Open-faced Sandwich

They call us the sandwich generation. Many of us are in the middle of the sandwich -- caring for the two generations on either side of us. Debbie and I would then have to be an open-faced sandwich. The generation that preceded us has been gone for some years now. Perhaps, each of us, being the baby of our respective families, has moved us through the passage of losing our parents earlier than some of our peers. That only accounts for the more recent losses--my mom in 2001, and Deb's dad in 1996. It does not account for the early death of her mom in 1982 at the age of 66, nor my dad's death in 1974 at the age of 62. For us, the top slice of bread was unceremoniously removed from half our sandwich much too soon. In fairness to our adult children I should hasten to add that we really have little to do to care for them at this point either. We're more like a protein-style In-n-Out burger than a sandwich at all -- low carb, no bun!

Today is Fathers Day. I tend not to dwell on the significance of this day all that much. Nor do I tend to dwell on my father's memory significantly more on this Hallmark holiday than on other days. Today, however, in the midst of a thirty-mile training ride, it did occur to me that this year, with the emphasis I have put on Dad's birthday and, later this year, the beginning of my Israel adventure on the anniversary of his death, that perhaps this is a Fathers Day on which I might give more thought to my father than previously.

I have hinted at, but not officially declared that my ride in Israel is "dedicated" to my father's memory. Seems appropriate under the circumstances. If I were to do that, today would be an appropriate occasion to make such a declaration. As I pedaled along I began to wonder just what that actually means. What would it mean to "dedicate" a ride to my dad? I've seen athlete's dedicate games to fallen teammates. "Win one for the Gipper" and all that. I've seen Barry Bonds and other less notorious ballplayers touch their hearts as they cross home plate and then point up to the sky as if their beloved fathers or grandmothers or other guardian angels were perched somewhere above the stadium lights looking down on them and arranging the location of pitches and the force of the wind to assure a successful plate appearance.

Somehow that doesn't work for me. It doesn't even seem particularly Jewish. Even though we talk so little of angels and afterlife in Judaism I am not entirely convinced that some other-worldly help is out of the question. Then again, that sounds more like Dad would have to dedicate the ride to me than vice versa.

Still, I really tried to see if I could experience some of that mojo. As I approached my nemesis hill on Arastradero -- the one that claimed eleven small bites of flesh from my leg on a recent ascent -- I held a thought of my dad. On every previous assault of this really minuscule but menacing slope I have stopped midway to relieve the ache from my legs and to catch my breath. That's what I had done last week before I started up again and my foot slipped off the pedal thrusting my leg into the large gear's teeth. I have also tried a different tack on some days by stopping to rest at the bottom of the hill, thus allowing me the strength to make it to the top without having to stop in the middle.

Today I neither stopped at the bottom, nor midway, nor at the top (which is another favorite strategy). In fact I proceeded the entire length of Arastradero (which has been good for at least two or three pauses), turned left onto Alpine Road--a long more gradual ascent that has also caused me to take a break midway--and continued on without interruption until I was well down Portola Valley Road. My longest continuous climb to date!

Was it the methodical stretching I did early in the ride after I had warmed up a few miles? Was it the deliberate cadence I struck moving along Arastradero before getting to this point? Or, possibly, was I somehow buoyed by the powerful image of my father within me as one foot followed the other in relentless circles taking me beyond the pain, further than any prior performance?

Maybe it is simply that I have lost some weight and gotten a little stronger -- physically and mentally -- enabling me to do what inevitably I should expect to do with regular training -- outperform myself week by week. That is logical. That after all is the goal of training. I would be happy to leave it at that. That alone gives me hope that some how I will magically make it to November a transformed specimen of a cyclist.

Anyone who knows me knows just what a sentimental sap I am. I will continue to train, for sure. AND I sure as hell will invoke all the spirits that would be in any position to deliver me to my destination. AND, I am dedicating my ride, my training, myself to haRav Shimon ben Yisrael -- Rabbi Sidney Ballon, of blessed memory.

Happy Fathers Day, Dad!