Bikemum

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 reduce stimulation, 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.

“They are gone.” Jonah and Finn look at me incredulously. I feel my cheeks redden and a familiar heat creeps up my back and wraps around my neck. The keys were in my back pocket, now they are not.

“Oh my God,” says Jonah, my 16-year-old son, “not again.” He whirls away from me in disbelief and stares across the desert at the distant horizon.

“It’s not my fault,” I stammer, “they were right here a second ago.” Finn, my 18-year-old son, runs his fingers through his hair.

“You are kidding me,” he says.

It has been a long day. We have flown out to Prescott, Arizona, to visit Prescott College and Embry Riddle, an aeronautical university. I went to Prescott College, and I can honestly say that it was one of the best things that ever happened to me. It is where I began to understand that I could have the life I wanted. That it was possible. I had been so excited to share this place with the boys. Finn was interested in going there. Jonah was interested in becoming a pilot, so we were visiting Embry Riddle for him.

When we arrived in Prescott I had immediately wanted to take them to the Granite Dells, one of my favorite places. It is a formation of huge, pink granite boulders strewn about over the desert landscape for miles that look like voluptuous naked women lying about in various states of repose…to me anyway. When I had pulled the rental car into the lot, we had quickly hustled out of the car and tramped off into the rocky landscape. The rocks form a huge playground, and we soon became absorbed in climbing, jumping, and shimmying from boulder to boulder. There was no path, and we quickly lost ourselves in exploring every little rise and crevice that was created by this endless jumble. We were so happy.

That is, until I reached my hand into my back pocket. And there was no key. And I thought, “Shit.” Not for me, for them. Not because we were in any real danger, but because I had proved them right, again. This was my pattern. I was irresponsible. I was supposed to be the grown up, and here I was screwing it up. I just get over-excited and disregard the details. Like putting the keys in a safe place. I saw the weekend unraveling.

The parking lot of the Granite Dells was several miles outside of town, and it would soon be getting dark and cold, and we were hungry. I had wanted them to get swept away in the beauty of the desert, but I realized that I might have blown it. “It’ll be okay,” I said. They glared at me. “Maybe I left them in the car.” I knew I hadn’t; they knew I hadn’t. Still, we went back and rattled all the handles and peered in the windows. No keys, just my cell phone and wallet lying on the seat. So much for calling a locksmith.”No worries; we will hitchhike into town.”

“I can’t believe you,” fumed Jonah. “I should have taken the keys.”

“It was an accident.” I stammered.

“You always have accidents.”

There began our weekend of really getting to know Prescott and the good people there. We walked out to the highway and stuck out our thumbs. It took about an hour, but then we got a ride from a sympathetic man. He happened to be a pilot and told us all about his experiences at Embry Riddle flight school as he drove us back into town. He told us how the process of becoming a pilot worked and the challenges he faced and how to cut the costs of school. A perfect happenstance.

When we got to our hotel we informed the receptionist at the front desk that we needed a room, but that we had no ID and no money because my wallet was locked in our car. She took pity on us and let us have a room with a promise that we would pay when we were able to get into the car. Jonah happened to have a $10 bill, so we walked to the local supermarket, and he brought a frozen pizza. The folks at the motel office let us cook it in their oven. In the morning we called a locksmith. He picked us up in town in his personal vehicle and took us out to our car. He opened the doors and retrieved my wallet and cell phone but proclaimed that he could not hotwire this car because of some fancy computer chip issue. It would have to be towed to the shop. He drove us back to Prescott. We hitchhiked to tours at both colleges. We hitchhiked to Thumb Butte, a volcanic plug, and hiked to the top. We hitchhiked to restaurants and the garage. Everybody who gave us rides was engaging, and when we asked questions about the local colleges and the culture of the town they gave us their insights.

On the day we were to leave, the car was still in the shop. Nobody seemed to be available to crack the code to enable the car to accept a new key. Our plane was leaving from Phoenix, which is a two-hour drive, and we had no way of getting there. Our car issue became a community issue. It seemed that everyone in the dealership rose-to and scurried about trying to beg and borrow the computer reprogrammer from another dealership to reset our car and unlock the engine. Our mechanic stayed over an hour late. When the car was finally able to be driven, there was a celebratory feel throughout the shop. In the end, we made it to Phoenix with minutes to spare. We ran through the airport to make our flight. The boys, although annoyed as hell, made the best of it and commiserated with each other about what a mess their mother was. True bonding for sure.

We never got to see some of the sites that I had planned, but we did experience something remarkable. My sons and I witnessed the kindness of the people of Prescott, Arizona. If everything had worked out, we would have stayed in our insular little car and never met any of those interesting and helpful locals. The three of us are actually quite shy, and it would have been so easy to keep our interactions to a minimum, but, instead, we left with an irrefutable reminder that people are good to each other. That it is the norm, not the exception.

