Robert Earl is Keen

Texas's own, Robert Earl Keen, breezed into Corpus Christi last night, delivering his frat-boy, sing along style to an eager crowd of fans. I happen to be one of them and occasionally my husband, Don, will pull out his sense of adventure and join me along with a throng of young Texas Aggies to cheer and whoop and sing along with the edgy singer.

Thanks to my brother Alan's Christmas gift of tickets, Don and I found ourselves nestled on the second row among a few fellow 40 somethings waiting for the entertainment to begin. The venue was a local gathering spot that is a cross between a Joe's Crab Shack and the legendary Gruene Hall of Gruene, Texas. A coveted cold front had just blown through so the shoulder to shoulder crowd was easy to tolerate. In fact it felt like a familiar family gathering to me as my memories of college concert days flooded my thoughts.

We staked our claim to the second row during the last songs of the warm up singer and didn't have to wait long for the main attraction to make his appearance. I was comforted to see that Keen and his band members had continued to age along with Don and me during the years since our last party together. Despite the graying goatee, Keen's main fan base is made up of fellow Texas Aggies that are currently enrolled at Texas A& M University in College Station, Texas. I found myself surrounded by little kids, waving beer bottles and half smoked cigarettes around my face and couldn't help but feel like I needed to remind these kids to not run with scissors.

The entertainment started before the band even had their instruments in hand. Front and center of row one was a couple already three sheets to the wind during the warm up. I watched and noticed the big white "T" on the man's baseball cap and was a little embarrassed that this was a representative of my own alma mater, The University of Texas. I was relieved later when I realized the "T" was for Tennessee. I was certain this couple was going to procreate in front of all of us or vomit on Keen's shoes before the night was over. I was secretly betting with myself which one would come first. In the meantime, I watched them worship the singer with every song, as if Jesus Himself was standing on the stage.

The entertainment continued as I watched two young Aggies do their best to swagger and sweep other fans out of their way so as to nudge my second row spot away from me. I wasn't too annoyed as I noticed these kids had produced two cans of Copenhagen from their hiding places and raised them above their heads like an offering to the singer. They knew every word to the song coincidentally entitled "Copenhagen" and twisted the lids off the cans in cue with the music to dip their snuff like a well rehearsed dance step. I was relived that this was the only song they needed to stand in the second row for and they swaggered of, dip in cheek, and happy to be moving on.

Excitement ebbed and flowed with each song, the drunk couple continued their own ebbing and flowing, and emotions erupted more than once. During one extraction of drunken fist throwing Aggies, the bouncer scooped the Tennessee lover out with the rowdy crowd leaving the partner oblivious. I almost felt sorry for her when she noticed that she was alone, front and center, and gave up the coveted spot to blindly seek out her partner. The spot was quickly filled by a wheelchair with a young girl as it's occupant. Justice, I thought. I kindly let the woman powering the wheelchair have a spot next to me assuming she wanted to keep her eye on the wheelchair and it's passenger.

Later in the evening, I noticed that the wheelchair driver and I had earned a spot on the front row. Robert Earl Keen was right in front of me to the right, the wheelchair driver to my left. Keen looked our way and kept his eyes on us just a little too long. "Maybe he thinks I'm pretty," fleeted through my thoughts as I glanced over at the wheelchair driver. The thought was washed away with a tidal wave as I watched the driver lift her shirt for the singer. "But she's a wheelchair driver!" was my first thought as I tried to reconcile what I had just witnessed.

The crowd could have held my attention all night long. I enjoyed watching different fans trying to fill in the words of songs they couldn't quite remember. I felt loved and protected by my husband as each fight broke out and he turned his attention to keeping me safe. I felt strong as I endured an elbow to the left eye as an eager fan tried to catch a flying Santa's hat above my head and I felt triumphant as I stealthily dodged a smoking cigarette whose owner had no clue that she was about to burn my face. I watched in relief as she accidentally put her weapon out on the baseball cap of the gentleman next to me.

Despite my interest in the crowd, the music of Robert Earl Keen more than satisfied my occasional need of a good-ole country, frat party sing along. From my standpoint I could easily observe each musician do what he does best. From Gringo Honeymoon, Christmas with the Family, Broken End, and the finale Road Goes on Forever...each musician delivered. The ease of every note played, the perfect timing, the swell and sway of a well tuned machine all help me appreciate the music and forgive some of the lyrics of Robert Earl Keen.

