Seventy

Afternoon rush hour is my favorite time of day if I’m on my bike. It was 4:15 and I had just locked up at work. My black Ivan Chrome bag held my laptop; a water bottle; a cycling travel kit complete with a CO₂ pump, multi-tool, and patch kit; a Kryptonite cable lock; and my wallet and cell phone. It’s the cargo that I carry every day to and from work. The heavy duty straps and thick padding allowed me to forget about the weight of my cargo as I snapped the aluminum frame of my Specialized Allez road bike back and forth underneath me during quick sprints through the city.

I rode south on Larimer St., enjoying the sights and sounds of the city on a Friday afternoon. The roads were packed like any other weekday after work, and I loved it. I took a quick glance over my left shoulder before darting across three lanes of moving traffic to the far left side of Larimer. I’ve always loved the rush of riding through traffic. I rode with 2,000 pounds of moving steel on either side of me as I traced the dashed white line on the asphalt of the one-way street with my 25-millimeter-wide Vittoria tires.

I angled the frame of my bike to the left as I took a quick turn onto 17^th, passing the drivers of luxury SUVs who were waiting for the light to turn green. I squeezed between an SUV and a four-door sedan as they rolled at twenty miles an hour, allowing myself a few inches on either side of me in order to prevent myself from getting clipped by a side view mirror of one of the vehicles. After looking over my left shoulder once again, I coasted over to the far left side of 17^th, threading the front of my bike through one-and-a-half foot gaps between vehicles. The minivan directly to the right of me began angling itself to the left, and before I could react appropriately, the rear left side of the vehicle made contact with the right side of my handlebars, sending me to the hard asphalt. Luckily I was able to make it through the tight gap between the moving minivan and the parked car on my left without being crushed.

As I readjusted my bag and stood up to re-engage my dropped chain, the girl who I had passed earlier stopped and asked if I was okay. I smiled and said I was fine, waving her off as she rode home. I had only suffered a couple of extremely minor scrapes from contact with the asphalt as did my bike. My right grip shifter had been bent to the left from contact with the van, but I was able to quickly realign it to its previous position. I was hardly acknowledged as I coasted up the open passenger side window to let the occupants know that they had just hit me. The girl just smiled at me as she got out of the car, undoubtedly headed to work.

“Whatever,” I thought as I quickly snapped my bike back to life under my legs. I turned right onto Broadway, riding alongside RTD busses and darting through empty intersections.

“Nice bag!” someone shouted behind me. I looked in time to see a bike messenger atop a chrome Bianchi fixie fly past me through a red light. I noticed that he was wearing the same bag I had. I raced behind him through traffic, dodging road drains that could swallow a 700c wheel and mounds in the asphalt created from years of heavy traffic.

I arrived near the intersection of 5^th Ave. and Broadway and coasted my bike to a stop in front of a parking meter. I had hoped to turn in the apartment inspection sheet for my studio in order to have several maintenance issues in my apartment resolved, but the doors were closed a full half hour early.

“Are they closed early again? My goodness, they are the worst management company ever.” A woman had stepped out of a maroon sedan in an attempt to open the locked front door of the building.

I quickly unlocked my bike and slid the lock inside the outside left pocket of my bag and headed home. As I turned north onto Lincoln, I began thinking about the incident that had happened only about ten minutes prior. I thought about trying to go back to the spot that I was hit to see if the driver of the minivan was still parked there. I figured I would attempt to one again communicate the fact that they had hit me with their car, but I quickly decided against it.

I stood up out of the saddle to ride up a short, steep section of the road, heading right into the heart of the city. I figured that going back to angrily address the driver of the minivan would not result in anything significantly beneficial. I wasn’t hurt at all in the incident anyways. I figured I would leave it alone. I suppose I decided to forgive her at that point.

I was reminded of the story in Matthew 18 where Peter asks Jesus, “Lord, how often will my brother sin against me, and I forgive him? As many as seven times?” Jesus said to him, “I do not say to you seven times, but seventy times seven.” Jesus goes on to explain that the kingdom of heaven is like a king who wished to settle accounts with his servant, who owed him a lifetime of wages (over a billion dollars in today’s currency). After the servant begged for mercy, the king went on to completely erase the debt of the servant, allowing him to go free. Even though the servant was shown such mercy, he immediately went on to demand a few thousand dollars’ worth of money from one of his fellow servants, imprisoning him because he could not pay. The king soon heard of what had happened, and, completely infuriated at the servant’s lack of mercy upon his fellow servant, the king imprisoned him until he could pay off all of the debt that he owed. “So also my heavenly Father will do to every one of you, if you do not forgive your brother from your heart.”

