Old friends, new friends arriving from all over the U.S., and other continents. Some people I recognize immediately. Others, we stare at each other for maybe 15 seconds. “I know you.”
“Yeah – was it the 2012 Northern?”
“No, I wasn’t on that one”. Then we figure it was something like the 2008 Ridge Ride. Some people I haven’t seen for over ten years rekindle fond memories. Pactour people generally never keep in touch. We just show up for these events, then pick up from where we left off.
I can’t help but notice some physiques. Two types in particular stand out. Riders with broad chests and shoulders, muscular arms are the triathletes. Perhaps they did a couple iron man competitions this year. The skinny ones bordering on the brink of emaciation are the climbers. I sort of looked like that last year.
Lots of stories to share – events of the past year, injuries and more. Broken pelvis, ruptured achilles, broken ribs from falling off a trainer. Other transcontinental rides from years I missed.
This morning at 6:15 am, a group of maybe 15 early arrivals left for a short warmup ride to Dog Beach on Pacific Ocean, where some of the newbies dipped their rear wheel in the surf.
Martha just told me I’m riding tomorrow – most of the crew doesn’t want to do the climb. I’m planning to give it a whirl in my Keene sandals and platform pedals – 77 miles, 8000 feet. We’ll see how that works out…
After spending the summer on Bainbridge Island, WA, Martha and I arrived here at our Arizona home Wednesday afternoon. It feels more like a motel. In three hours we depart for San Diego to begin a new Adventure. Pac Tour Southern 2017, 28 days, 2900 odd miles, bike tour San Diego to Savannah. We’re working crew, which means I get to ride alternate days. I’m nowhere near fit enough to ride every inch every day, having spent much of the summer hunched over a computer writing C# to create data maps of lightning strikes.
Last year I rode 300+ mile weeks to prepare for the Pac Tour Northern, riding from Seattle to Boston. Most weeks this past summer I was riding less then 100. Right now I’m at least 5 pounds heavier than when I started the Northern. Probably more. What would be the point of hopping on the scale anyway? I anticipate feeling weird seeing my old PacTour buddies in top form when I’m soft and flabby. So be it, we sow, we reap, we weep.
Martha and I are both looking forward to the journey – rolling out of motel beds in the wee hours each morning to help with breakfast, discovering new places together, preparing and serving lunch to old friends and new ones. I’m hoping to “ride into” the trip, hopefully being in reasonable shape by the time we hit the Talamina Parkway in Arkansas. We’ll see how well that works…
Libby and I met fifty years ago, when we were both children. I was a sophomore in college, dating her sister Alice. Libby was a sophomore in high school. Since leaving Pennsylvania, I may have seen her three times: once in 1986, twelve years later in 1998; then another nineteen years brings us to last Friday. Nineteen years ago, Libby told me about her husband Pat, who I had yearned to meet ever since. Today I feel blessed to know them both.
Libby and Pat invited me into their home. They live in a modified A-Frame, in the woods, near the top of a mountain, surrounded by many other mountains in Western Maryland. Stock flowers, Impatiens, Lantana and vegetables grow in their gardens, which are visited by deer, bears and turkeys. Inside, knotty pine walls adorned with pictures slant inward and upward to create a cozy living room, dining room and kitchen.
We began talking while sitting on the deck, and never stopped. We continued sharing and listening as we gathered in the kitchen and Libby prepared supper. Pat said grace because he claimed supper would get cold if he allowed Libby to pray. After supper we retired to the living room, with two soft couches and fluffy pillows, to enjoy some strawberry shortcake. Libby and Pat cuddled on the couch and we continued our conversations until all were sleepy-eyed. I slept soundly in a soft bed upstairs.
We talked of family, of common friends. Old friends. We talked about our lives, what we have been doing, our joys and tribulations. We talked about Martha, whom Libby has never met. We talked about God, about Jesus, about the Holy Spirit. Libby and Pat pray often, and hear God speaking to them. They ask God for help and directions before making decisions.
Pat is a Pastor. He started a nearby church many years ago. Beginning with three people, it grew and flourished. A few years ago, he left the church behind, and now Libby and Pat meet with small groups in peoples’ homes. They call them Gatherings. They say the Holy Spirit lives in our hearts. I believe that too.
Friday night I told them the story of when I was saved. I had never before shared that event with anyone. I told them because Libby asked. It’s not a pretty story and it’s also an amazing story, that happened 36 years ago. I didn’t deserve to get saved, but I asked and I received.
I remember going to Tonj with the Evangelicals in 1998. We fed starving people, treated the sick, and vaccinated children. At night we showed the Jesus film and Sunday morning pastors baptized people in the river. I remember how they counted the number of people who were saved. They divided the world into two groups – the saved and un-saved. I never wanted to tell anyone which group I was in. However people judge me is their business. I believe the relationship between each person and God is between the two of them, not for others to judge. Matthew 7:1.
Libby asked because she cared – not to decide if I was one of the flock or one of the others. Still, I hesitated. Libby said I didn’t have to share. A voice told me to speak. I felt safe and I felt loved. I knew if ever I was going to tell the story, it was then and it was to them. I believe God brought me to their home to share my story and I feel blessed.
