My breath comes out in deep, regular puffs, a locomotive steaming down a track. Sweat runs down my forehead and into my eyes, making them sting. My legs ache, and my bum-cakes scream. Where the hell am I? This little afternoon jaunt has become more epic than I intended. I wanted to cycle an easy 20 miles, but now, by my reckoning, I have hit about 32 and I still have miles to go. It is 2:32 in the afternoon, and I have a client coming to my office at 3:00. I will never make it. This always happens. I take it a little too far, get a little too optimistic about what I can fit in and resist taking the time to study a map. Rather, I try to follow my innate homing instinct that is sure to guide me home. It never does.
I have hit a traffic-laden street. Lots of cars, going fast. I try to maneuver along the side of a jake-braking propane truck, a rattling old landscaping truck, and a string of vehicles with intense and/or distracted drivers. The cars push me against the edge of the road. Suddenly, on a down-pedal, my clipped-in foot knocks the curb, sending me into a wobble. My front tire snakes crazily. I grip the handlebars tightly and, by the grace of God, correct my position. I try to move away from the curb into the road so it doesn’t happen again, but the shoulder is narrow, and I feel like I am in everybody’s way. I know I should pull over and take some time to cancel my appointment, figure out where I am, and cool down before I do something even more reckless, but I have canceled on this client twice before. She is going to fire me.
Not a minute too soon, I recognize a landmark and realize that I am on Payne Road in Scarborough, probably 30 minutes from my office, provided I pedal just a little bit faster than the fastest speed I can muster, I might make it. If I really bear down I could arrive at my office on Commercial Street in Portland, Maine, only five minutes late. Taking another deep breath and digging in, I decide to go for it. My fight or flight response in overdrive. Stupid? Yes.
Thirty minutes later, when I step out of the elevator and into the waiting room, I see my client sitting comfortably on a leather wing-backed chair. She is patiently paging through one of the magazines on the coffee table. Her hair is nicely brushed, her lip gloss bright, and her clothes clean and respectful. When she looks up at me she smiles. “I will just be a minute.” I grin apologetically as I wheel my bike into my office. Quickly, I strip down and pull on a skirt, and a clean shirt and change my shoes. I drag a brush through my hair and wipe the sweat off my face. That is all I have time for. As I step back into the waiting room I feel the second wave of sweat pour out of me, and my shirt is sticking to my back. “Come on in,” I say, trying to exude nonchalance.
This little ride across town sums up my current state of mind. My bike adventure across America begins on August 1st, and, at this point, I feel like I am living a double life. It is all a little too much and a little over-stimulating but makes every day an exciting whirlwind. I am biking about 75 miles a week, trying to fit it in between working, spending time with my family, writing and planning for our expedition. I am in the process of telling all my clients that I will be closing my office. This is emotionally exhausting as I care deeply for them. At the risk of sounding unprofessional, it is like having to end 40 personal relationships, one after the other, day after day.
I am waking up nightly, into full consciousness, with lists and anxieties filling my head. I am excited and scared. I love being a mental health counselor. I love my job as a parent. I love biking. I love my friends. I love writing. I love my life, and I want to do it all. I am just worried that if I don’t slow down I will hit a curb and I might not be able to correct my wobble. Maybe, this is just the thrill of adventure?
Oakley has always been super naughty and super cute. His devilish grin and sparkling eyes have let him get away with terrible, mischievous things. As we navigate the teenage years sometimes cute doesn’t cut it and his antics can make me really angry. It is at these times that I need to remember that underneath his aggressive tone and pimply cheeks, the little darling he used to be still resides within him.
Jonah, Oakley’s older brother, created this little podcast about him and where we have come from, and where we hope to go. It’s a good one. Take a listen.
If anyone wants to contribute to our ice cream fund to keep Oakley’s motivation up feel free! He is going to need it…well, actually, so will I. Check out the link below.
Many people have been asking me lately, “Where are you going exactly?” or “When do you leave?” This makes me feel two things. Either, A) They are ready for me to stop wagging my tongue about this so-called adventure and actually leave already, or, B) they are actually interested, so I shrug and give what I hope is a satisfactory answer:
“Across America, from Oregon to Virginia. We will follow the Trans-American Trail. We will leave this August.” As the trip draws closer this response has seemed increasingly vague, and I feel the need to delve into our route a little more, so bear with me.
Oakley and I will fly from Boston to Portland, Oregon, around August 1st. We will then take a bus to Astoria, where our lovely little bikes will be waiting for us at a local bike shop, having been shipped ahead of us. From there, we will hit the road, post-haste, our homing beacons all a dither.
