During the years that cycling was at the center of my life, I enjoyed signing up for charity events all over the southeast. For somewhere around $50 I could register for an event that would provide a marked course of 100K or 100 miles with several rest stops along the way, stocked with Gatorade and carbohydrate rich snacks to fuel all the spandex clad riders coming through. Oh, and portable toilets were also provided, which was always helpful. Usually, the organizers would also provide a souvenir shirt to commemorate the event. I've got a closet full of them.

The size of the events varied. If the ride was new and didn't have any kind of history, there might be only 30 or 40 participants. On the other hand, established events, like the rides for multiple sclerosis would stretch over an entire weekend, providing camping, meals, showers and two rides of 100 miles (160.93 km) each. There would be well over 1000 participants, all of whom raised money and paid an entry fee to participate. In North Carolina, the rides start and end in the eastern city of New Bern, in an area that's blessed with smooth, flat roads that don't have a lot of traffic. Typically, if we had to cross any really busy highways, the sheriff's department would station a car there for safety.

One of my favorite was the annual Mountains to the Sea event, known as Cycle North Carolina. Sponsored by the state tourism board, it draws people from all over the US and abroad for seven consecutive days of cycling across the widest state east of the Mississippi River. A normal day's mileage is somewhere around 70 miles (ca. 113 km). Most people bring a tent that is ferried from one town to the next by the event organizers along with their luggage. All the riders have to do each day is eat like their lives depend on it and ride their bikes. Each host town along the way goes all out to make the riders welcome. There are always some unique folks making the journey. One year I rode with a man who rode in business clothes and had heavy racks made from lumber attached to his bike. Since I don't live close to the mountains, the days we spent there were always challenging as we pedaled along the Blue Ridge Parkway with much larger elevation gains and losses than I was used to.

North Carolina has 100 counties, and my goal was to ride my bike in every one of them. Before physical ailments curtailed my riding, I'd managed to pedal at least a few miles in 78 of them. Even today, I find myself miles and miles from home, recognizing spots I cycled by in the past. A few places are really memorable, either because of the difficulty or the scenery or both. There is a climb in western South Carolina up the Greenville water shed that is more than five miles uphill. It looks very imposing when you see it on the day's elevation profile, but it proved to be a pleasant experience, something to feel good about at the end of the day.

That was one of the real joys of riding to me. It wasn't just the endorphin rush from the physical exertion or the scenery or the camaraderie, although all of those things were wonderful, What I loved was the sense of accomplishment achieved by voluntarily doing something difficult. The discomfort from too many miles on a narrow little bike saddle, the hills that make it feel like someone is sticking daggers in your thighs, the miles, and miles in the rain, far from home have faded into the background and what remains are the memories of the joy I felt so many times when mile 100 came earlier than I ever thought it could. I never had the kind of hand/eye coordination needed to be good at sports involving any kind of ball, but when it came to endurance, that I could do.

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Coming up with the energy to do battle with the forces of evil means that I can't waste my energy, a finite resource, tilting at windmills. Although I am not a religious person, I respect the wisdom found in the basic prayer that alcoholics recite before AA meetings, known as The Serenity Prayer.

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.

This prayer, jointly attributed to Reinhold Niebuhr and Winnifred Wygal, became popular in the 1930s. Like many godless heathens in the recovering community, I substitute a belief in a higher power in my mind instead of a deity, but I think folks should do what works for them. My higher power is the collective wisdom of the people I respect. It works for me.

Learning what can and cannot be changed is life's challenge to us all. Some folks believe "you can't fight city hall." Then you have Rosa Parks. Finding out what is possible within our limitations is not easy, but I have learned a few things since I was introduced to this way of thinking. We are all powerless over the past. I wish I'd made all kinds of different choices through the years, but what's done is done. I've learned not waste time wishing my life away on regrettable mistakes.

