Back home and back 30 years

I'm back in Vermont after a few days in fantastic New York City, back with our hissing Canadian Geese who come honking over from our pond whenever we take our goslings out for a waddle and a chomp of grass. Richard and I try to take it all in stride, mostly by ignoring them. I think they're a bit confused by the undying affection Ginger and Mary Ann show us, the way those cuties follow us anywhere, cheeping and beeping contentedly whenever we're around. The kanooks are instinctually whipped up, ready to hiss and charge, and the gosling's behavior pulls the rug out from under them. And it's the male that seems to be the alarmist, the female soon realizes nothing untoward is going on and ventures back to her nest on our pond where we believe beaks are beginning to pip out. The male seems not to know what to do with himself. He's going through the motions that nature has bred in him, but I think even he knows it's a bit of a farce.

I can empathize with goosey gander. Coming back from the metropolis I can often feel displaced and not know what to do with myself. I'm amped to a different pace, used to walking everywhere at a much faster pace, used to the manmade rather than the trees and flora (although Poet's Walk in Central Park canopied me with green very nicely, thank you very much). I come back grateful for having seen some theatre, a taste of culture, jazzed and rejuvenated from having been around masses of people. And now I'm alone in the country (Richard was away when I arrived home.) Who am I again? What am I doing here? "Just take a walk up the hill," I kept whispering to my antsy self, but I easily got distracted by unpacking, by things I saw that I felt Richard should have gotten done while I was gone. I made some coffee (just what I needed, a calming beverage), put it in a mug, and forced myself up the hill and man, the entire meadow needed a haircut. Incredible. Everything was so much greener. Magnificent. "Focus on the joy, focus on the joy," I mantra-ed. And up the hill, up the hill, up the hill. The treelines were filled out. The eastern larches, those amazing trees that do a death fake-out every autumn and lose their needles, were sprouted out like Japanese lanterns, all these filagrees dangling down with dainty finesse. Wonderful. How could I not smile? How could I not breathe? How could I not slow my pace?

Back down the hill, greeted by all the various chickens - 'hello, hello, yes, cluck, cluck. Hey! You didn't have to peck my back! Geez!" And inside I found my bike trip journal and caught up. It's humbling reading those entries from that 30 year ago me. Some issues have not changed, like dramatic reactivity, moodiness, restlessness. I'm more aware of them now, of course, and I take contrary action when they rear their heads, but, oh, it is amazing experiencing their timelessness. And as I've learned over the years, whenever I've set out to work on something as I had on the bike trip -- namely getting away from planning, learning patience, taking things on life's or the day's time table rather than insisting it fit into a certain design, MY design -- then all the things that screamed out for me TO plan, TO be impatient about, to demand things go my way showed up. I seem to be in a hurry these first few days on the ride. I want to "make good time." Why? I don't know. I don't know what I was measuring my pace against. There was no real time constraint on me, but I acted as if I were behind time. Strange and familiar behavior. I would comment about the beautiful country which is a good sign. Just the fact that I was on a bicycle was slowing me down and forcing me to take things in.

The route I'd mapped out took me up through a bit of Vermont (Hancock is where I stopped to have lunch and write a few words) and then I crossed over into New York around Port Henry, where I spent the night in a trailer park. I was headed north because I was heading to Stratford, Canada, to see some Shakespeare at the theatres there and then I would cut down through the midwest to relatives and then south to Houston where my sister was living at the time, fresh out of college and practicing nursing in a hospital there.

The first few days were unfolding as they should. I did get a huge sunburn on the 15th; I remember a section of my back blistering into an arc of freckles near my right shoulder blade, an arc that still remains. And there were a few surprises. For instance, the Adirondack Mountains shocked me!! I hadn't expected mountains like that back east! I thought I wasn't going to have mountain riding until I got out west when I was really in shape, so the appearance of these mammoth uphills was a big jolt to my ego. I found myself eating more, eating better. My body knew what it needed and demanded it. No junk food. I'd also begun mailing any extra clothing back home to Providence pronto. Any extra weight was outa there. Hiking boots, change of clothes? Nuh-uh, goodbye. I'd brought 2 paper back books along with me: a book about Vietnam whose name escapes me and Shogun. When I got to Shogun later in the ride, a book I loved and which complemented the ride so well, I would rip off the pages I'd read and throw them away in another endeavor to cut down on any extra weight.

The 16th of May, 1979 turned out to be one of those surprising, momentous days on the ride that snuck up on me unexpected. It began with a kindness. A woman named Kay Seems from Bowaga Bay (and who I had sign my journal so I would remember her) made me French Toast. She and her husband had brought their small trailer over for a short vacation and we had a pleasant chat. Most people I met and spoke too were so intrigued with my ride, you could see it light up some hidden dream in them, not necessarily a bike ride they'd always wanted to take, just a dream place, something they'd put on a back burner. It was as if they were grateful to me for waking them up. They'd be so supportive and sweet, wishing me well. Godspeed. I was tired that morning, the sun burn ached, I had shakey hands at the post office. The nerves in my hands were numbing out from the constant pressure I would put on them as I leaned forward on my handle bars. (It would get to where I couldn't touch my thumb to my little finger.) I had a plan for the day. I wanted to see Lake Placid. The Winter Olympics would be there in 1980 and I had the town up on a pedestal as the day's destination. But there were mountains to ride over, high winds, wrong directions given that took me 8 miles out of my way and whipped me into a froth. Here's an excerpt from my journal:

'The day as I said was frustrating - road construction, detours, expectations, numb hands, cold, yelling even at nature when I don't get my way, just to be duped by an amazing view as if nature stopped to say, "You're so hot, shithead, make a mountain."'

Love it.

Lake Placid was anything but - noisy, touristy, the constant ramming sound of construction. It reminded me of Gatlinburg, Tennessee, and I got out of there quick. I meandered on to a small town called Samarac Lake. At the town's grocery I was inquiring, as I would many times throughout the ride, about a place nearby to camp for the night. I was addressing the clerk at the cash register, but a nice guy in line behind me named Cliff at first suggested a place just outside of town, but then after sharing about the ride with him, he offered his families camper that was parked in the driveway by their house. Did he give me a ride to his place or did I ride my bike and follow him? I forget. When we got to his place, he introduced me to his family, his wife and kids, showed me the trailer in the driveway, gave me a Lowenbrau (he was a beverage distributor) AND THEN he and his family were about to go off to a Little League game, so he gave me THE KEYS TO HIS HOUSE so I could wash some clothes if I'd like. Not only that, but because their dryer was on the blink, he told me to go to the neighbors and tell them that I was his cousin visiting so I could use their dryer. Incredible. He did not know me from Adam and yet he trusted me with the keys to his house. Silly? Stupid? Naive? Another time? All I know is that despite my fussing and fuming I was led to some incredible people along this trip, people that I will probably never see again, and I can only hope that some of the generosity they showed me I've shown others. It was a cold night that night and it felt good being snuggled in that trailer, inside rather than out on the ground in my tent and sleeping bag. If I remember correctly I rose very early the next morning and took off before Cliff and his family were up. In my journal I described Cliff's acts as "hospitalic." I had an irksome habit of trying to coin new words. Oh boy.

Well, Cliff, if I had a Lowenbrau in my hands right now, I would "hospitalicly" raise it on high to you. I hope life has been splendid for you and your family and friends these past 30 years, full of adventure and fun and laughter. Be well and thank you for your kindness. Know that it was felt and appreciated.