Bike Battles

 “Okay, I say we have a nice picnic and then turn the bikes in,” Cain proposed.

It was 11:30 a.m., and we had rented bikes for a half day of exploring the Durango area. Before we left the bike shop, the employee, still attractive despite his tattoo-covered body and earring gauges, came around the counter to suggest a route off of the four by six foot map framed on the wall of Pedal the Peaks, Inc.

“If you go all the way down on East College Drive, take a right onto East Eighth Avenue, and head on for another three blocks, there’s a great trail head on the left. It’ll take you up into the mountains and you’ll see some pretty incredible views.”

Alright, I think. This sounds wayyyy cooler than the Animas River trail. Some real mountain biking! Heck yes.

“Okay, so how much uphill is that going to be?” my mother asks with hesitation.

“Aw, probably a straight thirty or forty minute climb at the beginning,” Mr. Earring Guages responds matter-of-factly.

“Are you out of your mind?!  We are from the lowcountry. We’re not doing that. Tell me more about that paved river trail.”

“Haha, okay. Well we’re right in the center of it, so you can take a right and…”

My heart sinks.

I take back what I said in the last post about coming to terms with the pace of Compton adventures. I still have a long way to go to ever really be content. I know I should be grateful that we’re biking at all. But these are the moments that derail my patience and good-spiritedness – the ones where I am so close to real adventure, literally only a few miles away, and yet, I remain inhibited by the limited abilities and desires of my family. Yesterday was full of such moments, and hour by hour, it’s as if the gas was slowly increased, turning simmering frustrations into a raging boil.

I make some guttural heave of exasperation after Cain’s proposition. “I swear I’m not from this family sometimes.”

“Well I definitely know where I’m from,” he chirps.

“That’s my boy!” Hoffa concurs.

Two hours into the rental, the rest of the family had managed to bike a whopping five miles. Once we started out on the Animas trail, snaking along next to the river, I relinquished the prospect of mountain biking, satisfied with the still-gorgeous panorama views, but I replaced it determined to bike all fourteen miles of the trail at a speedy pace, gliding along the path’s curves and hills. When I got to the first end of the trail, I waited for the others to arrive. After five minutes, no one had come. I decided to kill some time riding around the parking lot and ensuring this was indeed the end. It was, I returned, but still no one arrived. I sighed and began peddling back up the trail.

A couple miles up, I found everyone at the Durango BMX training course. They called me up, and we all tested out the hills. Well this isn’t something you find in Mt. Pleasant. I thought. Not bad. Pretty cool, actually! Honestly, peddling off the ramp for that first round through kind of scared me. But the adrenaline which quickly began pumping through my veins propelled me to try again. With each attempt,  I improved a little, gaining what felt like feet of air but was probably only a few inches on some jumps and getting the hang of the ten small, consecutive rolls in the track.

…Until I didn’t. Round four, halfway through, I ate it. In an instant of wrongly shifted weight, I was flat on the ground, forearms burning, as I sneezed through the dry clay swooshing up into a mini tornado around me. Ow. I cautiously stood up and examined the damage: scratched up knees, raw pink scrapes just under my elbows, and another on my hip bone. 

I dusted off and biked through the course again, both to finish off on a better note and to assure my concerned mother that I was okay.

After the course, there was more fast biking along the trail (now with stinging arms), and more waiting. Then the call-it-a-day picnic proposition, quickly turning to reality. I tried to counter my dismounting family.

“Y’all. It’s not even noon yet.”

“Well, Jessica, you can go bike the rest of the trail. We’ll be sitting right here leisurely enjoying our picnic until you return.”

I know Hoffa was being facetious, but I gladly took up his suggestion. As my family rolled their bikes onto the grassy knoll, I threw my pack down, probably with a tad bit too much force.

“Sounds good. Y’all enjoy your picnic,” I responded bitingly, and then I was off.

I confess, I almost immediately got lost (only someone who inherited Mama’s sense of direction could manage that on a paved six-foot wide path), but I eventually found my way back on the trail, and it felt good to be independent for forty minutes, off exploring by myself, messing up, figuring my mistakes out, and re-discovering a little bit of freedom. And Hoffa was right. They were sitting there – lying, rather – totally content to just chill until I returned.