Over the first several days we will follow the West Coast, giving us a chance to take in the vastness of the Pacific and the humongous spruce and redwood trees that cover the hills. I hear that there are a lot of them. Both hills and trees…
We will then turn east near Eugene, and head up into the Cascades. We will ascend through lush forests, cross under snow-capped peaks and travel on to the high desert of Oregon. This section of the route follows a portion of the original Oregon Trail. (Be sure to read Ghosts of the Pioneers by Twain Braden!) We will lug our gear and foodstuffs in our panniers rather than in a covered wagon, but I hope we will feel connected and inspired by the adventurers who have come before us.
Next, we will enter Idaho and cycle along the Salmon River, which is rich in Native American history, and begin a 75-mile ascent to Missoula, Montana. The headquarters of the Association for Cyclists is located here, and they promised us free ice cream. I think we will need it. I hope they aren’t kiddie size. After a brief stop-over with a friend in Bozeman, we will head into the Rocky Mountains and make our way to Wyoming. We might hike for a bit in Yellowstone or play with some Grizzlies or Bison or perhaps some Elk.
At that point, with our legs of newly-brandished steel, we will head south again, through the Tetons and along the Wind River Range into Colorado. It is here that we will cross Hoosier Pass with an elevation of 11,152 feet. The summer snow that high smells like watermelons. No problem.
Oakley is then planning to practice backflips and various other parkour moves at the Great Sand Dune National Monument and then hopefully, somewhere near Colorada Springs, we will meet up with Twain. He is planning on renting a bike in Denver and cycling with us for a week across the high desert of Colorado into Kansas. He is excited to experience the tall grassy plains in late September.
After we kiss him goodbye, and I cry a little, we will head into Missouri and into the Ozark Mountains. From there we will take a ferry across the Ohio River and into Kentucky. We are hoping to stop and explore the Mammoth Caves. They were made from rivers of lava flowing and cooling underground and remind me of subway tunnels to the underworld.
Next, we will give Tennessee a gentle nudge and then climb up into Virginia and on to the Appalachian Mountains. We will follow the Blue Ridge Parkway for a bit, and then descend down through the farmlands of Virginia to the Atlantic Coast where Twain will be waiting in Yorktown.
The total trip will be 4,300 miles. We are aiming to get home soon after Daylight Savings Time in early November. After all of this extreme togetherness, the thought of Oakley and I stuck in our tent in the dark from sunset at 4:30 in the afternoon, for 14 hours until sunrise, makes me rather jittery.
We will camp the whole way except for the rare hotel stay, once or twice a month. Perhaps we will partake of the kindness of the folks at “Warm Showers,” a group of people who offer hospitality to cyclists who are on long expeditions. They are active across the country. Sometimes they offer a shower, sometimes a garage floor to sleep on, and sometimes a dryer for a swamped sleeping bag.
We will cook on a wood-fired stove to avoid having to find and carry gas. We will carry our water and belongings on our bikes. We will homeschool along the way. Might be the best education for both of us ever.
I am sure our itinerary will change and change again, but that’s the plan. Sounds fun right?
It is a Thursday in May, and Oakley and I have cut school and work for the day and are headed off to bike the Cape Cod Rail Trail. It is a 50-mile-long, paved, flat trail connecting Hyannis to Wellfleet, surrounded by beautiful lakes, nationally-acclaimed seashores, and miles of pine forest. Oakley has been especially naughty lately and this outing counts as being grounded. Time with his parents, away from the influences of social media, friends, and bad patterns often helps him regroup. First, we need to bike to the Portland Gear Hub to pick up a rack. Twain, my husband, will pick us up there and drive down with us the rest of the way.
As we navigate our bikes through Portland, I accidentally stop short at an intersection, and Oakley screeches to a halt with his front tire nearly kissing my rear. “Mom, why did you do that?” he yells, both scared and furious.
“Because I didn’t want to get hit by that truck. I am sorry.”
“This is so stupid. I don’t know why we have to do this. You are the worst biker.”
The tirade continues as we navigate our way up Washington Avenue, weaving in an out of construction mayhem, and clouds of grit and sand kicked up in the wind from the road work. This seems to add fury to Oakley’s mood. “This was your idea, this whole bike thing. I never wanted to do it. I won’t go!” he yells over the sound of jackhammers and traffic. His biking is becoming more erratic, and I realize that we need to deal with this before we get to the shop and attempt to be socially appropriate. I pull into a parking lot and signal for him to join me and park his bike. We sit on a curb a bit away from the road.
