The Extra Mile ... by Steve Carter

After stowing my camping gear into the equipment truck, I climbed onto my bicycle and rode into the cool, fog-shrouded Black Hills. Following several hundred miles of getting early starts on my cross-country charity ride, I had grown to appreciate it when the sun started to “pink” up the horizon. Kadoka faded from sight while the growing daylight outlined the pitted road toward Pierre, Illinois.

This morning turned out special because I had hooked the “chain of hope” to my bicycle. These covered two-wheeled wagons were designed to carry small children. However, ours served a different purpose. The names of several hundred cancer survivors or those who had died from cancer were looped together in a paper chain, installed in the wagon, and pulled across the country.

Much like the relationships of active church members, the feelings of community grew stronger daily. I soon found myself more at ease with some of the riders than with people I had known for years. With the many words of encouragement ringing in my ears, I soon gave way to reflecting on my reasons for pulling the trailer.

Aside from doing my part in getting the names across the country, I towed it as a way of thanking a very special lady who welcomed my visits to the home she shared with three daughters. As a teenaged rock and roll drummer growing up in central Florida, my life could best be described as “dysfunctional,” on a good day. My status as a social outcast meant nothing to her, and she always greeted me with a big smile and the best biscuits known to man! I included her name in the “chain” because of the lung cancer she suffered. While pulling into camp that evening, I had a smile on my face thinking of this genteel southern lady.

That evening, around suppertime, I picked up word around camp that the next day’s ride had been declared All Women Day. I perked up my ears to find out what that amounted to. Over twenty years later, I still do not know where the men who decided to participate by riding “drag” came up with the clothing, or the guts to wear them in the mid-western part of America! From a distance, I saw and heard much hooting and heckling while men tried on fulllength evening gowns, jewelry, shawls, and the like. With no feminine side to my name, I had no interest in wearing anything that would likely get caught in my bicycle chain. So, in the twinkling of an eye, I rode alone and stuck to my skin-tight spandex clothing.

I slept a little late the next morning, so the All Women Day crowd could proceed without me. Thinking everyone had cleared out while I packed up, I pushed my bike out toward the road. Suddenly, up walked one of my riding buddies wearing a miniskirt, shawl, beads, and mustache! So, off we went, well behind the crowd and enjoying the Sunday morning and lack of traffic. Other than my friend having trouble riding in a miniskirt, we ran into no problems until my front tire went flat. I flipped my bike over and almost had the tube changed when my partner started telling me to “hurry up Carter; we need to get out of here.” I asked, “what’s wrong?” and quickly found out that, packed into the front seat of a pickup truck, three very large, mean-looking men had slowly cruised by a few times. These rather burley mid-western types looked like they were not happy with either one of us, so moving slightly slower than the speed of light, I mounted my tire and we “got out of Dodge.”

One stipulation of this day stated that only women would pull the Chain of Hope. I thought nothing of it until I stopped at a water station to find it abandoned. The rest stop crew said no one wanted to pull the trailer because of the narrow road. That didn’t sit well with me, so I hooked it up to my bike and rode into traffic, heading East. Pulling the “Chain,” under normal circumstances, proved the rider to be a superior athlete who, after making a commitment to something, intended to see it through. While not willing to leave it stranded, I had not prepared myself mentally or physically for the extra effort involved in thirty miles of hills and headwinds. My shawl-wearing riding partner told me later that he looked over at me a time or two and found me with closed eyes and gritted teeth leaning into the wind while struggling up a hill. But pull it I did and thought nothing of taking up someone else’s slack.

This story touched on a couple of days during a charity cross-country bicycle ride I took part in. As expected, riding over 3,000 miles included some pretty tough days! That trip had its special set of “mountains to climb”, literally and figuratively. However, I’m sure everyone reading this fights their way through, regularly, “heart aching” and “back-breaking” difficulties. These are more than equal to those I fought my way through and have nothing to do with riding a bicycle!

Before seeing Jesus’s face live and in person, we will continue struggling to keep our promises. Our good intentions and best efforts aren’t always equal to the challenges, and we don’t follow through on all our commitments. Times like this are when determined “soldiers of the cross,” step forth and “take up the slack” by filling the void and doing the work. Whether it be pulling a trailer or mowing a yard, the need is there and the reward for completion is much greater than any inconvenience involved with giving a helping hand.

I know all about this stuff. I spend a lot of time climbing back up after falling short. That’s all right, get moving, hook up to the “Chains of Hope” in your life, and rock on!

Steve Carter

Steve Carter lives in Tupelo, Mississippi and has served for over 50 years in Christian ministry. He had peddled across the continental United States, twice. Steve may be contacted by email at: Msroadkill@bellsouth.net