Bikemum

There is a buzzing inside me—a little bee flitting from one side of my brain to the other. It ricochets from page to page of a wide open atlas that is imbedded there asking, “Where should we go next? What flower do you want to taste? What do you want to see? What colors await? What are you prepared to feel? Are we ready to leave the hive again? Look—here is Cuba. Here is Brazil. Here is Patagonia. Here is Spain. Here is Canada. Here is Japan. Here is the world and this is your life. What is next?”

In the busyness of the summer, I can’t take the time to listen, so I tune this little bee out, but now, on this quiet, rainy Monday in late September, I sit in the shop with my feet up on the counter and begin to pay attention to the buzzing. It is time to begin planning another ride.

It is hard to explain why I love bicycle touring so much, but it has added a balance to my life that helps me stay upright.

This world does overwhelm me. I am very susceptible to the weight of sadness and it is easy to lose hope about the world’s future. The problems we face are overwhelming. I guess these rides help me remember three truths that keep me on my feet.

They help me remember that I am stronger emotionally and physically than I often feel when lying on my couch watching Netflix and drinking wine. That life is for living right now.

And these rides help me remember how extraordinarily beautiful, diverse and intricate the world is. It is so old and I am so young! The way it’s patterns and adaptions have evolved leave me awestruck. I feel this the most when I am out in the elements, sleeping on the ground and immersed in the outdoors.

And they help me remember how incredible people are. How we care for one another. How kind we can be and how good kindness feels. How we have more similarities than differences. How humanity is bigger than politics or place. I learn this best when I make myself vulnerable—when I am just Leah.

I am incredibly privileged to get to do this. That is not lost on me for a moment. I could stay home. I could keep my mouth shut. But, I can’t help, but feel that the beauty in this world is worth sharing.

So read along if you like. Now, where to….

As night settles in, we head out, over two hundred cyclists strong. We pedal slowly down residential streets, weaving among each other, laughing, chatting, and dancing in our saddles. Many bikes are outfitted with lights that twinkle in the gathering darkness and we move like a river of stars.

Music fills the air, streaming from an amplifier that sits atop a trailer on one of the organizer’s bikes. It matches the mood of the group and is both rousing and playful. The cyclists can’t help but bounce in their seats and gently sway their handlebars from side to side.

There are children riding on tag-alongs, attached to their parents’ full-sized bikes, eyes wide at the spectacle they are a part of. There are older participants, riding with reflectors slapped around the cuffs of their pant legs to avoid their khakis getting covered with bike grease. There are young adults, riding on everything from high-end road bikes, to snow-bank specials, complete with rusty spokes and creaky chains. There are couples grinning shyly at each other. There are artists, athletes, teenagers and plain old bicycle commuters. This is an inclusive group, one where it seems that everyone belongs.

Tonight, I am riding with my husband and teenage son. The truth is that I begged them to come. At first they were wary, anxious about what exactly I was signing them up for. This is understandable. I have dragged them on all sorts of adventures, often the scope of which has exceeded my descriptions and their expectations. But tonight, I promised, would be just pure fun—a different sort of adventure.

We met the group in the park, where everyone stood around eyeing each other like children gathering on the playground on the first day of school, perhaps slightly overwhelmed by so many potential friends. Bikes were jostled around like horses at a starting gate, as all of us eagerly waited for the ride to begin.

As soon as our wheels were in motion, people seemed to relax and fall into a mellow rhythm together. We were a school of fish; turning left and then right and then left again through a residential neighborhood, down a city block and along a bike path, matching each other’s cadence with ease.

People stopped mid-dog-walk and called out greetings. They couldn’t help but smile, in fact, it seemed like nobody could. Grins flashed throughout the crowd almost matching the brightness of the lights.

Every time we came to an intersection, a few people rode up and stopped the traffic, allowing all the other cyclists to pass through safely. It was all very well orchestrated and for these few moments it almost felt like everything was right in the world.

