Bikemum

“We have so many bikes right now,” says Ainsley exuberantly. “Storehouses of bikes made from recycled parts. Let’s start by looking at Long-Haul Trucker style bikes. You can beef up the tires, swap out the handlebars, change the shifters, change the type of brakes, get new seats, strip down and rebuild any of them.” The possibilities are endless. She says there are hundreds to chose from. Tractor-trailer beds full. Storerooms. Oakley and I hover together in the Portland Gear Hub, a cinder-block bike shop in Portland, Maine. This is it, the moment we have been waiting for. No more talking; time for action. We are going to start building our bikes.

The Gear Hub is an amazing place. They take donations of used bikes from all over the Portland area and rebuild them, swapping old broken parts for working ones, polishing up the ugly parts and making them shine and then putting them back out for sale at affordable prices. They make it possible for just about everyone to buy a bike. They turn the profits directly into a campership fund. They also have a bike school. They have classes for kids, women, and the general public to learn step-by-step how to rebuild a bike from the ground up. They make these classes accessible with low prices, some of them even free, and create specialty classes so no one feels intimidated. Women and trans-people, kids, beginners, you name it. You can show up not knowing how to hold a wrench and come out with true knowledge of bicycle maintenance. Participants can attend open-bench time and use the Gear Hub’s tools, space, and expertise while they work on their own bikes. Something everyone needs, especially if you are about to embark on a cross-country cycling adventure. The Gear Hub wants to put people on bikes — all people — not just the elite. What’s not to love?

Oakley and I are ready. First, Ainsley, the manager, sizes up Oaks and me. She has us survey the shop floor: what shaped handlebars do we want? What kind of seats? What are the pros and cons of click shifters or thumb shifters or twist shifters? Our minds whirr. So many choices. “Would you like to look in our shipping container out back? We have lots of options.” She says. Would we? You bet!

We follow Ainsley through the cold, dark January evening to a freshly painted, corrugated steel shipping container. It is freezing and we stand close together with our fists jammed into the pockets our down jackets. This is it. She kneels down on the pavement and readies the key for the padlock. I can hardly wait. Which will be my baby to ride home? Which bike will become my best friend, my chariot, and the bane of my existence?

Ainsley fiddles with the lock and key. Her naked hands look cold as they maneuver the small metal parts. She isn’t wearing a coat. “Hmmmm,” she says. The key doesn’t look like it is working. She repositions herself and tries to force the key into the lock again. Oakley and I shift hopefully “It’s not going in. Maybe there is ice in the lock.” The cold wind blows up my jacket and tickles my spine in an unpleasurable way. “This has happened before, we might need to boil some water and thaw it. The lock sometimes fills with frozen water.” I am so excited to see these bikes, but the idea of Ainsely scrounging around her shop trying to boil water on this frigid evening seems too much to ask. “No, that’s okay, we can come back,” I say, feeling my stomach sink just a bit. I am hoping she insists that we stay, but after another moment she reluctantly gives up. “That’s probably a good idea.” The shop closes in half an hour. There is a ferry to catch. I don’t blame her at all. “Okay,” I say, maybe a little glad to get in out of the dark and cold.

January. Yes, it is beautiful in Maine in a shocking, startling kind of way, but really, it sucks when you are chafing at the bit to break free. I am the worst at sitting still. I am impatient and overly intense. Ask any of my children. Ainsley will call us soon, she promised. I believe her. We will take her class and rebuild our bikes. But today? We return home empty-handed. My daughter is lying on the couch after her third knee surgery. She stares vacantly at the wall. So do I.

Our family, like so many others, deals with an addiction to phones. I have been one of the last holdouts to give my children cell phones. The three oldest made it to high school before I relented, and it was really based on the fact that they would be attending school on the mainland while I would be working on Peaks. I saw them as walkie-talkies.

