On Saturday night of Memorial Day weekend, my son Jered asked if I wanted to go cycling with him the next morning.

If you’ve been around Cincinnati lately, you know we’ve had a lot of rain. Days and days of it. Gray skies. Flooded yards. Constant forecasts of “still another round moving through.” But Sunday morning showed a small break in the weather, and Jered was antsy to give his new purchase a try.

He recently bought a used 24-speed aluminum Raleigh road bike off Facebook Marketplace. You could tell this thing was built for movement — light, fast, efficient. I think somewhere inside him there are aspirations of triathlons, long rides, and discovering what his body is capable of. And let’s just say…the cheap mountain-bike-wannabe I bought him when he was 14 wasn’t exactly designed for speed or distance.

So Saturday night, we made plans to meet Sunday morning at 8:00am.

And honestly, when one of my children asks me to do something with them, I try to say yes.

When your kids become adults, those invitations become more rare. It’s not like the elementary school years when there was almost always some desire for dad time. So when those opportunities come along, I try to pay attention.

We met Sunday morning at the Little Miami Golf Center to start our ride.

One of my favorite trails in the Cincinnati area is the Loveland Bike Trail. It follows an old railroad line alongside the Little Miami River with long stretches of pavement winding through trees, bridges, small towns, and open scenery. Over the decades, I’ve probably run or cycled thousands of miles on that trail.

The ride out was smooth. We went a little over ten miles before stopping briefly to catch our breath and turn around.

And on the way back…we started riding faster.

Now listen, this was not Tour de France speed. But for this 56-year-old body, it felt fast. Young. Agile.

And if I’m being truthful, somewhere inside me was a desire to impress my son.

I wanted him to see me as strong.
Athletic.
Nimble.
Like I could still carry speed through the turns and handle the bike with confidence.

There’s something in many men that still longs to be admired, especially by the people they love most.

And for a few miles on that trail, with the wind in my face and my legs feeling strong, I felt a little bit like the younger version of myself again.

There’s a section of the trail where they recently added a new access point to Bass Island, creating a sharp S-turn immediately after a small rise in the pavement.

I remembered noticing it on the ride out. I remembered thinking it was tighter than expected.

But on the return trip, my confidence was high.

I came over the rise carrying too much speed and immediately realized I was in trouble. I made the first right turn, but when I saw the sharp left directly ahead, I knew there wasn’t enough room to slow down this 215-pound body on wet pavement.

It was one of those strange out-of-body moments where you can already see what’s about to happen, but there’s nothing you can do to stop it.

I hit the brakes.

The tires slid.

And within seconds I was heading off the paved trail toward a muddy drop-off alongside the path. It wasn’t some massive ravine — maybe ten inches lower than the trail itself — but with thin road bike tires and too much speed, it might as well have been a cliff.

The front wheel dropped hard into the ditch and stopped abruptly. The bike bucked like a bull, and suddenly my body was flying through the air before crashing hard into the mud and gravel below.

I hit hard.

For a moment I just laid there stunned, almost like the pause after you put a key into an ignition and the system runs its diagnostic check before fully starting.

System check.

Alive? Yes.

Pain? Yes.

Broken? I don’t think so.

Try to move.

Arm hurts.

Leg bleeding.

My son had stopped and came back to check on me. He asked if I was okay. He helped me to my feet and asked if I had hit my head.

There was no frustration in his voice. No lecture. Just calm concern.

Thankfully, everything seemed to work. I wasn’t seriously injured. Shaken, sore, embarrassed…but okay.

And honestly, I was fortunate.

Mud and gravel are forgiving.

Trees, rocks, and fences are not.

It could have been much worse.

As I thought about it later, I realized something deeper may have been happening in me that morning.

I recognize now that somewhere inside me, I was hoping to impress Jered with my athleticism.

I wanted to look strong.
Fast.
Capable.
Young.

And honestly, I don’t think that desire is unique to me.

I think many of us spend our lives hoping to be admired.

Admired for our success.
Our appearance.
Our intelligence.
Our strength.
Our relevance.
Our accomplishments.

And yet, there is a dramatic difference between being admired and being loved.

Admiration says:
Look at me.
Look what I can do.
Look how impressive I still am.

But admiration is exhausting because it always demands another performance.

Another achievement.

Another proof.

Another reason for someone to look at us and say,
“Wow.”

But when I flew over those handlebars, something became painfully clear.

My son wasn’t asking how fast I had been riding.

He wasn’t impressed by my speed or athleticism.

He came to check on my well-being.

He helped me to my feet.

He asked if I hit my head.

He simply loved me.

And maybe that’s the difference.

Admiration feels good, but it can never replicate love.

In fact, some of the most admired people in the world are also some of the most miserable.

Because admiration can make you feel noticed…
without ever allowing you to feel known.

It can make you feel elevated…
without ever making you feel secure.

And it always leaves you vulnerable to the next performance, the next approval, the next round of applause.

Love is different.

Love moves toward you when you’re lying in the mud.

Love checks on your well-being before your performance.

Love stays present when the image collapses.

And maybe that’s why so many of us are exhausted.

We are carrying too much speed into life trying to prove we still matter.

Still impressive.

Still desirable.

Still relevant.

 

If the pursuit of admiration has slowly pushed your life off the road, maybe it’s time to slow down long enough to ask why.

And if you ever want someone to help you sort through the wreckage with kindness, please don’t hesitate to reach out.