Dr. Ryan here. Today, as my Christmas present to my family and friends that are a part of
ocean water, I'll be reading the book that I wrote about my bicycle ride from Canada
to Columbia in 2010. The title of this book is Ride for Water. This is the story of the
time I rode my bicycle 10,000 miles through 10 countries from Canada to Columbia and helped
bring clean water to 100,000 people. I dedicated this book to my father, Neil King Delemator.
Thank you for all the surf trips and bicycle rides we've taken and will take in the future.
He's 77 years old and still riding. I'd like to thank Kurt Johnston, who believed in me
since high school and told me this story needed to be heard and encouraged me to finish it.
I need to thank Mark Bell, who told me for years to write this book. I need to thank
Justin Spier, who called me at a Chipotle in Columbus, Ohio and helped make this ride possible.
I need to thank Alexis Motley, who interviewed me in 2012 and offered to comb through my
journals for six months and help put this story together. She believed in this and without
her this book would not exist. And then I need to thank my friend, Charlie Sears, who
originally built our logo website, made jerseys, organized rides, and kept encouraging me to
do more with Ride for Water, which eventually became Ocean Water. You've had so many good
times, but I'll never ride 227 miles in one day with you again. That was miserable. I
need to thank my mom for a million reasons. Thanks, mom. And I need to thank my wife,
she's the happiest person that I know. I'm lucky to have you as my wife. Chapter One,
The Beginning. When I made the move from California to Ohio, I had only just started biking around
on the well-worn orange 1980s Schwinn Valeri that my dad had been riding for as long as
I could remember. As soon as I told my dad about my plans to move closer to my daughter
Quinn, he suggested that I jump on a bike to help clear my head. And the crazy thing
is it worked. Before my move, riding a bike around was just a way to mull things over.
It gave me a quiet space to detach from the anxiety that I was feeling and help me organize
my thoughts. Back then, I had plenty of anxiety to worry about, most of them centering on
the fact that the life that I'd built for myself was unraveling and totally falling
apart. My marriage had gone under and I was in the middle of a divorce. It's definitely
not how I envisioned things ending up when they started. My daughter's mom was taking
her across the country to restart their life. My worldview was shattered. I was devastated.
I felt like I'd lost control of my life, my future, and my family. And I only had myself
to blame for it. My dad and I had a few good talks before I left California. And while
they may have not been the emotional fatherly heart to hearts that you see on TV, they were
still full of good advice. He knew me well enough to know that a bicycle would be something
that would be helpful. In a little under three weeks, we packed up my car and I headed to
Ohio with my bike squarely packed in the trunk. I'm just going to be making a new home there
about 10 minutes down the road from Quinn. However, the job I got was a town over making
my commute about 14 miles round trip. My dad had regularly ridden his bike back and forth
from work for 37 years as a forklift driver in a Teamster in Santa Fe Springs, California.
He rode seven miles there and seven miles home. Oddly enough, this was the same distance
that I covered when I first moved to Ohio. I figured it'd be the perfect way for me
to get to know my new surroundings. At this point, I had a lot of hope that my move there
would make me a present and significant future figure in Quinn's life and give me a real
purpose moving forward. I grabbed the first cheap Craigslist housing, which happened to
be in the basement of a suburban neighborhood with a stranger that I could afford on Starbucks
wages and dug deep into my new life, traversing back and forth to work on my bicycle and trying
to pursue a significant relationship. The bright enthusiasm I summoned to opened what
I thought would be a happier and more purposeful chapter in my life, but that quickly evaporated.
I felt great to be participating in my daughter's life, but aside from my visits with her, life
was basically empty. Without a family and friends for the first time in a state 2,000
miles from where I'd grown up with all too obvious cultural differences after living
my entire life in California, it was the little things that seemed to keep me from making
connections, calling everybody dude and bro, and people would look at me like I was some
kind of hippie drifter. I'd always been a pretty friendly go along to get along kind
of guy who made friends easily, but sadly, I found myself feeling lonely more often than
not in my new home. The three years that I spent living there, I count as the darkest
period in my life. Living in a basement, not having a career, I felt like I had failed
what I had spent the last 15 years trying to build up. Some people hit rock bottom and
seemed to bounce off better for the experience, but that certainly wasn't the case for me.
I couldn't seem to shake the sense of failure that I felt, which made it easy to be depressed,
see life in the fog, and suffocate myself. I was miserable living in Ohio as much as
I wanted to find all of my purpose there. I couldn't help but feel like my life was
going nowhere. In a philosophical question that to this day I don't have a good answer
to, I asked myself this, what kind of dad Quinn ended up having if my life didn't improve?
How much love would I have to give to her if I was in a dark place? I turn to these
questions over in my mind as I rode back and forth to work each day, but no matter how
much I hated being stuck in a dead end job with no family and no friends, I couldn't
find a good enough reason to leave. Quinn was my priority. I did everything that I could
in my mind for her. Was living near my daughter going to be enough? Or was my attempt at being
a hands-on dad going to result in depression and hopelessness that would eventually destroy
myself and actually hurt my daughter? I had so many scary looming thoughts and no good
conclusions. So I just let time grind on without any hope that things would look up for me.
Chapter 2. Canada. Time seemed to pass slower in Ohio than it had in California, but it
passed all the same. I made some work friends. I got to watch Quinn grow into a little person
and I tried my best to put down roots and make a new home for myself. One day my friend
Jared, who I am in touch with to this day, saw me looking up at my bicycle and told me
I should check out this local indoor cycling class he went to. I remember thinking that
stationary cycling indoors seemed to miss the point. In California, I had lived with
two seasons during the year. Perfect and near perfect. Road biking and mountain biking are
so popular in California because there are these cool routes to ride and nice weather
to ride them in. In Ohio, there's one season and it's terrible. Most days were a dark,
cloudy mess and intensely cold even into the spring and I often found myself wondering
why I willfully slogging through such unpleasant weather. The rain and cold snaps seemed endless
and the few flashes of sunlight that made their way through the clouds disappeared quickly.
The dreary weather made biking to work less than scenic, but I did get a satisfaction
from my relentless commutes. I enjoyed being the guy who was on his bike come rain or shine.
It gave me a little bit of identity in a place where I felt like a real nobody. Like the
bicycle that I picked up at the Chagrin bike shop that said, define your life, ride a bike.
And so it was. So while this off-handed suggestion to take an indoor bike class seemed slightly
strange to me, I couldn't help but feel that I should at least check it out. I guess it
never occurred to me that a guy like me would be a good fit for an indoor class. I figured
it would be full of soccer moms and sorority girls. Still, I was never one to shy away
from a new experience and thought that at least it would be a change from another evening
sitting in my apartment flipping channels and watching every single season of The West
Wing. I was totally surprised to find 50 some odd people stuffed into a warehouse with music
blaring, old Tour de France videos playing on a projector, and a guy who rode in the
front of the class shouting instructions out for the ride. One set of instructions for
group A, another for group B, another for group C, another for group D. You might have
guessed it, I started in group D. I got my ass handed to me during the first class that
lasted two hours. And for the next few classes after that, if I'm being honest, but suffice
to say, I was hooked. One of the things that totally sold me on the class was the class
lead, Pete Gladden. He was in his late 50s, but you'd never know it. He was one of these
shredded ageless people that fitness had kept young. He had this contagious spirit. I went
to his class two or three days a week for the rest of the time that I lived there. Aside
from teaching indoor classes, he trained a select group of clients out of his basement.
It felt like an old Rocky movie. He had a couple dozen people who he gave private instruction
to supervising the workouts and weight training in his basement. He was totally opposed to
advertising, so every client came by word of mouth. Very fight club. You pretty much
have to have someone vouch for you to get a spot with him. His training was not for
beginners or quitters. Pete and I initially hit it off because he was one of the only
other guys leaving his class on his bike. I came to find out that he rode his bike most
places and that made me instantly identify with the guy. Not only was Pete a first class
trainer, he also became a good buddy and included me in a circle of close friends. I started
to join them and go and grab pizza and beers after class, going long rides on the weekends,
40, 50, 60, 70, even a hundred miles, which I never thought I'd do. Sometimes even venturing
out to the Black Forest Mountains in Pennsylvania for a weekend of all day rides and evenings
spent eating pizza and drinking beer. The ethos of the group reminded me of the guys
that I grew up surfing with. They were down to earth guys who didn't put up with any
BS, a good natured rowdy group. I was stoked that they treated me like one of their own.
One night in the dead of winter, Pete talked me into going on a night hike. I had heard
the occasional mention of Pete's famous night hikes here and there from the guys. It sounded
like a kind of rite of passage. I was secretly thrilled to be invited to what I thought was
an initiation. It felt like I was really part of the gang. The night hike turned out to
be less of a hike and more of a six mile uphill march through knee deep snow drifts. I should
have known it was going to be dark when Pete handed me my headlamp, but I was surprised
at the pitch blackness of the woods at that time of night. I was totally turned around
and lost. So I was more than stoked when we ended up at one of our favorite burger places,
Etnars. I ordered a cheeseburger and a big beer I don't think it had ever tasted so good.
As we ate, I mentioned to Pete that I wanted to ride my bike across the United States.
Really make a trip of it. Pete said that if I was looking for a cushy cruise of a bike
trip across the States was just a ticket, but anyone looking for a challenge would choose
somewhere more remote like the Canadian frontier. I don't know if I really took his comment
that personally or if I was still hopped up on adrenaline from the hike, but somehow six
months later, I found myself making my way across Canada on a new mountain bike I purchased
with some savings. In all seriousness, I've been thinking about taking off on an adventure
for a while. The year of my move had been miserable and it had taken all the self-discipline
to dig in and make a new home. Even with all the progress I made, I felt like I was treading
water in my gut. I knew I wasn't taking steps toward fulfilling my potential. And honestly,
that made me feel like a pretty crappy dad. Everyone remembers that kid in elementary
school whose dad had a cool job, a firefighter, a cop, a minor league ball player. You know
the type. Kids look up to their parents for a myriad of reasons, but I always thought
it would have been extra cool to come up to one of the few kids there on the playground
with a dad who worked as an airline pilot who had a hobby like hang gliding. I guess
deep down I wanted my daughter to think of me as a kind of superhero, larger than life,
a dad who had exciting adventures. I just didn't feel like the guy that I wanted to
be for her. When I talked to people about my ride, I obviously didn't say all that.
