My Best Story (and Hero's Journey): Or, That Time I Nearly Froze to Death in a Field in Southern Germany

IN BRIEF: This is one of my favorite stories to tell as a part of some of my keynote speeches. It (naturally) follows the trajectory of the monomyth or the hero’s journey. For the rest - read on…

Reminder: here are the 10 (simplified) stages of the hero’s journey:

1.     The Status Quo
2.     The Call to Adventure
3.     Refusal of the Call
4.     Meeting With a Mentor
5.     Crossing the Threshold
6.     Trials, Allies and Enemies
7.     Approach
8.     The Abyss (Death/Rebirth)
9.     Reward
10.  The Return

(Reading time ~12-15 minutes)

Shortly after graduation from college, I began training full-time with the U.S. Olympic team in Colorado Springs and then Lake Placid, NY. That fall at the USA World Cup Trials I skated well enough to compete in the World Cups, but not well enough to be funded by the team. I was faced with a rather tough choice.

1.     Continue to stay in the U.S. and train (fully funded) at the U.S. Olympic training center in Lake Placid. (1. STATUS QUO) or…

2.     Find a way to fund a trip overseas in order to travel the world cup circuit on my own dime, racing in the ‘open’ category in the competitions that would allow it. (2. CALL TO ADVENTURE)

At first, I didn’t even have to think about it, I had no money, so of course I would have to stay back. That was also what the coaches wanted. (3. REFUSAL OF THE CALL)

But…there was that other part of me – the rebellious part - the part of me that didn’t relish in training for its own sake – that found little gratification in posting laps and times just for the sake of laps and times - the part of me that loved the thrill and unpredictability of racing. The idea of spending the rest of the winter pounding out laps in the cold and dark of Lake Placid, New York had me in a state of depression… yet I felt like I couldn’t really justify any other choice.

Fortunately, that occasional stubborn and rebellious streak came to the fore, as well as advice pounded into my head for years and years by a different coach (Mike Walden) at a different time...

“Racing is the best training, Coyle, racing is the best training.”

I could hear his relentless voice in my head and after several days of indecision, I finally decided to follow Mike Walden’s advice. (4. MEETING WITH A MENTOR)

So, in mid-October, I sold a bicycle for $1,500, and bought a $400 ticket to Europe for the next 2 and a half months. My brilliant plan was to buy 2 new pairs of skates at the Viking Skate Factory in Amsterdam for $300 and then hitchhike all around Europe to go the various competitions, couch-surfing with the skater’s families. I would have $800 for 2.5 months in Europe  - approximately $10 a day for food, travel, and lodging – perfect. I was ready to go.

(5. CROSSING THE THRESHOLD) I arrived in Amsterdam in the early gray of morning after the usual overnight flight, exiting the white modern white terminal filled with the acrid smoke of European cigarettes to a typically gray, moist and damp Dutch day. After some navigation between the train station and the closest tram, I managed to find public transport to the Viking skate factory on the outskirts of town.

After a quick tour of the massive warehouse, I spent about 2 hours in the factory trying on skates barefoot in order to find a pair that fit perfectly. Sure, they all “look the same” but the reality is that minute differences in the shape, stretch, and contours of the leather and blade made for significant differences. I’m a size 43 but I bought two pairs of size 41 skates for a tight fit and added to that a custom distinction – switching the standard set of 16 ½ inch 1mm wide blades blades for 17 ½ blades and carrying a spare pair in a cardboard poster tube. I was set for the season.

I left the huge factory (the interior of which looked much like the warehouse at the end of the first Indiana Jones movie) where there were aisles and aisles of speed skates – primarily for the domestic public and walked back to where the main highway cut through town and followed an entrance ramp down to the viaduct. 

My first stop was to be Inzell, Germany, just outside of Munich – 1000 kilometers away. Standing by the roadside next to the roaring traffic I was carrying a number of objects that, as it turns out, would become important later. I had my large black backpack with an internal frame full of about 50 lbs of clothing, shoes, and gear. I also had 2 boxes of skates, and one small poster tube with a spare set of blades. And then I had my 40lb duffel bag with all my skating stuff: sharpening jig and stones, oil, tools, skinsuits and warmups. All told I had about 100lbs of stuff – both hands were full, so I had to set one bag down. I had never hitchhiked, but the concept seemed pretty straightforward. Ready, set, …. THUMB … and in theory someone magically stops and takes you toward your destination.

Sadly, it did not work that way. (6. TRIALS, ALLIES AND ENEMIES) No one paid me any attention and after an hour - not even brake lights. I got clever and started jumping toward the road while swinging my “thumb” arm in a big circle. The motion got attention and there were some brake lights, but still no one stopped. Two hours passed, and then three. The winter sun was starting to ebb, and I was full of all sorts of doubt and uncertainty about my brilliant plan. I had no budget for a hotel much less a flight or train ticket. Just as I was considering those options more seriously, I finally got a break. A rusty old jalopy pulled over and 4 doors popped open full of friendly, smiling young faces, and one of them asked me with a strong Australian accent, “Where you goin’ mate?”

I told them, “I’m headed to Munich, Germany for speedskating world cup – any chance you are heading that direction?”

“Ay mate! No shit!? That’s where we are going! We just bought this old beater and are heading to Munich for Octoberfest and traveling Europe after for 3 months! Climb on in!” They were literally going exactly where I needed to be – one stop shop! 

I had to tie my backpack to the roof and then held my skate bag and boxes on my lap in the middle seat of the rear of the old jalopy, but the warm Dutch beers they passed around quickly had me laughing and jabbering away with the rest of them and we headed on our way all the way to the German border (OK, that’s like 30 miles – Holland is tiny).

Serendipity then lost her grip, and a god-awful shaking took over the car and then shiny metal disks began to shoot from underneath the car in all directions to an incredible cacophony. At first, I though the engine had exploded – except it was still running – but our forward progress began to slow as we coasted: we had dropped the transmission.

My newfound pals immediately began the mourning process for the death of their vehice, but I had no vested interest in the bum auto deal they had made that morning and instead untied my backpack and resumed what would come to be a very typical posture over the coming months – standing with a slight lean at the edge of the road, arm curved with thumb out, trying to look ‘safe.’

A tow truck came, and I said goodbye to the Aussies, and yet another hour went without anyone stopping for me, then two hours. I began to despair… and then it began to rain… hard.

I began to panic and ran for the next overpass and stopped in the shadows underneath. Now dueling needs began their wrestling: stay in the dark and not get picked up? Or be wet and miserable but visible?

I opted for a compromise and would choose cars that looked “kindhearted” and would dodge out into the light and rain with my thumb out.

This went on for quite some time and finally after another 2 hours (which is an incredibly long time by the way) suddenly my luck turned again. Behind a “kind looking” Euro station wagon was a large red Euro truck/trailer combo that put on its air brakes and roared to a stop about 100m beyond the overpass. 

I was overjoyed and sprinted up to the bright red cab.

I’ll never forget the face of the man who swung open the door – not because he was so memorable or unique by his-self – instead because his visage was so much like another – that of “Timmons” - the unfortunate wagon train driver in the movie “Dances with Wolves”. The same greasy hair, pudgy face, and the same cigar clenched firmly in his brown molars.

The difference in this case was that when he spoke, instead of a patois of redneck English, my driver spoke only in French and I had not the slightest idea of what he was saying. Correction – he didn’t speak French, he yelled in French. I tried to let him know “No Francaise” But hje didn’t seem to care, and jabbered away for quite a while until I was able to squeeze in, what seemed to me, an important verbal salvo: “Germany – Deutschland, Munich – Munchen,” - my destination.

He nodded and smiled and then began yelling again even as he began working the gears judiciously. We roared back onto the highway, on the way again.  

I was wet and tired (I was up all night on the overnight flight) and it was warm and dry and despite the smoke and the ambiguity of where I was going I just decided to trust in fate, and close my eyes. Shortly thereafter I woke as we slowed, and then saw the German border in the distance. I was happy we were at heading in the right country.

Sometime after a laborious dispute with the border guards and the repeated exit and return of my cigar smoking driver to review the contents of his load I fell asleep. It was just twilight, but the 36 hours I’d been awake, combined with the Dutch beers and contrast of the damp cold and the sudden warmth found me susceptible and I slept for hours without a care for where my wagon-train driver was taking me.

I was dreaming. Someone was fighting with me – buffeting me around my head and shoulders, intent on delivering a message. Finally, I opened my eyes to find that I was being shaken.

4 inches from my face was the stub end of a dead cigar and my driver was shouting in French, roughly shaking me, stopping only when I finally moved an arm to indicate I was alive. I lifted up groggily looking through the windshield – seeing nothing but black.

The impassioned dialog and gesticulating continued but my head swam in a fog and it wasn’t until Timmons reached across me and unlatched the door and waved his finger that I finally understood.

Translation. “Get out.”

That’s what all that meant…

So, I got out.

What else could I do?

I grabbed my backpack, my two boxes and tube, and the heavy duffel bag and climbed down the steps of the big red cab, black in the darkness.

I first noticed the cold when the winds of the departing trailer swirled around me – it must have been only 34 degrees – and damp...

Then, location: where was I?  Ahead there was a lit sign over the highway and seemingly the only illumination for miles. Like a moth I staggered with my load toward the flame. (7. THE APPROACH) 

I drew close enough to read the sign even as in the brightening gloom I could see the sudden division of the highway. The sign read, “Frankreich Rechts, Deutschland Links” – “France right, Germany left.” My driver and his big red truck had gone right, the streaks of his disappearing taillights still remaining imprinted on my retinas. At least he had left me in the right country. Thank you Timmons I thought.

Now what? There were no lights, no buildings, no towns – nothing to indicate any civilization, and then, as if on cue, it began to pour – those big wet heavy drops that soaked me to the bone. Despite putting on additional layers the rain found channels through the already damp materials of my clothes and coursed down my back and into my shoes.

I began to shiver – violently. I immediately began an ugly light jog as a defense mechanism. I carried my 100lbs of ‘stuff’ to burn more calories and I didn’t want to leave it by the side of the road anyway. However, I hadn’t actually eaten… and only a feeble warmth was generated from the effort. I noticed then that the temperature had dropped further and the rain, while lessening had turned to sleet, and my arms and legs were becoming more and more layered with ice. I began to look like the tin man.  My teeth began to chatter uncontrollably. I still remember it: I kept thinking of George Washington for some reason. Wooden teeth. Mine sounded wooden – and it was so clichéd to have them bouncing up and down like I was a mannequin in the hand of a spastic ventriloquist.

Worse still – with my forward progress, all light disappeared, and I found myself sloshing through inky blackness, just the twinkling of the freezing drops and the occasional glint of road markers flashing wetly against the black giving any indication of time or space. So, I turned around, and jogged back to the light, then turned around again. Back and forth I moved in an ugly slog, growing ever more miserable. An hour went by, then two. It suddenly occurred to me – not one vehicle had passed … So, I checked the time: 1am. I continued the death march for another hour – I had run a marathon in the cold carrying my things – but still no cars.

As I walked, I began to dissect what I knew about hypothermia – how your energy fails and instead of fighting you start to give in and then a calm begins to permeate your limbs. With a start I realized I had stopped walking. I found myself sitting on my bags. At that moment I realized I was going to die – that they would find my lifeless body frozen to the tarmac by the side of the road. (8. THE ABYSS: DEATH) I mulled that over for bit, surprised at how little I cared. Then, though, that itself scared me – that I didn’t care if I was going to die.

It was then that a sudden light grew behind me. Headlights.

Unbelievable!

Life resumed and hope grew, and I marched back toward those lights waving my arms. The headlights remained dim pricks in the inky blackness for a while and then suddenly became bright with that weird sound familiar from TV – “wreee-oooowwwww” and the car erupted from the distance to directly in front of me to long gone in a matter of seconds.

My despair reached new levels.

It was 3 am and here I am by the side of the autobahn in the dark in the middle of f!#ing nowhere! No sane person is going to stop for the crazy man in dark clothes standing in the rain as they zoom by at 120mph!

The car had trigged a little bit of adrenaline and I used that energy to once-again climb the embankment by the side of the road. I had been up there before, but all I saw were endless rows of freshly mown hay or grass fading into the darkness: not a light, not a house, not even a telephone pole – just the grass underneath my feet, and blackness…

Still, I resolved to pick a direction and assume that this, this hay, or grass or whatever that had been neatly mowed into rows, that someone – somewhere had done this work and that the machines that make the rows don’t drive for 10’s of miles and that maybe, just maybe, I would find shelter of some sort.

I resolved to follow a row.

I followed that row.

It didn’t take long before two things occurred: one, it began to get extremely dark – and hard to find my footing, and two, I began to think about all this grass, this neatly manicured row of grass… maybe…. maybe I could…

I stopped. I turned around.

I saved my own life.

I walked back as close to the light as I could while still up the embankment and then I implemented the plan that had been slowly gestating in my head for the last 10 minutes.

First, I set down my bags and boxes, and then I began to gather the grass. Shoving, combing, lifting, gathering, I quickly developed a coffee table sized mound, and then it grew to the size of a doghouse, then two doghouses. For once the exertion warmed me and in about 15 minutes, I had gathered a mound of grass about 5 feet high, ten feet in length (including taper) and 6 feet wide. Think about it – that’s a pretty big mound of grass – and fifteen minutes in the dark can feel like forever…

What came next was perhaps the hardest thing I have done as an adult human being: I stripped naked in the field in southern Germany in the freezing rain removing every pice of of sodden clothing I had on including shoes until I stood naked, shivering violently, hardly able to control my hands which were becoming more numb by the second.

Next, I pulled out the only dry clothing left in my bags: 3 dry racing skinsuits from the bottom of my duffel bag. Draping my crispy wet jacket over my head like a floppy umbrella, I proceeded to put on all 3 spandex suits – one over the other, while staying mostly dry under the jacket.

Finally, I grabbed the heavy cardboard tube with the spare set of blades and shook them out onto the grass and then pushed them and everything else underneath the pile. I then pulled the tube under the protective cover of the jacket and shoved it through one of its arms.

Finally, I got on my hands and knees and, with my head draped in a shoulder of the jacket, used it as protective cover against the wet outer layers of grass and burrowed carefully into the bottom and center of the grass mound. 

I had been careful to layer the dry bottom layers of grass from the mown rows into the bottom of my mound and quickly my problem became breathing amongst the dust and tendrils of dry grass versus the expected battle against drowning in the wet drops.

I wriggled carefully into what I conceived of as the middle of the mound and felt a million pricks of grass around me itching and catching the fabric of my skinsuit. But what I also felt was unique again that night – the sudden return of warmth reflected to my limbs from these same pricks.

Finally, I reached out an arm and pushed it through the grass until I could feel the damp of the rain and then jammed the cardboard tube, along with the arm of the jacket through that tunnel in the hay and then adjusted the drape of the jacket – which still remained over my head – such that the arm and the corresponding tunnel of outside air created by the tube was right in front of my mouth and nose.

I blew out hard through the tube like a snorkel to clear the passage and then took a deep breath.  I was pleased to receive not the dusty air of the interior of my new straw home, but the cool damp oxygen of the outside world.

It was warm, it was dry, it was safe and in about 90 seconds I was 100% out-cold asleep. 

I was dreamless in my little cocoon – the long flight, the endless walking and worrying, the rain and shivering all passed into the warm depths of sleeps’ embrace.

Finally, the noise and rumble of passing traffic woke me up. I was beyond excited to have survived the night It was still dark – yet I woke feeling refreshed as though I’d slept a decent long time. I figured I better wait until it was light before I began hitchhiking, but I decided to check the time… wait! 1pm!?  Had I actually managed to sleep more 10 hours under a pile of grass – but wait – it was still dark – how could that be?

I decided to part through the grass, straight up from my next and sure enough I was rewarded with the brilliant midday sun. I stretched, luxuriating in the warm sun. And then…

My senses tingled… as if synchronized with my movement, the rumble of the autobahn inexplicably “switched off.” A deathly eerie silence reigned and at that moment, with a sinking realization, I turned to look behind me.

Not 10 feet away was one of the world’s largest pieces of machinery – a 20-foot-high behemoth of modern industrial capacity – a ‘harvester’ collecting the fruits of the fall harvest – stopped dead in its tracks due to the odd formation of grass – the nest out of which I had suddenly hatched…

I’ll never, for as long as I live, forget the next few seconds – both what actually happened, as well as the processes in my brain that finally switched on at this opportune time.

The door of the bright red cab swung open and out popped the head of a German farmer – at exactly the same time that I registered his expression – a face I’ll never forget in its openmouthed astonishment - I realized exactly what it was that I was wearing. 

I had changed in the pitch black of a downpour without a thought to style or color. I had only 3 skinsuits in my possession at that time – two blue USA skinsuits, and one rather odd trade – a purple, pink and silver suit – a trade from a crazy flamboyant Belgian speedskater named Gert Blanchard. Most notable was that this was the last one I put on including the silver, pink and purple hood.  

So… to conclude this interesting convergence of events, let me play it out from the farmer’s perspective: A long, stormy night… a huge field finally drying up in order to gather up the grass or hay for market – let’s fire up the big machine – but Achtung! What’s this weird mound of grass? What is this nest?… better slow down…

And then it happens – the mound moves, and an appendage appears – it looks like a hand… but it is shiny and purple…and then… It hatches. Out of it next comes the rest of this.. alien! Purple, pink and silver and shiny, no hair to be seen, this alien creature stretches as though it owns the place and then turns – and…

And it LOOKED RIGHT AT ME! (He shuts off the engine)

I began to laugh. The ludicrousness of the situation suddenly permeated my core, and I began to laugh and laugh and laugh. I bent over, rustling in the pile and pulled out my pack, bag and boxes and then carried those, along with my semi-scarecrow jacket with the tube still in the arm towards the embankment to the autobahn still laughing. I stopped before dropping over to the highway, and the farmer was still there – he had not moved – mouth open, hanging outside the door of his machine. I waved and… he didn’t move. (I suspect that this may be the “Area 41” of southern Germany – perhaps there is a shrine there to the alien that hatched in his field.)

Down by the highway, I didn’t bother to dress. (Tip for hitchhiking in southern Germany – silver, pink and purple skinsuit wins!) I had choices! Three cars stopped and I chose the fastest looking one – a Ford Probe that hit 120mph on the way to and then past Munich. They took me right to the ice-rink in Inzell where they dropped me off at the rink in time for the Dutch national team training session.

I had missed the USA practice, so I asked for, and received permission to skate with the Dutch national team. Bart Veldkamp and Rintje Ritsma, famous in their roles within their country and for brief periods during the Olympic games, these same skaters were on the ice when my awkward limbs finally made their way out onto the rink.

I was doing some warmup laps, trying to gain some semblance of form and a couple of the younger Dutch team members formed behind me, but after a little while a chorus of curses rang in my ears and finally one of the older skaters (I think it was Rintje) skated up on the outside of me and said and that super polite Dutch accent – “Um… John, there is a problem – there seems to be grass coming off of you – causing people to slip? They had been slipping on the bits of hay and grass continuing to escape from my skinsuit.

Chastened, I retired from the ice, entered the restroom, and threshed my skinsuit like a doormat, finally returning to the ice without complaint.

After the session, Dutch laughter rang around the room, and finally, someone switched to English and asked the inevitable question – “why so much grass? Old skinsuit? Sleep in a hayloft?” (laughter)

I finally explained my ordeal and they laughed, but now the distance was gone, and many came by to thank me for entertaining them and I made many lifelong friends as well as earning my only sustainable nickname. (9. REWARD)

Every 4 years after my Olympic career I would inevitably see one of these skaters who had, like me retired and become an analyst, or coach, or trainer. Even in Sochi, more than 20 years later, I remember passing one of these Dutch skaters at the media center, and without breaking stride he shouts, “Hey Grasshopper!” (The only nickname I have ever kept).

After this first adventure, I traveled around Europe having dozens of other adventures, spending time living with gypsies in Prague, unknowingly sneaking cigarettes across the German border with a Serbian smuggler, and many others. I was terrifying, heady, fun, exciting, and ultimately, life changing. (10. RETURN) Ever since then I have had a wanderlust for travel, for adventure, for the risks and rewards that create life-changing moments and memories. I can directly attribute my recent move, under COVID-19, to sell everything I own and move into an RV and travel the country, back to this moment, to a field in southern Germany.

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PS: If you are interested in having me come speak to your team or your company, below are the key outcomes and takeaways from my talk/workshop on storytelling and the hero’s journey:

• A clear understanding of the 10 steps of the hero’s journey and vibrant examples of each

• Insight into the history of storytelling in the “oral tradition” and the neuroscience tying story-making to memory-making

• The correlation between great stories, recall, relationships, and influence

• Tools and tips to construct compelling, memorable, recallable stories to increase leadership capacity and impact

Reach out to us HERE to learn more or contact Monica my manager directly at monica@johnkcoyle.com

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