Ride to Date Scorecard
Day: T-0 (launch date is May 23)
Location: Somewhere, California
Today’s Mileage: 0
Total Mileage: 0
Today’s Ascent: 0 feet
Today’s Time on the Bike: 0 hours
Total Time on the Bike: 0 hours
Lance Armstrong was right (apologies for the blatant theft of his book title). Twelve hours into the train trip from the Bay Area to Seattle, my long train is snaking through a narrow gap of pines reminiscent of the Lionel train set of my youth: the train cars swiveling slightly on the fixture between them to negotiate the curves.
With snow on the adjacent slopes, the Shasta National forest blew cold air into the train cars, and I was grateful for Annie’s insistence on a new gortex rain jacket and my faded, worn Pittsburgh Pirates cap purchased with Chip on a decade-ago adults trip to Disney World.
Between gaps in the sloping hillsides, the fog of winter shrouds the trees in a Sherwood Forest-esq dampness, and the seemingly endless blue mountains loom as far as I can see. I am grateful not to be riding through those 40-degree shaded canyons. They seem sharp in spite of the caps disappearing into the fog. “Stevens Pass in Washington will come soon enough,” I thought as I contemplated the appropriate gear to wear, verifying their inclusion in my checked bag. Always on the edge of my consciousness is the fear of rain, trucks, and narrow lanes with small, deep cinder shoulders- and “I can always bail now,” I think, immediately trying to fight my fear of failure.
The first night, experiencing oft-interrupted sleep with a snorer on one side of me and a snorter unable to stay off his cell phone on the other, the big Amtrak seats in coach, while soft, still are no comparison to my soft, warm bed where Annie lay alone tonight.
It has been so difficult to say goodbye for 11 weeks and now, smarting from the realization that my dreams frequently involve pain, suffering, and the unknown, I try to remember that I’ve wanted this field trip since I was 16, between street hockey games with my 10th-grade friends as we dared one another to try something fantastic!
I realized as Anne and I avoided our goodbyes that “the why” (always the most difficult question) has changed in the past 52 years.
In 1972, having seen very little of the country and none of the world, “the why” back then was the fascination with what lay behind the mark on the map of Pittsburgh, Pa., aka The Steel City, home of the Three Rivers and the founding by William Penn of Fort Pitt.
Then, we realized that the novelty (although I will certainly see new towns, states, and, yikes! mountain ranges) of seeing the US has dimmed in importance. Even the proof of attempting a physically difficult feat has faded, as I’ve done many punishing endeavors physically, mentally, and intellectually exploring my personal boundaries.
I’m reminded of a song by one of our few personally known favorite artists, Antsy McClain (of the Trailer Park Troubadours), who, as an artist, poet, and musician, has delighted us with stories ringing so true they conjure personal memories of similar times of which he sings.
One of the tunes we saw him perform recently in Felton, CA, is the pensive, poignant, personal recollection of “ Going on a Field Trip” as a 2nd grader. It is in this song, along with the shyness of being an 8-year-old, the fascination of the adventure of being free, out on your own, and the wide-eyed experience of the release from normalcy to just shed the shackles of his day-to-day life living in a trailer park in Tenessee with his mom.
Like his Mom, Annie has carefully packed a lunch (and snacks, and dinner— hell, it weighs 20 pounds it seemed) replete with napkins, wipes, a love letter and the recognition that she was happily releasing me to scratch my itch of freedom, wonder, relationships to be made on the road, and most importantly the freedom to try.
While Machu Pichuu, Ironmans, Kilimanjaro, or a foundation in Africa, night school, building a house, or paddling to Monterey all have similarities in the planning, gear, and practice, this adventure is about stepping away from your comfort zone of familiarity and trying something that includes the freedom of adventure, failure, and dreams. Also, it will highlight the beauty of the kindness of strangers already realized in Kevin, a round-bodied 30-something porter who loved Anne because she shared his mom’s name, taking our kissing picture before we said our final goodbyes.
No, this is not about the bike. And those baggies of delicious succulent water-filled sweet watermelon and cherries in my snack bag are so heavy— and delightful.
Thank you for following this journey. Plan on seeing Antsy McClain at our home in an intimate evening with a wonderful troubadour this September. Enjoy his music on iTunes or on www.unhitched.com
