The Climb

Dad, your guiding hand on my shoulder will remain with me forever.

~Author Unknown

It always takes me a few minutes to realize that it is happening again.

As always, sweat is dripping down my cheek, and my breathing is fast. The weather is perfect. I’m on my bike, pedaling furiously up a steep climb, smiling and laughing despite the effort.

I know he’s there, even before I look. As I near the top of the climb, I finally give in to the urge to turn and look behind. Dad is there, two or three bike-lengths behind. If he weren’t so exhausted from the effort, I know his smile would be as wide as mine. Just as he’s about to catch his breath enough to say something, I jar awake.

I desperately try to hang on to the dream and the feeling for a few moments longer, but it begins to fade. A new day is about to begin — another day without him.

Though it’s been over twenty years, I still remember vividly when it wasn’t just a dream.

Some fathers take their kids to play baseball, football, or maybe basketball at the park. My dad always took me cycling. For as long as I can remember, it was our perfect getaway — a time to get some exercise and talk about life. In the busy worlds of a social teenager and a working parent, it always gave us the opportunity to solve the problems of the world, or at least to understand them better.

Dad had always been a stronger rider than I was. I still remember the first time he took me up The Climb. He seemed to sail up the hill effortlessly, while I struggled and gasped for air, feeling like my lungs would explode at any moment. Gradually, though, I became a better climber, and eventually I was able to keep up with him.

Then, one day, it happened. As we neared the top of the climb on a perfect sunny day, I surged ahead, and he was unable to match my pace. It was the first time I had ever dropped him on a climb. When he eventually caught up on the downhill, he was smiling and laughing, patting my shoulder as he passed.

“Perfect,” he’d say later. “Don’t ever let up, not even for me.”

Those were days when life made sense, and things were much simpler. It felt like we had all the time in the world, and he’d always be there to support, challenge and encourage me. But fate had different plans, and Dad was about to encounter a climb that he wouldn’t be able to conquer. I still remember the first time I heard the word “leukemia.” Dad fought hard, but within a year of his diagnosis he was gone.

Cycling, once intended to help me spend time with my dad, now became my escape. I began to ride longer and take more difficult rides. I competed in all the events that we’d planned to do together.

The first time I had the dream was a restless night before my first 100-mile “century ride.” It wasn’t long after his death. I had been a bundle of nervous energy in the days leading up to the event, but the dream gave me a sense of calm and comfort. From the moment I woke up, I knew it was going to be okay. The ride went well. In a way, I felt like Dad was along for the ride, chasing me up the climbs.

After that, the dream would recur every few months, often before cycling events as I pushed to 150- and 200-mile rides. I would also have the dream after difficult days or when I was contemplating or encountering major changes to my life.

The dream happened the night before my wedding. It happened when each of my sons was born. It happened when my wife was in the hospital — and again a few days later when she came home. It happened the night before I started a new job.

I’ve spent years trying to understand the dream. Is Dad trying to connect with me, to assure me that he’s still watching over the family? Is he reminding me to never let up, to never give in, to never give less than my best? Or is it just my subconscious, conjuring up a treasured memory when life hits unexpected bumps or critical forks in the road?

I have no idea, but I do know this — there are climbs in everyone’s life. Some are literal, some figurative. Some are pleasant and mild, while others are cripplingly steep. Climbs seem less severe when we have someone to accompany us on the journey. For whatever reason, the dream always finds me when I need to see my dad. It never disappoints.

Ironically, I still ride my bike up that same climb every few weeks, though not as quickly as I did in my youth. The dream — and Dad — are never far from my mind. Even after all these years, occasionally I’ll still look back over my shoulder, half-expecting to see him chasing me up the hill.

Someone once theorized that the dream is just a manifestation of residual grief. They explained that even though many years have passed, I’m still grieving for my dad, and that I’ll stop having that dream eventually.

Just between you and me, I hope that day never comes. I don’t ever want to stop doing that climb with him.

— Rob L. Berry —