Day 28 - Lessons from Major Taylor

Major Taylor riding his bike

Over the last several days, I had taken a special interest in Marshall Walter "Major" Taylor, the first American world champion in cycling for the one mile back in 1899.  Not many would be familiar with his superhuman efforts during a time when African Americans suffered under Jim Crow, blantant racism, segregation, related violence and poverty.

According to many, cycling during the late 1800s and early 1900 prior to the Great Depression experienced popularity similar to baseball.  Major Taylor made more money annually than famous baseball players such as Ty Cobb of his time.

Major Taylor's success is remarkable and stands out at a time when cycling could be arguably viewed as a middle or upper middle class sport with the expensive equipment, time needed to train, and resources necessary to be successful.

Cycling has been an activity and much less a sport for me.  I shared my first experiences as a child when my mother's second husband taught me how to ride a ten speed bike when I was in the third or forth grade.  I did not have a bike of my own until the fifth or sixth grade.

My first was a yellow Huffy dirt bike, which was heavy by today's standards, used, and worn by the time it was handed down to me.  It was made of gold as far as I was concerned.

For a number of years, my bike became the main means for getting around.  I even used it to help sell cookies and magazine subscriptions door-to-door for my elementary school fundraisers.  Although it helped me get around to baseball practice and other things, it was also my escape during some difficult times in my pre-teen years.

Through high school and college, bike riding fell low on my list of priorities.  Driving a car as for many teenagers was the main mode of transportation that I aspired toward.  During my travels across the US, I ended up selling my bike for extra money to help with one of many family moves.  Cycling as I would learn to call it became a pasttime fondness.

I did not own another bike until much later during graduate school with kids and several more years under my belt.  Running seemed too hard on my knees and other exercises seemed boring and uninteresting to keep my attention. Americanized competitive yoga, pilates, and running machines were great if you had no other choice and wanted to dull your mind at the same time. My new green monster bike became my outlet in many ways as it had during my pre-teens - an outlet during stressful times that would be considered par for the course in adulthood.

These childhood memories hold a special place in my mind.  As I share cycling with my kids during rides across downtown, through the summer, and during fun rides on the East Side, they help me re-experience special moments that I had alone when I was coming up.  The talks, sharing ideas, making jokes and silly observations with my kids as we ride have been times invaluable to me. I get to know them on.

Cycling has held a special place in me.  I was glad to learn about an African American champion who I could point to beyond the glamour and glitter of the current cycling bonanza with big money, drugs, competition, and glitz that comes with it.

Unfortunately, Major Taylor died a pauper.  All the fame and money the man made did not avoid a sad ending. With all his worldwide fame, historical significance, and money he made at the time ($15 to 30K annually), Taylor would succumb to the American nightmare.

I shared his story with my kids who thought it a wonder that they never heard of him before.  As we talked about his life and accomplishments, Major Taylor became another talking point on our bike rides through East Austin.

His story reasonants with me because his success required determination, persistence in spite of obstacles that should have torn him down, and faith in something more powerful to get him through it all.  Along the way, Taylor had people who believed in him and share his vision, faith, and determination.

I won't win the kind of championships Major Taylor had.  However, in my children's eye, each day I win a small victory.  They allow me to be their champion and we share the winner's cup with hopes of bearing good fruits.  Sometimes my kids hold me up way too high where it has been hard to make mistakes and be human.

As each year passes, they have seen me more as who I am, flawed and with blemishes.  Still, they love me. They do not really understand unconditional love.  I think they reciprocate what they experience and reflect back what they receive.  They are not mirror images, but I believe you get back what you put in.

I may not bring home a championship trophy to them.  They are the only reward I need.  Their gift to me is their loving hearts, great personalities, inquisitive minds, and funny sense of humor.  With them, I fill more like a champ everyday.

When I think about the reasons for taking care of myself, eating well, exercising, reducing my stress, and making good on what my mother gave to me, my kids' faces come to mind every time.  There are other benefits for me personally that cannot be ignored.  It's also nice to arrive from work and see those faces shine up the room when they call my name, hug me tightly, and allow me to hold their hands.  Their hands remain very gentle to me. My kids are two of a hundred reasons to take care, be well, and live healthy.

These thoughts among many others have kept me on my path to exercise and be mindful of the food that I eat.  If anything, I've re-learned that determination and persistence is required to stay on track, which is no different than Major Taylor's values.  I expect to avoid his unfortunate downward spiral late in life by learning from his examples in success and failure through his life.

Below is a clip with images of Major Taylor over the years.

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Day 24 - Wind In My Sail

Anyone living in Austin and the Central Texas area felt the gale winds blowing across.  Of course, I ignored any warnings from Thursday night's weather predictions when considering my plan for exercise on Friday morning.

The other interesting detail to mention is that Thursday was an unseasonably warm, 88 degrees, as I wore a short sleeve shirt for the second day to work for the first time since October.

This Friday morning brought a much colder morning. I bundled up in preparation for the cold winds that would chill me to the bone. However, chill was not going to be my problem.

I felt the winds blowing down my street cutting through the live oak trees and causing the wind chimes to chatter loudly.  I considered for a moment the challenge of biking against the wind and strategized to start the bike trip first against the wind when I had the most strength.

Although my muscles remained sore from the day before, I flew down the hill for at least two miles before engaging the wind.  I began feeling the lingering fatigue in my legs as I began biking east near Lady Bird Lake.  The wind came from the north sweeping across my sheltered face hiding behind a hat, two hoods from the two pullover sweat shirts, another pullover and long sleeve t-shirt for good measure.