Our phone use started innocently enough, and they were indeed mostly used for logistical exchanges, but, of course, the rate of phone use took off exponentially. First came access to music. That was great. Then access to games, less great. Then to Instagram and Facebook, and these became real time and motivation suckers. Lastly, to the bane of my existence, came Snapchat.

I run a private practice counseling service, and I often work with teenagers and young adults. I have seen many people’s self-confidence and motivation tank at the same rate that their phone usage escalates. I feel old when I say this, but it seems true: people don’t hang out like they used to. They isolate themselves, and I have seen a big increase in social anxiety that runs parallel.

My own relationship to my phone is also fraught. I diddle on it endlessly, often checking for new texts or emails that will change my life and give purpose and meaning to all I do. I know that the answers will never come from there, but I can’t seem to help myself. In weaker moments I play Candy Crush.

Last night as I lay in bed trying to fall asleep, I found myself remembering glimpses of my childhood before the social media invasion. I saw myself at age 7, squatting with my knees pressed against my ears on the cement patio behind my parents’ house. I was watching ants navigate a crack, carrying huge and unwieldy pieces of crackers over their heads that waved like sails in the air. I watched for what seemed like an hour. I built obstacles and designed races for them and cheered in a whisper for the champions.

I saw myself climbing a fence and running through an apple orchard to a half-fallen-down hollow tree that I knew was slick and polished inside from countless bottoms that had slid through the tunnel of the trunk. I remember climbing inside the tree and the feel of the smooth, silkiness of the wood under my fingers as I scooted my fanny down through the dark pithy wood.

I also saw myself in the evenings playing Ghost in the Graveyard outside at dusk. Sweaty, even the though the air was cool. Breathing hard but quietly. Heart thumping. Acutely aware of every sound in the bushes around me as I hid, and smelling the sweet green of the hedges.

I am not saying this doesn’t happen now, but I do believe that people live less fully in the moment. And I believe that this speeds up life. I am looking to slow it down. I want to be fully present and I want Oakley to be, too.

I have not given Oakley a phone yet. He is 15 and is desperate. His friends have given him broken cell phones which he tapes together and uses without data to listen to music and take pictures. He tells others that they work because he is embarrassed that he may be the last of his friends to have one. Even so, he is on it all the time. It is like the phone calls to him and he can’t resist. He fiddles with it endlessly. He doesn’t seem to be able to see or hear what is around him during these times.

I want him to leave it behind on our trip. I want him to be fully engaged in the experience and not worrying about the drama back home he is missing. I want him to lose himself in the moments. He can use my phone to take pictures and occasionally touch base with friends and family, but I don’t want him to have access to games and pop culture. This will be a battle, but to me, it is part of the point of this trip. Looking at life differently. Checking out from all that distraction. Is it still possible? Am I living in the Dark Ages?

Please read Oakley’s Opinion in the last post.

Okay, so the question here is, “Why do I want a phone on this trip?” Well, the reason why I think I should have a phone during this trek across the county is that it would be nice to contact friends or family every once in a while, and my mom and I are making an Instagram account based on this trip.

The other question is, “Why the hell are my parents so uptight?” My parents were planning on not getting me a phone until I was in my freshman year of high school, and while I am biking across the country I am technically a freshman in high school, so why not let me have a phone?!? I just asked my mom again why I can’t have a phone, and she said, “It rots your brains.”

The truth is, I (kind of) already have a phone, which my parents didn’t actually allow. My friend gave me his old iPhone 4, and then my brother got a new phone and gave me his old iPhone SE, which is the smaller version of the iPhone 6. Because it’s not activated, it doesn’t even make calls, but, when connected to wifi, I can text and play certain games. Even so, I am barely allowed to use it. On the trip, we will rarely be connected to wifi, so this “phone” won’t function at all unless, of course, my parents actually activate the phone and get me a number.

The one big reason why I feel like I need a phone is that all of my friends have phones, and every time I need to call my parents, instead of pulling out my phone and calling my mom, I have to ask my friends to borrow their phones to make the call. That’s another reason why I want a phone, not just to play games. Well, sometimes I want to do that, but really all I want is to easily communicate with my parents and friends.

