The toughest thing out there is believing in yourself

I’ve had plenty of time and reason lately to think about things that have gone well in life, and things that have not. Plus my son Evan is aiming to do wonderful things with his company dedicated to helping people come to grips with their perceived failures in life.

My greatest challenge, and this is one I likely share with millions of people, is believing in myself. When you stop and consider what that means, it quickly starts to separate into all kinds of categories. There’s work. There’s family. And for those of us who run and ride and swim, there are all the extras that come with trying to believe in yourself in training, races and the outcomes of all that.

I’ve been through major ups and downs in life. Most people have. I admit to liking those signs in public places that say something like, “Be nice to people, you never know what they’re going through.” That’s so true. When my late wife was dealing with cancer we’d have people reach out to us and many would come to confess that they were facing a challenge too. They’d say, “I’ve got this thing going on, but it’s nothing compared to what you’re going through.”

We’d ask them about it and often, it would turn out to be something really significant. That would lead to a conversation and remarkably, the tables would sometimes turn. We’d often confer after those moments and respond with a “Who knew?”

The answer is often that nobody knows what you’re going through. And people that are critical without knowing the truth about what’s going on in your life? They have their own issues. Ignore them.

Think about things on your own terms. Some aspects of life seem too embarrassing to confess, while others involve too many elements to begin to describe. Health issues are especially difficult. Plus, when athletes get hurt or overtired, there’s an aspect of guilt or feeling like you’re stupid for winding up with an injury or illness. That can eat at your confidence and belief in yourself.

But here’s the truth: Not everything is “your fault.” We all get hurt. Feel pain. Lose confidence. Question ourselves.

For some people, it helps to have a coach or counselor to guide you through those rough periods. Having people around you that can encourage you through therapy or the healing needed to get back to normal are quite valuable. Yet when the wounds are psychological, and emotional pain is real, it can be hard to confess that you’re even suffering. That is a tough place to reside. Don’t do it all alone. Find someone who can (and will) listen.

I can think of one profound moment early in life when I should have spoken up about my mental health. I was a junior in college and the previous summer I’d had a really shitty summer job in a factory where the work environment was physically and emotionally abusive. As a kid growing up with anxiety and reaching adulthood, I didn’t know how to process all that I’d gone through that summer. Come fall in cross country my head was a bit fragile. I remained in the Top 7 but seldom had many breakthrough results.

Then came the conference meet and my mood somehow went completely dark. I’d experienced dark emotions before, but nothing like the emotional tank I found myself in at the starting line. That five-mile race felt like a living hell of negativity and abject disgust with myself. It took me over 28:00 to run a distance I had covered in the low 26:00 minute range that season.

The effects of that terrible run were devastating. Granted, it wasn’t an easy course to race on, and looking back, I don’t recall how my teammates reacted. We’d won the meet by many points so my results didn’t hurt us.

Then came nationals.

Somehow, out of some sense of ultimately determined self-belief, I ran as our fifth man at the national meet even though it was conducted in terribly cold conditions. I’d come through in the end. We placed eighth in the nation that year as a team.

That next year in cross country, I ran as our second man for much of the season, and placed as our fifth man at nationals where our team took second in the nation. I’d overcome the darkness to run in the light.

Those looking for evidence of how sports can toughen you for life need look no further than examples like these to realize that we can train ourselves for life’s difficulties by taking on athletic challenges. When we fall short in those endeavors, it teaches us to look within to find new––or different––sources of strength when needed. We can also turn to others for inspiration or motivation. We learn to believe in ourselves that way.

I’ll admit that I need some of that strength right now in life, as losses of several kinds grind at my generally positive nature. I do believe that I’ll come through in time, and many good things are happening. Because…I’ve come through before. I will do it again.

So when you need that motivation to “come back” from a loss of some kind, or a fear you need to overcome, it pays to look at how you’ve dealt with challenges in the past, and examine where you found that self-belief. Then stand up, take a deep breath, and put those muscles into action. The brain will often follow. Then they can start working together again.

Posted in anxiety, Christopher Cudworth, college, competition, cross country, mental health, mental illness, running, training, triathlete, triathlon, triathlons | Tagged , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

This is what heaven feels like

This morning was heavenly here in Illinois. It was warm and humid with the smell of phlox and honeysuckle in the air. I ran the first downhill mile of a trail that I’ve been training on since 1981 when the railroad bed was converted to a recreational path.

