A completely terrible thing I can't wait to do again
Or Year 2 of 50-50-50 is fast approaching. Who wants to be miserable?
I talked your ears off about 5-50-50 last year, but I never told you the whole story, until now. It’s below.
It was so horrible I can’t wait to do it again. I’m thinking about recreating the trip – hike 50 miles, bike 50 miles, and canoe 50 miles this year. The only difference is this time we will do it in Missouri along the Missouri River.
Hit me up if you’re interested in joining us. I guarantee you’ll hate it.
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The Wisconsin River ran wide in front of me. The water cut a brown snake through the trees in the southwest corner of the state that gives the river its name. I dug my paddle into water on the left side of my canoe, counted 10 strokes, picked the paddle up and dug 10 more on the right. Behind me, the Former Fighter Pilot used his paddle as a rudder, spinning it this way and that, to keep us in the current.
All morning, we chased bubbles—they reveal faster water—and now they flowed near the south shore. The Former Fighter Pilot steered us there. I set my paddle down and rested for a second, two, three, 10.
A breeze tickled my face. The sky sparkled with God-showing-off blue. I looked across the river at the friends on this adventure—10 including me, spread across five canoes. They joined me for a five-day endurance trip we called 50-50-50 (50 miles hiking, 50 miles biking, 50 miles canoeing) to celebrate my 50th birthday.
This was the final day, and we had pushed each other, hard. We endured sleep deprivation, a broken bike and a sprained ankle on top of mounting exhaustion from covering 125 miles so far via hiking, biking and canoeing. With mere hours left, I thought we had reached the calm after the storm.
Then I heard a yelp from behind.
The Former Fighter Pilot spun our canoe around, and we saw The Philosophizing Gastroenterologist and The Pastor in their canoe. Stuck on a hidden tree, they weren’t moving.
They paddled forward, nothing.
They paddled backward, nothing.
The Retired Green Beret and The Meticulous One tied their canoe to the stuck one and tried to pull them off the tree.
The canoe wouldn’t budge.
Disaster loomed. Every boat launch had signs about the search for the body of a man who drowned near here 2 months earlier. If they capsized, either or both could be trapped by the tree or under the canoe or be swept downstream. They were wearing life jackets, but those wouldn’t help if they were stuck under water. And after four days of exertion, they probably could not help themselves much in an emergency.
I had envisioned this trip as a celebration, a test, and a respite from the anxiety of my life. I needed relief and I thought five days with my friends would bring it. But we had faced one challenge after another, and now came the worst yet. This trip had unmistakably become about serving each other, and here was the realest chance to do that.
Plotting the life I have left
As my 50th birthday approached, I confronted the reality that life is finite … over and over again. What a terrible year, for me, for you, for everyone. I caught covid, so did my two kids (my wife was spared), and my mom died of cancer.
She didn’t want a funeral, she wanted a party, so we threw her one. There’s nothing like turning 50 and the death of a parent to make a person analyze the life he has led and wonder about the life he has left. I gave my mom’s eulogy, and I couldn’t help but think about what I want said at my own.
I want to have so many loved ones with so many stories about me they fight over who gets to give it. I want to give whoever wins that fight more material than he knows what to do with. I want mourners … God in heaven, please tell me I will have mourners … to hear how I challenged my friends and family and they challenged me and about how we laughed and changed and grew.
More than anything, I want my eulogy to be like my mom’s. I called her the cure to loneliness. She had more strong relationships with friends and family than anyone I ever met. I am deeply my mother’s son, so I have similar relationships.
As I look back at my role in those relationships, I see a lack of purpose. What is the point of them? What should I do for those people?
These are universal questions. Everyone wants their lives to be full of meaning. The stereotypical midlife crisis involves a man chasing things he doesn’t have—a sports car, a big house, a trophy wife. My midlife crisis is more ambitious than that. I want my friends, family and I to bond together, endure together, push ourselves together. I want us to stretch each other, break each other, put each other back together, stronger.
How can I fashion a life like that?
How can I live a life worthy of a stirring eulogy?
For months leading up to this trip, I asked myself, what do I want the rest of my life to be about?
The answer started to crystallize in Wisconsin.
Bonding on the hike
The 10 of us range in age from 37 to 61. We are members of a free, nationwide men’s outdoor workout group called F3 (Fitness, Fellowship, Faith). I am known among my F3 brothers for organizing physical challenges, from doing 100 burpees a day for a month to three 250-mile bike rides to paddling trips on the Missouri and Mississippi rivers. I put us through hell before this, and the men love me for it.
Or say they do, at least.
That’s why they showed up before dawn in the parking lot of my church on the first day. We packed two pickup trucks and a 2007 Pontiac Vibe (it’s mine, don’t be jealous) and drove north.
I dubbed this trip 50-50-50 because we planned to hike 50 miles, bike 50 miles and canoe 50 miles. On a Wednesday afternoon in mid-September, we put our boots on the Ice Age Trail, a national scenic trail that slithers 1,000 miles through Wisconsin. Our adventure began in earnest as we ascended stairs into a thick forest.
