Speaking of Sacrifice

I watched in slow motion as two or three riders ran over the one writhing on the ground. Later I went by the team tent as they scrubbed gravel and dirt out of blood-red, road rash the size of my outstretched hand. You know how sometimes you get that twinge of virtual pain? I could just feel the prickly, itchy, tight pain of road rash coming in the days ahead. Recently, I read that racing bicyclists have a one-in-four chance in every race of ending up in that tent. What propels people to make such large sacrifice for such a small prize?

All of life requires sacrifice. I watched the world wake the other morning. Two ladies drug themselves to the bus stop to wait their transport to work. They sucked deeply on cigarettes. Two other ladies marched to Frolics to dance nude. They had the morning shift. I have to dance nude for some pervert, and I have to get up at 5:30 a.m. for the privilege? A toothless guy came up to me. Which way is town? We stood in the middle of Portland. I myself waited outside a day-labor place to support my writing addiction. I feel ashamed to write that last sentence. We all offer our bodies in sacrifice: some to survive, some to escape, and some to reach a better place.

If I must sacrifice, and I must, then I choose that last reason—to reach a better place. I live in a scary place right now, and I have but one hope in one person to whom I pray and trust that He honors sacrifice for the right reasons. Please hurry I might add.

Good writing always comes full circle. I watched a criterium of pro racers. Criteriums go in a circle. Everyone rides the same amount of time. The rider who goes the farthest distance in that hour wins. Bumping, swerving, sweating, intense racing where some fell behind and others crashed. Lead changes occurred on every lap. The fit and lucky streaked to a stand-on-the-pedal sprint for the final decision. I saw what defeat looked like in that tent. I felt the pain. However, I didn't, couldn't feel the victory feeling of the guy who hit the finish line first. Only he knew what it felt like to fulfill a dream after such risk and sacrifice.

Everyone at the finish line wandered off to find a beer leaving him to bask in his own glory. Possibly no one will ever know or understand the feeling I get when accomplishing a seemingly impossible writing goal. And maybe that's how it should be. They didn't sacrifice for it the way I did. They didn't stand outside Labor Ready. They didn't wonder how it would all work out. They didn't share in my sacrifice. Why should they share in my victory?

Speaking of Sacrifice.  I gotta get back to work.