I progressed north and immediately hit a wall after feeling thoroughly warmed up.  I peddled into the wind, which felt like charging through a quagmire of molasses and Georgia red clay.  Oh, the misery!

When confronted with difficult circumstances, it is common, actually very human, to be confronted with a series of doubtful internal mental messages.  In my head, a thousand times over, I thought about going home, turning back, retreating from this unhappy episode of biking.

My mind consumed with negativity I also thought about the good fortune of being able to hunker down, bike the good fight, and make it to the other side.  For every negative thought, it takes at least one and half or more positive thoughts to counteract the effects of jaundiced thinking.

The more I rode through the wind, the more inclined did I feel the need to prove that I could make it.  Call it persistence, hard-headed deterministic focus, or dogged optimism, I wanted to make the travail through to the end.

My greatest doubt came at the steepest hill.  Once I made it to the top, I felt a simple, premature victory as I came to an assortment of upcoming hills.  The key for me was that I made it through the first, most difficult challenge in the ride.  Although each hill exaggerated by the gale force wind topping at between 25 and 30 miles per hour posed an opportunity for success, each achievement increased my confidence even though my legs seemed to wither.

The difference for this ride was that my mind and body were in alignment.  My body has not been in shape for some time, yet I was reminded how the mind and body needed to be on the same accord to accomplish self-determined goals.

Looking at my time, it was taking me five minutes longer to make the same ride from the day prior.  I was okay with it.  Speed was not my rubric for success.  Staying on task, continuing through difficult obstacles, and experiencing a sense of reward in successfully attaining my goal were enough to satisfy me.

As I made it home relaxing the last mile down hill, I did fill full of self-satisfaction, which I generally try to avoid.  However, as I reflect, celebrating a personal achievement should not be ignored but cheered even quietly in the morning shadow of night with no one around to see.

The remainder of the day went well.  The first hill made every other event seem easy to deal with.

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Day 22 - Back in Stride Again

I've had to write this blog entry in retrospect the following day because I came home after along day very tired and went to bed immediate with no real contemplation in place.

After a few days away, I returned to exercising and biking while attempting to forge a new trail away from Lady Bird Lake.  Since blogging about historic East Austin, I decided to ride through its less familiar parts.

One of the things about getting back on track is the body's adjustment to lifting, running, pushing, pulling, or haranguing by will or force through the exercise.  If you were like me, I was a junior league, weekend warrior during my young adulthood and former high school and college athlete.

In my mind's eye, without fail, I still approach exercise as a warrior seeking the next fight . . . with myself.  I want to challenge my body and approach each event like a climb of Mt. Kilimanjaro. This is the problem . . . : My body and mind do not work together.  My mind pushes, but my body pulls.

So, as I hit each hill, my legs start pumping up the hill with my mind focused on cutting up the distance into pieces, creating mental markers, approaching each one, and doing a happy dance for each small accomplishment.  As I finished the third or forth, maybe fifth East Side hill, I noticed my legs started sending messages back to the brain relaying the note from my muscles, "What the hell are you doing?"

As if my muscles decided to have a sit in and Occupy My Legs revolution, protesting inhumane treatment,
they failed to respond to my desire to make it up the next hill.  So, I pressed on with gold plates weighing each leg down as I cycled through Mississippi mud.

For one or two miles, I struggled with my legs that seemed to have a mind of their own.  I relished the down hill rest periods allowing my legs a quiet comfort and my breathing to return to normal.  Around mile five, I was fortunate to find that a peace accord was agreed when as my legs returned.  Unfortunately, I really could not feel them past the burning sensation that shot up across the top of my thighs.

On the last leg approaching my home, I rode in determined to remind my body who was in charge. Yes, I pushed my body a bit more than I should have, but I was not going to be a prisoner to legs unwilling to cooperate.  So, I pushed it up another series of gradual hill that was about three miles nearly straight up.

I took a deep breathe, cleared my mind a bit reflecting on the mix of shotgun, modern, and classic southern homes throughout East Austin.  I thought about how gentrification has allowed the prices of property to go out of the reach of many African and Hispanic American families unable to retain their homes or more willing to sell their properties for a profit, which would be hard to avoid accepting.

I thought also about my contribution to gentrification.  I'd like to think of my role as positive gentrification, if there is such a thing.  The truth is a high concentration of poverty is not good.  Gentrification passively helps to bring a mix of incomes into one community to break up the high level of poverty.

Part of the problem is also  people of color not being able to keep their properties in light of high taxes outside their ability to afford them.  Next door to their older home is a new home twice the price with three stories, which makes their property value higher and out of their ability to pay.

Yes, old home property owners can make a profit by selling their home, but the problem is that the community of Black and Hispanic people leave their historic place after being forced to reside their decades prior.  The businesses and East Side charm is replaced with outsiders coming in changing their community without any serious consideration to the needs or wants of the current residents. The challenge is that an increasing number of the residents are not Black or Hispanic. It's another change in tides.

I desire to remain as long as it satisfies my needs. While here, I'd like to make a positive contribution and be involved with each constituency that shares in the vitality of East Austin.  I do wish more African and Hispanic Americans would seriously consider moving back or come to East Austin.  The cost may be prohibitive to many; however, if you are willing to take advantage of close proximity of downtown and an urban experience contrary to the ideal of suburban ideals, then East Austin is the place to be.

On my porch, I stood for the first time on my bike, each leg was tired.  I also felt good, a painful oh, so good feeling.  I was glad to be out there.  Walking was tentative as I weakly came to my bedroom.  For a moment, I wasn't sure if I really did win.  I did win, because I did something, got out there, and made it much further than I would have just weeks prior.  I did win.

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