The Next Great Thing

By Kevin Vrabel

On May 30, 2011, Kevin Vrabel and his nephews Andy Underwood and John Vrabel began an epic bicycle trip, pedaling east from Venice Beach, California on a ride of about 3200 miles that would taken them coast to coast through 15 states landing them in Asbury Park, New Jersey. They rode to explore the power behind daily exercise, healthy eating, and feeding the mind and spirit through reading and writing. This book chronicles that journey.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kevin Vrabel
• Release date: Aug 28, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476183534

Kevin Vrabel

Kevin Vrabel is a coach, teacher and owner/director of Snowbird Softball and Snowbird Lacrosse in Myrtle Beach SC. He has three rescue dogs: Clyde, a 95 lbs black lab, great dane mix found near the beach in Myrtle Beach, Boo, 35lbs border collie mix who was left at his house and Sarge, golden retriever, a recent, “tied to a tree in PA” rescue. Kevin has been cycling most of his life beginning as an amateur “stunt” rider, crashing his cruiser intentionally in front of the Hayward family’s home in hopes of gaining the attention of their daughter, Teresa. He has also raced as a USCF road racer and lead tours in California and the Northeast. Kevin's latest adventure, a cross-country bicycle trip with his nephews, is detailed in his Smashwords book, The Next Great Thing.

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Foreword

"The eyes of an animal have the capacity of a great language."

Martin Buber, philosopher, 1878-1965

I share my home with three dogs, all rescued from desperate situations unfitting with their noble characters. Clyde is a 6-year-old black lab/great dane mix found as a 20 lb. stray wandering the ball fields of 33rd St in Myrtle Beach, SC, who is as elegant and graceful as his namesake, Walt Clyde Frazier. Clyde is very athletic and has the dog equivalent of an NFL linebacker build. (He also responds to the sight and smells of pizza with an erection. A response which I can truly understand.)

Sarge is a 3-year-old golden retriever who was spending his days tied by a 15-ft rope to a small tree in Warrior Run, PA. He can give hugs. He rises on his back legs and slides his front limbs on either side of you while resting his head in your midsection expecting as much affection as he is giving to you.

Boo is the lone female, a 33 lb., 9-year-old black and white border collie mix who had the misfortune of being leashed to a dryer door in a small apartment. Her luck changed one day when her owner was subjected to an apartment inspection. Since animals were not allowed, her owner asked my roommate to keep her overnight until she passed inspection. The owner passed inspection and never returned for Boo. (Sometimes you are working for the Universe, sometimes the Universe is working for you.)

She won the lottery that day and happily joined in our daily ritual of running 2 miles of trails following creeks which create tubs of swimming holes. Her first few trips she clung to my heels as the other two dogs raced ahead. She would stay so close, I would often clip her chin with my heels. When the others swam, she stood next to me and barked, venturing in the water’s edge for a quick drink and then taking her stance behind me.

After a few weeks, the neurosis formed by her past life slowly slipped away and she began to race ahead with the other two dogs. She also learned a graceful swimming stroke and now paddles effortlessly with head held high. Inevitably, no matter what critter the crew chases and how far they roam ahead, Boo is always the first to return to me on the trail and fall back in line.

When I thought of the foreword to this work, I thought of Boo and her face, half of which is deep black and half bright white. The white part splits the middle of her head. It runs on an angle down to her right eye so that nose and eye are surrounded by white fur while the other half of her face is black. The white stripe helps offset her expressive dark eyes. They are certainly eyes that Buber might have seen before penning his line.

Here’s the thing. No matter where I am in the house, Boo is next to me. If she is asleep and I move, she awakens. If I take the time to make eye contact with her, this is what I see, always (and using the word always here, I mean without exception, never failing, money-in-the-bank): Her head is alert and turned slightly with ears pointed straight up as if to suggest; I am here and ready for what you have to say.

She waits, tail wagging slowly. Yet, it is her eyes that have the capacity of great language. Boo’s eyes speak to me of great anticipation, hope and excitement, pure and utter joyful excitement. She is never subtle and never ashamed of her response to me.

If I then say her name, just the sound of my voice sends her tail wagging at a greater tempo, her body stiffens and straightens, and she is ready for our next adventure. Her eyes say, not sure what you have in mind, ‘cause I’m just a dog and don’t have the same thinker you do, but I know it’s going to be great cause every day is great here. I mean it is really great. If I wasn’t a dog and had a bigger selection of words to express myself, I’d say it has been quite serendipitous how we got together. Instead, I’ll just tell you through this look in my eyes, that life is great and you are great so let’s go do something great. That’s what Boo’s eyes say to me every single time I call her name. Come visit. I’ll show you.

Here’s the other thing. I used to FEEL the same excitement about each day that Boo feels. Life was hopeful, with great exciting anticipation. I approached my life as a teacher and coach with playfulness. Then, over time, with age and with every crazy thing happening in our world, negativity began creeping in like an unwanted guest at a warm, fuzzy dinner party. (If there is such a thing.)

I took on personal battles with alcoholism and depression and I lost a little more wind from my sails. Then I watched my sister’s husband lose a fight with brain cancer and my Mom die from a lung disease and depression 12 days later. Dark days became even darker.

Boo had her dryer door and leash as her prison and I found myself trapped by my own thoughts of despair. Where hope and joy used to come to me as readily as Boo does when I call her, instead I found myself sinking slowly into an abyss. It was not an overnight dramatic tumbling free fall but a daily realization that the new day felt a bit heavier than the last and, in time, I couldn’t recall the last time I felt light and free. Each new morning that started with the same emptiness as the last compounded my despair as my last hope before sleep was awakening to my former, true self. I was like my companion Boo who might have had dreams of running free in a field only to watch the leash attached to her neck be slipped over the door’s handle.

