Bikemum

There are several cucumbers that will need to be picked next week. The blueberries are just turning blue. The tomatoes are still green with just a shade of crimson. The carrots are coming along, but not quite. There will be peaches on the tree this year, and plums.

Our bee hives are brimming with bees, and the honey will need to be harvested in a little more than a month. The irises have come and gone, but not the gladiolas or the sunflowers that ring the garden–they are just budding.

What tastes better than the promise of a cucumber that isn’t quite ready to be harvested, or the new potatoes left undug? Nothing, I think.

Yesterday, as I drove Oakley home from his job as a junior counselor at Broad Turn Farm Camp, I found myself distracted. My head was full of lists and longings, and I was feeling homesick even though we have not gone anywhere yet. Maybe if I leaned on Oakley a little, he would lean back and it would make us both stronger.

“Oaks, I am really nervous about this trip. Are you?”

“Yes,” he admitted, shifting in his seat.

“Which part?” I asked

“The whole thing.”

“Oaks, I am too. I am going to miss Papa and Raven and Jonah and Finn and Cricket.”

“What about Scuppers?” (our cat)

“Him too. I am also going to miss my friends.”

“Yeah, me too.”

“I am going to need you, you know. It’ll be just the two of us out there.”

Oakley looked out the window, and I thought that my words had fallen on deaf ears. After a long pause he sighed.

“We will be okay.”

It was the first time he has tried to reassure me about this hare-brained idea of biking across America, and I felt my anxiety decrease by just a fraction.

“You think?”

“Yeah, we will just get homesick sometimes.”

The air in the car felt topsy-turvy with anxiety, excitement, and a new feeling of camaraderie, and I was reminded again of all the reasons why we are going.

There has been a poem bashing it’s way through my life since I was a teenager that says it far better than I ever could.

“A Summer Day”

Who made the world?

Who made the swan, the black bear?

Who made the grasshopper?

This grasshopper, I mean the one who has flung itself out of the grass,

the one who is eating sugar out of my hand, who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down,

who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.

Now she lifts her pale forearms and throughly washes her face.

Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.

I don’t know exactly what a prayer is.

I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down

into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,

how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,

which is what I have been doing all day.

Tell me, what else should I have done?

Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?

Tell me, what is it that you plan to do

with your one wild and precious life?

-Mary Oliver

I have purposely built a complicated life that is bursting with fullness. Stepping away from it is startling. I hate missing. I have never looked at a baby cucumber with more longing. I have never stared into my dog’s eyes with such adoration. I have never craved being surrounded by friends and family more. It is in the leaving that I am reminded of its worth.

While I am gone, I have a favor to ask of everyone. Please eat the cucumbers and the blueberries. Don’t let them rot.

Please feel free to comment and let us know what you think we are forgetting or what we should leave behind.

The yard is strewn with socks, toothpaste, a solar charger, flip flops, pots and pans and bike shorts. It is reminiscent of what remains in the aftermath of a tornado. Oakley looks at the piles with concern. “Why are we bringing that?” he asks. “I hate those shorts. Can I test the stove? Where is my flip phone?” It is a humid, 82-degree day, and I am feeling a bit wilty. His questions rattle me.

“Oaks, where are your sunglasses that I got you for your birthday?” I ask.

“I lost them. I need new ones. ” Of course he did. “I am not wearing that shirt. Can I sleep in the tent tonight?” It is at this point that I decide to send my little whirling dervish away while I complete the task at hand. “Go find friends, Oaks, I need to pack.”

So here it is. We will be hauling the following items across America with us.

Clothing

Baseball hats and helmets

Rain pants / rain jackets

Down jackets

Long undie tops and bottoms

3 pairs cotton socks, 1 pair wool socks

Winter hats

Bike shorts

Fluorescent tank tops

Fluorescent long-sleeve biking shirts

Safety vests

Bathing suits

2 pair shorts

2 t-shirts

1 cozy long sleeve shirt

3 pair underwear

Flip-flops

Sneakers

Camping Gear

20-degree sleeping bags

Camping pillows

Travel chairs

Thermarest sleeping pads

Nemo 3 person tent

Tent footprint (to protect bottom of tent)

2 headlamps

Cooking equipment

1 cooking pot

1 frying pan

2 mugs

2 bowls

2 sporks

1 stirring spoon / 1 spatula

2, 2-liter water bladders

1 Primus multi-fuel stove

1 scrubbie

1 coffee filter

1 fuel bottle

2 lighters

First Aid Kit

Bandaids

Advil

Benadryl

Neosporin

Tylenol PM

Tweezers

First Aid Tape

Electronics

My iphone

Oakley’s flip-phone

Solar charger

Foldable key board

Wall charger

Toiletries

Sunscreen

Hairbrush

Deodorant

Hair ties

Toothpaste

Toothbrushes

Bike Repair Kit

2 bicycle tire tubes

2 levers for changing tires

Allen wrench set

Patch kit

Bicycle Pump

And…

2 knives, Pepper spray, a math workbook, a journal and a reading book for each of us…and some pens, for drawing. And 144 maps.