“This is just dumb,” he mutters. “Why can’t I be like other kids and just go to high school. I don’t like biking, you do.”
I feel defeated, but I sit there and listen. This isn’t the first time that Oakley had voiced anger over the choices we have made as parents. His fury over having to participate in sports, play an instrument, attend forced-family-fun activities, and do homework, comes on hot and fast. I want to validate him, but I am also aware that he would likely opt out of all structured activities if given a choice and partake solely in what we call Idiot Glee — when his physical activities rise to a hysterical pitch. We try to make room for this in his life to an extent, but as Twain frequently says, “Oakley needs a firm hand on the tiller.”
Once again, I take the time to explain to Oakley why we are taking this trip and all the benefits. Getting away from the jackhammering and construction seems to quiet him as much as my words.
I am not sure he can completely comprehend that this isn’t “just a bike trip,” and it isn’t just for me. I am afraid of this bike trip. Afraid to leave my family and the comfort of my home. Afraid to close my business and have to reinvent a career when we return. Afraid of camping alone with him for three months. But I am more afraid of not going.
As Oakley transitions solidly into a teenager, the repercussions for his impulsive behavior and emotional deregulation take on a new weight. We need to break some patterns to help him reach adulthood healthy and intact. It isn’t always pretty and can seem controlling and heavy-handed to some but, when you are trying to lasso a runaway bull, you can’t pussyfoot around it.
It isn’t long before his fury subsides and he is able to acknowledge that getting away from schedules, rushing, and lists, and the idea of perhaps biking by bison, rather than orange cones and blaring horns, does sound intriguing. He can even voice that he is struggling to make good decisions. Eventually, he cools down enough to continue on to the shop.
We arrive at the Gear Hub, and I begin talking to Bryan about bike racks. Oakley wanders about fingering stoves, tents, panniers and associated touring gear. “Mom, look at this!” he calls again and again as he notices all the little accoutrements that would be good to have on our trip. Before I know it, his mood has swung 180 degrees, and he is exclaiming about how fun it will be to start our adventure. Life with him is an emotional rollercoaster and often leaves me exhausted.
When we finally arrive at the Cape Cod Rail Trail, Oakley takes off like a rocket, as I knew he would. His legs power up and down, and he quickly outdistances me. A flock of wild turkeys has congregated on the path. The males have their tales fanned, out and the females are coquettishly prancing around them. Again, Oakley must screech to a halt. “Look at the turkeys,” he calls. I zoom up behind him. As I do, a rabbit is flushed out from the bushes and joins the turkeys. It freezes long enough for us to marvel at its huge, white fluffy tail and twitchy whiskers. “He is so cute!” Oakley has obviously forgotten how much he hates biking. “This is awesome! I am going to see how many miles I can go no-handed.” He is off again. The dark fury inside him has been extinguished as he moves through the outdoors burning his energy and feeling amazed by what he encounters. He cycles one and one-half miles no-handed with panache.
How many times will he shout at me during our cross-America bike adventure “This is the worst idea!”? How many times will he insist he is quitting? Probably as many times as he will say, as he did while we ate our ice cream along the Rail Trail, looking out at the ocean and watching the ships roll by, “This is really fun. My bike is awesome. Watch me do a backflip from that rock.”
“Oh my God, I can’t get this freaking pedal back on! Oaks come here, I need your help!”
“I am busy!” shouts Oakley, from the nearby trampoline where he has just completed his 65th backflip. “Watch me!”
“No Oaks, come now. Please!” Oakley hops down gruffly and stomps over. “Here, try to get this pedal back on. I keep trying, and I can’t screw it in.” I need to attach “Power Grip” toe clips to my pedals so I can push down and pull up with them for added leverage as I climb hills and mountains and my bike’s original pedals won’t accommodate them. I just need to swap them out with another recycled pair. How can it be this hard?
Oakley lightly pushes me out of the way. “Move over.” He is annoyed that I have interrupted his jumping, and he is more than a little sick of bicycles, but also a little proud that I needed his help with something mechanical. He tries once–no go–he tries again– “It’s stripped!” he pronounces, and drops the offending pedal on the deck. In seconds, he has bounced back to the trampoline and has executed backflip number 66. I am in this alone.
It can’t be stripped–it looks perfectly good! I kneel down on the deck and try again and again. I try with slightly different angles. With increased pressure, with a light touch. Nothing. I can’t gain any purchase.
