Travelogue Epilogue

WHOOSH-WHOOSH

There are now several days separating the trek and these immediate post-adventure recovery and wind-down days. Clearly, life goes on and I must transition from the singular, goal-oriented physical and mental efforts of the ride to the more mundane tasks and no less important responsibilities of day-to-day living. It can be a sharp transition. On the beach, after I finished, a woman who had just learned of what I did asked, “What do you do next?” I didn’t respond, but an appropriate answer might be the eastern (Buddhist?) saying, “Before enlightenment, chop wood and fetch water. After enlightenment, chop wood and fetch water.”

This trek was not about enlightenment; though, on a physical level, one look at me and you can clearly see that I have been ‘lit up:’ Riding under clear, bright skies at high elevations in the western states, the sun burned the crap out of my nose and lower lip. And my skin tone reveals the 9-weeks of being radiated by the sun; I haven’t been this tan since my college winter breaks where I would spend hours on the beach in Santurce, PR.

But I am not walking around feeling or looking enlightened, as depicted in the Buddhist tradition like some Bodhisattva or, in the modern Tolkien mythology, as a Middle Earth Noldor elf. This adventure was many things, but if there are common themes, they are the paring down of body and mind, taming anxiety and fear, and a subtle but significant change in perception.

Body

As evident in my early blog posts, I was genuinely concerned about whether or not my body could handle the endurance effort of a cross-country bicycle trip. My left knee ached so much initially that I wore a knee brace for several days during the first week. And I was energetically depleted until I changed my diet to include more protein in the form of red meat and electrolytes in the form of a supplement to my water. But, over time, my body adapted to the demands of almost daily riding up steep inclines in blazing heat. The ride pared me down literally as I lost a fair amount of weight. At the same time, the ride honed me to the point where I would “eat hills for breakfast” and enabled me to cover 45 to 90 miles a day without any debilitating injury. Naturally, after each day my quadriceps would be sore but a good meal and rest allowed the muscle fibers to do the same thing, day after day. And there were several points during the trip when I would have some odd physical symptom that caused me to fear that it would lead to a cessation of riding — tightness in my chest, a weird vibrating sensation in my sphincter muscles, and the muscles I pulled over the ribs under my armpit. Except for the pulled muscles, these symptoms were signs of a body that was being asked to endure a lot of repetitive stress, and when I made sure to eat a lot, hydrate frequently, and take a rest day, these symptoms generally subsided. Yes, I admit to being “bone tired” on numerous occasions, especially towards the end, but I knew the antidote for this weariness was to complete the journey.

Mind

Completing this journey required a lot of determination, self-discipline, and focus. I was never bored while riding long, flat stretches through the corn fields; nor did I spend the hours in meditative contemplation of my life and the nature of the Universe. This is because when riding, I found myself — by necessity — focused solely on being in the moment. This present-mindfulness was required simply to stay upright and alive, especially on busy roads with 18-wheelers passing close by. But even on empty stretches, I had to be on alert for changes in the road surface, little critters scurrying across the road at inopportune times, or a pickup truck emerging suddenly on a dirt access road from the cover of tall crops.

If there was a meditative element to my daily rides it was in the rhythms of motion and breath. All the sensations of riding melded into one supra-physical experience, with any one particular sensation superseded by the whole. In the moment, my senses were attuned to body, bicycle, road, air, and the organic and inorganic that I would pass or would pass me. The sustained hum of the tires on asphalt and the soft mechanical noise of the chain sliding on and off the cogs became a background drone, similar to the effect of the droning sound a Tanpura makes in classical Indian music. But the most salient sensation (aside from a headwind) was my own breath. Sometimes it was deep and rhythmic; other times it was short and loud (picture the cardiovascular effort required to climb a long, steep climb). For mile after mile.

The cumulative effect of this experience is that the mind becomes highly alert and sensitive to any changes to this background drone and breathing, such as a sudden change in the wind or the cacophony of a mechanical issue. When this happens, to borrow a phrase, you get “in the zone.” I am aware that for non-athletes and the literal-minded, this phrase doesn’t mean much or is annoying. But let me attempt to describe this zone: It is a mental state where bodily effort becomes either non-existent or secondary and the mind becomes hyper-focused on the present moment. The “zone” has physical attributes, such as when the body releases endorphin molecules that serve to relieve pain and produce a sense of euphoria. But for me, the “zone” is more a mental state of being that accompanies exercise where extraneous thoughts and their ancillary emotions are stripped away and you are left only with yourself, yourself, yourself.

When you have this experience for 54 days of riding over the course of nine weeks, it does not leave you unchanged. And I am still figuring out how I have changed.