Sleep became my refuge, the only way to close the door on the demons. I gained weight, had trouble concentrating and my playfulness was replaced by daily drudgery. I focused on moments lost rather than moments to come. I never had thoughts of ending my life as it tumbled toward misery but there were days when I could care less about being alive.

Through it all were the soulful, hopeful eyes of an abused animal that continued to buoy my spirits and give me a clear view into love that abounds in our universe. I knew it was a time for healing for me so I clung to family and friends. I opened myself up to the loyal, trusting folks in my life and began to rekindle my childhood faith in both God and Life. I was building the foundation for the next phase of my life and a promise to be true to myself.

I had also made a promise to my nephews, Andy and John, a promise I always intended to keep: a cross-country bicycle trip the summer they graduated college. For us, it would be a time to strengthen our bodies and minds as we rode to raise awareness for literacy. With my father, their grandfather, on board for support, it would be a rare opportunity to see our country as 3 generations of family.

For me personally, I saw it as a time for reclamation. At 51, it was time to reclaim the hope and joy I had felt in my life, only to let it slip away along the battle-lines of daily living. I was hopeful I would find that and much more. I wanted to return from this trip and feel the warm hug of a hyper golden retriever while Clyde and I shared our pizza fantasies. Then I’d call out Boo’s name and let her see her eyes in mine. It was time to go home again and to get there, I had to drive to LA in an RV with my 82-year-old Dad and two 22-year-old nephews, hop on my bicycle, and head east. I learned early on in this trip that I never really knew what was up around that next bend on the road, but it would always be worth the effort. We all know that every long journey begins with the first step, but this one began before then.

An Uncle's Promise

File this under be careful what you say to your teenage nephews while cycling the Blue Ridge Parkway. Let me explain. About 6 years ago, my nephews John and Andy cycled the length of the Blue Ridge Parkway (Front Royal, VA to Cherokee, TN). I cycled with them and my Dad, their grandfather, provided vehicular support. It was a spectacular ride culminating with 105 miles through sometimes-heavy rain on the last day. Apparently, in the giddiness of the moment, I proposed a cross-country trip, whenever they graduated from college: drive from the east to the west coast and then cycle back.

Andy graduated this spring (2011) from West Virginia University, and John is a few credits shy from matriculating from University of Rhode Island. Andy was the one who reminded me first and the discussion went from there. (If you are an uncle, or an aunt for that matter, and you make a proposal of this nature and are unprepared to come through, then you are destined to be thrown into that ever-increasing scrap heap of aunts and uncles who have reneged on glorious promises. I refuse to join that crowd.)

Everyone knows that any transcontinental bicycle trip needs a cause. While discussing this trip with my college friend, Chris Barrett (Ryan), she eagerly proclaimed, why not make it a ride for literacy? Which instantly resonated with me and brought me back to one of the most vivid memories I have of my high school teaching days.

While creating, organizing, and supervising opening day activities of a new school year at Moravian Academy, Bethlehem, PA in the mid 1990’s I had this idea. Why not take 30 minutes from our opening day and read. Bring a book you are reading for pleasure, find a spot on our 66-acre campus, relax and read, for 30 minutes. Students, teachers and support staff scattered around on a late summer day reading, just for fun, at the appointed time. Close to 300 people, leaning against old trees, lying across the grass, sitting Indian-style, at benches, reading. The only sound heard was the leaves of the old trees fighting against Autumn. I can still feel the power of reading the written word from that day. Thus, the literacy-and-healthy-living-awareness-transcontinental-bicycle trip was born. Our official moniker: Bikes, Books and Better Living.

My next image from my conversation with Chris was the running scenes from Forrest Gump. Forrest decides he’s going to start running and off he goes. Headed west from Alabama with no particular destination in mind he’s joined along the way by others who just want to run with him. Some are curious as to his motives, but most just want to be part of the experience. That is precisely why I have written this and perhaps why you are reading it. So here it is, your official invitation. If you have a bike and a book, and you are so inclined, then give it a try…ride some and read some…it is amazing what you may find when you take care of your body and feed your mind and spirit. I made good on a promise to my nephews, why not make a promise to yourself? Need a little more inspiration? Then allow me to introduce you to my grandmother.

A Grandmother's Resolutions

There are several cardinal rules in cycling. Always wear a helmet. (I have a bald spot on the back of my head to prove how lucky I was when not wearing one). Ride in the same direction as the vehicular traffic and obey vehicle traffic laws. Ride in single file and check behind you before you spit. No underwear beneath cycling shorts and no shorts over the cycling shorts. (Shaving the legs will be discussed later, but has very little to do with aerodynamics as some folks who shave might have you believe.) All these rules are based on pragmatic cycling logic.

In the literary world, unlike cycling, the list of absolutes is more personal and emotional. For example, my list of must-read books begins with Steinbeck’s Grapes of Wrath. (While we are visiting California’s finest, Travels with Charley, also makes the list and is the first book I read on this epic trip). Breakfast for Champions, by Kurt Vonnegut and Laura Hillenbrand’s, Unbroken, are as different as two books can be, but both make the list. No literary life is complete without reading Garth Stein’s, The Art of Racing in the Rain or Golfing with God (On Heaven and Earth), by Roland Merullo. And so it goes, from classic to contemporary, fiction to non-fiction, we all get to build our list of literary to-dos based on some emotional response we have to the writer’s words.

The literary choices we make are multi-layered. (I picked up Racing in the Rain because of the eyes of the golden retriever fixed upon me from the cover.) In younger days, it’s the dreaded required reading assignment that becomes a personal joy (Grapes of Wrath). Recommendations from friends (Breakfast of Champions) or listening to an author interviewed (Unbroken) are all common pathways to the written word.