I didn't want to come across as some kind of weepy wimp. I didn't want people to think
that the pressure was getting me, that I was doubting myself, or that I didn't have things
pulled together. Being a single dad because of your own doing in a state 2,000 miles away
doesn't leave you with a lot of fans. When people ask me questions about the ride that
I dreamed up, I made the trip sound like a good old boys trip full of lots of laughs.
People got excited for me one way or another. Everyone loves an adventure, even one that
hasn't happened yet. Pete and I talked about trying to ride for a charity and settled on
some sort of kids program. We paid our fee. They sent us a shirt. That's really as far
as we thought about it. It was a good enough idea, but the ride was all about the adventure.
The idea of taking a flying leap into the wilderness with only our bikes was thrilling.
The idea of a finish line on another coast might as well have been the tip of Mount Everest.
We were seriously pumped to hit the road. I was grateful for all the stoke carrying
me through the weeks leading up to the trip because I had no idea what I was getting into.
It's possible that I may have intentionally avoided sitting and thinking too long or hard
about the trip so that I didn't chicken out. However, once I bought my plane ticket, there
was no turning back. I rented out the small house I was living in, got ahold of a pull
behind Bob trailer, a tent, and everything else I figured I would need for long-term
camping. I packed Walden Pond and Walking by Henry David Thoreau because isn't that
what you're supposed to read on an extended, mostly isolated wilderness experience? The
last thing I did before packing up my bike was tape a photo of my daughter to the handlebars.
When we touched down in Canada, the beauty of the landscape and the freshness of the
air struck me immediately. However, all that pristine beauty hid plenty of tricks and treasures,
making the trip memorable for plenty of reasons beyond a postcard-worthy view. The journey
began at Port Hardy on Vancouver Island. And Pete and I spent the first week riding south
to Victoria. With all the classes that I'd pushed through and the countless hours commuting
on my bike, I figured I would feel right at home on the road all day. Of all the things
I underestimated on this first trip, my endurance to push through the day of cycling goes at
the top of the list. I was not used to sitting on a bike for more than a few hours at a stretch,
and I was absolutely, completely miserable the end of each day for the first three weeks.
As soon as we saw that we were losing light, we would pull off the road and pick a spot
to camp in the bushes. I barely had the energy to eat a quick cold meal and change out of
our filthy road gear before we passed out for the night. By the time we made it to Golden
British Columbia, I was starting to feel like my stamina on the road had improved, and I
was finding a comfort level in the ride that allowed me to finally start enjoying the trip.
Riding through the Canadian Rockies on a mountain bike while pulling a bob trailer with 40 pounds
of gear was no joke. I was pleased to find that my body was adjusting to the heavy load.
It was 80 miles over the Sunwap to pass. A long, steep pull made all the more difficult
by stormy weather that seemed to have arrived just in time to greet Pete and I. After arriving
in a town called Nipagon, we met people who invited us to stay with them and camp in their
backyard. After riding our bicycle for miles, any place to camp that isn't full of sharp
rocks is great, but you can't beat a free spot to pitch your tent or you can secure
your bike and your gear without concern that you might get ripped off. That little patch
of fenced-in grass, which featured an outdoor shower with hot water, might as well have
been a beach resort. The guy who extended the invitation was a Canadian Indian guy named
Crow. Crow's family was totally sweet and hospitable. His wife Helen brought us towels
and his son Rodney offered up cold beers and primo Canadian weed. I passed on the brew
and the bud, but I ate everything in sight. There was always this funny dynamic when Pete
and I would meet people on our ride through Canada. People would want to party with us
and we would want to go to bed. I always felt a little bad for passing on another round
bought by a new friend, but when your reality is riding all day every day, sleep is better
than any party. Regardless, Crow was a very funny guy and I went with him to shoot pool
at a local bar called China Gardens. Just to be clear, I walked and he stumbled. I considered
myself a very competent pool player. My grandfather, Grandpa Joe, taught me the fundamentals as
a kid and I pride myself on staying in practice. Even at 91 years old, my grandfather could
still hold his own at the pool table. He'll always remain a real legend in my mind. Crow
was a way better player than I had anticipated, especially as I had factored his clearly intoxicated
state into my odds at coming out on top. He couldn't have been more pleased at his ability
to beat me soundly three to one. To redeem my bruised ego, we headed to a restaurant
called Mama G's in downtown Nipagon. I can't help but pause to do a shameless promotion
of Mama G's. If you ever find yourself in Nipagon, do yourself a favor and don't miss
the homemade cinnamon rolls. I ate three of them. You can't really go wrong with the family
we're in place that makes everything from scratch. Aside from the several pounds of
cinnamon roll I consumed, I had the chili, the fresh bread, the cup of coffee. It felt
immaculate. A perfect way to make up for some of the caloric count I depleted on the roach
day. Mike, the owner of Mama G's and his wife later joined Crow and me over at China
Gardens for some pool. It really was a great night with warm people and I felt like Pete
and I were lucky to have come upon such a hospitable community. Thinking back, some
of the people Crow introduced were a little overly hospitable, namely his daughters. I
couldn't tell you how many creative excuses I used to escape their obvious advances. Crow
couldn't have laughed harder. Unfortunately, for every backyard with a good windbreak and
a hot shower, there were several hundred freezing miles of uphill riding and night spent camping
in gale force winds. The weather was bone chilling most of the time at the end of May
and even at the beginning of June in the mountains in British Columbia. From the time I got up
in the morning to pack camp until I crawled into my sleeping bag at night, it felt like
I was cold. It was this penetrating force seeping into everything and was harder to
get rid of than I imagined. Every night Pete and I would have to find somewhere to camp
and we would have to improvise and be creative. Sometimes in a field, sometimes in an unoccupied
front yard and the best places were the most picturesque ones next to rivers and pretty
mountain vistas. After we made camp for the night, I would usually trek into whatever
town was close to find some free internet and use Skype to call Quinn. Every day for
what ended up being the entirety of the ride, I'd find myself tearing up after hanging
up with my daughter. I missed her, but my homesickness for her only made me more determined
to finish the ride and somehow be an inspiration. One less than ideal part of the trip was the
fact that the scenic less traveled byways changed into busy intersections and busy highways
from time to time. I always felt like they were taking on more danger making our way
through an urban area than riding next to any windy cliff. While Pete and I usually
enjoyed and stayed on the right of the road, it became dangerous when we found ourselves
crossing exits and on ramps. Of course, big busy roads are predictably where you end up
having bike chain problems, flat tires and pedals that decide to go flying off into the
bushes. Yes, these things happen. I think at some points I was hysterically laughing because
that's all you can do when you're too exhausted to scream out of pure frustration. Once we
changed a flat tire for 45 minutes in a torrential downpour that was so intense, I could barely
see my hand 12 inches from my face. Among my biggest concerns on the road were the possibilities
of getting flattened by a drifting semi truck or getting frostbite on my fingers and toes.
Pete was worried about something he considered far worse. Bears. Black bears. Pete had paranoia.
I hadn't gone a day in Canada without hearing him voice his latest bear related concern.
It got to the point where I wanted to strategically place hamburgers around his tent just to mess
with them. We came across our first bear on a day where Pete was already having some major
bike problems and we were moving slowly off our route heading for a bike shop. The bear
was awfully small, the size of a really hefty Labrador, and he was clearly just trying to
cross the road. He didn't seem at all interested in us, but I'm pretty sure Pete shot up in
the air about four feet off of his bike. I stopped half hoping that the bear would turn
towards Pete and really give him a scare, but much to my disappointment, the bear ran away.
I couldn't help but read Pete for the next few hours about how big his eyes got in comparison
to how small the bear had been. About a week later, I was chased for real by a big brown
bear while Pete was safely up the road. While bears had never seen particularly scary to
me, biking away from one that was running after me and actively interested was totally
horrifying. A little while after our wildlife encounter, a car stopped us as it was coming
past and warned us of an angry moose that had tried charging their car. Pete was worrying
about bear attacks when in all actuality, the real threat was a giant aggressive moose.
Moments like these made me really feel the adventure in playing out the scenario where
the angry moose would chase us as we rode past, but we never encountered the storied
beast. Funnily enough, I actually had the chance to eat a moose burger at a little diner
we stopped at for dinner one night. That might seem kind of out there until you consider
how many moose actually live in Canada. It had dressed up just like its American beef
cousin with lettuce, onions, ketchup and tomato. With how hungry I was, I couldn't tell the
difference. We did finally find the bike service station that afternoon and Pete's bike was
back in working order in no time. He was a lot happier moving on knowing that he could
sprint properly if a two-ton grizzly did happen to appear out of the brush. Of course, as
soon as we got just far enough away from the service station for it to be helpfully inaccessible,
my back tire began to rub against the hub. And upon inspection, it wasn't something
I could fix on the road. So for the second time that day, we found ourselves in the middle
of nowhere broken down. While I knew that mishaps come packaged up with any adventure,
it still didn't help to curb the ever-growing frustration boiling up in my chest. I was
running thin on patience. We had ridden nearly 800 miles in nine days and this series of
breakdowns was the last straw. I needed a break in the grind and waiting in the middle
of the woods for the chance to hitchhike was not the break I was hoping for. With nothing
else to lose, I offered up a prayer for some help. Within minutes, a pickup truck stopped
by and offered us a lift. The truck's driver introduced himself as Guy and helped us pack
our bikes and get into the back of his truck. He was middle-aged, retired, easygoing, and
best of all, he had nowhere to be. When he asked us where we headed, he shrugged and
told us that he wasn't headed that way, but he didn't mind going for a drive. When we
arrived at the shop in Canora, the owner looked at the bike and said he could get it fixed
for $34.03. The whole day was an exhausting one, but it all fell together so perfectly
that it turned out to be just the boost of enthusiasm I needed to press on. Sometimes
on a long trip, the blips of adventure you find yourself encountering can seem like the
worst, most inconvenient situations imaginable. In hindsight, these perceived hardships make
up your best stories and most worthy memories. Like weights at the gym, they exist for a
lifetime. The free place to stay is way more comfortable than the place you shell out for.