My parents have never let me have a phone. I am 15 years old, and I am the last of my friends not to have one. What is your opinion? Please write it in the comments section below.

“Triple F Days” are what my family calls Forced Family Fun days for short, at least that is what the F’s stand for in my mind. I am sure that my children would tell you that those F’s stand for some other choice words. “Triple F Days” are the days that I insist we all go out adventuring.

On any given Saturday in the recent past, one might have seen Twain and me and all four of our kids sallying forth to the ferry terminal to catch the 7:15 boat off the island to “go to nature,” our family lingo for a hike. This could mean a simple walk in the woods or an extended expedition. Passersby have literally exclaimed “What a happy family!” as we have paraded along. What they haven’t been privy to is the 6:30-wake-up, the groans and utterances of agony about the injustice of it all, nor the infighting about who has to carry what and the unfairness of having to wear a jacket even if it “isn’t cold.” They haven’t heard the exasperated sighs and shrill complaints about waking up on a Saturday and being forced to eat breakfast before the birds and all the comparisons made of what other normal teenagers get to do with their Saturdays.

I have dragged everybody on bike rides, hiking trips, camping excursions, and road trips since the day they were born, whether they wanted to or not. They have spent days stuffed into cramped vans and sleeping in tiny wet tents in the name of togetherness and the beauty of the outdoors. We don’t have a “Leave it to Beaver Family” and often all that coziness can become, shall we say, stifling? Yet, I continue to champion these days, optimistic that the next one will always be even better than the last.

One March, not long ago, I was seized by the longing for a Triple F adventure that was a bit more than a day trip. I decided what we all needed was a road trip to Apalachicola, in Florida’s panhandle. A little spring-break escape from Maine, which, in March, is gray and bitter and without a hint of spring in the air. I quickly calculated a 22-hour road trip. We thought we could make it in one day if we took turns driving. This sounded a tad awful, but it would surely be worth it. When we got to Tallahassee, some 23 hours from home, we realized we still had five hours to go. We were all sick with fatigue as we arrived at our destination at 3 a.m., rather than the predicted 9 p.m. The campsite was locked with a sturdy bar across the drive. I am ashamed to say, I drove around it, crushing all manner of flora and fauna. I am a fallible environmentalist.

We went to set up our tent and realized that we forgot some of the poles. The zipper broke. There were midges and sand fleas. We tried to hang it with some branches and use duct tape to seal the tent’s entrance. It didn’t work. Our sleeping pads would not inflate. The next night Twain got food poisoning. Duct taped tent doors and sick stomachs are not a good combination.

My friend and Barbara Schlictman brought her family to join us for a few days of this lovely trip midway through the week. Our children get along better with each other if you dilute the bunch and her family was a welcome distraction. When they arrived, however, they took one look at our hobo tent and promptly rented a small bed and breakfast in the local town. They decided it might be better to just join us in our squalor during day light hours.

One afternoon the boys took a cheap inflatable raft out on the ocean. As they jumped in and out of the boat and clumsily splashed at the water with the plastic oars, the wind picked up and blew the raft down the beach a little way. Before long they found themselves paddling about in front of a group of surf fisherman. One fisherman began gesturing emphatically to move away from the area. The children jumped off the raft and began to try to push and pull the raft back up the beach against the wind. They were making little to no progress. The man continued to call and wave at them. My friend Barb approached the man to tell him nicely that the boys were trying, thinking this man was being a little uptight about the kids invading his fishing grounds.

He was not uptight. The man told Barb that he had been calling to the boys because there were 5 hammerhead sharks circling the raft that had been drawn in because of the smell of bait from the fishing. He could see them swimming around the juicy little boys who were happily splashing in and out of the boat. Without a word, Barb walked into the ocean, through the school of sharks, and calmly directed the boys to get back in the raft. She pulled them safely to shore before ever uttering anything that would cause alarm until they were safe on the beach.

