Bikemum

What is it about the combination of sweating fiercely and being in the frigid cold that is so enlivening? This week, Oakley and I conducted a beach tour of the South Portland area in Maine. We biked 44 miles and visited seven beaches; Ferry beach, Pine Point Beach, another Ferry Beach, Scarborough Beach, Higgins Beach, Kettle Cove and Crescent Beach.

The temperature was in the high twenties and although we started out clad in hat, gloves and socks, it wasn’t long before we were stripping off layers and relishing the wisps of cold air that found ways to sneak in through our zippers and down our necks to create delicious breezes over our sweaty bellies and chests.

Bike touring seems to be Oakley and my easy, happy place. There is something about finding a cadence in or peddling that works for both of us. It brings out a reciprocal rhythm in our conversation. It is during these times that he most often opens up and talks to me about important teenage matters. Perhaps, it is because he doesn’t need to look at me when he speaks, or perhaps it is because he can always jet away from me if our discourse gets too intense. (Unlike being stuck in a car with me, when I have been said to be similar to a dog with a bone.)

Today his words flowed freely, and Oakley broached all manner of heavy subjects. I huffed and puffed behind him, wondering if 5 or 6 beaches were actually enough for our grand tour while he pattered on about major life decisions. I was attentive and engaged, but man was I tired.

At every beach we stopped to admire the the ferocity of the sea. There had been a storm last night and the surf was kicked up along the coast. Waves were cresting at six to eight feet tall and crashing down into a grey-white froth with rabid intensity. We oohed and ahhed at every one, jumping up and down and popping clementine wedges and granola bars into our mouths during our short breaks; racing to keep cycling before our sweat had time to freeze.

By the time we were finished, my bum muscles ached from fighting the head winds along the coast and Oakley’s eyes were rimmed red, (From the wind, not from crying!) but both of us were smiling.

I feel incredibly lucky to be on this journey with this kid. He makes me want to scream sometimes and keeps me on hyper alert about what the heck he is up to, but who else would get me out here, chasing after them, ears taut, heart open and hope burning? He is why I didn’t stop at five beaches, because if he wants to keep going…so will I.

Fat bikes don’t bounce. At least not these marshmallow-wheeled beauties. When Oakley and I decided to try our hand at this new activity for Adventure Wednesday, we pictured ourselves careening through the woods, popping over rocks and roots with colt-like grace, but instead we are finding ourselves plodding along as if the ground was covered with mashed potatoes. The energy that our legs expend don’t transfer kinetically to a zip, but rather to a slog. Slowly we squish over every lump and hill. It is like running with pillows affixed to one’s shoes. Soft, yes. Powerful, not so much.

The day is cold—23 degrees—and an icy snow is falling. We are prepared this time, though, and are clad in long underwear, mittens, down coats, wooly caps, socks, and, of course, face masks. They double as scarves in a pinch. Plus, the good thing about working so hard to gather any inertia on these bikes is that we quickly work up quite a sweat, and the cold wind on our cheeks enlivens us.

These days, I feel like I am trying harder than ever to keep us both awake and engaged in life, and part of that is creating purposeful challenge. If we can triumph over self-imposed obstacles, maybe it will make the challenge of COVID-related struggles seem a bit easier. I am trying to access our more stoic natures.

Sometimes this is ugly, and the truth is, many times on our adventures, Oakley and I have knock-down, drag-out fights; “What do you mean you forgot your gloves? I reminded you 10 times!”

“Jesus Christ, don’t tell me we are lost! You are the worst at reading maps!”

”No, we are not stopping for hot cocoa yet. We just started!”

“You are so annoying! Hurry up!”

You can probably guess who says what. Even these fights seem to serve a purpose, and they clear the tension that has built up between us during the week, trapped together in the house. When we make our peace, it feels calmer and more grounded than before.

Today, we ride 12 miles together, up and over icy hills and across wide pastures. There are flocks of wild turkeys in the forest and large patches of florid, green moss striped with streamers of snow. The opaque ice-covered puddles and streams crossing the trail make a most satisfying crunch when we barrel through them. It feels like playing.

