Bikemum

This week marks a year since Oakley and I returned from our three month cycling trip across the United States, and to celebrate… we signed a book contract!

“Changing Gears” will be out sometime next year. It will chronicle many of Oakley’s and my adventures, but also dive deeper into parenting, finding hope in the face of challenge and the importance of committing to what is important in one’s life.

I am incredibly lucky to have gotten the chance to take this adventure and to write this book and to get to feel the way I do. I am also incredibly grateful for all the support I have received along the way. The editor from the publishing agency that signed my book told me that the ongoing interest in my blog tipped the scales in favor of publishing me. I know the support I have received tipped the scales in favor of much more than that. So, thank you. Really.

As Oakley and I began our recent Wednesday Adventure, tensions were running high. We sea-kayaked around Casco Bay and visited a few islands, trying to take advantage of the warm ocean temperatures while we have them. It was a mostly silent paddle. Not that there is anything wrong with that. In fact, I welcomed it.

We have been together nearly 24 hours a day since Covid-19 began and with Oakley’s learning profile, distance learning means having your mother at zero distance away. This makes for some friction between us. I get it, he is 17 and there I am, telling him to turn the page, sit back down, pay attention and get off his phone throughout the school day and beyond. What could be more annoying?

To top it off, I spend my days watching his jittery knees stuffed under his desk and see his muscles literally quiver like a horse fighting off flies as he tries to manage to stay still. I see him flip his hair and scratch at his skin as if this experience is causing a terrible rash. It is painful to watch. When it all gets too much he lashes out. He yells often, sometimes it is pointed at me, but more often it is just into the air, like frustration overload.

This period of time reminds me of the wind in Kansas. It was relentless and day after day it would pummel us, turning our eyes grainy and red, throwing grit in our mouths and making any forward gain cost four times the effort it should have. Boy, did we get on each other’s nerves then! I remember Oakley shouting at me and me shouting back and then apologizing to each other many times a day. It seemed like it would never end. That we would never get anywhere.

I also remember the moments when we would awake to silence in the morning, in the lull before the daily wind blew up, and the quiet would feel so loud. It was as if you could hold it. We savored it.

Now on our paddle, I hear that same quiet and realize that sometimes our adventures are just that, respites from the relentlessness of the wind, from red-rimmed computer eyes, from stagnation, from the frustration of trying so hard and seeming to get nowhere, and from all the crazy making annoyances that we experience as we slog our way through the time of Covid.

I will take the quiet. I will hold it. I will use it to mentally prepare for the next big wind. Maybe that is what Oakley is doing up there ahead in his boat, as he tries hard to put some distance between us.

Today we chose canoeing as our adventure. We paddled from Peaks Island to a few islands nearby in Casco Bay. We explored an old military fort on one and strolled through a summer community on another. Pretty tame by Oakley’s standards, but lovely to be out on the water none-the-less. As we wrapped up our morning, Oakley seemed a bit nonplussed.

“Oakley, let’s cut through here.”

“No mom, that is someone’s back yard!”

“There is no one here. It is just a little short cut. They won’t care.”

“Mom! No! Stop! I am not coming.”

“Oakley, do you not know how to sneak? Be quiet. Stop yelling.”

“No! I am not following you!”

Stealthily, I continued, making a wide berth through the backyard of a large clapboard summer house on Great Diamond Island. Oakley and I have taken a wrong turn and to get back to our canoe, we either needed to backtrack or take a quick short cut across this backyard and along the side of an inlet covered in salt marsh grasses. It is a race: back to the canoe before the tide comes in and takes it. I opt for the short cut. I know Oakley will follow, so I don’t give his grousing any more attention.

When I reach the end of the yard and step onto the mud that covers the inlet, I feel victorious. The owner of the home did not appear and we have shaved 10 minutes off our hike back to the boat. Sure enough, Oakley steps up behind me. “See,” I say smugly, “Much shorter.” Oakley grunts in return.