Catbirds were calling in the hedges as I ran past. The urgent ‘fitz-bew’ call of a willow flycatcher sounded overhead. Rufous-sided towhees were singing in the woods, “drink-your-teaaaahhheeaahhh.”

My pace was slow as the legs were tired from running ten miles two days ago. It takes longer to recover than it used to. I alternate training days with swimming, cycling and running to keep soreness at bay.

Out on the run the arc of trees shaded the limestone path. People were out walking and running, riding bikes and watching their shadows trail ahead of them.

That path goes on for seventeen miles out to Sycamore, Illinois. Today was a five-mile run, so I turned around just before Wasco and picked up the pace on the return trip. That’s how it always works these days. I start out really slow and wind up running a minute or two faster per mile on the way back. The days of bending over a few times and taking off at 6:00-7:00 pace are long gone. That’s okay.

The days that I do feel good on the run are not lost on me. The last weeks of May are particularly heavenly, especially after the cold February we had in Illinois with snows two feet deep. I even appreciate the struggle of getting going on the run, all the while knowing that eventually the pace will pick up. The struggle makes the good running seem so much more valuable.

If all we get to do in heaven is enjoy mornings like these May days, I’d be satisfied. I don’t think literally about such things, nor do I think we actually have any idea what “heaven” is like––or even if it actually exists in some way. We are free to indulge our imaginations. It seems harmless to think that our spirits might persist after our earthly bodies are gone. Some even believe we get an all-new version of a body in heaven.

What would that mean? What age might we be? Who determines whether we’re the age of 15 or 25, 35 or 55 when (and if) we reach heaven? Do they hold races in heaven? And if so, does everyone get a participation ribbon at the finish line?

Those of a conservative bent will likely hate heaven if that’s the case Some people aren’t happy unless someone claims the win and other people feel the sting of losing somehow. That attitude proves what Jean Paul Sartre set out to describe in his existential play No Exit, in which three people are locked in a room for eternity––and at any point in time, two of them don’t get along with the third. The conclusion to be drawn from that work of fiction is simple enough: “Hell is other people.”

All I know is that a day in May is just right for enjoying the moment for all that it is worth. The smell of purple and white phlox wafting across the path is perfection, even if it doesn’t last forever. I’ll take it in any case because to me, this is what heaven feels like.

Posted in competition, nature, running, We Run and Ride Every Day | Tagged , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Apple tree wisdom

I had a best friend while growing up in Pennsylvania who lived in a modest home at the center of a golf course south of Lancaster. We did everything together from playing sports to learning about girls as we entered middle school.

One of our favorite places to talk or hide out on quiet afternoons was the giant apple tree that stood in a stone well next to the front porch. We’d climb out on a fat limb worn smooth by our visits and talk about what mattered in our lives. When apples were in season we’d pick a pair and chomp into them with relish. Sometimes we’d be a little early in choosing to try the apples and experience a tart surprise. We’d laugh and challenge each other to keep eating as our faces squinched up in sour delight.

As we aged our apple tree talks turned to sports. We both had favorite baseball and football teams, and followed some classic World Series contests on AM transistor radio.

At age ten we tried out for baseball and made the team. Our club won the Lancaster New Era city championship. Both of us earned our own “letter jackets” in glorious red with large sewn-on patches. His jacket stayed emaculate, while mine got dirty and the sleeves turned to threads. I wore that jacket proudly and also wore it out. Such are the fortunes of souls whose self-esteem is tied so closely to their athletic endeavors.

We also competed in gym class at Martin Meylin Junior High. Every kid in the class had to take physical fitness tests and the outcomes branded you for half the year at least. A Blue stripe marked the most accomplished, a Red Stripe was second rank and a White Stripe was pretty much the ribbon of disgrace. I missed the Blue Stripe by two mere pull-ups, and was devastated. But my friend missed out too. So we consoled each other in the apple tree.

That year in gym class I did learn about my running ability. We all lined up on the cinder track next to Lampeter-Strasburg High School and took off running for twelve full minutes. The goal was to cover as many laps as you could in the allotted time. I led the way with 8 and 1/4 laps, the best in school.

I’m second in the second row and my best friend is right in the middle

Not long after that our family moved to Illinois and my boyhood friend and I were separated by distance, time and the cost of long-distance phone calls. We met up again over the years, but the connections dissolved and finally fell apart.