We are exhausted when we are finished. Our cheeks, fingers, ears and toes burn with cold, and bellies and backs drip with sweat.
We end with hot cocoa and grilled-cheese sandwiches and talk about doing it again when the real snow comes. When we will squish and strain even more. When the snow will meet our wheels and bandy us about. When challenge, fun and self-imposed adversity will meet again taking us where it will. Where we need to go to get through this.

Oakley may seem fearless to most, but behind his swagger there are two things that cause him to tremble; horses and heights. So, for today’s adventure we decided to tackle number one.

It is a cold morning and although we are clad in long underwear, hats and down jackets, Oakley is shivering. I wonder if it is the temperature causing these jitters, or if it is his trepidation about finally getting on a horse. Until today, he has never had the opportunity.

A good friend and the owner of some sweet, gentle horses meets us at a barn and after some pleasantries, hands Oaks a shoe pick. “Okay, the first thing you want to do is grab your horses leg and pull it up, like this, and then pick out all the gunk stuck in around the horse shoe. Be careful though, a friend of mine got her tibia shattered the other day when she was doing this to her horse, and she was experienced.”

Oakley looks at me wide-eyed, but nevertheless leans over and tries to lift his horses leg. He manages one, but lacks the confidence to show the horse he is someone to be reckoned with and the horse stubbornly keeps the rest of her hooves planted firmly and the ground. The owner takes over his task.

“That is okay,” she reassures him, “why don’t you brush her?” This is much more Oakley’s speed and he gently runs the curry comb across his horses back, ever mindful to be ready to spring away if need be.

Next, we saddle the horses and awkwardly mount them, looking much more like weeble wobbles than the cowboys we aspire to be. On my first attempt, my horse walks away from the mounting stool prematurely, leaving me dangling off it’s left side and sliding back to the ground. Oaks thinks this is a riot.

Once on, our friend leads us down a wooded trail and our horses gamely follow. The leaves rustle under their feet and their breath makes steamy plumes in the chilly air. Oakley begins to relax and when I look back at him he is grinning.

“So Oakley,” our friend continues, “horses aren’t like bikes or motorcycles. They have minds of their own and won’t always listen to you. If they get spooked by another animal out here, like, god forbid, a moose, or if they hear an odd sound like a cracking branch, they will run. If they do, don’t jump off. They might be running 20 miles an hour, and that is how fast you will hit the ground if you jump. If things get crazy, just hold on and keep riding.”

Again, Oakley’s eyes bug out a bit, but he just nods and clasps the reins a bit tighter. He looks like he is on a first date; not knowing exactly how to hold his body or what to say, but quickly falling in love.

Now that he is all set, I try to relax on my horse. I am not fearful of riding, but my head is full of work stress, family stress and Covid stress all intertwined into an ugly knot.

Lately, I have been feeling more weary about this pandemic and our current political climate. I miss my mother, who needs to remain in isolation, I am tired of counseling via zoom out of my bathroom and I don’t feel like I am very helpful to my clients. The sum of my wisdom has been reduced to “Just hold on, keep doing what you need to to take care of yourself and you will get through this.” Not much different than the advice my friend has just given Oaks.

The day is beautiful and the heat from the horses rises up and warms me. The horses know these trails well and we are free to just let them take us. It isn’t long before I feel my spine rolling gently with the sway of my horse, easing the tension in my neck and shoulders and allowing me to quiet. All I have to do is gently hold on.

So, hold on I will.

When we return to the barn, Oakley slides off his horse and helps take off its tack. He takes a hoof pick and struggles to lift his horses feet to clean them, but he does it. He brushes her coat again and gives her a pat on the rump. Then he jumps in our truck where he is out of ear shot of our friend and it is safe to be uncool. “That was awesome!” he announces.

I agree.

“This is so boring.”