The process of preparing for this bike trip reminds me of this time in Prescott. People are responding to our coming adventure with warmth, interest, and generosity. My friends, family, and neighbors have been incredibly supportive and encouraging as I bash my way through this writing and learning-to-bike-tour process. I have had many encouraging comments in-person and through social media and, as exposing as it feels to write down all my thoughts, stories and feelings, all this support really does help. It fuels me and keep pushing me forward. It also prevents me from chickening out.

I truly believe that the world is full of good people. That is why I am not too afraid traveling alone with Oakley on this coming adventure. Throughout my life, people have always come through.

Yesterday, the morning dawned with a gray drizzle. We set our clocks ahead for daylight savings last week and ever since the mornings have seemed slow to brighten. Today’s dark clouds just made it worse. As I begrudgingly rolled out of bed, I was struck by how difficult it can be to will my feet to the floor some days. I felt so tired. Then, I remembered. Today was the day. Oakley and I were getting our bikes. It filled the day with promise. As soon as I finished work and Oaks finished school we could pick them up.

A few hours later, I was sitting in my counseling office, listening to my first client who was struggling with depression. “Look at this,” she said gesturing out the window. ” How could anybody be happy when this is what greets you when you go outside.” It was raining heavily now. The sky was dark, and on the ground below we could see puddles, ice flows cascading from water spouts and mounds of exhaust-covered snow that was stubbornly refusing to melt. In Portland, Maine, there are often mountains of snow where plows have piled it until well into May. They are ugly things, mixed with sand, salt, and litter.

We discussed the impact of a lack of vitamin D, which most people from Maine suffer from, as well as seasonal affective disorder, and helpful “behavioral activation” strategies, but the whole time I sat with her I felt a fluttering in my chest like I had a little sparrow in my pocket. I wanted to say, “I know just what you are feeling, and that is why I am getting out of here! I am getting a bike today and soon will be cycling across America with my son!” But, it wasn’t time yet, and this wasn’t about me, and I kept quiet.

After several more counseling sessions and an hour or two of paperwork, 3:00 o’clock finally came. I grabbed my coat, locked my door and hustled out to pick up my son and head to the Portland Gear Hub. The clouds were beginning to loosen their hold on the sky and a warmth was filling the air. I realized that if Oakley and I walked to the shop we could ride the bikes to his after school activity and then home. No dirty, salt-encrusted, trash-filled car for us to fight commuter traffic in-we would travel free and easy. I jauntily strode through town greeting passerby’s, smiling and feeling magnanimous with my joy. That was until I got to where Oakley was waiting.

His hoody was drawn up over his head, his skin was pale and his eyes dark. I could tell he was looking for somebody to blame a bad mood on. Lucky me. “Hey, Oaks, let’s get them!” I exclaimed a bit too happily when I saw him, trying to ignore his foul demeanor.

“You are kidding me. We are not walking,” he scowled when he noticed there was no car in sight.

“Sure are” I chirped.

“No way. I am not. You can’t make me. I am going home. I am not biking.”

“Come on, Oaks,” I said. He thrust his hands into his sweatshirt pocket and pushed them down with clenched fists. He muttered something under his breath that we are probably both lucky I didn’t hear.

When Oakley is feeling unhappy he can sound and act incredibly selfish and entitled. He lashes out, utters statements that he only means in the moment, but are soon forgotten. Intense storms build inside him that are comprised of equal parts hormones, exhaustion, too many mundane tasks, and unsettled social drama. I take solace in the fact that these irrational outbursts happen to all teenagers. They always pass.

He did indeed walk, but he made me pay for it by using the time to tell me everything that I do wrong, from how I cross the street, how I don’t walk fast enough, how I don’t let him quit various after-school activities, to how annoying I was in general.

As Oakley and I walked, the sky continued to brighten. Twice I had to make him stop and take deep breaths to quiet his rage. Twice I had to make him apologize for crossing the line of disrespect. And once I became flustered when I realized that as Oakley mouthed off angrily at me, one of my clients was walking behind us. Finally, just as we made it to the Gear Hub the sun burst through the clouds. The parking lot in front of the store had been gathering heat from the brightening sky and the puddles on it began steaming. I had to take off my jacket before I even made it to the door. Brian was working, and as we arrived he threw open the large garage bay doors and let the growing warmth of outside fill the store.

And there they were. Waiting. All of Oakley’s bad mood vanished as he set his eyes on his new bike. “Can I test drive it?” he asked “Absolutely,” replied Brian, and Oaks was gone. He pedaled around and around the parking lot testing gears and breaks and stability. I grabbed hold of mine and studied the components.

