In Michigan, we have tornadoes and snowstorms, enough to make us aware of the power of Mother Nature. But as I am traveling through many ecosystems and climates, from marsh to Mississippi River, to dry grasslands, to steam vents and geysers, to intimidating mountain bluffs and cliffs, I see how precariously we individual humans cling to the planet. At any moment, the Earth might issue forth something from which we cannot protect ourselves, and many of our separate physical forms may die.
Yet, are we not all one, and one with all that we experience? If the mountain's rocks fall to the valley below, the mountain does not mourn, and unless the rocks fall onto something we deem "good", nor do we. When the Old Man in the Mountain rock formation fell in New Hampshire, people were saddened, but the mountain didn't care. Nature accepts what is. Nature is energy expressed in many forms. We are one of those forms. We are constantly ebbing and flowing along with the energies around us. We are precarious only if we see ourselves as separate and clinging. If we hum with the universal frequency, nothing changes at the demise of the body. Here's to learning the tune.
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My body reflects a sense of mourning. At an energetic level, I ache. My muscles are not sore, nor my joints; but I sense a drag on my energy. I feel as though I’m missing something – perhaps a sense of purpose. I have abandoned my conviction that I can ride across the country. I know now that, even if I am capable at a physical level, I have not planned well enough to accomplish it on this journey. Even rethinking the plan to, “I can ride every day at least part of the day’s journey,” hasn’t made it happen.
As I sit here at the computer in a hotel room in Medora, ND, I am apprehensive about whatever part of the route I try to ride today. How far can I actually get given the weight of the cart and the increasingly hilly terrain? Would I be better off to simply follow I-94 and cover less challenging ground more quickly, or do I take the quieter and prettier side roads and not make as many miles? Our plan this morning was to drive to Wibaux, MT, and have me ride from there as far as I can. The route on my Adventure Cycling maps has me on I-94 a fair amount of that ride. Jennifer at Dakota Cycling said that the expressway is not terribly busy on that stretch, but she recommended a much more beautiful (and longer, and probably more challenging) ride south and then west. We have south winds today. If I go that way, am I setting myself up for “failure”? There is another route, given to me by “Map my Run,” that goes northwest out of Wibaux and curves back down into Glendive. The wind would better support that. All this self-discussion brings me to only one conclusion: I am losing faith in my ability to do this. Yesterday, I had thought I would ride around Theodore Roosevelt Park with Remy. I’m glad I didn’t for two reasons: I got to see more of the scenic beauty in the car than I would have if I’d been concentrating on biking through; and once I drove it, I knew I wouldn’t have made it more than a couple of miles of continuously steep ascents and descents. Imagining doing this without backup, I wonder if I’d have even made it halfway through Minnesota by now. A couple of things come to mind: would I feel better because I was actually challenging myself every day to ride as far as I can, and then stopping to experience the people and the place? Or would I feel defeated because I’m unable to ride 60 miles per day, and the journey would take all summer or longer? I guess I need to come to some understanding with myself about how things have changed and what my intention is now. I have already done something quite surprising for middle-aged people in our culture. I have sold my house and left my home on an adventure. The other component, the one of physical challenge, is still becoming. Sometimes I think of offering Tayler a quicker trip to Seattle – putting her on a train or plane or bus and sending her there – then driving to beautiful places and biking around them: state and national parks, small towns, etc. Of course, I wouldn’t have anyone to rescue me if I got far out away from where I’d parked my car. But it sounds more open than what we’ve been doing. I have enjoyed so many things about the journey, so far. Mostly, they’ve been the unexpected interactions with people along the way – not the desk clerks at the hotels, but the other customers at a coffee shop or grocery store. When I ride alone and then get picked up and drive to a hotel, I miss these opportunities. When I eat in a restaurant with Tayler (whose company I enjoy, don’t get me wrong), I don’t end up talking to other customers or to the server or host(ess) as much as I would if I were alone. Weather is warming, and we have some camping possibilities on the horizon. I hope that will also give me a chance to meet more people. I saw some bikes parked outside the restaurant where we ate last night. Perhaps more people are getting out onto the biking routes, and I will meet them as we travel. This morning, though, I just don’t know. I feel a strong sense of mourning in my body and my soul. This, too, shall pass. The intention was to ride -- to experience the upper mid and Western states from the seat of the bicycle, to meet people along the way, to take life as it comes and solve problems, and to come to Seattle a changed person with a better idea of what I want to do next.