After driving another 27 hours home to Maine we were all terribly sick of each other. The bickering and the smells emanating from the children were unbearable and by the time we got out of the car, I had a knot in my rump as big as a gourd. It took weeks to get out, literally.

However, the truth is that even that knot was worth it. We spent our time on the Florida Coast on a wild and beautiful beach, half-naked and lounging in the sun. We swam in the warm silky water, ate delicious seafood, and stayed up late to watch the stars and sit around our fire under tall palms. We caught lizards and listened to wild pigs barrel through the undergrowth late at night. We met friends and made beach mazes and found that my friend has heroic qualities. And we ended up laughing about the nightmare qualities of the trip; in fact, we still laugh about it. In the end, I got exactly what I had wanted, togetherness, adventure and the outdoors.

It wasn’t until my son Jonah turned 18 and announced he was no longer going to be bullied into joining us on our family outings that anybody even realized they had an option. His older brother, Finn, was 20 at the time and it had never occurred to him that he could opt out. Raven, his younger sister, was 16 and amazed at Jonah’s audacity, but soon came to find that he had paved the way for her to use the word “no.” This has saddened me to no end, but all teenagers need to exert their independence at some point.

The good news is that Oakley has not yet grasped that he could put his foot down and refuse to go on our trip. Don’t tell him. I am seizing the day and taking him before he figures it out. He is on the cusp. I am sure that it will not go smoothly, but I am sure that it will be worth it just the same.

-Dedicated to Barb Schlichtman and her “Triple F Days”

Ok, I know that some people say that I hid my bike to get out of this whole trip, but no, I did not hide my bike. I had a bright red Cannondale that I was going to strip and rebuild as my touring bike, BUT someone stole it. I left it down at the ferry on the bike rack one morning when I went to catch the boat. I know that some people say that the ferry dock is the sweet spot for stealing bikes on Peaks, but I was in a rush and that night I completely forgot to pick it up. There, end of story.

My mom, of course, thinks that I hid my bike and made me go all around the island to see if I could find it. My dad thought the exact same thing. On a freezing cold day, they sent me out to look everywhere. I was so mad. I am pretty sure that they called my friend’s parents to check if it was hidden at one of their houses.

One of the issues with my mom is that she thinks that I am lying all the time. It is true sometimes I lie, but sometimes I don’t. Sometimes, I lie to get out of trouble and the other times is just to make life more entertaining.

The truth is, my bike was stolen. If you see it let me know.

I’m sitting in Mr. Sessa’s English class in 10th grade, filled with what can only be described as an insatiable itch not to be there. These damn blue plastic chairs affixed to tiny wooden desks that prevent me from moving at all. No leaning back, no scootching back in the seat to lean forward, just forcing me to sit and attend, as if my body should be an afterthought. I look out the windows and see a beautiful blue sky with puffy white clouds blowing by, and I just know that a balmy wind is filling in. The grass in the school playing fields has just turned green. I need to get out of here.

My notebook is covered with doodles. I just can’t make myself care about what Mr. Sessa is saying. I like him, but he is boring me to death. It all seems irrelevant. I raise my hand and ask to visit the bathroom. He looks at me skeptically; I have a bit of a reputation, I am afraid. “Make it fast,” he says. I do.

I make it fast — down the hall and out the side door of the school. The air is balmy, just like I imagined. It smells sweet and enticing and I simply walk away from the school and all my responsibilities and constrictions. It doesn’t feel like a choice, but more of a need. 

I stroll down the road, with a purpose in my stride, toward the nearby park, out of sight from the school.  There is a pond there with ducks. I like to go wander in the woods and then sit by the water and write, draw, or just space out. The day before me has just opened up to a delicious feast of the senses and adventure.