V-brakes, easy to fix and capable of fitting fenders under. Bar end friction shifters, again easy to fix and hard to break. Sealed bottom brackets and a sealed head set to keep things smooth and grit free. All the bearings systems had been freshly overhauled and replaced and both hubs were adjustable. The wheels are double-walled and the tires are super puncture resistant. They are Schwalbe Marathon Plus “Flatless” tires which I am sure we will safe us many a dispirited afternoon. Both bikes have wide drop-down handlebars. In fact, all the components on our two bikes are identical to each other to enable us to bring one set of replacement parts and use one repair kit and learn one system. My bike has a lovely purple steel/cromoly Specialized touring frame, long and low with a Surly fork. Oakley’s is a KHS Sport with steel tubing as well. Our guru, Ainsley, at the Gear Hub had worked hard to keep the price of these beauts down by using recycled parts whenever available, but making sure the components were durable and touring appropriate.

I paid as quickly as I could, thanked Brian profusely and took off after Oaks. He flew down the road, and I chased him. The storm inside Oakley and over Portland was over. We biked to his drum lesson at Mid-Coast Music and he proudly told his instructor all about his new bike and our trip. The instructor commented that Oaks seemed really amped. Good to know. After the lesson Oaks asked if we could go the long way home. This was music to my ears. “Meet me at the ferry!” he called over his shoulder as he took off, far faster than I will ever manage, becoming one with his bike.

The sun shone down. Golden light filled the air. Spring had come. My nifty little bicycle and I toddled along, getting to know each other, sloshing through puddles and spraying ourselves with mud and grime. I was dreaming of what to name her. Bellisimo? Tiger? I hadn’t a care in the world.

When I arrived at the ferry Oaks was waiting for me. “There you are,” he said, “I am going to hate this bicycle sometimes, a lot, but I like it now. It is awesome.” And he was grinning.

Lightning flashes and thunder booms in the distance as we pull into our campsite in inland Flordia. The park where we have chosen to spend the night is beautiful. It features a freshwater spring that bubbles up from an underground river into a limestone pool. Perfect for cooling off after a long drive. Finn, Jonah, Thistle, Oakley and I all tumble out of the car excited to stretch our legs and explore this new fascinating natural wonder.

Overhead it is still sunny. Immediately, Finn and Jonah grab a large bucket and begin trying to collect the little green Anole lizards that scurry across the crunchy live oak leaves covering the ground. They have been collecting them everywhere we go. Sometimes they race them, sometimes they have contests to see who can catch more, and sometimes they let the lizards bite their earlobes. The lizard’s tiny toothless mouths clamp on tightly and look like beautiful jade earrings.

Thistle is on tent detail with me. She knows the drill and even at just seven years old, she can expertly set up our tent in no time at all. Together we lay it out on the ground and begin hammering in the stakes, all the while keeping an eye on Oakley, who at four, is entertaining himself by munching on a box of Honey Nut Cheerios. We have been camping and driving through the south for a month on a homeschooling expedition. We have spent time in the Great Smokey National Forest, in Alabama at the “Riveria of the South” and throughout the panhandle of Florida. Before we left home the kids planned the itinerary, the food and organized chore charts for our adventure, all in the name of homeschooling lessons. Now a month in, we are working as a well-oiled machine.

Except for one problem. There has been a string of violent thunderstorms that had been chasing us across the South. Every day, I call home to get weather forecasts from Twain (this was in the days before iPhones), and he helplessly reports again and again that we are going to get slammed by yet another horrendous weather system. Just about every night we have had to camp in torrents of rain that have soaked us through. A few nights ago we had literally been floating on our air mattresses in our tent as three inches of puddle formed below. I am trying to keep a good attitude, but I am tired, and now with the lightning and booming thunder in the distance, I know we are in for it again.

When Thistle and I finish setting up the tent we grab our suits and head for the spring to try to get a swim in before the approaching storm. The air is thick and humid, and the water in the spring is a constant 72 degrees and tropically clear (like all the springs throughout central Florida). It feels incredible after a day of driving in a cramped car full of wiggly kids. The spring is full of other swimming campers. I bob about with Oakley while Finn, Jonah, and Thistle entertain themselves, diving to the bottom with a snorkel mask, bringing up cool rocks. I take solace in the fact that tonight, even if it is a bit wet, we will have the company of other campers so the forecast can’t be too bad.

However, soon I notice that other swimmers are beginning to clear out. The sky is darkening and, as I look around, I find that the numbers of would-be campers have dwindled considerably. This makes me a little anxious. I call the kids back to the campsite where we rustle up a quick dinner of spaghetti just as the first fat raindrops begin to fall. While we inhale our spaghetti we watch one family after another roll up their tents and drive away, and by the time we finish cleaning up, I realize with a sickening feeling that we are all alone. Except for one lone monster pick-up truck.

The rain forces us into our tent and thunder and lightning fills the air. I try to ease the building tension the storm brings by reading out loud to everybody, but we are all distracted by the increasingly violent weather. Then we hear a revving engine. At first, I think that it is just that last remaining pick-up truck leaving, but then I realize that it isn’t leaving. In fact, it begins to do donuts around the campsite, skidding through the mud and boon-dogging its way through the woods. It is getting darker and darker. My headlamp is now providing the only light, making our tent glow, perhaps drawing attention that I don’t want.