I looked through the crowd to find my family, and saw my husband happily talking with another participant, no worries there. I spy my son deep in the crowd, riding solo, sitting tall in his saddle and scanning the scene. I can’t read his face and I wonder whether he is having fun or if the beauty of this event is lost on him. I figure it is best to leave him alone and let the experience wash over him, and hope.

After a mile or so, the group encounters a steep hill. It is dark now and I lose sight of my family. The music changes tone and a rousing rendition of “Guardians at the Gate” by Audiomachine fills the air, making the bicyclists surge forward, united in an effort to conquer the rise. We stand on our pedals, and encourage each other to not give up, but the top narrows and one by one everyone dismounts and pushes their bicycles the last 20 feet to the top. Again, I cast around looking for my son. Is he hating this? I have no idea, but then I see him.

He has raced to the top of the hill, high above the masses and is standing on top of a granite bench with his phone above his head, videotaping our progression. I see at once how proud he feels to be part of this. Something good, something absolutely positive and slightly absurd. And my chest swells with gratitude for these people.

It is all I want for him, actually for all of us. To be part of a community where there is fun, camaraderie, beauty, room for individual expression, and an appreciation of the outdoors, ourselves and each other.

After we continue pedaling I sidle up next to him. “So, do you like this?” I can’t help but ask.

“Yeah, this is awesome.” He replied smiling, with no coolness what-so-ever.

Thank you Portland Bike Party, these rides are about so much more than just bicycles.

I hope everyone joins next month or starts one in their town soon.

My blood is boiling. How could I have been duped again? I feel my cheeks redden and sweat break out on my scalp. I will be damned if I let my nineteen year-old son sneak another teenage escapade past me. He has two months left of high school and we are feeling the push me-pull me of burgeoning independence in a painful way. I reach for the phone, already ten sentences into my tirade before he picks up. He doesn’t stand a chance.

“What are you thinking?” I torrent without even a ‘hello’. “There is no way that you are getting away with this.” He sputters and tries to absorb the impact of being caught, all the while parrying his own rebuttal.

“I didn’t do anything,” he pleads. But sadly, I am ready for such a response. I have cross checked my facts, circled my witnesses and have this arsenal at the ready.

Our fighting is like fencing, but a lot less graceful. The conversation arcs and sizzles, leaving us both depleted and raw. I love this guy so much, yet nobody makes me angrier. Ten minutes into my tongue lashing, we are both worn out and are now are both feeling guilty. He for making a mistake, and me for losing my cool and overreacting. I know better. He is just a typical teenager-why do I react so strongly?

Because I am afraid. It is a knee-jerk reaction to the unbridled fear of letting him go and not being able to protect him anymore. I should have seen this coming. We have faced the uncertainty of sleeping on the road for months at a time on various biking expeditions, the discomfort of extreme weather in many wilderness settings, the chaos associated with half-baked plans and countless adventures together, but I was always there to manage the risk. It was orchestrated. Now, he is about to go off on his own and what if…?

People generally think I am brave, but not about this. There are dangers everywhere, and although I have made it my goal to accept this and live fully anyway, watching my son do the same seems to be my undoing. As a mental health counselor, I espoused my clients not to let their anxious feelings serve as chains, but rather as illuminators. I would ask them, “Why do you feel this way? Is it legitimate? Is it truly life threatening, or just a feeling to figure out and accept? Is your heart beating fast because you need to flee a real danger, or just because you are excited and getting ready to take on a challenge? “

So now, I am anxious and afraid and it is time to listen to my own advice. I don’t want the world to eat my son alive, but I also think that if he stays here, I might! My heart is beating quickly and I am red in the face a lot, because this feels scarier than all our adventures put together. I know that doesn’t mean it shouldn’t happen. He has to go and take his own risks and learn his own lessons and I have to feel anxious. What fun.