I am failing high school. My parents aren’t aware of how bad things have gotten, but I have cut so many classes that I have gone beyond the limit of allowable absences. I have intercepted several phone calls home and modified several report cards this year. F’s are very easy to turn into B’s. If I think about what is going to happen when it all catches up to me I feel sick, so I choose not to. Instead, I climb trees and goof off, always smiling and acting like it is all one big romp. People tend to think that I am a stoner, but really, although I have dabbled, I am not. I am just pulled to be free.

I have become a pathological liar. The lies began as a form of protection and then became a way of life. They started to keep me out of trouble at school and with my parents, but then they began to enter all facets of my life. I created fictional as well as non-fictional adventures to keep me entertained. I have told my parents that I was babysitting and then gone into the city to walk the streets all night long. I have told people that I fell off my roof to get out of social commitments. I even told all my friends that I was dating the rock star, Prince. It has gotten out of hand. As I sit in the park, I fabricate more of these stories and excuses to get me through the next week. I think I have it all figured out.

But I don’t. The stress of trying to maintain all these stories is getting to me. As free as I long to be, keeping up these stories has become its own cage. Sometimes I hate myself and am so angry that I can’t do what everyone else seems to be doing. Why can’t I just “do” school? Why have I made my life so complicated? Other kids seem to balance it all, but I can’t seem to.  I feel different from everybody else. How can they follow the rules while I can’t? My lies and stories have definitely made my life exciting, but there is a thin line between adventure and disaster.

I have a group of close friends that often join me on my escapades. We have cut school and stolen off to amusement parks, snuck onto fenced in pastures and ridden bareback on police horses. We have run away to the New Jersey Shore and to a Pocono ski resort, all while fabricating elaborate tales of nannying jobs. It is somewhat of a miracle that we have come to no harm and rarely seem to get caught. Yet all those crazy friends are maintaining far better than I. They are doing well in school and I hear them beginning to talk about colleges and their futures. I have spent 28 days in in-school suspension due to cutting class. I don’t believe there is a college out there that would be interested in me. I dream of becoming a barefoot gypsy. The idea of staying in school a second longer than necessary or maintaining a 9-to-5 job is absurd.

In the end, I do get caught. One of my lies is that I am on the swim team and that practice is every day from 3 to 5. This gives me an extra two hours of freedom before I am expected home for dinner. The truth is that due to my failing grades I have been kicked off the team for several months. I was spending that time running wild. One day my mother comes to watch me in a swim meet. I am not there. She asks the coach of my whereabouts and everything unravels: cutting school, the failing grades and my status of being cut from the team long ago. It all comes crashing down.

So you see, Oakley and I are the perfect match. It is uncanny. I see him chafing at the bit, as I did at his age. I made it through due to luck, forgiving parents and a feeling of joy and belonging in the outdoors. I hope the same will work for him.

On good days, Oakley and his antics keep us hopping and laughing. Not all days are good though. Sometimes they are really hard.

Oakley is now 15 years old. I am waiting to pick him up from his YMCA swim team practice on a dark, rainy November evening. I am surprising him with a ride rather than his expected walk through town to the ferry terminal because it is so gross outside. Sometimes, I feel like I live in this van, right here, on this grimy upholstered seat amidst a patina of dog hair, food crumbs, coffee stains, and unidentifiable sandy grit.

The clock on the dash reads 7:15. I am plenty early and I have a few minutes before he should come strolling out of the building. The wipers sweep incessantly across the window shield and the car radio drones on playing a song that I have heard far too many times. “Different is good.” is the radio stations tagline. Nothing different here, nothing.

7:20–a slight premonition begins to prickle my skin. I ignore it and take out my phone. Nobody has texted me, no new emails either. How about some Candy Crush? Level 254. How did this happen to me? By day I run a private practice counseling service. It is a good gig, business is booming, but sometimes I feel like a fraud. My whole therapeutic approach boils down to the following: Follow your values, commit to actions that support them and you can get through anything.
Level 254? What the hell. What a waste.