Jesus Christ. I wobble off my knees that have begun to ache from being mashed against the wooden planks of the deck and fall to my bum. This is ridiculous. I can’t even put a pedal on. How am I ever going to get across the country? I think of all the people who have commented online about how I am getting in over my head. Those people don’t even know how mechanically uninclined I am!
I admit it. I am all thumbs, and, as I have previously mentioned, not at all detail-oriented. Even trying to tighten the brakes of my bicycle often gives me busted knuckles. I am clumsy, and, honestly, don’t know my left from my right, am one-eyed with no depth perception, and have a tendency to rush in a most unhelpful way. This is going to be tough, but I won’t give up, no matter what!
I crawl back up to my knees and try again two more, three more times….. then I give up.
“Oaks!” I call, “I am walking to the bike shop.” With my head hung low I coast down the hill to Brad’s Bikes. When I arrive, Brad is in the front yard tuning up one of his rentals.
“What’s up?” he says with a wry grin, noticing my obvious discomfort as I stand there, bike in one hand, pedal in the other.
“Brad, I am so embarrassed. This is humiliating. I can’t even put on a pedal.” Brad knows all about this upcoming bike trip. He has been nothing but supportive. I hand him the pedal. He takes it and shakes his head.
“This isn’t humiliating. This is learning.” He explains that one bike pedal is threaded clockwise and the other threaded counterclockwise, so I had been trying to screw one of them in backward the whole time. This is so the pedal won’t unwind itself. He laughs, but kindly as always. In no time at all, we attach the pedal, and I ride back home. Problem solved.
I do worry about my shortcomings on this trip. I do acknowledge that I am a bit half-cocked. I am sure that about Oaks will send me straight to crazy town, but, I will carry Brad’s words with me.
This isn’t humiliating; it’s learning. Fenders come next.
Recently, biking has become the fulcrum of my life. I am riding, writing and talking about it more than I ever thought possible. I am currently riding three times a week with an assortment of folks. Each ride is about 20-30 miles, nothing crazy, just super fun.
Once a week I go with Oakley. These rides are going really well. I can feel us becoming a team; our communication is improving, we are working better and better together and our mutual excitement about our trek across America is on the rise. These rides are fast and hard — he sets the pace and then yells at me that we are going too fast. We keep reminding each other that we don’t need to race across the country.
Once a week I ride with my husband Twain. These are sweet rides. They are not overly taxing and usually end with a beer somewhere. We meet after work and use them as an excuse to get away from the monotony of the work-week, pretending that it is in the name of exercise.
And once a week I ride with a motley crew of rag-tag bikers from Peaks Island, Maine, and the surrounding area. We meet every Wednesday off of the 6:15 am ferry and hit the roads before traffic builds for the morning commute. We are not trying to break any records — rather our mission is to enjoy some comeraderie and get out in the spring freshness. Anyone who wants to join us is welcome.
Being immersed in all this biking has put me in touch with all manner of bike nerds. Don’t get me wrong I LOVE BIKE NERDS! I am not a researcher, and they are my best source of information and how-to. Besides, the truth is, I love nerds of all types; bird nerds, math nerds, music nerds, news nerds, bowling nerds… Nerds are just passionate people pursuing their interests and engaging fully in them. They are far more interesting to me than those trying to be cool.
The advice these bike nerds have bestowed upon me has been incredibly varied and often contradictory. I have been told: to get toe baskets for my pedals and to invest in clip-on bike shoes; to buy Kevlar tires to avoid flats and to have Oakley become well versed in bike maintenance by repairing three flats a week; to get pepper spray for wild dogs we encounter along the way and to carry a tennis racket for bopping them on the nose; to wear chamois-lined bike shorts for protection from saddle sores and to not wear bike shorts at all in the hopes of increasing air flow to my nether-regions; to pack all my outfits in separate plastic bags to help with organization and tidiness and to only bring one change of clothes to cut down on weight. I have been told to bring parachute cloth for emergency bivouacs and to forgo a stove to reduce bulk. I have been told to increase my speed by getting ceramic bearings and to cart my dog Cricket with me in a Burly bicycle trailer. The list is endless, and I eat it up. I am sure I will follow nearly everyone’s advice at one time or another.
I have found that these bike nerds giving me tips come in multiple varieties. First, there are the Gear Head Bike Nerds. These enthusiasts have the latest and greatest available bike gear for which they have paid top dollar. They are often seen on the road covered head-to-toe in spandex with wraparound sunglasses and aerodynamic helmets. Their tires are razor thin and their bikes weigh next to nothing. They blow by me and leave me huffing and puffing in their wake.