By the official end of our biking an hour later, I had pretty much progressed to full bi-otch mode. I knew it, but at that point I honestly could not help it either. As Rosa Marie, Cain, and I waited, Mama and Georgia joined us, but no one knew where Hoffa was.

Cain called him to investigate, reporting that he had been enticed by the free iced tea sign and entered a café along the river. You have GOT to be kidding me.

“You know what annoys me?”

“You’re annoying. No one wants to hear the stupid things you complain about anymore” Georgia snapped.

I clenched my fists and sighed. “I understand that. And I even am fully aware of the terrible mood that I’m in.” My voice rose as I gestured to the direction of the trail where I expected my lagging father would mozy along in another five minutes. “But I can’t help but be frustrated when Hoffa does stupid…”

 I sucked in a breath, but I began to giggle, a growing guffaw that does not complement the ability to explain very well. But I could not contain it: my terrible attitude, the meager distance we actually biked, the accident, the fact that my father has no regard for time. The whole thing is so ridiculous, and they all begin to laugh with me. I try to finish, slamming my fist downward onto an invisible table.

“…when Hoffa does stupid-ass things like get a freaking glass of iced tea while we’re supposed to be biking!”

It is not that I was actually outrageously mad yesterday. I can laugh, I can roll with the Compton family mishaps. After Saturday evening Mass, I apologized to everyone for my poor behavior, and they graciously forgave me. Yesterday reminded me how flawed I am and how selfish I can be, but also how I crave a more authentic form of adventure. I needed to get banged up on that bike course. I will be sporting these strawberry scrapes for a while, and I admit it – I am a little proud of them. I feel a teensy bit more B.A. displaying some wounds that testify to getting out and trying something that can cause injury, even if they are only there because I am terribly klutzy.

Most of all, these scrapes are a semi-painful reminder that all is in good time. Those more daring experiences will come. There will be more trips, more adventures, more opportunities to bike thousands of feet higher than Mama will ever be willing to go. But for now, even as I write and feel my raw skin rubbing against my shirt, these scrapes are a reminder to be present. Here, I am with my family, and at least they like to be outside and active. My frustrations do continue – I really want to climb Engineer Mountain, a hike with 2,400 foot elevation gain over a 2.5 mile span, and no one else is too enthusiastic about joining me on that venture. But as long as they are not lounging around the house all day (they have suggested it, and I have declared I will hike Engineer alone if that day comes), I choose to be with the Compton Clan, pursuing the quality time we have together over the next great excursion.

A Scheming Neck

In “My Big Fat Greek Wedding,” one of my go-to movies, the Portokalos family obnoxiously clings to their Greek roots while living in America. Toula, the first grown daughter to dare to date an American, struggles to keep the peace with her ultra-traditional, over-protective father. In one scene when Toula is particularly upset with her father’s stubbornness, her mother encourages, “Let me tell you something, Toula. The man is the head, but the woman is the neck. And she can turn the head any way she wants.”

Though I (very fortunately!) do not have a family quite as crazy as Toula’s, Mrs. Portokalos’ wisdom holds true.  Even as we grow up, Hoffa is clearly the head of our household; he leads us, generously provides for us, and does not hesitate to discipline when necessary. But, there is also no question who is determining the Comptons’ direction.

You see, my mother is a schemer.

When she and Hoffa got married, they talked about taking a trip around the world. The Comptons are notorious for talking, rather than doing, but about a year later, a 27-year-old Mama confronted him.

“Alright, David, are we taking this trip, or what? Because if not, it’s time to start having a family.”

Hoffa responded with little hesitation. “Uhhhh, I think we’ll take that trip.”

She came home the next day announcing that she had given her two-week’s notice at work, which I think surprised Hoffa a little. The reality that they would soon be strapping on their backpacks began to set in.

So they went. The three-ring binder photo albums Mama meticulously scrapbooked from their four and a half months of travel provided hours of entertainment in my childhood, and the stories my parents share from that trip continue to humor and inspire me. While riding mopeds in Greece, Mama shocked Hoffa by intentionally jumping off as he approached a bend in the road, thinking he surely would have turned by now if he were going to. When virtually everyone speaks a foreign language, English-speaking travelers, different as they may be, begin to stick together. Along the way they connected with a loud New York Yankee and a sensible, witty South African. 