We move across the muddy flat, jumping from one grass clump to another to avoid rivulets of water running down from the shore to the sea. As we travel, the clumps get farther apart and the rivulets turn into small streams. I can see a solid land bridge that we can walk on just ahead so I keep hopping, despite the growing difficulty. “Mom, this isn’t going to work.”

“Sure it will!” I say with a pathological optimism. To prove my point, I jump onto what looks like firm mud in front of me, intending to skip ahead, but there is no skipping. There is only sinking. “Oaks!” I shout as I lurch forward trying to outpace the grip of the pluff mud quickly encircling my toes, then my foot, then my ankle. “Oaks!”

Too late. He has also left the safety of the salt grasses and is ankle deep in his own muddy mire. Somehow though, he is hopping through it with the spring of a cat. I try to emulate him and pull my feet up out of the sucking mud. No go. First I lose one shoe, then the other. I have no choice but to reach down and dig them out. Mud now covers me from foot to knee and hand to elbow. I hold my shoes and continue on barefoot.

Now Oakley is laughing. He is up ahead on a small beach and has waded knee deep in the ocean to rinse off his sneakers, socks, and pant legs. “I told you it wasn’t a good idea! You should have listened! You never listen!”

When I reach him, I, too, wade into the water in my pants to wash off. This mud has a pungency that we will carry with us until we find a soapy shower. It smells of salt and decay, clams and kelp, fish and sand. Much better than what our computer screens at home smell like.

With wet britches and gnawing hunger, we head to our canoe and paddle the rest of the way home under a beautiful warm October sun.

Rain batters the windows and wind gusts through the yard whipping the fall leaves into a frenzy, knocking down our sunflowers and dropping our tomatoes from the vine. It is Wednesday, Adventure Wednesday, and the weather is not cooperating.

Never-the-less, we have thrown our hats over the wall, and have even received special permission to miss school on Wednesdays in the name of outdoor education, so outside we must go.

I survey the bikes, imagining a wild wet ride through the woods, but lucky for Oaks, they have all simultaneously fallen into disrepair. We have been plagued by three flat tires, one bent derailleur and a snapped chain, all in the past week. I consider canoeing alongside the lee of the island, but after a quick recon to view the frothing, tumultuous waters, I heed to caution.

Then it hits me. Orienteering. We will grab our compasses and hit the woods. “Let’s go, Oaks!” We don our rain gear, inhale a hardy snack and I show him how following a compass works. Oaks seems intrigued. This is old fashioned adventuring. We talk about people who have crossed the country and the ocean using compasses. It is our challenge today to merely cross our island.

We look at a map of Peaks and take a bearing on a point directly East from our home-Whale Back Ledge. All we need to do is head off at 90 degrees, and after an hour or two we will find ourselves standing upon it looking out to sea.

We begin by leap frogging. Oakley holds the compass while I run forward and stand 90 degrees from him. He then runs to me and hands me the compass and I send him ahead keeping him in a direct line. We do this over and over.

It isn’t long before we leave the comfort of our road and head into the woods. We clamber over slippery, fallen trees, through tangles of bittersweet and pricker bushes. We find a raccoon den, stir up some frogs and sneak in and out of peoples back yards that happen to be on our path.
There can be no variation from 90 degrees, private property be damned.

“Okay mom, you go.” I set out on my turn to forge ahead. I pick my way gingerly, moving vines and branches out of my way, cautious of slippery rocks and getting a stick in the eye. “Keep going, keep going. Now to your left, two more steps. Perfect, now freeze.” Oakley bounds to where I am.

He is wearing shorts and I notice that he has scratched up his legs. Trickles of blood run through his leg hair, smearing in the spitting rain and interweaving with the mud that we have kicked up as we crossed boggy areas. Pieces of wet leaves and dirt stick to his forehead and his sodden hair hangs heavy. “Now it is my turn. Tell me when to stop. This is fun.” He says.

I wonder if he knows that these words are like candy to me. After battling with him over distance learning and watching him stare at the computer for hour upon hour, seeing him out here smiling in the woods is probably as cathartic for me as it is for him.

