Miles from home and nearly alone on the eastern slope of the Sierra Nevada, I was in the middle of a difficult cycling climb. From the floor of the high desert near the Nevada border, I had followed my buddy, Marc, about halfway up Monitor Pass, California highway 89.
We had already spent several hours on the road. Riding up the western route from Markleeville, we stopped at the summit before heading down toward US 395, hitting speeds of more than 44 mph, and coping with vicious cross winds.
Marc and I have cycled together for more than a year, up and down foothill and mountain roads. Habitually, before we clip into our pedals, we ask for God's protection from inattentive or mean-spirited drivers, and for our own heightened awareness of people and vehicles we encounter. We also give thanks for our strong bodies and the wonderful creation that God has put before us to enjoy. We know that we're never alone on these rides.
About 4 miles up we encountered two couples parked on the side of the road.
Marc was ahead of me and stopped between their two cars. They offered him an ice cold Diet Coke, which he and I happily shared. We chatted about our day and difficult return leg; the Bay Area couples were headed to Bishop for the weekend and stopped along the road for a picnic. They were interested in our story, asking lots of questions, including why we were doing this ride and whether it was part of a longer trek.
Marc was ahead of me and stopped between their two cars. They offered him an ice cold Diet Coke, which he and I happily shared. We chatted about our day and difficult return leg; the Bay Area couples were headed to Bishop for the weekend and stopped along the road for a picnic. They were interested in our story, asking lots of questions, including why we were doing this ride and whether it was part of a longer trek.
Moments later, one of the women brought us some sliced walnut bread, which also hit the spot.
To me, they were like good samaritans, helping us strangers up the hill, and I said as much. As we shoved off up the remaining slope, the Diet Coke and its modest caffeine had a great effect as we both felt rejuvenated.
But it was more than that. I felt the presence of my late father, David+, and longtime friend/mentor, Peter+, were present in the form of those two men. It really buoyed me and we charged up the back side. The Diet Coke and bread kind of symbolized an impromptu eucharist of sorts.
To me, they were like good samaritans, helping us strangers up the hill, and I said as much. As we shoved off up the remaining slope, the Diet Coke and its modest caffeine had a great effect as we both felt rejuvenated.
But it was more than that. I felt the presence of my late father, David+, and longtime friend/mentor, Peter+, were present in the form of those two men. It really buoyed me and we charged up the back side. The Diet Coke and bread kind of symbolized an impromptu eucharist of sorts.
On this exposed mountainside, under a bright sun and swirling winds, a chance meeting among six people can be taken for granted, or it can be cherished for something far sweeter: God's angels met us on the road to lift our spirits.
A friend shared this with me: Black Elk, the 19th century Lakota holy man, became a Christian in his old age. One day a Methodist and an RC were arguing a point in the Gospels. Black Elk strolled up and said, "What are you arguing about? Even if it didn't happen, it's still true."