The night ended nicely as the hearing in my left ear slowly returned and laughter and hugs were passed around with brother Alan and sister-in-law Shannon. My brother and husband somehow produced the bass player after I mentioned that he was my favorite, and I gushed like a teenager, and showed my age as I bragged of my college aged bass playing son. We drove home happy, Gringo Honeymoon playing in my head, and I just didn't mind that we all smelled like ashtrays.

Ignorance is Bliss

Well, I did it. For the first time in my 45 years, I untangled a black, mysterious wire, and plugged in a "power supply" to my brand new computer. Only those of you who know me best can appreciate this. Unlike most 45 year olds in this country, I have comfortably been cruising beneath the "need to know how to use the computer" radar.

As I write this, my palms and fingertips sweat with anxiety as I secretly pray that I am not frying the delicate inerds of my new tool. I have been overcome with fear as I try to decide what the little red light in the upper left hand corner means. Isn't red bad? And the flashing green light next to it turns my stomach as I wonder what in the world I'm doing. As I manuver through this new territory I wonder how in the world I have gone so long not knowing what a "browser" actually is. (I'm still not entirely sure.)

I actually feel a little triumphant that no smoke is seeping from this little 11x8 inch, blue "notebook" that sits in my lap. And I have successfully dodged the first error message that said "Your browser's cookie functionality is disabled. Please enable JavaScript and cookies in order to use Blogger." Well, all new computer users know that a message like that can end up being a mysterious $50 a month charge to your credit card, so I handled it like the best of beginners. I clicked on the little orange square with a white X on it in the upper right hand corner, then started over, hoping the message would go away. It did. Success!

I'm sure most readers are wondering how I can function in today's world without knowing how to use a computer to its fullest potential, and the answer is easy. I have a brilliant software developer for a husband, and I have always enjoyed the "here comes my knight on a white horse" feeling whenever I can't get my e-mail to work. But I have a funny feeling he doesn't see it in quite the same romantic light as me. Who do you think gave me this computer?

So I'm off to read the user's manual knowing my damsel in distress on the computer days are nearing their end. And I look forward to finally knowing what a "cookie" really is.

The Rooster Crows No More

Now before I ruffle any feathers out there, let me assure you, I am a fan of treating animals humanely, and this particular killing was carried out with thought, care, and thoroughness. I've been trained by one of the best poultry specialists whose credentials include a college degree from the great educational institution, Texas A&M. And I've had more hours of experience in ushering Cornish Rock broilers from one side of life to the other than I care to ponder.

But this blog deserves some background information before the reader can fully appreciate the fact that this writer killed her rooster and is quite pleased with herself for doing so.

My husband of 20 years and I don't have a whole lot in common. Oh, we cherish plenty of the same things that keep two people desiring each other's company, but for the most part, our interests line up like two positive ends of a magnet. We don't really like the same music, books, or movies. The toys he likes to play with on the weekends include trombones, guitars, recording equipment, computers, or anything else with a black cord. Mine include a shovel, tiller, weed eater, or a road bike. I would like my bedroom to look like it was featured in Pottery Barn. He would like our bedroom to look like it was featured in the Guitar Center catalogue. He prefers to "think" and I prefer to "feel". Don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining. One of the nice things about being married is learning to appreciate your spouse's desires. This is where my chickens come in.


I can't imagine my husband ever choosing to spend a couple of weekends building a chicken coop, putting up a fence and gate, spending a few more weekends relocating the fence and gate, only for the purpose of buying himself some chickens so that he can enjoy the daily chores of feeding and watering them, keeping them safe from the suburban predators of neighborhood dogs and opossums, rounding them up from the neighbor's yard, and finally gathering their eggs. But I can imagine him doing that for me. You see, he loves that I love chickens. (And I love that he loves that I love chickens!) And this is where the rooster comes in.

Early last Spring, my husband, Don, rounded up some spare lumber, hammers, nails, screws, and our two youngest sons, Holden and Nate. They proceeded to spend their spring break building a chicken coop for the not-yet-hatched chickens I had planned to acquire at the end of that week. After spending four winters overseeing Holden and Nate's very successful 4-H projects of raising, showing, then processing Cornish Rock Broilers, my interests had now included the much smaller, but just as nutritious chicken product, the egg. I had ushered more than 150 broilers through my garage, to the backyard, to the Livestock Show, and finally to my freezer. I was now ready to settle in with a dozen or so pullets, have them hang around a few years, and enjoy their eggs. After just a few days, the labor of love was finished. I added my own personal touches of white and green paint, and I was ready for my new hobby of backyard chicken farming to begin.

