This is a long story.
It features the good heart of my college roommate, the Reverend H. D. Sherrill, Jr. (Butch).
When I was growing up, I will always cherish two gifts from Santa—a transistor radio with an ear plug and a bicycle.
I loved them both for different reasons.
The bicycle was nothing special. No gears, no handbrakes, just a simple bicycle.
That bicycle was a part of my life until some point in junior high school.
With an almost flat tire, I road the bike to Johnny Huffman’s house.
Huffman had a hand pump. We made the connection to the valve on the tire and started pumping air into the tube.
We pumped too much air. The old tire exploded.
I never owned a bike again until now.
Back in the fall, we were in Greensboro, North Carolina.
We were there for our 50th college reunion at Greensboro College.
Over the years, I had talked with Butch about his exercising. Running, hiking, golfing, kayaking, and riding a bike were in the mix. I told him that I would like to look into bike riding again. There is now a bike trail that runs from Richmond to Williamsburg, Virginia.
From his very successful career in Greensboro, Butch was always, always working with people, lots of people know Butch Sherrill.
Turns out a friend of Butch’s developed a health issue that was going to prevent him from bike riding. This friend handed the bike over to Butch trusting him to find a good home for it.
Butch checked with his four grandsons who all live in Greensboro. They were already set with bikes of their own. Butch had a bike, and so he decided to offer this lightly used bicycle to me.
After the 50th anniversary celebrations, we scrunched that bicycle into the back of our SUV and drove back home to Richmond.
Once home, I parked the bike into our toolshed. A few days later I dropped it off at Pedal Power RVA. A good friend and neighbor, Mark Friedrich is the owner of this exceptional bike shop.
Mark’s technicians made sure all the parts were lubricated and working properly. I also purchased a helmet to protect what few braincells I have left.
I brought the bike home and returned it to the toolshed.
I’m not sure why, but for some reason on the morning of Tuesday, August 18, I decided I was going to ride the bike to work at Trinity.
With my backpack hanging on my shoulders, and my helmet snapped together under my chin, I found my balance and wobbled off toward Trinity.
We basically live two blocks from Trinity. For this initial ride, I opted to travel from Sweetbriar to Rock Creek Road, cross Baldwin Road, ride over the creek, and then turn into the back parking lot at Trinity.
I made friends with the rear handbrake as the ride toward Trinity is pretty much downhill. The most pedaling I did was after I crossed the creek and turned into the Trinity parking lot.
At the back of Trinity Hall, I came to a stop, and removed myself from the bike.
I considered this a successful ride—I didn’t crash.
I parked the bike in Trinity Hall.
At the end of the bike’s quiet day, it was waiting for me.
I wonder what the bike was thinking?
Oh no, here comes this wobbly old geezer again. I hope I can get him home safely. I wonder how much he is going to ride the brake as he finds his balance and comfort?
The ride back home on Rock Creek had more pedaling. Except for one short section before the creek bed, all that coasting I did in the morning was gone. The ride home was slightly uphill.
And of course, I’ve known this for a long, long time—life can be slightly uphill too. Sometimes, life is more than slightly uphill.
Reconnecting with the bicycle carried me back to my youth and my first bicycle. I rode that bike everywhere.
I rode it to the Huffmans, to softball practices at Turrentine Junior High School, Edgewood United Church of Christ, and the fields at City Park.
I rode it to yards I mowed off of Edgewood Avenue. There were stops at Barbour Drugs for a fountain made orange aid and a honey bun.
One summer morning, I rode it from our house on West Front Street to where my grandmother resided in Elon College out on Williamson Avenue. I must have been nuts. That was a tough ride.
And yet, I rode, no helmet, no fear. I never thought about a car or truck flattening me. I followed the rules of the road and pedaled like a maniac.
Today, I wonder—why was I so lucky on all those journeys?
I’m going to guess that prayer had something to do with it. My mother, the worrier, must have worn God out praying for me.
My mother and father started their day together with breakfast and the Upper Room devotional. They prayed together, and maybe buried in those prayers was a simple request “watch over our knucklehead son.” For better or worse, I’m still here. God must have heard.
I’ve ridden the bike to work four consecutive days. If no cars are coming, I “thread the wide needle” between the speed humps on Rock Creek Road near the creek.
My wife, the Commander Supreme, doesn’t need to worry about potential wild bike riding shenanigans from me—my old body doesn’t like pain.
Who knows, I might try an alternate route on the ride to and from work, and maybe, but this is a long maybe, maybe the bike will replace my runs through our cherished neighborhood. Maybe.
But back to those hills for a minute.
The hills of life are all around us.
Might you just be the nudge, the extra push that a friend or stranger needs to overcome that challenge of getting up one of life’s hills.
I know there was a gentle hand pushing behind me on all those growing up rides.
In these growing old rides, up the steeper hills of life, be that gentle hand for someone.
Thanks Butch for your good heart.
might be baloney 