Second, come the Hipster Bike Nerds. They can be identified by their tall dark socks and earth-toned outfits accompanied perhaps by a clever, ironic tee-shirt. They love bicycles with personality. These are the beautiful bicycles with sleek frames and subtle tones, leather wrapped handlebars, and retro saddles. Hipster Bike Nerds frequently purchase their bikes from individuals sellers and have lovingly restored them to meet their specifications and eye for the aesthetic.
Third, come the Commuter Bike Nerds. They are recognizable at a glance due to the fact that they almost always have some sort of elastic around their ankle to keep their trouser cuffs from getting caught up in their chain or getting covered with grease. They either carry a backpack or a pannier to hold their lunches and other work-related paraphernalia. Often they are seen wearing windbreakers or dayglow vests to keep them safe amongst the more inhospitable commuter traffic.
Fourth, come the Collector Bike Nerds. These people love bikes for the mechanical genius inherent in them as much as they love riding them. The often have 8 to 10 bikes lovingly stored in their sheds and garages and can pick just the right one for any given situation. They may have a bike with snow-tires, the bike they rode when they were 20, a foldable bike, a mountain bike, a racing bike, a touring bike — the full gamut. They never let a bike go but rather keep them archived with stories about their histories and significance at the ready.
Fifth, there are the Sunday-Driver Bike Nerds. These guys are only seen cycling in fine weather. They are not fast, because what would be the point? They poke-along, chatting with fellow riders and stop often to smell the roses. They can be seen cruising along on their heavy, drop-down cross-barred bicycles made for easy on/off access, complete with a basket carrying a bottle of water and perhaps a good library book. They wear overalls, linen pants, jeans or even skirts and have no concern that they may break a sweat.
Sixth, there are those folks out there who love their bikes because they are the only wheels they have. These people either don’t have a license or a car and have fitted out their bikes to haul themselves– and a great deal of stuff, around. They often are seen with converted child trailers laden with various personal belongings or shopping bags swinging perilously close to the front spokes of their handlebars. They are out rain or shine, just doing what they have to do.
Lastly, there are the Fun-Time Bike Nerds — recognized by their sturdy bikes of either the mountain or BMX variety. They are simply playing; jumping curbs, skidding out, hopping boulders, whooshing far too fast down enormous hills and generally yee-hawing throughout their rides. They are excitement-driven, full of exuberance and spunk. Their bikes are often bashed up, covered with battle scars, each a point of pride with a suitable story attached.
I am sure there are more. All these nerds really share one thing and that is simply that knowledge that bikes are awesome. They are fun, practical, environmentally friendly and good for you. Sometime this summer, a friend and I are planning to organize a bike mob. We are inviting all types of bike nerds to come together on a hot summer evening in July and take over the streets of Portland, Maine, to ride together simply sharing what we love. We are hoping for a bike mob. Bike Nerds Unite!
Details to follow. Meanwhile — keep the advice coming.
My mother is disabled. She has been paralyzed since she was 42 when her light-blue VW bus was struck by another vehicle while stopped at an intersection. Her body flew through the front windshield, and she was declared dead at the scene. She wasn’t. She had seven children all under 14 and we needed her. I was three.
I don’t remember much from that time, just a string of well-meaning neighbors and relatives and a lot of frozen lasagna. I do remember visiting her in the hospital on her birthday later that summer. My father had to sneak me in because no children were allowed in the ICU, and I hid under his trench coat so that no one would see me. When I saw her, she was immobilized in a hospital bed and was dressed from head to toe in pale green hospital apparel. She looked shockingly weak. I remember her smiling at me. I was afraid that she would never come home.
After months of hospitalization and rehabilitation, she did come home. The accident caused her to permanently lose the use of her right arm, left leg, diaphragm and neck mobility. Breathing was difficult, and she often became out of breath just from trying to read out loud to me. She couldn’t walk. She couldn’t cough. She couldn’t write. She couldn’t kneel. She couldn’t carry things. She couldn’t do many of the many activities that had comprised her life. And she had seven children, did I mention that?
Against all odds, as time passed, she started walking. I am not sure how it was possible, but my understanding is that she retrained different muscles in her body to compensate for those that could no longer work. At first, the walks were short, but they got progressively longer until eventually, she could poke along for several blocks. She learned to write left-handed. She learned to knit with one hand and has created countless beautiful pieces. She relearned to drive with a special knob on the steering wheel. She relearned to swim by holding on to little floaties. She is a fantastic cook and learned to utilize all manner of cool, one-handed contraptions to help her navigate her way in the kitchen. She seemed to refuse to give anything up. But all this was lost on me because I couldn’t remember her any different.
