Jimmy Beh

It was my first bike tour. We were beginning day ten in Lewistown, Montana and heading east. The goal was 3,300 miles in 30 days to raise $50,000 for the DawgPatch Bandits, a nonprofit founded by my riding partners, Drew and Payton, that raises money to help folks who are battling addiction. 

In those first nine days I thought I had experienced most of what the road could throw at me. As a tour rookie, I figured getting lost, running out of food and water, traveling through strong rain and wind, biking 20 miles on a flat tire to get rescued off a logging road, and camping on the side of a mountain in “big cat” territory was a pretty good resume. I was starting to feel like I knew what I was doing. However, there was one thing I had not experienced yet. A real storm. 

We had heard the night before that a bad storm was scheduled to blow through today. I tried to mask my nervousness around the warnings with curious questions and enthusiasm for the day’s ride. My salty and seasoned friends could read through this I am sure, but they were kind enough to not poke too much fun. 

I remember asking Drew and Payton rather intently what the course of action if we encountered a real storm. They both spoke matter of factly– “you just have to surrender to it.” I amicably agreed as I internally was going ‘what the fuck does that even mean?’ “You just gotta bike while the biking is good,” Payton would say.

As it turned out, after all of my nervous energy, the day had minimal wind and for 90 miles it was sunny and warm. I felt silly. With 20 miles left until Jordan, MT, where we planned on camping for the night, we pulled over to a vintage gas station to refill our water bottles and grab a snack. It was a gas station from a different era with one non-digital gas pump and half a thrift store inside. The woman working was terribly nice, like most folks in this part of the country.

As we sat outside eating our melting popsicles– we turned and saw one giant, ominous storm cloud cresting the horizon. “Shit,” I thought. It was still a ways off, but it seemed to take up the width of the horizon. Drew and Payton started greasing me; “It’s coming for you, Jim!” 

A local rancher comes out of the store with his son. He asks us where we are headed. We answer, “Jordan.” He goes, “you see those clouds right?” Drew and Payton, half chuckling, answer, “Yupp!” He says, “You know they’re calling for 50-70mph wind with hail, right?” Drew and Payton say something to the effect of, “Well, I guess we better bike fast.” The rancher laughs, shakes his head, and hops on his four wheeler with his son to head home. 

We mount our bikes and take off toward Jordan. 

As we began the final section of the day, the joking started up again about the storm. Well, let me be clear, Drew and Payton were joking about the storm. I, however, was doing some hypothetical math calculations in my head to create some faint hope that we were going to out run it.

Three to four miles into the ride it became clear the storm was moving fast. We could start to feel the wind. It was a cross wind, and with little to no trees in this part of Montana you were exposed to the full brunt of Mother Nature. Soon no one was talking. It was clear all three of us had one goal in mind. Make it to Jordan.  

The crosswind began to separate us. I took the lead out front, Payton ended up about a mile behind me, and Drew maybe a mile behind him.  Since I was the tallest and heaviest of the group, you might think I should have been the slowest in this scenario. However, I had something motivating me that Drew and Payton did not. I was afraid.

The wind got worse. Much worse. And the flat road turned into a punchy roller coaster. It was almost comical how up and down the beat up, rural, Montana road became. For a period of time, I was biking at almost a 45 degree angle to try and compensate. 

Adrenaline was beginning to take over. Even though my body knew it had biked almost 100 miles, my brain was saying we were in a sprint to Jordan. The screams from my legs were ignored. There was no time. 

I began eating these caffeinated gummy snacks I had picked up in Whitefish to help sustain my unsustainable power output. I would bike two miles pop one, another mile and a half pop another. Payton called these my ‘boom sticks’. I don’t want to think about what my heart rate must have been at this point.

I began to get shooting pain down my left quad and into my knee. Rather than slowing down and listening to my body, I just began screaming “Shut up and do your job!” I was fully tapped into my animal brain now. Letting my external surroundings dictate my movements and thoughts. Something primal had overtaken me. I was just looking to survive. 

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, there was a road sign. “9 miles to Jordan.” The storm was almost overtop of me. The sun was gone, and the sky was black. I made a deal with myself. If lightning strikes, you are ditching the bike and finding a place to wait out the storm, but if not you are powering through.  

I kept my pace, the wind continued to push, and the road continued to punch. Another two or three miles and I could see a bend in the road coming up. More hypothetical math ensued and the thought of the crosswind becoming a tailwind brought a half smile to my face. 

As I turned into the bend, I felt the wind shift behind me as I began a slight downhill that looked like it was the final stretch into Jordan. I could not see the town, but it had to be close. 