Last week we went into the Bigalow Mountains with cross-country skies and snowshoes and tried to make our way up the peak. Nobody had walked on the trail yet this winter. There were no footprints to follow, just sporadic, blue blazes on the trees at shin height. They should have been slightly overhead, but this snow was six-feet deep, making them very hard to see and we often found ourselves wandering about a bit lost. Suddenly, I stepped off the trail into a hidden crevice—a snow covered stream where the snow couldn’t support my weight—and I plunged in up to my neck. I wasn’t in danger, but I sure was stuck. My son guffawed and settled in to watch. He couldn’t help, or he would have fallen through as well, so he just gave me not-so-helpful hints and used the opportunity to rest.

Getting out took a monstrous effort, involving  an awkward water-strider, insect sort of a crawl, flailing ski poles, flapping snowshoes and snow fluffing up around my face like feathery down. When I finally righted myself,  we continued tromping up the mountain, like a little group of winter gnomes, amazed by the beauty surrounding us and laughing at our struggles.

Let this struggle we are going through now, as we both learn how to deal with his new independence, be like that. Awkward, but funny. Difficult, but doable. Exhausting, yet beautiful. It may be hard to find our way—but we will—we always do.

I feel a strong, painful tug on the strap of my purse and a searing burn as the cord that is attached to it cuts into my shoulder, before it breaks. “Hey!” I yell, whipping around, knowing in less than a breath what has happened. I had let my guard down. After a month of biking solo across South America, sleeping alone in random parks, battling heavily-laden trucks on roads with no shoulders, and finding my way through language barriers, intense heat and navigational hurdles, I had finally met up with my husband Twain and, like a teenager, my common sense left the scene as soon as I saw him. And with it, my bag-snatched.

I had no business walking through the crowded streets of Santiago with it swishing along at my side like a capture the flag pennant, but I was so giddy at finishing the bike ride and being with him, that I literally just stopped thinking.

Instantly, I dropped my bike in the middle of the crowded market, that I had been pushing it through, and turned to give chase. I kicked off my flip-flops and felt a surge of speed and strength flood my body, as my bare feet smacked against the concrete. I was going to catch him! But before I could get more than a few feet, I was blocked by a strong-armed man. Gently, he pushed me back, holding me by my biceps and shaking his head no. I believe he even said that he was sorry. I was enraged, but even so, I appreciated his manner. In a moment, he allowed me to slip by him and continue running. The crowd of people in the market swelled and around me and began shouting. I was unclear whether they were yelling at me to go, or stop. Was it too dangerous to pursue him? Unsure, I stopped, and watched my passport, wallet, credit cards, money and phone disappear into the crowd.

I was mad, but mostly at myself. I had done so well on my own. I had been so careful and responsible. Why do I still get muddle headed when boys I like are around? The snatchers were just doing what snatchers do.

Thankfully, in just a few minutes, Twain received a call from the local police. The thieves had taken my phone, but kindly dumped my wallet and passport in the road and a street sweeper had turned them in.

Twain and I went on to have a great week-long motorcycle trip, crossing back and forth a few passes in the Andes. It was a wonderful stark contrast to my solo bike tour; Where I had been alone, I was now pressed against his back, with my knees wrapped around his hips for hours upon hours. Where I had found my own way with maps and navigational tools, now I didn’t even steer. Where my legs had burned with effort, they now flopped comfortably along the sides of the panniers. Where I had blogged my afternoons away, now I could not even send a text. And as we roared through high valleys and coastal towns, to goat festivals and natural hot springs, I felt incredibly luckily that I experienced both. Spoiled even.

On my bike tour, I had to rely on my own self-sufficiency, facing obstacles on my own and remembering how capable I was.
Alone, I interacted with the world in a way that felt both wide open and acutely awake. In fact, I feel like I barely shut my eyes. It was like being naked and I saw and felt everything intensely. Every raindrop, gulp of water, hill crest and smile felt profound. I am finding the more I have these experiences, the less afraid I am of everything.

I also got to become reacquainted with my 18-year-old self–sans all the hormonic drama from that time–I was just me, without all the responsibilities and patterns that I have accumulated since then—a distillation of sorts. This is one of the many gifts of middle age–feeling like a teenager, but in a less tumultuous way. I found out that I actually like that kid. She maybe foolish, but she is psyched to be alive.