The chicks were newly hatched and ready to be purchased at our local farming supply store. This was my first time to shop for such a supply and I relied heavily on the store clerk's advise and directions. I had done enough homework to know that I wanted Rhode Island Reds and Leghorns. My plan was to purchase 12 chickens...6 Reds and 6 Leghorns. But I was not prepared for the vast amount of choices before me. There were little Bantam chicks that ranged in colors of gold, blue, and green. They were the most tempting to include in my basket, but I knew enough to know that the small stature of a Bantam would yield a small egg. Another intriguing breed, the Americanas, caught my eye. They were the most unusual chick I had ever seen. Their fuzzy bodies were covered in spots, splotches, and stripes of all colors. I learned the color of their eggs ranged from blue to green to olive. I was assured of their ability to lay well in the heat of the south Texas climate, and they were quickly moved to the top of my wish list.

I left the supply store with 5 Americanas, 4 Rhode Island Reds, 3 Leghorns, and one special golden chick for Nate that was to mature to a lovely yellow hen that laid rich brown eggs. All chicks had been sexed beforehand, and I was informed that all of my chicks were in fact females.

Four months into our backyard farming project, we began to suspect otherwise. There was one Rhode Island Red that seemed to be more social than all the others. She would walk and sometimes run right up to me when I showed up to pay attention to them. Nate noted early that the bright red waddles and comb seemed brighter and larger than the rest. "He's a rooster, mom. You got a boy." I tried to deny it, knowing full well, that he or she might be prettier than the other chickens, but eventually it was going to be trouble. I didn't mind so much that a few weeks later he started to screech. My son, Garrett, was home from college now. One morning he woke to what he described as "Seinfeild screaming in our backyard!"

We had a rooster. And his crowing was amusing at first. Like a teenage boy desperately trying to find the voice that will carry him through adulthood, the rooster fished and fished around with all of his sounds until he found the one he seemed to like the best. I spoke with all the neighbors to make sure I wasn't disturbing the peace. They all assured me that they thought it was amusing too. But a funny thing happened. He got very, very good at it.

In addition to his crowing, his good natured social skills evolved into a personality I could live without. He treated me as if I had come to rob him of everything good to a chicken, despite the fact that his very lunch was carried in my hands. I knew the time would come for me to exercise my right of planting my foot square in his chest to prevent the strong and sharp talons on his feet from leaving their mark on my legs. Unfortunately that day came soon, and more than once. I began to feel like I was taking my life into my hands every time I attempted to feed or care for my chickens. His days were numbered.

I don't particularly care for killing chickens. And I really didn't want to have to kill this one. I called all the friends I could think of who lived in the country who might want to add a rooster to their homesteads. I even called a few of my nutrition enthusiasts who I knew would value the meat of a homegrown, organic animal. But no takers. And time was ticking. One morning I woke at 5:00 a.m. to the now flawless cry of the male chicken happily situated near the green and white coop. His crowing had flushed all sleep from my eyes and chased rest into the next evening. I was wide awake, and a little cranky. From 5 a.m. until 7 a.m, the rooster crowed. He crowed and crowed and crowed. Nearly a hundred crows filled the morning air, each twisting at the knot in my stomach tighter and tighter. When I finally rolled from my bed, I half expected my neighbors to be standing on my porch with pitchforks. It was decided. The rooster had to go that day.

After a few frantic calls to hopeful rooster takers, I decided I had to do the job myself. Like I mentioned earlier, I have some experience in this area. But this was different. This animal wanted to hurt me. An ongoing power struggle between two living beings was about to end, and I knew the outcome. And frankly, I was afraid. Now, a whole blog entry or two on fear will probably erupt someday out of me as this has been a common theme lately for this writer. But for now it's enough to know that I was just flat out afraid of this rooster. He could and had tried to hurt me!

Thankfully I have Edie. Edie is my partner in crime when it comes to raising chickens. Actually she is more like a mentor. Her chickens are 4 weeks older than mine. Whenever I have had a question or concern, she has been the one to turn to. Now I needed her. She simply suggested I wait until he was roosting, pick him up, then do my thing. I would have never figured that out on my own.