By the time I was six, I had become well-versed in pushing her wheelchair, and I would torment her by pushing her over grates that opened to the subway far below and laugh and laugh as she would shriek in fear. Sounds mean, right? But, to me, there was nothing wrong with her. I was just teasing, and she seemed to be playing along. Her disability was as normal as any mother’s slightly annoying, but endearing habit. As I got older I would push that wheelchair down bumpy, forested paths up and over all manner of tree roots and gravel. She would groan good naturedly and hold on tight with her good hand. She has been launched from that thing several times and is always trying to find a wheelchair more suitable for all-terrain travel. Just last year I pushed her through a jungle in Mexico so that we could see Mayan ruins. It can’t be comfortable, all that jostling and jarring, but she always wants to go.
I cut her no slack. She cuts herself no slack. Today she is 87.
I only have one memory of my mother before her accident. I am sitting on a metal folding seat, attached to the back of my mother’s black, clunky Schwinn. The seat is covered with a blue-plaid vinyl. It has little metal armrests and a small backrest. Not at all safe by today’s standards. My legs dangle freely below. I kick them forward and back. My mother’s legs are pedaling up and down, and her butt is in my face. It swishes a little, side to side. I don’t mind. Her efforts are creating a nice breeze, and the landscape whizzes by. Green grass, suburban lawns, huge maple trees. She is talking and laughing with my father who is on a matching bike.
I know there must be some connection between my mother’s internal drive and my quest to remain physical and engaged with life. She could have given up so many times, but she didn’t. She still doesn’t. She is hauling herself up to an island in Maine from Philadelphia for a visit again this summer. The trip involves a lot of logistics and not everything is handicapped-accessible in the little cottages she rents. Her mobility is decreasing and little tasks are getting more difficult, but she’ll be damned if she is going to stay home and sit around. She doesn’t want to miss out!
My bike, the bike that I am riding across the country on, is a purple KHS Cross Sport and is a little too big for me, but I’ll grow into it. It is the smoothest bike I have ever ridden. I don’t know why.
A few days ago, my mom and I went on what she called our first “Training ride” with one of her friends and two of my friends. The bike ride wasn’t too far and it was a nice day, so I said “Yes.”
We took a ferry from Peaks Island to Portland and started riding from there. We biked through downtown Portland to a bridge that crosses the Fore River and goes over tankers and container ships. It connects Portland to South Portland. We stopped by my friend’s house for a brief second to pick them up. While we were there we watched some ducks mate. There were two male mallards fighting over the female. It was really rough. Anyway…
When we got back on the road, we went all the way out to this place called The Black Point Inn on Prout’s Neck. To get there you bike by beaches and a boatyard, still quiet from the winter. Prout’s Neck is a point of land that sticks out in the ocean. We passed many marshes with beautiful views. When we arrived at the end of the tip we took a short break. I was not tired, just a little sweaty.
After some water, we turned to head back towards my friend’s house. We took off ahead of our parents and beat them by at least a half an hour because we took a short cut on the way back. I didn’t tell my mother.
The ride ended up being around 20 miles. Before the bike ride, my mom told me to be prepared to be incredibly sore the next day. Guess what? I’m not sore at all.
I lied. I am not 50. I am 49 and 11/12ths. I thought I could dodge the reality of it by claiming the age before it actually happened. You know, like own it. It didn’t work.
Forty-nine and 11/12ths feels a little frightening. I can remember 20 years ago easily and see 20 years into the future just as well. I want to get the most out of every day, but at the same time, I am so tired that it is hard to find the motivation to do much sometimes. I like to be comfortable, eat good food and sleep in a cozy bed. I want and need adventure but I have come to love a tidy bed and breakfast.
Forty-nine and 11/12ths is sore. It hurts in the ankles and the hips. It makes it a bit harder to defy gravity, a bit harder to keep up with my children and it makes it take a bit longer to recover from exercise. No, actually not a bit, a lot. Often, I am nursing an injury from some form of physical exercise. Oh my back, oh my feet, oh my knees… not doing too much isn’t about being a wimp anymore; it is about being prudent so that I don’t become physically incapacitated.
Forty-nine and 11/12ths is pudgy, for me anyway. It requires eating less than is fair if I want to stay fit. It means daily advertisements on my computer about the “Ketogenic diet”, “Unwanted belly fat” and “The Noom Diet Plan: A Whole New Approach”. Shut up, for God’s sake. Forty-nine and 11/12ths makes me have to work physically harder for less payback. It is watching my skin lose its elasticity and noticing that the bags under my eyes don’t go away after a good night’s rest. Forty-nine and 11/12ths feels moody.
