Bunch of Grapes

As the 20^th century closed and the 21^st began, my wife and I moved with our two boys to Modesto, California. I was working all over the San Francisco Bay Area, mostly in the Silicon Valley. I would drive 5 hours on a light day, often commuting as much as 2 hours or more to get to my first appointment or store visit of the day. The drive time, coupled with the 9 or 10 hour workdays, made for some long weeks, but the work was satisfying and we had some great friends who had also coincidentally moved to California. The San Joaquin Valley has its share of detractors, but we loved living there! The rest of my family was mostly back in Utah, with a few relatives scattered around Northern California, where I had grown up.

One morning, as I approached the Bay Bridge on my way to San Francisco, I got a call from my wife, Darcie. She told me my parents had just arrived from Utah and were with my grandpa at the hospital in Grass Valley, two or three hours north of our home. Grandpa was not doing well, and she said it would be good if we could see him. I turned around and ‘raced’ home, at least as fast as dot-com-bubble Bay Area traffic allowed. Soon Darcie, Ethan, Liam and I were driving north to Grass Valley to see Mom, Dad, Grandpa and Grandma.

We had been married nine years; Ethan had just turned 5 and Liam was about 7 months old. With family spread from Southern California to Canada, we had become road trip pros. The kids behaved perfectly as we drove quietly, nervously, and prayerfully toward the town where Grandma and Grandpa lived.

Marvin Anderson—my dad’s dad—was the perfect grandfather. Grandpa seemed to be an expert at everything he picked up. He was a great guitar player, had a beautiful singing voice, was an engaging storyteller, and he was the pun-making champion of the world. He was an accomplished golfer, fisherman, pilot, inventor, scientist, photographer, and repairer of clocks and watches. He had even built and piloted his own plane and boat! He was always learning, reading, studying; always experiencing new hobbies and projects.

When I was in the seventh grade, I wrote a report about Grandpa for my science class. We had to interview someone who had a scientific career, and he worked in Quality Control at the Lawrence Livermore Laboratory. I learned of some of the things he had worked on—really amazing stuff like nanotech, nuclear power and laser technology. But the coolest things I learned about were those he had invented. One of them was pretty amazing—a tool that could drill a hole the diameter of a human hair through an inch-thick piece of steel! But my favorite invention was, of all things a mousetrap.

The lab was crawling with mice—overnight they got all over everything in the lab. He showed us photos that had been taken with a timer—it was like a horror movie, with mice everywhere—in drawers, on desktops, on benches, all over the floor. Being a bunch of engineers and scientists, they went to work—you guessed it—building a better mousetrap. Rather, they each went to work building their own improved designs, with friendly competitions to see whose trap could catch the most mice in a night.

Grandpa’s design was ingenious. It attached to the side of a water-filled bucket. A mouse would smell the bait (caramel or peanut butter worked best) and climb up a strip of cloth on the side. At the top of the bucket, they would need to crawl through a cylinder to reach the bait, which they could now see as well as smell. When the mouse got near the far end of the cylinder, close to where the bait was suspended, the cylinder pivoted and the mouse fell into the water and drowned. Incredibly, the perfected design won the contest, nabbing 100 mice in a night!

I think Grandpa was even more excited, however, to see how the mice learned to work together to combat the design. They teamed up and trusted each other—with several mice holding down the bucket end of the cylinder with their body weight while another crept to the end and brought the bait back to share with the others. Grandpa set up time lapsed photography to document the mice’s ingenuity in ultimately defeating his mousetrap, and was clearly fascinated with the mice’s creativity and learning through trial and error.
 

We figured Grandpa’s years at the lab and exposure to radiation likely contributed to his developing leukemia. After being diagnosed, he still continued to care for their mountain home and property in the Sierra Nevada foothills, and most notably, taking care of Grandma while she recovered from a stroke and her own serious health issues. I can’t imagine enduring something like chemotherapy, let alone literally lifting, carrying and doing so much for someone else while enduring that disease and treatment regimen. Grandpa quietly endured the ordeal and loved and served his wife. Eventually, they sold their home in the woods and got into a place that could help with their care, and of course wouldn’t need all the maintenance their acres in the pines required.