When I catch up with him, several leap frogs later, I find that he is standing in a grove of poison ivy. It is thigh high, and practically wrapped around his legs like a skirt.“Oaks, you are standing in poison ivy!” He is nonplussed.

“It’ll be fine.” He says. “Why do you always worry?” We should probably stop and run back home to scrub him down with soap and water, but neither of us want to quit. I choose to believe him. I guess we will see whether his smile was truly worth it in a day or so.

After two and a half hours we make it across the island and are greeted at Whaleback ledge with the return of the warm sun shining off the rolling surf. We stroll back home along the road planning for next weeks fun and hoping Oakley’s legs survive this week’s adventure.

I have started commuting to work. I roll out of bed, stagger to the coffee pot, limp around the block with my dog, and I am off. My bike is parked out front, crammed in a shed with nine other assorted steeds: mountain bikes, hybrids, three speeds, and pedal brakers. I free it from the tangle of pedals and spokes, strap on my helmet, and coast down the road.

At first, I question this choice. There has got to be an easier way to get to work, but I know that this is the way to get to happiness. I start to pedal.

I pass dog walkers and neighbors hustling to the ferry. I pass parents driving their kids to school, and I pass construction workers, runners, and grocklers. Sweat begins to bead lightly on my brow.

After a mile or two the houses on the island become more spread apart, and, instead of manicured lawns, I find myself cycling up wooded hills, and around granite outcroppings. I sail by stands of salt marsh grasses, rustling with bowing Pampas and righteous cattails, then alongside a sleepy pond before finally reaching the rocky coast.

Today, the waves rise up showing their glowing, aqua underbellies before crashing down upon the jagged shore line. One after the other rolls in and up, having no intention of ever stopping. The sky seems to reach down and pull the ocean up to meet in a crisp distant line on the horizon. There are lobster boats and seagulls, cormorants and kelp all bobbing about in the water. The wind blows strong and my breath now matches the rhythm of the waves, long and low.

A mile or two later, I reach home again. I nod at my front door, and then look away and continue. One more lap. This time around I meet the same passersby with an embarrassed smile. I imagine they think I’ve lost my mind. “There she goes again; she must have bats in her belfry. She is like a hamster in a wheel. A horse chafing at the bit.” Maybe I am, but that isn’t so bad is it? It gets me out here.

After a total of nine miles, I pull into my yard again and park my bike with all its compatriots. I am sweaty and my legs feel soft. I jog up the steps and up to the second floor bathroom, where my computer sits on its makeshift desk. I splash some water on my face, redo my ponytail, and turn it on.

Six hours later, I turn it off. I trot downstairs and repeat the morning’s routine, minus the coffee. I have to get home somehow.

This is no cross-country epic adventure, but I am going to keep going anyhow, because the alternative is not to, and life is too beautiful for that.

Covid-19 has begun to feel like a heavy, wet blanket weighing down my soul, and I am one of the fortunate. One of the privileged. I get to run around outside, visit with friends in a respectfully distanced way, and I remain healthy, as do my loved ones. I am not struggling financially and I am not isolated. My children are with me and I am employed.

HOWEVER, I feel that I am experiencing something akin to blunt trauma. The news that comes across my newsfeed every day is sickening. Disasters and atrocities seem to roll in with relentless, wave-like crashing. From ugly politics to social injustice and from environmental horror to the piling losses that we are experiencing due to this pandemic. It feels as though we may be drowning.

I continue to conduct my mental health counseling practice out of my upstairs bathroom. I Zoom with full caseload of clients every week while Oakley, my 17 year old son, bandies around the neighborhood cooking up mischief. Nothing terrible, just a lot of reckless wandering, looking for excitement and coming up with less than great ideas.

Recently, his school district has decided that four days a week, school classes will be held virtually. That means that he will be staring at a computer screen for hours upon hours every day. I can see the wan look on his face now, the slumped shoulders, the rummy computer eyes and apathetic gait that will begin to inhabit his body. We are all trying our best, but this is not a pretty scene.

