Going For My Purpose Before It’s Too Late – Part 2

Earlier this morning, I have no idea an unwanted wake-up call will crash into my life adventure.

It’s a gorgeous cloudless day. Colorado skiers call it a “blue-bird day.”

I’m inspired. After skiing wrong for 17 years, yesterday I finally learn to lean forward.

Soon, I won’t fear steep runs like a fateful black diamond at Keystone. Three days ago, it takes 1 1/2 hours to inch my way down this cliff. But that’s another story. (Part1)

Visiting with skiers on Arapaho Basin lifts improves my skiing. I seek help from these momentary friends.

“I never took a ski lesson. So after 17 years, I’m finally learning to lean forward.”

They respond with something like, “Yeah, you gotta lean forward on skis!”

“I’m a backpacker. We don’t lean downhill. And a skiing backpacker who doesn’t take a lesson doesn’t lean forward either. So I’m relearning to ski.

“Any advice?”

A 40ish woman offers a tip. “Pretend there’s a quarter between your shin and front of the boot. Don’t let it fall.”

My determination focuses below my knees. I lean into these invisible quarters. Most of the time.

A man in his 30’s advises, “Attack the mountain. Throw yourself into it.”

I grit my teeth and attack a few mountains. My determination increasing with each descent.

The resulting excess speed blurs passing trees. And my sense of safety.

Inevitably, I revert to old leaning back habits. Sore muscles increase and control is elusive.

Why are old habits so hard to change? It seems the more determined I am, the higher my frustration.

By mid-morning, it’s 6 hours before meeting my mortality.

I eat a fruit and nut granola bar on Black Mountain lift. A kid from Summit County Middle School ponders my question. Then he speaks words which change my life.

Forever.

The friendly 13 year-old says,

“At the top, you gotta commit and go! Or hang back and lose control. So lean forward and go for it.”

This serious smiling kid will never know how his wise words change a man’s life four times his age.

Immediately, I expand my mountain-top self-coaching.

“Lean forward, Tim.
No hanging back.
Commit and go for it!”

Taking a long deep breath, I lean forward and go whizzing down the cold white carpet.

Childhood skateboard visions appear: throwing myself forward into a safe roll. As a kid, a broken arm teaches me that moving forward is better than abruptly stopping. But that’s another story. (Part 1)

Then I see a hiking vision from 25 years ago. A sudden fall. Rolling sideways saves my body from harm. Except my broken right arm. But that’s another story. (Running From My Feelings)

Today, I’m determined to stay upright. Yet, I’m prepared in case of a tumble.

Leaning ahead digs my ski edges into the snow, gaining control. I corner to limit speed. The sides of my ski tails don’t catch the snow, keeping me from launching airborne.

Wow! Leaning forward IS much  safer than hanging back.

In difficult situations or high speed, old habits take over. I lean back, skating across the snow with less control.

Each time, I stop for a moment. Coaching myself, I visualize my new ski abilities.

Then, “Lean forward, commit and go.”

Swooshing down these Continental Divide mountains is like flying! I’m elated with my new 2-day-old ski technique.

Yet my mind drifts. I can’t help it. The big question of this week’s odyssey looms ahead.

“How do I arrange my life to blog and go for my purpose?”

I contemplate choices: Do I work full-time and dabble-blog? Or work and blog part-time? Or wait to blog when life is easier?

Skiing down Dercum’s Gulch run, an epiphany hits me from the right like an unexpected snowbank.

The kid has the answer! And now that I think of it, so does a broken-armed 5th-grade skateboarder. (in Part 1 of this story)

I have big plans for this blog. To bring it to fruition is lots of work. There’s only one way to do it right.

Like skiing, I must commit and go.

I’ll throw myself forward into story-collecting, blog-writing and website-designing.

I will devote my whole life to launching
RelationshipsAreAllWeGot.com.

My final ski run of the day is the steep West Wall. Back in November with my son Nathan, we unintentionally find ourselves on this run. That time, the fearful diagonal descent across the mountain takes forever. Muscles ache from leaning uphill on bent legs.

Today, I’m only a little nervous gazing down the mountain.

“Lean forward, Tim. Commit and go.”

Pressing forward in my boots keeps invisible quarters against my shins. My skis slide into turns. I have a mountains-worth more control than last time.

My legs feel good. Mostly. Wind cools my cheeks as exhilaration warms the rest of me.

Skiing away from the wall, my arms raise in victory. “I did it! Commit and go. From now on!”

I’m talking about skiing. And going for my purpose.

These two life-changing ski days end in winter bliss. The type only known to skiers, snowboarders and polar bears.

Until the hidden highway ice. 

At the car, I pack skis, boots and helmet in no time.

Calling my father is top priority. I plan my report:

“Dad, I finally learned to ski correctly! And I know what I must do to start the blog. Commit and go for it.”

But the call waits for now. A-Basin has no cell reception up by the Continental Divide.

I grab a chocolate chip cookie and savor the flavor of these two fantastic days.

My best days in years!

Starting the car, I set John Denver’s Rocky Mountain High to play. The words describe my life-change on an Appalachian Trail hike at age 26. But that’s another story. (“Running From My Feelings”)

These words fit my life-changes today. Some quick math results in an amazing discovery. I’m now twice the age of that life rebirth.

I sing along, changing a few words to make it current.

“I was born
in the winter of my 52nd year.
Comin’ home
to a place I’d never been before.

“I left yesterday behind me,
you might say I was born again.
You might say
I found a key for every door…”

Turning left down the mountain, a sign reads 55. It’s a beautiful day, but I’ll stick with 40 mph (65 kph).

Safety first. It’s winter, after all.