With the Berlin Wall still just recently crumbled, they tramped through and enjoyed inconceivably low prices in Eastern Europe. After they figured out that nodding one’s head in Bulgaria means “no,” and shaking means “yes,” La Crème was a highlight. While most guests were in their formal wear and officers donned their full uniform,  the American dollar in the my parents’ blue jean pockets more than compensated for their grungy backpacker appearances. With a string quartet playing in the background, they dined over a five-course meal, caviar included, for seven dollars. Understandably, they went back the next evening, still wearing the same clothes.

After the return of three very drunk men to the hostel room they were all sharing late one night, Mama got so put out that she abandoned them the next morning and began walking through Budapest’s grand, Soviet-influenced streets alone. Given her shockingly poor sense of direction and having no way to reach her, Hoffa was not sure he would ever see her again. Welp, it was nice being married I guess. She eventually made her way back, because they went on to marvel at the ruins of Ephesus in Turkey, bop through Germany and London, soak up the heavy mist of Zimbabwe’s Victoria Falls, and in South Africa, almost were charged both by an elephant in Kreuger Park and baboons in Capetown. They finished off their last month in the tropics, snorkeling off the Great Reef, enjoying every gratifying lick of fresh blackberry ice cream in New Zealand (they still talk about it today), and settling right in to island life in Fiji and Hawaii.

Obviously, that was the trip of a lifetime, but when the Compton kids were old enough, the tradition was resurrected. Mama’s schemes continued, employing her ability as the “neck” to move the “head” toward destinations all over the world. Using credit card points for the flight and often staying with friends, it was economically feasible to travel together. In 2007, aged 14, 12, 10, and 8, the Compton Clan ventured over to Ireland “to visit our first cousins.” While waiting for a layover at the Newark airport, the accent was already so different that Cain asked, genuinely curious, “What language do they speak here?” Needless to say, the even more distinct Irish accent was a challenge for him to understand. Though it was great visiting family, we only saw them for two days, and we spent three weeks in the United Kingdom… The first week, we stayed at the Sandy Field, the humble extra cottage of some family friends located on the strand of Sligo Bay in Northern Ireland.

The modest table inside only seats three people, so we ate dinner atop a blanket on the grassy knoll everyday. 

After a second week in Killarney, we took a ferry to England and were guests at Dean’s Court, a different friend’s manor inherited generations ago after the Catholic church’s property was divided in the aftermath of the Reformation. Everything about that first trip, from the plane ride to the pubs to driving on the other side of the road, was new and exciting.

Almost every summer since then, Mama has made it a priority to whisk the family away somewhere, instilling a love of travel in each of us and allowing us to spend quality time together in the absence of distractions. As we grow up, these trips are also her plot to keep the family together. So far, it's working.

2008: California (San Francisco, Yosemite)

2009: Return to Sligo County, Ireland

2011, January: Cross Country Skiing in Bend, Oregon with the Hayes Family

2012: British Columbia (Whistler & Vancouver)

(and celebrating Canada Day!)

2013: Nosara, Costa Rica

And now, here we are, in the present, just over twenty-four hours into our ten-day 2014 adventure in Durango, Colorado.

We flew into Albuquerque and stopped for lunch at El Pinto, a family-owned restaurant with a 1,000 guest occupancy capacity. The rental car woman (who probably got a kickback) recommended it, and she gave us a coupon for free appetizers, so we checked it out. El Pinto is one of those places that has framed pictures of famous people like Katy Perry and the presidents and Gabriel Iglesias all over the walls. Maybe it is a tourist place, but the ingredients were fresh, and the ambiance authentically southwestern. It also has a full-blown salsa factory in the back, making over 25,000 jars a shift. After trying my first Chile Rileno, I relaxed under the giant pergola laced with ivy, enjoying the gentle breeze and the absolute lack of humidity. 

"Y'all! We're on vacation! Gahh, I love you. I'm so happy to be with you."

I am notorious for these random outbursts of joy. I just have this uncontrollable desire to verbalize the obvious, to declare my affection or gratitude for the abundant goodness around me. They all laugh and roll their eyes. "Oh, Jessica, there you go again."

