Missouri Loves Company (Rip Lane Book 1) (8 page)

CHAPTER 26

T
HE
S
OCIAL
S
ECURITY
Administration will attempt to forward letters to missing persons in certain circumstances. For instance, to inform them of important matters. Money due to them. Death in the family.

The procedure is different when a relative simply wants to make contact. In that case the relative’s letter is not forwarded. Instead the Social Security Administration writes to the missing person.

Lance’s lost love was not a relative of his. And as far as I knew she did not have important matters she needed to be informed of. So I had to be creative when I wrote to the Social Security Administration and asked them to forward my letter to the missing woman.

Having her Social Security number would have been useful. But Lance did not know it. So I provided the Social Security Administration with the only identifying information I had. It consisted of the woman’s name, date and place of birth, her father’s name, and her mother’s full birth name.

In the letter to the missing woman I included my contact information. I hoped she was still alive, I hoped she would receive my letter, and I hoped she would respond.

I dropped the envelope in a big blue mailbox on my way to the abandoned building.

I was wearing Adidas running shoes, Adidas running shorts, and an Adidas running shirt. I ran past a guy who was wearing Nike gear and I felt sorry for him.

When I got to the abandoned building I attacked the stairs two at a time all the way up to the twelfth flight. Progress.

After that I returned to the campground and did three sets of push-ups. Thirty-six on the first set, twenty-nine on the second, twenty-two on the third. Progress.

Pull-ups require more strength than push-ups. Normally I can do about thirty of them. But my body was not back to normal yet. So I did not expect to do thirty. Fifteen, maybe.

There weren’t any pull-up bars at the campground, so I found a horizontal tree branch to use. I reached up and gripped the thick branch and pulled my body up.

One.

My battered torso ached like hell. It wasn’t going to stop me. I pulled myself up again.

Two.

My biceps felt strong. My lats too.

. . . three . . . four . . . five . . .

My arms were pumping like a piston.

. . . six . . . seven . . . eight . . .

My form was perfect.

. . . nine . . . ten . . . eleven . . .

My breath was labored.

. . . twelve . . . thirteen . . . fourteen . . .

My lats and biceps were swelling.

. . . fifteen.

I dropped to the ground and bent over, bracing my hands against my knees, gasping for breath. My clothes were soaked with sweat. Everything in my body was on fire. I walked it off.

After a few minutes of rest I was ready to do some sit-ups. I knew I couldn’t do my usual sixty. I was shooting for forty.

When I got to twenty my bruised abdominal muscles screamed in pain. The pain burned like a blowtorch. I had to stop for a moment.

Then I grit my teeth, pushed through the pain. Welcomed it even.

Pain makes you stronger. It never lies. It tells you who you are.

Pain told me to stop after thirty-three sit-ups. I did as I was told.

I was willing to do whatever it took to recover from my injuries, but there was no guarantee I would recover completely. It was possible I would never come back from this. Would never be as good as new. Would never be all that I was.

It was possible. But not likely.

Not with my discipline and work ethic.

Not with my tolerance for pain.

I did not plan to become as good as new.

I planned to become better than ever.

CHAPTER 27

M
Y FAVORITE CHILDHOOD
toy was a pogo stick. I used to spend hours at a time bouncing up and down on it. The thing made a lot of noise. The incessant sound must have driven the neighbors crazy.
Squeak-chunk squeak-chunk squeak-chunk
.

As a kid I never realized how strong my legs were getting from all those hours on the pogo stick. The realization came later in life. It came when I was in high school.

I used to get a ride to high school from an older student who lived in my neighborhood. One year he decided to try out for the school’s cross-country team. Since he was my ride home, I decided to try out too. Otherwise I would have just been waiting around for him after school every day.

Both of us made the team. He was in twelfth grade and I was in ninth grade, yet I could run faster than him. In fact I could run faster than everybody on the team. Which surprised me.

It surprised my parents too. They said the pogo stick must have developed my runner’s legs. I think they were right.

At cross-country meets that year I won a number of trophies and plaques and ribbons. It encouraged me. I kept running.

The following year I ran even faster. There were more trophies, plaques, and ribbons. More encouragement.

Then, in eleventh grade, I switched schools. At the new school I joined the cross-country team and had a stellar season. It helped me make friends.

Track season began after cross-country season ended. I joined the track team as a distance runner. My trophy shelf got more crowded.

In twelfth grade I did the same thing. I joined the cross-country team and then the track team. On the cross-country team I won the state meet. On the track team I broke the school records in the mile and the two mile. I was voted Most Valuable Player by the members of the track team, and Athlete of the Year by the student body. The plaques went on my trophy shelf.

My trophy shelf is bare now. All the awards are gone. I got rid of them. Nobody cares how fast I ran in high school. It doesn’t matter. What matters is the person I became because of the experience.

The most important part of that experience was my track coach. I owe a lot to him. He instilled in me the quality of self-discipline. It is the quality that underlies all great achievement.

My track coach was the best teacher I ever had. I learned many lifelong lessons from him. I learned how to develop strategies and set goals. I learned how to harness my willpower. I learned how to make short-term sacrifices for long-term gains.

