a snippet from each state
I’m flying out today. My bike is boxed, my passport is to hand, and home feels far away - both in memory and distance. The last couple of weeks I’ve spent in Portland, with time to reflect and without constant goodbyes, cycling or solitude.
The people I stayed with were vibrant and chatty, as brilliant and loud as the rivers I crossed way back in Virginia. I swapped state parks for city parks, and the sounds of nature for sharing conversation.
But these contrasts have helped consolidate my memories of the trip, and highlight differences during the ride. Figuring out a way to structure them is tricky given the breadth of experience; the ride itself, the changing wilderness and urbanism, the people I met and their stories, my own emotions and perspectives. Just so much! But for simplicity and ease, I thought a little lesson / highlight from each state would be fun. It isn’t comprehensive, but it seems a sensible way to share some of the 4490 miles I covered for Rape Crisis.
Virginia: anxiety isn’t a bad thing. The niggling worry that something would go wrong meant I started strong, with a mindset of “get a few miles ahead just in case you need them later”. It made sure I planned ahead, enough to make sure my (now well used) waterproofs were always to hand, as was my suncream. Key though, this feeling wasn’t overwhelming - instead it guided planning and made the future feel safer, better considered.
Kentucky: angry dogs are a bad thing. I got off lightly, with the worst only being 6 angry dogs chasing me at once. I didn’t get bitten and broken like other cyclists I met on the trail. But these angry dogs provoked a bit of my brain I’m unfamiliar with. A bit that would sooner kill a dog than be killed by a dog - that aggression isn’t something I experience often. The dangerous positions I tend to put myself in (skydiving, cycling on busy roads, swimming in cold water) all have a degree of control involved, and no agent to fight. The chase, growls, and nips of dogs however offers opposition, an entity that urges fighting as a means of safety. The fear that hit me as their barks and teeth surrounded me showed me how present my primal mind is. As someone that is rarely angry, near-never aggressive, and cares deeply about animal welfare, the unstoppable thought of “they need to die” was unsettling. But, as with most emotions, the more I experienced it the less unsettling it was. At no point did I come close to acting on it. Instead I learnt to appreciate the millennia over which these reactions evolved (in the moments of calm that followed), and their significance in keeping me, and my many ancestors, safe.
Missouri: relationships are really important. Missouri was far from the misery that many had primed me to expect. It’s rolling hills were often fun, occasionally frustrating, always abundantly green . At this point I’d become comfortable not tracking how far I was going, and instead just cycled to the edge of exhaustion - always with a little “in the tank” in case I needed it. This gave me room to appreciate beauty, both in nature and people. I met fellow cyclists, finding they all had a story to tell, something to process. I took photos and videos while gliding down hills and weaving between open pastures and dappled woodland. I met people who clearly loved endlessly, and I loved that. Some had lost, others hadn’t yet. But they made me grateful for the relationships I’ve built over the years and the strength they have to stave away loneliness while my days were filled with solitude, and time zones limited contact with friends and family back home.
Kansas: some progress is better than none. Kansas low-key broke me. Constant head and crosswinds. Infrequent towns and endlessly straight roads. It felt like slow progress, far from the 120 - 150 mile days I had wanted to complete. But it was still progress! Even if I was only going 8mph at times, over ludicrously flat terrain. I broke it up with moments of dancing, hopping off my bike, stretching and bopping. I struggled to meet the standards I set myself in terms of speed, but still managed to push above the minimal distances needed to finish in 60 days. This meant more hours in the saddle, and being grateful that the wind hastily blew my frustrated tears away.
Colorado: the good side of grief. Altitude hit me harder than anticipated. I alternated walking and cycling up steep hills. I learnt to cope with the frustration of falling short of my standards thanks to Kansas, and the snow-capped mountains were more captivating than cornfields. The jagged landscape mirrored the difficult experiences of those I met in Colorado. A woman who’s ALS took her voice. A group of women who’d lost their friend recently in a cycling accident. Retirees who’d lost their youth while chasing goals that weren’t their own. But through all this loss, they found good. New ways to communicate, celebrations and reverence in death, and rejuvenated motivation to make old dreams happen. Colorado was a state that confirmed there’s a silver lining to grief, to most negatives.
Wyoming: expectations low = happiness high. Wyoming was unexpectedly beautiful, sparsely populated, and accommodating to cyclists. With non-existent expectations, it was easy to be impressed by the friendly cyclists I crossed paths with (and even managed a partial day of riding with!), the rocky terrain, and overwhelming weather that swung from risk of heatstroke to risk of drowning. With no attempt to predict what Wyoming would be like I was free to enjoy it without a tinge of disappointment.
Montana: bodies and brains adapt. Mountains smoothed a little and lakes peppered my rides. The wake and ride rhythm felt normal and my body didn’t ache. 100 miles became common. What is so removed from day-to-day living back home felt standard; my body and brain adapted to what once was unimaginable. Hopefully it’ll be able to do it again and again as I fall back into education, then into work, and whatever challenges I collide with in the future.
Idaho: some folks like challenges more than others. Idaho was filled with forests, pine trees from the road edge to the horizon, broken only by the Salmon river besides which my bike route wound. The people I met were adventurous, tackling rapids and building their lives around excitement rather than work. As they spoke of their families a sampling bias became clear; some folks like challenges more than others. But dotted between the white water rafters and mountain bikers were people who opted for comfort, who found peace in nature without mental and physical challenges; appreciation without opposition. While I tend towards challenges, a balance with enjoying comfort seems ideal. Enjoy challenges, and enjoy the spaces of calm between them.
Oregon: time passes, and you can’t control it. I reached the final state, both eager and reluctant to finish. The tantalising challenge of finishing early overpowered my desire to extend my travels. What had seemed impossibly far away was now mere days away. Beyond the finish line were the rest of my summer plans; reunions with friends, starting medical school, and a whole career to begin and end. The previous weeks and months compressed into snapshots of memory while numerous possibilities of the future stretched out ahead of me. The future will come regardless, while I only get to work and play in the present, and that is so very exciting.