But it's true. We are so blessed, and though we have all been living under the same roof in Charleston this past summer, it's inevitable that we disperse to our individual daily to-dos at home. Here, the focus is on each other.

"You know, we really have a good time when we're forced to be together," Mama points out.

"Yeah, especially when we put our phones up," I respond. "Now where is my phone?"

The powerful smart device we each keep by our side really is the primary distraction from full-throttle family time. Well, yeah, our various phone apps, and also the Lego Movie. I kid you not. After lunch we stopped by a Red Box, and what do we watch on the four hour road trip to Durango? As we drive blindly by an unfamiliar landscape of distinct mesas bulging out of New Mexico's dry, bushy savanna? The Lego Movie. Yep. And my siblings have been bursting out singing "Everything is awesome!" ever since. The only thing potentially worse than that movie was the number of times we had to roll down the windows due to the rear sides of select culprit siblings. It must have been the Mexican cuisine at lunch, I'm not sure, but some of that gas was downright potent. 

Mama took her scheming to a new, wonderfully frugal level this year. We signed up for Home Exchange, and the people whose house we are residing in are currently staying at ours back in Charleston. From the back porch, just beyond a bit of suburbia, there is an incredible view of a sharp, jagged-top mountain, stretching hundreds, if not thousands, of feet above the cowboy hat and boot struttin' locals of downtown Durango. As for altitude, we are adjusting. The single beer that feels like 1.5 beers at this height is a plus, but not compared to the lack of oxygen I am fighting. In the brisk, sixty degree morning weather (sixty degrees!), Georgia, RoRie, and I ran for a bit. Ten minutes in, my body was just fine, but my lungs were not. It was like they had forgotten how to work and little needles were threatening to poke all around them. I would breathe in as much as I could, and the oxygen just would not be enough.

I am not alone, though. Today we also hiked the short but precipitous trail just outside our house, and 59-year-old Hoffa took it like a champ. After we decided that all Compton trips forevermore will be tracked with the hashtag #ComptonsConquer, Hoffa kept brainstorming. As he caught up to us huffing, he announced he had another hashtag idea.

"How about...[deep inhale, heave of breath] #ChildrenPonderParentalProperty...andPerhaps...PursuePatrocide...astheyProceed...TowardthePrecipice."

"Yeah, hashtags don't really work like that, Hof, but good alliteration. We'll try not to kill you on this hike."

It always takes a little while for the Comptons to settle in somewhere. We have failed for seven years straight to do any significant advance research before a trip, so we spend the first day or so checking out the area and lounging around the house. A few years ago, my frustrations over our inability to get going before noon almost ruined my whole experience, but we have found a balance. This morning Mama and I hashed out a list of things we would like to do while we are here to go forth with a bit of purpose.

I doubt we will accomplish everything, but I am already satisfied with our goals, and I bet we will check off over three quarters of the list. While it still takes several more hours than I prefer to rally ourselves out the door, I have since learned to content myself with the rhythm of vacation, slowing down and filling my need for productivity with writing, reading, praying, and running. 

Most of all, I am thankful for this precious time with the people I love the most. Twenty-three years after my parents ventured on their trip around the world, the legend continues. Though the novelty of riding planes may have worn off since 2007, I treasure these trips we share, especially now that their future is hazy. With the uncertainties that accompany post-graduation, the annual Compton family adventure may begin to disintegrate, losing members to full-time jobs and the responsibilities of adulthood. Hopefully we can still keep it going, but for now, I will appreciate these past seven years, and I will enjoy the present. Thank you, Hoffa, the head of our house, for taking five other people around the world on your dime. Thank you, Mama, for being the neck to turn him toward an annual Compton adventure. May Durango be fun and memorable, and may the travel schemes continue!

Rehearsal Dinner

Our group of Charleston friends notoriously refers to the summer of 2011 as “the best summer ever.” Most Fridays after a week of camp or work, David Gregorie welcomed us to Oakland Plantation, and his cousin Maddy organized the logistics. At our potluck gatherings, we grilled burgers, took the boat out on the lake, and enjoyed many a late-night porch talk. For me those fun twilight evenings, almost magical in my recollections now, reflect the essence of summer, not only relieving us of the lowcountry’s sweltering heat, but allowing us to play, to deepen our bonds of friendship, and to fill our souls with joy. That summer, two of my worlds collided – fellow staffers at camp met high school friends, and we have been one larger unit ever since.  That summer, Thomas and Maddy met.

