Rust. Salt Spray.

Rusted cable, weathered wood, mist, low-ceilinged gray clouds, salt air. We have arrived at the Oregon coast for a respite before completing the final push to Forest Grove and the aging in-laws. I have to confess to a taste for the indulgence of a hotel and the comforts of hot water, clean and comfortable bed, a roof over my head, and a book on my lap. It would be easy to stay here and pass time in a bubble of creature comfort. Time passes either way. I am hoping that days spent pedaling a bike over mountains will jump-start some sleeping part of myself. That part is he who will inform the rest of my life. I hope to meet him soon, but know that he doesn’t often come around places like comfy hotels on the beach, though he might appreciate a brew at the place down the hill. What will he talk about, this weather-beaten stranger who answered the call to go out into the wind, to take a chance on losing, to accept the consequences of freedom? 

Grimy Patina

It's been a few days. Six or seven, I think. In that short time they have acquired a kind of travel sheen from the dust and wind and occasional use as a towel for my wet hands. They don't seem to mind the neglect or abuse. They are holding my wallet, phone, knife, and keys on this road/camping trip along the California Sierras and Oregon Cascades. They are my summer work shorts, some Carhartts long in the tooth and frayed around the edges, and I have been wearing them every day of this little road trip. I don't know what it is about traveling like this that makes changing clothes seem so unnecessary. I just wear the same shirt and shorts for days on end, not minding the glowing grime. They don't seem to mind either. They seem happy and smile with a shine polished from use and protecting this body from sun, rocks. They keep what I need in place so I can enjoy the view, my mind almost as empty as the day I was born.

Day One

As I drive to Gallup for provisions before I head up to campground, I feel pretty green at this. "This," is the life of summer: making it up as I go along, spending most of my days outside, living on less comfort and more exposure to sun and rain.

So, what does a sixty-one-year-old man think about when he finds himself free from the responsibilities of gainful work and house-holding? Mostly, this one considers his shortcomings; he broods on regrets, on paths not taken, work left undone.

But then, my love of being out from under a roof kicks in, and I remember what is was like to delight in just rolling along through the trees, under the sun, in the wind. The feeling of being dead, the paralysis that has taken over my body, and the dull ache of not having done what I set out to do fades.

I see that I have a chair, food, stove, and primitive shelter, and I am grateful.

The first thing I do is set out on a trail I don't know and get lost. I am in the Zuni Mountains above Gallup. They are a big range, forty miles by sixty in the shape a big football. The Continental Divide Trail runs through here. The forest is immense and has hundreds of miles of trails and fire roads. There are mountain lions and bears up here. You can get lost for days. I decided to follow a trail that climbs out of Milk Ranch Canyon. It starts about five miles from my campsite, and I rode down the narrow highway between McGaffey and Fort Wingate to get there. Descending the road meant climbing back to camp.

I didn't know what I was getting into. I had about an hour's worth of water, no food, no rain jacket, no spare tube, no map, no phone, and I had no idea where the trail would end up, though I hoped it would lead back toward the campground.

I went, partly out of impulse, partly out of a need to cut the cord tying me to too much ennui, and partly out a need to attend mindfully to what is happening right here in front of me.

Twisty, packed single-track mixed with rocky outcrops and naked limestone stream beds made for some serious grist, which I had to grind up as I turned my attention to here and now in order to enjoy, and to keep from crashing or flying over the bars.

Up here, no one knew where I was and no one would know for at least a few days. I was incommunicado and out of touch. There was not one person who could have predicted I might take this trail, a trail which is not on any maps or in any of my plans.

Perfect, in other words.

Dark gray clouds began to blow over and a little rain fell. After two-and-a-half hours of hard climbing, I wondered if I should turn around. I had enough reserves of energy stored in my body to ride for several more hours, even though I had no food, but I was running on fumes in terms of water. The climbing forced me to stop, lean over the bars, and gasp for breath. I made a promise to myself to prepare better for the next foray into unknown territory.

Just as I was getting concerned, after almost four hours and sixteen miles of hard riding, the trail dumped out into one that I knew. I was only about four miles from water, food, a chair and cold beer.

Not bad for a first day.

A Dangerous Question

"In it to win it," announces the bumper sticker  that is right next to the "Viet Nam veteran and proud of it" sticker that is below the monster of an American flag attached to a tall pole so that it will loudly fly from the back of a jacked-up pick-up. This giant of a vehicle could serve a whole village of peasants in Viet Nam, the place and conflict at issue here. I have to think about the mismatch of material wealth and military might between us and them. Just what were we trying to win there? And was that cause worth all the death that we acknowledge on this day of remembering, Memorial Day? Weren't the Vietnamese trying to achieve what we achieved when we revolted from England in our own revolution? Weren't they just trying to make possible a better life with more food, better homes for their children, a taste of comfort? And why were we so set on meeting that desire with immense violence and huge casualties? Today, as I honor those who have died fighting for the goals of a very wealthy, powerful, and, sometimes, unwise, nation, I have to question whether or not our ends are blind to the humanity we hold in the cross hairs, finger on the trigger.

The System

Whether or not it matters depends on where you stand. If you're under the wheels, you definitely care about the weight of the money machine. If you're driving, what the heck? It's just scenery. Privilege is like that. Comfort is directly correlated to your need to speak up. That's why you have to get up and walk out. If you don't you'll become another zombie staring at the screen. Nobody is forcing you, but the call to creature comforts and the dopamine delivered when someone likes your stuff in that virtual prison can blind you to what's actually going on. They don't want you to see that or to think out of the box too much. That's why they chant that this is all there is; so sit down, drink your beer, and shut out the nattering questions that some hungry part of you wants to answer. But going after the answers might hurt. So get ready for the real deal if you turn your ear to the voices calling you to the work waiting for you, that thing called justice, or recognizing that the "they" down there beneath the wheels is you. 

Distillation

As the defining features of my identity -- place, work, people, routine, physical strength, mental acuity, and "stuff" -- dissolve and disappear in the rear view mirror, I have to wonder what it is I can hang onto. (Simone the cat is not happy about the new arrangements, but I want her to come along for the ride.) What I find is simple, and, to some minds, a tad trite. The first truth I find is that all I have is right now, the present moment. (This has enormous implications if you think about it. Everything that is past -- all the habits, the stories, the noise, and self-imposed limitations -- do not really exist unless I buy into them.  And, yes, the past is persistent, and,as Faulkner says, it isn't "dead." Old habits die hard.) The second is that the highest state of being is joy. The third is that I know I have to act on what I believe, and that doing so requires that I dig so deep into my courage that I can escape the gravitational pull of fear. So, today as the all that is familiar slips over some past horizon, I carry on, one breath at a time.I have to see a way through and around the habits, the old clothes that I no longer need or want, find the joke in whatever situations present, lift my heavy body, and rise to make a difference.

Clear Head. Good Day.

You won't be getting out of town today as planned. The plumbing done sprung a leak and the the hours required to fix same left you undone with time up. Oh well... That's the way it goes sometimes, maybe all the time. So the day that would have had you on the road and out of Tuc has you here trying to make sense of the list of chores and responsibilities. Where did all these things come from, anyway? Food, phone bills, mortgage payments, transportation, medical stuff, gear for just in case, and the chance to touch a still-hot dream all have you booked and giggling. Damn it's been an interesting run. Broken Achilles tendon two years ago, pneumonia too, dead father, dead mother, dying career, foggy brain, broken heart. What a ride. The day is young, chico. You'll be on the road tomorrow, Gob willing. Seal the deal today and leave it all on the field of deep blue secrets. The lighter the load, the further you'll travel.