Sweat covered my back as I bounced from the front to the back, eager to lead, just as eager to hang back and talk. For the first 14.9999 miles of 15, the hike felt perfect—Opening Day meets Christmas morning meets a first kiss.
Shimmering light to the right caught my eye. The trees parted, revealing a small lake. The water rippled with the wind. Momentarily untouched by man or beast, it sat alone, as if it existed solely for us to enjoy.
We reached a tunnel of trees that traced an arc through a dense forest. The leaves deflected and softened the light. I couldn’t see the beginning or the end of the tunnel. Soon a rectangle of light appeared in the distance. It grew bigger as I walked.
After 7.5 miles, we turned around to return to the stairs. At the very end of the hike—seriously, the last three stairs—The Master Mechanic rolled his right ankle, threw all of his weight over it, and tumbled down. His ankle swelled to the size of his calf.
The swelling was still severe the next morning. We planned to hike 20 miles; covering that much ground on a sprained ankle was (not to put too fine a point on it) a terrible idea. But no way in hell was anyone going to suggest he stay behind.
“Oh great!” joked The Philosophizing Gastroenterologist, who is 61 and more fit than most men a third his age. “I finally get to use my first-aid kit.” He wrapped The Master Mechanic’s ankle with tape and an Ace bandage.
We split into two groups. The four slowest men dubbed ourselves Three Geezers and The Gimp. The Master Mechanic, who smiles easy and often and is stubborn as a mule and tough as alligator skin, delighted in his new moniker. I had a hunch he was more injured than he admitted. I studied his stride from behind. Even as he limped and his right shoe popped loose every step, he set the pace.
At mid-morning, we descended into a section cleared of undergrowth. Stripped of low branches, the trees looked like scattered telephone poles. Facing forward, it appeared I could see into infinity. Behind me, the undergrowth clouded the view, making that section dark, foreboding, scary.
We hustled through a grassy field as the high, harsh sun bore down on us. With smooth, easy steps, we piled on he miles there. The trail returned to the forest, and The Master Mechanic’s walking turned labored, his limp more pronounced.
He said he needed a break. He took off his shoe, unwound the Ace bandage, removed the tape and examined his purple skin. I thought he was done. Sitting on soft brown dirt, I looked down the trail. It turned right and disappeared. Someone will stay with him, I’ll keep going, get the car and …
“Much better,” he said after The Philosophizing Gastroenterologist retaped his ankle, this time looser.
Soon he walked ahead of me again.
Enduring on the bike
The next afternoon, I parked my Vibe next to The Master Mechanic’s white Chevy pickup truck. On the drive, a valve stem on The Master Mechanic’s bike snapped, leaving him with a flat before the ride even started. We replaced the inner tube quickly, but our troubles had just begun.
“I’m finished,” he texted to the group when his derailleur snapped 30 miles in. The group had other ideas. The Meticulous One, who plotted our schedule, suggested taking off the derailleur, cutting links out of the chain, and putting the chain back on. Naturally, he had a tool for that. That turned The Master Mechanic’s 18-speed bike into a single-speed bike, presenting a challenge more mental than physical. Riding that would require patience, a big ask considering our nerves were fried.
The Master Mechanic wanted to throw his bike down the hill it broke on, but The Former Fighter Pilot calmed him down. Soon he channeled his frustration into determination. As we cheered him on, he climbed onto the bike and pedaled and pedaled and pedaled more.
Our finish time of 5 p.m. came and went. The sky ahead of us glowed purple, pink and orange as the sun dropped below a marsh. A creek reflected those colors back into the sky. Over our left shoulders, the moon watched, a silver-yellow eye wondering why we kept going.
My headlight turned the woods lining the trail an ethereal gray. A raccoon scampered across the trail, its eyes floating white dots. A rabbit kept pace alongside me, its white tail bouncing, before darting into the trees. Bugs pinged off my face.
So many bugs.
The Master Mechanic howled as his chain fell off. We circled around him, shined our lights on his bike and encouraged him as he put it back on. “Guys, I need a minute,” he said after the third time that happened. He limped a circle or six on the gravel trail, muttered words best left unrepeated, then put the chain back on.
With 200 yards left we climbed a small hill … The Pastor’s black Ford pickup sat bathed in light in a parking lot at the bottom … and the chain fell off and crammed itself so tightly in the gears The Master Mechanic could not get it out. He pushed his bike to the downslope, mounted the seat and coasted to the truck. The Former Fighter Pilot arrived next and laid down, spread eagle, face up.
One hundred yards from the truck, light glowed from inside a restaurant. FOOD! YES! ME WANT FOOD! I walked in wearing skin-tight black padded shorts, a neon yellow biking shirt visible from space and a look devoid of mental acuity. The Master Mechanic hobbled in, his hands black with grease. I looked around … white tablecloths … customers dressed up … servers in pressed shirts … and took the hint.