This passage always weighs on me heavily when I read it. I think of the many times that I have held a grudge against someone for something trivial. At one point about a year ago, I was hit by a cyclist who wasn’t paying attention on campus, causing me to go head first over my handlebars, striking my forehead on the concrete and shattering my glasses in the process. I was irritated that he had caused me to break my favorite set of glasses and caused my bike to suffer several scratches. I soon realized how fruitless it was to hold a grudge against someone who had simply made a mistake. And to think that God will essentially allow me to be imprisoned in my own self-righteousness and unforgiveness causes shivers to run down my spine. If Jesus can forgive me and all of the awful things that I have done in my life, then I can forgive as well.

 “Seventy times seven,” I thought to myself.  I quickly crossed through the mall and turned once again onto 17^th, heading back towards my apartment. As I rode up another short climb, I came upon another likely bike messenger riding a slick, black and white aero fixie frame. He stopped his bike at an intersection, leaving both of his SIDI clipless shoes clipped into his SPD pedals as he sat nearly motionless in a track stand, waiting for a gap to open up in the moving traffic. He shot a gap between cars and I followed suit, heading east on the avenue.

I finally crossed West Park Avenue and rode into the back lot of my apartment complex. As I tossed my Chrome bag onto my futon, I decided that I would go on a ride. I noticed that the ceiling above the bathtub in my shower was gradually disintegrating from the water leak above. I could see chunks of drywall sitting inside the tasteless, peach colored porcelain bathtub. I sighed as I grabbed my cycling shorts and jersey out of the closet.

I quickly mixed a scoop of lemon-lime Gatorade mix into one of my water bottles and filled the second bottle with plain water, dropping both of them into the white Bontrager bottle cages on the frame of my bike. I double checked the air pressure of both of my tires, ensuring that they were both at a stiff 130 psi, grabbing my Specialized Body Geometry clipless shoes out of the closet and strapping them on in the process. I swigged a glass of EAS chocolate protein mix and slid a Clif bar into the center back pocket of my Hincapie jersey. I checked the time on my cell phone as I rode onto 16^th ave: 5:09. I figured I had about two hours of daylight left, so I decided to head down to Cherry Creek Lake real quick before it got dark.

I rode down Franklin though Cheeseman Park and soon approached 1^st ave. I checked my phone again as I waited for the light to change: 5:18. I rode onto Cherry Creek Trail, cranked up Oh, Sleeper’s Children of Fire album and put my legs to work. I generally do tempo work on the trails in Denver – I push myself to just under my limit, and I hold it there until I’m done with my loop. I could feel the muscles in my legs screaming for oxygen as I crested the rolling hills of the southbound trail, so I pushed harder. Technical breakdowns and dissonant chords filled my ears as I sped past other trail riders, leaving them far behind. I was pushing hard gears the entire way there, eventually coming up behind another rider. I drafted behind him, watching his massive calves ripple in the sunlight as I kept my front wheel mere inches from his rear wheel.

I absolutely love cycling. I have been thinking about this constantly over the past week. I love it more than anything because I get to romp around in the playground that God built for me – all of the smoothly paved roads and gorgeous mountain passes – while riding an amazing toy that He gave me: my beautiful aluminum-bodied Allez, hand built by yours truly (and though it isn’t worth a ton, it’s all mine). I get so pumped while I’m riding, thinking of everything that He does for me. My bike riding has become more of an act of worship lately. I get to soak in the beauty of His creation while enjoying what He has given me. I’ll ride a seventy mile loop through the mountains, pushing myself up Cat 3 climbs, but I’ll enjoy it so much that I’ll do it again the next day, just to soak in the beauty once more. I push myself harder and harder; I want to do everything to the absolute best of my ability because it’s all for Him. It sounds incredibly cheesy, but I don’t really care – I’m in love with my Creator.

I rode along the dam of Cherry Creek Lake, eventually coming out on Yosemite and turning right. I pushed harder as I watched the Fulcrum Racing 7 logos on my rims turn into a white blur. I soon dropped back onto Cherry Creek Trail, the sounds of Paramore’s Brand New Eyes in my ears. I could feel the muscles in my thighs tearing as I whipped by other cyclists. I finally approached REI along the Platte River and turned back onto 15^th St. It was 6:35 and I was home, over 28 leg-searing miles later, thankful for another day on this earth.