One day back in 1976 a German shepherd came out of nowhere to show up at our kitchen door. He was not emaciated; he looked good. But he was thirsty, so we took care of that. He decided to move in, sleeping in the mudroom of our tiny rented cottage in a dusty southern Idaho bean field.

Naturally, it would have been high-desert sagebrush as far as the eye could see. But in the early 1900s men dammed the Snake River, tore out much of the sagebrush, and dug many miles of irrigation ditches. Because potatoes, sugar beets, and other crops grew well in the volcanic soil with the simple addition of water, the wide plain on both sides of the river was named “The Magic Valley”.

The dog was confident, noble — a gentleman among canines. He had no collar, but was easily identified by a permanently burst blood vessel in his left eye. He also was fearless, loyal, and smart. Cate, my partner, named him Rex. We had both been afraid of shepherds (my mom called them police dogs) in the past, but Rex never showed the slightest mean streak. In fact, nothing rattled him.

Maybe he needed companionship. When we took him camping in the Sawtooths, we realized he must have spent a stretch of time on his own. We brought dry dogfood, but around the campsite he would spend half an hour or so standing over a ground squirrel’s hole, tensed for a lightening-fast lunge. When the squirrel finally stuck its head up to see if the coast were clear, that head was immediately in Rex’s teeth. He would tilt his head back, chomp the rodent’s body a few times (we heard bones cracking), and swallow the squirrel whole. He repeated this several times a day, on every trip we took him on.

One weekend we camped at the base of a steep foothill covered with stiff, dry grass. It was mid-morning on a cloudless day. The sky was that enchanting dark blue that you only see out west because of the low humidity. Cate and I were both reading Even Cowgirls Get the Blues, by Tom Robbins. It was her turn with the paperback, so I decided I needed to see the view from the top of the hill. Cate counseled against it, as it was quite hot already, but I felt I had a mission. Rex came with me.

The hill was higher than it looked. And when Rex and I got to the top of the ridge we discovered a slight dip, then an even steeper, rockier incline leading to higher ridge with only sky behind it. The dip completely hid this second ridge from the campsite, so Cate lost sight of us, and started to worry. Rex and I certainly were not about to turn back in defeat. We had no water, but we had tenacity. When we took breaks, Rex seemed glad for the opportunity to lie down, panting hard. It was tough going in the heat, but we continued climbing. It was all worth it: The view from the ridgetop was breathtaking. The slope on the other side was even steeper than what we had scaled, with no vegetation. And out beyond, rows of majestic snowy peaks stretched to the horizon. The breeze from that direction was chilly. It was getting toward late afternoon, so we headed back down to the campsite. The descent was a lot quicker, but we found Cate quite upset. We had been gone for hours.

Around the campfire that night, when the air had cooled, my sweat had dried, and emotions had settled, Cate told me about a passage she read in the Robbins novel while I was climbing. It was a metaphor comparing joy, fleeting as it is, to a butterfly — all one can do is tilt his/her head back and hope to kiss the butterfly as it passes over. The best part was that a tiger swallowtail landed on her arm shortly after she read that passage, and stayed for more than a minute.

Life flowed on that summer, our last summer before parenthood. Those were good days. We both had rewarding full-time jobs in Twin Falls, about 10 miles away. We had finally found a way to live in the country. If you knew Rex, you would agree that locking him in the house or chaining him outside were both unthinkable. He was free to wander, and he always showed up before dinner. After dinner, we would sit on the front porch on an old, dusty sofa. Rex would lie on the wooden slats beside us. We would look across the little-traveled road to an expansive alfalfa field. In the distance one balmy evening, our farmer landlord and his sons were mowing it for hay. There was a sweet smell in the air.

