Every disappointment our children experience has two arcs. One through their tender but still roomy hearts and a second one through ours. And while our hearts are better acclimatised to hurt, these second hand blows make their way through our hearts and settle into our bones.
This past weekend one of my children had one of those heavy disappointments. The details of the defeat might not be specifically relatable, but the experience of getting to within inches of a goal and then having to walk it back most surely is.
Our 16 year old son is passionate about road cycling. It’s the kind of obsession that drives him to get up several mornings a week while it’s still dark to ride before school. It’s a harrowing hobby for the streets of London, but passions don’t care much about postcodes. Neither do they apparently care that my front entry is cluttered with bike gear.
Not everyone who has a passion desires a competitive outlet, but that is not this kid. The trouble is that youth road cycling races are not easily accessible at a competitive level in London. There aren’t many of them until you are 17 years old (Junior level.) He has done plenty of other cycling races, mostly duathlons, but those have all been as one of only a handful of youth in an adult race. And more importantly, because those type of races are individually focused they do not allow drafting/riding as a group. Which when your idols are Tour de France riders, is the way you want to ride.
After a lot of research this summer, he discovered he could qualify for a youth road cycling race if he were to get a British Cycling License. He navigated the paperwork for that on his own and had to wait a couple of weeks to receive his official license via Post. Once he finally had that in hand, he dug around and found a right-sized, draft-sanctioned race just over an hour from London and signed up for it.
Before this opportunity could meet preparation, the race confirmation came with a set of detailed rules - exactly the kind of thing I’d gloss over but he knew to read with care. Good thing too as he discovered that he needed to make an important adjustment to his bike.
When his Dad could only partially solve the adjustment, he took £20 and walked it over to our local bike shop first thing on Saturday morning. When the local bike shop couldn’t do any more, he emailed the Race Director. When the Race Director didn’t respond, he took it upon himself to the get to the race two hours early to work it out in person. These are all the kind of hoops one is willing to go through when you want something bad enough.
Over text he told us that during the gear check the Race Director said he could ride the race but it would be a DQ for British Cycling points. Not yet having any British Cycling points, this was of little concern. He was in. We asked if he wanted us to come watch. He texted back: “Well if u want it’s ur choice” which anyone with teens knows really means YES! and come camera-ready if you insist.
That’s a lot of back story but it’s important context for what happened next. Fifteen minutes before the start of the race, he got a flat. Though always prepared, he forgot to bring a spare with him. He called us to ask if we had one. We were on the train but hadn’t brought one and wouldn’t be there in time to help. The only solution was for him to find a Good Samaritan With a Spare Tube in under 15 minutes. Not good odds.
We arrived 10 minutes after the race started. We watched the first pack of youth riders whizz by. And then the second pack. We kept watching — hoping — until the youngest of youth riders passed by and the first pack was back around for their next lap. This was the exact kind of race he had been hungering for … and he wasn’t there.
This time a text came through just to Brett. He was walking to the train station. Too far out of London for there to be taxis, with a broken down bike too big for an Uber Prius, he had walked the 45 minutes with his bike back to the train station. In flip-flops (so as not to damage his cycling shoes.) Of course, like all sad stories, it was also pouring rain.
We found him on the train platform. He wasn’t crying but he literally could not speak.
Anyone with children knows what it feels like to witness your child suffering a disappointment they weren’t expecting. It’s a kind of full body pain that has a way of bubbling over into an avalanche of words. We ask clarifying questions. We problem solve. We offer words of comfort. We make promises we’re not entirely sure we can keep. We give pep talks. We make small talk. We do our very best to keep the sadness at bay and start looking ahead at next time, or ice cream?
That is my normal go to response but somehow this time, I felt like my job was one of restraint. He maybe needed my presence but he certainly didn’t need my words. Sadness needs space to spread out before you can figure it out. And so we rode the train home together in silence. And it felt like parental work.
Later that night I hugged him and told him how sad I was that he had the day he’d had after so much preparation and anticipation. He met my teary eyes with his blood shot ones. I then told him that while I didn’t know what the reason for it was, I was certain that it would help to make him stronger. He nodded in agreement. And that was all I said. Because in my time of parental work, I realized that figuring out those reasons was his work, not mine. Something he already knew.