The beer someone bought you somehow tastes a little better, and the cheap bike fix is
way more satisfying when a stranger helped make it possible. Our first blast through
the Canadian countryside was completely memorable in a time that helped me fall in love with
cycling all over again. It was already dusk when we arrived at Canora, and as soon as
I waved goodbye to Guy, we focused on finding a place to camp for the night. I decided to
call in a favor from our buddy Clayton, who had a farm there. We had shared some beers
with him when we passed through Biagior, and he had offered us a place to pitch our tent
if we gave him a shout when we arrived in his neck of the woods. Clayton's farm turned
out to be far more impressive than a mom and pop, red barn, black and white spotted cows
operation that I had envisioned. Clayton's land stretched for 500 acres and had a quarter
mile of direct lake access. The land was diverse and picturesque, with hilly tree-lined dirt
roads to get around. It seemed like an American country song come to life. Clayton's ranch
was completely self-sufficient with wind towers, geothermal panels, and a hydro generator in
his river that generated enough electricity to power the whole place. There was a little
river that ran through the land feeding into a lake that Clayton had stocked with 15,000
trout. The lake was studded with little bungalows, a canoe shed, and a couple of small docks.
There were 15 or so other buildings on the land, including the main house, barns, workshops,
and various other outbuildings and cabins. The property was so large that walking everywhere
wasn't super practical. We actually used a couple of Clayton's ATVs to get around during
our stay. On our first night, Clayton cooked up a big barbecue and even brought out some
homemade moonshine for us to try. We swapped stories and had a good laugh over some of
Pete and I's previously unfunny misadventures. I have found that the more misery you endure
during an adventure, the harder you get to laugh later on. After recounting our ride
to that point, Clayton shared some more about his land and one particularly interesting
group of people that he had hosted there. It turns out that the band Blink 182 had stayed
on Clayton's land for a while and played a show there that attracted an enormous festival
sized crowd. If you're at all familiar with that band, then you've probably heard a few
of their songs off their album Dude Ranch. In fact, that album was written at their time
spent on Clayton's property. I was pretty inspired. Clayton was a generous host and
could have been more grateful to have such a peaceful place to recharge before getting
back on the road. When I say that not all of Canada was this awesome, I mean it. After
all the scene of perfection we had encountered riding through rural areas and charming towns,
running into suburban communities with bright shiny strip malls was kind of unpleasant.
It jolted us out of the adventure in a way only something heavily boring can. John and
I wanted to avoid planned communities and chain restaurants and instead spent time in
towns with character like Revelstoke, Nighton Junction and Vegreville. One thing was consistent
no matter where we were, people couldn't help but share. With our disgusting spandex, sunscreen
and generally disheveled appearances, we must have looked like we had just been through
a crash landing. There were some days when we seriously got our butts handed to us and
there were other days I was sure that mine had fallen off. It's hard to explain just
how badly your entire body hurt after months on the road. It seemed like no physical ailment
could disappear without another one taking its place immediately. As soon as our muscles
built up and new calluses hardened, the ache set in. About halfway through the trip, my
middle finger on my left hand went numb for a week. I couldn't feel the tips of my toes,
my nose or my fingers thanks to the cold. My back hurt, my neck hurt and my feet hurt
in a mean-spirited, nagging way. In my normal, soft, work-a-day life, I'd never experienced
the kind of enduring all-day pain, but at least I could feel my perspective growing
when I couldn't feel anything else. I quickly came to appreciate the joy that came from
stretching your legs on a descent or how it felt to reposition your shoulders for a few
seconds. Switching hand positions became a treat, like a piece of candy to look forward
to. Another treat on the road was all the easily accessible poutine. That greasy goodness
motivated me for miles. Poutine can be pretty much found at any food-serving establishment
in Quebec. From the sit-down places to the little food stands and diners, it's basically
a combination of all good things including French fries, cheese curds and gravy. I think
of it like cheese fries that someone bothered actually thinking about. I think I ate my
weight and the stuff during the ride and the salty-cheesy combination really helps after
a long day on the road. I expected that after two months on the road and 4,000 miles behind
me, I would feel settled. Any learning curve would have been mastered long before, but
this wasn't the case. Part of the reason the learning curve was so steep was because my
riding companion forced me to push beyond my limit every day. Pete had 35 years of cycling
experience in his tightly fitted spandex, whereas I'd been cycling for a mere two years,
a blip really on the pedaling map. After a stint riding 10 days straight, I was feeling
completely burned out. This type of burnout could not be resolved by a nap, a good night's
sleep or calorie consumption. One day of rest wasn't going to cut it this time. So instead
of pedaling on, I pedaled by myself 20 miles to the town of Saint Jerome. Saint Jerome
is a quaint, historic area outside Montreal with architecture that dated back hundreds
of years. I decided this would be a perfect place to settle in for a nice break, learn
some French and sip some coffee. Pete and I, for the first time, got separated. After
a night in a real bed, a couple of good meals and some extra hot showers, I felt ready to
start again. Then just as I was climbing onto my bike, a 78 year old man named Danielle
approached me. He wanted to talk to me about my bike and my ride. And the story, the farther
along we got, got funner to tell. He seemed harmless enough, so I explained to him where
we'd started from and where we were headed. He got excited and began to tell me how at
age 65 he had ridden across Canada as well before retiring. He then insisted that we
have dinner. As I rode back with Danielle to his house, I began to think about old Boy
Scout rules like the buddy system and someone telling me where you'd be hiking and how
I wasn't following any of that. No one had any idea where I was, my buddy that I was
riding with, the wind took a back. Yet here I was being picked up by a distinguished French
hair hairdresser cyclist named Danielle. I was sure that he was going to take me to his
house, drug me, lock me in his basement, torture me with stale baguettes. Luckily, he turned
out to be an awesome guy who fit none of the stereotypes that my overactive imagination
had just drummed up. He had a very flowery riverside home with a pretty garden with no
basement to speak of and instead of murdering me, he made me dinner. He made a precious,
delicious meal of soup, spaghetti and fresh bed. I stayed with him for a day and he showed
me his favorite town called Saint Savoie. Saint Savoie was breathtaking and resembled
an old European skiing village. Everywhere I looked there were little restaurants packed
full of people enjoying the evening and the gorgeous weather. If there's anything I learned
on my ride through Canada, it's that there is no knowledge like local knowledge. It's
too easy to travel and miss out on some of the most precious jewels of the places you
visit that are hidden in plain sight. It was there in Saint Savoie that I found out in
casual conversation with some of Daniel's biking friends that most people who bike across
Canada take the Queen Elizabeth Highway because it was the quickest, flattest and most direct
to get from point A to point B. As I explained the route our ride had taken, they couldn't
help but shout brief blasts of French exclamation at one another before dissolving into cackling
laughter. I began to put together that Pete, whether knowingly or unknowingly, and I were
leaning toward, had put the longest, toughest ride that followed mostly only secondary roads.
It was pure comedy to Daniel and his friends and I couldn't help but laugh along even though
I was suffering. Although the ride had been excruciatingly difficult, looking back I wouldn't
have changed it. I had seen some of the most breathtaking wilderness scenic vistas and
charming rural townships I could have ever dreamed of visiting. Without taking the strenuous
route that Pete and I mapped out, I felt as though we might have missed the adventure
had I not gone there in the first place. When we crossed the border into Newfoundland, I
couldn't wait to try the fabled fish and chips. I spent an afternoon in an Irish bar
drinking Baileys and eating the best fish and chips I had ever had in my life. They
were so salty and crispy that they literally melted in your mouth and went perfectly with
the creamy, cold Baileys. The entire coast in Newfoundland is made up of these little
fishing ports and the fresh cod catches make their way into the local restaurants. My trip
through Canada had been everything I needed. I was able to challenge myself daily and see
how I could handle the mental and physical strain of pushing through day after painful
day. Sometimes Pete and I were the masters of our environment, working as a team, pushing
through the wilds of Canada, advancing toward our destination. Other days we were humbled
by weather, our own physical limitations, and what at times seemed like an endless series
of setbacks. We faced bears, hail, and crises that would make even the most hardened cyclists
consider giving up, but we pushed on and the success was worth the struggle. When Pete
and I had ridden the last part of the road in Newfoundland, we decided to end this final
portion of the trip at Cape Spear, the easternmost point in North America. I had this brilliant
feeling of gleaming accomplishment when I got there, like I had a medal around my neck.
I'd just traveled from the Pacific Ocean across a continent that spans 6,000 miles.
As I looked out at the coast of Cape Spear, I felt the strain of the trip and the exhaustion
that ran through my entire body, but I didn't feel quite ready for it to be over. Riding
was my new normal and feeling happy, worthwhile, and full of purpose was part of that. I called
Quinn every day and I told her that I'd just ridden across an entire continent on my bicycle.
The congratulations that came out in her sweet little voice made me feel like Superman. I'm
pretty sure that I would have found a way to redirect the spin of the earth to feel
like that much of a hero to her. I felt like my life was finally heading in the right direction
and that the momentum that I had built up during my trip was going to propel me into
the future with equal parts enthusiasm and determination. It had taken so much to get
to this final place in my ride across Canada and I felt like all the miles I had put in
earned me a fresh start. Somewhere along the road, the paths had been displaced and at
least some of my baggage and my problems had tumbled away, leaving me lighter and more
hopeful. For the first time in a long time, the road to my future opened up in front of
me and I couldn't wait to see where I was going next. It felt so odd to experience hope.