I announce that we should all go to sleep and hopefully, when we wake up, it will be a beautiful day again filled with swimming and catching lizards. I turn out my headlamp. Everyone tries to settle in their bags, but between the thunder, and the sound of the revving truck engine, we are all a bit tense. The truck comes closer and its headlights begin lighting up our tent, again and again, making visible the fear on all our faces. It seems to be circling us like a shark. Finn is old enough, at 12, to be truly worried. He knows that his mama can’t protect him from everything. “What are they doing out there?” he asks nervously.

“Just goofing off ” I reply as the truck seems to circle us for the 20th time. “Go to sleep.” I am trying to be reassuring, but the kids can feel my anxiety like static in the air. Suddenly the truck stops, right next to the tent. The headlights illuminate everybody for an instant and then turn off.

“Mom?” questions Jonah.

“Sshhh” I lie completely still. I am willing them to leave us and our tent alone. I hear nothing. It is pitch black in the tent the thunder booms overhead. I hold my tiny flip phone on my chest. I press 911. My finger is on the dial button. Should I push it? Still nothing. What are they doing out there? Whose idea was this anyway? I have no defense. My children lie beside me. Thankfully, Oakley is asleep, but everyone else is taut with fear.

“I am just going to sneak out there and see what they are doing.” I whisper to Finn. He is the closest thing to a co-leader that I have.

“What?” he silently hisses. “That is what you don’t do! That is what they do in movies, and you are not doing that!” He grabs my arm.

“Okay, okay. I won’t I promise.” We lie there, hearts thumping, sweating, skin prickling for what seems like hours. The storm passes. Still, the truck doesn’t move. Finally, we drift off to sleep with my phone still open and on my chest and my finger on the dial button

In the morning I come into a foggy consciousness rather than really wake up. My head is aching. Rain is pouring down. The tent is soaked through as well as our sleeping bags. I unzip the tent and peer out. The campsite is deserted and the truck is gone. I send Thistle and Oaks to sit in the car and Jonah, Finn, and I quickly load the sleeping bags and tent into the trunk of the car without even stuffing the soggy mess. The gear is heavy and sodden. Nobody speaks. We get in the car and drive off just as fast as we can. “The people in the truck were probably just having a make-out session!” I joke to Finn. That kind of humor is usually right up his alley. He blinks slowly at me and leans his head against the car door. He isn’t ready to laugh yet.

The first sign of civilization we pass is the state penitentiary. A towering 12-foot tall chain link covered with rolls of barbed wire encircle the prison. It is complete with watchtowers and armed guards and looks like a scene from the jail break sequence in O Brother, Where Out Thou? Who knew? Jonah, Finn, and Thistle groan.

At the first town we get to, I try to win them over with breakfast in a real restaurant while we dry all of our belongings in a laundromat. It sort of works. Safe, with another story to tell, we travel on wondering what adventures Georgia will hold for us next.

Now 11 years later they seem to have forgiven me, and that five-week camping expedition has become one of the many things that created a bond and identity for our children. Just the other day when I asked Jonah, who is now 21, what I should write about, he said, “Write more Forced Family Fun Adventures. I think those are what make our family interesting.” Maybe that isn’t forgiveness, but if I am not mistaken, I do hear a little bit of pride.

This bike trip is sure to have some scary times. I hope luck and the inherent goodness of people are on our side.

I am feeling self conscious about this trip. It is such a luxury and privilege to be able to just take off and step out of the rat race like this that I am a bit embarrassed. It is not lost on me that I am a middle-income, white woman who has grown up with a lot of support and opportunity. I feel guilty doing something as self-serving as this bike adventure. Where do I get off thinking that I can get away with something so fun?

Perhaps, these thoughts come from the mid-westerner in me. My family hails from Minnesota, and I fight a chemical in my blood that demands that we should all be a little bit miserable in order to earn our keep in this world. We are also supposed to praise frugality, hard work and keep a low profile so as not to draw attention to ourselves. This trip does not match these sentiments.

To add to these feelings of guilt, my husband Twain and I have fallen into all the financial traps that our society has set for us and I am choosing to ignore them. We have taken on tremendous school loans which we may never pay off fully, maxed out a home equity line and done the credit card dance throughout our adult lives. We live paycheck to paycheck and rarely buy new clothing or gear. We have three kids in college and often need to bail them out by helping them with rent and other expenses. We don’t have health insurance. We decided to take a gamble this year because it felt like throwing money away and our coverage was terrible anyway. We drive a 2008 mini-van that has sliding doors on either side that get stuck open routinely. It is a big joke to watch our children and their friends struggle to slam the door closed only to have it spring back open again and again. We grocery shop at Trader Joe’s because it is the cheapest thing going. I don’t have a retirement account. Money is a constant stress. It causes a lot of conflict.