When we got to the hospital, we learned that Grandpa had contracted pneumonia in his weakened state, and had a serious blood infection. Before we went in to see Grandpa, Dad let us know the prognosis was poor. He was breathing with the help of an oxygen mask and was on morphine—he was in intense pain. He was barely able to speak and drifted in and out of consciousness. Dad warned us that Grandpa had some cancerous spots removed from his face and that he had lost a large amount of weight. In spite of the physical toll the illness had taken on his body, he was still Grandpa, and I was grateful we got to spend some time with him.
 

We spent about an hour and a half reminiscing about the great times we’d had with him, what we had been up to lately, and how much we loved him. We told him how grateful we were to see him and how much he meant to us. We also tried to show love and support for my parents, who I’m sure were experiencing tremendous stress, uncertainty and worry. I’m sure seeing their grandsons gave them a little bit of peace during this difficult time.

During our time with Grandpa he would occasionally make eye contact but didn’t show many signs that he understood us. As we neared the end of our visit, we again expressed our love to Grandpa and said goodbye for what we thought could be the last time, not quite sure how much Grandpa had understood. As we got up to leave, Grandpa leaned up slightly, looked at his great grandson Ethan, and whispered, “bunch of grapes” a couple times with a smile on his face. I remember smiling back at Grandpa and touching his arm, wondering for a moment what he meant, but glad to see some recognition and a smile.

A few seconds later Dad smiled and echoed, “bunch of grapes.” He knew what Grandpa meant! “Grandpa has a picture on his fridge of Ethan in his Halloween costume—as a bunch of grapes!” Ethan, now five years old, had worn dozens of purple balloons taped to his clothes the Halloween shortly before he turned two. Amazingly, Grandpa had recognized Ethan from the old photograph, and it brought us all a moment of joy.

With visiting hours over, we spent a little more time with my parents and then got on the road home for some rest. Grandpa passed away just a few hours later, my dad at his side. The next few days were bittersweet, as the family gathered and we got to remember together so many great times. Ultimately, I look back at this time with gratitude and joy—grateful we got a chance to see Grandpa again, and overjoyed that our presence seemed to make a difference to him while he suffered physical pains for the last time.

I think of all the little moments and factors that led up to and impacted our last few memorable minutes with Grandpa. If 23 month old Ethan had been a ghost with a sheet on his head for Halloween, Grandpa may not have recognized Ethan, or gotten that same little burst of joy upon connecting the dots the way he did with the grapes. Likewise, if Darcie had not insisted on taking and sending the photo, those moments would have been different. (This happened before we got a digital camera—back when you would shoot 12, 24, or 36 photos, take the film to the drug store, and hope you got a few good shots).

Had I been driving another hour or so that morning when I got the call, we would not have had enough time for me to get back home, get the kids, and get up to Grass Valley while visiting hours were still in effect. We’d have missed the chance to see Grandpa one last time. Most days, I worked much further south. About nine out of ten days I would have been too far away to get to the hospital in time. Had Grandpa not had that photo on his fridge, and looked at it literally every day for a couple years, he may not have had that same reaction and recognition he did. Even if he had, it’s unlikely he would have whispered anything else as singular and cheerful as “bunch of grapes!”

I thank God—who sees all patterns and has a plan for each of us—for his hand in creating a joy-filled memory for me. I’m grateful for each little instance and decision that led to this sweet moment—all overseen and facilitated by Him. Many would say this was just a nice coincidence, or that there is no one watching over us in so much detail. But I know He influences us daily. The trick is, we’re often unsure if a thought, idea, or prompting comes from Him or from us. In my experience, I often get that confirmation after the decision is made, once I see the results and the patterns of action and consequence unfold. I believe the more we make these choices with the Lord’s will in mind, the better we get at noticing and discerning where those ideas come from, earlier in the whole process.