Chapter Five, the USA. After my ride through Canada, it was safe to say that I was desperately
in need of a break. My legs were sore, my mind was sore, and I was ready to sleep for
about a week straight. I had flown from Toronto to spend a week with Quinn a few months in
the trip, but it had been too long since I had seen my girl and I missed her big time.
As badly as I wanted to check into the first roadside motel I saw and veg out on Naps,
crappy television, and hot showers, I had to get home to see her. After long labored
days, biking down mile after slow mile of pavement, driving from Canada back home to
Ohio felt like a strange time warp. Hundreds of miles passed in a matter of hours and it
took some time for me to adjust to the speed before I could actually enjoy cruising passively
down the road at 80 miles an hour. When I finally pulled up to my house, I was feeling
completely content. I was looking forward to a night in my own bed and the next day
spent with Quinn. Pete and I were planning on catching up with some buddies in the evening
to regale them with tales of adventure. I felt relaxed and more settled than I had in
a long time. Over the next few weeks, I wrapped myself in a rest, getting back into the groove
of a normal life and looked at completing some graduate work. My grand adventure had cured
some of my restlessness and I felt ready to take on new challenges. As I was in a coffee
place one day, sipping coffee and studying, I looked up to find a girl sitting next to
me. Now normally I would have had another thought, another thing about this seating
arrangement, but we were the only two people in Starbucks. I was getting the feeling that
she wanted to make a connection. So I struck up some small talk and reeled off an introduction
that would impress just about anyone. It was something irresistible along the lines of,
hi, my name is Ryan. I'm currently unemployed. I don't drive a car and I ride my bicycle
everywhere. This is how I introduced myself to a girl who I later discovered spoke three
languages and had just finished her medical residency. She didn't seem terribly fazed
and responded by giving me her number. We started out just as friends, turned into dating
and we had a great time. She was smart, funny, liked the gym like I did. The only place we
didn't have common ground was our ideas about religion. She was totally okay with the fact
that I was a Jesus follower, but it just wasn't something she wanted to be a part of. I initially
shrugged it off because I mean we were just dating. Why mess with a good thing? She liked
to pay for everything. She understood I didn't have any money to speak of. She was very egalitarian
that way. It was a fun relationship that didn't come with a lot of responsibilities and deep
conversations and at that point in my life that was just fine. After we'd been dating
for a few months she mentioned that she would be moving from Ohio to San Diego for work
and before she left she wanted to go on a vacation. She wanted to do a little Indonesia
trip, enjoy her weeks off, but I couldn't help but do a double take when she implied
that I would be moving with her mainly because I hadn't really been taking the relationship
that seriously. But certainly it wasn't because I didn't care. The seriousness just kind of
got lost in all the fun. After about a week after that conversation I had a dream that
I was sitting in the back of a church with the message in full swing and I felt panicked.
After the service I waited to speak to the preacher. I told him to pray for me because
my wife didn't go to church. The preacher said he'd pray for me and then I woke up.
As soon as I opened my eyes I felt a strong sense of loneliness, clarity and wistfulness
as I considered the different paths my future would take. This relationship that I had developed
with Jesus since a teenager wasn't something that I identified with directly before Quinn
was born to the way that I do now. But I had read a few Christ parenting books that centered
on being a good father and they were really encouraging me. I wasn't going to church every
week but I started plugging back into reading scripture and prayer. I felt my faith growing
and I saw it being a part of my life going into the future. Going to church alone for
the rest of my life did not seem like something I wanted to sign up for. Who would I play
tic-tac-toe with in the back when the messages were bad? Who would I laugh with when the
guy making announcements slipped up? Who would remind me of the verse from the message that
would keep me from losing my temper? Who would I hold hands with during prayer?
Well the long story short we broke up. It was a bit of an odd parting only because she
was a little miffed by the fact that I thought religious differences wouldn't be important
enough to break up over. Her reaction confirmed that I had made the right move. Sometimes
going with your gut when it comes to these things can be a good thing. Red flags don't
pop up in our heart. Red flags typically pop up in our hearts for good reason. This isn't
to say I felt completely stoked by ending this. She was attractive, successful, easy
going and she was looking for a stay at home husband. I definitely had a few moments of
misgivings but I'm glad that I allowed God to soften my heart and lead me to my perfect
partner. The end of this relationship happened to land right before the end of my graduate
work and I was starting to feel like the open road was calling me again. I had loosely
planned a ride from Ohio to California in my head but I hadn't put together a tight
game plan. On my trip through Canada I had Pete to bounce ideas off of and a wealth of
veteran biking knowledge to pull from. This time I was going to be on my own as I was
starting to map out my US adventure. A friend mentioned that I should ride for a charitable
cause like clean water. I didn't have much formal knowledge about global water problems.
I had certainly knew that they existed and my surfing upbringing made this click for
me emotionally. I talked more with a friend and found out a project he was doing in Fiji.
And he got me excited about it. It seemed like a worthy cause that we would raise money
to make a measurable difference in people's everyday lives. Having located what felt like
a worthwhile purpose, my friend David and I started to firm up the plan for our trip.
We decided to start in Ohio and we would end our ride in San Diego. Once we had packed
up all the gear that we might need for this trip including the addition of hammocks, I
started to get really excited for the trip. Not everyone is as keen on hammocks as I am
but after months of sleeping on uneven surfaces they feel pretty comfortable. Quinn was even
more excited for my ride to California since she had seen my pictures from Canada and heard
all of my stories. I was excited to share this new adventure with her and promised to
send lots of pictures. Finally the day came to shove off and after a big breakfast loaded
down with felt like good preparation we hit the pavement. I was so ready for this particular
ride to start. It was really exciting leading up to the trip. I probably would have been
more apprehensive about navigating and keeping the logistics of the ride running smoothly
if we hadn't been riding through the good old US of A. This is my home. It has signs
I can understand, slang I can speak and I was sure nothing would go wrong. One afternoon
as we were riding through a particularly desert stretch of Nebraska I started to feel really
hungry. This especially pressing hunger made the biker bar I could see in the distance
look like a very appealing lunch stop. Now when I say biker bar I'm talking about Harleys.
It had over 200 Harleys parked in a row that stretched for what seemed like forever and
the place was packed full of gnarly guys with long white beards and lots of prison tattoos.
This place was the real deal. That day had been moving at a snail's pace for me, no
good scenery, not enough breakfast and the road was an annoying gradient that created
an all day climb. The weather was gloomy and overcast. The wind was blowing hard on our
faces and my legs were tired from the endless uphill climb. I was completely and perfectly
miserable. Everything hurt and I had been consoling myself with images of various potential
hot meals. Suddenly the cooking channel showing in my head paused for a commercial break featuring
biker bar and the selection of various previously frozen never fresh fried foods. I did the
math and figured it was close to lunch time at whatever Hell's Angels meeting was being
held should soon be wrapping up. I'm not sure I ever locked up my bike so quickly or
given so little thought to the possibility for a butt kicking. But when we walked into
the room everybody looked at us like we'd fallen out of a spaceship. We certainly stuck
out in a sea of black leather vests in our outrageous, slightly too snug fitting spandex
suits. I was worried that they were going to sacrifice us in some sort of creepy bar
ritual but then the room erupted in laughter and applause as I said, hey, I heard this
is a biker bar. They all laughed. I ended up spending four hours talking and laughing with
the locals and telling them about the bike ride we were on, about the one we'd completed
across Canada. I ate what felt like endless baskets of onion rings and chatted with the
guy who had the words death wish with a bunch of knives tattooed on his forearms. The day
seemed to be looking up. Fortunately, as we said goodbye to our new biker buddies, the
rest of the day was a bit of a downer. We couldn't find anywhere good to camp and ended
up on the outskirts of town sleeping in our hammocks. I felt relaxed like I had fully
conquered the day but the sense of contentment ended around midnight when it started to pour
down raining. If you've never spent the night soaking wet in a hammock, let's just say I
don't recommend it. However, at the risk of sounding like a hammock apologist, I find
sleeping wet off the ground a better bedtime situation than sleeping wet on the ground
in a leaky tent. I'm pretty sure I spent all of two hours at night sleeping and the rest
of it watching, avatar on my phone, to try and direct myself, distract myself from how
wet I was. In the midst of all this, as cliche as it might sound, I thought about the old
adage about life giving you lemons and how it's recommended to use them to make lemonade.
I came to the conclusion that lemonade is great but if you don't add some sugar, it
will end up tasting terrible. My sugar that night was watching Avatar on a tiny screen
and ever since that rainy night, I made a point of bringing a little extra something
on trips that can sweeten even the sourest situations. I had one semi-decent outfit that
I packed on the off chance we arrived in a town or a city that I actually wanted to go
out and explore with people who were staring at my Power Ranger get up. Most of the way
through the Midwest, this outfit didn't see much action but when we arrived in Iowa, we
came across a cute little town that felt like the perfect place to put our feet up. After
pitching camp in some random trees outside of town, Dave and I put on our street clothing
and went into town. It was a Saturday night, we found the swankiest restaurant in town
to have dinner. It was refreshing to pretend for one night that we were just normal people
having a normal dinner even though when we finished our fancy steaks, we were tired to
our little hobo camp in the woods. Around this time, Quinn started the first grade.
While I felt like I was making a difference in her life, I felt like I was missing special
moments and milestones even though we would talk on the phone every evening. It's the
paradox you feel as a father. I felt far away from her and her world and I missed her. I
had some good talks about that with Dave and he was an encouragement to me. We would talk
about what being a good dad looked like and always came away with them with more perspective
than when I started out. The further I rode across the states, the more adventure I encountered.
There's some kind of secret equation where distance multiplied by time plus wilderness
equals adventure. Some days you get caught up in the search for adventure and you find
yourself losing touch with your better judgment. For example, one day we decided to take a
dirt road shortcut in Indiana. Ninety-five miles of bumpy dirt track later we came to
regret not taking the long way around. Come nightfall, there were no lights, no traffic
and no people unless you would count the occasional tractor and its owner rolling down the path.