Right as the cross wind became a tailwind, everything went silent. As if you had just closed your windows after driving for an hour with them down on the highway. All I could hear was my breathing. I looked up for the first time in awhile and the storm had arrived. There was no hail, no rain, and no lightning yet, but it could not be far off. The sky was so dark and the silence so ominous I thought I was moments away from that first earth shattering crack. 

10 second go by….then 20 second… then 30 second…

Nothing happened. Just silence as I felt I was gliding along the razor’s edge of an incredibly powerful and destructive storm. I decided I was going to high tail it down this hill and into Jordan. It had to be less than five miles now, I thought. I had a real shot. I was going to evade the storm and all the discomfort. “Fuck yes,” I thought.

So I shifted into my highest gear so I could descend at maximum speed. I was already going about 30mph at this point. As I pulled up on my mechanical shifter, I heard my chain move. With a mixture of exhaustion, fear, and determination, I stood up and put all my power into that first pedal stroke. 

Skrrt. 

Something jammed. Without thinking, I double down and stomp my foot harder through the pedal. 

Skrrt…KINK. 

Suddenly, the tension is gone. My chain, rather than locking onto the wheel had come off and ripped through my derailleur and around my pedal. All my body weight suddenly slammed into my handlebars and I began to speed wobble. As I instinctually begin to sit back down on the saddle, I have just enough time to think, “Uh oh.”

BOOM!

My front wheel catches an edge and it sends my handlebars underneath the frame. I begin to lean left as I am projectiled over the handlebars and onto the Montana pavement at about 35mph.

Next thing I know I was bouncing, then tumbling, then rolling, until, all of a sudden, I was standing. Without thinking I let out a massive wail. Then I snapped back into it. I knew I was in the middle of a highway, and I needed to move. I look both ways– no cars– so I hobble over to my demolished bike and drag it off the road. My GoPro, Camera, and some food was splayed across the highway, most likely all broken. I didn’t care.

I grabbed a napkin that was part of my yard sale of items. I went to dab my elbow where a lot of blood was draining from. I looked to see how deep the gash was in my arm. It was not a gash, it was a hole and my bone was staring back at me.

This did not look good.

Before I could take any more of an inventory of my injuries, I saw a truck coming down the hill. The first real car I had seen in hours.

I instinctually stumble into the road and try to wave him down. The truck slows down and pulls over in front of me. A middle-aged man gets out. I am shirtless, covered in blood with my torn cycling jersey wrapped around my arm standing next to a totaled bike.

I say, “I am really sorry to bother you, but do you know if there is a doctor anywhere nearby?” He just sizes me up and says, “get in the truck and don’t apologize.” As I walk toward the truck I watch him pick up my bike over his shoulder and throw it in the truck bed. 

As I slide into the passenger seat, trying to avoid completely ruining the inside of this man’s truck, I realize he has his four year old son with him. Dalton. As the three of us sit on the front bench, Dalton sizes me up and begins his interrogation. What’s your name? Where are you going? Are you coming to the house? Do you want to meet Gamma? The man apologizes, letting me know Dalton is in that ‘question-asking phase.’ I didn’t mind, it helped distract me from the worsening pain and swelling of my injuries. Most of his questions I answered with little more than a yes or a no. However, one of his last questions, for some reason, landed differently. He asked me, “why did you crash?” 

Why did I crash…? 

I don’t remember exactly what I said, but I knew I wasn’t answering his question. I was saying what I thought caused the crash, but not why. As I finished speaking and began waiting for the next question, a thought entered my head. It said; “you didn’t surrender.”

As soon as the thought entered my consciousness, we were pulling into town. Turns out I had crashed only three miles from Jordan. Three fucking miles. You gotta be kidding.

While this realization was demoralizing, I was more concerned at that moment if there was any actual medical care in this frontier town of 500 people. As it turns out, Jordan had a local health clinic. It is the only formal medical care facility within 100 miles in any direction. Even more miraculous, the man that picked me up was a local EMT who was off duty. So when he drove me up (literally) to the front door, and it was locked, he whipped out his phone and called all the on-call medical staff to come in and help me. The man then helped me inside and dumped my bike by the front door. 

I then did the only thing I could do; I thank him and Dalton for saving me. He casually said, “don’t worry about it,” and then went out to make sure Payton and Drew made it into town safely. 

I wish I could remember his name. 

As I began getting cleaned up, Drew and Payton arrived. With my mind being in such survival mode, the thought of not being able to finish the bike tour had not even crossed my mind. But when I saw Drew and Payton’s faces, as I was laying on the makeshift emergency room bed, I could tell my tour was probably over. Drew even pleaded with the Physician Assistant, who was stitching me up, if I was safe to keep biking. It just wasn’t in the cards.

