Twenty Seconds of Courage

When I was three (technically 19 days before my fourth birthday), I got a bike for Christmas. A shiny red bike, with a personalized license plate, and of course the requisite first-bike training wheels. It’s been over 40 years, but I still have a hazy memory of getting that bike and the excitement that came from riding it, even at four-year-old-capable speeds, wobbling left and right on the training wheels. My path probably looked like that of an impaired snake, soft letter s shapes that swerved all over the place, getting me from right here to way over there.

I was a precocious kid—super curious, loving to conduct ‘experiments’ whenever I got a new weird little notion. For example, “I wonder what happens if I stick this marble into the headphone jack of Dad’s stereo.” (The answer—nothing good). It was that same curiosity that helped me get up the nerve to take the stereo apart a few years later and retrieve the marble, repairing the stereo, so it wasn’t all bad.

Another time, I believe at age three, I had this little flat magnetic guy that I would play with, sticking him to the fridge, table legs, and so on, learning what parts and pieces of our home were affected by the strange powers of the magnet. I had a cool idea—I could bend the arms of this guy forward, and they would fit perfectly into an electrical outlet. I remember having the thought and bending the arms, approaching the outlet, and then hearing a big boom, flying across the kitchen, and having black marks on my hands, but the rest is a bit foggy. I guess the experiment was a success—I certainly produced some outcome.

Anyway, even to a four year old, a bike creates a feeling of independence and of freedom, a feeling that you can do anything, go anywhere, be anyone. We lived at the time in Soquel, California at the dead end of a hilly street. Our duplex was at the top of the hill, and there were lots of evergreens and blackberry bushes surrounding the flat little cul-de-sac. It was a great place—just a short walk to the beach and to school, and Mom and Dad would make great homemade ice cream from the endless supply of blackberries.



The Southern Alligator Lizard

I also remember there were lots of lizards around our house. They would crawl into the newspaper while it sat rolled up on the porch, and if you forgot to smack the paper against the side of the house a couple times, chances are good you’d be bringing a new friend in with the paper. This happened on more than a handful of occasions that I remember. You think catching a spider in your home is creepy? Try tracking a Southern Alligator Lizard. Even the name is scary! Besides the lizards, the quiet spot was the perfect place to play, and to learn to ride a bike.

A year or so after I got my bike, the training wheels came off, and Dad would push me up and down the street, as I veered and wobbled for a few feet before falling over, every… single… time. This continued for a couple days until I was completely tired of tipping over and skinning my knees and elbows, so the bike sat in the garage, for at least a few months. Occasionally, I’d get the bike out, and see if I had grown enough or could somehow magically stay upright, and of course, nothing magical or unpredictable happened—I could not ride without the training wheels.  

As I mentioned before, I was pretty precocious, and was actually pretty strong-willed when I made up my mind to do something. After a few months of not riding my bike, I made up my mind—today I am learning to ride! I told my mom I would be playing out front, put on a long sleeved shirt and pants to protect my knees and elbows, and dragged the bike out of the garage. For a few tries, I got the same result. In hindsight, I think of Einstein’s definition of insanity: doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results. That’s what I’d been doing in my attempts to ride the bike—tentatively going through the same little motions, hoping something different would happen.

I knew I needed to try something different. I also knew that when I got a little speed (especially when Dad was pushing me), I’d stay upright for a while. Speed had to be the answer! Taking deep, nervous breaths, I walked my bike to the edge of the cul-de-sac, right to where it started sloping down a bit, and then swung my leg over the red shiny frame. I was gonna do it! I looked down the short hill, made sure no cars were coming, then started to pedal.

Shortly Before I Graduated to the Bike

My elbows rocked back and forth as I pulled on the handlebars, trying to keep steady and upright while I pedaled the miniature cranks like crazy. I gained speed and my letter S’s got less wavy, turning into long swooping lines as I steadied myself and rode at what I felt was light speed—I was riding my bike! I cruised up and down the gently sloping hill, getting more confident in turning and braking, making big arcs, riding in circles, slamming on the brakes and skidding, leaving a black trail of evidence that I was indeed riding my bike like a big boy—no, like Evel Knievel!

I pedaled up the hill and back to the duplex, parking the bike while I headed inside for a drink. After sharing the story of my greatness with Mom, who promised to come and watch when she was done doing some mom stuff, I went back out to ride some more. This time, I thought I would start pedaling right from the flat. I was a little more wobbly but I stayed upright, cruising back and forth near the garages and carports of the homes at the top of the hill.

As I got braver and braver, I got more and more daring in the routes I would ride. I’d go up the bumpy part where the sidewalk and driveway started, over some of the cracks in the asphalt, up a driveway or two. As I was pedaling down toward the hilly part, with the houses on the left, I got spooked by a giant—and I mean giant—alligator lizard in the middle of the sidewalk. I instinctively turned left, not wanting to roll off the curb to my right, and crashed right into the tail end of a big brown sedan in a driveway.