No other companions than busybody insects and the distant sound of banjos as the children
of the corn made their way up in our direction. At least I found comfort in the fact that
I wouldn't have seen them coming in the pitch dark. I love to tell people how I got to fulfill
a lifelong childhood dream of sleeping in a teepee on the ride. If you were ever a child
you played some form of Cowboys and Indians, you know what I'm talking about. If you didn't,
it's probably because you grew up in the generation that does nothing outside and plays video
games all day. I had wanted to sleep in a teepee since I was a young kid. So when we
finally made it to Arizona we were on the hunt for one of those touristy places that
have a whole field full of them to rent at night. We found something even better. A really
nice Native American lady who showed us a traditional homestead that had been in her
family for 75 years. For the life of me, I can't remember her name, but I do remember
that she and I shared a powerful spiritual connection. When I talked with her she had
this piercing gaze that seemed to stare straight into your soul. I don't believe we have several
lives to live, but if I did I would take that lady as my guru. She was living a simple life
on land that had been touched only by her family. At one point she told me I was a gentle
soul. I laughed at her and said that I may have a gentle spirit, but I was as stubborn
as an ox and I could eat like a bear. She got a real kick out of that. David and I did
end up finding a campground that allowed you to rent out teepees for the night and sleep
in them. It felt extra special after spending the afternoon with someone truly in touch
with the real cultural heritage of the area. As we rode into Flagstaff I got in touch with
my buddy Big Dave who had set up a few speaking engagements for us so we could spread the
word about our ride for water. We spoke to 40 people at his shoe company about going
on our adventure, did a local TV interview, we spoke at a brewery later that day. To top
it off we were asked last minute by a band who we ran into over at lunch to take the
stage at a local musical festival to say a few words about our cause. As we took the
stage and finished our blurb about bicycles and helping people in impoverished areas of
the world get clean water the crowd went nuts. I was shocked, astonished frankly. It was
humbling. We went across the street at a bar and celebrated with a band afterwards. For
a moment it was a small glimpse into the life of a celebrity. You show up, people laugh,
they clap. It was all very uncomfortable. But it was a highlight of the trip and the
first time I really felt compelled to dig into my identification with Clean Water Initiatives.
This was a seed that would continue to grow in my heart and mind. I've ridden across
North America hitting both the Atlantic and the Pacific coast and I can say for sure that
there's nothing that can beat the crashing calm of California waves. Near the end of
our ride across America we rode from Palm Springs to Temecula where we stayed at my
Uncle Dan's house. When I arrived at my uncle's we had ridden 95 miles in 95 degree weather
from Palm Springs not to mention climbing up a brutally steep mountain pass to get to
his house before dark. We were wrecked. My cousins were shocked at my appearance which
wasn't surprising since I looked like some filthy unshaven creature from the swamp, Yeti
Hybrid. We ate food for three hours straight and laughed the whole time. My uncle is one
of the funniest people I know and somehow the food and the comedy taste extra good listening
to him spin tales into the evening. The next day our last ride from Temecula to Carlsbad
when we finally arrived at South Carlsbad State Beach it was the late afternoon and
my parents were waiting for us. My dad brought long boards with him so we could jump into
the Pacific and let me tell you charging in the water after days of riding in no humidity
to speak of felt fantastic. I had traveled from the Pacific to the Atlantic and now back
to the Pacific and it really just felt good to be home especially after living in Ohio
for three and a half years where I always felt like an alien. It reminded me of when
I was growing up surfing Bolsa Chica just a junior high school kid who just wanted to
cut class and go surfing that afternoon was really one of those golden California moments
with fun waves no one around and everything just feeling whole again. I hooted at my dad
when he got a good left it was hard to believe that he was 67 years old and still ripping.
Being near my roots and my family made me feel hopeful and happy. Damon and I traded
waves and laughs with my dad and went in and spent with rubber arms and legs. I wouldn't
have changed a thing about that last day we rode. Damon said this was the best trip of
his life. He almost couldn't believe that we'd really done it. Right before we left
on our ride, Dave and I met the girl of his dreams. Every day I talked to Quinn he would
call and talk with Kristen. You could see the look in their eyes and it was no surprise
when he told me I gotta go see about a girl. He flew back to Ohio and pretty soon Quinn
and I were sitting at their wedding. They danced Quinn and I danced and everything felt
pretty perfect. Now when I visit Ohio, David and Kristen and I talk about those happy times
when they first met and our bike ride. Whenever you decide to give up everything to make a
huge life choice, go for it. You may find yourself riding into San Diego with the wind
at your back and a big barrel in your future. Chapter 6. Mexico. I ended up hanging out
in San Diego for about 6 weeks while my friend Dane was finishing work. I had known Dane
since high school and I reached out to him to catch up over coffee one day and we ended
up talking about my recently completed rides. I told him about the next ride I was going
to do through Mexico and Central America but at that point it was just an idea I was toying
with. Dane told me to let him know if I really planned to make the trip because he would
be on board and one day a few weeks later that's exactly what I did. Dane was working
for a big media syndicate at the time, was making 6 figures as a lead programmer. The
team he worked with wrote the kind of code which transmits signals from airplanes allowing
people to rent movies with their credit card. Suffice to say he was a very valuable employee
and there was no way his employer would have let him quit over an extended vacation. Dane
was able to work out a sweet deal where you could generally keep up on things from the
ride through email and then jump back in when he returned from our ride. You can't put a
price on that kind of flexibility. I flew back to see Quinn during my 6 week stay in
California. My head was cleared. I always find it a slight adjustment traveling anywhere
after being home and since I forget that other states actually check their weather forecast.
In California broadcasting the weather is just a chance to brag to the rest of the country.
In Ohio however every couple hours it seems like a different season sets in and you have
to be careful to prep for the conditions especially if you're planning to tote your kid out into
the elements. One day I was making Quinn some lunch. We started brainstorming ideas about
how we were going to spend our afternoon. I was excited because the weather map showed
a dry two hour window where I thought we could sneak in a hike. Quinn made it clear that
if the possibility existed for her to get wet she was not going. I began to realize
and to develop a different set of speeches that I would give like eat your breakfast
and the double check speech and one of my favorites to be prepared speech. In response
to her presentation I launched into my favorite dad speech which I will admit I lifted directly
from an REI salesman. There is no bad weather just bad gear. As I preached the necessities
of waterproofing and quick dry fabrics it was hard to tell if she was warming up so
I improvised and in the interest of convincing her I quickly spouted off come on life is
an adventure. That little extra push had her excited so we packed up all our stuff and
headed out. That little quip would become a very memorable joke between the two of us.
My daughter has taken that phrase and likes to abuse it to the point where it's comical.
She typically applies it to conversations where she's trying to get her way but has
also become a way to shake off the small stuff. Traffic, a bad quiz grade, spilling a glass
of juice all that stuff just doesn't seem worth stressing out over when you think of
it within the perspective of adventure rather than disaster. It's easier to get sucked into
looking at life as a series of hardships and mistakes when all it takes is a little forced
optimism to feel like all the hard stuff is building up into something worthwhile. It's
easier to coexist with the chaos of the day to day when you think of all the tough times
as just part of a greater plan. When I came back to Ohio Dane and I were starting to firm
up our plans for our trip through Central America. At this point I considered myself
a packing expert and packing for the ride felt a little comfortable like a comfortable
exercise however when you're prepping for a trip the list never really ends there's
always a spare tire to order, a box of your favorite cliff bars to track down or a pack
to reorganize. On top of all the normal prep work Dane and I were raising money for a non-profit
organization based out of San Diego. I had decided before the trip that I wanted this
trip to make a positive impact on the lives of the people who had less than I did. I looked
into a different clean water initiatives and decided to partner with a group I found in
Southern California and the way they were working to combat water inequality issues
in Fiji were inspiring. Before our ride Dane and I raised a little over 20 grand through
a dozen or so donors to provide water to 110 homes in Fiji and the main project that time
was to partner with the Fijian government to install water filtration systems in homes.
These filtration systems have the ability to remove 99 percent of common bacteria and
minimize the potential for waterborne illness. Providing communities with water filtration
can eliminate the debilitating conditions that can accompany the consumption of unsafe
water and make a very real difference for impoverished peoples. After researching the
cause our ride would be supporting I was pumped. It wasn't hard at all to talk to people about
donating because I felt so passionate about providing people with something as essential
as water. It's easy to come up with excuses to put off giving your time, money and energy
to people that need it. It's easy to run the numbers and figure out that when you have
it all together or you're totally recovered or you have your life in order you will give
away your extras. The secret is that the distractions of life will never disappear and the perfect
time will never seem perfect enough unless you get your button gear you might miss out
on the best adventures and your chance to live unselfishly. You can help other people
just as easily when you have loose ends in your life. It's okay to be a work in progress.