Yet, when we do get money do we save it? Do we pay down our debt? No. We impulsively spend it on travel. It seems that every time we get a little windfall we impulsively spend it on adventure. They are low budget adventures to be sure, but they are still frivolous and seemingly irresponsible given the state of our finances. But this impulsivity has allowed us to do amazing things. We have followed the Oregon Trail, and ridden in covered wagons. We have walked on Glaciers in Iceland. We have explored Mammoth Cave and hiked to the bottom of the Grand Canyon. We have snorkled in tropical waters and hung out with Capuchian monkeys. We have camped on beaches and forests and canoed down remote rivers. These trips define our family and the way in which we engage with the world around us. I wouldn’t take away a second of them no matter the cost.

So this bike trip? Totally financially irresponsible. Our money would be better spent paying off loans, saving for retirment or buying health insurance. But how insufferably boring! When Oakley and I leave, it will be necessary for me to close my private practice counseling business. My income will come to a crashing halt. We will defer our student loans and Twain (bless his heart) will keep working, but the trip will cost a lot in terms of gear, camping fees and other necessities. It is completely reckless and will add to our financial stress considerably.

But to not go would be worse. We hear about tragedies on a global scale every day, and I also hear them on a personal scale through my counseling work. I am often overwhelmed by the state of the world and by the sadness that many people I know carry, such as depression and suicidal ideation, the crushing cycle of poverty, drug addiction, and failing families. When I become overwhelmed everything seems gray. I get tired and worn and lose my spark. At these times I feel I have nothing left to offer. Then I feel badly about myself and become unmotivated. It is a sad state of affiars. I know it happens to everybody.

If I don’t have a spark, and if Oakley loses his spark, what good are we? I want to be a positive force in the world, and I want him to be one, too. The only way I know how to keep our sparks bright, is to get out of the gray of the city. To get out off our screens and into the outdoors. To engage with others and nature. To stop worrying about ferry schedules and shopping lists. To stop rushing and getting lost in the lists of my life. Adventuring in the outdoors is how I remember where I fit and what I am a part of. This is why, no matter how selfish it seems, this trip is a good thing. Yes, it is totally self serving but, I am hoping, it will allow us to have more to give by filling us up.

My role model is Frederick the mouse in Leo Lionni’s children’s book, “Frederick”. Frederick spends his days collecting beautiful images and feelings throughout the summer days to have something to share with the other mice during the dark winter months.

“and how about the Colors Frederick?: they asked anxiously.

“Close your eyes again.”Frederick said. And when he told them of the blue periwinkles and the red poppies the yellow wheat and the green leaves of the berry bush, they saw the colors as clearly as if they had been painted on their minds. -Leo Lionni

I may never pay off my loans. I may never make the big changes that I would like to see in the world, but I think I can rationalize this expedition by believing that if we stay compelelty alive and awake we are adding something good to the world. At least believing us helps quell the scolding mid-westerner in me.

Oakley is sleeping upstairs as I write this. He is sick with a bad case of swimmer’s ear. In our life together this is relatively unheard of. This kid’s fire rages so hot that germs seems to get burned to death on contact. This time I actually think we wore him out. It is a parenting technique of mine to keep him so exhausted that he doesn’t have time to get into trouble. Besides, he doesn’t know how to not be busy. He is on a swim team and the indoor track team; he snowboards every Wednesday and cross-country skis whenever I make him. He takes drumming lessons and is in a Queen ensemble group that practices weekly at the Mid-Coast School of Music. It is a great outlet that lets him thrash away while remaining in control. The hope is that it is giving him a rhythm to help organize his scattered self. On days that he doesn’t have a scheduled activity he begs to go to Urban Air, the indoor trampoline park. He doesn’t have an off switch. In fact, this morning he had a fever of 101 degrees and was exclaiming that he could still go to school. I told him he had to stay home and now he is passed out.

That being said, yesterday was the day we finally got to sit upon our bikes. They are terrific. Ainsley at the Gear Hub in Portland has outdone herself. She found us recycled frames and selected components for the bikes that will be able to withstand heavy use and not break our bank. Plus, all the components of the bikes, from the brakes to the shifters to the spokes, all match each other, so we will only have to haul one repair kit and one set of replacement parts with us on our trek.

I was excited and instantly felt a bond to my bike. It has a purple Specialized frame, a drop-down handlebar for lots of different riding positions, and a head set that turns like whipped-cream frosting. The tires are Kevlar to help prevent flats, with double-walled wheels to help bear the weight load. Perfect.