One September evening Rex didn’t show up. We called the police station in Kimberly, a parched crossroads hamlet three miles to the east. They had Rex, who had been brought in by an angry resident who owned 12 pet cats. Before Rex loped into town that afternoon, he’d owned 13 cats. There might have been a small fine, but I don’t think there were any licensing or leash laws. Hell, just the concept of zoning was being suggested for the first time by a couple of local environmentalists. Rex was glad to see us.

A week later it happened again. Rex had killed another of the man’s cats. We never met the man, never learned whether or not Rex had eaten the cats. This time the police conveyed the complainant’s warning to us: If it happened a third time, he would shoot Rex.

It took us a few days to decide what to do. We kept Rex in the mudroom while we were at work. We decided we had to let him go, farther out in the country. On Saturday we drove Rex about 45 miles to the south, toward the Nevada border. The irrigation ditches didn’t come close to this land, where the cattle ranches were miles apart. In between were low, rocky hills of sage, punctuated by willow bushes and the rare cottonwood tree along the creeks. On his white plastic flea-collar we had tried to tell his story with a ball-point pen. The only words I recall writing were “I AM NOT LOST”.

I did a U-turn. Behind our parked car, with a ranch visible in the distance, we hugged and patted Rex, who seemed to be anticipating another fun hike. We said goodbye, jumped in the car, and drove off. The car picked up speed. We went over a hill and could no longer see him running after us. We were crying.

Months later, on our wedding day, the stars aligned for me to see Rex one last time. Though we would host a restaurant dinner and a dance party at our cottage later that night, our late-afternoon wedding was not fancy — far from it. We invited only four friends to the service at the Twin Falls YWCA. The one who was a photographer forgot his camera. And we had gone to work that Friday for most of the day. The front of the building where I worked faced one of the main roads in town. Coming down the steps, I thought I saw Rex in the back of a faded red pickup truck. I ran, following the truck. A stoplight helped me catch up, and then the truck turned to park in front of a hardware store two blocks down. It was Rex all right, red eye and all. He was wagging his tail; he recognized me. While I was petting and talking to him, two men came out of the store. They were ranch hands from the area where we had released Rex. They said he had become the ranch’s “barn dog,” eating mostly cottage cheese! I imagined side dishes of rodents, but I didn’t ask about the cottage cheese. I didn’t think there were any dairy farms down that way, but then the ranches tended to be rather self-sufficient — many must have milk cows and make their own cheeses. I didn’t ask if the ranch had cats, either, but maybe ranch cats can take care of themselves. I suppose I digress here for the same reason I didn’t want those guys to drive off. But they did.

We’ll never forget Rex. We still feel blessed that he adopted us for a while.

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This story makes more sense if you know a little about the mechanics of riding a mountain bike.

Think of a catcher getting set for a pitch, or a tennis player preparing to receive a serve. Picture their posture. Knees bent, elbows bent, hinged at the waist, maybe swaying a bit. They are loose, mobile, ready to move in whatever direction is required. That is what my mountain bike coach calls “the basic athletic position of the human body.”

Riding a mountain bike over challenging terrain, or over drops and jumps and along steep, chunky, rooty trails, the rider adopts the same basic position, standing on the pedals, limbs serving as shock absorbers in both compression and extension. The bike can move under you while your body stays stable. Your head does not get bounced around and so your vision of the trail ahead remains clear.

One thing you NEVER do is sit down. If you do that, you get tossed around with the bike. You lose your sight picture. You panic. Disaster soon follows.

 

Our dear friend Stacy died in October of 2020. The day of her funeral was clear and cold. I stood with my wife and the assembled friends (no family, sadly, but that is another story) as the rabbi read the service, talking eloquently of Stacy and our love for her. I was insulated from my own grief by my basic fatalism, by the Nordic stoicism my Mom instilled in me ever since I could talk, and by the need to support my wife, who is decidedly NOT Nordic and NOT stoic. The loss of Stacy, who was in essence her third sister, still claws at her soul.

I had never before been to a Jewish funeral. I hope I never again am.

