Driftless

Summer hops and skips along. In fact, the fall dances close yet the smoke in the sky warps the warmth. It’s been a while between those past sunny nights and the current presence upon this driftless earth. Enough with the riddles—where have I been?

Leaving Seattle via train broke the rhythm. The Amtrak train system is much like the rest of America’s government supported systems—lacking. I had a beautiful time on the rails. Wonderful conversations and odd meanderings down the aisles ticked by until the minutes turned to hours and the hours turned to days.

I was able to stop in Montana and spent a few days hiking in Glacier National Park. Rivers and reasons to believe in the formless presence of ancient ice in massive movement. Moonlit buggy air, mountain-top sunset, a rumbling thunderclap. Peace was ever-present.

A return to the train led me to Minneapolis. A swath of land beneath the rails. We rumble and rove with such ease, the miles surpass those traveled on the bike. A feeling of falseness arises and settles in the form of silence. Pulling into the station leads me to a long ride south toward a small town called Mantorville. I set up camp on a farm for a week to figure out the next plan.

Mowing lawns, chopping wood, felling trees, burning brush and walking slowly through the woods—the days pass kindly. I fly to Maine for the weekend and spend days beneath a drizzling cloud with the groomsmen. The rain is welcome, calming and kind. I dance by the lake, swim, hike, and kayak with the boys. It’s been on the calendar for months and signifies the halfway point of the trip.

Once back in Minnesota, I find myself on the same farm doing the same things and still have yet to find a good plan on where to go next. A day ticks by. Another arrives and spirals past. The phone rings and suddenly I’m drifting again. On a plane to Phoenix and then back home to San Francisco. Looking out the window opens something inside me. A child of the universe. Ancient rivers running wild over these lands.

A few hours at home and then I’m on a boat, casting off. We journey down the coast to Half Moon Bay, Santa Cruz, Monterrey, Morro Bay, Cojo, Ventura, Catalina Island, and then trundle into San Diego. Interestingly enough, the boat feels endlessly slow compared to the bike. I aim to average 10-13 mph on the bike. An 80 mile takes 5.5-6 hours.

The boat travels 5-6 mph. Waves and clouds above whales, dolphins, and otters. Morning coffees in fog. Cat naps and cold fronts. A simple thought on repeat: it’s time I buy a boat.

So it comes to an end and I’m back on a plane then back on the farm. Time no longer operates so freely as the next impending deadline arises. And so, the morning turns into googling and routing, mapping and switching, tripping, tracking, until finally there’s something in front of me that might happen.

I’ll be on the bike again tomorrow. And the day after. And after. Pushing close to 80 miles each day and camping throughout Wisconsin State Parks. A week or so from now, I’ll be pulling into Chicago for a few days. From there, I board another train and skip to upstate New York. A few days of wild riding towards Burlington, Vermont will put me close enough to Montreal in time to catch another flight. Another plan that’s been in the works for ages, this one to Paris where I’ll head out to visit family.

This summer was never meant to be normal and it certainly wasn’t entirely focused on the bicycle; I just didn’t know how to come clean about that. The freedom of each second, the drifting quietly from place to place, each dance alone with moon, each chance to improve, all these ingredients lead me to the present where words can finally flow.

I’ve been aimless and joyful. Now I see where I’m headed and still carry joy. If you noticed the hiatus, thank you and my apologies for the interlude. I’d never pretend to understand where inspiration comes from and why it occasionally departs but I take notes from the birds. They can’t sing all the time. And isn’t that what makes their music so sweet? That fleeting silence in-between each trill, chirp, and tweet hanging in the savory air.