Looking down the valley toward Ten Mile Mountain Range, I smile.

My future looks as spectacular as these mountains. I see myself meeting people, blogging their stories and inspiring relationships.

Two miles downhill, black ice awaits. Lurking in the shadows.

I don’t expect problems on this perfect sunny day.

The mountain highway is completely dry. Until the shaded corner.

As described in part 1 of this story, we almost slide left off the mountain. Twice. Then we drag the right snowbank 100′ to slow down.

Sally and I are blessed to still be on the road! Yet we’re traveling too fast for ice patches.

Veering left again, I throw us forward against the right snowbank. We drag another 100 feet.

Thank God for a silent seat belt tying me in place.

The snow wall removes Sally’s front wheel-well before popping us back onto the road. Miraculously, past accident training keeps me on the highway.

Relieved at our slow speed, I putter down the mountain a minute and turn around.

Parking across from the missing wheel-well, I disengage my life-saving seat belt. Exiting Sally, my legs shake walking into the road.

“Thank you, God, for my life. And my car. What a wake up call!” I speak into the crisp winter air.

My left foot steps onto invisible black ice. The bottom half of my body flies skyward, dropping me to the pavement. Throwing my body right into a roll saves my arm.

“Hey, dude! You alright? I saw you fall,” calls a voice from an abruptly stopped car on the other side.

A brief body check confirms, “I’m good. Thanks for asking.” This world is full of caring people.

Looking up and down the road, I cannot see plastic from the space below the headlight. It’s probably broken into jagged bits mixed with snow.

Rescuing the wheel-well from the road, I place it in Sally’s hatch.

Getting into the driver’s seat, I see the reception is two bars. My finger begins to dial.

I plan to say, “Hey, Dad. After my best two days in years, I almost died!”

But I’m overwhelmed with an urge to get off this mountain. Now!

I will forever wonder if it’s God’s voice within.

Exiting the car is easy as my seat belt isn’t clicked. I walk around inspecting my car.

Observing the front passenger corner, I ponder possibilities. “Well, Sally, a bunch of duct tape will fix you for now. At least you’re drivable. You’re a good car, keeping my family safe all these years.”

She has 300,000 miles, unfixable air conditioning and zip ties holding grill to bumper. I plan to drive her forever since I can’t even get $500 for her. Though, she’s intimately valuable to me.

I bend at the waist, pulling insulation hanging down from the absent wheel well.

I’m anxious to get off this mountain.

Mark’s car approaches at 35 mph (55 kph), spinning around 1 1/2 times.

But I’m yanking insulation in my own world. My nerves still shake from spinning on the slick edge of death 20 minutes ago.

I’m so thankful to be alive.

The first I know of his black car is the deafening impact on my eardrums.

CRASH!!!

His Subaru passes before me, 15 inches from my head. Jerking upward, my back muscles pull.

Stumbling backward, I see Sally sitting 10 feet to the left. The Iowa license plate is smashed into the radio. Her grey hood forms a tent.

My life spins. Stopping my backward dance of sorts, I stare in disbelief. A tear for Sally drips from my eye.

It’s the end of my beloved friend.

Suddenly, a horrible tingling whoosh engulfs me.

In my stunned fog, I see myself dialing the phone in that squished driver’s seat 2 minutes ago. Without a safety-click holding me in the seat.

I could have died.

Again.

Mountains of gratitude for life crash through me.

I’m thankful for Sally. For years transporting and protecting my family. A few sliding minutes ago, she kept me on the icy mountain.

Her last good deed is stopping Mark from spinning over the edge.

“You OK?” Mark asks walking by his slightly dented bumper.

Stunned, words evade me at first. Then, “Uh, I think so. You OK?”

“Only shook up. That ice came out of nowhere and spun me around! Sorry about your car.”

“At least we’re alive. And still on the mountain!” I respond with an avalanche of thanksgiving.

An hour later, insurance info is in each other’s hands. Police reports completed in multiple copies.

Mark drives safely away. Thanks to Sally. My little Sally rests, strapped high on the giant tow truck.

Scott, the driver, is professional and kind. Riding down the mountain, I’m curious about his story. “How long have you been towing?”

“Too long. Twenty-nine years. And I’m getting cynical.”

“What makes you cynical?”

“People aren’t kind anymore. Especially those with money. They treat me like I don’t know anything because I’m a laborer.”

“You may work with your hands. But you’re a professional, Scott. The rest of us don’t have expertise to do what you do. I’m glad you’re here.”

He smiles, then frowns. “Last month, three vehicles wait for me on roads somewhere. But I’m called to a huge house. His headlight is out and I’m to take his car to the dealer. He’s all sassy about caring for his baby. Like I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Then Scott sums up his story. And his life.

“I need to change my life.”

I know this urge.

Later, sitting on this unexpected hotel bed, my head spins with memories of yesterday and today.

• Drastically improving my skiing by leaning forward.
• Committing to living my purpose to inspire relationships. Then in two hours, almost dying twice.
• Choosing to commit and go for this blog now, before it’s too late.

I’m grateful to Scott for dropping me here.

And thankful to be alive.

After my best two days in years, almost dying twice changes me. At death’s cliff, I realize I don’t want to die with the inspiration still inside.

Getting up to look out LaQuinta Hotel’s window across sparkling snow, I munch a chocolate chip cookie. “What a day. What a week. What a life. At least I’m alive.

“I need to change my life!”

I stretch my tight back muscles as emotions well up within.

Grief.
   Fear.
      Relief.
         Awe.
            Gratitude.

The answer to my odyssey about this blog is as clear as the night stars. My identity is changing. I’m now a blogger, and it’s time to act.

God has my attention.

“Commit and go for it, Tim!”

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