As the day of our departure grew near I was amazed at the speed in which life accelerates
when you have multiple pieces moving rapidly. My phone, text, email and social networks
were blowing up and it felt like things were getting ready to roll. I was feeling really
stoked because this trip was the first one that I felt prepared to take. While there
were certainly unknowns I felt confident I could handle the physical challenge of riding
all day. We would be crossing borders, dealing with the language barrier and exploring remote
areas but the idea of the actual ride did make me feel intimidated at all. I felt great
about the foundation I laid for this trip. Lots of friends, companies felt like everyone
was cheering us on. It sort of felt like we had the wind at our back. Before we headed
out I had to make one last stop at my beloved pizza port. Now I know I'm a little food
obsessed but you'll just have to bear with me while I brag on this place. While I was
riding through San Diego on my way to the border I had to stop there. They do craft
beer right. We love their pies. It's always amazing. When we crossed the border at Tijuana
we took a right and enthusiastically headed up the enormous climb that takes you out of
Tijuana and into the main road. As we climbed the enormous hill I felt totally invigorated
and while the route was steep I knew that just over the ridge line was a relaxing glide
past the Pacific coast. Well it turned out to be the shortest downhill glide in history
because as soon as we emerged onto the main road to pay the toll four different attendants
mobbed at us in Spanish. We came to find out that we were not allowed to ride our bikes
on that section of the road and that we'd have to be farther south. We ended up hitching
a ride in the back of a truck big enough to hold our bikes to Rosarito where the ride
eventually got in our way. As we made our way through Baja we came across some really
diverse characters often as little taco stands. Long before taco trucks became a trendy thing
in U.S. urban centers they were plain old lunch staple in Mexico. For most lunches there
it's an easy grab at any one of these delicious mom and pop palaces. Tacos come with all the
trappings, beets, limes, onions, chilies. They might have been my favorite culinary
experience of the entire trip minus the poutine. There were always diversity in the meats from
pork to asada to fish all slathered in fixings and rolled up in tiny tortillas. I could eat
20 in a sitting. The first person I met over tacos was Ray, a retired security guard from
Folsom Prison who we met at a taco stand in one of our last days in Baja. I tried to
make small talk with the guy but instead of responding with regular traveler pleasantries
he spoke in these really abrupt short sentences. He opened up conversation with, started in
Santa Cruz, been riding for 48 hours. I even ride at night. That's why I got these headlights
on. Ray was one of those people you back away from slowly and started to wonder if security
guard was his actual reason for residence at Folsom. Then we met Jeannie who we just
kind of rode up to next one day. She was four foot three riding out of Canada all alone.
She was a spitfire and I think Dane and I felt our safest riding with her. She had a
presence about her. The generosity of the people in Mexico never ceased to amaze us.
The friendliness and helpfulness seemed to take a sincere interest in who you are and
where you're from. The American press covers every piece of unfortunate violence that happens
there. While there are certainly real concerns to be had, acting like Mexico is just one
big sheriff's blotter to be pitied is unfair. It's a lot easier to paint an entire place
with a particular moral brush instead of taking the time to identify the problems that poverty
and lack of public institutions stir up. There is potential danger sure but there's an equal
opportunity to be in danger walking down the streets at certain places in Southern California.
During my trip I found that being kind was repaid with kindness, a pretty simple system
if you ask me. I can't begin to tell you how many times people went out of their way
to help us. People kicked us free meals, gave us the local deal even though we were toristas
or charged us an off-season price. I remember the one time we stopped at a store to ask
questions from the clerk and she ended up telling us where the bank, supermarket and
farmers markets were. She even drew up an awesome little map of the town before offering
to let us stay the night at the hotel next door for free. Keep in mind that we'd only
been chatting with her for an hour or so. It was so nice to be back on the road after
living with depression and feelings of purposelessness for so long I was refreshed to be managing
them in a way that really worked for me. As we rode through Mexico I couldn't help
but feel like I was making a difference not just for my well-being but also for my daughter
and also for the people on a scale that really mattered. Instead of endlessly trying to
catch up I felt like I was actually getting out in front of my life and leading it to
a place that felt worthwhile. Did my mixed feelings go away? No, they never have.
Chapter 7, mainland Mexico. Crossing coasts to La Paz meant leaving the cozy Pacific coastline
that I had become so comfortable having over my right shoulder while the next leg of the
journey saw us gaining some serious altitude. I was sure that the trek could be managed
in a day. We got on the road about 7.30 in the morning and from that moment our pedals
started turning we were climbing. The first 40 miles were a steep incline and the next
20 miles were a series of power climbs. By noon some heavy fatigue set in. Not only was
the terrain more intense than I had anticipated, a gnarly headwind ramped up around lunchtime.
At some point the wind became so powerful and it was enough to irritate us. As tired
as I felt I wasn't about to have the weather push me around so I turned on the afterburners
and I got comfortable hanging out in high gear. The last 20 kilometers of climb I dug
into the steep grade and I gave it all I had. Stringing my way to the top brute force got
the job done. And I was completely out of reserves as the road peaked over the final
incline. When I hit the descent into La Paz I couldn't help but offer up a quick grateful
prayer. We had ridden 60 miles of sheer slope well before dinner time. Any further and I'm
pretty sure I would have risked injury or exhaustion. We had another 3,000 feet of climbing
to look forward to and I couldn't shovel in tacos fast enough before practically falling
asleep sitting up. Up until this point the ride in Baja was more or less the enjoyable
cruise by the ocean I had dreamed about. I had to pay pretty dearly for my dream to ride
through this. The last 100 or so kilometers in Baja were spent relentlessly climbing uphill.
The next day was a short ride with Dane, Jeanine and I were supposed to meet up at the El Cardo
Trailer Park and get cleaned up. It certainly wasn't billed as a four star joint but I
was looking forward to emailing Quinn, doing some laundry and resting up for the rest of
the ride. I was looking forward to kicking back and enjoying a well deserved break as
we pulled up to the trailer park we couldn't help but notice that it seemed to be missing.
I mean the sign was there alright but the trailers were nowhere to be seen. With no
other choice we just kept rolling until we saw a sign for poppies and beer. That night
the barkeep told us about the little trailer park that had closed a year before. We found
a cool little dive where we could crash for the night but the lesson wasn't lost on me.
Always double check your travel sources so that you don't end up sleeping on the side
of a Mexican byway. The beach in La Paz was beautiful and undisturbed with blue water
and sailboats. After riding through so much barren hilly desert it was pleasant change
to ride into La Paz where everything seemed more tranquil. After taking some pictures
of the big yachts in the marina I asked a guy with a name tag if he knew where I could
take a shower. He pointed to a little marina adjacent to us. I thanked him. We started
shuffling over but I never made it. Instead a woman who had overheard the entire conversation
immediately approached us and announced she would be our host. She unlocked the plus marina
bathrooms and told us to come by her and her husband's slip once we had cleaned up. Once
I had showered and headed over to the boat slip and found I found the biggest sailboat
I had ever seen. It was a James Bond villain style luxury yacht with every convenience
you could imagine. It was a floating mansion. They were totally pleasant. We sipped margaritas,
stared at the Sea of Cortez. We had earned this little vacation moment courtesy of them.
Harsh inclines and exhaustion were in our immediate future but for this savory moment
we could look back on it as a place of comfort. Our next boating adventure wouldn't be so
picturesque. Dane and I took an eight hour night boat across the Sea of Cortez out of
La Paz instead of one of the cushy tourist cruises in order to save some cash. In the
interest of being as frugal as possible we didn't spring for a ticket that provided for
an overnight cabin. Instead we stayed up all night dancing and slept on the floor only
to be prodded awake by the janitor's broom. The next day we were looking forward to the
ride. We got a hotel and we got some sleep. We were attempting to be thrifty on long rides
saving our budget for food and so it was a real treat to sleep in a bed. The day started
off great. We had a big breakfast and we noticed that the map showed the day's ride being fairly
flat. I still have half a mind to write a letter of complaint to Mr. Rand McNally or
whoever is responsible for the misleading map because the entire day was a big fat serving
of suffering. It started with 70 miles of power climbing before we even hit Maluca.
Capped off at the beast of a climb that took me far longer than it should have because
I kept putting off my bike and walking it through maze after maze of potholes. The last
two miles to the hotel were a joke. The road was a 10 to 12 percent grade with large cobbles
paving the street. I had lots of really nice locals pulling over to offer me rides and
it pained me to wave them away. As a point of pride I had ridden in a car only five times
since arriving in Mexico and those lifts were necessary due to bike breakdowns and no one
around. One time we did take a ride because the fog was so sick we couldn't see directly
in front of us. When we think of the hills of Mexico I can genuinely say that conquering
them has become a part of my identity as a cyclist. Long climbs can be exhausting, discouraging
and when you conquer one you feel like you're on top of the world. And when you see a mountain
on the map ahead of you, you prep for the ascent and you have plenty of warning. Hills
are sneaky, they appear out of nowhere and no one bothers to put them on maps. I found
that life also have plenty of hills in it that you can't prepare for. When you start
on a hill you feel the struggle, you feel the surprise of the struggle at first and
then frustration with your slow progress. However once you make it to the top you look
back down and realize that if this hill was doable the next one might be too. Climbing
hills on a bike, clearly a metaphor for life. It gives you hope to hang on when you head
up the big ones. Growing perspective is like growing muscles, it takes perseverance and
isn't always immediate. The more hills you try to conquer the easier the climbs become
and pretty soon the deep breath you take at the top is your ultimate destination. The
rest of the trip through Mexico was beautiful but I missed Quinn. We were midway through
December and it'd be my first Christmas season without her. On New Year's Day I was feeling
sad and lonely and decided to go looking for the perfect gift to bring back to her. I ended
up buying a giant conch shell, the kind where you hear the ocean when you hold it to your
ear. Most days in Mexico were filled with the exhilaration of adventure and exploring
but always against the backdrop of being so far away from her. Right before we left Mexico
we found this boat that for about 30 bucks a person let you snorkel, fish and dance for
a full day. As we boarded we quickly realized that this full on party boat was going to
be a wild ride and the packed open bar was an immediate clue. All the booze you could
drink was included in the price of the ticket and our fellow passengers were clearly going
to get their money's worth. We started off the day pretty peacefully just snorkeling
and fishing. We had no idea it was only a matter of time until the dancing started.
The evening's main event was a huge dance party with a full club atmosphere. The DJ
was super interactive and he was constantly orchestrating some kind of limbo or dance
off. As Dane and I walked in the party it was pretty clear we were the only gringos.
I got eliminated from the dance contest early on which anyone who knows me knows this came
as no shocker but Dane and his partner ended up in the finals. Let's just say that Dane
won the contest with a combination of elaborate pole dancing, comically broken Spanish and
too many shots of tequila. The crowd went wild as he threw himself to the top of the
pole sideways spun around three times fully extended like a gymnast and dismounted perfectly.
