It just occurred to me that I did something this last weekend of some significance beyond even what I thought. While I was doing, it was just something I was doing. No big deal. A mode of transportation.
What I am talking about is “the climb.”
I went mountain biking this weekend, and stayed at a mountain biking resort in the North Georgia mountains. Again and again, I had heard about the climb you have to make to get to the trailheads. It worried me. I had never did much climbing on a bike. But to hear or read about this climb was much different than when I got there.
My family and I pulled into the campground. A friend came in just a few minutes later. We talked about heading to the trails. How far is it to the trailhead? I asked.
About five miles, he said.
A four to five mile climb up a mountain. Not a hill. A mountain.
We started out and I led the way. We got to a gradual part, I started losing my breathe. My friend gave me a tip. Put it in your easiest gear and go slow. It’s not a race. I did, I caught my breath, up and up and up we went. Slowly. We climbed and we climbed.
Then we got to the top. What was waiting on us was a view of the Cohutta mountains in North Georgia. One of the most amazing overlooks I’ve seen in those mountains. The mountains shimmered blue in the distance. We rode about a hundred feet up the mountain until we got to the trailhead. Then we started flying down Bear Creek Trail, pushing 25 to 30 mph in parts. We ran through mountain streams and saw a deer prance across the trail.
I had made the climb.
It didn’t seem much that day, but it seems like a lot now. Today I have lost 36 pounds. Sitting that night next to the campfire, my friend asked me if I’d been able to make that climb 36 pounds ago. No, I told him.
And it hit me today. The climb represents something more than just a climb.
It represents me climbing out of who I was before. The guy I was 36 pounds ago.