20 Cyclists in Tight Formation

I was leaving the mountains where I had lived for more than 35 years and moving just down off the mountain to an old single-wide my brother was letting me live in until I “got on my feet.” My children both had jobs and were comfortably housed in separate cities, each with 1/3 of our collected possessions. I had already moved myself into the trailer, making many trips with my small blue Honda Fit loaded to the dome light. This was my last trip having that morning closed on the sale of my house for just about what I still owed on it. CitiBank had been very patient with me; they didn’t want the burden of selling the house.

I don't always hear close coaching in my mind, in my voice. But this was a special occasion.

As I drove one of my favorite routes from Asheville to Anderson—west across the mountains and then down—I was aware of the precarious place my life was in; I had forgiven everyone I could think of forgiving, my children were adequately launched, my financial debts were satisfied—I saw no reason why I needed to stay living because everything that needed fixing I believed was fixed.

It was early March. The bank to the right of me dropped off so looking straight through into the treetops I saw a few remaining red bud trees and the start of the coral blossoming of maples. As I gazed left up the bank to dim sunlight blinking through the tall straight trunks of birch and oak trees, I admitted to myself, okay, I suppose I could go now. I could safely die having cleaned up all my messes.

But then I felt sad—deeply sad—that while I had fixed the damage I was at least partly responsible for, I had not done anything more. “No. I don’t want to go now. I want to do more. I want to do something positive, not just leave less negative.”

“Alright, then. Pay attention.”

And moving my gaze from the light among the birches to the road ahead, I saw something I could not quite resolve…but knew was not normal. I slowed the Fit to a crawl and saw that far ahead in the lane to my left was—something—coming around a curve. Then coming around the curve in my lane, was something bigger—and faster. I came to a stop far enough back to allow a van to pass what turned out to be 20 cyclists in tight formation. The van eventually crossed into the lane in front of them…just in front of me. I took in a breath.

“Okay,” I asked. “What’s my assignment?”