The coffin – Stacy – was lowered into the earth. Next to the grave was a small pile of dirt from Israel, and a  trowel. The rabbi said that any who wished could come up and toss three trowels  of this earth onto the flower covered mahogany casket. I did it. Stacy’s husband managed it, but Stacy had been so sick for so long, I think he was essentially numb. Gina did it, which was hard beyond measure, but sometimes life comes down to doing what you must. Three small shovelfuls of earth.

I was curious. After the ceremony I asked the rabbi why three portions of earth. He told me that in the Jewish tradition, doing something three times indicated that you were doing it with purpose. Once might be an accident, Twice you might be doing it offhandedly, or be very careless. But three times meant you were doing the thing deliberately, with understanding.

For some reason that concept stuck in my mind. Three times and you meant it. Three times was real. Three times was important.

 

In the Spring of 2022 I was taking an advanced mountain biking skills workshop. We were working on drops, which means riding off high places onto lower places. Many people find this frightening. With my acrophobia, I find it terrifying. The smallest drop, a mere foot, was no problem. Then we moved on to the second one. This was a bit over two feet tall, but the landing was downhill, so you were really dropping three feet, maybe more. At fairly high speed, and immediately after into a banked turn. On my first try, I suddenly froze, sure that I  was moving too slowly, and hit the brakes. Damn my fear of heights. On my second attempt, again I felt uncertain, so I took the last minute go-around.

As I rode away and around to the beginning I cursed myself and my cowardice, my phobias, my lack of confidence. I KNEW how to do this. The technique is identical at any height. I wanted to quit and I wanted to go again.

I went again.

Another technical detail is that high-level riding is best done with your seat all the way down. I have a hydraulic seat post that lets me lower my seat on the fly. Very useful.

Speed is good. I went fast. As I reached the lip of the drop, I lowered my seat, assumed the correct position and soared off the edge –  and down to a perfect landing. I rode away screaming in triumph. My fellow students cheered as well. And then I remembered; three times makes it real.

I circled around. I headed for the drop. If anything, a bit faster. Speed is good here. I got to the edge. I dropped my seat. And just as I sailed over the edge, my thumb hit the dropper post lever and popped the damned seat right back up under my ass….

I could not do a thing about it. You lower the seat by sitting down on it, and I was already airborne. I was going to hit the ground with my seat all the way up, in pretty much a sitting position. And with my weight too high, I started to rotate forward. I was going to nose in.

The bike hit hard, but the fact that I was doing everything else right saved me. I didn’t crash. I rode away unscathed, to the cheers of those who had seen what had happened. In fact, I think that my being able to make a major mistake and still ride it out was more of a confidence boost than merely another uneventful success would have been.

I did, however, forego the third attempt that day. Better part of valor and all that.

Addendum: I hope that those of the Jewish faith who read this story do not think that I intend to or am trivializing the tradition of the three times by linking it to my mountain biking. Nothing could be further from my intent. I found the concept –  indeed the entire set of Jewish funeral customs – beautiful and comforting. The truth is, mountain biking is extremely important to me. It is far more than a recreational activity. It is a light in my inner darkness, Prozac with spokes. I spend a lot of time thinking about it. Mountain biking is very much an exercise in practical psychology, in fighting fear and finding the strength to persevere. It has changed me for the better.

The “rule of three” as described by the rabbi that day touched something inside me. I think about it frequently. MTB is hard. The rule of three to me is a touchstone. It encourages me to go back and try again. I also hope I am remembering his explanation correctly!

im under 10 living in Miami.  visiting younger cousins who live in central Maine.  I have never ridden a bike. despite their ages, they consistently make me take risks as hey laugh their stupid heads off!!

I’m at the top of a smallish hill.  im on a bike headed down.  they hold onto the bike and plan on helping me and running with me as they let go. but once im pushed, they do not accompany me. im headed for the woods and hear them laugh louder.

what are brakes anyhow?

ab