This will all fit in eight saddle bags-four for each of us and a front handle bar bag. Leaving room of course for food and specifically, all Oakley’s snacks.

Who is going to be so strong? We are. I am ready to go.

Tonight, I sit surrounded by family, 29 of them. Sisters, brothers, nieces, nephews, spouses, partners, great-nephews, my children, my husband, and my mother. The evening is warm, and we are all covered with a patina of butter, beer, smoke and lobster guts from a lobster bake on the back shore of Peaks Island.

My nephew and his girlfriend are singing and playing a miniature guitar. We are swapping stories of memories and mis-memories. My mother has been carried out and over the shingled beach in her wheelchair to sit by the fire. She is wrapped in a Mexican blanket and looking rather queen like.

Oakley and his cousin are building a sculpture with drift wood. He has been difficult lately, probably due to the unstructured summer we have been lolling about in. I know for him, we can’t leave soon enough. Unstructured time unmoors him. His squirrelly behavior and emotional upsets are on the rise. I have no doubts at all that this trip is what he needs, when he needs it.

Our bikes should arrive in Astoria, Oregon, tomorrow and hopefully, barring disaster, will be put back together by the good people of Bikes & Beyond. My husband Twain, quieted my most recent fears when I couldn’t find one open campsite in a 20-mile radius of where we land the first night by calling this bike store and asking for an insider tip of where we might stay. The bike store manager told him to ask for him by name, and if we can’t find a place to camp while we orient ourselves we could, if worse came to worst, stay with one of his many friends who accommodate cross-country cyclists.

We leave August 1st. There is a lot to do before then, and my wheels are spinning dangerously close to skidding out. The idea of just pedaling our bikes day after day is becoming ever more appealing.

I am feeling confident and ready. Oaks is feeling unnerved but ready. I know we will be held wherever we go by kind people. Tonight, though, we are not going anywhere.

“Mom, we are out of tape.”

” Let me look in the…”

“Mom, pass the bubble wrap.”

“Here.”

“Where are the scissors?”

“Um…I saw them…”

“Mom, did you get that tape?”

“I am going to look in the…”

“Mom, what is Oakley doing? He has his seat in, like, six pieces!”

“Oaks, what are you doing? Hands up! Stop disassembling everything!”

“It needs to come apart.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“Yes, it does!”

“No, it doesn’t. Why don’t you cut some more bubble wrap?”

“I am out of here.”

“Where are you going? Come back and help!”

“Mom, tape?”

“Yes, I am on it.”

“These bikes are not going to fit in these boxes.”

“They have to.”

“They won’t.”

“Will Scotch tape work?”

“Whatever it takes.”

Last night, my two sons Finn and Jonah came to my rescue and helped me box up our bikes. I thought it would be fairly simple, but like most things about preparing for this bike trip, it took on a life of its own. We went through three rolls of tape and three rolls of bubblewrap, and used three bike boxes for our two bikes. We dismantled all the racks, fenders, pedals, lights and odometers that I have painstakingly assembled over the last several months. I cringed with every part that was removed, feeling that it was unfathomable that I would ever get them together again.

When we finished, we were all sweaty, and a bit anxious. Even the boys seemed genuinely concerned about the bikes and the idea of me trying to tackle bike maintenance on my own in the future. I found myself trying to reassure them that it would all work out, that people would help me, and that I am cleverer than I let on. Inside, I was already exhausted and overwhelmed at the prospect of remembering which bolt went with which nut.

Ready to start fresh today, I got up and energetically lugged the bike boxes onto my garden cart and pushed them through the streets to the ferry. I shipped them across Casco Bay, manhandled them into the car, drove them across town, dragged them down the sidewalk from the parking garage to UPS, and deposited them in the not-overly-caring hands of a bored UPS worker. I had thought this would be a moment of triumph.

The UPS worker was young and seemed a bit too vacant to be handling something so precious to me. But, to be fair, I probably looked a bit like a madwoman. My messy, ponytailed hair was sticking out in odd tufts and wisps a little like a halo from driving with the windows down; my shirt was clinging to my sweaty back, and I am sure I had a look of desperation on my face. The young woman helping me was a bit more put together than that.

“Hi there. Could you help me? Do you think that I have used enough tape on these boxes?” I inquired

“Uh-huh,” she replied without looking at them or me.