What I know without a doubt is that when we get a thought, and think it’s either a pretty good idea or perhaps a prompting from the Lord, we ought to act on it. That’s really the only way we will find out where the prompt is coming from—by seeing it through. We learn best by doing. More importantly, those little decisions can make a big difference in the lives of others—many times without us knowing it.
 

A phone call, a friendly word, pursuing a creative idea at work, any seemingly little thing can bring big results. It could even create pure, lasting joy or a moment to be remembered for eternity, given enough effort, time, or collaboration with others also committed to following creative or spiritual inspiration—all of which ultimately comes from Above. The next time you get that feeling, “I ought to…,” DO it! Even something as simple as dressing your child as a bunch of grapes!

The Slap Bet

Over the past six or seven months I have lost over 50 pounds. I feel better, look better, and am more productive at home and at work. I’ll post about my journey—which I’m still on—another time. Probably many times. For today, I’ll detail one little trick that has helped me change a habit… The slap bet. Strictly speaking, this method is not a true slap bet—but it does involve slapping. Potentially my being slapped!

The slap bet originates with one of this decade’s best sitcoms, How I Met Your Mother. Way back in season 2 (the show ended in flames after 9 pretty good, sometimes great seasons), Marshall and Barney made a bet. The stakes? The winner gets to slap the loser as hard as he can. They appoint Lily ‘slap bet commissioner,’ giving her power to enact and enforce rules as needed.

It’s a classic episode of sitcom TV and I highly recommend it, even if you only have a passing knowledge of the show or its characters and fine cast (Neal Patrick Harris, Jason Segel, Alyson Hannigan, Josh Radnor and Cobie Smulders). This episode may hook you, and for great reasons—fantastic interplay between the slap bettors, the slap bet commissioner, and unsurprising-yet-hilarious revelations about the backstories of Ted (Radnor) and Robin (Smulders). And oh yeah, the debut of Robin Sparkles!

 

I made a little slap bet of my own about seven months ago. The nature of my job at the time was pretty stressful—lots of transition, company re-organizations, fierce competition, and mental and physical demands that were really wiping me out. My coping mechanism was the energy drink—specifically zero-carb Monster. In a pinch, if no Monster was around, Diet Rockstar or Red Bull would suffice. Zero-calorie NOS would work too, thought it tasted like kerosene and food coloring. I even tried the stuff gas stations sell, with crazy names you never heard of. Anything to keep me up when I was feeling everything other than up.

 

 I would drink AT LEAST one a day, usually two, and on those really long stretches over holidays or other drive times or projects, three or even four. Most days, in addition to the energy drinks, I would grab a quick lunch and nap in my car for 30 or 45 minutes—I was drained, in spite of chugging all that caffeine, guarana, taurine, and whatever else was in those artificially flavored cans of make-believe sunshine. With those crashes and the general lethargy I was feeling, I knew a) this crap wasn’t doing me any good and b) it was probably doing me harm.

That’s when I had the idea of doing something drastic—the slap bet. Jared is a great guy who worked with me; he was one of our leaders on the staff of 120 or so. We’ve both moved on to different locations with another company in the past few months, but back then we worked around 40 hours a week together. Jared is a stud—great morals, a man of his word, a US Army vet, fit and full of energy. His personal motto is tattooed on his arm—‘Always Move Fast.’ In other words, Jared is not the kind of guy you want slapping you. He’s not the kind of guy you want committing to slap you, because you know he would definitely keep his word.

 

Anyway, I was starting to cut out some unhealthy snacks and working out with increasing frequency, but my energy was still all over the place, due, I figured to the energy drinks. On a whim, I shook his hand, and committed him to slapping me as hard as he could if he ever saw me with an energy drink in my hand again. I let everyone on my team know, told the security guys and other leaders, and got the word around everywhere. Jared was psyched, mostly (I think) because he wanted me to succeed and get healthier. I’m sure a part of him looked forward to slapping me too.

