I Believe in Miracles

Finish Line 2016

I’d pedaled 4,000 miles that summer to train. I woke early on 8 September 2018 and rolled out of Logan, Utah, on a 206-mile race to Jackson Hole, Wyoming. The weather was perfect. I felt confident I’d better my 2016 time. My bicycle had other ideas.

2018. A PB&J and Coke at 120 miles.

A mechanical problem in the first thirty miles dropped me to the back, leaving me few riders from which to draft. After 125 miles, the headwind between Afton and Alpine Junction was particularly difficult. It became clear I wouldn’t finish before dark, but I kept going.

The final stretch to Teton Village was pitch black. The pavement was new and without paint. There was no moon and no streetlights. The faint headlight on my bike was useless, but I kept going. I hugged the shoulder, blinded by every oncoming car. 

Suddenly, I was in gravel. I couldn’t see it, but I could feel it. My bike turned sideways. My front tire caught the edge of the road and launched me into the air. I flew toward the center of the road. The only things I saw were the headlights of a ten-wheel dump truck barreling towards me at 40-50 mph. As an emergency physician, I thought, “Oh, this is how I’m going to die.”

Then, in an instant, I was standing still, straddling my bike in the center of the road. The truck was gone. There was nothing but blackness and silence. I was stunned. Something I couldn’t understand or explain had happened. It felt personal, like someone had intervened for me.

The scene the next morning. I believe that narrow grove is my tire track.

For a moment, I thought about riding those last few miles. I’d ridden 200; I just wanted to finish. But the thought of doing so felt like I’d be slapping my unseen Benefactor in the face. I walked my bike to the edge of the road and called my wife. I’d later learn she had been waiting in the dark at the finish line, praying for my safety. She’s had a premonition weeks before.