Oakley, on the other hand was unimpressed. I am not sure he truly appreciated the value of a recycled bike and would probably prefer a brand-spanking-new bicycle with all the shiny accoutrements that come with a pricey designer bike. He is 15, after all. What 15-year-old appreciates used stuff? Ainsley enthusiatically asked him what he thought of his bike. “I like it,” Oakley said, unconvinclingly, as he looked around vacantly with rheumy eyes. If you loook at the “bikmum” Instagram account (this is not a misspelling: “bikemum” was already taken on Instagram), you will see that he was busying himself making slow-motion videos of himself, flapping his lips like a rubber duck, that really sum up how he felt.

As we went over the details of the bikes and what still needed to be done, Ainsley mentioned that we might wear out our chains while we are training for this trip and need to replace them. That was when Oakley roused himself and looked at me with horror. I could read his mind. He has no intention of training. Training is boring. The idea of us riding in circles around South Portland when he could be running around with his buddies like a wild child is truly cringe-worthy to him. He intends to just go for it, hop on a plane, hop on his bike and begin that chapter of his life. The adventure appeals to him, not the biking. Not at all. “Are you ready for this?” asked Ainsley excitedly. “Yeah, I guess,” he responded. I wanted him to catch the bike fever, but it wasn’t happening.

Maybe it was just the swimmer’s ear fever he was catching instead.

So, there are a few things that I am excited about seeing when we bike across the country. One, I am excited to see the world. The places that we are going to pass through and maybe even stop and explore sound cool. I guess this tripis sounding better.

My mother says that we are going to walk through huge tunnels that go on for miles and miles, called Lava Tubes, at a place called Mammoth Cave. There will be other fun things as well, like Mount Rushmore. I hope we visit it because last time I was there I was 3, and I remember screaming my tiny little head off because my mom stuffed me in a stroller and didn’t let me run around and have fun. This time I she won’t be able to catch me!

I am excited about biking across the tall prairie grasses in Kansas. It sounds cool to travel through miles of grass that might be 8 feet tall. I am excited about seeing super tall trees with 6 foot wide trunks as well in Oregon. I am going to try and climb them.

BUT, there are still things that I am not excited about. For instance, I hear that dogs chase you while you bike through farm land on very long and twisty roads. My mom says we can carry pepper spray to keep them away. She says sometimes you have to get off your bike and use it as a shield from the dogs. That is terrifying to me, and I think that I should carry a baseball bat at all times to whack them.

The other thing I am not looking forward to is going over the Rocky Mountains. It will be all uphill and I am going to hate this. I will probably throw my bike off the side of a mountain.

Anyway, now I think that there is a lot to worry about and a lot to look forward to.

“Alison, Run!!!!”

My friend Alison is hiking along the Appalachian Trail about 50 feet ahead of me. We have been hiking alone for 10 days and are carrying 50-pound backpacks, so her running is more like a hurried hobble.

I see her try to pick up her pace, stumbling over roots and rocks as she continues to ascend the ridge, but her speed doesn’t accelerate much. “Go!” I call frantically. She can’t look over her shoulder because we are wearing poorly-packed, external-frame packs that extend high over our heads with sleeping pads and pots and pans strapped to the outside. Alison has no idea why I am suddenly commanding her to hurry, but due to the timbre of my voice she doesn’t stop to question me.

Behind me, I hear the thudding of heavy feet galloping up the trail. Something big is coming fast. I hear the leaves and brush rustle and scrape, but I don’t dare to turn around. The faster I run, the faster it pursues me. I am in a blind panic. “Alison!”

We are both 16 years old. This trip had been my idea. The previous summer I had attended Camp Farm & Wilderness, and now felt that I was well versed in outdoor living. I had convinced Alison that we should hike on the Appalachian Trail for a month and survive off of wild edibles along the way. I had also just read “My Side of the Mountain” and pictured us fishing out of clear streams with hooks carved from saplings and eating pine nuts and acorn pancakes to sustain ourselves. Surprisingly, our parents thought this would be a good experience. Maybe they were in need of some respite.

Not surprisingly, it was harder than it sounds. By the second day, we were starving and begging other through-hikers for handfuls of trail mix. We hadn’t even brought a stove and realized quickly that acorns, while theoretically a food, are as bitter as hell if you don’t cook them for hours.

Needless to say, we were ill-prepared. No stove, no food, no maps. And now we were in bear country. We had recently passed a sign that gave instructions for a bear encounter:

• Do not run
• Back up slowly
• Climb tree
• Use pepper spray

At night I had been sleeping with a butcher knife under my pillow–just in case. But currently, that knife was buried deep in my backpack. I was helpless against my attacker. In my rush, I tripped. My heavily-laden backpack toppled me forward, and I hit the ground hard. My knees crashed down on a rock, and I struggled to quickly unclasp my hip belt and twist free of the weight of my pack. I was picturing the bear shredding me with his long teeth and jagged claws, and I wanted to be ready to kick at him. With a sharp intake of breath, I turned to face my doom.

There was nothing. Instead, I saw my sleeping bag had become unrolled and had been dragging on the ground behind me, bumping along the rocks and roots and sounding very much like a bear in hot pursuit. The relief that flooded me could be sold as a street drug.