I also got to prove myself right and that always feels good! Traveling alone and being vulnerable opened up all sorts of doors. Both men and women wanted to protect me in a way that wouldn’t have happened if I had been with anyone else. I feel like I made myself prone and was met with a tender gentleness. I do not deny that there is danger and horror in this world, but the goodness I experienced was overwhelming.

But none of this would be enough, if afterwards, I couldn’t come come home, where there are people that I love and that love me in return. Where I don’t have to worry about being so self reliant. Where I can be lazy and dependent and let someone else steer. Where there is routine, stability and predictability.

These two ways of being feel like inhaling and exhaling. Like slow cooking and searing. Both important.

Now, I have been home a week. There have been blah moments, like when I was scrubbing out someones’s egg pan that they left in the sink, but truly, I feel almost euphoric, like I have gotten away with something again–like I have been dancing on lily pads.

I am happy to do the mundane. Happy to ride my bike around this little island, because even though it is all the same, that is what I love about it and the lense through which I am looking is different.

I am embarrassed. Nobody deserves the level of cheerleading that I have received for something they wanted to do. I guess I needed it.

I wandered through Eucalyptus forests today, balanced on narrow boards across wetlands, climbed a tall pine tree, waded in the surf and got lost in the sand dunes (for real—that was exhausting !) As I did, I tried to decompress, letting all the anxieties and worries of the last month peel away and in my head, I found myself talking to you. I was explaining what I was feeling, taking pictures so that I could show you a cool pine cone or a new bird and I realized, that in all this aloneness, you have been my company and I can’t thank you enough.

I love adventuring and I love telling stories. I love writing to make sense of my experience. Sometimes—truthfully—it seems very narcissistic because it is a one way street. I blab on and on—thank you for not telling me to stuff it.

People have written comments that have said, “You are amazing!” It makes me blush, but that is not true. Well, it is true, but I am no more amazing than you. There are plenty of brave people out there who don’t need to manufacture adventure to prove it to themselves. Sometimes it takes bravery to get through a regular day.

I will say that this trip has proven me right about a lot of things. This world in an incredible place, people can be generous and kind and being vulnerable is the best way to learn.

My saddle sores have calloused, (they are not pretty) my skin is leathery, my heels are cracked, my clothes are filthy, my butt has grown and I have had a fantastic time.

Last night I dreamt that I pooped in my bike shorts and my friends on Peaks politely told me how bad I smelled. Read into that one! Thank you very, very much for your support and reading—and please do tell me if I stink.
Now, where next…

If I believed in such things, which I don’t, I would say that the world was teasing me, having some fun at my expense.

A thick fog blanketed the coast this morning, and as I rode towards the Pacific, I could not tell what was a distant hill or the sea. “Oh there, that must be it!” I would think as my legs burned from yet another climb, only to find moments later that no, that was not it. What I had thought was the ocean was only the misty blue of another rise. At one point, I turned directly away from the Pacific because I was being pulled by some siren song towards what seemed west. Thank God Ms. Kamoot was on my side that time and sternly turned me around.

I battled trucks, grit and highways, and felt like a clock inside me was winding down. Every hill felt too high, every truck too scary and every mile too far. All I wanted was to be done.

Then finally, I saw it—the mighty Pacific, slowly rolling in. I met it at a little sea side town that hadn’t woken up yet, so I biked right down to the beach and stuck my toes in the water and in the still, foggy silence, I waited to feel something.

I am a slow processor. There I was, the big finish, and actually, I was at a loss. Was I supposed to feel triumphant? I sure as heck felt lucky. Was I supposed to feel relieved? I really just felt a just little lost, a little bereft even. I called my husband Twain, “You made it!”, he crowed. I could not match his enthusiasm. What was wrong with me?

