Cycles

I am such a dork. Really. I am.

Yesterday we participated in an event that was inspiring, motivating, and downright awesome. Nine weeks ago, The Christian Reformed Church (my denomination) launched their Sea to Sea Bike tour in an effort to fight global poverty. Their catchy slogan -- "ending the cycle of poverty" -- was their rallying cry, as over 200 bicyclists signed up for the challenge. They left Seattle, Washington to embark on this fight for justice, and began by dipping their tires into the Pacific Ocean in their own version of an "opening ceremony," with prayer before they pedaled away across the continent. 129 hardy souls made the entire trip; others picked up a leg of the journey. Two friends of mine joined the group, leaving their families two weeks ago to join the final leg of the trip, beginning in Grand Rapids. My friend Sandy blogged about her experiences, and just reading of it made my heart swell. It's truly, truly amazing.

Yesterday the cyclists' route put them in our area, the last day of the tour. They began the morning at High Point State Park, I believe, and would cycle down to Kearny where they would pick up a police escort for the last bit of the trip. Then in the afternoon they all gathered at Liberty State Park, where they would then dip their tires into the Atlantic Ocean, signaling the end of the journey across the country, finishing with a picnic and worship service. And never once did anyone lose sight of the goal: to fight poverty. As Sandy said this morning in church, every 3 seconds a child dies of poverty (or poverty-related issues); that's 4 turns of a bicycle wheel. She said she thought of that so often as she drove: every four strokes a child died, every 4 strokes a child died ...

So yesterday morning we piled into the car (my parents included) and joined our church's throng to meet the cyclists as they zipped down that particular route. Tables were set up with water, watermelon, grapes, and cookies -- a rest stop for the cyclists to refresh themselves, and we had a chance to meet them, hear their stories, rejoice with them, and encourage them on the last hours of their journey. It was awe-inspiring, to say the least, to see one person after another smile, wave, slow down, and stop, all gathering at our little oasis. The little kids -- mine included -- had the job of being the lookouts, shouting and screaming and waving and holding up homemade signs as the first glimpses of the riders came up over the hill. Sometimes one or two riders would stop for a rest; other times throngs swarmed down the hill -- creating their own sea of fluorescent yellow bike shirts with the logo of the event emblazoned on it. Some were sweaty, some were panting, some were soaring with ease, some were bruised and bloodied from past wipe-outs. So many of them were Canadians, some had strong Dutch accents, so many had interesting stories to tell, some had their own cameras with them and out of those who did, about 95% of them took pictures of the jubilant kids doing their part. I told Aidan that so many people took pictures of him, and Grace, that people all across America and Canada will see him! Everyone -- everyone -- was smiling.

But I am a dork, through and through.

When I was a kid, I saw Chariots of Fire in the movie theater with a neighbor-family down the street. I was captivated, inspired. When we got back, the two girls and I felt that we, too, could run as fast and hero-like as Eric Liddell. We raced up and down the sidewalk, throwing our heads back just as he did, convinced it made is run like the wind. I wanted to be a runner.

Yesterday, surrounded by a sea of justice-seekers, heroes, wonderfully fit human beings, fellow CRC-ers, super-cool bike riders ... well, I couldn't help myself. My dorkiness reared its head. I used to be a bike rider, before I had kids. I loved -- loved -- riding my bike. I wasn't a road cyclist, though -- I preferred riding in the woods, single-track, on my mountain bike. I got really good at it, too. But I hung up my bike when the kids came on the scene, too worn out to do it. Lame, I know. But yesterday ... well, I was an Eric Liddell fan again. It was just so, so cool. I wanted to ride my bike, convinced that I too could fight poverty, I too could be a part of a tour like that. Ummm ... well ... maybe not. At least not now. But yesterday afternoon I went into the garage, pulled out my dirty, dusty bike with tires like deflated balloons. Aidan was captivated, surprised to know that his mommy too knows how to ride a bike. I wiped it down, the silver Gary Fisher shining like new. I hopped on the seat, for the first time in over 6 years, and pedaled around the yard to Aidan's cheers. Who knows where it might lead ...

Yeah, I'm a dork.
But instead of biking, today we're hitting some hiking trails. Now that is something I can easily handle ...