The Mystery of a Turn Not Taken

 

The Mystery of a Turn Not Taken

The Power of a Mother’s Prayer

 

 

She always prayed for me prior to these events.  But this would be my first Half-Ironman distance triathlon, and the distances concerned her.  My mother was in her nineties and had never been real sure about triathlons.  However, having accumulated some extensive experience with me, she had always been aware that me and my activities could sometimes be a little off dead center. 

 

The distances concerned me too, and I was more than a little nervous.  Early the next day, on the edge of a large lake, just before the start, I prayed too. 

 

The wind wasn’t bad yet, thank God.  There was an eerie quietness to it all, like in the eye of a storm.  The long line of buoys that marked the swim course out into the open lake had given my prerace jitters a serious booster shot.  Will this ever start?

 

The starting gun sounded and we raced into the water for the long swim.  Once I was out in the open lake, things started calming down, that is until the Velcro ankle strap that held my timing chip started coming loose.  Twice I had to stop and secure it.  The pack of swimmers I was with left me behind and I found myself swimming in the open lake all alone and talking to myself.  “Settle down.  It will be a long day.  Relax – Pray.”

And so I did.  The swim got better.  Without the distraction of nearby swimmers, my rhythm sort of came into its own and I started catching the slower swimmers in my group.  Really settling into my zone, I began passing several swimmers in the front of my group as well as some in the group that had started several minutes before us.  It was all flowing so well when, almost too soon, it was over.  I was helped to scramble up a muddy bank to run to the transition area.  There was a small cheering crowd, including my wife, on the way to the transition area.

 

“Great swim,” she said.  I beamed.  Yeah, it was great.  With all the cheering and my wife’s encouraging words, I was really into this event.

 

The transition was relaxed but efficient.  My spirit was still soaring as I straddled my bike to begin my long ride.  It seemed an exciting possibility that I was actually on my way to finishing the Half-Ironman distance.  But it was far from over.  In fact, it was just getting started.  And it started to appear tougher when the bike would not shift.  The bike was stuck in the big front gear and one of the smaller gears in the rear: a tough proposition if the course were to get hilly.  After several stops to get the gears to shift, I finally gave up and resigned myself to the fact that I would do the ride in one gear.  Lots of people had passed me while I was stopped for repairs, and now I began to pass them back.  My spirit began to regain its previous momentum.  Gosh, it felt great to be moving really well on my bike, passing rider after rider!  I was into it again!  The course had some low hills, which only whetted my appetite for the challenge.  High gear or whatever, I seemed to be riding fearlessly, giving little heed to the large number of miles still to go to finish this race.

 

Finally, I could see no one else ahead to pass.  Looking back, I could see no one behind me.  I was alone and on fire on the course.  More hills – steeper hills – and still no one appeared ahead of me and no one behind me.  Steeper hills still, pushing that high gear that I would have loved to be able to shift.  But strangely, no rider was ahead of me that I could see.  Topping another steep hill, I was confronted with a stop sign and the knowledge that the road ended where it intersected a main highway.  Then I saw the town.  I thought that I didn’t remember seeing an intersection like this on the course map.  And a town?  Taking one last look behind, I could see a half mile or mile back from where I had come; no one.  It had been quite some time since I had seen another rider.  I hadn’t seen any turn signs on the course.  When a tanker truck chugged by, blowing diesel fumes all over me, I came to the realization: I was lost.  I really didn’t have a good idea of how to get back on the course.  My heart went out of the race.  Suddenly very tired, I was done. 

 

Down the highway a bit was a convenience store.  I would need to call my wife to pick me up.  People gave me the looks when I started into the store.  There I was in this little country town on a Sunday morning with a number on a waistband, numbers painted on my shoulders and legs, and wearing that tight little spandex thing.  Yeah, I must have looked a little funny there.  The store owner let me use the phone.  After I made my call, several folks came over to talk to me and I think to sort of look me over again, like they were trying to identify a species.  For those moments, I was the talk of the town: the body painted weirdo in tight pants, riding a bike.  There was no shortage of locals that wanted to talk to me.  Being lonesome was not one of my problems right then.  They had been hesitant and somewhat distant at first.  But once they became convinced I was harmless, they were loaded with questions.  I had several entertaining conversations while waiting for my ride.  Somehow, the humor of it all took the edge off the fact that I had messed up my Half-Ironman attempt royally. 

 

When my wife arrived, I loaded up and went to see just where I had gone wrong on the course.  After driving around a while, we determined that I had missed a left turn several miles back from the town I ended up in.  No wonder I had the road to myself for so long.  All the turns on the course had had persons directing riders to turn.  Why had I not seen that one?  I had never missed a turn before in several other events.  It was strange.  Perhaps, the road crew person was on a bathroom break about the time I came by.  Who knows how this could have happened?  Yes, I was disappointed that I didn’t get to finish.  But the friendly people at the store and the absurdity of me missing a turn had me a little lighthearted too.  My mood was almost as upbeat as if I had finished. 

 

On the way home I called my mother to say all had gone well.  I wasn’t going to give her details just yet.  She said that she was so glad I called, that she had been especially worried about me this time, in this event.  In fact, she had been so worried that she had left church and gone home and prayed for me.  I asked, “Was it the long swim in the open lake?” 

 

“No,” she told me, “it wasn’t the swim I was worried about.  It was the bike part of it.”  Something was really upsetting to her about me doing the bike leg of this event.  She had no way of knowing that I was going to get lost on the bike course.  The time she was praying for my safety was approximately the time during which I missed my turn on the course.  Could a prayer have turned me aside from the course to avoid an accident or some other tragedy?  Could this whole experience have been one that worked out for ultimate good?  Who knows what fate might have been awaiting me that was averted by the power of a mother’s prayers?