We found a bar with a live band playing too loud, collapsed into our seats and ate enough to feed a small country … and that was just The Former Fighter Pilot.
Being the kind-hearted, compassionate and empathetic men we are, we told The Master Mechanic that after his sprained ankle, broken valve stem, shattered derailleur and ill-fitting chain, he was bad luck and none of us wanted to be in his canoe the next day.
He teamed with The Sprinter, a former track star who could have done this trip if it was 70-70-70.
I’m surprised they didn’t hit a whale.
Pushing ourselves in the canoe
I spent far too much of my life chasing easy and avoiding hard. No more. When I die and give my body back to God, I want Him to say, what did you do to this thing? I want to bring to Him a soul full to overflowing because of the relationships and experiences I have had. That’s why I do trips like this. I search for rock bottom and see how I react, body and soul. I crashed into that bottom on Day 4, the day after the bike ride. Physically, I was OK. Mentally, I bordered on delirious.
I wrestle with insomnia. On the worst nights, my brain feels like watching the grand finale of a fireworks display, only in place of the dark sky there’s a strobe light and instead of oohing and aahing I want to scream.
Starting after I gave my mom’s eulogy in July, my insomnia intensified, and it accelerated again during the trip. The night before Day 4, I slept two hours.
For the ride to the river, I climbed into my Vibe’s passenger seat and let The Retired Green Beret drive without either of us mentioning it. I think he would have yanked me out if I sat behind the wheel.
I wanted to say something about floor mats, but that term would not come to me. Instead I referred to the thing in the car you put your feet on. I hiked circles around the canoe launch area so I didn’t have to talk to anybody. I carried anxiety like a backpack I couldn’t unstrap.
To complete 50-50-50, I needed help.
No, I needed more than that.
I needed to be carried.
I can think of two people I wanted in my canoe. One of them, The Russian, the best adult friend I’ve ever had, was not on the trip. The other is The Former Fighter Pilot, a lieutenant colonel in the Missouri Air National Guard. I tried to be nonchalant as I told him, did not ask him, we would be canoe-mates.
I wanted him in my canoe because he has arms like a lumberjack and legs like a power lifter and because, well, because he’s a former F15 fighter pilot. At launch, a bald eagle sat on a thumb of sand. I sat watched it in an awestruck stupor. My brain was a moth without a light.
I paddled as best as I could and stuffed myself full of Snickers, M&Ms and electrolytes. Slowly, the sugar, electrolytes and The Former Fighter Pilot’s steadiness rejuvenated me. By dinner, I rallied to enjoy a taco bowl by the river. That night, I slept well by my standards, extraordinary considering I was in a tent.
By the next morning, the final day of 50-50-50, I felt whole, even though I knew I wasn’t.
Then the canoe got stuck.
As best as we could figure, The Philosophizing Gastroenterologist and The Pastor ran over a hidden tree, and it held firm under the weight of the canoe. Maybe there was a perfectly shaped channel among the branches, and they coasted right into it.
We decided the only way to get the canoe unstuck was to change the weight distribution by having The Philosophizing Gastroenterologist slide into the water.
None of us liked this. But we saw no other option. I watched nervously as The Philosophizing Gastroenterologist tumbled out. He stood on the tree to steady himself, but it was slick and he slipped off. The Retired Green Beret and The Meticulous One paddled their canoe to him, he grabbed hold, and they pulled him to shore.
The boat remained stuck, and now it was The Pastor’s turn. I felt more responsible for him. He is not just The Pastor, he is my pastor. I’ve heard him preach hundreds of times. His wife teaches my daughter piano. His kids go to youth group with mine.
He lowered himself out of the boat and disappeared.
Pop back up, man.
POP BACK UP.
It was a fraction of a second but seemed forever before his mostly pepper, slightly salt hair emerged … probably more salt now. He held the finally dislodged canoe against the current, a remarkable feat considering what he had been through the last 4.5 days. The Former Fighter Pilot tied our canoe to his, The Pastor held on, and we paddled him to shore.
I swiveled my shoulders to see if he was OK.
His face whispered fear and shouted relief.
The joy of shared suffering
Our 50-50-50 trip sounds terrible, and maybe it was. But we had a blast, not despite all the problems, but because of them. No story worth laughing about for decades, no life-changing event ever begins with, “remember that time everything went perfectly?”
On our drive home that night, 150 miles behind us, a remaining lifetime of potential ahead of us, we stopped at a diner for a celebratory feast. We wolfed down burgers and catfish and relived our adventure, our messy, grand, exhausting, scary adventure.
We trusted each other, loved each other, heck, saved each other. We endured to the finish because we served each other—by taping the ankle, fixing the bike, towing the canoeists to safety. We suffered together, we overcame together, we finished together, and we are stronger because of it.
I want more of that. At work, at home, at play, everywhere.
That’s what’s I want the rest of my life to be about.