A Long Way to Go

Yes. It is the same story. Just a few chapters, they, as literary proxy for years, later. Having already drawn up the protocol for the morning’s spin session and assembled a set list to accompany, the overall experience, the class take-away and my responsibility to orchestrate it to the best of my abilities, was the final piece of the puzzle. I decided, against the data suggesting otherwise, that it might be fun to wrap all of this around the anniversary of the eruption of Mt. St Helens. Today being that day, the fiery chapter thirty-nine years behind the timeline. I say against the data suggesting otherwise because I have used ‘theme-ology’ in the past with very mixed results. The mere mention of Christmas, St Patrick’s Day or The Grand Olde Fourth sends immediate shivers of prosaic dolefulness to my muscle mind. Images of poverty stricken drummer boys, frolicking leprechauns and star-spangled faux patriots is not, and has never been, my idea of motivational music. Especially when intended for the accompaniment of high-intensity exercise. At best it is cute, at worst, insulting. 

So it was with the trepidation borne of experience that I figured I’d give it one more try. What is the worst that could happen? 

I mash-up a semi-thematic set and select a protocol to suit, calling it Build and Boom. If you just rolled your eyes it’s OK, I dd too. It is a smoking sampling of generas including the obligatory classic rock, country-mariachi (Ring of Fire), Motown, Blues and even a pop tune or two. The best part of the sum is the work load element, what we actually did with the soundtrack to our session. It ‘built’ like this: One minute seated, ascending in resistance from 14-19 with each successive rep, one minute standing in the groove zone, another minute in the same ascending order as the first, and the the ‘boom’ fifteen seconds of explosive power, followed by forty-five seconds in 7/120 recover mode. I guarantee that should you light this fuse at home it will blow the lid off your current power threshold. 

We are hallway through the set when, for reasons obvious to those comprehending what we call the ‘endorphin factor’, I launch into the story.

The story of my involvement, as a spectator, of the famous eruption on May 18, 1980.  (Editors note: it is NOT a great story, but one that I will never forget, so THAT has to be worth sharing, eh?) 

I knew the moment we pulled out of the drive that this leg of the adventure was doomed for a sad ending. Without divine intervention this was not going to end well. We had leased the ranch, fifteen acres of alfalfa and a cozy farm house nestled on the Southern bank of the Methow river in North Central Washington, and pointed the U-Haul towards LA. To salvage the marriage, my wife insisted. And against by better judgment I agreed. 

Fast forward. I am in the Auto Parts business with her Dad and two brothers in Orange County, CA. Making lots of money. Playing in my brothers Country-Rock outfit. All that going for me except for the fact that my demeanor is miserable. I was seriously wanting to be back on the ranch and grossly unhappy about my relationship. One evening I invite Dad to go to an Angels game with me. We have a couple of beers and get home late. I stay up all night drinking thirteen-year old Chivas and writing a sad country song. The major-key chorus repeated a ‘What do YOU want to do?’ theme and when I woke the next morning (at noon) I saw that there were tear stains on the sheet of music. A decision had been evidently made.

I announce, not necessarily in this order, to my wife, the band, my business partners, my Mom that I am going home. I have had enough. The experiment has failed and it is time for me to look after myself and take the advice from a song I heard somewhere asking what I wanted to do (with my life). 

So, filled with melancholy, sadness and a bittersweet curiosity about change, I book a one-way flight to Seattle. My departure will be at 0755 on May 18. 

You know the rest. We are 33K above one of the most spectacular organic detonations in history and I am thinking about metaphors and the wicked sense of humor owned by Mother Nature. Boom. 

We are now almost finished with our set. A legit hour of power. I am semi-speechless and emotionally drained. For once it has worked. 

Someone innocently asks if the story is over. 

Nope. Same story, different chapter, a long way to go.