But when we were close nothing made more sense than making sense of life while sitting in that apple tree. There was certainty in the comfort of that smoothed out bark. The dappled light. The sound of our voices, and I loved his voice, was a vital part of growing up. He had three sisters and knew tons more about girls and women than I ever would. I had three brothers and found most everything about girls mysterious and somewhat confusing.

He’d sometimes explain why certain girls liked me and why others might not. At one point he explained that if I wanted girls to like me, I’d have to learn to let them win at sports once in a while. Even at that age, I refused to think that way. If my goal was to impress girls, how would letting them beat me do that?

HIs advice was a bit of apple tree wisdom I chose to disregard. Sure enough, I was right about women in that respect after all. They are perfectly capable of beating me on a number of fronts. I rather take pride in my version of apple tree wisdom. Along the way the feeling of losing to girls and women in sports was a tart surprise at times, but soon enough the apples ripen and you realize that sharing time in the apple tree with women is worth the taste of a few sour apples along the way.

Posted in running, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , | Leave a comment

A new twist on the meaning of “run and ride”

Keith’s teammates gathered in his memory. Steve Corson, Paul Mullen, Chris Cudworth, Dani Fjelstad,

Yesterday I woke up early at a hotel in Indianola, Iowa and pulled on the running clothes. The weather was damp and spitting rain, so I wore a rain jacket and took off south into town. I was heading for Simpson College, the school where my friend and former teammate Keith Ellingson coached for many years.

I ran a mile to campus and it felt good thinking about all the miles we’d run together in our years at Luther College. Over the last few months I’ve learned much more about Keith’s life by connecting with his former athletes in Zoom calls. He was a tremendous influence on the lives of so many people.

The track gate was open when I arrived. I said a little, “Thanks, Keith,” out loud and began trotting around the inside lane. It was humid so I tossed the jacket on the fence and started picking up the pace. It still feels really good to run on a track.

Running at eight minutes a mile these days feels like five minute pace once did. The sensations of moving at an age-appropriated pace aren’t much different, you see. The breathing. The attention to foot plant. The flow.

These are things I shared long ago with my friend Keith. I shared them again yesterday in memory of his prodigious running talent. He was a joy to watch run.

The memorial service later that morning was heartfelt and bittersweet. Keith’s patient perseverance through ten years of Parkinson’s disease was on everyone’s mind. Yet it was his dedication to others that came through fullest in every word about his life. I’d cried hard earlier that morning so that I would not lose it emotionally during the eulogy. Part of me regrets that aspect of my talk about our friendship. It was not for lack of feeling. My knees were shaking as I walked carefully up the stairs to address those in attendance. The goal was to be fully present, and composed. I think that’s what Keith would have asked of me.

Or he would have laughed at my careful preparations and shared some lilting anecdote about a speech he’d given in his life. That’s what made him so special. His abilty to knit experiences together into a meaningful whole. And when that wasn’t the goal, he’d often introduce ideas through stories meant to convey some sort of standalone truth.

Clouds rising up during my ride back home.

I feel blessed to have reconnected with him this past year. That was not some prescient notion on my part. I just enjoyed talking with him again. His passing due to a cardiac event was a shock to us all, but especially to his daughters, to whom Father Keith is the parent who served as both mom and dad these past ten years after losing Mother Kristi to ovarian cancer.

We all keep company in our comings and goings.

So I was sad but felt embraced in the moment by all the wonderful people who joined in celebration of his life. Then we said goodbyes in parking lots and I got into my Subaru for the ride back home. I’ve driven plenty of miles this past week, including two back and forth six-hour stints between Tampa and Panama City last weekend for my wife’s triathlon.

On the return trip from Indianola I turned on an Indie station on Pandora and let the subtle music wash over me. For some reason I took special notice of the pavement sliding beneath my vehicle. Time itself. The sun was setting behind me as I crossed into Illinois and curved home on I-88 toward North Aurora.

That ride back was an ideal time to reflect and process what it means to be alive with all its joys and tribulations. It made me consider that the title of this blog, We Run and Ride, has an alternate significance. The pastor at Keith’s service talked a bit about that when citing the Bible verse,

2 Timothy 4:7-8

I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith. 

We’re all on this “run,” this “race” of life together. If you keep a sense of wonder about you, it can be a wonderful ride as well. That’s what I encourage you to do. Enjoy the run, but appreciate the ride.

Posted in Uncategorized | Leave a comment

What it means to lose a longtime friend

Sharing this from my other blog, The Right Kind of Pride. May you all find gratitude in life, and cherish those you love; friends, family, and more.