Although we seldom see each other, Libby says our hearts are stitched together by the Holy Spirit. I believe that to be true. Wow!
Edgenuity c. 2010 – 2015
Rating: Extremely competent – Every day I was sure of two things: 1) I knew what I was doing and how to do it; 2) No one could do it better. I loved this job. Looked forward to working every new day. I was sure the people with whom I worked valued my contributions. Until they deleted me.
Teaching Jobs c. 1998 – 2015
Rating: Shitso, as in schizomaniac – On any given day, I was as good I did that day; no, as good as I did with my last student of that day. Some days I came home depressed, thinking I had no clue how to reach the kiddos. Other days I came home at the top of the world, thinking I was great and powerful.
Microsoft c. 1981 – 1994
Rating: Shitso – . Most days I felt utterly unqualified. Worse, I was terrified that others would realize I was a complete idiot. Some days, not many, I thought I was a god. Actually, I still remember the day one of my bosses told me he thought I was a god. Steve Ballmer didn’t think I was a god, but he thought I was good enough that he gave me an award one year, a 10K bonus another year, and two leaves of absence when I could do whatever I wanted and then come back.
Oh, also, I met an old friend at a reunion a couple years ago. Good friend. He said – he was so glad I was there, he wanted to tell me that everything he ever learned about management he learned from me. That was 20 years ago. Since then he became a vice president. I became a teacher.
Wang c. 1979 – 1981
Rating: Competent – My first computer job, first day, my boss Geoff said nice things to me. Maybe a half year later, I overheard him grumbling to some other dude that I was underdressed for some occasion. About six months later, he thought I was, well not a god, but maybe a godsend. I thought I was hot shit until I got to Microsoft and everyone else was smarter.
Here are some activities I would like to do in 2017, along with training goals that will provide me the fitness to enjoy the experience. God willing, I’ll be able to write a post for each.
Activities I would like to do
March – Crew for three weeks of Pactour Desert Camp.
As a crew member, I’ll work half the days, ride my bike the other days, while enjoying the companionship of old and new cycling friends.
April – Ride the White Rim Road in Moab, Utah. The 100 mile loop, mostly dirt, winds along a plateau with scenic vistas of the Colorado and Green Rivers.
May – Ride the Chino Grinder, 104 miles of gravel and asphalt, with a bunch of climbing, from Prescott to Williams, AZ, and back.
September – Crew for the Pactour Southern Transcontinental, from San Diego to Savannah. As crew I’ll work half the days, and ride on alternate days. Working crew requires a much lower level of fitness than was needed for last year’s Northern. Nevertheless, I’ll enjoy the ride more if I’m in good shape.
TBD – Ride a bike tour with my son Mike in Maryland. I’ll let him make the plans for this adventure
Weight – Currently I weigh 150 lbs. Not terrible, but I’ve picked up a few pounds since returning from Boston last summer. To improve my power to weight ratio, I’d like to get my weight below 145, while adding a bit of muscle mass to my legs. That means trimming my waistline.
Miles – Like last year, I’m setting monthly goals. These include some fast miles, hopefully many slow miles, but nothing more specific. Strava will log my results.
Tonj is a village in South Sudan, which separated from Sudan under a peace treaty in 2005.
Sudan was one of many African nations welded together after the end of Belgian, French and British colonial rule. The north was mainly Islamist and Arabic, while the south maintained a strong Christian tradition once initiated by French missionaries.
During the 1990’s, civil war raged between the north and south. The government forces of Khartoum bombed and burned villages in the south, and enslaved children as soldiers. Famine ravished the south.
I went to Tonj in August, 1998 with a group of Evangelical Christian missionaries from Calvary Chapel, Rancho Santa Margarita. We flew from Nairobi through Lokachokio on the Kenya – Sudanese border to a dirt airstrip 200 miles into southern Sudan.
The Sudanese Peoples Liberation Army, or SPLA, controlled southern Sudan. We entered the country illegally. Our leaders warned that if we were caught we would likely be killed. During the August rainy season, northern transport vehicles could not use the roads to approach the village, but in the past they had raided on horseback. Although our leaders provided rudimentary survival gear, no one really had a clue how to survive, let alone find our way home in the event that we evaded capture.
Someone gave us a talk about snakes we needed to avoid because there was no anti-venom: the cobra, black mamba and green mamba. If you got bit by a cobra, you would feel fine at first, then you would go sit under a tree, go to sleep and die. They referred to the black mamba as the two twitch snake because if you got bit you would twitch twice before falling over dead. The green mamba was the one twitch snake. They liked to hang out on tree branches and fall on their victims.
Another leader issued each of us a Taser, with instructions on how we might treat cobra bites by shocking the wound. (Years later, a biologist told me the truth. Tasers can’t treat snake bites.)
Several missionary groups were rotating in and out of Tonj. The village had swollen to several thousand because starving people were walking from far away to find food. They would walk many days; the people did not use numbers to describe time or distance, so I won’t try either. No one wore shoes.
