“Chasing the Elephant”

As my hands fumble with the oily chain, I see my companions fade into the distance, their forms shrinking into abstract shapes. Fear grips me as the feeling of being separated from the group, alone and vulnerable, sinks in. It feels like an elephant pressing down on my chest—something I’ve carried for years, though I’ve pretended it wasn’t there. Rejection layers on top of that: a loss of companionship and the sense that, maybe I don’t belong?

15 minutes earlier

We’re riding through the mist as a Peloton. I feel connected, part of something bigger than myself. We’re powerful and greater than the sum of our parts.

We’re a subset of the Silver Spokes Sunday riding group, mostly older, recreational riders. We’re not racers, by any means, and every one of us has at least some grey around the temples. Yet, this is the elite sub-group (if you could call it that) composed of the faster, more serious riders.

“Shit!” shouts the rider next to me.

A jolt of fear flickers in my chest as nervous thoughts race through my mind. Did something get caught in his spokes? Did he clip the back wheel of the rider in front of him? Did a car—please no—hit him?

I glance over to see John staring intently at his front tire and realize it’s gone flat, the rim grinding heavily on the pavement. As his bike slows, the group’s momentum falters. The cohesion we’ve built starts to unravel. Riders behind John swerve to avoid him as gaps stretch and open up within the group.

“You want some help?” I shout over my shoulder, slowing to stay within earshot.

“No you guys go ahead, I’ll catch up.”

I turn back toward the group fifty yards ahead. I’ll be the messenger, I think, feeling useful. I know something the rest of the group doesn’t. Information is power.

“He said to go ahead,” I shout to TJ.

“No, let’s wait for him.”

I’m stunned. We’re waiting? That’s not how this usually goes.

This seems a break from tradition, especially for the Saturday group. Even though we’re a recreational club, there’s an unwritten rule. Everyone takes care of themselves. One for all. Individual sacrifice for the greater good—or at least that’s how it’s supposed to work. But something about this moment feels different, like the fragile balance of the group is shifting.

My initial feeling is one of comfort that these more serious riders have put the unity of the group in front of their desire to keep pounding forward. My next feeling is more circumspect. I’ve been on the other end of this situation only to have the group continue on ahead. Something in the back of my mind says although things have changed, it may not be in a way that benefits me.

Never mind, I decide. I’m overanalyzing. It’s all good.

I ride back to help John while the group stays up ahead. “TJ said they’re going to wait. I’ll help you change the tire.”

“You don’t need to do that,” he says.

“Dude, I’m happy to help,” I insist.

A sense of being kind, even virtuous, wells up inside me. Helping others has always been a fundamental part of my makeup. It gives me purpose. There’s even something biblical about it. Instead of ignoring his plight, I’m going out of my way to help rather than passing on the opposite side of the road. This kind of behavior takes the bitter sting out of life and makes it worth living.

I know he appreciates it when I see his rushed, frantic demeanor calm a little and he shoots me a smile. I’m comforted with the camaraderie of helping another, while at the same time, minimizing the delay for the larger group.

A few minutes later, we put it all back together, four hands stretching the tough rubber tire over the rim. John begins pumping the tube while I hold the wheel steady. Then he puts his tools away and I put the wheel back onto the frame. In record time, this sprawling yard sale begins to reshape into two cyclists getting back on their bikes. Soon we’ll rejoin the group and rebuild momentum, all of us together.

I clip my left cleat into the pedal and push off with my right, swinging my leg over the frame, then push the right pedal down decisively, anticipating a burst of acceleration. But instead, my foot plummets toward the ground with no resistance and I nearly fall off the bike. I try again but the cranks just spin.

It’s as though my bike, usually an integral part of me, helping propel me forward, has suddenly betrayed me.

I look down to see my chain has fallen off and is hanging limply on the bottom bracket.

No problem, I can flick it back on while riding.

But the slight uphill grade slows me down to almost a stop and there’s not enough chain movement to catch the chainring. I try again, this time shifting up to the larger chainring while rotating the cranks.

Still no luck.

I finally dismount and turn the bike over, grabbing the chain with my bare hands. My hands turn black as I handle the greasy chain. I glance over to see the group, including John, heading up the shallow grade and fading into the distance.

I can catch them.

I’ve trained hard this year and, despite a few setbacks, I’m still in decent shape. I can hold my own.

I wipe my greasy hands on my lycra cycling shorts, trying to keep to the black sections. I get quickly back on my bike and accelerate, pushing ahead toward the group, closing in slowly but steadily.

Don’t burn out, I tell myself. I continue making up ground, yet at the same time I begin to feel a pressure in my chest. My confidence wanes. It’s uncomfortable, both physically and mentally. I don’t like being behind and having to catch up.

Then, a thought pops into my head: Why does it even matter? What makes catching up with the leaders worth the pain?

I quickly discard the thought as an excuse fabricated by a tired mind, uncomfortable with this predicament, not wanting to push myself to meet the challenge. As the pack begins to drop over the crest of the hill, I push a little harder and get them back into my sights. As I begin the short descent toward the 280 underpass, I see them pulling away, stretching their lead.

Just as I pass under the 280 freeway, it gets darker, as the concrete overpass blocks out the sun. An insidious feeling comes over me, as my mind wanders to a time years ago. No—decades ago.