7:25–That prickly sensation has grown. It is morphing into a thought. Here I sit, waiting. For what?

7:30–Suddenly, I am sure that I am waiting for nothing. Oakley is not in the Y. I know this as sure as I know that the sun has set. He isn’t late yet, but I am certain. I pull out of the drop-off/pick up spot and onto the road. Commuter traffic clogs the way and the radio and the wipers begin to rattle me. “Where is Oakley?” I have lost him again. Dammit.

7:35–I make my way slowly across town to the ferry terminal where Oakley would have walked after practice to catch a boat to our island home. The boat doesn’t leave for nearly another 45 minutes. He shouldn’t be there yet, he should still be in that pool. I feel a rising anger. The little brat. I have spent the last 15 years chasing him. I should have known to never let my guard down. He never went to swim practice;I know this. He has been lying to me all week. I am sure. Where has he been? The fury begins to boil inside me.

7:40–I pull up to the terminal and peer out into the darkness searching for him. It doesn’t take me long to see him. He is standing out on the city pier in the rain, hood up, sneakers scuffing at the pavement, down jacket soaked through. What is he doing? What is he waiting for? I jump out of the car and holler. “Oakley! What do you think you are doing?!” He spins towards me with a look of fear on his face, We have been through this drill countless times. I can see the lies and excuses zipping across his brow from here, but he knows he is busted. He walks over to me, bracing himself for the bollicking he is about to receive.

“You weren’t at swimming!” I spit. He squirms and shifts his eyes about. “I can’t do this anymore Oakley! Where were you? Why do you do these things? Why can’t you be honest? Why can’t I trust you?” The full tirade of ineffectual nonsense flows from my mouth. My cheeks are flushed. Oakley just stares at the ground. He has heard it all before. Too many times.

But, even in this moment, I am aware that this is not entirely his fault. He has been running away since the day his feet hit the ground. He needs more stimulation, more variety, more intensity than most. It isn’t that he doesn’t like swimming, it is just that he is always looking for more. The routine of everyday mainstream has never been enough for him, and right now, it doesn’t feel like it is enough for me either. We are chafing at our bits.
It is time for a change. I love life, I love my family, I love the blue sky and I love this planet. So does Oakley. I am suddenly acutely aware that our lifelong pattern of him running and me chasing is getting us nowhere. The stakes are too high. I am afraid that one day, I might not be able to catch him.

A normal Saturday morning. Oakley is three, Thistle is six, Jonah eight and Finn ten. The family is all hanging around the house doing a whole lot of nothing. It is very peaceful. Too peaceful.I wander through the house “Oakley?” I call. No response. I go into the backyard where Twain is working. “Have you seen Oakley?” I ask. “Nope.” He sighs heavily and immediately stops what he is doing to join me in a preliminary search of the house. We look under beds, in the bathroom, in closets and in the yard. No Oakley. “Oakley Alert!” I call. The kids groan, but don’t hesitate. Everyone begins looking.

The thing with Oakley is that he hides. Calling his name doesn’t do it. You have to find him. Oakley disappearing has happened so frequently that we have taken drastic measures. Our doors all have hook-and-eye locks about 6 feet high, out of his reach, that we are committed to locking whenever we are home. The doors also have springs on them that snap them shut when you open them in case you forget to close them securely. Our backyard is enclosed by a 3-foot chain link fence with a sprin-loaded gate. When this didn’t prove enough to hold him in, we added a two-foot extension of bird netting that seems unclimbable above the fence. In the past he has managed to scale the outdoor shower that is attached to the house, cross over the roof and jump into the front yard in an effort to attain freedom.