So, despite. Despite all this doom and gloom, I, in my most annoying way, will push forward. Much to Oakley’s dismay, I am kicking off what will now be known as Adventure Wednesdays. Wednesdays are the one day that Oakley will not have school and I will have a free schedule and we will simply adventure. We will break out of our routines and off our island to sally forth into the wilds. We will road bike, mountain bike, hike, cross country ski, boat, and everything and anything else we can think of. We will try to find beauty, wake up our spirits, and remember that there is always good and hope and fun in this world. We will go every week regardless of the weather. We have to.

Wednesday Number One-Mountain Biking at Bradbury Mountain

Our bikes skitter and jump and squeak as we maneuver them over rocks and roots and mud holes. Oakley is in front of me, of course he is. He effortlessly hops atop tall rounded boulders and down what I would call precipices. I grunt behind him, biting my lips and amazing myself every time I feel the muscles in my legs allowing me to crest a hill. Oakley is very strong, and although I will never be near his equal, I feel more capable physically than I ever have before and I am 51! Chasing him around over the last few years has really paid off.

I am a sissy though and when we get to sections of the trail involving boardwalks that arc up and over streams or wind, with banking edges around stands of Birch trees, I often stop dead and feel unable to even try. If he falls he bounces, if I fall, I fear I may break a hip. “Come on, mom!” he yells.

“I need to walk this Oaks!” I call back. He is unimpressed. On we go.

The forest here is full of Oaks and Maples, Birch and Pine. There are streams running through it as well as swampy areas, ravines and rocky outcroppings. It is a veritable playground and beautiful to boot. We hear chirping chipmunks, chattering squirrels, and the breaking branches from deer taking flight as we barrel through. It cool and damp today and the air itself looks green.

Oakley waits up for me every 10 minutes. Usually, he has whipped out his phone and is straddling his bike checking on important things. But, this time as I pull up beside him after seven miles of sweaty riding, he is simply resting his arms on the handlebars and taking it all in.

“Mom, it is so pretty here.”

“Yeah, it is.”

“It would be perfect if you had brought snacks.”

“Yeah sorry, next time.” I say feeling my own hollow belly rumbling.

“I am exhausted.”

“Me too.” And we are smiling as ride together to the parking lot.

If that was my report card for our first Adventure Wednesday I would say it was a solid “B”. He noticed it was pretty, we had a lot of fun, and I tired him out. Point off for forgetting the snacks.

If anybody would like to offer ideas for future, inexpensive or free Adventure Wednesday Trips, please let me know in the comment section!

When a baby bee is hatched, actually eats it’s way out of its cell, it crawls around getting to know it’s family. Who is who, where the food is, the the nursery, that kind of thing. When it is comfortable with the hive, it is time to fly off onto the big, exciting dangerous world. To do this, the young take what are known as “orientation flights”.

I have watched them outside the hives in my yard. The fuzzy young poking their heads out of the hive entrance and wiggling their antennas about. If all seems well, they launch themselves into the air. Their first flight is strictly vertical, about a foot up and then quickly back to the safety of the entrance. Then they do it again, two feet this time, then three, then six, then twenty.

It is not because they are being cautious about the world and taking baby steps. They are measuring. They are seeing just where their homes are in relation to everything else so that they can always find it again, no matter how far they eventually adventure seeking sweet nectar and pollen, they will know. They will never get lost. They are mapping it out. (In fact it is said that moving a hive more than two feet from it’s original base can prove too disorienting to a hive and can be its undoing).

I think Oakley and I are out here orientating ourselves, like the bees. We are measuring the world around us, gleefully filling up on new sights and experiences, but always checking and rechecking how to get home. I may not be a baby, but in this huge world, I feel like I am. There is just so much.

We finished our trip today. It was a long, difficult, hilly 60 miles with a fierce headwind chasing yesterday’s storm on up and out of the Champlain valley. My thigh muscles feel twitchy and Oaks looks exhausted, but after 9 days and 450 miles, we are full and ready to go home. (I think this lake is all uphill.)