As their family and closest friends, you know that they are born and bred Charlestonians, sailors, and talented singers. They were both YoungLife leaders in college and will always be passionate about befriending and sharing the Gospel with young people. Above all, they intentionally stand on the foundation of Christ, glorifying Him in everything they do. They are probably also distantly related, but we can dismiss that. With all they have in common, it’s a wonder I did not see Thomas knotting a Trott coming back in 2011. But three years later, we have that summer, and specifically David for the actual introduction, to thank for the union of two extraordinary people.

Ecclesiastes teaches us the strength of a chord of three strands. Thomas, you abound in generosity and humility. Maddy, your selflessness epitomizes a servant’s heart and that of a true friend. In each of you God made two unique and precious individuals, and united, yoked with his grace and abundant love, He has created a power couple for the Kingdom of Heaven. Together, you will follow the apostle Paul’s advice to the Ephesians to live righteously and be filled with the Spirit. You will “sing and make music from your heart to the Lord, always giving thanks to God the Father for everything.” You will not only stand the test of time and the hardships life guarantees, but you will do so with love and faith in our heavenly Father. With that chord of three strands, all those with whom you interact will experience the grace and love rare on earth but bountiful in God’s glory.

Tomorrow as guests arrive, ushers will ask them which side of the aisle they would like to sit on. Thomas and Maddy are two of my favorite people, and as they  declare their vows before their friends, family, and God tomorrow, I do not have a preferred side. I treasure the summer of 2011 and all of the great moments together since then. I am grateful that you are the glue to our Charleston friend group. Though I cannot definitively choose left or right of the aisle, I do choose to be present, celebrating a most blessed union. Thomas and Maddy, I love you, and I am excited about all the future holds for you. Cheers.

A Valuable Letter

Words. They are so powerful, so permanent. Nouns and verbs and adjectives strung together that do so much more than just make grammatically correct sentences.Words make art. And while they can be lyrical or literary, I really value the loving ones. For the last few years, I've held on to any note or letter that someone writes me to remember all of the people that care for and value me somehow, who took a few minutes to throw a few special words my way. As I pulled out the expanding Five-Star Spiral where I glue them all to add a couple more lying about, I stumbled upon a longer one tucked in the manila divider. In a classic, carelessly perfect script was a letter from one of my best friends, Lizzy, the September after we had worked together at camp in 2012.

After that summer of community and joy rooted in Christ, I had a 24-hour stress breakdown within the first three weeks of returning to school, and this letter arrived shortly afterward. Two years later, as senior year draws nearer and those same anxious feelings of over-commitment begin to simmer in my gut, Lizzy's words are providing renewed affirmation of how I ought to live, particularly when I am at school -- not in the suffocating confinement of achievement and people-pleasing, but in the freedom, confidence, and peace of the life Jesus already provides. It was such a good reminder for me that I wanted to share parts of it here. Perhaps it offers some encouragement for you, too. Thanks, Lizzy. Your words did, and still do, mean more than you know.

Jessica,

I'm so thankful for a friend to be writing to right now. I'm really in a state of praise for a moment to just be restful and not feeling the busy-ness that has had me so worked up lately. I don't want to flaunt that, though, I know you might easily be in a place of stress with a laundry list of things to get done. You're good at it though Jessica, you are good at using your time in the best way, so don't fear that. My heart for you is just wanting you to feel at peace no matter how crazy your surroundings are...

We have an omnipresent God who can be your refuge. PRAISE! There is a truth that the Lord has been teaching me for a while now: that he is in everything at all times, waiting for me to call on him. I guess it's so elementary, but really understanding that God's presence doesn't change from the times I wake up and have quiet time to the middle of the day when I'm trying to find a spare second to do homework, edit photos, and shove a bite of food in my mouth. Even in the latter, I shouldn't have to worry about how God can "fit" into my day, because he's there, doing the whole routine with me! and you!...

I just want you to know how much you are loved and that I look forward to doing life with you for a long time...Keep serving and loving and doing all the great things you're doing that are so pleasing to Him.

