I Get To

When you’re young you make bad decisions. Some are bad and some are really bad. This morning I was debating if this was a really bad one. My girlfriend (now my wife) awoke in our little two-person tent up Sand Flats Road in Moab, Utah. There was 2” of snow on the tent and we had stupidly just slept in blankets—no bags or high-tech Patagonia stuff like that. Today Bill and I were going to ride Porcupine Rim, but the seasons had changed quicker than our 20-something-year-old ability to plan ahead did. So here we were. The girls went into town and Bill and I started off in the melting snow and mud. Jesus, we were young and crazy. How did I get here with this psycho BMX dude?

It was Babb’s drafting class, senior year at Broomfield High School in Broomfield, Colorado. Babb was lax and we took full advantage. I wanted to piss but also get a box of Hot Tamales from the school store, and the hall pass was out so I just left.

That single decision changed the trajectory of my life forever. Because on the way back from the bathroom with my new box of Hot Tamales I found out where the hall pass had gone. A tall dude with long blonde hair swept to one side, as was so common in the ’80s, was on the steps to the hallway leading back to the drafting classroom. He was bleeding from his face. I knew him of course—I was a skater and he was a BMXer. So I stopped and said, “Dude, what happened?”

He explained that some metalhead dude punched him in the face. For no reason. So we sat and had Hot Tamales and discussed how much we hated metalheads. I promised we’d find him and kick his ass eventually. After a bit we headed back to Babb’s class, who barely missed us. That day we became good friends and my trajectory changed.

It’s been 36 years since then. About 30 since Bill passed away. Broken bits in his heart decided they couldn’t be fixed again. It’s a bit fuzzy on the exact timing and details, to be honest. The brain protects, it dumps the memories like (some analogy about formatting computer diskettes). But I’ll never forget at his funeral in San Diego speaking to the mourners. I said “Bill is my best friend” in wobbly grief-stricken words. His dad stepped up to hold me, encourage me to finish. I realize now how selfish that was to say. It wasn’t about me. After all… I get to.

We rode all over the place—places you know like Moab, Mathew Winters, White Ranch, Switzerland trail in Nederland and even Devil’s Backbone in Malibu Canyon—and we raced the Cactus Cup and just rode and rode and rode. Bikes all day, all night. Pedals turned, bikes broke, new challenges achieved, burritos consumed.

As I cruised along my ride this morning 30 years later I drifted off thinking about him. I do often, and miss him greatly. But this time, for some reason, as I fought for traction on these white limestone ledges, I was struck with gratitude.

I get to ride this fucking bitch of a trail. I get to have my legs burn. I’ve ridden miles and miles since then. All over Texas, Colorado, California, Utah, Oregon, Arkansas. I’ve gotten hard days on my bike, I’ve fallen in and out of love with riding 5 times. I’ve pulled dirt plugs out of my nostrils after eating shit. I’ve made amazing friends along the way. I got to be here when bikes got quiet and went 1X, and dropper posts. I get to see my kids grow up, teach them to ride, go to Yeti Tribe with them. I get to. I get to.

The singletrack gets tight, bordered by flowers. I stopped to take some pics. I paused. I’m sure as hell that he’s looking down. Pushing me, grinning like he would when he would smoke me on the climbs and wait at the top. He was witty—he would say something hilarious and I would never have a good reply. I stared at those flowers and the beauty and my happiness and said “I get to.”

Life is so fleeting, short. It’s easy to miss the big picture. Today, it wasn’t lost on me. My love for Bill and thoughts about him drove me to realize it.

And, for today at least, I get to continue.