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Sustaining Sanity in Iraq: Packing for home; Headin' for Paris (so to speak)
Published: Jul. 17, 2006
After reachinghis 1000-mile goal in June, Major Jason Bryan gets to turn hisattention to other - more important - matters, like heading home. -Editor
This week I will return my bike to the same shipping container I removedit from ten months ago - a symbolic, bitter-sweet (more sweet than bitter)end to a dreadful, wonderful year.Below are a few reflections of my cycling experience and life in generalfor the deployed Soldier — a few observations you won’t get anywhere else.
Third country nationals do most of the “undesirable” work around thecamp. They are always quick with a greeting and a smile, althoughwe rarely exchange anything more than pleasantries. They are generallyfrom the Phillipines, Turkey, Nepal, India, or elsewhere. They workin the chow hall and know just how I like my eggs and prepare them beforeI can even get to the counter; my breakfast is always ready when I getto the front of the line. They work in the laundry facility and canget me my cycling shorts back this afternoon if I need it.You’re a better man than I am, Gunga Din.
It’s always fun to pass an Iraq Police or Army unit on the weapons range,just meters off the road. Those shooting are focused on the targets,but the masses waiting for their turn look like T-ballers, bored out oftheir minds. They watch me from a distance and wave from their seatin the dirt; I’m sure they’d rather be riding with me.I’ll miss my Iraqi tifosi, watching from the guard towers onmy daily ride. Every day, I see them staring at me through the towerside window and I wave from my bike, a silhouette waves in return.The guard tower door opens and they step outside to watch me ride by, sittingon the top step or just leaning on the doorframe. They always smileand wave. It reminds me of stories of the little old ladies wavingfrom their balcony windows as the peloton passes through their little Frenchor Italian or Belgian town.I always enjoy riding by .50 caliber machine gun ranges, especiallyat night. The “50” is generally mounted to the turret of the guntruck—the gunner’s weapon of choice. They practically have to backthe hummvee up to the road to shoot it. The tracers bouncing offthe target and fading slowly into the night sky is an awesome display.I pedal right by, only feet from the firing vehicle, admiring the view,and happy to be on the delivering end of that weapon.On rare occasions, Saint Barbara smiles on the artillery. Thereis absolutely nothing as cool as pedaling past a battery of howitzers inaction, lobbing rounds with timely and accurate fire support. I canfeel the concussion in my chest and smell the powder burning as I rollby. Smells like… victory.
A friend loaned me a DVD documentary on the ’03 Tour. It’sin German with English subtitles and chronicles the race from the perspectiveof Erik Zabel and Rolf Aldag.I couldn’t help but consider the emotional parallel between riding theTour de France and spending a year in Iraq. First, you have to welcomethe pain (or, as we’d say in the Army: “embrace the suck”), but you can’tlet the magnitude of the challenge consume you. If you focus on howhard and long it’s going to be— all the potential problems and dangers,you will not finish. You can’t focus on crashing or getting droppedor not making the time limit. As I conclude this deployment, I cannow look back and see that I expended my year by focusing on each individualchallenge, one mountain after another, one stage at a time.There are people here who do amazing things, Soldiers who fearlesslydescend from the mountain every single day. Here are a couple ofpersonal experiences from the roads of Iraq, just to help with a perspectivefor what the guys on the road face during their daily battle with the calendar—andsometimes much more.Leaving the camp in an armored gun truck on a midnight convoy with afull moon on the first Thursday of the Muslim holiday Ramadan is like amountain descent; those were the conditions for my very first road tripoff the camp. You don’t focus on what “might happen” at 90 km/houron a 2 centimeter rubber tire, you just go… until you’re at the bottomand think “I can’t believe I just did that.”One afternoon, on a three hour convoy from Tikrit back to my home justsouth of Mosul, the convoy leader stopped to check the cargo.I took advantage of the break to download some fluids of my own, cautiousof the fact that I was not in a place I wanted to get caught (quite literally)with my pants down. I looked back at the truck behind me, the passenger—abrand new Soldier in the unit—was bent over, holding his knees, puking.I asked him if he was alright, and he responded with something foul abouthis recruiter. I can’t really think of a cycling parallel for that.On another occasion, again returning home from Tikrit, this time inthe middle of the night, the convoy halted as a route clearing team investigateda suspected roadside bomb. After about 45 minutes, I was quite anxiousto continue moving toward the safety of home. Suddenly, the wholetruck shook with the thunderous detonation, only a couple hundred metersaway. The team just continued to wait patiently for clearance tocontinue moving and then finished their mission.My job was not to win the war, just as most don’t ride the Tour de Franceto get on the podium. Those of us in combat support, we carry thewater, block the wind, give up the tire, and chase down the breaks.The warfighters will get the medals, and they deserve it. Theyface pressures far greater than me. As a domestique, I justwant to get to Paris (metaphorically speaking, of course).