“Come on, Oaks. It can be fun if you let it. First, orient the map. Line up the north on the map with the north on your compass”

“Why are we even doing this? This is so stupid.”

“Watch your attitude, Buckwheat. Okay, I have the map oriented, now shoot the compass bearing to our first checkpoint.”

“Give it to me,” Oakley says as he snags the map from my hand. “I’ll do it.”

“Oakley, you just messed it up, now you need to reorient the map to north again.”

“I hate this! How many check points are there?”

“Twenty. It is only a four mile course. At least I didn’t take you biking.”

Oakley glares at me. This past Saturday I took him on a 77-mile bike loop over Evans Notch, and through the White Mountains in Maine and New Hampshire. It was a beautiful and adrenaline-filled ride on an unseasonably warm fall day–a perfect antidote to weeks filled with remote counseling for me and remote learning for him. The route was longer than we anticipated and required a full sprint over the course of the last 15 miles to make it back to the truck before dark. We made it with no time to spare, our legs screaming, lungs burning, and necks aching. Needless to say, we were exhausted, and I thought he would appreciate a mellow orienteering course as a follow-up adventure this Wednesday, but boy was I wrong.

We trudge over the Pine Land Farm Campus from one checkpoint to the next, Oakley grousing about how terrible this idea is while I vacillate between trying to be cheery and upbeat and feeling terribly annoyed by his attitude. I am sure my smile appears more like a grimace.

Things have been rough lately between us. He has been making poor decisions and I don’t feel like he has any room to grump at me. I remind him of this again and again as we walk. He reminds me in return that I am the most annoying mother; bossy and relentless. If you were watching us from afar, I am not sure who you would feel more sorry for.

Midway across a wide-open field, I get a text alert on my phone and I stop for a second to read it. Oaks reprimands me, “Stop looking at your phone. Let’s go. I want to get this done!” But as I read the words on the screen, the bottom drops out of my stomach. A friend of ours, who is Oakley’s age, has been in a serious accident.

“Oakley, I need a minute.” He absorbs my stress with a glance and I see it course through him via his emotional antenna.

“What happened?”

I let him know and we sit in the grass while I find out the details and make some phone calls. Oakley’s demeanor changes dramatically. Gone is his annoyance and impatience with the day. They have been replaced with the understanding that we are pretty damn lucky to be stuck with each other, out here on these silly adventures, regardless of our arguing and frustrations. After I finish, there is nothing to do, but to continue the course.

Now, Oakley holds the map steady. Now, he deftly orients his compass and leads us with purposeful strides from checkpoint to checkpoint. He asks endless questions about the accident, about everyone involved, and their conditions. Eventually, we learn they will all be okay. His face and his voice have grown soft and open, his bitterness gone.

As we near the end of the course, Oakley begins to joke with me that he is a map master and far better at this whole map and compass thing than me. He is probably right. One more tool that I hope will help him find his way.

“

Nothing feels right. Oakley and I have loaded up our bikes and are heading off to Pineland Farms for some mountain biking. It should be fun, but rather than the heady feeling of adventure in the air there is a staleness, acridity. I don’t feel much like chatting. I am weary. Oakley thinks this is because I am annoyed with some of his recent antics, but it is not. It is because of all the ugly vitriol flooding the airwaves today.

Before I am any political affiliation or any nationality, I am a human, and it feels as if human decency is what we are losing, no matter who wins. I believe in empathy first and foremost. Empathy for everyone and everything, regardless of political affiliation. It is the only way to come together. Today, everything feels like it is coming apart.

When Oakley and I rode across the United States, I was struck by the lost towns in the high deserts of Wyoming and the hollows of Kentucky. There were trailers with broken windows held together with duct tape and yards full of plastic garbage. Yes, there was the stereotypical abundance of dogs, many seeming less than robust, but if you can’t fix your window so your house can stay warm, how can you afford a vet bill?