“Alison,” I called. “It was my sleeping bag.” She dropped her pack immediately and looped back down the trail to me. She was covered with sweat, her cheeks shone red, and her breathing was ragged. She laughed, “Let’s get some pictures of your bloody knees.” (See picture above.) I posed, and she took some shots.”We should probably sing to keep the bears away from now on.” she said. I agreed. So, we did.

I saw Alison yesterday for the first time in 18 years. We met in a coffee shop called Book and Bar in Portsmouth New Hampshire. She was with her 11-year-old daughter. Alison had read this blog and reached out across cyberspace to reconnect. As we spoke her daughter leaned over and whispered in her mom’s ear. “Is this the one?”

“What ? ” I asked.

“Oh,” Alison laughed, “She has heard stories.” We started swapping tales of that trip. How we hiked with ferns behind our ears to keep the gnats away and ended up looking like forest nymphs. How we hadn’t even brought a stove or a map. How in our starvation we took a break from the trail and hitchhiked to Arby’s. We set up our tent up in the parking lot and ate dinner and breakfast there. We remembered asking a farmer to sleep in his barn along the hike during a terrible thunderstorm and huddling under his tractor to avoid his very agitated horse that was also seeking shelter. It was rearing up and kicking at the hard-packed dirt all around our heads. We spent the night questioning whether we had ever heard of a horse trampling someone to death. We remembered how kind everybody was and how helpful. “You will have a lot of adventures, Penny, just wait.” Alison said.

We paid no attention to detail, we relied on the goodness of strangers, and we learned more than we could have ever from a book or a screen. It was terribly uncomfortable, and, at times, we were alternately exhausted, starving, and terrified or all three at once, but, of course, it was worth it.

On this bike adventure I will bring food, lots of it, and maps too, and I hope the appropriate gear. I still welcome the craziness of not planning every moment, but, given my track record of chaos, I will try a little harder to give some thought ahead of time to some of the details.

I hope Oakley will sing with me if I get scared of bears like Alison did.

Here is what we are planning to bring:

• 3-person tent that does not require stakes
• 2 cozy, very compactable sleeping bags
• 2 soft, compactable sleeping pads
• Biolite stove that can use twigs if no fuel is available
• Cooking supplies
• Two touring bikes, double racks and double fenders on each
• Kevlar tires (to prevent flats)
• 2 sets of front and rear panniers
• TransAmerican Trail Maps
• Bike lights
• Headlamps
• Homeschooling supplies
• Repair kits
• First aid kit
• 2 full sets of rain gear
• Battery pack for phone
• Serious amounts of food
• Serious amounts of food
• Serious amounts of food

Another summer morning on Peaks. 10-year-old Oaks is pottering away his time jumping on the trampoline. He is doing front flips, back flips, rodeo’s and the like, elevating himself 12 feet in the air in a way that seems almost controlled. This is nothing new. He jumps around like a flea all day long. He can do back flips even when off the trampoline; he can do handsprings, run downhill on jumping stilts, launch himself into the air on skis off huge jumps and pogo stick until the cows come home. He is never still.

When we moved to Peaks Island after eight years away (we lived here before Oakley was born), I went to the police station to give them the heads-up that I didn’t always sanction his reckless activities, and that they should feel free to stop him if he seemed to be acting in a dangerous or out of bounds manner. I am not embarrassed to ask for help. He seems to have no fear and we have always needed others to be his conscience for him. He needs everybody to be his Jiminy Cricket.

On this particular morning, Twain and I were gathering a few last-minute things to outfit ourselves for a quick trip to town on the ferry while our 15-year-old son Jonah babysat Oaks. We ran through the house grabbing keys, sunglasses, wallets, and phones in the final moments before we would have to run for the ferry. Just then, a neighbor came by with a gift for Oaks. He wanted to bestow on him his old “giraffe” unicycle. It measured six feet from the bottom of the wheel to the seat. I had never seen one so tall. ( I think this man might be a full-grown Oaks in his own right.) He presented the bike with a Cheshire-like grin, knowing that the giving of this gift to a kid like Oaks was at once terribly generous and terribly mischievous. I shuttered at the thought of yet another high stakes activity entering our lives, but I thanked the neighbor just the same. Oaks was beside himself. He smiled from ear to ear and cradled it in his arms like a long-lost lover. Suddenly, I was torn about going into town. Oaks + Six-foot unicycle + No supervision = Disaster. But, we had to go. “Jonah, don’t let him touch it until we get back!” we admonished. “Oaks, we will be home in two hours. Just wait!” He nodded. We ran for the ferry. God, am I a slow learner.

When we returned home to Peaks barely two hours later, who should come careening down the hill to the ferry dock, flopping his arms and wiggling his butt desperately trying to maintain balance on this gargantuan unicycle but Oaks himself. He was covered in sweat with a look of intense concentration on his face. He had no helmet, no wrist guards, no sense. Cars edged down the road beside him trying their best to stay out of his fall line. He was so proud.