We have learned on our orientation flight that the world is still a beautiful place despite the fact that it can be ruthless. We have remembered what a good team we are and that we are truly lucky to have each other. We have learned that we both become stronger in many ways when we simply have to be. We have learned how much we have both grown up since last year.

Thank you for reading our stories. Writing helps me make sense of it all. Thank you for your comments, they make us feel supported in the most difficult of times. They make us want to be better. Oakley and I are incredibly lucky and privileged and once again I feel like Frederick the Mouse, full of beauty to last the winter through, until next year’s ride..across Utah?

My husband will pick is up tonight and escort us back to our hive. I miss my hive mates and long to preen everybody’s antennas to get the news. One more night by the side of this beautiful lake back on the Vermont side. One more swim. One more disgusting meal.

I wish everybody well. Time to go feed Oakley.

The rain has finally caught us and rather than fight it we have succumbed. After a soggy breakfast of scrambled eggs and English Muffins on a borrowed porch, (lent by a generous, but unsuspecting trailer resident at our campground, who seemed to be away and will be receiving unexplained good karma wherever they are) we suited up in our full rain gear and headed out.

As we cycled, the rain came from every direction and seemed intent on finding the cracks in our suits. It showered us from the clouds above. It sprayed us from the the side as cars and trucks whizzed by. It splashed us from below as we jostled through gritty puddles, going up our pant legs.

We made it 25 miles and pulled into the Shamrock Inn. We peeled ourselves out of our wet layers and both took delicious warm showers. We snuggled into the bed and watched “The Secret Life of Pets 2” I cried a little at the end. We looked out at the rain. We finished our candy. We looked out at the rain.

“Oakley, there is a cool walk near here. A canyon. Ausable Canyon. We could go.”

“No.”

“I can’t stay in this hotel room anymore. We have our rain suits.”

“No.”

I knew I had no bargaining power. Oakley has done enough and been a good sport throughout this trip. It was horrid outside. Nobody in their right mind would go back out.

“I will pay you 20 dollars.”

Up Oakley bounced, took a 20 from my wallet, climbed back into his slimy rain gear and headed for the door. I could barely keep up.

The canyon was majestic, probably made more so because the river that formed it was roaring through and the rain was roaring down. It was like you could see the rocks being carved before our eyes. Our noses dripped, our feet squelched, our fingers pruned. There was nobody there. We walked and walked, for 12 miles. Our private showing of the power of water.

Now we are back at the Shamrock Inn ready to watch movies late into the night and celebrate our dryness.

Oakley has set up our tent in a lean-to. “It’s going to rain.” he says. I am not so sure. It isn’t raining now, the air is thick, heavy and still. Stagnant. A lean-to does not seem to be the place to be.

As I lie on my mat next to him, I can’t seem to tell where my hot body stops and the humid swampy air starts. The lean-to is stopping any semblance of a breeze from making it’s way in. I stare up into the darkness. Miserable.

I am sickeningly tired, but my body is hijacking me. Perhaps getting me back for working it too hard. It does this sometimes and refuses to rest like a petulant child.

“Mom! You are staring at me!” Oakley complains from his side of the tent.

“No, I’m not. You are having scary mother visions again. I am looking straight up.”

“I can see your eyes!”

“No, you can’t.”

“Mom, you touched me!”

“No, I didn’t. I wouldn’t come near your furnace-like skin if you paid me.”

Finally, I hear Oaks breathing deeply and I know he is asleep. Lucky him. In a bit of a panic I decide I can’t take it any more.

I unzipper my side of the tent and begin flinging out my bedding and my sleeping mat, like an excavating gopher, determined to find a place to sleep with more air flow. I haul it over to the picnic table, clear it of assorted stoves and water bottles and convert it into a bunk.

I climb on board. It is still hot and now I can hear loud music blaring and drunken cavorting our neighboring campers filling the forest around me. Insult to injury. Again, I stare up into the darkness.