I’m proud to say I went cold turkey, and it’s now been around 7 months since I had a drop. I’ve never been more energized! A year ago I could not keep up with my kids running and playing ball, now I even drag them behind me from time to time! While Jared and I haven’t worked directly together for four or five months, that couple months of accountability built a habit (or rather, erased a bad one) and it has stuck.

Let’s look at why this life change stuck:

-          I told people about my goal. Just about our entire team (100+ employees) knew about this goal and the incentive to succeed. Saying a goal out loud, writing it down, and sharing it with others all exponentially increase the likelihood you will succeed, at least in my experience.

-         There was accountability and incentive. There were tangible stakes for me. Succeeding meant saving money, feeling better, and oh, yeah, avoiding the slap. Failing meant just the opposite.

-          It was fun! We laughed about it all the time, it was a fun, easy thing to celebrate (“one more week without getting slapped!”)

-          And most importantly… One day I decided to do something now!

I didn’t hem and haw, think about, strategize, speculate, ramp up, psych up, or gear up. I thought about something that I wanted to do, and did something about it—right away! I didn’t have “one last drink,” or tell myself “I’ll start Monday.” That big Monday never comes—at least most of the time, for most of us. We find a reason to push it back another Monday, or maybe Tuesday, or New Year’s Day, or next New Year’s Day. There is real power in committing and DOING without hesitating—even doing something small. It strengthens and emboldens us, hardening our resolve for when we are tempted to stray off course.

 

There are plenty of areas in my life in which I have resolved, committed, started and sputtered. But when I got right back on track, making a commitment and acting immediately on that notion, I have done better and, for the most part, stayed on the path I had strayed from.

The slap bet gag ran for 7 years on How I Met Your Mother—it had real staying power! I’m glad I made my own slap bet with Jared, and with life. Most of all I’m glad I won—avoiding that slap and, more importantly, avoiding another 7 months of untapped potential, naps in the car, and letting myself and others down with how I showed up at work, at home, and in life. Here’s to you making the change you want to make, and 7 months, 7 years, and a lifetime of resolve and success! Do something—big or small—today. Make that slap bet!

Tone Poems and Time Travel

Before I get on with my tale of time travel, here’s a brief history of my timeline...

I grew up in the 70’s and 80’s in Northern California, the oldest of eight kids, living mostly around the San Francisco Bay area. On my 18^th birthday, I moved to a home just south of Salt Lake City with my family. One of my three memories of my 18^th birthday is getting a Will Clark Starting Lineup action figure. (It doesn’t seem quite right to call it a figurine. This is Will “The Thrill,” the “Natural,” my favorite guy to ever wear a Giants Jersey… It’s an action figure!) I still have Will standing on my bookshelf, over 25 years later.

The second thing I remember is getting stuck in an icy gas station parking lot (this was January in Utah, after all), and learning that if we piled enough siblings on the hood of the Honda Civic I was driving, the weight would get us the traction we needed to get back on the road and out of the snowy sludge. The third thing I remember is pulling into the Salt Lake Valley around 11 pm, and even in the dead dark of a winter night, seeing enough of the Uintah range to be blown away by the ‘purple mountains’ majesty.’ I distinctly recall saying to myself, ‘this is what that line in that America song is all about.’

A year later I moved to England as a fresh faced, curly-headed Mormon missionary, where I lived for two years. I came home to Utah, got married to Darcie 7 months later, and we’ve spent the last 23 years raising four kids all over Utah, Idaho, California, Oregon, and Washington for one job or another.

When our oldest son, Ethan was just a little guy, maybe almost a year old, we traveled from Portland back to the Bay Area for brother number four’s wedding. It was great to see so much family, as it had been awhile. It was especially fun to see extended family—aunts, uncles, grandparents, even my great grandmother, who got to hold her first great-great-grandkid, Ethan. The photo opportunities were abundant!