So the countdown began. Evening was here before I knew it. The time had come. After gathering some leather work gloves and setting up some light in the backyard, I went and stood in the coop. Was it true that because the rooster was now roosting, he would simply allow me to pick him up? He wasn't asleep. No he was fully awake and aware of me there. I was afraid. That rooster had tried to hurt me! What would stop him from that now? I stood there for a very long time, thinking over and over in my head how I would scoop him up by the feet. I just had to do it, but the motion that my brain was instructing my hands to do just didn't come. Finally, like a Nike commercial I just did it. I reached my hand underneath him and with one fluid movement had both of his legs in one hand, and cradled his neck gently in the other.

It was over quickly and peacefully and I'm not ashamed to say that I felt quite proud of myself for taking care of business on my own. Immediately there was a calm throughout the coop and the chickens' yard. The evening was quiet touched only by the gentle clucks of the settling hens.

Life continued on that night. The ongoing struggles that seem to always be lingering didn't simply go away. But one part of myself had overcome an obstacle...had done something difficult, and I possessed a little more peace.

I fully enjoy my chickens now. My family and I move among them often to care for them, to enjoy them, and to gather the multi colored eggs. There is much joy in having a yard full of peaceful and content chickens. Peaceful and content neighbors is pretty nice too.

Last Never Felt More Like First

I'm afraid of heights. Just the thought of looking out the window of a tall building makes my hands start to sweat. But what fills me with complete and total dread is having to drive over an insanely high overpass. Unfortunately, I have to endure this at least 3 or 4 times every Spring as I travel throughout Texas with the Way South Speech and Debate Team. Any member that has ever driven with me knows that if I yell out "Sing!", it means we are approaching one of those pieces of spaghetti that has been strewn across a great city like Houston or Dallas, and I must maneuver my half ton Suburban over it. Thankfully they all know that to break out in song helps me keep my mind off of the fact that a gust of wind could come up and blow me off.

But this blog isn't about me driving over an incredibly high overpass. No, this is about riding my bike over the second tallest bridge in Texas, and continuing on for 65 miles. This is called "Conquering the Coast".

This is my fourth year at attempting "Conquer the Coast". There are two groups to join...The 25 mile ride, and the 65 mile ride. For the first three years I rode in the 25 mile ride, always afraid of the 65 because it started out with having to cross the Corpus Christi Harbor Bridge. The bridge was built in 1956-1959. It's 620 feet sprawls across the Port of Corpus Christi, and it looms above us at 243 feet. To partake in the 65 mile ride, one must start the ride at the base of the bridge, quickly climb it, then continue on around the Bay of Corpus Christi for 65 miles. This was my year to try.

The ride took place this last Saturday. I was not to endure this alone. My 65 year old father was attempting the 65 for the first time this year, and my more mature than 14 years son was also at my side. The morning started in the dark, wee hours around 5:00 a.m. Sleep had come and gone all night as I spent most of my time envisioning what the ride over the bridge would be like. I gave up on rest, and began to go through the motions that would start one of the most memorable days of my life.

Most prep work had been done the night before. My son, Holden, and I had gathered our helmets, gloves, water bottles, etc. We had laid out our jerseys and fastened our numbers to them. Now it was time to actually load our biking paraphernalia and bikes and start our day. I was filled with so much fear, I had to concentrate on every move I made, making sure I didn't forget some obvious element of the ride such as my shoes. We moved through the early morning, barely making a sound so as not to wake the rest of the family. I prepared oatmeal that was barely touched by our nervous stomachs. Only a couple of teaspoons of yogurt made its way through my digestive system.

It was time to go. My husband was up to see us off. We were loaded up, and there was no reason to stay at home. Believe me, I tried to think of one. We took off in the dark. My very calm and cool 14 year old decided we needed some pumping up as he quickly found some rap or pop or rhythm and blues sort of music that had a beat to carry us along Ocean Drive. This is from a child that doesn't make much noise. And when he does, you want to listen. I have no idea what the lyrics were to the song we were listening to, and I don't even know if I really want to know. All I know is that my son's voice would chime in every once in awhile on cue with, "Swing!" It was the only clue I had that this very quiet, calm, cool, and collected child was engaged with conquering the day ahead.

As we drove along the deserted main thoroughfare of the coastal road, more and more vehicles joined the procession down town. Most with bikes on bike racks, strapped to the back, the roof, or tucked away in the backseat of an SUV like ours. If any more excitement could grow in me, it did then. We continued in the dark, and as we neared our final destination, I noticed the bridge was hidden by the early morning haze and lack of light. "Oh if only it would remain dark," I prayed. The thought of not actually being able to see what lay ahead of me brought me some comfort.