I guess reality is setting in. It has been a fantastic winter diversion to write about this great adventure I am planning. I feel so accomplished, and I so full of braggart and swagger that I can almost imagine that I have already completed our cross-country ride! But I haven’t. The truth is, I have so much to do before I leave and then so many miles to cover and I am a bit overwhelmed and frightened.
I will be closing my private practice counseling business when I leave and hopefully embarking on a whole new career when I return. I don’t know what it will be, but I know I want to try something different because, why not? One life doesn’t need to equal one career. This is exciting, but adds to my anxiety about this adventure and all the change it brings getting ever closer.
But, here is the good news about 49 and 11/12ths. I have learned a lot. Even if I might long to opt for Netflix and the couch and a steady predictable routine, I realize that that is not enough for me. There is this world that I want to experience, and even if this life change and bike trip creates what seems like an unnecessary struggle , it is necessary for me to feel fully engaged in life.
Forty-nine and 11/12ths has also taught me that for all my moaning, being uncomfortable physically and emotionally is not a thing to be avoided. In fact, it is usually a good indicator that I am not giving up too soon. I suppose it could mean that I am injured or in danger, but more often it is just a sort of growing pain. I do still want to grow.
So, I need to get serious. Time to start training and acquiring all the necessary gear. We need sleeping bags and pads, panniers and racks, headlights and stoves, battery packs and raingear, a home schooling plan for Oakley and I am sure a whole lot more.
I guess it seems fairly obvious that this trip is really not just for Oakley. It is for both of us so that we can stay energized about life and wake ourselves up from the routine of suburban living and some of the less healthy patterns and habits have developed. I need to remember some things, and he needs to learn them.
Don’t let that charm fool you“Oakley, you need to behave!” Twain says. “I am BEING have!” shouts Oaks.
Writing about Oakley is complicated. I am choosing to share these stories because I believe that sharing the messy parts of our lives is important. We tend not to talk about money, or mental health or our big fears, and I think this can lead to confusion, lost opportunities for understanding, and isolation. So I tend to be a blabber mouth.
When Oakley was young there were times that I felt alone in our experience. We often couldn’t participate in activities with other families. No story hour, no children’s museum, no zoos (he once literally climbed in the cage of a huge elk stag and I couldn’t coax him out) and no dinners at friends’ houses. He would create mayhem wherever we went and it was too exhausting. I remember walking down the parenting aisle in the library looking for books that might help normalize what we were going through, but I was never terribly successful.
This blog isn’t a “tell all” account of our lives. I am trying to respect Oakley’s privacy and will always run these stories by him. But I am hoping that by exposing our challenges and triumphs, someone reading this might feel like they have kindred spirits and that might make their journey a little easier.
Oakley’s Story
“What makes you think there is a problem?“asks the pediatric developmental specialist.
“He just doesn’t stop,” I respond. “Ever.” Oakley is 1 and a 1/2. He is as cute as they come, with white-blond hair hanging in ringlets down to his shoulders and blue-green, orb-like eyes. He is sitting on my lap straddling my legs and facing me, playing with the zipper on my fleece jacket as I speak with the doctor. He zips it up. He zips it down. Again. And again. And again — 50 times, 100 times.
“I see,” says the doctor. Oakley laughs and continues. Up and down. Up and down. “We should run some tests.”
Oakley was an exuberant puzzle of a child, and he still is. He is my fourth child, and I thought that I had a handle on the parenting thing until he came along. He seemed plucked from outerspace and put in my arms with a wink from fate, as if Oakley was the punch line in a wonderful joke. That was the look that he had on his face from the day he came to us. “Watch me! I will make you laugh and cry at the same time! It is a special trick.” And then he would devilishly grin.
He was terribly naughty. He had Pika a disorder, in which you are driven to eat non-food items, and would eat everything he found. Toothpaste, shaving cream, dog food, sand, flowers, and mud. He would lock himself in the bathroom and feast on whatever he could find. We had poison control on speed dial, and I remember asking them shakily after what seemed like the 30th call if they kept a record of the calls. The answer is yes.
