If Pioneers had Pickup Trucks

I passed a friend on the side of the road the other day. His little red pickup truck had broken down about 10 blocks from his house. It was mostly downhill, but not all, and he was trying to find someone to tow it back. When that failed, I offered to help him push it, and he agreed.

Let me skip to about 10 blocks later, at which point the truck was dragging me more than I was pushing it. Wow, I'm really out of shape.

Anyway, by then I think my feet only kept moving because if they hadn't I would have done a face plant in the asphalt. I've never been so close to complete physical exhaustion in my life. My legs were aching, my head was throbbing, my chest was heaving, my side was splitting, and I thought that I could go no further.

Strangely enough, the image that came into my mind - intercut with the one of my nose about to get real friendly with the street - was that famous pioneer painting of the man pushing the handcart, with weeping angels beside him. Now, I'm not comparing my small act of service to the toil and sacrifice of those brave saints, but for a few body-numbing moments I felt that I understood in a minuscule way what that must have been like. I realized more fully what it meant to push until you could not take another step, and find that the cart was pushing you. I didn't equate myself, but I related.

Just then, with about three houses to go, an angel neighbor (many had passed us or watched us pass without a word) came out of his yard to make an assist. Neither my friend nor I knew this man personally. I didn't even know he lived on the street. Nevertheless, he saw my struggle, weak as I am, and came to my rescue. I stumbled the final few yards with him carrying the burden, my weight added to it. When we finally got there, I thanked him and he left without a word.

As the adrenaline faded and what was left of my strength all but evaporated - I sincerely expected to pass out then and there, which I have never done before - I felt my lungs burning and blood rising in my throat. I thought that standing still was infinitely worse than pushing onward, but it took some moments for me to gather the strength to lift one foot. When I did, I circled the truck once, then had to lean on it for support.

You must be thinking, "what a pathetic weakling!" Well, I really am out of shape. But in my defense I don't think it was the pushing that did me in. The truck was fairly light, actually, as trucks go. What got me was the running.

You see, this is the part I skipped. Getting the truck going was pretty easy. We were right at the top of a hill when we started. So I pushed and Mike steered and when we got started going down I hopped on the back and held the tailgate for dear life.

At the bottom of that short hill we rounded the corner onto flat ground again. I was a bit worried I'd fly off on the bend, but I managed to keep my balance with one foot on the bumper and the other on the trailer ball. When the truck lost enough momentum that I thought it was slower than me, I jumped off, all the while holding on to the back, and quite literally hit the ground running. I very nearly underestimated the speed, but I don't know if I've ever run faster, and the truck did, in fact benefit from my propulsion.

So it went like that, as we wound our way through residential streets, trying to avoid the main road we would eventually have to travel. In complete honesty, the worst of it was the railroad crossing. I wasn't sure I'd make it pushing uphill and the crew of construction workers standing around fixing the signals was no help at all. But then we crested it, made it over the bumps, and I got another ride.

By the time we reached my friend's street, I let the truck go longer than usual before jumping off. I knew I was almost done. When I did get down, I pushed with all my might, and the truck slowed in spite of it. Mike got out and pushed from the driver's side, but we still barely made it, which brings me back to where I was before.

So anyway, I got a drink and called our Relief Society President - the only person with a car I was sure would be home at that time of day - for a ride back up to my van. She couldn't believe that we had pushed a truck that far, and she scolded me for not calling her earlier, because her son-in-law could have come to tow it, she said. I was just trying to recover, because I had to be back at my friend's house in an hour for a missionary discussion. That gave me just enough time for dinner with my family first.

Here's the best part. Then next day - when I thought I'd be full of aches and pains from overdoing it - I actually felt better than I have in a long time. Physically speaking. The pains had left me overnight. Even my spinning, pounding head had stopped and was clear. I felt like everything about me was working better, and I was happier, for having helped a friend. I'd made it to the valley.