Suddenly it’s me on the back of a huge motorcycle, hanging onto the person in front of me as we travel along a dirt road around and up, onto the 280 partially-built highway. I’m hanging onto him for dear life. It’s a dream that first came to me years ago (see “The Cloverleaf” from my memoir on my Excerpts page), and yet here it is, vivid and compelling, pulling me back to a question I can’t ignore.

Do I belong? Are these my people? Am I safe with them?

As I come out of the other side of the overpass and the light returns, the intrusive image fades. I’m back, pushing to close on the group as they head toward the Edgewood intersection. But as I push harder, my heart begins beating out of my chest. I feel my breath get heavier and more labored. My windpipe feels raspy, and my muscles begin to ache. As I make one last-gasp effort to reach them, my legs grow heavy and painful, as if I’m wearing lead-lined cycling shorts.

I begin to feel something else beyond the discomfort of my overworked body. The feeling of pride in my philanthropic gesture has given way to something new. A kind of demoralization and isolation. Even an embarrassment at thinking I was doing something for the greater good, only to be left behind. Perhaps deep down, with all my goodness and ability, I’m really just a fool.

I shake off the thought like a pesky, oppressive sibling and push on.

They’ll slow and wait. It will just be a mile or two.

But they don’t.

I ride for the next five miles as they slowly pull away and fade out of sight.

Finally, I give up and slow down, allowing my legs and chest to relax finally. I want to curse their names. But I catch myself. That’s not becoming a kind person—the person I want to be.

Yet, in a second wave of frustration and demoralization, I start to conjure up a litany of negative, angry thoughts about this group of people with whom I love riding. TJ insisted we wait for John, I think to myself. It felt different when I fell behind. Why did they keep going?

I begin to think about the dynamics of the group. Does everyone belong in the same way? Am I really part of this group, or just someone on the periphery?

As I sink even further I begin to contemplate: was I just being naive, thinking that I belonged in the first place? A feeling of alienation and at the same time, foolishness comes over me. My imagination runs rampant. They’re probably up there laughing at me. What an idiot…he claims to ride with the noon rides but he can’t even keep up with us. I know, consciously, that they aren’t, yet the weight of the elephant—my lingering childhood fear—presses harder, and my mind can’t help spiraling.

Suddenly I catch myself. It’s just a ride. Calm down…it’s not personal. I’m an adult. Not a six-year-old child being abandoned.

Yet, as I say this to myself, I find myself again, subconsciously, driving the pedals harder, trying fruitlessly to catch up.

I catch myself in the act. Why am I constantly trying to keep up with groups that are beyond my level? It happens during the Noon Ride, the Saturday Silver Spokes rides. It even happens when random people pass me and I jump into their slipstream.

People I don’t even know, yet who remind me of someone or a group of someones from decades ago.

Another image seeps into my mind—not a dream this time, but a vivid collage of memories. I’m six years old, chasing after the big kids, the teenagers in our neighborhood in the sixties. A painful struggle wells up inside me: the desperate need to stay with the group to survive, weighed against the instinct to protect myself from them. I need to belong, but I don’t. I see the teenagers across the creek bed, their gestures unclear. Are they trying to help me, or leading me into danger? I cling to the fragile hope that they’ll protect me, yet I know I must guard myself from them. They are my only refuge, and my greatest threat.

For much of my life, I have chased after stronger, faster people. It's been a long and demoralizing struggle. An obsessive challenge, yet one that has given me immense purpose, though not one I consciously chose. It has directed me to do many things over the years that, under normal circumstances, could make life richer: hang gliding, wilderness backcountry skiing, mountain biking in rocky, technical terrain, kiteboarding in 30 knot winds, windsurfing in the tumultuous and chaotic waves in the channel off Third Avenue.

Things that, now in this present context, feel less like enrichment and more like wrestling with demons.

Why do I need to chase these things?

I think back about my childhood years and being mistreated by teenagers in a systematically-abusive environment. One in which the older kids both mocked and abused me yet I still felt compelled to stay with them. Disappointment and loss begin to consume me.

It’s not all terrible, I tell myself, as I try to hoist my emotions out of this deep ravine. I’m a man that has been driven hard in his life to rise to challenges all around him, and in doing so, I’ve seen career and financial success. Yet the motivation for it is deeper than just the will to succeed. It has to do with self-preservation. With survival.

And I’m still succumbing to that narrative as I continue this behavior. I have to go back and replay those years. To recreate the environment. But this time I have to overcome. To win!

Win what?

The truth is, I’m chasing phantoms—riding after something I can’t ever catch because it’s not really ahead of me. It’s behind me, tangled in memories of abuse I’ve spent my life running from. And in trying to outpace it, I’m still letting it control me.

I shake off the thought and shift into a steady rhythm, focusing my eyes on the road ahead. I make a right turn at the Ralston bike path, knowing that the others are headed in a different direction. As I start up the hill, and my cadence locks in, a feeling of peace ensues, along with newfound clarity. I feel the strength returning into my body. The desperation fades.

I may not always be able to keep up. But at least for today, I’m choosing a new direction. It’s a small step, but it feels like the right one.