He took his shirt off and threw it into the crowd. I've never laughed so hard in my entire
life. Before our time in Mexico ended we fulfilled a boyhood fantasy of surfing Puerto Escondido.
Puerto Escondido is considered to be the Mexican version of pipeline and the waves were not
for the faint of heart. The waves were merely six to eight feet on the face, mellow conditions
by Puerto standards. I managed to rent a guy a rent a board but the guy at the surf shop
wouldn't let me have a leash because it upped the chances of me slapping the rental. When
I got to the break it was six to ten feet faces and pumping very uncrowded. I did manage
to get a few waves although I didn't manage to get the memorable deep tube I had imagined.
However I did take the beating in the impact zone that was more intense than anything I
could have dreamed up. It was a long swim in but was totally worth it to check a destination
off the old surf bucket list. Trying to get in at Porto was like being stuck in a washing
machine. Round and round I went without making any progress. I was rescued for the first
time in my life by a boogie boarder. It was completely embarrassing. Mexico wasn't an
easy trip, it wasn't cushy but the memories you earn are beyond and worth the effort.
There was no one selling memories like mine when you come back to your Otay Mesa. You
have to go out and find them for yourself. It's fun to post photos on social media but
nothing beats being on location in a new place. It's striking the difference between a photo
and a personal experience. Chapter 8 Central America. Having finished the major push through
Mexico it was time to do some major border crossing. In order to get to my final destination
in Columbia I would have to cross six borders and Guatemala was up first. The crossing was
actually pretty eventful as a passing traveling companion drew more than a little attention.
As we rode along our way to the border we encountered another rider and shouted a friendly
hello. Our new road buddy introduced himself as Nikolai and he gave us a very interesting
backstory. He was Romanian and had lived under its brutal dictator Ceausescu in the 80s and
now he was on the open road enjoying a peaceful Central American ride or so it seemed. He
came across as a very chill guy while I found it a little weird that he was riding in a
super starched white jumpsuit I figured it was just as odd to him for us to be in our
spandex. We swapped travel stories and we couldn't see the border crossing but when
we did see the border we pulled over to get out our Spanish phrase books and our passports
so they weren't fumbling with our packs at passport control. After closing up the gear
we made all the little ride to the last border which was our calm ride took an interesting
turn. As we came up from the border we slowed and dismounted our bikes to approach the customs
turnstile. Well Dana and I did anyway. Without so much as a goodbye Nikolai blew past our
border patrol on sprint speed which you can imagine raised one heck of an alarm. Sirens
were blaring someone was shouting over a loudspeaker in a Jeep with a bunch of border agents blasted
after him. It all happened so fast I was completely stunned. In what seemed like a matter of seconds
border agents surrounded Dana and I and unfortunately my phrase book wasn't super helpful. Predictably
Nikolai was caught and the madness died down. We were super cooperative with the border
guards and after answering all other questions we came to find out that Nikolai was an internationally
wanted escaped convict. His attempt to hop the border was a last ditch effort to escape
detention in Mexico when we finally crossed the border I couldn't help but laugh at how
surreal the day had been. Fortunately we wouldn't be accused of any of aiding any more criminals
during the rest of our ride. Every new place presents its own colorful travel hardships
when you're on a bicycle. Guatemala isn't hills or windchill it's mosquitoes. Mosquitoes
were a new irritation for Dana and I. So far we hadn't encountered too many insects but
something about the rain combined with the comfortable warmth brought the blood suckers
out to feast. At first we were sleeping in fields and little roadside clearings but the
bugs were just too big. Big black clouds that we get in your eyes and mouth. Unfortunately
the bugs started keeping us up at night and we weren't getting enough sleep to support
our ride plan. We ended up staying in a lot of funky little motels and sheds. Whatever
we could get for cheap but after our experiences as mosquito food they felt luxurious. One
thing I loved about California, one thing I loved about Guatemala was the breakfast
food. Every morning we would find a little place to get a typical breakfast and for three
or four dollars you could get an absolute feast. Eggs, beans, plantains, sour cream,
sausage, coffee. I remember going to bed sore and exhausted with my mind already preoccupied
with the thoughts of the plate piled high for breakfast trimmings. When we reached El
Salvador we traded mosquitoes for long cold climbs into the mountains. We encountered
freezing rain, barely shy of sleep as we climbed the mountain roads. I ended up breaking out
my smart wool base layer, pants, jacket, beanie and wool, their first and last debut on the
trip. It was an odd experience. One day the weather put us behind schedule making it impossible
for us to reach our projected destination before dark. Instead we pulled off at a convenience
store some 3,500 feet into the mountains and looked around for someone who might give us
permission to set up camp under the eaves of the building's roof so we could stay out
of the drizzle. The owner was friendly and hospitable and after making his coffee he
invited us to stay in a little converted guest house behind the main storefront. Aside from
this generous offer he invited us to eat dinner with his family. We ate beans and rice and
tortillas and ham. It resembled a holiday back home. Everything was delicious and the
coffee was so strong that it took the edge off my aches. I slept soundly. The next morning
we said our thanks and headed out early in order to make up the lost time from the day
before. We were higher up in the mountains, the higher latitudes than I had imagined with
the fog thick and cold. It was more like San Francisco than sunny Central America. Who
figured? That day we managed only 12 miles with 3,000 feet of climbing. My favorite place
in Otoonco, my favorite place in El Salvador was Otoonco. Later on in life I would go there
many many times. And Dane and I ended up staying there longer than we planned. The whole place
was easy going and quiet with great waves and napping and hammocks being the only thing
to do. Otoonco is also home to my all time favorite pupusa. Pupusas are similar to corn
tortillas only they're thicker and stuffed with cheese, beans and meat. They're sold
hot and they're handmade at small restaurants called pupusarias where they're also accompanied
by a cabbage called cortito and a slightly spicy tomato sauce called salsa roja. When
we stopped for lunch in El Salvador I would always buy a big bag of them to take with
me on the road and eat when I wanted a snack. I told myself Sunday I would go back there
and do some work. Boy did that prove to be prophetic. I loved the area and it turned
out that the need in the area matched the kind of water filtration installation that
I was interested in organizing. As providence would have it, four years later I would meet
Doreen a teacher at a Ritzy Prep School in the capital of San Salvador who would help
lead me back there. Doreen also worked with a local charity group that brought in volunteers
for impoverished people in El Salvador. I couldn't have dreamed up a better connection.
It's funny how sometimes you feel a real conviction about a cause or a place. In my
heart I made a promise to that place, to those people. But you couldn't even begin to imagine
the resources it would take to follow through on the conviction that you felt. Then when
you've pretty much dismissed the whole idea, the pieces fall together in a way you couldn't
have orchestrated even if you wanted to. Things like that really set my belief that the big
man upstairs had a plan from the beginning. I always advise people to acknowledge moments
of conviction. Typically I find that when I suddenly feel strongly that I should be doing
something selfless, that feeling of conviction isn't a product of my self-centric brain.
Right around the time I met Doreen I would shut down a local coffee place with a group
of guys and we would hold a kind of informal Bible study. We would cruise in after hours
and talk about certain parts of the Bible, stuff they were having a hard time with, and
close up with a short prayer. This unconventional, spontaneous approach in an easy to get to
location with a very chill vibe based mostly around a rack of beers, the Bible, and the
Holy Spirit somehow seemed to work. Everyone was college age and no one really participated
in a church as we understood it, but it sure felt like one. This was also a seed that would
grow later in my life. We were looking for a way to connect with our purpose in life
and being in touch with God seemed like a good way to do it. One night I ended up mentioning
Doreen and her connection to a particular water initiative at our meeting and people
seemed interested. Four months later, 34 of us would be on our way to El Salvador to help her.
Honduras took me one day to ride through a 70 mile stretch of land. We actually finished
the ride more quickly than we planned so we spent the better part of the afternoon testing
out the water filtration systems we had packed so we could drink from rivers if need be.
At this point in the trip we made it a practice to get our water from those sources. The major
difference being that we had a nifty little filter from REI and many people in impoverished
areas of the globe don't. Instead they just live with the risk of water contamination.
Over a billion people on earth had no reliable access to clean water that is safe from contaminants.
I saw this first hand on my bicycle ride as I tried to drink with the filter from a river.
According to a 2013 water study by the UN, 783 million people didn't have access to
clean water. This seemed impossible to me. Six to eight million people die annually from
the consequences of disasters, water related diseases. For most Americans it seems like
a distant global issue that somehow they're exempt from. To put that in perspective, the
average American household uses about 80 gallons of water a day. European household uses 50.
For the sake of comparison, a sub-Saharan household will use two gallons. Aside from
the global disparity of water accessibility, water quality is a prolific killer in the
developing world. In fact, 80% of illness in the developing world is water and sanitation
related and it's estimated by UNICEF that some 2,000 children under the ages of five
die each day because of unsafe water conditions. As the earth experiences changes in our climate
and atmosphere, more and more of the world will come under high water stress, including
areas of the developed world that are currently accustomed to having easy access to clean
water. Not to mention current projections that the population of the earth ballooning
to 10 million people, 10 billion people, which will only complicate and compound these already
serious problems. Having safe sources of water is essential to the eradication of pathogens
that destroy the health of newly emerging and struggling countries. I'm no scientist,
but all these facts make it clear that the world needs more institutional strategies
and personal technologies that will help water accessibility for all. While I definitely see
the need to petition government bodies and non-government agencies to enact policies
that will provide aid to people abroad, this isn't something I'm going to hold my breath
on. I've made it my personal mission to provide water for as many people as possible as I
can in my life. It's my goal to eventually grow this attempt. Often when people talk
about the environment, they lump all their fears of the future or their skepticism under
this big red letter banner of political debate. For me, this entirely removes the human perspective
and pales over the real experience of people who are dealing with the effects of pollution,
weather, lack of resources due to extreme poverty. Water is a bipartisan worldwide high
priority. I'll keep writing, drawing attention, and working to this end. As I went into Nicaragua,
the road to the beautiful colonial town of León. León is one of the oldest cities in
Central America with a historic architecture framed by tropical flowers and palm trees.
