Two weeks past, in Colorado Springs, I presented a short dialogue of my personal history to a group of insurance folks while representing a long-time sponsor of both myself and the US Paralympics, The Hartford. In the audience that day was a local broker named Ivan. In the parking lot just outside the “West Wing” of the US Olympic Training Center, he thanked me for sharing my story before handing me a copy of “The Hero’s Choice.” He’d received a signed copy from the author at a leadership conference the author had directed. In thanking Ivan, I mentioned the timing was perfect because the day before I’d wrapped up reading Andre Agazzi’s “Open”—highly recommended, which I read on the tails of closing Keith Richards’ “Life,” another fascinating tale—and was in need of another read. I was less than sincere in this statement, not intending to crack this gift before giving attention to a couple of other books I had in line. But something urged me to grab it at the last second as I scrambled to get myself to the airport, two days ago, en route to Pensacola Beach, FL, to present to the closing breakfast attendees of the Louisiana Oil Marketers and Convenience Store Association’s (LOMCSA) annual meeting.

I’m now sitting on the plane back to Denver, moments ago enjoying the closing pages of the divinely-received publication.

On stage yesterday I told the audience, as I sincerely state during the majority of my engagements, that I look forward to every unsavory experience in my life because nearly each is followed by something sweet. I won’t bore you with the long list, however they come in all shapes and sizes. Tuesday’s scramble to get out of the house resulted in my wallet failing to make the trip with me. This dawned on me 20 minutes into my already tight drive to the airport. The quick turnaround to retrieve it and get back on the road wasn’t quick enough: I arrived at the ticket counter 28 minutes before scheduled departure, two minutes past cut-off. The resulting sweetness came in the form of an extra four hours at the airport—plenty of time to catch up on stuff…and to read. (Since July 2, I’ve been working incessantly on a 47′x12′ deck, 10 feet off the ground, off the back of the house. The venture has been mostly solo but a few wonderful neighbors and friends have provided helping hands on the heavy stuff—the kids have been enjoying the TV time!).

I reached my hotel bed in Florida at nearly half past midnight. Before falling off to sleep, I phoned the front desk to delay my wake-up call from 5:45 to 6:45—the morning swim in the crystal clear waters of the Gulf, lapping upon the white sand beaches, would have to wait until my next visit.

The morning’s presentation went well, the folks who brought me in gave my ego just what it yearns for: high praise. However, those kind words paled in comparison to the words from Jack, a man who’s face, fitness—and hair!—made it hard to believe he’s already reached his 50th year. “I’ve been feeling quite depressed lately and your words were exactly what I needed to hear. Thank you so much.” Jack fought back some tears as his beautiful wife and handsome children made their way toward the door. One can only guess what a man of his blessings has to be depressed about, but, nevertheless, the suffering is real and all I could do was be thankful we shared the same space that morning.

I finished personalizing the copies my books the organizers had bought for all in attendance before grabbing a cab back to the airport. (Including sleep, 12 hours at a luxury Hilton isn’t enough!) We boarded on time, yet sat on the tarmac for a good 45 minutes due to a back-up at my connecting airport in Charlotte, NC—nasty lightning storm. Upon our approach to Charlotte, we were put in a holding pattern as the captain waited out the storm. Thirty minutes of this had burned up the fuel; we would now have to land at the nearby Greensboro/Spartansburg airport. In the end our connections were canceled and four hours after our scheduled landing time in Charlotte, they put us on a bus and drove us there, 90 minutes away.  All of these delays, of course, gave me plenty of time to read…

The protagonist in the book is a guy by the name of Hal. In short, Hal gets fired from his job as managing partner of a $60 million real estate company he founded. Not surprisingly, he’s furious about his perceived “railroading” by the board of directors—his partners—but discovers, through his newly-found friendship with an elderly man, that he’s created his own reality and it’s up to him to own up to it and to choose the appropriate response.

Why did this book impact me so? Primarily because Hal’s tendency to blame other’s and to retreat from conflict traces back to his relationship with his father, a man whom Hal always “perceived” as cold and heartless; a man Hal was always trying to impress but failed to meet his father’s expectations of him…or so he thought. Through out his life, Hal made assumptions regarding his father’s motivations and also falsely assumed his father new what Hal was feeling.

And those experiences run parallel to mine. Thoughts of my father have consistently brought resentment for as long as I can remember. I can’t tell you how many hard-charging training miles on my bike have been fueled by anger, by the toxicity I’ve allowed myself to wallow in.

I’m quite certain my dad will not actually read this entry. But I could be wrong. And for this latter reason, I’m putting this in writing. To him, on occasion, I’ve alluded to the root of what I consider our tenuous relationship, but have yet to make a “hero’s choice” of meeting it head-on, sharing my perceptions of hime, asking him to do the same. He needs to hear this from me, not read it. So now I must make the call.

Wish me luck.

Paul

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Two days later I made the call. SO glad I did. The release—fuel may have been spent. That would be a good thing.

And good things will happen.