We arrived at Whataburger Field parking lot. It was near 7:00 a.m, and the race would start in 30 minutes. There were at least 400 vehicles there and the number was growing by the minute. We found a spot and began going through the motions that all riders take before an event. The sounds were soft as riders talked of the weather and the upcoming race. Air hissed here and there as tires were readied. The light grew as the sun made it's appearance. Riders mounted their bikes and made quiet circles around the parking lot to warm their muscles for the day to come. We could put this off no longer...It was time to find the starting line.

This is where I must try to describe the child that rides with me. Holden is the forth of our five children. He survived a near death beginning in this world. We give God all the glory for allowing our son to survive those days and stay with us. God made him a "fighter" which was noted by doctors and nurses alike. But this is the quietest fighter you've ever seen. Like a mighty ship, heavy with oil and riches, gliding into port is Holden. Something powerful pushes this enormous vehicle through the water. But barely a soul is in sight to give us a clue as to it's power. This is Holden. He is strong. He is determined. And have I mentioned quiet? I feel safe and encouraged when I'm with him.

The two of us head toward the mob of more than 500 riders that now form the mass that will "Conquer the Coast". We eagerly look for my dad, Holden's Grandpa. At the last moment we find him in a comfortable spot in the middle. We edge in with him and wait. One of the many gifts I received that day was the bright and happy face of my longtime childhood friend, Nina. She was perched on her bike next to my dad. After hugs and words of encouragement, a voice over a load speaker interrupts our reunion. Some brief instructions, a prayer, and the National Anthem. All of a sudden I realize...This is a sporting event, and I'm one of the athletes. This was a rare but exhilarating feeling. Before I could ponder it, I eagerly search the onlookers for my biggest fans...my husband, Don, and our 9 year old Nate. There was no sign of them yet. How you yearn to see the ones you love at a time like this. Then, with just moments before the start, I see them. The eagerness and happiness on their faces matches mine. A few snapshots, and the ride begins.

The beginning of a bike race is calm. Good natured words float throughout, the sound of clips snapping riders to their peddles ripples through the mass, and a quiet community of riders begin their day. I found myself nestled among people I know and care about...my father, my son, my friend,Nina, and my good friend from church, Barb, with her 14 year old Daniel. Nervous chatter, some instructions about gears, and before I know it, the entryway to the bridge.

All of a sudden, I'm attempting the very thing I have feared the most every September for the last five years. More time and prayer has gone into these motions that I was now making except for maybe childbirth. It was far quieter and calmer than I had ever imagined. My father and Nina were immediately gone, Barb and her son were ahead of me, and the mighty, silent Holden was by my side. "Mom, your leaning forward. You need to down shift." How comforted I felt with him there. Oh please don't leave me, I thought. Then again, "Mom, down shift." I wasn't tired, and I wasn't scared. Then, "Mom, I gotta go." And Holden was off. I was alone. But I was fine. There were hundreds of riders around me. All of us just wanted to climb up and make it to the top.

After awhile I needed more oxygen. The climbing got harder, and all the things I had planned on praying on that bridge were far behind me. All I could pray was, "Jesus, please put your hand on my back and push." I prayed that over and over until finally...I was there. The top of the bridge! And this woman behind me said, "Thank you Jesus!" and I answered out loud, "Amen".
Dare I look over? Dare I glance at the beauty around me? Should I look at anything other than the broken white stripe I had been staring at the whole way up? For a fraction of a second I glance to the right. What beauty! The sun rising over the Corpus Christi Bay! Only a moment to comprehend my surroundings, then immediately I am dealing with the task of going down.

Now, it doesn't take a genius to realize that going down will take a fraction of the time as going up. But the challenge for a rider like me is to make sure it doesn't happen too fast! Riders whizzed by me going many miles an hour. I glided, braked, glided, braked, until I felt safe enough to let her fly! Before I knew it, the bridge was behind me. I grinned like an idiot. I had done it. I had ridden my bike over the Harbor Bridge! The first of my two goals for the day was neatly tucked away in my pocket and I was off to grab the next. But before I could think too much about it, there were my fans, in a fire engine red suburban honking on my behalf...Don and Nate. What joy.

To share the next five hours would bore the best of biking enthusiasts, but was filled with more blessings than this writer deserves. Each water stop was an oasis. The riders were friendly. The south Texas scenery was appealing. The weather stellar. 30 miles into the race, and goal number two was reached. I walked my bike onto a ferry that would cross a channel to Port Aransas, Texas. The halfway mark. I had made my goal. But I felt too good to stop. There was race left in my legs. I wanted to keep going. Then a nice Conquer the Coast official approached me.

