The Turbulence of Landing-Final Thoughts on my Solo Bike Trip Across South America

I feel a strong, painful tug on the strap of my purse and a searing burn as the cord that is attached to it cuts into my shoulder, before it breaks. “Hey!” I yell, whipping around, knowing in less than a breath what has happened. I had let my guard down. After a month of biking solo across South America, sleeping alone in random parks, battling heavily-laden trucks on roads with no shoulders, and finding my way through language barriers, intense heat and navigational hurdles, I had finally met up with my husband Twain and, like a teenager, my common sense left the scene as soon as I saw him. And with it, my bag-snatched.

I had no business walking through the crowded streets of Santiago with it swishing along at my side like a capture the flag pennant, but I was so giddy at finishing the bike ride and being with him, that I literally just stopped thinking.

Instantly, I dropped my bike in the middle of the crowded market, that I had been pushing it through, and turned to give chase. I kicked off my flip-flops and felt a surge of speed and strength flood my body, as my bare feet smacked against the concrete. I was going to catch him! But before I could get more than a few feet, I was blocked by a strong-armed man. Gently, he pushed me back, holding me by my biceps and shaking his head no. I believe he even said that he was sorry. I was enraged, but even so, I appreciated his manner. In a moment, he allowed me to slip by him and continue running. The crowd of people in the market swelled and around me and began shouting. I was unclear whether they were yelling at me to go, or stop. Was it too dangerous to pursue him? Unsure, I stopped, and watched my passport, wallet, credit cards, money and phone disappear into the crowd.

I was mad, but mostly at myself. I had done so well on my own. I had been so careful and responsible. Why do I still get muddle headed when boys I like are around? The snatchers were just doing what snatchers do.

Thankfully, in just a few minutes, Twain received a call from the local police. The thieves had taken my phone, but kindly dumped my wallet and passport in the road and a street sweeper had turned them in.

Twain and I went on to have a great week-long motorcycle trip, crossing back and forth a few passes in the Andes. It was a wonderful stark contrast to my solo bike tour; Where I had been alone, I was now pressed against his back, with my knees wrapped around his hips for hours upon hours. Where I had found my own way with maps and navigational tools, now I didn’t even steer. Where my legs had burned with effort, they now flopped comfortably along the sides of the panniers. Where I had blogged my afternoons away, now I could not even send a text. And as we roared through high valleys and coastal towns, to goat festivals and natural hot springs, I felt incredibly luckily that I experienced both. Spoiled even.

On my bike tour, I had to rely on my own self-sufficiency, facing obstacles on my own and remembering how capable I was.
Alone, I interacted with the world in a way that felt both wide open and acutely awake. In fact, I feel like I barely shut my eyes. It was like being naked and I saw and felt everything intensely. Every raindrop, gulp of water, hill crest and smile felt profound. I am finding the more I have these experiences, the less afraid I am of everything.

I also got to become reacquainted with my 18-year-old self–sans all the hormonic drama from that time–I was just me, without all the responsibilities and patterns that I have accumulated since then—a distillation of sorts. This is one of the many gifts of middle age–feeling like a teenager, but in a less tumultuous way. I found out that I actually like that kid. She maybe foolish, but she is psyched to be alive.

I also got to prove myself right and that always feels good! Traveling alone and being vulnerable opened up all sorts of doors. Both men and women wanted to protect me in a way that wouldn’t have happened if I had been with anyone else. I feel like I made myself prone and was met with a tender gentleness. I do not deny that there is danger and horror in this world, but the goodness I experienced was overwhelming.

But none of this would be enough, if afterwards, I couldn’t come come home, where there are people that I love and that love me in return. Where I don’t have to worry about being so self reliant. Where I can be lazy and dependent and let someone else steer. Where there is routine, stability and predictability.

These two ways of being feel like inhaling and exhaling. Like slow cooking and searing. Both important.

Now, I have been home a week. There have been blah moments, like when I was scrubbing out someones’s egg pan that they left in the sink, but truly, I feel almost euphoric, like I have gotten away with something again–like I have been dancing on lily pads.

I am happy to do the mundane. Happy to ride my bike around this little island, because even though it is all the same, that is what I love about it and the lense through which I am looking is different.