A Slap in the Face

The sky was sky blue, and the cottony clouds had a hint of gray on their broad bottoms. I was out riding my bike again on the Swamp Rabbit Trail, continuing to try to recover physically from the brutal trauma my R-CHOP chemotherapy had imposed on my body as I was treated for my diffuse large B-cell lymphoma (DLBCL). There are a few sports in which I was able to achieve mediocrity and fewer yet that I was good at. I’m not much of an athlete. But I do love riding my bike.

Two years ago, in July of 2023, I was struggling as I rode my road bike on the Trail. I had ridden road bikes for over 51 years, but age was making it more difficult to swing my leg over the top tube. Of course, the loss of flexibility in my lower back as a result of the reconstructive back surgery I had after I broke my back in 2011 was a major factor. Crouched down with my hands in the drop handlebars, I wasn’t as aware of my surroundings as I used to be, and in that position, it was harder for me to maintain my balance. I suddenly realized that it wasn’t a good idea to ride my road bike anymore, and that I should sell it and move on. It was an emotional moment, and it was like a slap in the face, awakening me to another level of understanding about the realities of health that many older people face. 

Shortly thereafter, as I realized that a new bike was forthcoming, I felt considerably better. After doing a little digging online, I found what I call “an old guy bike” and bought one at a dealer in Greenville. It’s an example of what’s called a low-step or step-through bike. When I was little, we would have called it a girls’ bike instead.

Riding along smoothly and quietly and in a fairly upright seating posture, I felt pretty good. The temperature was in the upper 70’s and the humidity wasn’t too bad. I was about eight miles through a ride that was about 10.5 miles, a distance that has become typical for me.

A large hickory leaf, golden yellow in color, fell from the sky, slapped me on my right cheek, and perched on my right shoulder. It was as if the leaf said, “Don’t you realize that today is the first day of fall, Buddy?” I brushed off the leaf, but not the reminder. Today, September 22, 2025, is the first day of fall. Yes, more and more leaves are falling, leading up to a cascade that will dump large volumes of brown leaves from red and white oak trees onto our driveway. The barrage of acorns is coming, too, and I’m reminded how happy I am that I bought a cordless, rechargeable, electric leaf blower five years ago. But I do love the fall. Oh yes, this was a good slap in the face.

Oh, that they were all so good. It was a slap in the face when the emergency room doctor told me in December of 2024 that I had another lymphoma. A cancerous lymph node had infiltrated my sigmoid colon, which was now perforated. The next day Mark, a general surgeon, told me that I had two choices. “You can go home, we’ll make you comfortable, and you’ll die of sepsis. Or, you can have this surgery, and you might not survive it.” So, I took the latter. I was walking into the valley of the shadow of death. Mark cut a 10-inch vertical incision in my abdomen, stapled my rectum shut, and stuck the end of the remainder of my colon through a hole he cut in my abdomen. I’ve lived with a colostomy bag ever since.

And then Saeeda, my oncologist, told me that this cancer, my second cancer, was aggressive and needed treatment as soon as possible. Another slap in the face. Reality is not an easy thing. Oh yes, the chemo was brutal and traumatic, and four months after my last treatment I’m still suffering from some of the 62 chemo side effects I counted.

As I thought about the possibility of dying, I asked myself some questions. Will I be able to influence my grandson? Don’t my children and their families need me? Have I done enough to prepare Carla to live without me? Am I going to die?

If you want to hear how I worked through these questions, then listen to the testimony that God compelled me to give in April, still during my treatments, but during a time when He gave me a brief physical reprieve. A little bit of my testimony was cut off during editing, but you can see most of it here: Brian Vogt Testimony.

A Burial by the Swamp Rabbit Trail

I pulled my truck into a small parking lot just across the street from Mountain View Memorial Park, a cemetery next to The Swamp Rabbit Trail a few miles from our house. When we moved to Travelers Rest, SC, in December of 2004, it was still a very sleepy little town where one of the main attractions was Sunrift Adventures, a store that sells and rents kayaks, canoes, bicycles, and other stuff meant to be enjoyed in the widespread beauty of upstate SC. Years prior I had ridden my bike out this way from Greenville numerous times, and I had to be very careful when crossing the railroad tracks that crossed Geer Highway near Sunrift. Not because of the trains, mind you, since there weren’t any, but because I didn’t want my wheels to get stuck in the slots beside the rails. And yes, that did happen once. Since then, a rails-to-trails project has converted that part of a railroad line into a nicely paved, occasionally policed, safe and beautiful trail for people wanting to walk, run, or ride bikes. I love The Swamp Rabbit Trail, and I’ve used it quite a bit for bike riding. It’s nice to have a place to ride where I don’t almost get killed by a driver that is more attentive to their phone than to their driving.

As I went to unload my bike from the carrier on the back of the truck, I saw three U.S. Air Force personnel in dress uniforms waiting next to a freshly dug grave under a very small tent, just big enough to cover the grave with a little room to spare. Clearly, they were getting ready for the interment of a military veteran. I gave little more thought to it as I unloaded my bike and began riding on the trail.

About three quarters of the way through my ride, a really, really, really old guy (about my age) rode past me on the trail with music blaring. I’m glad he passed me and kept on going. The music wasn’t offensive, but I thought it was poorly written. I thought how irritating it would have been to have to listen to it for the rest of my ride. I don’t know if I’ve ever before listened to music while riding, but today I decided I would. I instructed Siri to play Mozart’s Requiem from my music library. What a beautiful piece to ride to! It was fun when the cadence of my pedaling matched the tempo of the music, and there’s more than a little irony in listening to an ode for the dead when you’re getting tired while riding a bike up a hill. Of course, I don’t know if anybody found the Requiem to be irritating.

I pulled my bike up to the truck to load it back onto the carrier. I looked up and saw that the interment was complete. The hearse and family limousine were the only vehicles there, and they drove off as I secured my bike in place. There was only one person left up on the hill now, a cemetery employee in an orange shirt and tan pants. He was under that tiny tent detailing the dirt, and was tamping it down with his boots, working in the same cemetery where someday Carla and I will be interred.

The Requiem continued to play as I drove home, and my thoughts matched the pace of the music. I’m thankful that God has gifted me with spiritual sight, for it is the only way that I can see that there is more to life than what I can see with my physical eyes.