The house is empty, the search needs to expand. Thistle stays at home stationed by the telephone in case he reappears. Finn strikes out on his bike, to tour the neighborhood. Jonah grabs one Razor scooter and I grab the other. Twain sets out on foot. The neighborhood fills with the sound of our calling. “Oakley! Oakley!” Some neighbors hear us and venture out. “You lost him again?” Asks one gentleman with a kind smile. He shakes his head and begins searching his yard. Another neighbor calls out “He is not in here!” Our search continues. We fan out over several blocks; no Oakley. It has now been 25 minutes and I am beginning to move past numbness into slight worry. I pass Twain on my scooter. “Maybe we should call the police?” “Yeah maybe, let’s give it a few more minutes.”

Calling the police is scary. I have contacted them in the past to try to give them a heads up about our little runaway. I told them all the precautions we have taken and asked them to just be aware that if they ever come upon a toe-headed three-year-old wandering alone in a place where one wouldn’t normally find one to give us a call. The response was harsh. Yes, they would keep an eye out, and if they found him they would call Child Protective Services.

Just then, Twain’s cell phone rings. It is six-year-old Thistle. “He is at Krispy Kreme.” She proudly reports. “They just called.” Wow. Krispy Kreme is three blocks away and along the busy Savannah Highway, a 4-lane commercial strip that is the main artery leading to and from Charleston, South Carolina. He must have cut through backyards and hedges the whole way or we would have seen him. I tear off on my scooter.

When I arrive, Oakley is sitting in a chair happily eating a donut and drinking from a carton of milk. He is wearing both a medical ID bracelet that we had purchased for him, with his name and phone number on it. (Think Paddington Bear “If lost” tag.) And a bright blue harness equipped with a beeper that goes off if a remote is pushed. It only has a 150-foot range, so it didn’t work very well. The manager of Krispy Kreme is incredulous. He feels like a hero. He is. I thank him sincerely for his rescue although I can’t help wishing he hadn’t fed Oakley. I am sure that Oakley will continue to frequent this place. I throw Oakley on the front of my scooter and ride home. He is terribly pleased with himself.

The family has all regathered at home and are waiting to hear about Oakley’s adventure. I tell them about his tasty little snack and they all can’t help but praise him. “Oakley got a donut!” They all shout with glee. They pat him on the back, ask if it was yummy and wish they could pull off such a stunt. We all live a bit vicariously through him. Then it is over. Wordlessly we all return to whatever it was that we were working on. This wasn’t rehearsed. We all know the drill. Saturday continues.

Sometimes when my husband and I crawl into bed at night we laugh and take turns recounting Oakley stories. We wince slightly at some of the gory details, but overall we feel lucky to have a child as entertaining as our son. Those are the good nights.

The Maps came today! There are 144 postcard sized maps meant to be affixed to the handlebars of your bike. They filled Oakley and me with simultaneous joy and dread. 144 maps? That’s a lot. 

One of my many bad habits seems to be getting my family lost. I have a reputation for being “sure” I know where we are going. It is always just a little bit further or just around the bend. I make promises and swear on my life that I know where we are going. Many times I am right, but the truth is, I should be dead many times over.

These days, when we set off on expeditions into the wilderness everybody in my family grabs the maps from my hands and makes sure they know the way independently. I find this very annoying. Where is the adventure in that? I like heading off into the wilds with a general sense of where we are going but nothing too specific. I like winging it. Nobody else seems to appreciate this quality in me.

In 2007 I took my family back to Prescott, Arizona, to visit my college town and show them the sites. Finn was 12, Jonah 10, Raven 6 and Oakley 4. I was excited to lead them up Granite Mountain and show them the beautiful gnarled trees on the top and the fields of grasses that I recalled had herds of javelinas running through. I assured them we didn’t need to take the well-worn path to the top–boring!–but rather we could quickly ascend by boulder-hopping up a rock gully that went up the backside of the mountain. I had done it thousands of times while I was in school and it was so much shorter and so much more fun than the path. 

For some inexplicable reason, my family let their guard down, and they blindly began the ascent. The travel was gentle enough at first and we all enjoyed the scramble for the first 20 minutes. It wasn’t long before the hay-bale sized boulders became refrigerator-sized and the chasms between them became deep. Twain and I began taking turns hopping from one to the other and tossing the smaller of the children across. Twain soon became wary.  “Are you sure about this?” he questioned. “Yes,” I curtly replied as I caught Oakley in my arms after another toss. “We are almost there.” We continued on.  