Perception

In or out of the zone, you rely on your hearing when riding a bike. I spent nine weeks doing a lot of listening. The beneficial side effect of listening for safety and security’s sake is that, no surprise, you become a better listener. Wait, I better qualify that statement. A bike-riding narcissist does not become a better listener, so maybe I should say that if you are so inclined, riding a bike, especially long distances, can make you a better listener.

Over the course of days and weeks of riding, my listening abilities were sharpened. Consequently, my capacity to listen in social situations off the bike were honed. (This may also may be due to the fact that, immediately off the bike, I was so out of breath and tired that it took too much energy to speak.) And I found that in my encounters with people on the road, from shop keepers to farmers to fellow travelers, everyone has a story to tell or point of view to share. The need to be heard and validated is a strong and defining human trait. At that same time, I found it that people who actively listen are a rare breed.

I cannot make a general statement about my perceptions of the United States. Even though I rode coast to coast, I travelled along such a narrow sliver that, truly, what I saw and who I interacted with reflected only that specific corner of the country. For example, I rode across the length of Nebraska, but was far removed from the political power and monied areas of the state’s southeast around the cities of Omaha and Lincoln. The pasturelands of the Sand Hills in the state’s north-central area are very different than, say, the flat croplands in the southern part of the state, to say nothing of other regions in other states. This is a huge country. But since this is one country, our country, it would be fair to ask if I can paint a broad picture based on what I perceived in these many separate regions across the thirteen states though which I traveled. So, here’s my two centavos:

There is abundant physical evidence that shows how we have reshaped the land to fit our needs, in ways which are both fantastic and ugly. We pull waters from the Columbia River watershed in central Washington to irrigate lands that don’t receive a lot of rainfall to produce food for ourselves and other nations. We have reshaped the plains by murdering all the bison, pushing off the First Nations into the least desirable lands, destroying the prairie ecosystem and replacing it with large barbed-wire tracts to raise cattle for meat and milk. There are architectural wonders in the form of gorge-spanning bridges. There are thousands of dead and dying small towns, some on the wrong side of an extractive boom and bust cycle; others where economic opportunity no longer exists due to “rational actors” competing in markets near and far that result in a dearth of local, well-paying jobs for young people; and where the center of the town’s commercial and consumer activity is not a local shop but the ever ubiquitous, corporate-owned Dollar General store.

I found that people, on the whole, are warm, polite, and quickly return a smile. I learned that many people in the western states want to be left alone and live their lives without over-regulation, and view outsiders with suspicion. The “nice” factor seemed to increase as I rode from west to east, peaking in Ohio and then gradually decreasing as I approached the eastern coast.

I also perceived that we are all living in an artificially sustained dream land. There is the United States that exists today, with its widening gap of wealth, the pernicious mix of money and politics, and the ever-increasing tribalism. Then there’s the mythical United States of our dreams, where everyone is created equal, that we are entitled to life, liberty, and happiness, and where we are the good guys who practice justice for all. Add to this myth the influence of mass media, from legacy broadcast networks, to cable TV channels, and now social media empires, and how they create and sell an ideal image of who we are and what we should aspire to be. And all of us seem to select some aspect of this image, this dream, and try to build our lives. I don’t think most Americans are truly content and many have strong opinions who is at fault, but a true conversation about what’s going on is drowned in the churning sea of messages and images on our billboards, TV and computer screens, or in our echo chamber of choice.

TAKEAWAYS?

There was no doubt in my mind that I would see this adventure through to the end, although I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t difficult. Ultimately, the challenge inherent in the audacious nature of a cross-country bicycle trek at my age came down to just one key factor: me. I enjoy cycling, I enjoy being on the road, and I enjoy a physical challenge. But the challenges presented by taking on this task at this mid/late middle age stage of my life were both new and the most difficult tests I encountered. I am happy to report that I passed those tests; I was able to vanquish my fears and tame the runaway mental chatter.

I learned that with sustained focus and determination, the body can rally and accomplish tasks that are objectively very difficult. There were several occasions, on the side of the road, where I felt completely spent, but through mental effort and desire, I was able to continue and complete the day’s ride. It helps to eat good food and avoid eating unhealthy items, such as the artificially manufactured colored, viscous liquid that passes as syrup in most restaurants. But getting up a 20-30 mile climb in the searing heat requires more than just eating well and staying hydrated. I found that I had to veto the body’s desire to call it quits so that I could reach my goal. And I can see the parallels between the mental determination required to climb a mountain for 20 miles on a bicycle and accomplishing more complex, non-physical tasks that present themselves in life in the sense that both require silencing the doubts and fears and that derail their respective efforts.