Being in my sleeping bag is untenable. I unzip it and throw it off my legs. Mosquitos find me. But so does the puff of a breeze. I will stay here, one ring higher in the Dante’s Descent and let thighs serve as mosquito loaf. I drift off.

For a minute. Soon, I am awakened by little kisses from above, and thunder rolling from far away up the Champlain Lake Valley. It is coming. glorious relief.

I hustle back into the lean-to and into the tent just as the sky opens up. Lightening flashes and illuminates the forest again and again. Thunder roars and cascades of rain dump from the sky. Strong, gusty winds push the thick air out of the way and replace it with sweet clear air. Oakley is awake now too. “ Aren’t you glad that I said we should get a lean-to?”

“Yes,” I said “very.”

And that wind followed us this morning, pushing us farther north up the islands of Lake Champlain. There were white caps that seemed to urge us on. There were little towns with shops that still sell penny candy, of which Oakley enjoyed 12 dollars worth. There were farms and marinas and puff ball clouds.

We made it to Canada and stood outside the border, embarrassed to be uninvited, then turned and started south down through New York.

Somehow still, the wind is at our backs.

Fields of wildflowers opened up on the sides of the road as we cycled by. Cornflowers, Queen Anne’s Lace, Indian Paint Brushes, Buttercups and Pink Clover all swayed in the breeze. Zippy, pert yellow birds darted ahead of us allowing us to give them chase.
We spent the day slipping between raindrops and sneaking under heavily laden clouds, that created a striking contrast to the colorful flowers and birds. When the heck did I get so corny? I must be getting old, but if this is what happens it is not so bad.

Or, it maybe because I am exhausted. We cycled 67 miles today, over rolling hills, around Burlington, Vermont and all the way to the Grand Isle State Park located on one of the islands in the middle of Lake Champlain. It was quite a ride.

Our appetites have kicked in and both of us are eating like bull dozers. We started The morning with an apple-pancake scrambled mash that never quite cooked, ( I think you can’t add hot water to pancake mix) Finding that wholely unsatisfying, we then stopped for custard-filled cinnamon buns and huge breakfast sandwiches on farmer buns. Then came ice cream. Oakley added 2 granola bars and a snickers bar and a coke, as well as, some chocolate covered pretzels. Now we are preparing beans and rice for dinner. The hunger we feel is vast. What a treat to eat with such reckless abandon.

Last week a client of mine and I were discussing her feelings of anxiety. She said she had come to terms with it recently, and almost felt grateful. “If it were not for my anxiety, I would not get to feel brave everyday.” It made her anxiety seem more like her superpower than her liability.

I think Oakley is my super power. Without all his crazy antics and restless energy, and even his misbehavior, I might not have an excuse to be out here. I am so grateful that I do. He is the best excuse ever. Now time to eat…again.

Vermont seems to have taken this adage to heart. Everything here seems to be a celebration of smallness. The towns pivot around independent general stores with hand-crafted signs and creaky floors. Many of the homes have tidy, family sized gardens. The farms are not industrial in size and the fields of corn, hay and wheat, fit easily between wooded streams, not forcing the land to do their bidding, but rather working with it. Many of the dairys have 10 cows or less. There are no billboards, few chain stores and the towns can easily be thought of as villages or hamlets without irony. Even the hills are small. The Green Mountains don’t pretend to be jagged and fierce, they just gently ripple.

(Okay, maybe Middlebury Gap missed the memo on the beauty of smallness with it’s shocking 12 to 15 % grade! That was a doozy!)

Yes, Vermont is lovely. The people are kind and all seem to somehow smile through their face masks. It is rubbing off on Oakley, who has been a shining star of a traveling partner. He is down right joyful and tonight made us dinner AND set up the tent. When I grumbled today about the heat and the hills it was Oakley that said, “Stop complaining. This is beautiful.”

Now, we sit by the side of Lake Champlain, planning our ride up through the chain of islands known as the Grand Isle, to the Canadian border. He is an incredible traveling partner; he will eat anything, is as strong as an ox, deals with druggery, and is a goof ball.

Short and simple tonight, maybe Vermont is rubbing off on me too.