Another learned skill is when I finally began to differentiate between what I wanted and what I needed. I say that like I'm batting 1.000 in that department, but it is still a work in progress. In 2025, I need to be involved in the struggle against fascism. As an older straight white man, I could easily sit on the sidelines and suffer minimal losses, but I'd have no self-respect and rightfully so. I know that in the current struggle, there will be many defeats, but there will be some victories too. I think it's OK to want to win certain rights back from the right-wing, as long as we can accept that we won't actually get to pick the wins we achieve. This is where courage enters the equation. It's what makes us different from the people we are going up against. They don't have courage. They live in fear; fear that they might get treated the way they've treated minorities, fear that they won't get preferential treatment from employers and the courts. They are not striving for equality. They shudder at the idea. They feel entitled to supremacy.

One of the primary lessons learned in my life was that people have power together. Organized groups of people are what emancipated the enslaved, gained women the right to vote, stopped Jim Crow 1.0, and gave workers in this country what power and rights they have in the workplace. Part of my own received wisdom is to be a part of as many collectives as I have energy for. Isolation and some naive belief in rugged individualism results in the death of a movement. We need each other. We need to give voice to our anger, our fear, our outrage, and our determination. I'm not one to corner an unwilling listener to harangue them on anything, but I am one who will speak in the public square, whenever I find myself in one. People who are too privileged or too lazy to be concerned with what is happening to large swaths of the people in this country might want to police conversations. Good luck with that. I have people I love who are being targeted, a son-in-law who depends on veterans benefits because he was severely injured in combat, a grandson with a debilitating disease, LGBT family members, trans friends and the list goes on.

So, yeah, I need serenity, wisdom, and power and so do you.

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After working hard to create a cozy home office in which to begin my retired life, I've barely gotten to use it. The joys of homeownership provided me with an opportunity to practice patience and acceptance this week when my previously bulletproof natural gas furnace quit working on a 17-degree night. We weren't able to get an HVAC tech out to the house until late in the day when (of course) the parts stores were already closed. It didn't matter though because the parts we needed, $1500 worth, are only available through special order. To top it all off, a winter storm, rare in our region, rolled into town.

Our house is the classic two-story split-level. It's wide open and the only spaces with doors are bedrooms and bathrooms. The living and working areas are impossible to warm with just space heaters, no matter how good they are. After sitting around under blankets in a house with Interior temps hovering around 50 degrees, we opted to get a hotel room close to Wonder Woman's job — also my former employer.

She had a three-hour meeting this morning over Microsoft Teams. Everyone is working remotely because of the storm. Since we're in a hotel, I got to sit in on the meeting too, listening to my old co-workers discuss subjects I very much want to leave behind. I even had to jump in and provide tech support to my bride when her company owned laptop experienced power issues. I'm just trying to roll with the punches and accept the things I can't change. It does no good to get worked up about stuff out of my control. Fate isn't concerned about my carefully cultivated plans for the first week of retirement.

Tomorrow we are traveling out of town for the weekend getaway I requested for my birthday. Wonder Woman and my daughter both got me the tech stuff I wanted as gifts, namely extra RAM to give me new home lab plenty of oomph. I joke that I want my system to be so powerful that it makes all the lights in the neighborhood go dim when I reboot things. I even maxed out the Internet speed at our house, something I am sadly missing on crappy hotel Wi-Fi.

Our weekend plans are not that complicated. We are going to visit a couple of restaurants that even my international hometown doesn't feature, including my favorite Lebanese place. Wonder Woman will get to run in a park she hasn't visited since April when she did a 50-miler there. Her next big adventure is in South Carolina next month, a charity event where the participants are charged with running a 5K every hour for five hours. I'll be there crewing, of course, trying to keep her spirits up as the inevitable fatigue sets in. She's never run a race in this format, so it will be new for both of us.

I'll pick up my postponed activities next week. None of my plans and goals will suffer one bit because of the delay. Until then, I'm just rolling with the punches.

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