Act 4

The First Day of the Last Act of My Life

As I rode my bike down a dusty back road in the early morning twilight, I could hear a train whistle in the distance. That low rumble of steel wheels on steel tracks that’s a familiar sound in my little town. It’s a sound I’ve been listening to since I was a boy.

It made me feel nostalgic as my headlamp cut through the darkness, the sound of my bicycle’s freewheel clicked, keeping rhythm as the world reassembled itself. The sky began to change color as the sun made its slow journey toward the horizon. What a gift it is to watch the world slowly reveal itself.

This almost didn’t happen.

My alarm went off at 5:50 this morning, and I almost hit snooze. The comfort of a warm bed seemed much more appealing than climbing on a bike and riding to work on a cold morning.

But I promised myself I would do this.

If there’s anything I’ve learned in my 60 years of life, it’s this: keeping promises to yourself is just as important as keeping your promises to others.

The truth is, most of my life has been about keeping promises to others. I’ve embraced my responsibilities and put my family first, business first, and employees first. I’ve never missed payroll in 32 years. Not once.

There were months when my wife and I didn’t pay ourselves, just to make sure everyone else was taken care of. No matter what, we always put ourselves second.

Yesterday I turned 60, and honestly, it has me a little rattled. I didn’t waste my life, but still, it feels like there’s so much more to be done. Because when you spend your life keeping your word to everyone else, you quietly break promises to yourself.

I think about the things I’ve postponed.

A backpack sits in storage, full of brand-new camping gear still wrapped in plastic. There are trips I planned in my mind but never took. I always pushed them off until next summer. Then there’s the fly rod too, still in its case, the price tag still hasn’t been removed, waiting for next spring to start fishing again.

It’s always next spring, until it isn’t.

To be fair, I’ve lived more than most men. I’ve been married 36 years, raised a family, and built a business. I’ve had the good fortune to have been a coach and an athlete for most of my life. I’ve traveled to 25 countries and 49 states. But still, I feel a sense of urgency as I enter this final stage of my life.

I’ve always thought of life as a four-act movie.

Act 1 is where you learn who you are, and figure out how the world works.

Act 2 is the grind. It’s when you build a career, a business, and a family. This is the act where you build a life from long days and sweat equity.

Act 3 is about others. You raise kids, show up when it counts, and carry the weight of the world on your shoulders. You do what needs to be done without flinching.

And then there’s Act 4. This is the final act of your life.

This is the last chance to do and be the things you’ve wanted all your life.

I’ve been blessed, and there aren’t many things I still want to have. But there are things I want to become. I want to be fluent in another language—Italian, maybe Spanish too.

There are things I still want to do, like walk the Camino de Santiago and run with the bulls. There are stories I haven’t written yet and pictures I still want to take.

In this final act, I vow that I will no longer defer things until next summer or wait until next spring. Because if I don’t do it now, it may never get done. This mindset means that I may have to do things alone — so I’ll do them alone.

Act 4 isn’t about heroic acts. It’s about keeping the quiet promises I’ve spent a lifetime putting off. It’s about showing up for myself. It’s about keeping promises to myself.

I ride my bike to work every day now, because I promised myself I would.

The 6 a.m. train still rumbles in the distance, headed west to some unknown destination. That familiar low hum of steel on steel rolling through the morning reminds me of the passage of time.

The air is cold enough that I can feel it in my chest when I breathe, my hands steady on the bars, the freewheel clicking beneath me as the road stretches out ahead.

The sky begins to change, slowly at first, then all at once, the darkness gives way to a thin line of light along the horizon.

And somewhere in that transition, I realize I’m not rushing anymore. I’m not chasing the next obligation. I’m just here, riding, doing the thing I said I would do.

The train fades into the distance, the road opens up before me, and the sun paints the countryside in shades of yellow and gold.

This is how Act 4 begins.