With love,
Lizzy

Back on the Trail

I turned the calendar to July, and arrows spearheaded through the neat seven-block rows making up each week of the month...friends making true on their promises to come see for themselves how awesome Charleston is, a week of wedding festivities, the annual Compton family adventure. And then boom. In a hurricane of friends and fun, July was gone. With the start of August the end wraps up, creeping perilously close to the daunting date of returning to academia.

WHEN would I go backpack and third wheel my favorite married couple? Looking back at June, it seemed like I had squandered the month away (in some ways I did. I'm okay with that now, but those dog days demand another post entirely, and I hope to write it soon). After I relinquished my dream of backpacking half the AT this summer, I contacted a few potential people who I thought would be willing to hit the trails with me on individual trips. Wesley was one, and man was that an awesome start to the month of May. The lovely newlyweds Hannah and Bennett Dixon were on my hit list also. If ever there were soul mates, Hannah and Bennett are them. Having graduated from Furman and UNC, they're basically intelligent granola-ey, Jesus-loving ultra-bike riders who complement each other perfectly. Their spontaneity keeps it interesting, and they're always down for some fun. Bennett's hair was pretty scruffy for quite some time, and his bandanna and plastic orange juice seal ring have long been his signature accessories. Last summer I helped convince him to cut his hair to a more presentable length, and Mama did the honors. He looked gooood.

Don't let the smile fool you - I have never seen anyone so despondent. It was like we cut out a part of his identity, which, I guess we had. He came around, though, and has been keeping it trimmed even since. With his side part and thick beard, his resemblance to a Civil War soldier is striking.

I worked with Hannah at camp several summers ago. She was known in college, as the girl with the wild-but-beautiful golden hair who ate a garden patch of vegetables in the DH everyday. She also wore Chacos during her wedding ceremony, just to give you an idea of the down-to-earth flower child we're talking about here. This summer, Hannah and Bennett are living in a small mountain cabin out in the middle of nowhere, serving as the rangers of land around Tuckasegee. Yeah, I hadn't heard of it either. Since they're near tons of trails anyway, they said I was welcome anytime this summer, just touch base and we would figure something out.

Hannah and Bennett don't have cell phone reception unless they go into town. Oh, and one of them also lost a phone, so they have been sharing the other's since May. I wasn't sure if I would be able to reach them or if they would be free, but as I surveyed my calendar, there was a small gap of free time this coming week so I gave it a shot. It took about 48 hours to get a response, but they're expecting me July 9-11! This is our texting conversation as we tried to figure out some logistics

.Oh, Bennett. We are headed to Panthertown Valley, in a three person tent, I'd like to add. And yes, that is where I went on my first backpacking trip in eighth grade and ended up lost on some abandoned logging road. They say the maps have improved since then, and with friends that know the area so well, hopefully all I'll have to worry about are the unusually high number of sunbathing rattle snakes in the area and some making out love birds. At this point in my life, my third-wheeling skills are pretty fine tuned, so I think I can handle it :-).

Anyway, since I'm going up there, I figured I should make the most of my time. I will miss our annual Cove Creek Camping trip this summer, and I need a North Carolina mountain fill; my legs crave an upward climb, my lungs yearn for a few crisp evenings, and my soul starves for some genuine time with the Lord.  After a bit of research I decided to head up to Clifside Lake and Van Hook Glade for some easy afternoon hikes and safe camping. Wednesday morning I'm planning on hiking Yellow Mountain Trail in the Highlands Ranger District before meeting up with the dream team.

In an increasingly usual fashion, I just figured all this out, so it hasn't quite gotten the Mama stamp of approval. I so easily could have stayed in Charleston and waltzed through a few days without ceremony; between my TESOL class and applications, there is always something to be done. But adventures are important, too. They require breaking up the arrows in the calendar, stepping away from the craziness of everyday life, sacrificing time that could be spent earning money, and going for it. Adventures keep us from living through a never-ending daze. They wake us up the way a dumped bucket of ice-cold water does. Adventures reconnect us with both our fears and our passions. They're worth it, and I'm excited for this one.

P.S.
Apparently Cain is coming now! Yay for brother-sister time! Woohoo!