Revolution

Usmev - a smile

My bishop thought the youth of our ward were too comfortable. Bishop Banks was a bald, marathon-running business man, who was known to climb Himalayan Mountains and wear bow ties. This middle-aged enigma systematically tracked and eliminated Comfort Zones, whether they were his or not. Bishop Banks was the last person you’d want to sense your complacency. For the next while, he plotted. He made phone calls. He attained special permissions from Church leadership. He…schemed. That Sunday, Bishop grinned from his seat on the stand. I was terrified.

Bishop’s crusade arrived on two wheels. My father said it was a great idea. At that time, I would have described the idea of a youth group bicycle ride from Bozeman, Montana to Jackson Hole, Wyoming with other words. Oh, and we would do all that in just four days of biking. We swapped my knobby, off-road tires for road slicks and installed new inner tubes. Later, we adjusted the squeaky brakes, lubed the chain, and tightened everything that had threads.

We talked occasionally that Friday afternoon, the conversation dominated by my dad’s admiration of how well the entire thing was planned. Training rides were a priority, with the first happening the next morning. Bishop Banks decided we would not only be riding for ourselves, but for the children receiving care at Primary Childrens’ Hospital in Salt Lake City. Each participant needed to fill a form with at least three local sponsors willing to donate a set amount of money for every mile that rider successfully completed. I actually liked that idea, and soon brokered a deal with the owner of our local sporting goods store, called Fish Tech.

- - -

Nadeje - hope

Heavy air settled over the Missionary Training Center like the drab-brown blankets on each dorm bed. It was supposed to be spring, but I rarely noticed the flowered grounds over my flash cards. In a few short weeks, I would be expected to speak Czech – the language of fairies, gnomes, and dark forest dwarves. That’s what it sounded like to me anyway. I worked on my focus and discipline, trying to survive. It was not going well.

Growing up always knowing I would serve a church mission meant I’d made that decision long before I could count to fifty. As a kid I learned that the missionary lives a different life than the regular church member. I imagined it to be an almost magical existence, where we would travel to enchanted countries and be blessed by the Lord to speak the language perfectly. If I was supposed to be learning Czech at the MTC, something was wrong. The worst part of all was watching as some of my fellow Czech-Missionaries-In-Training grasp the language during lessons that made absolutely no sense to me. Either the system was broken, or I was.

My MTC life happened at the brink, when the memorization of missionary discussions had just been scrapped. That meant our task was to take those old Czech discussion books, translate a small section to English, understand what it was saying, put it in our own words, and then use that dictionary to zap it back into Czech. They called the finished product an outline. My mind constantly whispered that we were repackaging into bulky, awkward containers. I told my mind to be quiet. That exercise, though seemingly inefficient, proved valuable. It made me believe the Gospel more, because I saw God sitting back and letting us try something, knowing that eventually the Elders would create the Discussions version 2.5, aka Preach My Gospel. I noticed the imperfect human-cog of the Church, and it gave me hope.

- - -

Usilovat - to struggle

Chain grease on my right sock marked the official start of Training Day One. Our destination was nestled 13 miles up Big Cottonwood Canyon, which was steep enough to burn the brakes off cars headed back down to the Salt Lake Valley. I locked that burnt smell away in my mind, pushed off the curb, and dove into a frigid morning breeze. I met the other bikers in the parking lot behind our church building. It was too early for sunrise or smiles. Leaders reviewed safety rules and instructions, followed by someone’s mumbled prayer. Within minutes, Big Cottonwood began.

The mind has tricks that keep us from focusing on simple, repeated actions like beating hearts and breathing lungs. They still occur, but we rarely notice. Pedaling legs over powered my mind’s skills and brought all three actions into desperate focus. I was not ready for that ride. Mostly to avoid teasing, I kept going. I noticed other faces go from red to green to white, at least reassuring me I was not alone. 13 miles became 10. We passed the S-turn. 6 more miles faded as Doughnut Falls trailhead rolled by. When scrub oak transformed to aspens, the situation was dire. Broken with four miles left, we increased the frequency of our breaks. An eternity later, we conquered the canyon.

- - -

Cizi - foreign

The language they taught me at the MTC was definitely not Czech. The inhabitants never smiled, and a disturbingly large number of them hobbled about on canes or crutches. Crowds flowed everywhere in Prague, but it seemed the only ones hurrying were the pickpockets. We were taking the customary “New Missionary Prague Walk” to see the central city of the mission. The beautiful architecture was muted by the stench of ancient, shallow sewer lines. At least the cobblestones and Charles Bridge fit well into my image of a magical land.

A scorching day melted into a humid summer night. I found myself staring at the ceiling, watching the paint chips wiggle every time a tram rolled by the mission home. We were stationed in the basement, with the promise of traveling to our assigned cities the next day. I had only been there one day, and already I wanted out of Prague. It was noisy, dirty, and I was sure that paint contained lead. Everything about the place seemed hostile.