As a parent what am I to do? Do I yell at him for not listening and causing me to live in a constant state of high alert, or do I smile at him and admit that I am incredibly proud of his abilities? This kid struggles academically; he has zero to no executive-functioning skills; he struggles to relate socially at times, but he is kinesthetically gifted. I used to live with my heart in my throat watching him catapult through life until I became numb. Other parents would shriek when they saw him fly through the air as he practiced a trick. His favorite was to climb onto a railing or fence post, and then launch himself into a back-flip and (usually) land on his feet. I realized that I was helpless. I had to shut off. Becoming numb was a survival tactic for me. I just can’t be scared all the time.

Then there is me. I am NOT a natural athlete. I am 157 pounds of cozy. I like to be active, but I am by no means gifted. I run, slowly. I can’t jump. Really, not at all. I have had varicose vein surgery twice. Gravity and I love each other. I think I can launch myself two inches, maybe three. I can’t do a pull-up, never have. I stink at catching baseballs and can’t throw a frisbee. I hate yoga. I should love it, I know, but I don’t. Sometimes I make myself do it because it is the right thing to do, but it is so uncomfortable. I have no kinetic sense and often bumble through life. My posture sucks; my back resembles a camel’s hump. I have no depth perception, due to an eye injury. You should see me try to put toothpaste on my toothbrush. I believe this is why I sometimes live vicariously through Oakley.

It is time to begin to get in shape. I am going to spend this season trying to get this body back in line. I have grown soft and feel tired much of the time. That might be the age 50 whispering in my ear. I can’t listen yet.

This trip is going to take a lot out of me, but I do have heart and I do keep going. I have endurance. I have been told that I may not be not light on my feet but that I am a good hauler. So I will haul myself across the country, chasing Oaks and trying not to have my heart in my throat.

Last night, after spending the day running around doing errands town, my husband insisted that it was time to spend some time with my maps. I think this is because he is excited to begin to plan where he might come to join us for a few days. I have announced that being apart for three months is too much for me so he will try to meet us somewhere along the route for a few days so I can grab some kisses…and have a shoulder to cry on.

So, I sat down on the floor with my 144 maps that cover the minute details of our route, and a big map that covers the expanse of America, and a blue Sharpy. I began to slowly trace the route, city by city, park by park, big wild expanse by big wild expanse across the country.

One of the many issues we will have to contend with out there is my vision. It sucks. 10 years ago I was diagnosed with a melanoma on my retina. The treatment for it consisted of eye surgery as well as radiation. It was not super fun, but I was lucky. I got to walk away alive and kicking, with only the loss of my vision in that eye. Most of the time this doesn’t affect me. Nobody would ever know unless they saw me pour a glass of wine, and miss the glass (when I am stone cold sober), or misjudge whether a bird is coming or going, or, watch me try to read a map. My good eye quickly becomes fatigued and little words and roads and numbers seem to wander about the page doing pretty much whatever they feel like. It is exhausting. I can do it (don’t worry, mom), though it is just really frustrating and takes a while. Oakley will have to become the expert.

One notices how damn big this country is when one attempts to transpose 144 maps across its width with one squinty eye! Drawing it took forever. Many times I had to remove my glasses and rub my eyes and lean my head against the wall. Truth is, I had to finish the second half of it this morning. However, after sitting there diligently squinting and marking, now I can see it in my mind’s eye. It is pretty amazing.

We will be riding on endless little twisty and crooked roads through the most obscure places! We will pass through Crow Heart, Sweetwater Station, Amy, Colorado, and Sugar Grove. There are, of course, huge mountain ranges, but also immense deserts and grassland! We will pass through the Wind River Reservation, the Grand Tetons, Yellowstone, and the Shenandoah National Forest. We will climb over Bear Tooth Pass and descend down onto the long (and thankfully flat) plains of Kansas. We will pedal by the Mammoth Caves and Hot Sulfur Springs and hopefully finish by the Jamestown Settlement in Virginia.

A friend who did this trip told me that he would often find himself biking through deserted prairie lands ringed by barbed wire until it got dark, and then he would just jump a fence and wheel his bike over and around a small hillock to set up his camp out of sight of the road. I wonder about the coyotes. I am no wimp, but that chortling, yelping, screaming sound that they make as they stream across the prairie like a hungry mob decimating everything in their path, pulling little cute bunnies apart limb from limb and playing catch with their heads haunts me.

Yes, studying all this expanse of wild land between where we will start and home was a bit disconcerting. I am truly excited to think of all we will see and experience, but I won’t deny that I am a bit apprehensive about the fact that I am really signing up for sleeping under the stars with nobody but Oaks and some coyotes…or snakes, or vultures, or bears for 80 nights or so We will be okay, right? I have one good eye and Oakley has two.