Christopher Cudworth's avatarThe Right Kind of Pride

Five Luther College teammates, from left to right: Dani Fjelstad, Steve Corson, Paul Mullen, Keith Ellingson and Christopher Cudworth.

I’m driving out to Iowa today to share in the visitation and funeral for a longtime friend, Keith Ellingson. He was a freshman year roommate at Luther College where we were also cross country teammates.

After that, we worked together in college admissions, then parted ways as we got married, raised children and engaged in our careers.

He built a legacy as an excellent coach in track and field and cross country. His worked earned him a place in the Simpson College (IA) Hall of Fame. Dozens of his athletes earned All-American status, and one of his decathletes made the United States Olympic team.

His achievements were many, but he was perhaps proudest of his three daughters, Jessica, Bailey and Catie, all of whom I’ve followed in their careers and family…

View original post 760 more words

Posted in Uncategorized | Leave a comment

The cycling tragedy of Helmut Jahn hits close to home

CNN photo of Helmut Jahn

World-famous architect Helmut Jahn was killed in a cycling accident in an area known as Campton Hills, Illinois, outside the City of St. Charles. The intersection where he was struck twice by a pair of vehicles is quite familiar to me. I’ve approached Burlington Road on Old Lafox Road many times in fifteen years of cycling.

It isn’t apparent from accident reports why Jahn elected not to stop at the intersection but that is what witnesses reported. Perhaps he swung right not noticing oncoming traffic. The stretch of road immediately to the north (left) bends and cars aren’t immediately visible. He may have turned casually, swung out into traffic and was struck on his bike.

I would never think to criticize Helmut Jahn for poor decision-making. I’ve had so many incidents and close calls I’m probably lucky to be alive myself. Nearly nine-hundred people a year die in bike accidents. Some are experienced riders while others, not so much. Some accidents happen in urban environments while others take place in remote locations where either the cyclist or the driver make a fatal move and that’s it. A life is over.

The Chicago Tribune reported on the life and work of Helmut Jahn this morning. He was educated at Illinois Institute of Technology in Chicago. HIs famous works include the revitalization of the O’Hare terminal from a dull passageway to a celebratory tour through light. His accomplishments were many, and even his failures bore the stamp of fame. The State of Illinois/James Thompson building was one such “failure” in the sense that it had loads of heating and cooling issues. The building “made his reputation internationally and ruined it in Chicago,” the article noted.

If all fairness, there is no way this tree is normally stretched across the pathway.

We all want to feel like we’ve made some sort of mark in this world. Helmut Jahn appeared on the cover of GQ magazine and his work is known for its clarity and simplicity. That’s a coarse summary for a life lived so fully, yet it ended so quickly and tragically that the ultimate lesson is conflicted by the nature of his demise. Perhaps he was dreaming of a new project when he drifted out in that lane of traffic. Creative minds tend to do that. I once ran smack into a downed tree because I had my head down thinking about a book cover design while riding.

If we have to go, perhaps that’s the best way to go about it. Immersed in a dream of our own making, we move into another realm without even trying. We call it a tragedy from our earthly perspective, but it is our ideas that live on. In that respect, Helmut Jahn transcended life even as he lived it. That’s a great legacy to leave, on two wheels or not.

I can’t leave this topic without making the one cycling joke that fits this tragedy. The story about his death did not say whether Helmut was wearing a helmet. That’s because it likely did not matter. Traffic on Burlington Road moves swiftly, I can tell you that. I’ve ridden that road all the way from Wasco out to Route 72. Cars fly and if they strike a cyclist, people would die. All this hits close to home with me, and to that note, I’ve been extra cautious these past couple years while riding my bike. That’s the takeway here. Look twice, and always brake at intersections. Always.

Posted in aging, aging is not for the weak of heart, bike accidents, bike crash, blood on the highway, cycling | Tagged , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Ups and Downs and Sideways too

Cycling down a long descent northeast of Galena, Illinois, I thought I was going slow enough to be safe coming into a thirty-degree curve ahead. I was wrong. At the moment when my bike and body started to angle across the 20 mph wind coming through a gap between the trees, the tires of my Specialized bike gave a small shudder on the pitted asphalt. I’m not a fan of such feelings. The bike wobble accident from nine years ago that resulted in a broken clavicle and a near-death experience keeps me from doing crazy things on the roads these days. I’d rather go slower than crash.