“Can you read that the boxes say ‘1 out of 3, 2 out of 3, and 3 out of 3’ clearly enough?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Do you think they will get damaged because they are packed too tightly?’

“I don’t think so.” Her lovely pink nailed fingers pecked away at her keyboard in a most disinterested way. She avoided all eye contact.

“I am riding across the country with my son. These are our bikes. I am really anxious about them. Sorry I am being so high maintenance.”

No response.

“Okay, that will be $671.47.”

“Excuse me?”

“$671.47, because you are shipping them so far.”

“That is more than I spent on the bikes themselves. That is more than I paid for our airfare.”

“It is because Oregon is so far.” Now she met my eyes and gave me a lazy blink. Maybe, she had her own worries filling her head, because she was certainly not taking on mine.

I felt trapped. I had thought they would cost 1/3 of that, but what could I do? I reluctantly handed over my credit card, feeling my stomach flip.

As I watched this woman drag the boxes away, filled with our disassembled bikes, 10 pounds of bubble wrap and various unidentifiable bit and bolts, I picked up my cell phone and called “Bikes and Beyond” in Astoria, Oregon, the bikes’ final destination.

“Hello there. . . when my bike boxes arrive, would you be willing to put them together before I pick them up, no matter what condition you find them in?”

“Absolutely.”

“Down to the fenders and odometers and racks and everything?”

“Absolutely. We do this all the time.”

He even offered to call me when they arrived. I may not love him as much as I loved my sons when they helped me take the bikes apart, but if he can pull that off, it will be a close second.

I am looking forward to rendezvousing with our bikes again when they are in better shape and all we have to do is pedal.

Today, my husband Twain, my friend June and I are cycling 90 miles up the coast of Maine, from Portland to Jefferson along the East Coast Trail. We will then ride 57 miles to Liberty on Saturday, enjoying some magnificent hills, and on Sunday, complete the ride with 90 miles home. It sounds like a lot, but the truth is, the biking component of this adventure is the easy part, and the miles fly by. I am comfortable on my bike and feel strong.

The three of us banter about issues with children, work and assorted island gossip of which there is never short supply. We laugh at our exhaustion and get the giggles when a hill presents itself to us that seems absolutely ridiculous. If we didn’t laugh, we might cry.

We pass fields of lupines, beautiful farms and cross over marshes and rivers that meander from the mountains to the sea. Twain and June even catch a glimpse of the elusive “Ghost Cat of Maine” — a large feline that roams the forests and fields of the north. I feel like I could bike forever.

Biking provides a lot of time for thinking, and when the three of us grow quiet my thoughts begin to perseverate on Oakley and our trip.

I am not sure he will laugh at the big hills or fully appreciate the long periods of time for inner reflection as we bike for 6 to 8 hours a day. I worry that he will resent me for pushing him into this. He will undoubtedly drive me insane with his yammering, going on endlessly about a YouTube video he has seen or regaling me with tales of his exploits that grow greater and greater with each retelling. How will I handle it? Will I be driven over the edge? We are looking at a whole lot of togetherness.

I am no super-mother, not by a long shot. I am not going on this bike adventure with Oakley with any sort of assumption that I know what I am doing, because I don’t. The truth is, I beat myself up daily for some parenting failure: I yelled, I was irritable, I didn’t listen, I was overly critical. The list goes on and on. I am bossy, controlling and overly involved in my children’s lives. I’ve been told. Maybe it is because I am trained as a mental health counselor and I spend my days getting all up in people’s business. I can’t turn it off when I get home. I hope I know what I am getting into.

Thankfully, before I spiral into the abyss of self-doubt too far, we arrive at our night destination, a little cabin 20 feet from Damariscotta Lake with a screened-in sleeping porch. The water laps at the shore and creates a soothing rhythm that lulls us into stillness after hours of sweat and exertion. The sun is setting, and a golden light bounces against the waves. My racing thoughts quiet. Totally worth it.

Twain, June and I end our day with Cranberry Vodkas and fish sandwiches at a local bar. We are joined by another friend and the four of us spend the evening chatting and listening to some great guitar music. My legs feel like sand (in a good way), and we linger over our dinner and drinks. Talk is easy and comfortable, and there is a true sense of camaraderie. This might be one of my favorite parts of biking. But even in these moments, I separate myself from the group, and I wonder, will Oakley linger? Ever? Will we find peace together?

This will be the true challenge of the trip, and there is no way to train for it. Oakley and I are going to have to find a rhythm, a cadence that feels comfortable to both of us. He is not a contemplative fellow, but rather a man of action. We might drive each other insane. That is my real worry. The biking is just one pedal after the other.

I hope Oakley appreciates it someday. I hope we make it. I hope I am doing the right thing. I hope, I hope.

