Keeping Pace

Last month I submitted an essay to a writing competition put on by a travel insurance company, World Nomads. The competition called for a 2,500 character essay depicting some sort of travel/adventure story (please note that it says character and not word as I mistakenly thought before having to cut 1,000 words from the first thing I wrote). Three winners would get to attend a writing workshop in Montenegro, followed by a solo two-week trip through the Balkans, all expenses paid. The winners were announced yesterday and with over 8,000 entires submitted, needless to say, I did not win.

But that's ok.

For one thing, it felt good just to finish a thing, anything. I've been working on a memoir about the two years I spent in the Peace Corps for what seems like nine lifetimes and I'm still only almost halfway through a rough draft. So the fact that I could write 500 words, look it over a few times, and then just be done was incredible. Finishing things is amazing. I really must do it more often.

Aside from that rush of adrenaline, it was fun to recall all my various travels and try to craft them into something short and profound. Of course, this is also where I ran into the realization that my biggest, bestest, most adventurous travel is about six years behind me and getting harder and harder to recall. It reignited the wanderlust that has been stirring inside me for over a year and made me long for new stories and destinations. That's ok, too, because I have a plan brewing. Winning the travel competition would have been killer, but it wasn't really The Plan. The Plan happens in September. More on that at a later date...

For now, please enjoy my 2,500 CHARACTER travel essay. It may not be hanging onto the side of a crowded bus in India or skiing in the mountains of North Korea, but not all adventures happen thousands of miles from home. Sometimes just 30 miles is enough.

photo credit: Brock Dittus of The Sprocket Podcast

This is my first ever bike camping trip and halfway to our destination I’m certain that I’m going to die.

One more hill and my legs are going to seize up, my bike will lose momentum, I’ll topple over with a pitiful thud, and there I shall remain like so much squirrel roadkill on the shoulder of this gracefully winding two-lane highway in Oregon’s scenic wine country.

A black SUV zips past, blowing warm air up from the asphalt, along with the faint scent of manure. Far ahead I can see a red helmet glint in the sunlight and disappear behind a golden hill. My throat tightens and tears well up behind my eyes. I have been trying desperately to keep pace with the group.

The glinting helmet belongs to Sarah who routinely completes double centuries, biking 100 miles out and back in a single weekend. Somewhere ahead of her is David who last summer biked across America in a month and a half, California to New York all by pedal power. In the lead is Robert who hasn’t owned a car in a decade. He once hauled a full-sized bookcase across town by bike. Do not ask me how. Then there’s me. I don’t have an impressive story. I was hoping this trip would be a start, but first I’ll have to survive it.

The road ahead ascends up out of the valley, into a wooded area with steeper climbs. I downshift and push with all my might, bending forward, my head almost against the handlebars. I take a big gasping breath at the same moment that a fruit fly buzzes past and is sucked into my windpipe. I can feel it wriggling in the back of my throat. That's when I snap. The tears come hot and fast. I squeeze my brakes and barely manage to lift one wobbly leg over the center of my bike before tossing the whole thing to the ground. I choke and cough and spit until I’m sure I can’t feel any wriggling.

Standing on the edge of the road I can see the terrain we’ve covered just in the past hour. The road curls like a ribbon over golden farmland, through green vineyards, and fields of purple lavender. Red and white farm houses dot the landscape. The nearest house has a fenced area where three fuzzy alpacas stand in the shade. I can’t believe I’ve just ridden through that whole beautiful countryside. I can’t believe I hadn’t noticed the alpacas.

I wipe a tear from my cheek and pick up my dusty bike, straightening the heavy bags on the back. A jay bird lands in a fir tree nearby. The air is cooler now and rustles delicate maple leaves. I start the climb again without searching for the far off helmet, looking only at the trees, pedaling at my own pace.