There And Back Again: A Bike Trip Reflection on the Way Back Home

Despite my best intentions, deep down I knew I wouldn't be able to keep blogging once I got to NY. The blog and the bike trip were incontrovertibly linked, and until this morning I hadn't gotten on a bike since May 2. Besides, although seeing friends and family was great, it didn't seem particularly news-worthy. Not by the standards of a cross-country bike trip anyway. And when it comes down to it, writing about anything other than biking would force me to face one undeniable fact that even now I have difficulty saying out loud: the bike trip is over.

Still, intimations of the adventure linger. There's the physical evidence of course, the persistent weird biker tan, the many small leg muscles that still occasionally pop to the surface (mostly when I get up off the couch too quickly). But there are other reminders too. I can't comfortably drive over 55mph. Even that seems wicked fast. I'm never in a hurry to do most things, a new development that I hope sticks. The slower pace of the biking life had a certain--I guess I would call it harmony. I felt in tune with the world around me, and with myself. Though my bushy beard and crazy hair are gone, thankfully a little of that seems to have stuck around.

But much else from the past 4 months continues to fade, and each time I go to scratch my face and find stubbly cheek instead of mussy nest, another dose of reality sets in. I know that soon the things I've forgotten about our trek will outnumber my accurate memories, replaced by romanticized fish stories and vague poetic longing. In a word, nostalgia. Not that I'll quickly forget how difficult much of the bike trip was, nor can words express how wonderful it is to be back in my Nicolina's arms. But as Seneca said, "things that were hard to bear are sweet to remember." Only a month after, there's already much about the bike trip I miss.

Last Sunday all these thoughts and feelings came flooding through my mental living room as I boarded the first of three planes that would take me back to California. Flying was not my original plan (nor even my back up), and certainly not the ideal end cap to an epic 4000+ mile journey. But reason and logic outweighed whimsy, so at 9:45am (Eastern Standard Time) I found myself seated in coach, bemoaning my pathetic resignation to the cheapest/quickest/least mysterious way home. To boot, "cheapest" was at the top of my priority list. I'd be getting to San Jose the same day, but 15 hours and two layovers later I would be tiredly wondering if it might have just been quicker to bike back.

One thing flying all day and biking all day have in common is lots of time to think. It was between Newark (layover #1) and Houston (layover #2) that I realized something: my route home through the air was roughly following the route we'd planned/improvised for the bike trip. I took some time to consider this new perspective. And as though on cue, a pre-movie commercial came on the little airplane television above my head. It began with this G.K. Chesterton quote (don't give me too much credit, I had to look it up): "A traveler sees what he sees, a tourist sees what he has come to see." I'd never really thought about it before, but until this bike trip I'd seen much of the world as a tourist. I planned trips to see things I was interested in and hoped (okay, expected) to have fun along the way. And I did, both see things I wanted to and have a great time. In fact I've taken many trips as a tourist, and I've never once been disappointed.

But biking across the country was different. Not just because of the route we were taking or how we were getting there (although I can't say enough praise for biking)--but mostly because of the way we were getting there. We were travelers, and we were traveling for no other reason than the experience of doing it. I'll never forget so many of the things I saw, but I also never could have planned to see them. Like so many great things in life, the most memorable parts of the trip were often a complete surprise, and as travelers we kept ourselves open to welcome these surprises, whenever and wherever they came.

As we landed in Houston and taxied to the gate, our plane crossed a bridge over Interstate 10. Now if you don't fly often, let me tell you that this is unique. Not many airports have tarmacs on which planes drive--not fly--but drive on bridges over highways. I looked out the small window down on four lanes of traffic, and the generous shoulder on the eastward side, and the huge green sign identifying the road. "We biked on that!" I shouted in my head so loud I actually looked around to see if anyone had heard me. I felt for a moment like I was watching a movie about myself, in which serendipitous moments like these are used to really drive the point home. Emotion washed over me. I suddenly remembered biking to Kent, and the practically nothing of a gas station/"convenience" store we found, and helping the clerk look for his mischievous quick kid, and Dick and Sue and their flat tire the skeleton of a schoolhouse where the four of us made camp and enjoyed some rare company on a windy March night. When I think about it, I remember we were hoping Kent would be bigger, and we were uncertain about where we should camp, and we were tired and in Texas and ready to be in Austin, finally. But my memories are not accompanied by the stress and fatigue I know I was feeling (my journal says so). In fact my smile cannot be contained. I will spend the next 4 hours, the last leg of my 4-month round-trip comparing the flight to the bike, the view from the clouds to the view from the road, poignantly realizing over and over how lucky I am, because most people have only seen all these things, this country, one way.

As we make our final descent into San Jose, I struggle to identify what I'm feeling. A host of thoughts and emotions take turns being on top. I know I'll soon settle back in to the rhythm of life as it was, and before long I'll rely more on my journal or the blog than my memory for accurate accounts of the trip. But I also know that an essence of this adventure will always be in me, and that what I've taken from this experience is no more an accomplishment than a gift. I will try to say this with as little corniness and sap as possible, but if you are reading this you need to know, that I know I could not have done this without you. As much as anything else about the bike trip, the overwhelming support and love we received came as a complete surprise. I believe anyone could do what we did, and many would do much more, if they were lucky enough to have the kind of friends and family that Joe and I have. I owe so much to so many, and in years to come I will try to repay--but for now, just this: Thank you all, for everything. I hope your part in this journey gave you even the smallest fraction of the treasures mine gave me.