My wife was no fan of the harsh winds either. She was forced to rise out of aero position on her triathlon bike in order to keep control of her Trek when hard crosswinds drove against our bodies in the open sections of the ride. It was far safer to ride with hands on the bullhorns and give up a little speed than to place all weight on the arm rests.

The five-mile section heading straight into the south wind was truly tough going. I just concentrated on keeping a smooth pedal stroke and ignored how fast or slow I was going. At times the wind stood me up as the bike shivered right or left. I was moved to laugh out loud. That was the best strategy of all. Just laugh at the wind like the character Maximus advised in the movie Gladiator:

Death smiles at us all, all a man can do is smile back.”

We’d gotten a little lost early in the ride when we missed a turn marker at five miles. Three miles up the wrong road we turned back, adding six extra miles to the total ride. After 52 miles of total riding, and facing another ten miles straight into the wind on open roads back to the start, we elected to “sag” it back to the starting line. We’d already climbed more than 4000 feet during those miles on the road, and the wind added plenty of resistance when we weren’t riding uphill.

In other words, we’d gotten what we wanted from the ride. A great workout and a safe journey through the ups and downs and sideways too. That explains those smiles in the photos. The wind smiles at us all. All a man and woman can do is smile back.

Posted in aging, aging is not for the weak of heart, cycling | Tagged , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Bathing in love and respect

Finding peace between workouts isn’t always easy.

Christopher Cudworth's avatarThe Right Kind of Pride

She works hard and seldom takes time to slow down.

After our fifty-mile bike ride in the hills of Galena, Illinois, this past Saturday, we awoke Sunday morning to do a long run back home in Illinois.

It turned warm and the long run turned out to be, in my wife’s words, “A lot of ouch.” When we got home she proclaimed that she was going to take a relaxing bath.

She does not do that often. More typically she takes a shower “on the fly” after her morning and afternoon workouts. That’s why her plan for a late-morning bath seemed like a good idea.

Knowing that my wife wanted to slow down and indulge herself a bit inspired me to move into the background. She did request that I bring her favorite shampoo, conditioner, and deep conditioner to her in the tub. I delivered those and flopped back on…

View original post 203 more words

Posted in Uncategorized | Leave a comment

Cornfield winds and cinnamon buns

I returned to Kaneland High School as a substitute teacher yesterday. I attended that school from 8th grade through sophomore year. Nothing makes you review your life’s decisions like walking the halls of a high school you attended decades before.

In some respects, the memories were thick and I let them pass through my mind. But most of all I realized that kids today are pretty much cut from the same mold that all of us were. When we’re that age most of us have no idea what’s going to happen the next day, much less what comes along in the future.

So I refused to beat myself up for being a recalcitrant student. Avoided second-guessing all those cross country and track performances. Truth: sports occupied so much of my brain in those days, it was almost unhealthy. All that self-esteem tied up in sweaty knots. Yesterday I talked with a trio of boys wearing running shoes and track shirts. They were part of the Kaneland team that won the state cross country meet a year back. They could well have been teammates in my day as well. Same lean look. A bit geeky. But cool in their way.

Beyond sports, girls dominated the other hyper-stimulated aspects of my attention. These days while serving as a substitute teacher it is interesting to absorb bits of conversation between the young women and men chatting between classes.They sound just like we used to sound. It is also true that the Alpha women still don’t mess around. They can’t stand asshole guys any more than they used to, and say so. Without a sister to normalize my understanding of women in high school days, I was left trying to figure them out on my own. Some were patient with me. Others not so much.

Beyond those interests, I spent time birdwatching. My friends gave me constant grief about it. The social maelstrom of high school worked like that. People probing at what they considered your soft spots.

I was a hard-wrought kid in so many respects. We ran all those laps around the asphalt parking lots in the teeth of those cornfield winds. Only then would my brain clear of hormones and insecurities. Refined to a bone and flesh being committed to one thing: running a little faster than the last lap.

It’s no wonder I would save up money to buy sweet cinnamon rolls from the cafeteria during lunch hours. My calorie-strained body craved carbs and those rolls were rich with bread and sugar, gooey cinnamon and delicious frosting. Comfort food.

I will apologize for many things in life, and recognize my failures from fifty years ago as well as today. But I will never apologize for loving those cinnamon buns. They were my salvation.

