When I was a boy I rode in the race with my dad once or twice. One year me, my friend Evan and his younger brothers set up a lemonade/coffee stand and made a killing! These days I usually mark the occasion by forgetting to leave my house earlier than usual and then driving slowly behind all the bicyclists cursing and boiling with frustration. I have a love-hate relationship with cyclists. I fully support people getting exercise and certainly applaud alternative modes of transportation but a seeing a cyclist a half-mile down the road can be a harbinger of a coming resentment.
Last Summer I quit smoking. I recall a day about two weeks into quitting when I was driving into town and a cyclist who was in front of me flashed his left palm at me, cut across a lane and ran a stop sign making a left hand turn. I had to slam on my breaks to avoid hitting him. At first I wished I had hit the bastard. Then I realized that was a completely unreasonable reaction. I figured the more appropriate response would be to follow the guy to where he's going, knock him out and stuff him in my trunk, drag him into the woods and tie him to a tree using the bicycle inner-tubes. Then I would force him to eat every piece of his bike piece-by-piece and leave him tied up to think about what he'd done. Don't fuck with me when I'm quitting smoking.
The Chilly Hilly is held on the last Sunday in February which means that two years ago it was held less than a week after I got sober. At that time I don't think I even knew it was February let alone which day of the week it was. You could have told me it was the ninth Thursday in August and I would have agreed with you. My new friend Derek had invited me to his birthday party at his grandparents house a few miles away and I had set out to go experience my first taste of Fun In Sobriety when I drove upon throngs of frigid cyclists. I had this sick feeling in my guts. Jesus, do people actually do things like this? Thousands of people exercising in freezing weather. Dads with their kids. Lives that made no sense to me were on full display and I couldn't stand it. The whole spectacle was almost too much for me to handle. I had that sweaty palms, twisted stomach feeling like my intestines were being sucked out me. My head felt like a pinball table with bells and whistles going off, but they were not signalling a free-play or bonus points. I don't know that I necessarily wanted a drink but I certainly did not want sobriety.
I made a couple of stops at my parents house and another friends place before finding my way to Derek's party. This day now feels like it was the beginning of something new.
Derek had invited some friends from Seattle who were also in recovery. His uncle is a member of a famous Seattle band and he was there with another former member of an equally famous Seattle band. I couldn't believe I was hanging out with musicians I had totally idolized when I was a teenager. Derek's friends were incredibly cool and nice and made me feel very welcome. This was all totally surprising because I was used to going to parties where I felt unwelcome, uncool and exceptionally drunk. On this day I felt sober, in-touch, tuned-in and safe.
That evening we walked from his house through the woods to a 12-step meeting that I now attend regularly. This 12-step group holds a monthly "birthday" meeting on the last Sunday of the month where we gather to recognize members of our group who are celebrating another year of sobriety that month. I was totally confused by the whole spectacle but I felt very at home too. Derek and his friends seemed like unrelentingly cool people and seeing these strangers gather to support each other and laugh together made the whole idea of sobriety so much less scary. Maybe life wasn't going to be defined by frustrations like being stuck in hordes of cyclists but more by victories like staying sober over the hills through the valleys. Maybe life might still be fun sometimes too.
Last summer, not long after I contemplated kidnapping that unwitting cyclist and feeding him his bicycle, Derek died unexpectedly from an overdose. I miss him every day. Today is his Birthday and tonight I will get a piece of cake with a big number 2 on top of it at that 12-step meeting.
Derek and lots of other people are the ones I owe my life to. I like to say they "held the door open for me" on their way into the meeting. But the gift that I credit him for exclusively is the knowledge that even though life will always give me some surprises, I can handle all of them with the help of my friends.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to get into town and then I have a bicyclist tied to a tree to feed.
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