In the previous few years, I had expanded my musical tastes, experiencing just about everything I could get my ears on. Those who know me best know I love talking about, reading about, writing about, dreaming about, and playing music of nearly any type. I can see beauty and appeal in just about any piece of music that is truly made with love—you can kind of sniff out that realness (or fakeness). And when someone puts their guts and heart and blood and soul and tears into a piece of music, I respect it, whether it’s old school hip-hop, heavy metal, early punk, jazz, rock, alternative, whatever… even a lot of pop stuff. But in particular the rootsy, Americana stuff—traditional folk, blues, early country and western—really started speaking to me.

Especially bluegrass. Bluegrass connected me with my parents and grandparents, and I think subconsciously I longed to live near them again, to listen to them pick and harmonize together some of the old standards I’d heard them play since I was a baby. I picked up some records and CD’s of artists that I recognized from Dad’s collection—Skaggs and Rice’s album, Doc Watson’s Memories, some Bluegrass Cardinals, a little Ricky Skaggs, and a classic, the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band’s Will the Circle Be Unbroken, vol.1. That record (or double LP to be exact) is a history lesson—amazing stuff from artists from every generation who had ever played traditional folk, country, and bluegrass! Listening to it took me back to my own childhood, hearing Dad play and sing with his family and friends. I’d easily heard him play and sing 10 or 12 of those songs.

In the early 90’s I was just waking up to how great that music was; I had been way too cool to slow down and listen to it when I was growing up. And the newer stuff—man was it good! My favorite artist soon became Tony Rice, a blazing guitarist with a strong singing voice and incredible material. He recorded in a dozen iterations; he’s got records as a solo act, in duos, with his family, and a bunch of great bands. Through the 70’s, 80’s and 90’s, he was the face of bluegrass guitar, a monster talent.

Shortly before Ryan’s wedding, I had picked up an album Rice did with David Grisman, an equally talented mandolinist. The album, creatively driven by Grisman and released on his own label, is called Tone Poems. It comes with a beautifully illustrated, well written booklet that details each of its 17 tracks. Each song represents a different era, going back to the early 1900’s (hence the title of track number one, Turn of the Century). The songs were either written during a specific time period, or written later and inspired by that era. The tracks were all instrumental, just an acoustic guitar and a mandolin, and were also played by instruments from those eras. 17 songs, 17 guitars, 17 mandolins, 17 eras of modern music and instrument building. It provides a unique listening experience, with great photographs and written commentary by the artists on the songs and the instruments they played for each.

After Ryan’s wedding, and as the festivities were quieting, Dad, Grandpa, and I passed the guitars around and sang a few songs for each other and with each other; one I remember in particular—Darcie’s favorite, “The Banks of the Ohio.” (Incidentally, Grandpa’s wonderful harmony singing somehow kept Darcie from noticing this is really a gruesome murder ballad; she didn’t catch on to that until years later). That same song appears on Tone Poems, played on vintage instruments from 1937.

After the picking wound down, I got the CD out, figuring Grandpa and Dad would like it. As Dad put the CD in the stereo and pressed ‘play,’ the three of us listened to 20 notes or so of a simple melody played on a 1905 Gibson mandolin, then joined by a Martin guitar built in 1891. The song unfolded, pure acoustic tone, played perfectly by two musical geniuses—never overplaying, never dumbing down. There are no overdubs or studio effects. It is authentic. It is perfect.

I watched my grandpa’s face just melt into pure joy, tears welling in his eyes. His father, my great-grandfather Daddy Eric, had given him a Martin guitar over 50 years previously, the same one Daddy Eric had played, while his own brother accompanied him on mandolin. I am guessing he hadn’t heard tone and playing like this in 40 or 50 years, and this took him right back to those days before internet, TV, and mass-market commercial recordings; back to when music was experienced mostly in person and not over wires or on plastic. We listened to a handful of those tracks, the three of us getting teary-eyed as we took this time-traveling trip together. Grandpa knew the words to many of those old songs, and got us all choked up as he sang softly along with the playing. I bet he heard his dad and uncles singing along with him. It is a moment I will remember for eternity.

