Signposts (and Sausage Rolls)
Lessons in health from a Texas highway ðŸ¤
A few summers during my early teens, when the Texas heat grew thick and the school year finally let go of its grip, my family would load up the car and head down to South Padre Island: 563 miles, a solid 9- to 10-hour haul.
My dad always had the car packed the night before, the cooler iced, bags stacked just right, and the tank full. He ran a tight ship on road trip mornings. We'd pull out bright and early, sometimes before the sun had even started to rise. The radio would be tuned to 106.1 FM, playing a steady stream of hits from the 1970s, 1980s, and 1990s: Phil Collins, Tina Turner, and Hall & Oates. That soundtrack carried us past Waco and into the wide open. Eventually, the signal would fuzz out, and we'd start scanning the dial for anything that resembled a chorus we knew.
If the music didn't hold our attention, my dad filled the gap.
Sometimes it was a half-lecture, half-life lesson, usually something about money, or consequences, or his expertise on life. At other times, we'd play the alphabet road sign game, hunting for letters in order, as if it were our job. It was equal parts bonding and boredom, but it passed the miles.
That trip wasn't just a route; it was an experience. It was a rhythm.
Same roads. Same stops. Same backseat stories.
The first memorable stop along the route for me was the Czech Stop in West, Texas, the kind of place you could smell before you saw the sign. We never passed it up. You got your sausage kolache, maybe something sweet, and a paper napkin that barely did its job.
Somewhere along the way, usually when the sun was starting to test the A/C, we'd pull into a Dairy Queen, because in Texas, that's a food group. Chicken strip baskets. Blizzards.
Sometimes we'd detour through San Antonio, where we'd walk the Riverwalk and pretend to care about the Alamo. The part I remember most vividly, though, etched in my mind like the sun reflecting off a windshield, was the long, desolate stretch just before we reached Brownsville, the last significant town before the bridge to South Padre. For about 50ish miles, it was nothing but road and scrubland. You either had to plan or rely on prayers.
Once, in college, we did neither.
We were excitedly heading into a fun-filled weekend with friends on Padre Island, ready for all the classic adventures that young frat boys cherish. As we chatted and laughed, we were so caught up in our haze that we overlooked our gas situation. Panic set in. The gauge was hugging E. We did the only thing we could think of: we tucked behind an 18-wheeler and drafted. Coasted. Hoped. I remember the tension, the sweat, the way everyone got real quiet.
By some miracle or sheer momentum, we reached the next gas station barely. We were running on fumes, literally coasting to the pump as our engine sputtered.
It's funny to reflect on that experience and the family trips we took, especially during times when my energy dips in the middle of a busy week, when my mood shifts for no apparent reason, or when my cravings overwhelm my clarity. That road had signs, and so does life.
We weren't looking.
I learned how to see signposts differently when I got into endurance sports.
Training for Ironman races, coaching athletes, and living in the rhythm of peak season —everything gets amplified. The body becomes a hyper-sensitive instrument. You learn to feel it all.
You notice the way your sit bones grind against the saddle after 100 miles on the bike. The way dehydration doesn't shout, it whispers, until suddenly you're empty. You learn how sleep, or lack of it, carries forward like a debt you can't pay with caffeine. You start noticing how a single mid-week beer can throw off your recovery, affect your mood, your HRV, and your joints.
You become intimate with every signal.
Because out there, on those long training days, ignoring the signs has consequences. You bonk. You cramp. You fall apart.
And honestly? That's not so different from everyday life.
There are always signposts, little signals from the body, the heart, the mind, trying to let us know where we are and how far we have left to go.
We don't need a breakdown to make a change. We just need to notice.
Maybe it's the edge in my voice when I'm running on too little sleep.
Maybe it's the way I scroll instead of breathe.
Maybe it's how silence feels louder than it should.
These aren't flaws. It's feedback.
They're reminders that I might need to pull over, refuel, check the map, and re-route.
Our bodies whisper before they scream.
Our minds hint before they unravel.
And when we get quiet enough, we can hear the signs:
"Drink some water."
"Stretch your legs."
"Say no to that thing you don't want to do."
"Breathe."
"Sleep."
"Laugh."
"Call your sister."
We are all just vehicles trying to get somewhere meaningful.
South Padre. A new job. A calmer mind. A stronger body. A deeper love.
Whatever your destination, know this: the road will always offer you signs.
You don't have to wait until you're coasting on fumes behind a semi, praying you make it.
You can pause sooner.
Refill sooner.
Choose better.
Feel better.
There's a kolache stop up ahead.
Maybe a Blizzard too.
You've got time.
Just keep an eye out for the signs.