"Congratulations! You've made it halfway!" What a nice young man I thought. "Would you like a ride into Corpus?" Now why would he ask such a thing I wondered? He explained his job was to give a lift to those who didn't want to tackle "the toughest 18 miles in Texas" that lay just ahead. After assuring me that it wasn't "cheating", he lifted my bike into the back of his truck, and we were off with the understanding that he would drop me off just past the Kennedy Causeway. (Another terribly high bridge, but with steeper sides, and not nearly the side rails necessary to keep a poor biker safe from a strong gust of wind!)

Moments after the retreat into his truck, a voice cracked over his walkie talkie. "Did you get that lady in green?" "Yea, I got her. She's in the truck with me. Now the last person is a man with a white shirt and glasses." Last person? Last person? "Was I the last person?" I asked. "Yea," he replied.

A wave of emotions came over me. I had just bagged the two biggest goals I've had in a long while and now this. But my bubble refused to pop. O.K., I was last, but I'm not done. And only after a few seconds, we were caught up with the pack. Well, I wasn't that far behind, I thought. We were slowly cruising down the 18 miles between Port Aransas and Padre Island. And there they were...my son, Holden, fighting along. Barb and her son. My childhood friend, Nina. And my dad! But there were more...friends from the gym, my children's' pediatrician, another friend from church! Oh I longed to be among them. I wanted to conquer as much as they did. But I knew my limits, and there wouldn't be many more miles left in my legs.

15 miles from Corpus, I ask to be dropped off. I mounted my bike, and I was riding again. Happy to be moving again I reached for water. To my disappointment, my water bottle had emptied while on it's side in the truck. I knew the next water stop was five miles away. Then the cramps started. Oh no. Too long in an air conditioned vehicle. My muscles had cooled too much. This is where I had to push, to try to do what might be harder than what I really could do. But I kept on. And one by one, the riders passed me. Silently at first, they passed me by. Then, I heard words. "Good job!" "Almost there!" "Keep going!" and the best, "I think I can, I think I can." Had someone sprayed the word "underdog" on the back of my shirt!? But I really didn't mind. We were just a bunch of bike riders trying to do a hard thing.

I got to the last water stop, walked off the cramps, and saw my dad! He had ridden 55 miles and was almost done! We shared some Gatorade, rode together for awhile, then he was off. I kept expecting Holden to pass me. But no Holden.

The last 10 miles was the slowest and hardest. I was tired. And fewer and fewer people were passing me. Was it possible that I could be last twice in one day for the very same race? I didn't care anymore. I just wanted to finish. Still no Holden. Was he O.K?

Three miles left...more blessings. Curlews in Cole Park, (my favorite bird), a praise and worship group on the lawn of First Methodist Church, the energy of Bayfest, and finally, those guys pulling stereo speakers behind their bikes came up from behind me. Prince encouraged us with "Let's get Crazy" and I took him up on it and kicked it into high gear. I chased those guys and their music the rest of the way in. Then I realized like I always do at the end of a race, "It's over. Oh no." I almost don't want the race to end.

I flew across the finish line, scanning the onlookers for my fans. No Holden, no dad, no Don, no Nate. Even the parking lot that had been teaming with bikers 6 hours earlier was nearly empty. It was O.K. I had just finished Conquer the Coast. I didn't even care that the photographer hadn't taken my picture and asked me to ride through the finish line again. I was catching my breath under the Harbor Bridge that had taken it earlier that morning, and I had conquered! All I really wanted to know right then was, "Where is Holden."

It didn't take long to find my dad. He had finished moments before. I was so happy for him! We both wheeled our bikes to the finish line and waited for my son. It seemed like a long time, but only minutes passed and there he was! We cheered and whooped as he crossed the line! He had done it! The whole 65! I was so proud.

It was hard to keep from asking him a hundred questions. But I could tell he just wanted to catch his breath. Our fans, Don and Nate, showed up, and before we knew it, it was time to load the bikes and go.

The ride home was surreal. We were tired, a little sunburned, and happy. I kept looking at Holden, trying to read him. And finally he uttered, "I did it. I rode 65 miles."

We've talked of the ride many times since Saturday. About meeting goals, setting new ones. (I met mine by the way in case you didn't get it: Crossing the Harbor Bridge, and making it halfway. I exceeded goal number two by 15 miles!)

And I've developed a new strategy of driving myself through those spaghetti bowls of causeways over Texas...I'll pretend I'm on my bike.