So, I had a coffee and I went for a bike ride.
Just a little up the coast, and then around the next bend, and just over a few rocky promontories. I am aware that my craving for movement has gotten out of hand, but I was looking for something and finally, I found it.

This place was not sleepy, here the waves were robust; frothing and crashing. The fog burned off and the colors were dancing both on the water and on the surrounding land. The houses were brightly painted and clung to the cliff sides. The plants held fast to the rocky soil; flowers, enormous succulents, cacti and palms swayed in the breeze. Here was the energy I needed to match mine. I felt better and although I couldn’t yet appreciate what I have accomplished—I could appreciate the beauty of this place.

Now I have cycled back to a small eco reserve where I will stay for two nights. It is quiet and filled with endless walking trails, enormous trees, dunes and beaches. I will try to remember how to be still with grace. I will hike about, that is for sure, but I won’t touch my bike. (except a little caress now and again)

It is hard to stop. That is the craziest thing. I love my home, my friends and family, and this has been really difficult, but still this part is hard. I am glad I have tomorrow to practice before I am truly finished.

Sleep doesn’t describe what happened to me last night. I left the earth. I do not remember breathing, let alone turning over. I woke up in my own sweet time and ate a crusty biscuit (a specialty here) and some cheese with my hostel mates. What was the rush? Today was going to be easy-downhill all the way. You know where this is going don’t you?

I pedaled away from Los Andes around 8:30–practically the middle of the day. Chile is different than Argentina. There is more wealth here, more color and better roads.
I passed vegetable stands, cafes and panaderías. I tootled along hedgerows covered with purple morning glories and red roses and by lemon and peach orchards. One small town reaching its tendrils into the next, often connected by bike paths. It was Sunday, so the sound of asados rose up all around me; families splashing in pools, picnicking, grilling and spending time together.

This was easy riding, I dawdled, snacked and rested in town squares, it was nearly perfect except for a relentless sea breeze. “It is okay,” I thought, “just a little breeze.” I even texted my friend Jess at one point, that I was only 30 miles from the ocean. So close!

That is when it happened. Maybe it was because I was tired or had become complacent, but I let my guard down and I got lost. Really lost. And the wind picked up.

What had already promised to be a long day on very tired legs, just got too long. Ms. Kamoot took me to an impassable river. My campground app couldn’t find me. I found myself going up hills, away from the ocean, in traffic and chewing on the dust of angry taxis. I was hot and worn out. 60 miles turned into 75. It was too much.

But here is the thing, this trip has reminded me that, so far, I always seem to have a little more left in me than I think. A secret stash that I know can take me just a little further, and further and further. I know everyone has one.

I rolled my eyes at myself for getting so upset.
Getting lost and over tired is parr for my course. Doesn’t seem like I know how to do it any other way.

Of course, I eventually found my way, and showed up at a campground with red eyes, frazzled hair and a sunburnt nose, only to be greeted by an unimpressed teenage girl. Not everyone is susceptible to my charms.

Tomorrow, if I am lucky, I will dip my toes in the Pacific Ocean…but you never know, I don’t want to count on it.

I snuck out of my room last night because I couldn’t sleep. It was too hard to quiet my mind, knowing I had 4,000 more feet to climb today. Not only that, but I was going to encounter the scariest of all tunnels that has a long, uphill turn making it impossible to see the end or go fast. Then I would need to hitchhike through a two-and-a-half mile long tunnel in, which bikes were forbidden, right on top of the pass. And if that wasn’t enough, I had a border crossing to contend with that involved having to explain why I never got my passport stamped when I entered Argentina. Then there was just the dread of wind that was certain to complicate things. I thought, since I couldn’t sleep, I would at least stare at the stars instead of the ceiling.

As I rattled the front door of the hospedaje, my host appeared. “Where are you going?”, he asked.
“To look at the stars.” I told him.

“The door is locked, you need to be sleeping-but for one moment.” He let me take a peak and then whisked me off to bed.
This morning at 6:15 when I quietly rolled my bike across the lobby, he appeared again. This time he handed me a bag of sweet breads. “For you,” he said “Good luck.”

