Chapter: The River on San Jose Road

Chapter: The River on San Jose Road

This morning, I rode straight through a river.

Okay—it was actually just rainwater flooding across San Jose Road, but in my mind, it might as well have been the Amazon. And I didn’t have a boat. I had my bike, my shoes, and a split-second choice to make.

That’s the thing about mornings like this. You’re not really planning for a baptism.

I was riding through the neighborhood, reflecting—like I always do—when I saw it. Water crossing the road like it owned the place. I couldn’t tell how deep it was from a distance, but it shimmered in the early morning light like a sheet of glass. I slowed down. Not because I was scared—but because I remembered something: I was wearing a light-colored hoodie.

Now here’s where the backpack kicks in. I’m not just some guy trying to stay dry. I’ve been splashed before—by puddles, by cars, by life. Once, when I was a kid, I used to make chocolate milk with powdered cocoa. Not syrup—just powder. And it was delicious. Felt like I was drinking chocolate-flavored paradise.

But it made a mess.

You had to stir it fast—really fast—or it would clump up like wet dirt. But if you stirred too fast, like I did as a kid, it would splash all over the counter. Boom—kitchen chaos. Chocolate droplets everywhere. The trick was finding that rhythm—fast enough to make it smooth, slow enough to keep the mess contained.

So yeah—when I saw that water across the road, I imagined my glasses, my hoodie, and my pride getting baptized in a splash of chocolate milk street water. And nobody wants to roll into the day looking like they fell into a mocha frappe.

Still, there was no other way through. I had to cross.

Breadcrumbs: I’d been noticing this spot for days. The rains had been heavy, and each morning I’d pass by thinking, That puddle’s getting bigger. But today—it had become a river. No way around. Just through.

As I got closer, my heart picked up. I stood up on the pedals, ready for the impact. And then came the hourglass moment—the five seconds where everything slowed down.

Time paused. My breath shallowed. I saw the ripple of light bouncing off the water. I felt the weight shift under my body. And just before I hit it—I surrendered.

I rode through.

The splash wasn’t nearly as bad as I thought. Not on my face. Not in my mouth. Not even on my glasses. Just a small spray up the calves—maybe a little on my socks. Nothing tragic. The fear I carried in was completely unnecessary.

And that was the turn. That was the “but.”

I thought it was going to be a mess—but it wasn’t. I expected the worst—but the worst never came.

Therefore, I kept riding. The road continued. My clothes dried. The story changed.

And that’s where the truth hit me.

Most of the fear we carry in life is like that puddle. It looks deep and dirty from far away. But once you ride through it, you realize: it’s just water. A little messy. A little uncomfortable. But never as bad as your brain made it out to be.

I’ve got a crystal ball for anyone going through something hard: It’s going to be okay. Not because you’re in control, but because surrendering is sometimes the only way forward. You don’t get to avoid the water—but you get to come out on the other side cleaner than you think.

Today was Day 1. I crossed a river on San Jose Road. And I’ll cross another tomorrow. One puddle at a time.