Posted in aging, aging is not for the weak of heart, anxiety, Christopher Cudworth, running, track and field | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

Step on the gas and wipe that tear away

The famous closing suite of songs on The Beatles album Abbey Road offers a ton of quotable lyrics. As spring leans toward summer here in Illinois, I’ve been thinking about a few of the transitions I’ve endured over the years.

Chris Cudworth circa 1963

It was spring of 1963 when our family moved from Seneca Falls, New York to a new home in Lancaster, Pennsylvania. The night before our move, I stayed at the home of my kindergarten teacher, who kindly purchased a gift book about submarines that I cherished, but left behind at her home the next morning. Upon realizing that fact, I burst into tears while perched between my two brothers in the back seat. But we weren’t turning back.

Seven years later in the late spring of 1970, our family moved again, this time from Lancaster, Pennsylvania to Elburn, Illinois. That move was an even greater personal upheaval as I left behind friends made through elementary and middle school. I was turning thirteen years old, and well recall having no one to join me on the basketball court during April because my friends had all gone out for baseball. I was leaving town, so it made no sense to try out. So I shot baskets alone for hours with my ABA basketball with its red, white and blue skin worn thin by hours of practice.

Three years later my family moved again from Elburn to St. Charles, Illinois a city ten miles east. By then I’d earned a spot as the top cross country runner at Kaneland High School, was President of the class and had many valued friends among my peers. Twenty-five years later I asked my father why we moved in the middle of my sophomore year and he told me, “I didn’t want your brother to play basketball for that slow-down offense at Kaneland.” I knew that offense all too well as a starter on the sophomore team who was almost brought up to the varsity team that placed second in state that spring. But knowing that I’d just moved to another town, the coaches passed me over for that opportunity.

My father was right about my brother. He played great at the new school and earned a D1 scholarship at a school back east. But I asked me dad, “That was great for him but what about me?”

“I knew you were a social kid,” my father replied. I knew you’d survive.

To put it plainly, I’ve stepped on the gas and wiped away a few tears in my time. At some point the anchor of sentiment ceases its grip on you. As an adult I was told in the spring of 1982 that I was being transferred from Chicago to an office in Philadelphia. That summer I said goodbye to friends and moved all my junk out to a small apartment in Paoli, Pennsylvania. The job lasted until April of that next spring when the whole department was shut down in a fit of disgust with the VP of Marketing who didn’t have a clue.

Before I packed all my stuff in a U-Haul van I drove down the east coast to get naked in the sand of Assateague Island. Then I gathered up my belongings again and moved “home” to an apartment in downtown Chicago. That spring I went for a run on the beach with a good friend and roommate and had no idea what the future held.

The only thing I knew by that point in time is that change is inevitable. I’d kept on running out east in Pennsylvania so I turned that energy into a personal protest of sorts at all the stupid changes I’d just been through. Chicago became my training ground. I ran and ran and ran. I won races right and left. For two years I ran like a madman while making just enough money to get buy. It wasn’t a future that I could bank upon, but it was my way to step on the gas and wipe that tear away.

When spring rolls around every year and the light takes on a certain tinge, I feel that familiar tug of pain that came with so many moves. But as I’ve always known, the best thing when you’re forced to move is to keep moving. So I still lace up the running shoes or hop on the bike and let the restless wind buffet me until those hard feelings are gone.The Beatles were certainly right. You have to step on the gas and wipe that tear away. It never really ends.

There have been consoling moments. I recall crouching in the back seat of that 1965 Buick Wildcat on our way out to Illinois from Pennsylvania in 1970. The Abbey Road and Let It Be albums were still all over the music charts and my eldest brother leaned down to me and we started singing that short and bittersweet Beatles refrain together…

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven
All good children go to Heaven

Heaven is the place that all people supposedly want to go. In spring of 2013 I realized that my wife was not going to survive into the summer months. Rather than us picking up and moving this time, it was a question of rallying people around her to say goodbye and wipe away tears. Ironically, she’d only gotten to ride three times in the new Subaru we purchased that spring. I still have that vehicle, and during a recent service appointment one of the technicians said, “You’ve done a good job getting 100,000 miles out of this car.”

I thought to myself, “This car is going twice that far, at least.” That’s why we bought it in the first place. So that we could have a dependable car in which to step on the gas and wipe that tear away. Alone or together in this world, you’ve got to keep moving until something good again comes your way.

Posted in aging, aging is not for the weak of heart, Christopher Cudworth, cross country, death, healthy aging | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments