When one conceives of an idea like hiking the Appalachian trail or biking across the United States, it is often expected that within the excursion there will be ample time for reflection. We all know the drill, right? Middle class kid from city suburb goes to college and gets some form of an "education"--if he or she is lucky. They read a lot of books by people like John Muir, Aldo Leopold, and Wendell Berry. Said middle class kid then begins to think critically about EVERYTHING in their often stifling, middle-class existence. No longer is highly-processed food appealing. No longer do they yearn to live in prefabricated mini-mansions in a cul-de-sac in some faceless suburb of some generic city. No longer do they want a "career" to just pay the bills, for they know that careers are going the way of the buffalo and that companies no longer care for regional loyalty. Service jobs are completely unappealing. They don't want to serve food, data process, learn excel, or sit on their ass in front of a computer. No. Not at all. John Muir has told them to explore the wilds of their homeland. To take on lightning storms under tall cedar trees, swaying violently in the wind. Wendell Berry has admonished them to actually MAKE something with their hands. Farm the land. Learn a trade. Build something. And Thoreau, well, he probably motivated them to annoy the living piss out of everyone around them with their stories of "sustainable living" and "getting back in touch with nature." To escape it all, the young person jumps on a bike (or puts on their boots) and heads out the door to the unknown, to go on an adventure of a lifetime where the future will be figured out, clarity will be found, and all political, economic, relational, and spiritual problems will be solved. At the beginning of the trip, the said traveler loads up their panniers or hiking pack with tons of unnecessary books: field guides, philosophies, journals, and maybe even the Bible. They set a goal for themselves that they will read each night, under the stars, and write their thoughts down (rather eloquently of course) in a moleskin journal. Hell, maybe they'll even find a spouse, a new direction in life, or simply the most beautiful mountain meadow in which to think.
Unfortunately, all of this gets thrown out the window at about day ten. The drudgery of climbing hills, of dealing with mosquito bites, cleaning up blood, and finding a place to sleep, wear on the traveler's psyche. After riding 80 miles on a 90-pound bike, all one wants to do is throw it down, lay flat on one's back, and stare blankly into the tree tops. It is imperative, at this time of the day, to do NOTHING. No thinking. No moving. Only groaning and complaining. Tents are set up. Meals are prepared (usually a rather poor fair of tepid tea and tin-tasting soup). And night sets in. Sleep is immediate. No reflection has been undertaken. No major problems solved or revelations stumbled upon. To the contrary, the journal begins to look like a log of miles ridden and things eaten, rather than the magnum opus the idealistic traveler thought it would be!
A trip of this length and physical strain becomes, at times, monotonous. I often lose track of not only time, but what day it is. I have woken up not realizing where I was. I get up, ride, eat, and sleep. Instead of finding personal and spiritual clarity, I've found it hard to even think. Rather, my mind is concerned with its most primal needs: something to eat, a place to sleep, and a bush to pee on. The scenery, of course, is exquisite. Rolling hills, magnificent sunsets, birds, wildlife, and the fragrance of wild flowers attack my senses; lulling me into a deep meditative state where I'm not even thinking. I'm only reacting. And while I have yet to find an "answer" to the questions I brought with me upon this journey, I've found peace in letting the riding speak for itself. No longer am I forcing any kind of experience. I'm just letting them come my way.
We are now so far East that the reactions of individuals who ask us where we've come from, has become rather comical:
"You mean Washington, D.C.?"
"No, we mean Washington state. Along the Pacific Coast."
"ARE YOU SERIOUS?"
"Yeah. We are!"
"That's absolutely insane. I mean, I find it totally amazing and admirable, but I would NEVER be able to do that."
"Yeah, you pedal one mile at a time."
"Do you have jobs?"
"No. We left our jobs. But we have them back upon our return to Milwaukee."
"Why did you do this?"
"Just cause, really."
"No cause?"
"Nope."
"Insane. That's really insane."
Usually when they ask us where we are from, it gets all confusing:
"Where are you from?"
"Pennsylvania."
"But you started in Washington? You live there now?"
"No, we live in Milwaukee."
"What? So, you started in Milwaukee and went to Washington and now you're going to Pennsylvania?"
"No, we're going to Maine."
"I'm confused."
"Yeah, so are we."
Well, gotta get back on the bike and ride north on the Erie Canal. More to come!
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