An hour later the boulders had become dumpster-sized and the space between them had grown to 6 to 10 feet in places. We had passed the point where descending was a safe option. Twain became silent. The kids became anxious. “Shouldn’t we be there by now?” asked Finn. “I don’t feel comfortable,” proclaimed Raven. A telltale warmth began to creep up the back of my neck as I realized that perhaps I had made a mistake.  It had been 14 years since I’d been here. Memory fades.

One hour turned into five. We finished our water and had no more snacks. We were in the high desert of Arizona in April, and the sun was beginning to set. The evening air began to blow cold and I realized with horror, that we might be stuck here, halfway up the mountain, if we didn’t find a path off before dark. It would be too cold. Last night had been well below freezing and we had shivered in our sleeping bags at the base of the mountain. Today we were only wearing shorts and t-shirts.

Reluctantly, I admitted to Twain that I must have remembered wrong. I was scared. He was scared. We would fight about it later, but now we needed an emergency plan. He had a lighter and we planned to put the kids up against a big boulder and make a fire against it. The fire may provide enough warmth and it it might also make a big enough light that someone might see us. 

One last problem. I hesitate to mention this, but I had known full well that the top of the mountain was closed because of nesting peregrines. Plus, the forest was exceedingly dry. If someone saw our fire, I knew that they would come to rescue us because we were breaking the law. I had studied environmental science and wilderness leadership at Prescott College in this very town and now I was looking at an emergency rescue of my children, an arrest for trespassing and breaking an environmental ban, and I could very well burn the whole mountain down while I was at it. 

As the last rays of sun disappeared from the sky, we found the top, and the well-worn path down. We were hungry, thirsty and freezing and been hiking for 10 hours instead of my projected 2, but we would live to our next adventure. 

What an exciting tale right? No damage done, just some endorphins fired and an adventure completed. My family doesn’t feel the same way. They now refer to Granite Mountain as “Mount Doom” and use it as evidence that I can’t be trusted with maps or directions.

So, maps. Not my forte. Now I have 144 of them.

I am not a very mushy person. It is hard for me to express my appreciation and affection for others verbally. It makes me feel squirrely and insecure, like if I tell someone how I really feel they may run for the hills. However, I can’t let my husband Twain’s song go unsung.

I am crazy lucky. I have been married 23 years and to still feel incredibly happy to be sharing my life and family with Twain. He has always encouraged me to follow my dreams even when it has cost him dearly. I wanted kids. I wanted to move to Maine.  I wanted to travel. I wanted to return to school to get my Masters degree. I wanted a dog, He always simply says, “If you can make it work, you should do it.” Okay, maybe he didn’t say that about the dog,  maybe I fought for that, but…

So, this bike trip. He has been encouraging me for years. I have been fantasizing about it forever, but reality kept pulling me home. What about the money? What about us? What about his dreams? Shouldn’t I be pulling my fair share? But, he has never wavered. He has consistently told me that we will find a way , even when all signs pointed to the countrary.

He believes that this ride could be a game changer for Oakley. All of Oakley’s energy could be harnessed and used to build his confidence and appreciation of the world instead of it being viewed as too much and something for which he is constantly being scolded for.  Twain wants Oakley and me to be happy and to experience life to it’s fullest.

Our family will be stressed because of this trip. Twain may have to turn our home into a bed and breakfast while we are away to help cover costs. We may have to take out a loan. He will have to take care of our dog (the one that I had to fight for), and he will continue to go to work every day. even though he also loves adventure. But, he says “Go,” “I will be here.”

Either he is an incredibly generous person or….he he has a shady ulterior motive. I chose to believe the first. I love him. That’s it. I wish we could all be so generous to each other.