Grandpa passed away a few years after that memorable picking and listening party. Daddy Eric’s Martin now sits next to a bunch of other instruments in my music room, including my grandma’s old autoharp and banjo (I think it just turned 100!), my dad’s Dobro, and of course some guitars and mandolins I have picked up over the past 20 years or so. But nothing brings me more joy than playing the old Martin. I cried when my dad gave it to me about 4 or 5 years ago—there is so much Anderson family history in that guitar. You can see it in the scratched mahogany, smell it when you open the case, and hear it when you play a chord. I’ve since made a few repairs to it, and it plays and sounds wonderfully—perfect for blues and old-time tunes.

I like picking blues on this guitar—its small size and all mahogany body give it a sweet, gentle, almost pleading tone, not like the cannon roar that my newer, bigger rosewood-and-spruce Martin dreadnought thunderously hollers. In the moments that I play a little bluesy song on the old guitar, or pick out an old time fiddle tune, I hear—no, feel—Grandpa there, smiling and singing along. And once again, music bends time, space, and heaven as we sing together.

What music transports you through time?

Another Half Mile?

This morning I went for a run. I’m still commuting back and forth between Seattle (home) and Portland (work), and things around the house are a bit… wonky. Ethan now has two jobs of his own (two Employee of the Month awards and a promotion in the last three months between the two gigs!) And of course Darcie is crazy-busy carting kids around and keeping the household running.

All of this means Piper, the half dingo-half river otter we adopted three years ago is not getting as much time and attention. Specifically, Ethan has always been her daily running/walking companion, and he just hasn’t had as much time for her. She’s been a little restless, so I decided to take her for a run. She manically sprinted her usual few laps around the inside of the house to warm up (I swear she even knows when we spell the word ‘walk’), and we headed out the door, with her tugging hard on the leash.

It was 32 degrees out, clear and dry—unusual weather for a November day in Seattle! We trotted along (she trotted, I plodded) in the crisp autumn air. I haven’t been getting as much exercise lately as I’d like to, with the craziness of the new job at this busy time of year, and I was looking forward to just a quick mile and a half run, enough to get the heart pumping and to get Piper a little exercise.

We ran our typical one and a half mile out and back through the neighborhood, with our noses running but feeling good, Piper always out front, keeping that leash stretched tight. We went up over the hill, past the red mailbox, by the creek, then left to the dead end, then turned around and headed back the way we came. Right turn, the creek again, the red mailbox, over the hill.

As we jogged down toward the house, just over a mile and a half behind us on this chilly morning, Piper turned and quizzically looked me in the eye. I could almost hear Piper asking, in her dingo-otter dialect, “Can you go another half-mile?” I gave her the response, “let’s go!” and she was off, pulling me behind. Down around the corner, up the hill to her St. Bernard friend George’s house, back down and back up; another half mile at least. Thanks for the push, Piper!

This got me thinking about life (what else is there to think about when you are running with your dog in the cold?) More directly, it got me thinking about all the people who have figuratively tugged on the leash, pulling me forward when I wanted to rest. Piper is not really part dingo-part river otter; she’s part Pomeranian-part Boston terrier, with some other stuff likely mixed in. She’s tiny, but that 15 pounds of fur and yaps giving a little tug every now and then just keeps me going.
 

I think of the great example of Darcie, reminding me to keep commitments, pushing me to do better with the Boy Scouts or other youth I work with. Ethan, pushing me on a run a lot harder than Piper ever did (he is tough to keep up with)! Liam, who is a better guitarist than me, even though I’ve been playing for twice as many years as he has lived! Annelise and Corrinne, great examples of daily scripture study and how they just get along so well—these girls can play together for a dozen hours and not have a fight! Am I that patient and engaged with my family?

My parents and my own brothers and sisters (all seven of ‘em), who have shaped me forever, who continue to gently push and pull, whether directly through what they say, or quietly through their example. I have friends, co-workers, employees, and mentors, all giving me little tugs when I need it, pushing me to go another half mile in all areas of life; you’ll read about many more in coming posts. If you’re reading this, you’ve probably given me a nudge when I needed it—decades ago as a childhood friend, or maybe yesterday at work.

