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As an example, recently I rode my bike to the ski valley at the top of Mt. Lemmon in the Santa Catalina mountains just north of my hometown of Tucson.  My peeps, consisting of my wife Bizzy, 7-year-old son Erik, sister Vicki and her 7-year-old son Jared left the house in the car a couple of hours after I departed and rolled up to the top about ten minutes after I arrived—a textbook operation.  We had a nice lunch in the restaurant there and then decided to take the chair lift up to the very top of the mountain to see what we could see.   

If you’ve spent any time in southeastern Arizona during the monsoon season, you know that isolated thunderstorms punctuate most afternoons.  The majority of these storms initially build over the tops of the many different mountain ranges around this part of the state with the Catalinas being no exception.  From the city of Tucson on the valley floor, the storms over Mt Lemmon seem very small and distant as they build up.  From the bottom of the chair lift near the top of the mountain, they seem significantly more ominous.  As we boarded the lift this thought occurred to me along with a mental note that I need to remember to bring arm warmers when I ride to the top of a 9000 ft Peak even when it’s 100 degrees at the bottom.   

Erik and I shared a chair and rejoined the rest of the party at the top of the mountain amid the burned-out pine trees, a reminder of one of the two major forest fires that tore across the mountain in the previous couple of years.  As I was contemplating the wisdom of riding to the top of the mountain during potential thunderstorm conditions, a flash of light followed immediately by an enormous ka-BOOM caused us all to snap our attention to the west.  We made a hasty unanimous decision to get right back on the chair lift to go back down.  Another lightning strike, this one to the east of us quickly validated that decision.   

On the way down, Jared and I shared a chair.  The lightning strikes and near-simultaneous thunder claps occurred all around us about every 10 or 15 seconds as we descended on the lift.  This provided for some lively conversation including an unfortunate comment by me that “at least it’s not raining.”  Of course, on cue, the rain began to come down in sheets.  At this, I thought it would be funny to tempt fate by throwing out “well, at least it’s not hailing.”  Predictably, the skies almost immediately began to pelt us with pea-sized hail—hail that won’t make you fear for your life, but that really stings your ears as you attempt to cover up your 7-year-old seat mate.  Then, a particularly close lightning strike found its mark on the lift leaving us all dangling 20 feet in the air in the middle of a hail storm in our shirt sleeves at the top of a 9000 ft mountain.  My first thought was “this sucks.”  My second thought was “what a great story this is going to make—and it doesn’t even need to be embellished!”   

My best triathlon story comes from the 2006 California Ironman 70.3, my first attempt at the half-iron distance.  The weather was miserably cold and rainy at the beginning of the race.  My feet were cold to the point of being numb from walking in bare feet on the wet asphalt by the time my wave was finally allowed into the water.  In fact, it actually felt good to get into the 56 degree water—great story value with nearly unlimited embellishment potential.   

Later on in the race, the weather cleared up and the sun came out, and by the time I left T2, the conditions were perfect for running.  Because this was my first 70.3, my plan had been to take it really easy in the swim and bike to ensure that I could finish.  Having followed that plan almost to the extreme, I felt great, so great in fact that I didn’t see the need to keep up with my intricately thought-out (OK, maybe not so much) nutrition plan.   

Then came mile 8.  Suddenly, I felt like there was no way I was going to make it even though I felt great only minutes before.  My emotions started going haywire inside my head and it even crossed my mind that sitting on the curb and crying wouldn’t be so unmanly after all.  And my feet!  Good grief those blisters on my insteps hurt.  That’s when I sidled up to the aid station and took everything that was offered to me.  Gatorade?  Sure, make it a double.  Banana?  You bet.  Gu?  Yeah, and one for the road.  Etc, etc.  I finished the buffet and staggered over to the nearest porta john where I proceeded to go inside, lean against the door and think to myself, “this really, truly sucks, but what a great story this is going to be.”  Then, miraculously, about 5 minutes later the mass of carbs and electrolytes I had just ingested began working.  I felt great again and I was able to run sub 8-minute miles for the rest of the race.   

So, next time you’re sitting on the side of the run course with seemingly life-threatening side stitches thinking “this really sucks” remember first that there are a lot of people in a lot worse positions than you’re in at that particular instant, and then think about how much fun you’re going to have telling the story to your buddies--just make sure that at least 10% of it is true.

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Typically jet jockey
written by Hamp Tanner, April 02, 2007

I always wondered about the veracity of the stories my friends told about harrowing carrier landings. Now, I know the 10% rule and it all makes sense.

Seriously though, I like your concept. An abundant life should be filled with great stories, or what is the point? Now, to get people to listen to the stories is another thing altogether.

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