Estimated read time: 4-5 minutes
AMERICAN FORK — Scanning the weather app on her phone last Tuesday evening, my wife was skeptical about riding our bikes from our home in American Fork to Vivian Park in Provo Canyon, a 36-mile round trip.
Jill worried about the potential for wind and rain in the forecast. I did see a severe thunderstorm warning for miles away in Tooele County, but my phone showed mostly clear skies in our area all evening. Not to worry, I told her. We'll be fine.
We left the house in the warmth of the sun as we wound our way a couple miles through the neighborhood to get on the Murdock Canal Trail that runs through Utah Valley at the base of Mount Timpanogos. We rode south on the paved path against a slight headwind for about 10 miles before connecting to the Provo River Parkway Trail at the mouth of Provo Canyon for 6 miles to Vivian Park.
It's a ride Jill and I have done dozens of times over the years. The rushing river and the trees along with Bridal Veil Falls make it a scenic place to pedal, even more so in the fall when the leaves change.
We stopped for a few minutes at the park before heading back. As we rode, we saw the clouds to the west turn a foreboding black. Though it was just a little after 6 p.m., the forest canopy left the trail almost dark. We felt a few raindrops, and the air turned significantly cooler. We stopped on a bridge about a mile into our ride back so Jill could put on her rain jacket.
We rode maybe another 100 yards before the wind picked up so much that it was impossible to pedal. Branches cracked in the trees around us. The rain came in sheets.
Fortunately, we were at a small parking lot with a Forest Service restroom. We took refuge under the roof outside. It smelled rank but was safer than ducking under a tree.
Before long, a fly fisherman who'd been knee-deep in the river joined us. Dakota was from Massachusetts and working in Utah for the month. A few minutes later, we saw another cyclist huddled under a tree. We waved him over. With Russell, there were now four of us at the outhouse. We talked and watched the deluge turn the parking lot into a muddy stream. Even in its fierceness, the force of nature is a wonder to behold.
Jill called our daughter to come rescue us, which meant she had to drive from her home in Lehi to our house to pick up my car with the bike rack. Russell called someone as well. Dakota's car was nearby.
It's hard to know how much time passed, 20 or 30 minutes maybe, before the wind and rain started to ease. Jill and I decided to ride down the canyon to meet our daughter. Several places on the trail were covered with mud and rocks. An underpass was full of brown water. As we neared the mouth, we saw pebbles of hail in the brush. We stopped at a gas station convenience store to wait for our daughter. I saw a couple of restaurant workers across the street come outside with cellphone cameras pointed toward the sky. A rainbow formed a radiant arch over the canyon.
I feel dejected if I can't finish a bike ride, for whatever reason. Jill finally told me to go, so I set off in what now was a light wind and rain. She stayed to wait for our daughter. We had no idea what we'd sent her into when called for help — marble-size hail, flooded streets, traffic at a standstill.
As I made my way through a neighborhood and turned onto the Murdock trail, brilliant streaks of sunlight streamed through the clouds. It was a spectacular sight. No — and I don't use these kinds of words often — it was glorious. A feeling of joy filled my soul like never before on my bike. It was as if God had stretched his hand through the clouds.
The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints recently added "Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing" to its hymnal. A lyric came into my mind as I rode, "Streams of mercy call for songs of loudest praise."
Not one to sing at the top of my lungs in public, even with no one else around, my praise came in silent reverence for God's creations.
For the next several miles, I had the glistening blacktop covered with fallen leaves and brilliant sky all to myself. Piles of hail lined some stretches of the trail. As I pedaled closer to home, a few more people were out and about. Some were working furiously with shovels to divert water from homes. Kids paddled plastic kayaks in debris basins that the downpour had turned into ponds.
I stopped frequently to capture the moments with my cellphone before they passed in the setting sun. But the real moment remains in my heart and soul.