At the same time, another takeaway is to respect the body. As I sit and write these words, I recognize and accept that it’s going to take more than a day or two to recover from this trek, and I need to be kind to myself and resist the urge to, say, tackle long-standing house chores. I am tired. I asked my body to do a lot, and it pulled through, but now is the time to give my physical form its due.

A question I am now asking myself is how can I apply these victories in my day-to-day life. Surely, I should be able to view the mundane tasks for what they really are — small stuff. This outlook demands that I consistently apply the same “bike trek” attitude in my daily living; which, in turn, requires a great deal of mental fortitude not to get tripped up by the countless small things that can “ruin” my day. Worse things happen at sea.

I think the bigger question for me is how I can apply these victories to the non-trivial aspects of my life that require me to change. Stay tuned.

FUN FACTS and METRICS

• I rode 3,541.42 miles over 54 riding days

• I took 8 rest days

• I climbed over 98,860 feet (the exact number is unknown because on 2 occasions my Garmin’s battery died before I completed the ride)

• I traveled through 13 states: Washington, Idaho, Wyoming, Nebraska, Iowa, Illinois, Indiana, Ohio, West Virginia, Pennsylvania, Maryland, Virginia, and Delaware.

• I had 7 flat tires, three in the front wheel and four in the rear wheel

  • The first set of three flats (front) all happened on Day 8 of the trek and was due to a singular cause - a tiny thorn embedded in the tire that I had missed when I inspected the tire after the first flat.

  • The second set of three flats (rear) was one of those “stump the chump” mysteries: the tube would puncture on the rim side of the wheel about a centimeter from the valve stem. These flats would occur every 5-9 days of riding. In Lander, WY, the bike shop mechanic changed the rim tape, thinking that would do the trick. Unfortunately, the tire was flat the very next morning. Luckily, he opened the shop at 7:30 a.m. We scratched our heads. He added a second layer of rim tape and I bought I new tire. I thought this solved the problem until I flatted again nine days later. In West Lafayette, IN, I bought a new rear wheel and that seemed to solve the problem (which was, it turns out, the rear wheel — a replacement wheel and not the original wheel that came with the Fuji — was too narrow at 13 mm to handle the rigors of touring).

  • The seventh and final flat happened on day 60 of the trek (riding day 51) in the rear tire. No mystery this time: A piece of glass had become embedded in the tire.

• I only had 2 falls!

  • The first occurred on Day 21 after descending Teton Pass. I was stopping in Wilson, WY to get my bearings. The bike came to a standstill but I couldn’t unclip my shoe from the pedal, and so I fell at 0 mph.

  • The second occurred on Day 60 when, after descending a muddy construction detour successfully, my front wheel slide out from under me on the last, short drop. I was going a grand total of four or five miles per hour.

THANK YOU’S

Thanks to all of you who donated to Life With Cancer. Thus far, we have raised over $14,000 dollars. If you have read this far and still haven’t donated, click here to access the Donate page of this site.

Thanks to Jeff White for taking on the responsibility of handling the administrative responsibilities for my direct reports at work and for being such a great cheerleader and anti-gravel advocate.

Thanks to John Stephan, who initially greenlighted the approval of my leave from work, and to Dan Whetstone and Tom Harris for following through with that request.

Thanks to many of you who selected supportive emojis or commented on Joanie and Mark’s Facebook page about my ride.

And thanks to my friends in the Sukkat Shalom community who showered me with support and praise, especially JodiK.

I want to call out and thank two close friends who fully comprehended the essence of this trek and who provided continued and frequent support through texts and conversations: Ronnie Dunetz in Kadima, Israel and David Myers in New Jersey. Your words of support and understanding helped me to put things in perspective and keep on going. Dave, you were a good guide because you knew from first-hand experience what I was going through having ridden across the USA (via Canada) in 1987.

Thanks to Andy and her partner Alan, and to Mark and (especially) Hindy. You all helped directly and indirectly, particularly when I stayed with you in Reston and spent most of the time eating.

Thanks to my children, Tenara and Devin. Tenara understood from the beginning what this trek meant to me and supported me, even when I was too tired for conversation. Devin deserves special gratitude because he stayed at home and took care of the house in our absence, something he had never done before for such an extended length of time. When we returned the cat looked healthier. And he only flooded the kitchen once!

I reserve my most special thanks and appreciation to Joanie, who traveled with me for most of the trek and drove our mobile home and SAG wagon. Her sacrifice enabled me to complete this trek, as well as providing me with the added benefit of eating wholesome, home-cooked meals and doing the laundry. Most of all, as my partner and best friend, she gave me the gifts of a warm hug when I was down, an open ear to my concerns, and the strong bonds of unconditional love. I couldn’t have done this without her.

Thank you all!