The morning brought us cooler air and our new companions. The Mission President and his wife lived on the second floor, where they invited us for breakfast. The chandelier and mahogany table were comforting reminders of the land we had just left. Yogurt and cereal did not seem very Czech, but we didn’t care. My adventure had transformed into a struggle to have any positive thoughts, understand a few words from every conversation, and to keep moving forward. I focused on breathing whenever the world began to cave.

- - -

Uspech - success

Downhill riding is so fundamentally different from climbing that they are nearly separate sports. Weight should be shifted back instead of forward. Brake levers neglected during the ascent become your saviors. All the dangers inherent to cycling are multiplied, and anything less than delicate course changes could become course enders. None of that mattered because I was a teen boy, surrounded by others my age who were definitely thinking the same thing.

- - -

Neznicitelny - indestructible

Paired with a good companion, I was actually starting to like Prague. My MTC friends were now scattered all over the country, most in small villages. I lay there, on my bed, quite awake despite the dark hour. Our apartment was several miles away from Charles Bridge and close to a gigantic park. Everything was different there, even the way the stars shimmered. Breezes transported hints of ancient forest, pastry shop, and smog into my room. Filmy, pink curtains reeked of cigarettes and flapped lazily in the wind.

Nearly everyone there smoked, and many women wore nearly nothing. It was the perfect place for a sinner, and a minefield for a Mormon Missionary. Nobody believed I could speak their language. Each time I’d used my best eight-week Czech, I simply confirmed their suspicions. They couldn’t understand why two American boys would fly to their land, learn their language, enjoy their food, try and teach them something called the Gospel of Jesus Christ. All while dressed like spies.

It had been an excellent day. I gave away two MTC bookstore picture cards at my first real teaching experience. One card showed Jesus healing the sick, and the other was of Him teaching the Sermon on the Mount. It was an incredible discussion. I bore my testimony and handed that mother and daughter duo those cards. My companion explained that I wanted them to keep the cards, using the same words I just had. Their confused expressions relaxed to smiles. We left their house filled with the Spirit, lemon cake, and the joy of successful missionary work.

- - -

Letat - to fly

The world blurred and wind howled. There was no need to pedal, and I loved every second spent passing cars also headed down the canyon. What was I thinking? It was a combination of wondering how cool I must have looked to those girls in that black Chevy Tahoe, and the mad calculations to steer me around Patch of Sand 71 while leaning just enough to make the cliff-edge Turn Number 4 successfully. I was the master. But did I see Rock 28 on the road near the bottom of the canyon?

It’s a strange sensation, being thrown from a bicycle at high speeds. Some claim it’s like flying, but I say it’s more like falling up. My feet lifted off the pedals as I tried to release my death grip on the brake levers. They were non-responsive. Nearly horizontal by that point, I rewound the scene to challenge the ruling on the field. As it stood, I faced two separate penalties - - failing to ride around rocks and unsportsmanlike conduct with the front brake. Locking your front wheel at speed is like forgetting you’re running in the middle of a sprint. Clearly, I deserved the first call. Upon further review, both brakes were fully deployed with both tires skidded and non-rotational Ruling on the field confirmed: 6 yard skid, first down.

- - -

Zklamani - disappointment

We had pieced together the ditched appointments. One time, we heard them laughing on the phone as we tried to reschedule. Trouble was that the daughter was supposed to be away at summer camp, which had been the excuse for two prior cancellations. It had been a game. They only wanted to see who we were and why we were there. We were a couple of American boys, who flew to their country, learned their language, craved Czech food, and taught them the Gospel of Jesus Christ. All they saw were two salesmen with matching suits and bad accents.

I tried to capture all those thoughts in my journal that night. My words were angry and bothered. I spelled out my frustrations and fears. By the time I finished writing, it was apparent that it had cut me deeper than I’d thought. I really believed everything we were teaching. It mattered.

- - -

Pokracovat - to continue

The crash was messy. I’d traded some pieces of shirt, skin, and a good amount of blood for fifty or so embedded fragments of Big Cottonwood Canyon asphalt. After convincing everyone I really was alright, I mounted my bike and finished the ride back home. I was still high from conquering the canyon, which thankfully meant I couldn’t feel much. After scaring my mother, I asked for her help with picking the rocks from the back of my shoulder. All I wanted to know was when the next training ride would be.

- - -

Jezdit na Kole - to ride a bike

It was another rainy day in the Czech Republic. Our appointment had fallen through, so we changed to contacting mode. Most people rushed by, but one or two stopped long enough for us to introduce ourselves and explain what we were doing there. My younger companion was struggling with the language, but he was getting it. As night neared, people slowly sifted out of the town square and left us reviewing grammar charts and window-shopping the main road. We still had two hours before our train back to the main city would arrive.

The bike shop was closed, but we could just make out some of the prices through the clouded window. My companion said he used to ride all the time back home, and that we could get around town more quickly if we each had one. I made a note in my planner to ask the mission president next time I spoke with him. The ache in my shoulder made me smile.