Jimer crashed at Mile 10. That wasn’t a metaphor. He literally crashed. His expensive carbon bike skidded across the asphalt. Jimer lay flat on his back, staring up at the sky, his chest heaving as if it were about to explode. His mouth was filled with the metallic taste of blood and the bitterness of bile.
This was the third time this month Jimer had quit. At work, he had just lost the biggest account of the year because he cracked under pressure. At home, his wife had just suggested "taking a break" because, in her words, “You act like you’re at war with the world, and I’m tired.”
Jimer had charged up this mountain to prove them wrong. He wanted to scream that he wasn't a failure. But the mountain, cold and indifferent, had just slapped him in the face: You are weak.
In the ringing silence of the high altitude, a sound cut through. Click... click... click... A battered steel-frame bike. A skinny old man. He wore a faded jersey, his calves mapped with jagged scars—souvenirs from years of brutal crashes.
As he passed Jimer lying on the shoulder, he didn’t stop. He didn’t ask, "Are you okay?" There was no pity. He gave Jimer a single glance—the look of an old wolf watching a yapping puppy trying to bark. Then, he kept pedaling.
Jimer felt humiliated. His ego flared up, overriding the pain. He scrambled up, grabbed his bike, and gritted his teeth to chase him down. "You think I'm finished? I'll show you."
Jimer poured every last ounce of energy into his legs. He caught up to the old man. But as he pulled alongside, Jimer froze.
He saw the old man’s hands. They were trembling on the handlebars. Sweat stung his eyes, but he didn't blink. His breath came in heavy, ragged rasps. It turned out, he wasn't "effortless" as Jimer had imagined. He was in pain. He was exhausted. The only difference was: Jimer used pain as an excuse to complain. This man used pain as fuel.
He accepted the suffering as a companion, not an enemy to be destroyed. He wasn't riding to conquer the mountain; he was riding to push past his own breaking point.
Watching the old man’s scarred calves contract and relax in a hypnotic rhythm, Jimer thought of the project he had abandoned. He hadn't quit because the work was impossible. He quit because he feared discomfort. He wanted success to be smooth and easy. At the first sign of a "scar," he had let go.
The old man pulled away, leaving Jimer behind. This time, Jimer didn't chase. He slowed down. He started to feel his muscles screaming, and for the first time in his life, he learned to listen to the pain instead of denying it.
When Jimer finally crawled to the summit, the old man was already there. He stood with his back turned, overlooking the sea of clouds rolling below. The sunlight pierced through the mist, casting a long shadow on the road.
He was drinking water, his hand still shaking with a slight tremor. Seeing Jimer approach, he didn’t turn around. He just spoke into the void, his voice raspy:
"The price of the view... is always steep, isn't it?"
Jimer looked down at the clouds, then at the rusty bike and the scarred man standing next to him. He started to cry. Not from exhaustion. But because he realized how cowardly he had been living his life. He always wanted to stand here, to see this view, but he refused to accept that his legs had to shake to get here.
That man, with his soaked back and scarred legs, was the definition of Endurance. It doesn’t mean you never fall. It means that when your legs are smashed to pieces, you get back on the saddle and finish the ride.
Jimer lau nước mắt và hít một hơi thật sâu không khí lạnh buốt của núi rừng. Ngày mai, anh sẽ gọi điện cho vợ. Anh sẽ quay lại văn phòng. Anh vẫn chưa chinh phục được ngọn núi. Nhưng anh đã học được cách chịu đựng đủ để bắt đầu leo núi trở lại.
There are "Old Guys" out there on bicycles. They don't carry speed. They carry the grit of a lifetime. If you see them, give them space. Or better yet, follow them.