Lately, I am exhausted and sore every night when I climb into bed. This is not because I am biking all the time, but it is because I am always very active.

I spend many hours a day practicing new flips, cheap gainers (a backflip while moving sideways), fulls (a spin with a backflip), and double front flips. I try so hard and for so long that when I finally master a new trick I am pretty much dead the next day.

I have been surfing from 9 to 3 o’clock every day this week and my arms hurt from paddling to catch waves.

I have been training with The Sellam Circus School, which is a circus school in Biddeford, Maine. I unicycle, tumble, juggle and do Diablo. This weekend we are performing and teaching kids and adults how to do circus tricks at Thompson’s Point in Portland.

I run a lot every day and play nightly games of manhunt. Manhunt is like hide and go seek in the dark. We play until we have to come in.

I play the drums every day and have been involved in Steely Dan and Queen ensembles that have played at Cadenza, a venue in Freeport. This is exercise, trust me.

Last week I went on a sailing ship called the Harvey Gamage. I lifted 1,500 pounds of sail with a small group of people and hauled a 500 pound anchor from the ocean floor with four people.

And sometimes I bike. My parents make me bike to drum lessons, band practice, sometimes school and sometimes to beach for surfing. Every once in a while my mom makes me bike for fun with her.

So, you see, I might not bike a lot, but I think I am in good shape for biking across the country because I get a ton of exercise. There will be plenty of time for biking.

.

“Where are you going to high school?” asks a well-intentioned parent at Oakley’s graduation from middle school.

“Well, eventually to Casco Bay High School, but first I am going to bike across the country.”

Really? When? Where will you travel? Are you camping? How far will you travel every day? Have you started training? That is so cool. Amazing.

Oakley answers to the best of his ability, and as he does I see the pride and confidence about this crazy adventure growing within him. He obviously feels somewhat of a celebrity. These people, these curious well-wishers are like fuel, and they will be an important part of what carries him up the mountains and all the way home.

I have decidedly become a narcissistic, loud mouth about our bike adventure, but I can’t overstate the importance of all the support and encouragement we are receiving in return.

Lately, I have taken to waking up at 2:00 in the morning in somewhat of a panic, my mind racing, wondering what the hell I have gotten us into. I get up, pace the kitchen, take melatonin and creep back into bed. I snuggle a bit closer to Twain and try not to think of how many nights I will be without him and my other children…and my dog, Cricket. Instead, I attempt to quiet my mind by thinking of all those that will be with us in spirit.

It is pretty incredible. Over the last several months, friends and neighbors have put up with my obsessive talk about this trip and have been endlessly encouraging. I can’t believe they are still listening. They try to calm my fears and remind me of how important this trip is for me and Oakley, when I feel like forgetting.

My extended family, brothers, sisters, aunts and uncles, mother and cousins, who have read this blog and offered up kind words, prayers, and hopes. Some of them I have not spoken to since I was a child. Who knew they cared?

My closest friends from high school have reconnected with me after 30 years. They have no idea how much their friendship means. They are my life time mirror.

Sponsors and generous friends have stepped forward to help us financially. For some reason they believe in us. If they do, so will I.

Good people whom I have never met have reached out across social media and offered advice and support, easing my mind by sharing their experience and expertise with us about all manner of things from equipment to parenting advice.

The Sellam Circus School has been Oakley’s champion from the beginning. They have seen his potential and have challenged him to do a backflip once a day during the course of our adventure. They know that circus is an important part of his identity and by practicing his skills he will stay connected with who he is and what he can do. They understand all kids need to realize their gifts to reach their potentials and that they all have gifts.

The Portland Gear Hub folks have been patiently walking me through the process of gearing up. Their enthusiasm and positive attitude make this trip seem a bit less hare-brained. They don’t laugh at me when I ask what click-shifters are.

I don’t think that we could do this without any of these people. I am hopeful that we will hear their voices in our heads when faced with rainstorms, long coyote-filled nights, lonely mountain climbs and mutual tantrums.

I am scared. It is a lonely world out there, and the time to make this happen is nearly upon us. Every time we get encouragement from people, I am reassured that I am not going to really be alone. We will play their words like a recording on repeat over and over again.

This trip has become much more than a three-month adventure. It has already changed the way I see the world. The support we feel fills us with hope and excitement, and we have gained an understanding of the importance of community in our lives. I can’t thank everybody enough.

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.

https://www.gofundme.com/ice-cream-fund-for-oakley-amp-leah039s-big-adventure?fbclid=IwAR2pQwn-U6lTCv9qM5HGhqwowfwVogNP6gtrU1Jf8hSaWUN32yWtA1mkBKE

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?