French missionaries had constructed most of the buildings in Tonj, including the Catholic church. The priest had recently died of starvation because he gave away all his food. Nuns ran church services. I remember hearing beautiful singing in church Sunday morning. We didn’t attend church because the evangelicals didn’t think the Catholics had been saved.
Most villagers lived in concrete and stone barracks. Many buildings had been bombed, burned and abandoned. We stayed in a walled compound that included a building that might have been an old warehouse. At night our compound was guarded by SPLA soldiers carrying AK-47’s. They may have been fifteen years old.
About a third of the people were malnourished or starving. Ribs of adults protruded through emaciated chests. Children suffered from aprotein deficiency called Kwashiorkor.
My personal challenges in Tonj were basic: sleeping, eating, shitting and peeing.
Sleeping: I managed to sleep maybe an hour or two each night.
Eating: I hardly ate a thing while I was in Tonj. Our group had plenty of food, but I didn’t want to eat while people around me were starving. Each day I would eat a handful of peanuts and drink coffee and Gatorade.
Shitting: I was constipated the entire time I was there. I didn’t want to shit. The shitter was a hole in the concrete inside a pitch dark room. You had to squat on top of the hole. Sometimes people missed the hole. Because the room was dark, I couldn’t see piles of poop left by the missionaries who missed. Beneath the room, under the hole was a bucket. Our group enlisted villagers to empty the bucket once a day. I really didn’t want to shit.
Peeing: The latrine was a wall near the edge of our compound. Several trees blocked the view and afforded some privacy. You had to walk under the trees to get to the latrine. Peeing during the day was no big deal.
At night I would take a flashlight. On the way to the latrine I would see boys standing guard with their AK-47’s. Before walking under the trees that shielded the latrine, I would carefully shine my flashlight on the branches looking for one twitch snakes.
Because I was not a doctor, just a doctor’s helper, some days I had little to do. Those days were the most difficult. I could deal with the misery and suffering if I felt a purpose for being there, if I was doing something to help, but when I was just hanging around watching, I suffered inside.
Each day one of the pastors gave a talk. I vividly remember one of them. He said, if we think we’re suffering, to stop whining. We were not suffering, the Sudanese people were suffering. I felt ashamed.
One day I remember watching a group of three men walking into the village. It was clear they had come from far away looking for food. They were emaciated. I could see every rib protruding through their thin chests. They walked right up to me. (I was the first white person they saw and white people had the food.) They started touching me, their fingers moving from the top to the bottom of my shirt. They were asking for food. We had been told by our leaders that under no circumstances were we to hand out food to individuals. It would create mass panic. I’m sure our leaders were right on this account. I wanted to scream. I felt horrible, utterly helpless. What was I doing here? I wanted to go home. Finally I turned and walked away, back to the safety of our compound.
Days I got to do stuff felt more satisfying. One day we handed out pills for river blindness. This disease is caused by a parasite that lives in the water. It eats the retina and the victim goes blind. The disease is easily treated by pills that kill the parasite. We gave pills to thousands of people.
Another day I loaded syringes and gave injections. Before going to Tonj, a nurse had taught me how to do this, also teaching me the careful protocol to avoid accidental HIV infection from dirty needles. The reality of Tonj was nothing like the lessons. We had three people working an assembly line and hundreds lined up waiting for injections. One person would fill syringes while two partners would give injections and discard dirty syringes. Hands and arms crossed and crisscrossed, handing up loaded syringes, dirty syringes flying into the bucket. I almost got stuck a couple of times.
Giving injections was different from the lessons too. We were supposed to give the injects IM – that means intra-muscular. Many of the injectees had no muscle. We would pinch as much as we could before giving the injection, but sometimes it was just skin. Sometimes I could feel the needle hit bone. The adults didn’t complain, but the children always screamed. We learned how to inject the thigh of many kids because their arms were so skinny.
Each night, we showed the Jesus film, alternating between two versions, one dubbed in Arabic, the other in Dinka, from The Greatest Story Ever Told, produced by George Stevens in 1965. I remember several nights trying to carry the 16mm projector or gas generator down a dirt path to the field where we showed the film. Children would surround me and insist they be allowed to do the carrying.
It seemed the entire village came to watch the movies every night. I remember thinking while I watched, this must be the only film showing within a thousand of miles.
We brought three kinds of food. Bags of maize and sorghum, and a thin cereal to feed the children. The sorghum provided the greatest nourishment per pound. I think we needed to start malnourished adults on maize until their digestive systems were working. Our leaders explained that feeding the children anything stronger than thin cereal would make them sick.
The pastors in our group performed baptisms in the river. Someone else kept count of the number of souls saved by these baptisms. I cannot remember the final tally, but it was in the hundreds.
All God’s Children
I’m writing this post in January, 2017, using notes I wrote many years ago. For years, as much as I longed to tell this story, I was stymied by thoughts of how shallow my puny effort could faithfully portray what was happening in Tonj. Today I finally decided to try to honor the people, most especially the children with my recollection. I can still remember, I still see now as I look into their eyes in these pictures, I see Jesus Christ.