Outside, the air was still and the sun was not yet up. I switched on my lights and immediately started climbing.
After several miles I came upon some Inca Ruins by the side of the road. Nobody was there except a pack of dogs. I ate my first sweet bread and tried to absorb were I was, and how people could have lived here, in this land that I was so jittery to just pass through.
As I cycled on, the slope became more and more severe. These were no rolling hills, just a relentless up, winding around buttress and outcroppings.

It wasn’t long before I saw the dreaded uphill, curved dark tunnel, daring me with it’s open maw. Nothing to be done, but race into to it. My heart beat thudded in my ears, my breath was ragged, but I popped out the other side without getting eaten. Things were looking up.

Now I was high. The only thing higher was the Aconcagua peak, covered with snow. This morning, it sent gentle, fresh breezes down that that cooled me, but they didn’t threaten or slow me in anyway. I felt very thankful.

Finally, I arrived at the top. There really are no words. Ethereal? Other worldly? I felt euphoric and my head felt full of helium. There is nothing else up there—just the sky—and it seemed so close.

The long tunnnel that crosses over to Chile now waited. I pedaled over to a guard and told him my issue. He grinned and assured me that he would love to take me across. We loaded my bike and panniers up in his truck and we were off. Halfway through the tunnel is the border and he counted down until we crossed it. All my fears were being allieved.

Out on the other side, there was only one more obstacle, the border. I waited in line for ages, chatting to fellow travelers, having mutual English/Spanish lessons with some kids that were also waiting. It was an excellent distraction.

When my turn finally came, I practiced my best Spanish and said “Lo siento, mi español es muy mal.”

The border official looked at me and gave me a huge smile, “Good then I get to practice my English!” She then proceeded to ask me endless questions, but not about my legality, just about my bike trip. “I don’t get to see this everyday, I don’t even know what to put on the form!”
Soon she stamped my passport and sent me on my way, I had made it.

As I cycled away from the top, the road snaked down and down. Each guardrail-free turn was numbered. 27 in all. As I floated down, slowly, so I could enjoy every moment, cars honked, truck drivers gave me thumbs up, people literally cheered. It felt like I was in a parade. A parade at the top of the world.

And now I am here, eating a salad in Los Andes. Did that really happen?

Tomorrow, I hope to head towards the ocean and see what Chile is all about.

Wanted to eat me for breakfast

There is a violence to the landscape here. A harshness and a reminder of the intensity of power that is within this earth.

The truth is, the mountains here unsettle me. They are proof that this world is still a dynamic place and one that cares naught for me. Here, there is evidence of the earth opening and sending chunks of its mantle over 22,000 feet high.
You can see sublimations and upheavals, the strata of the rock ascending vertically, rather than sitting calmly in a relaxed horizontal fashion-a la Kansas. It seems that they are the reason South America exists, that they pulled the land right up from under the ocean.

The jagged peaks don’t hide their history under trees and grasses, they announce it and leave in me a feeling of awe, an awareness of how small and inconsequential I am, as well as, how short the time span I will be on this earth really is. They remind me how very tiny people really are. That is not to say that they are not beautiful, it is just that they are more than that.

As I pedaled up today, to 8,530 feet, I followed a wending river. The sun became brighter and brighter, giving everything a silvery tone. I felt a bit light headed, like I had blown up one too many balloons. I met Kim, a fellow bike traveler, who has been touring for seven years. We laughed and hugged and shared stories in the broken languages of Korean, English and Spanish. We were giddy at our meeting—like long lost friends—it may have been the altitude.

Now exhausted, I have stopped 15 miles from the border because the wind has come on hard. I can walk faster than I can bike. I am staying in a little hospedaje on the side of the road, very grateful for the respite from the sun and wind. I feel like I am in a dream.

If I am lucky, I have 4,000 more feet to climb tomorrow and then I will go down-boy does that fill me with all sorts of emotions.