After being let go from the clinic, the P.A. was kind enough to drive me to the only motel in town. By this time the storm had arrived with massive wind, plenty of rain and some hail. Drew and Payton were at the pub eating dinner waiting for me to get released, and were planning to bring me something back.

Within ten minutes of getting into the motel, the storm knocked all the power out in the town. As a result, the kitchen at the pub closed, so the fellas brought me some powdered donuts and snickers from the gas station. Oh and a Peanut Butter and honey sandwich on a bagel. You can’t make this stuff up.

About thirty minutes into us all being at this motel, it came time to talk about the rest of the trip. My ride would end in Jordan, but it is not as simple as scratching during a race. We were in a remote part of Eastern Montana on a self supported cross-country bike tour. The nearest airport was two hours away by car. Additionally, we had set the goal of completing the ride in thirty days, which meant Drew and Payton could not take the next day off helping me. This meant we would part ways in the morning.

I told them I would be fine and would make my own way. At which point I allowed them to pick over my gear. Like a comrade killed in battle, the guys picked over my gear and resupplied with what was salvageable. I was happy to help them in moving forward, and undeniably sad I would not complete this journey with them.

The next morning, we had breakfast, checked in at the clinic to show them I had not died in night, and then we went back to the motel and said our goodbyes. 

The guys headed east, and I headed to the motel lobby to think of my next move. As it turns out, about thirty minutes later I ran into a tall, elderly gentleman on his last day of a fishing trip. I asked for a ride to Billings, and he said maybe, but he needed to check with his friends since it was not his truck. He came back about 15 minutes later and said, “Sorry, we have too much gear. We can’t help you.” No worries, I said. I went back to searching. 

So for the next hour I sat next to the motel keeper’s daughter who kept me company by explaining to me her favorite games on her iPad as I continued to search for possible solutions as her mother cleaned the rooms. Completely and totally stranded, and, for some strange reason, at peace.

To my utter surprise, about an hour and a half after he had told me no, the same gentleman walked back through the door and said, “Hey, so we talked about you over breakfast and decided we could put our stuff in the truck bed. Do you still want a ride?” Yes, I said, trying not to sound overly excited.

As it turned out, the guys had decided that they had been in the gutter before themselves, and believed it was worth helping me out. I offered to pay for their gas and lunch, but they politely declined my offer. So for the next two hours we talked about life, I told them about my crash the day before, and we cracked jokes. As I looked out the window of this man’s truck, I could not help but feel grateful.

I also must say it was quite a site when we rolled up to the departure lane of the airport with a 35ft fishing boat latched to the back of the truck. 

As they dropped me off, I shook their hands, they snapped a picture of me, and I said thank you again. I then headed into the airport to try and find a flight back to DC where I could stay with my parents and go to the hospital. (Again– I wish I took a photo of them or could remember their names). 

In the end, after numerous delays and a few funny encounters where I accidentally freaked out some travelers with my injuries, and bloody pannier as a carry on, I made it to D.C. 

On my way back, I was ecstatic to see Drew and Payton had messaged me sharing that they had completed 155 miles that day. The longest single day ride of the trip and I am pretty sure of their touring career thus far (and they did not start until mid morning). Epic!

Drew and Payton finished the trip within the thirty days and we raised over $50,000, just like we set out to do. 

So what did I learn? Why does this matter? 

It matters because, as Steven Pressfield reminds us, “it’s better to be in the arena, getting stomped by the bull, than to be up in the stands or out in the parking lot.”

It would be wrong for someone to read this story and use it as a justification for why they should not attempt a lofty or noble goal (whether it is physical, emotional, spiritual, or professional). Pain and failure is simply part of the journey toward anything worth while. Also, how do you even know what you are capable of without attempting to surpass your preconceived limits?

I hope my story might serve as a reminder that when you do commit to your goal that you do your best to only focus on what you can control rather than what you cannot. While I could blame my gear for the crash (as I probably did when I answered Dalton’s question), the reality was I was focussed on trying to control the bad weather when I should have just been focussed on riding my bike. We are not in control of all the things that happen to us, but we are always in control of how we choose to respond to them. Whether that is in the moment or in response to a mistake.

I hope you create your own lofty and noble goals, and make the difficult decision to follow through on them when things don’t go your way. I hope you surrender to that commitment, and are able to embrace courage over apathy. In the end, you may not succeed at achieving your immediate goal but I am confident you will grow in self-confidence. There is a wealth of internal satisfaction that comes from operating in the arena. 

And if nothing about this story has resonated with you, I pray you at least walk away feeling refreshed at the goodwill and kindness that still exists in our world. I survived this accident by the grace and kindness of complete strangers– many of whom I do not know their names and will probably never see again. I am eternally thankful for their help.