We all have people pushing and tugging on us daily; the question is, which direction are they pulling us? Forward, toward a goal or destination? Backwards, toward old habits or traps we’ve been trying to escape? Or maybe even worse, sideways, down a meandering path that distracts us or numbs us or even makes us forget which way is up?

A challenge today—take a look at who you’re surrounding yourself with. Those who have pulled you along and helped you grow—let them know you appreciate them! See if there’s someone who you feel you ought to call or send a nice note of encouragement to; someone you can help along for that next half-mile. If you look around and see there are too many pulling you in directions that are not getting you where you want to go, perhaps quietly pulling back a bit from that ‘friendship’ is in order. Only you know if that’s the case.

I learned as a teen that we become what (and who) we surround ourselves with. Piper reminded me this morning of our need of a little help from our friends—the right friends. Who can you reach out to today, and how can you help them get just another half-mile forward on their journey?

Look Where You Want to Go

Liam is my mountain biking buddy. At 14, my son is fearless, with more guts than I ever had. As a two year old, he would scale our refrigerator to see what was on top of it. He’s always loved to climb—trees, rocks, walls, doorframes, you name it. He has grippy toes and a little mischief in him—two great qualities in a daredevil. He also likes to go fast. My brother saw him riding once and nicknamed him ‘LiamX,’ because, you know, it rhymes with ‘BMX.’

Seattle has some great places to ride a bike. Whether you’re talking road riding, nice lakeside paths, cross-country trails, serious mountain biking, or bombing a skatepark, you are just minutes away from an awesome time no matter where you live in the Puget Sound. A couple years ago, Liam and I took our first trip to Issaquah’s Duthie Hill—a world class mountain biking skills park less than a half hour from our home.

At the time, I think Liam was 11 years old, maybe just barely 12. He had not yet gotten his mountain bike—this little trooper rode a single speed BMX bike while I rode a hard-tail geared Trek. We started to explore the trails around Duthie, gathering courage and riding progressively tougher routes. Liam is always pushing to ride the trails with the tougher ratings, going from white to green to blue to black; from circles to squares to diamonds—the more the better.

We were having a great time! We met a cool guy and his teenage daughter, both of whom rode the park regularly and knew it well. They took us on a tour, showing us the ropes, giving us tips on trails, drops and other obstacles around the park—pushing us to push ourselves, expanding our comfort zones and building our confidence. Our favorite trail was Ryan’s Eternal Flow—I felt like I was in Episode V of Star Wars—The Empire Strikes Back, flying through the forest moon of Endor on a speeder bike. Like the world’s biggest roller coaster, built among hemlocks, pines and cedars. Fast, flowy, perfect.

It was a bit scary at first, with really fast descents that you had to power down without braking in order to have your momentum carry you up the ascents. A perfect ride—a thrill a second, a perfect balance of work, joy, sweat and speed. Liam exclaimed, halfway through our first spin on this trail, “Dad, we can do this again right!?!” It was an incredible moment. Feeling emboldened by our mastery of this trail and our growing confidence, we took on one of the Black Diamond runs.

This ride was scarier—we kept a couple fingers on the brakes, getting to know the lines a bit. This trail was definitely built for bikes more sturdily built than ours, and certainly riders with a few more miles under their belts than us. We powered through, tentatively exploring the route. Building speed, getting a little crazy, then braking, as you never knew what was around the next bend. We eventually got more confident and were flying, taking turns leading. As I was leading about three fourths the way through this downhill trail, I heard a crash behind me.

“You okay bud!?” I shouted. Liam was back around the bend I had just passed. A feeble “no” was his only reply. I pulled my bike off the trail and ran back around the bend. He was on the ground near the base of a huge cedar, tangled up in his bike, with sword ferns all but covering him. He was pretty shaken. He had a few cuts and bruises, and a good shiner on his right cheekbone, but thankfully nothing broken. He wasn’t sure what had happened or why he wiped out—it just happened. We walked our bikes down the last hundred yards or so of the trail and headed home.