In a way, it was probably fortunate that he had Pika because of another issue. Oakley was severely asthmatic. He was given the nickname Huffle-Puff early on because you could hear his steam-engine-like breathing from 50 feet away. We set up his nebulizer next to a tiny rocking chair, and he would inhale his vaporized asthma medication through an oxygen mask while rocking maniacally back and forth, like Dennis Hopper in Blue Velvet. He would be grinning and drooling as he huffed away, completely unfazed, but others who heard him were always aghast. Twice one of his lungs collapsed. In the process of attempting to find out whether his allergies were the cause of his asthma, he was put on a combination of goat milk, fish oil, and several supplements that are normally given in gel capsules, but which we would painstakingly slice open and pour into his potion. You have never tasted anything so vile. He loved it.
In an effort to reign in his hyperactivity and impulsivity, we turned to intensive occupational therapy. He was prescribed several sensory diets from various professionals. Treatments included wrapping him in a sheet and swinging him in what looked like a cocoon hammock, wearing a weighted vest, sleeping with a weighted blanket, listening with huge globular headphones to deep-bass, rhythmic beats as he went about his day, having him wear a sombrero and sunglasses to reducestimulation, smushing him under couch cushions, encouraging him to drink oatmeal like substances through a straw to stimulate certain pressure points in his jaw, massage with and without brushing, jumping on trampolines and hugging him, a lot.
He continued to run away constantly. Not little, cute running away, but serious, “where-the-hell-is-he?” running away. We kept our doors locked from the inside and spring loaded. We locked his bedroom door at night from the outside, but still, the clever rascal would see every opportunity and take it. He wore a medical ID bracelet with his name and address in case he was found by someone else. He wore an alarmed harness that we could activate if he wandered off. But still, despite our best efforts and because a girl has to go to the bathroom or has to pay attention to another child, he would get away.
On his walkabouts, as we came to call them, he would get into many dangerous situations. I found him one day methodically visiting every garage in the neighborhood and pouring cans of gasoline all over lawnmowers and the floors. ( I never told anybody because I was so embarrassed. I simply grabbed him and ran home. I still feel guilty about this.) I caught him chest deep in a pond in South Carolina that was inhabited by alligators, while chaperoning my other son’s field trip. (I was asked to no longer sign up for this responsibility.) I found him sitting in strangers’ cars and pretending to drive with the doors locked, grinning wildly. We found him locked inside a porta-potty, unrolling all the toilet paper to make a big white nest, his belly laughter echoing off the inner walls. We begged and pleaded with him to come out while a line of people wanting to use it formed outside, none of them very impressed by our parenting. He ran away from his nursery school and into a swarm of bees. His teacher reported to me that she was secretly glad it happened, as she thought it might make him think twice before he ran away again. It was the lesser of potentially bad consequences. I found him on the roof, having climbed up and out of our fenced-in yard. It never ended.
He also lied. Told stretchers. He told his nursery school teacher that he had found a dead body in his room (“blood all over”), but that his mother had cleaned up the mess. He blamed every naughty thing on his imaginary friend “Somebody”. Somebody covered the inside of the car in permanent marker. Somebody set the mice free. Somebody emptied all the spices on the floor. He told his friends it was his birthday when it wasn’t and reaped the benefits with delight.
Not only was Oakley a danger to himself, he had rage. That was not fun. He would not let us change his diaper unless we pinned him to the floor with our knees. He wouldn’t let us get him dressed, and when we did he would just tear off his clothes, so he spent much of his time naked. He would tantrum in public on a level comparable to the Tasmanian Devil.
There were many days that Twain and I were overwhelmed and would declare that our lifestyle was not sustainable. But we were in love with him. So we kept chasing him when he ran away and today he still loves adventure. We kept those headphones with the rhythmic beats on him and today he loves drumming. We bought him a full-size trampoline at three-years-old despite potential risks and today, he still jumps and twists and flips and has an incredible kinesthetic ability. I think the hugging helped, but that is not as measurable.
I am not saying we were award-winning parents. I became a yeller and one could literally watch Twain recede into his own world when it all became too much. Today, we still can’t leave Oakley home alone because he is still overly impulsive and has a tendency towards the naughty. He still tells stretchers. Life with him is like playing a never-ending game of “Two Truths and a Lie”. He still has the need for constant stimulation and loves risky activities. He still has rage, but only towards his parents when we try to set limits. Some things haven’t changed.
His story isn’t over, and we are constantly having to troubleshoot how to navigate life with a guy like him, so that all his traits can be strengths, not liabilities. That is part of the impulse behind this bike ride. That and, conveniently, it is something that I have always wanted to do. Lucky me. Lucky him? Lucky us.
What is not to love?Trying to meet Little Houdini where he is at.