The reality (so far) is that, by establishing a fallback, in the form of a young friend driving my car, and by being unprepared for a number of elements, I am seeing more of the country by car than by bike ... and I am disappointed. Philosophically, I can recognize that I am still in a position to take life as it comes: what have come have been a lot of windy and cold weather, a falling apart dog basket, and a dwindling (although not horribly yet) bank account, as well as a driver who can't wait to get out of North Dakota. So, the choices to drive have made sense. Nevertheless, my body and my spirit want to ride. Last night, as I was falling asleep, I tried to imagine where I would be if I didn't have the backup driver. Maybe still in Wisconsin. Surely no further than midway through Minnesota. Yesterday, had the winds been as daunting where I was I would have stayed put. I would have visited the town nearby and talked to people. I would have walked with Remy, and walked and walked. Perhaps we would have done some more cart training. This morning, here in Jamestown, ND, the sky is blue. The temperature is just above 30, and right now the winds are 7 mph out of the west. When Remy and I walked around the neighborhood, I could feel my spirit leaping to ride, and my thoughts reminding it that the route starts miles away (we had to leave the route last night to find a hotel) and that it is only 30 degrees. I came back to the room and looked at the weather forecast, and the wind will rise again today to 25 mph. We will drive. But part of today's preparations will involve being ready to depart much earlier in the day tomorrow -- lower wind predictions, anyway, and maybe by getting on the road at 7:00 instead of sitting in the room on the computer I can ride some miles before the wind gets impossible to battle. Montana awaits, and the "on-the-road-training" I had hoped I would have gotten by now has been little. To be ready for the mountains when I get there, I'm going to have to be riding every day and working on my attitude, as well as my physical strength. Disappointment is. Change is. I am. Here. Now. Let's see what happens today. (For more detailed accounts of the daily adventures of the journey, visit bicyclinglife.blogspot.com ) On May 1, Remy and I, accompanied as far as Muskegon by friend, Sloth, embarked on a bicycle journey across the country. (For more details on that, specifically, read bicyclinglife.blogspot.com ) May 1 was the end of a period of being settled and sedentary, and the beginning of a time of openness to being a part of everything in the world around me, and of expanding that world.
The first few days -- okay, probably the first week -- I was struggling: against the wind, figuring out where to go, wondering whether I had the strength to pursue this to the end, punishing myself for not riding every inch of the stretches from one night's stay to another. Looking back now, 10 days into the journey, I realize that I was having trouble letting go of "home," the subject of my previous post. I had spent the last few days before departure, hastily trying to void my house of its contents before the new owners took possession. I failed to recognize my need for a bit of reverence for the space and the time (almost 15 years) that I'd spent there, and gave the new owners permission to have a few people over while I was still trying to pack and go. My dog, Remy, sensed my anxiety and reacted poorly to the people in "his" house. I left a lot of stuff. Perhaps I had planned poorly. Perhaps I just couldn't, emotionally or physically, do it alone. I had never done this before. I didn't leave gracefully. In fact, the whole departure, from late night trips to my friend Annie's with yet another box to store to stopping by the house (and seeing the frustrated and angry buyers) on the way out of town to get the flag for the back of the bike, was kind of a mess. All was worked out in the end, but I believe I carried that feeling of being at loose ends with me into the beginning of the journey. Now that I've been on the road for 10 days, the feeling of adventure is starting to return. I am no longer committed to riding every inch. If putting the bike on the back of the car on a rainy day to cover our requisite 60 miles for the day is necessary, that's just another aspect of the adventure. Now that I've come to peace with that realization, I think I'm ready for other learning to take place. My flag says "Sacred Space." I haven't started handing out business cards yet, but I believe I'll carry some close at hand, so when people ask me about what I'm doing I can spread the word of creating the sacred for ourselves in our lives. I have been blogging regularly about the bicycle trip; but this page is for the spiritual revelations that may occur. Hope to be writing a lot more here. |
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June 2016
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