I end a year long fellowship in two months and feel convinced that this is the time to travel for a few months and figure out the whole career thing when I return. But here, on these quiet bike trails, this stream of light pouring from my bike reminded me of the new way in which I wanted to orient myself with the world. Since then, every change, every decision was often met with a system of checks and balances, wanting to ensure security and assurance in a world that cannot promise that. In 2010, I was diagnosed with Generalized Anxiety Disorder, a future focused orientation to life that detracts from the present. It occurred to me how many times I’ve tried tracing shapes out of the shadows, trying to figure out the shapes and contours of the future, when all I really needed- and all that was really beneficial- was what was right before me- those precious 10 feet of light wrapped in the ambiance of quiet, cool fresh evening air. I couldn’t see beyond there no matter how hard I tried, and might miss something important if I attempted– like the unexpected tree root or rock or quiet fox that brushed against the space between trail and grass. It dawned on me, as I continued to ride steady, that I didn’t even want to try and look more than 10 feet ahead. Away from the illumination of the city, our lights and headlamps shed the way 10 feet at a time. We were quiet except for the occasional “woah!” exclamation that happened when an owl swooped down beside us to pause on a branch and each time we reached an aperture from the woods into grassy openings that gave way to the stars and heavens above. I turned mine on and picked up speed a bit, glued to mile 114, our resting point for the night. The sun set into a dim light until headlamps and bike lights were necessary. We churned out sixty miles in the daylight and at dusk, we took turns leading our pace line. We pitched our tents in the dark again, only slightly faster than the night before and fall asleep exhausted and content. I’m not sure where I will end up when my fellowship ends in a month and a half, but I can’t imagine doing life without this friend, and vow to keep in touch no matter where we both end up. She takes both the ordinary and extraordinary experiences, and gives them just a little kick, by befriending strangers, by whooping and hollering on bikes riding through the city streets at night. The one who gets you outside of your head, until you’re singing or dancing, whatever the moment calls for.
She’s that kind of friend, both on and off the bike. Devan would be a source of optimism, joy, a beacon of unflappable positivity throughout this journey. “Ain’t no valley low,” I responded, until the three of us sang away on fresh tires. “Listen, baby, ain’t no mountain high,” Devan sang. We did bed and breakfasts.” We laughed and soon were on our way, saying goodbye, warmed by small town kindness. He told us about his nine year old daughter and all of the bike maintenance skills she could already do, while the other shop owner told stories of when he made this exact trip.
Sensing our slow progress, the owner bent down, “I usually go like this, ” he said, trading levers for bare hands. The owner invited us back to his work area to tackle the tires. I bought two tires, having been the only one to not consider beforehand just how worn mine were.
“That’s a lotta gear you got,” the owner greeted us, welcoming us into his small town shop. The next day brought more flats, fixes, and an unsuccessful stop at a meager bike shop, followed by a successful one. We burst out laughing and pitch our tent in the dark, trying to make sense of terse instructions with inadequate pictures, poles poking out of corners, until we reached sleep. “I believe you forgot this,” David motioned, holding up my can of dented vegetarian chili, one of the few food items I brought that also took a beating from the pothole. I took out my headlamp and began to fix my flat. “What was that?” I asked, hissing from my back tire answering back.
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