Chapter 51

I have some bike riding experience.

I rode my bike everywhere as a kid. It was my first taste of true freedom. My own set of wheels that could take me as far as my legs could pedal.

My first bike was beautiful.

and orange.

The chain guard was emblazoned with the toughest name a bike could ever have.

"The Orange Peeler"

I lived in Aberdeen Washington and for two whole days the neighborhood was graced by the glorious vision of young Steve and his Orange Peeler. I rode proud and when I wasn't ferociously pedaling my metallic orange steed it was prominently displayed upon its kickstand out front of my house.

It took two whole days before the Orange Peeler was stolen and my dreams of a world tour crushed.

I was in kindergarten and this was my first experience that taught me that the world isn't all sunshine. Not everyone understands the joy that happens when a young boy rides his very first bike, especially the person that stole mine. Like all children a piece of my innocence was stolen when the Orange Peeler went away.

My bike riding continued with a new found vengeance. I became an outlaw biker.

Hell on wheels.

My best friend at the time rode with me. Me and John John. A kid so tough you had to say his first name twice. On a borrowed bike I rode alongside my compadre until a challenge was issued. John John had called me out.

He said he was faster.

I couldn't have disagreed more.

The stage was set for the biggest bike race Aberdeen Washington had ever seen. My Dad and brother were the track officials on that fine Saturday afternoon. We lived mid-block on Chilton Road and the track officials decided that we would head opposite directions and make one full loop around the block.

I was to head North on Chilton while John John had the uphill leg South on Chilton to Purkey Avenue. Both of us would then turn onto lengthy Bel Aire Avenue and let our legs do the talking. The finish line was our driveway.

1817 Chilton Road.

We sat upon our bikes, poised and waiting for the officials countdown. Anticipation hung in the air as I glanced at young John John.

A slight head nod and curling of the lip, eyes fixated upon the competition.

The familiar "Ready Set Go" and adrenaline surged my bike forward. The greatest bike race of all time had begun.

I felt strong that day. Almost unstoppable. I turned left onto Bel Aire and turned on the juice. The beautiful thing about a race like this is getting to see your competition heading towards you. As I saw John John in the distance I knew that he had brought his "A" game. He pedaled with a fury I had never seen in a kindergartener.

Charlie Hole's house was directly behind ours and I knew this was the halfway mark. We crossed his driveway almost simultaneously and I screamed "I GOT YOU!" as I passed. I know that John John yelled something back but the speed of the wind created by my pedaling was too great to make hearing possible.

My Father tells me later in life that he has never been involved in a greater race then the "Saturday Slaughter on Chilton". He retells the story with equal enthusiasm.
Standing at the finish line in eager anticipation, he waits.

He waits for what must seem like a lifetime.

Both John John and I reach opposite ends of Chilton road at the same time. Both of us have downhill runs to greatness and future bragging rights.

With legs burning and John John in my sights, I pedal.

Time slows. I have to beat John John.

There is no second place. I have to beat him to the driveway.

My Father says that he knew there was going to be trouble as soon as he saw the look in both our eyes. Determined looks of men in battles to the death. He knew the outcome as soon as we both turned onto Chilton Road.

He says the crash was something legends are made out of.

John John and I, both unwilling to yield or take second, met head on at the entrance of that driveway on 1817 Chilton Road and collectively launched our tired bodies skyward.

The sound of children hitting the pavement sent a hush over Chilton road and the echoes of screaming Mothers filled the Saturday afternoon air.

As my Father made the first step towards what has to be a crippled or at least seriously disfigured Son, I rose. John John did also.

Like true champions both of us at the same time jumped to our feet and screamed,

"I WON!"

The argument had begun.

Having no instant replay back in 1976 there was no solid proof to the true victor of the great race. I tried to make the point that my bent front wheel proved that John John's wheel struck mine making me the winner by inches.

My Father declared us both Champions.

My head had a massive welt on it and we both were bloodied from the crash.

Although the pain was immense I had found great satisfaction in riding that day.

Today is a much, much different day.

The pain I feel upon this stationary beast is like none I have ever felt and John John is nowhere to be found.

I am absolutely convinced that my personal trainer is a beast straight from the very bowels of Hell. Why I ever thought that "Spinning" seemed like something I would enjoy escapes me.

I try and relive the glory of the great race as my legs burn to the techno music that adds extreme insult to injury. I am in spandex hell.

There is no doubt in my mind that I might see my breakfast make a surprise visit on the floor of 24 hour fitness.

With the hell finally over I lay flat on my back, arms above my head. I can't tell if I am actually dead or not. I open my eyes and she is standing above me.

So how did you like your first day of spinning?

Wow is she perky.

I look her dead in the eye and say,

Don't you mean my last?

******************************************

I meet up with Jeff at the 5:30 meeting. I sit next to him at the meeting and listen to a couple people talk about service work. I ask Jeff about that and he really seems to like the idea of doing some sort of service work. He tells me that I need to go to the monthly group meeting where they decide how the group is run and make decisions on changes and whatnot.

After the meeting Jeff and I sit in his car and I go over my list that he asked me to make. He just listens to what I have to say and when I am finished he looks at me and says, "sounds good. Sounds like you are one of us."

He smiles as he says it.

He asks me if I think I am ready for step two. I say that I am. I feel that the whole rehab process was step one for me. I am really looking forward to getting on with this. One day at a time. One step at a time.

Step two-
Came to believe that a power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity

God.

Restore me to sanity.

There is nothing more that I want in this world.

The question is do I really believe that God is the answer to all of my pain?

When I really start thinking about this I come to the conclusion that I don't need to have all the God answers right now. I just have to have a little faith.

That night I sit and read the second chapter in the 12 and 12 and I love what it has to say. I love it because it makes so much sense. Alcoholics, in general, are defiant people.

Defiant to authority and defiant to even God.

At times we feel that because of the disease, God has left us and has failed us.

How could God do this to us? I asked you to get rid of this pain and you didn't!

I re-read the next part over and over again.

"When we encountered A.A., the fallacy of our defiance was revealed. At no time had we asked what God's will was for us; instead we had been telling Him what it ought to be. No man, we saw, could believe in God and defy Him, too. Belief meant reliance, not defiance.

Reliance, not defiance.

Today was the day that I came to believe.

It is all about Following God's will.