Liam and I had traded off wearing our GoPro camera throughout the day, and he happened to have it on when he crashed. When we watched the footage afterwards, it was fun to hear the whoops and hollers, and to see the drops and the flowy ups and downs of the lush forest trails. As we watched the recording of his crash for the first time, it was intriguing. He was coming down a stretch at a pretty good speed—a short but fast descent. To the right of the trail was the aforementioned cedar, with a bunch of ferns at its base. The camera, mounted on Liam’s helmet, showed his point of view as he headed straight for the trunk of the big tree, bounced off of it, and landed on his back, ferns covering his (and the camera’s) view.

Re-watching the crash unfold a few times, we discovered the cause of the wreck. There was no rock, bump, root or rut. He had crashed because he was looking at the tree, not past or around it.

I am no expert mountain biker, but there are a few basic rules I follow when riding a trail. The number one rule is look where you want to go. When you see an obstacle (like a root, rut, rock, bump or tree), focus on the line or route past, through, or over the obstacle, never on the obstacle itself. Your body and bike naturally go where you’re looking, and focusing or fixating on an obstacle is a sure way to run into it. If the obstacle is a rock or bump, you may get lucky and find your way through it. If it’s something like a deep rut or a tree, you’re probably gonna end up learning some kind of life lesson.

I’ve learned this lesson on my own a few times—at least twice on a skateboard, a few times on a bike, and a handful of times in more serious aspects of life. Work, family, personal and emotional challenges and obstacles have been thrown everyone’s way. I’m getting better at focusing on the way through or past an obstacle or challenge. Sometimes I get help from a mantra like ‘the way out is through’ or ‘he who won’t be beat, can’t be beat.’ Often it’s through meditation or prayer—being centered and focused on the work at hand, and not self-pity or worrying about why the work is there.

Often success comes through leveraging a network of friends, family, co-workers and associates—a fancy way of saying reaching out or leaning on someone for support. Sometimes, you don’t see a way through. In situations like these, with no solution in sight, it helps me to ask, “If there was a solution, what might it be?”

We all know that guy who sees the obstacle, who fixates on the problem, who reverts back to worrying about circumstance instead of driving for a solution. Sometimes, we may even be that guy. The only problem is, sooner or later that guy always ends up on his back in the bushes, and not pushing through, over, or around that obstacle. And if he doesn’t change how he looks at obstacles, he’s bound to fall into a cycle of stalling, slipping back, and never transcending, growing, mastering the trail—enjoying all that his life’s path has to offer. You’ve got to look past that obstacle that’s right in front of you, and hammer away on those pedals until you’ve gotten where you want to be, or at least past that latest obstacle, challenge, or hurdle.

A simple formula for looking where you want to go, and making a lasting change:

Know where you want to go. Articulate something you want to do, not something you want to quit doing or avoid. For example, “I want to start eating more healthy meals,” not “stop eating sweets.” In my experience, a positive change, something you want to do, just seems to “stick” better than something you’re trying not to do or to avoid.

Winners keep score. You need a way to track how you’re doing. A scorecard, chart, journal, etc. that shows you how you’re doing relative to your goals or challenges.

Adjust your approach when your evaluations (from your journal or tracker) show you are not making the changes in behavior you want.

Give a deadline (to yourself or those you lead). Commit to getting to x by y.

Do something right now to get started or to attack your challenge based on where you want to go. Is there any little thing you can do, immediately, to make progress? Making a phone call? Jotting down a note? Putting down that doughnut? Going for a run? Having a conversation you've been putting off? Do it now!

It’s a pretty basic approach, but the work is often anything but easy. However, it’s virtually foolproof, if you have the tenacity to stick with it, keep your eye on where you want to go, and get up and work your way past, over, and through the obstacles that knock us all down from time to time. Keep hammering!