the unforgiving pavement. Carrying any kind of tire repair equipment in those days was the equivalent of John Rambo taping a first-aid kit to the side of his M60. It just wasn't done.
The group stopped, in silence, struggling to catch our breaths. No help to be seen. Home base an hour and a half away (on full tires). A long series of hills surrounding us for miles. "What do I do?…" I asked.
More breathing.
Finally, after a minute or so, the silence was broken, and by such a sweet and timely word of wisdom that I shall never forget it.
"Grass…" Said a fellow rider between breaths, nodding towards the most abundant resource at our disposal. And that's how I got home that day.
It was a lumpy, lonely, long, ride back. But I made it. And I was ecstatic. So much so, that I couldn't help but brag about it to anyone who would listen. "Dude! So I got a flat and guess how I made it back?!…" For days, it was all I talked about. Always on the prowl for someone who hadn't heard about my pneumatic adventure. It felt gratifying to tell others about the eluded peril and watch them revel in the unexpected solution. With so much practice, my story telling grew to such a level that you may have thought I was the most fortunate rider in the group, and that the puncture was the equivalent of a lotto win. As if my audience was supposed to wish they were the ones who got stranded on some remote mountain, thirsty, tired and scared, limping home on some thrown together fix worthy of laughter.
A recent study has confirmed what, by now should be no surprise; divorce is as contagious as a viral sickness. Those who have it, spread it. Friends give it to friends, brothers spread it to sisters, coworkers to coworkers and on and on. (No mention of blog writers)
According to statistics, when close friends divorce, the chances of marital breakup increase 75%. Among coworkers in small companies, contagion is 55%. In large social circles where there are divorced friends, the likelihood of a divorce is 147% greater. Divorced siblings have a 22% pull in influencing marital dissolution.
These numbers are staggering. But not shocking, perhaps. No one likes to feel like they can be manipulated so drastically by other's circumstances on such sensitive life altering issues. But we are.
Several relationships in our immediate social circle suffered the fatal blow just prior to our doomed voyage. Given the immense love that we had, and the above statistics, I would be naive to ignore the external influence placed upon the fate of our marriage.
Verbal communication is one of the few traits that separates us from the rest of the animal kingdom, it is also a God given endowment that allows us to counsel and comfort one another as well as celebrate life's pleasures and triumphs. Seeking advice from a friend, a shoulder from a companion or an ear from a brother is a healthy practice that should be encouraged.
But it is no longer productive if you walk away believing that a tire filled with grass is ever an improvement on one filled with air.
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