In Eastern Colorado and Kansas, it felt like there were more prisoners than local people and on the open plains, mono-crops were king. There were no sweet, small organic gardens, just acre upon acre of genetically modified milo-a kind of silage for cattle. Every so often we would come upon small towns that seemed to have been hubs of activity once, but now are windswept and deserted. Forgotten.

Despite all these thoughts, today, I try to focus on the adventure at hand, but when Oakley and I arrive at our destination, we are told that we can not ride. It happens to be Veterans’ Hunting Day at Pineland Farms and it wouldn’t be safe. In fact, we are reminded that really we shouldn’t mountain bike anywhere today because of hunting season. Nowhere is safe.

We shuffle back to the truck and I rack my brain for a new idea, but I haven’t got much energy. We settle on the Gray Animal Park-it is a zoo-like establishment for local animals that cannot be re-released into the wild due to accident and injury. We watch the cougars sit listlessly upon cut tree trunks in their display. Oakley is chased by a flock of flightless Canadian geese, hissing through their wide, pink, open mouths. We watch a coyote pace relentlessly in his enclosure. All these animals had the potential to be majestic if they had been given the right environment. If they had not been injured or abused. If scarcity had not been an issue. If they had been well cared for.

I think people have the ability to be majestic too. I have been criticized for being overly idealistic and naive. It is true, I am. I don’t mean to go on a political rant on Adventure Wednesday, but Adventure Wednesdays are all about hope to me; hope that we can find beauty, accept challenge, and discover our strength. On a day like today, I feel like I have to dig a little bit deeper to find it inside. I will though, and for that, I am lucky and privileged.

“Holy cow! It’s freezing!” I shout over my shoulder. We are careening down Grafton pass outside Bethel, Maine, on this late October afternoon. We are trying to split the difference between increasing the wind chill by increasing our speed and moving our legs fast enough to generate enough internal combustion to get blood pumping hard enough to reach our extremities. It is a tough balance.

The misty rain that was falling in the valley where we started has transformed into needle-like icy shards at this elevation and the sharp sleet is being perpetually flung against our faces. It stings our eyes and makes us squint through the whiteness. The faster we go, the less we can see. I start singing in a full-throated operatic aria.

“Jarroooo, jaraaa, jahosaphat, jallah.” I don’t know what has come over me, but shouting nonsense into this ridiculous weather seems to be the thing to do. Meeting the crazy with crazy.

“Mom, be quiet!” yells Oakley from behind me. “I am really cold.”

“Let’s stop and put on another layer.” I call back. We still have 12 or so miles to go.

“I didn’t bring another layer.”

“Oakley, you swore you packed one!”

“Well, I didn’t.”

This kid. He just can’t seem to think ahead. Normally, I triple check him, but today I had let my guard down. I could be mad, but what would be the point? My words will not add to the lesson.

He is skin, bones, and sinew. His shirts hang off him like a clothing rack. Sometimes when you look at him, his chest and belly almost seem concave. This cold must be searing right through him.

We had just stopped by at a beautiful water fall that cut spirals through the exposed granite here. We oohed and ahhed and stomped our cold feet while he ate two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and a huge bag of chips. But, now I can tell by the timbre of his voice that he is already out of fuel. Not me. I always pack some extra in my fannie.

“Well, let’s keep on keeping on.” I say in a most annoyingly cheery way. There is really no other choice. Stopping would only make it take longer to reach our warm cozy truck. I pedal fast, and feel my hot breath pumping out into the cold like a bellows. My toes and fingers ache, my ears sting. My heart thunders. I love this.

When the pass flattens out to a rolling valley, the sleet turns back into rain. The clouds are laying down on top of the untidy harvested fields and all grows quiet, but we don’t slow down until we get to the truck.

We quickly throw our bikes in the back, climb in, and blast the heat. Oaks eats some more, eases the seat back, and promptly falls asleep.

When he wakes up 45 minutes later, I cautiously ask him what his favorite part of the days adventure was. I think he will mention the falls or the caves we saw, but no, “The cold.” He says, “It was so intense!”

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.