My track coach used to help me develop long-term strategies for beating my opponents. He also helped me set a series of short-term goals to achieve each long-term strategy. Daily goals. Weekly goals. Monthly goals. Each time I met a goal it made me feel good. It made the short-term sacrifices bearable. They were tough sacrifices. My time. My diet. My physical comfort. My social life. Tough sacrifices made me tougher. They made me do things I needed to do but didn’t want to do. They made me a track star.

The self-discipline I developed in high school served me well over the years. It helped me in college. It helped me in my career. And it has helped me ever since.

Running is still a big part of my life. Four or five times a week I go for a run. Usually I run for at least half an hour. For health benefits the amount of time I spend running is more important than how far I run and how fast I run.

Researchers have found that runners have a thirty percent lower risk of death from all causes, and a forty-five percent lower risk of death from heart attack or stroke. Running prolongs life.

There are other benefits to running. Mental benefits. Running builds confidence. Especially for those who lose weight and gain a better self-image. Running provides a feeling of empowerment. It relieves stress. It clears your mind. It strengthens your mind.

I am a lifelong runner. Running has made my life better.

And it all started because of a pogo stick I had when I was a kid.

Squeak-chunk squeak-chunk squeak-chunk
.

CHAPTER 28

O
N ONE OF
my morning walks I stopped to talk to an oil painter. She stood behind an easel, one brush between her teeth, one brush in her hand. Her hair was bunched untidily atop her head. A kaleidoscope of colors dotted her rumpled blue smock.

“Good morning,” I said.

She took the brush from her mouth.

“Yes,” she said. “It is.”

“Your painting’s very nice.”

“It’s for sale.”

“Too big to hang in my RV.”

“I have smaller ones inside. Want to see them?”

Through the open door of her travel trailer I could see canvases of all sizes scattered about.

“You sell a lot of those?”

“Enough to make a living.”

“Good for you.”

“Want to buy one?”

“Persistent, aren’t you?”

“Yes. I am. But not just persistent. I have other merits too.”

“I can see that.”

She smiled at me.

“I’m Nichole.”

“Rip.”

“I’d shake hands but mine’s got paint all over it.”

“You been doing this long?”

“Painting?”

“Making a living at it.”

“Nine years now.”

“How’d you get started?”

“I was diagnosed with cancer at the young age of thirty-one . . .”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“Thanks. This is my eighth year in remission. So I’m doing good. Anyway I realized how short life was. I decided change was on the horizon. This little voice in my head kept telling me there must be more to life than just working all the time. Like traveling. Seeing the world. Painting places I see. It was always my dream but I never acted on it. I always kept putting it off until tomorrow. Until I was diagnosed with cancer. That’s when I realized my tomorrows were running out.”

Nichole paused thoughtfully.

“So I quit my corporate job, walked away from a great salary. Sold just about everything I owned. I gave up the traditional lifestyle and started to live my dream. I bought this trailer and began to travel across North America. That was nine years ago.”

“Nine years of living the dream,” I said.

“The decision to take that leap wasn’t easy,” Nichole said. “Going from a corporate salary to no salary at all was very terrifying. But the fear was outweighed by the excitement, the adventure, the journey. Eventually I was able to earn a mobile living by selling my paintings.”

“What was the best thing about leaving the corporate world to work for yourself?”

“Trading in pantyhose for sweatpants.”

I smiled at her.

“One thing I learned,” Nichole said, “is that you need multiple streams of income to fund a mobile lifestyle. That way you don’t have all your eggs in one basket, and the loss of one stream would not devastate you. After my first year on the road I developed several small income streams. Selling paintings is just one of them.”

I didn’t ask what the other streams were. I was afraid she might try to sell me something else besides a painting.

“You have any employees, Nichole?”

“I have a staff of two that help me make it through the day. Their names are Mr. Coffee and Dr. Pepper.”

“I’ve heard of them. They do good work.”

“Otherwise I have no employees. I try to keep my expenses down. It allows me to earn less, and therefore work less.”

“And play more.”

“Exactly. But it’s not all fun and games. Entrepreneurs have to put in a lot of hours to earn enough to live comfortably on the road. During my busy season my days are filled with routines and chores.”

“How many hours you work?”

“Half a day.”

“Only four hours?”

“Half a day for entrepreneurs means twelve hours.”

“Not much time left for playing.”

“That’s just during my busy season.”

“I see.”

“Are you thinking about starting your own business, Rip?”

“I am not. My retirement money is all I need. I live frugally.”

Nichole nodded. She did not ask about my career. Which was fine by me. I have no need to talk about myself. I’m content to just listen to others. Besides I’ve already heard everything I have to say.

“More and more people are earning a living on the road,” Nichole said. “The development of mobile communications makes it possible. Some people telecommute from a mobile office. Others run their own businesses. Most of these people work in professions that allow a mobile lifestyle. Consultants, software engineers, graphic artists, computer programmers, desktop publishers, advertising and media buyers, life coaches, telemarketers, customer service representatives, sales representatives, insurance claim adjusters, professional speakers, accountants, bookkeepers, recruiters, social media managers, online professors, crafters, musicians, writers, photographers . . .”

“And painters.”

“Yes. And painters too.”

“Let’s go take a look at some of your paintings.”

“Let’s.”