The city is spotlessly clean and offers lots of charming accommodations and eateries. We
found a roomy hostel in a gorgeous old colonial building for $5 a night. The next morning,
I headed down to have breakfast from a little place called Dasayunas. It came recommended
and there was Wi-Fi. I decided to Skype Quinn and give her an update, and after I rang my
buddies to take advantage of getting to brag a little about my adventure. That morning,
I ended up on the phone with my friend Mark Bell, who told me that after my ride, I should
come volunteer with him at a youth program he was running in San Diego. I don't know
why, but it's really comforting to look back on the first moment of something great. I
had no idea at the time that I would end up working with him and meeting my beautiful
wife as a result. God clearly knew he had a bigger plan. I was actually beginning to
dream about the future. We had managed to raise over $20,000 for water projects using
this bicycle ride, and even though I was away from Quinn, I felt connected to her through
our talks and photo sharing. Mixed feelings, yet they've never gone away. While my life
wasn't perfect by a long shot, where I was, I felt pretty satisfying. While I always lived
with the potential for a flare of depression, it seemed like I was finally beginning to
understand how to manage it. From that point on, I've made it a goal to ride my bicycle
or surf every day as my therapy, and it's worked. I recognize that each person's mental
health algorithm is different, and I'm glad to be at peace with mine. I felt really happy
as we left Nicaragua, and while I didn't have a clue what was ahead, I was full of
breakfast and hope, and I figured it was going to be a good day. I had been to Costa Rica
previously in the summer heading into my senior year of my undergraduate degree. My dad had
decided that we shouldn't miss out on the chance to have what might be a guys' surf
trip before life got complicated and busy with new jobs and potential moves. We got
boards, stayed in cool places. We surfed Tamarindo and Haco. The waves were fun. The ocean felt
like a bathtub. I'd been excited since the start of my trip to end up back in the Pura
Vida capital of Central America. Costa Rica was as pleasant as I remember with lots of
fresh fruit, cold imperial, big purple beach crabs, and cool monkeys. The weather was the
same too, blazingly hot with a high of 106 every day. After the calm of Costa Rica, Panama
was a full circus at the start. Once we reached the border, it took more than an hour to get
through the four different customs and passport check lines culminating in the most epic luggage
search of all time. It was a long afternoon. It was totally worth it though because as
soon as we got across the border, the road was beautiful and smooth to the point where
I myself was thinking that the road crew must have been from Newport Beach because the landscaping
was resort quality. Sometimes you get those rare perfect conditions in cycling complete
with big flat smooth roads that seem to have a brand new finish on them. We had a tail
wind and a touch of cloud cover for nearly three hours. We ate at a food joint almost
identical to the hundreds of other little places along the way, but for some reason
this particular place just hit the spot. Cycling heightens taste buds in a way that I can't
explain and if you bike, you know exactly what I'm talking about. Cycling makes people
tell a lot of food centered tall tales. It's like some kind of hyperbolic bike folklore.
Every meal is the best meal ever. As you might have anticipated, we paid dearly for the blissful
first push to Panama. After lunch, we rode for about an hour before I decided to grab
a Coke and a Gatorade. I was starting to really warm up outside and I was thirsty. The last
25 miles or so were a climb, but I felt pretty rested and comfortable. It wasn't a big deal.
We were enjoying a downhill stretch about three miles from the town where we had decided
to stop for the night and I thought I was going to be able to put a near perfect day
in the books when something unimaginable happened. Bees, the ones that sting, they were everywhere.
A swarm straight out of a Hitchcock horror film. In the film, the lady gets chased down
the street as the birds dive bomb her from above. She wildly swings her arms in a failed
attempt to ward them off. You can tell she's a goner. I wasn't doing much better. I started
sprinting as fast as I could, swinging one arm wildly, trying to keep the swarm out of
my face. It was a battle I was losing. I lost my cycling glasses while I was trying to kill
the one that had stung me on my back. I tried to swat a bee that was stinging my face, but
while I was swinging at that, two stung me in the arm, nastiest of all, especially because
the evil bee got inside my cycling bib and stung me on the neck. I couldn't even scream
or yell. I was too afraid of getting a bee sting to the tongue. At this point, I thought
nothing. I mean, nothing on this trip could faze me. After multiple chaotic border crossings,
sleeping in every conceivable place, fumbling through interactions in Spanish, and eating
all sorts of unidentifiable meats, bugs, were really something I was worried about. However,
killer swarms of bees were more than I bargained for. I didn't realize how far behind I had
left Dane during my sprint, and I had to wait a while. The next rest stop for him to catch
up, I was nursing my war wounds. I had giant welts in my arms and my neck. My eye was swollen.
It hurt to blink. After the fact, it turned into this gnarly black eye that I looked like
someone had punched me in the face. Dane finally rolled in and showed me the six stings he
got. He was in a bad mood and didn't want much to do with anything for the rest of the
day, and I didn't blame him. Instead of pushing on, we spent the day digging stingers out
of our skin with credit cards and nursing beers. I ended up listening to one of my favorite
Chuck Smith messages and twinned up with a bench of Advil. It brightened my mood substantially.
The whole disaster wasn't a total loss because it turned out to be the finest sprint I'd
ever put down on my bike. My bike computer showed 28 miles per hour for about two minutes.
Hopefully the next time I ride that hard, it won't be in the interest of saving my
own skin. After a big lunch, we finished our pity party and told the tales of our bravery
to the bartender. He told us that there was an abeja tienda, which predictably means bee
farm, and of course we'd taken a side road right through it. I really need to get around
to writing that letter of complaint to the map people one of these days. After a bit
of tense ride, we did make it to Panama City in one piece. Well, pretty much anyway. We
ate some terrible food and ended up feeling sick for most of the ride. I had tried hard
on the trip to sample local cuisine and avoid too many questions about strange looking ingredients
and so far it had worked out fantastically. This time my strategy didn't pay off. We
stopped at a kind of funky looking fast food place and ordered a bunch of deep fried junk.
It didn't go down so well. In the midst after our lunch stomach aches, we managed two flat
tires that cost over an hour to fix. It wasn't a complete loss since we ended up ironically
riding for 15 miles or so with a national Panamanian cycling team. And they hooked us
up with some new tubes, a Coke, and even gave us a hand fixing our flat. I was reminded
during this day how setbacks are inevitable. However, an unfortunate event doesn't mean
it's the end of things. Little mercies like a cold Coke, bug spray, and sympathy from
a stranger do wonders. Growing this kind of outlook isn't easy, but it's worth the energy.
Number nine, South America. I got my black belt in perspective when we finally made it
to our stop in Medellin, Colombia. The day started out great. We had crossed the border
into our destination country and the finish line was practically in sight. We stopped
for a big meal. That is when I learned about paella. Mandeja paella is basically the equivalent
of ordering all the dishes you want to put on one big plate. If you order this in Colombia,
you have to be ready for a big meal because it comes with everything. Pork, rice, carne
malida, chicharrones, fried eggs, plantains, chorizo, arepa, hojo sauce, avocado, lots
of lemons for squeezing. Most people would be bursting at the seams, but I loved every
bite. After lunch, I went on a slow ride around town. I met a super friendly guy during the
ride and we rode together for about an hour or so. He showed me around town. We even stopped
by his house and met up with his friend. It was nice talking with other cyclists and they
gave me a nice overview of the town from a local perspective. At one point, our little
group stopped at a little cantina for a beer and the friend asked me if he could sit on
my bike to see how it felt. We were cyclists with the gear and the shoes. We were all laughing
and having a great time or so I thought. I didn't want to be rude. He sat on my bike
and promptly rode off like that. That was it. My bike was gone. I remember being stunned
and shocked. A local came over and asked me what was happening and called the police when
they showed up and found that I had ridden that bike from Ohio and that it was my father's
bicycle that he had ridden to work for 37 years and that I was helping to bring clean water
to people in Fiji. The officer pulled his gun out and vowed to shoot the perpetrator.
Although in my mind I wanted him to do just that, I told him that I didn't believe in
violence and that God keeps track of these things in this world and that he would distribute
justice when he saw fit. I went on to explain that sometimes God distributes justice in
this life and sometimes he distributes justice in the afterlife but that's not my job to
worry about it. Besides, praying for God to distribute justice in others when we are the
victim and praying for him to give us mercy when we are the offender seems like a pretty
self-serving double standard. I told him that God keeps a good score of these things and
that my job is just to try and be the best person I can. He looked at me like I was absolutely
crazy but I meant every word of it. Later another guy apologized on behalf of his countrymen
and made sure that I knew that most Colombians are stand-up people. I told him that good
and bad people exist everywhere and I certainly wasn't one to grudge or hold a judge. So I
spent a weird unexpected morning dealing with the police and philosophizing with the locals
but despite my mold, my pulled together appearance, I couldn't shake how bummed I felt. The only
material thing in this world that I valued had been taken away from me, the bike and
my father rode to work and gave to me when he retired. It was like a friend of mine had
suddenly died. During all of this thinking I started to realize that I was a totally
different guy than I used to be. My impulsive and petuous nature seemed to be toned down.
I was milder and the name of the game was a heightened level of perspective. The old
me would definitely want to knock him out, to lay blame but for some reason this loss
felt okay. Not happy but okay. It was clear to me that the ride was over and another door
was opening. I had no idea. I had ridden thousands of miles through ten countries and while it
wasn't the victorious ending that I dreamed of, I accepted it. In life things don't work
out like in the movies. Things don't wrap up neatly with a perfect sunset and a trophy.
It was the most real kick in the pants ending I could have imagined to my era of writing.
Then again I was proud of me and I had made a huge difference for people who had less
than I did. My daughter was doing great. The mixed feelings, they never go away. I knew
that while my story didn't have a picture perfect ending, it had enough picture perfect
moments to last a lifetime.
Thanks for listening.