3.16

Just recently, I decided to ride a bike from Massachusetts to California. Actually, come to think of it? I decided a long time before that. But recently I realized I could finally do it.

When I was in grade school, our teacher read from a book at the end of every day. I don't know how he chose these books, but he seemed to choose things that got at the very soul of being alive, somehow. I know that sounds hopelessly romantic, but unless you're in sixth grade and hanging on every word of Corrie ten Boom's The Hiding Place, you don't know what I mean. In between books about a boy on a farm and a woman in Southeast Asia, he read a book that hangs with me. A young man took his bicycle and some camping equipment and set off to ride across the United States, long before it was cool. On the way, he found friends, jobs, and a dog. That dog--I grew to love that animal without ever having met it. He and the dog travelled together from Virginia to Mississippi until, without warning, the dog died. I think I cried. In class. I lost the love of the story, and our teacher switched books on us.
I can't find that book anymore. There are so many stories about people bicycling across countries and continents that it's been forgotten by everyone but me. I've looked online, but fruitlessly googling "man on bike rides across America and his dog dies" gets really sad, really quickly. Yet that story itches right between my shoulder blades. I can't get rid of it.

I bought a touring bike last July, and I got perhaps the last 2015 Salsa 3 ever sold. The store rep, Ben, who laughs at his own jokes in the most infectious way, phoned around trying to find out if anybody had the bike in any size but this one. My wife, Delight, wanted to see if she could have the same frame as me. No dice. She bought the more expensive Salsa 2 and crowed at me about how smooth it was to ride. Honestly, I make the whole process sound so easy, like we walked in and purchased some bicycles, like normal people. I'm lying to you. The first time we went in, we barely even looked at bikes, just wandered around reading about what kinds of frame styles there were. We had a two hour conversation with Ben spread out over three visits that led, almost magically, to the most emotionally charged purchase I think the two of us ever made. I named my bike Jalepeño. I turned it over almost immediately after I rode out of the store and gave it the first ceremonial scarring all good machines need before they feel broken in. I hopped right up and gave it another go.

The actual second time I rode my Salsa anywhere, I was on the city's most well-trafficked bike trail, the Katy Trail spur; it's a path towards the state-spanning once-railroad turned state park. Delight was spinning happily behind me, trying to figure out her gear changes on a new bicycle. I was just trying to avoid the middle-aged joggers and the young couples on a romantic stroll, when a tremendous bang nearly stopped my heart. I stumbled off the bike, nearly dropping it, nearly falling over. My front tire was entirely flat. I was two miles from where we had begun. Honestly, I was mad, but I laughed it off and just hefted my Jalepeño on one shoulder and took off towards the car. You never truly appreciate how sturdy the Salsa frame is until you're underneath it, not on top. They do not play when they make a frame out of steel. Delight rode back to the car to drive it closer, and I had a lot of time to think as I pushed my finger into and out of the gaping hole in my front tire and tube.

My mother is losing her mind over this idea of riding across the country. I can understand that. If I were a mom, I would be worried about me too, and not for the normal reasons that most moms worry. There's more to worry about: My wife left me a few months ago. That feels so bad to just vocalize, to say out loud like it doesn't rip at me every time I open an old drawer and see her jeans all neatly folded, forgotten in her frenzied rush to leave. I think about her every time I ride up the first big hill near my house. She hated that hill. In addition to losing a wife, I've decided to quit my job and go to graduate school, and in between to ride the byways of the nation on the Jalepeño. Mom has her worry work cut out for her.

For Christmas, I bought myself some ludicrously beautiful black hammered metal fenders from Velo Orange. They didn't fit, and now I have squeaky plastic top-of-the-line maddening replacements. I have a rear rack, and clipless pedals, and some chamois purchased for half price. I'm slowly building a tolerance to bouncing thirty miles an hour down gravel hills. I'm essentially ready with everything I'll need, but for one thing. Me. I remembered from the book my teacher read that the hardest thing about the bike trip was just getting used to being on the bike for hours every day. The farthest I've ever gone was forty miles, and by the end, my sit-bones were pushed up into my lungs.
Now it's spring. I'm preparing myself. Today after work, I rode sixteen miles on a course I created so I could look at the creeks that run past my house. It's a route I've taken before, but never with this level of optimism. The precipitous drops lined with golf-ball gravel didn't stop me. My cold toes churning in cold wind didn't stop me. The waning light didn't stop me. I'm going to ride across this whole country. This sixteen miles is just an appetizer to a main course that might take me months.
When I pulled up to the end of the long leg jutting from my loop, I stopped to watch the sun go down. My whole life up until this has just been an appetizer of books that spawn dreams and marriages that dissolve, leading up to a main course that will last me, hopefully, a long time yet.

My view from the corner of Highway E and Benedict.