Another One From This Time

Man, did it hurt. I had a big cut on my knee, my elbow was scraped up and bruised, and I was literally tangled up in my bike, both of us pinned under the tail end of the big boat of a car. Worst of all, I just knew the Southern Alligator Lizard was going to come and attack me any second—I was captive and unable to defend myself. All these thoughts raced through my mind as I laid there—I was going to be eaten by this lizard, I was going to get run over by this car because the owner would back out, not realizing I was there, my bike was probably ruined, I would probably forget how to ride my bike anyway, even if it was ride-able. The world was ending.

After a couple minutes of self-pity, yelling for help, and trying to untangle myself from the red-bike-brown-car carnage, I got free, channeling my inner Six Million Dollar Man—Du-nu-nu-nu-nu-nu-nu-nu. Du-nu-nu-nu-nu-nu-nu-nu. I got up, dragged my bike away, and went inside to tell Mom I was barely alive, and would never ride my bike again. She convinced me I was okay, and even that I had probably not forgotten how to ride my bike in the chaos. A little while later, Dad got home from work, we straightened the handle bars, and I was able to show him my mad skills. I was back to loving the bike.

The experience of resolving to ride, swinging my leg over the top tube, putting both feet on the pedals, and heading down that first hill is one of my earliest memories. At first thought, there is nothing magical or singularly unique about the event. On the other hand, everything about it was magically singular—I had stepped into unknown territory, with no one to catch me when I inevitably fell. I had shown about as much courage as most four year olds ever need to muster. I had done something meaningful and fulfilling, for all the right reasons; not to show off to someone, not pressured by peers or parents or others, not doing something because I had to. I did something good, for me, because I wanted to, and I knew inside it was right and would make me happy.

Every living being capable of conscious, reasoning thought has done things like this—many, many things like this in their lifetime—we’ve all done it! But I ask myself, when was the last time you did something amazing? The last time you conquered fear, overcame doubt, self-imposed or imposed by others? When did you last do something you didn’t want to do, but totally wanted to do, without an audience or other pressures, motivated only by personal growth and challenge?



Benjamin Mee

When was the last time you went so fast the wind was in your face like it’s never been before, either figuratively or literally? Almost any answer is too long, I think. In the movie We Bought a Zoo, Benjamin Mee’s character, played by Matt Damon, talks about us needing “20 seconds of insane courage. Just literally 20 seconds of just embarrassing bravery. And I promise you, something great will come of it.” I don’t know if the real Benjamin Mee, the everyman who bought, renovated, and reopened an actual zoo in Northern California spoke those specific words in real life, but I have to believe he showed that insane courage many times!

I think of the times I could have showed insane courage, but didn’t. That time I wouldn’t swim under Rodeo Rock at Scout Camp, an underwater tunnel in a river near Bear Valley. The times I didn’t ask out that girl I had a huge crush on. The time at wrestling practice when I just quit running, after a couple hours of working out, missing my weight cut by less than half a pound—I could have kept going and dropped a weight class, certainly improving my high school wrestling experience. The time I didn’t jump off the highest ledge into Pineview Reservoir. I think of Mark Twain, talking about how it’s the things we don’t do that we regret in life, and I know he’s right.

I also think of those moments when I did show a brief moment of insane courage—riding that bike, getting up on waterskis, dropping into a vert ramp on my skateboard, deciding to go out for the wrestling team, hopping off a chairlift for the first time. I think of asking that cute girl out (yeah, I got up the courage a few times!), of stepping onto a plane to live in England for two years, of grabbing the mic on stage with my high school band the first (and pretty much every) time, of feebly mumbling something like a marriage proposal to Darcie. Every one of those moments are unforgettable, etched in my memory and soul, twenty-second blocks of awesomeness no one can take from me, no matter how many times I failed to create a transcendent moment.

I ponder those moments, starting with the first solo flight on the red Schwinn, and I think to myself, man, that’s a whole lot of what life is about, isn’t it? Just about every good thing that has happened to me in 45 years was the result of a moment of clarity, bravery, even insane courage, by me or someone important to me. Shortening the time between those points, and lengthening the time between moments when we fail to show courage pretty much defines our life, doesn’t it? At least what we’re able to accomplish, and how much we grow.

All this thinking makes me want to do something big, requiring some insane courage. Maybe some climbing, or surfing, or biking? Is there anything new you want to do? Maybe even having a tough conversation with the boss, or with a sibling, or friend, or even your spouse? Maybe it’s been awhile since you read a good book, or did charity work, or volunteered for a tough assignment. I know I have a list of goals I want to accomplish in life, most of which require at least a little bit of insane courage to at least get going, if not complete the task. I also know the part of the list that is complete is quite a bit shorter than the part that is unfinished.

I think it’s time I flew down another hill—or climbed up one. Who’s with me?