I talked and talked. To me it seemed like I spent most of the time moaning about my pathetic athletic performance, and the sheer slowness of my progress, but at the end, Martin set me straight. He said something to the effect of, “You’ve seen all these places, and taken all these incredible pictures, but every picture you talked about, you were talking about people. People are what matter to you.”

Good point, Martin. When I look back over the whole thing in sketch form, the way we have to look at memories that are too big to hold all at once, the thing that matters to me actually is the people I met along the way.

Given that bit of understanding, I might even plan to go slower the next time. Let’s face it. I was jealous every time I met one of those touring cyclists who could knock down 70 miles before lunch, take a little nap, and hit another 80 in the afternoon. If nothing else, it would have eliminated a lot of desperate nighttime scrambles for campsites. But I’m not that guy. I have my athletic moments, usually when falling with style, but I’m not likely to have a loaded 150 mile day in this lifetime. If I make it about performance, I’ll lose.

I do like covering the miles, though. There is something profoundly liberating about being in the middle of nowhere, just me and a strip of asphalt, and knowing that I can keep going until I reach another dot on the map. There is a thrill passing through a town and taking the small risk that comes with deciding to keep going. Never mind the fact that I ended up wishing I had stopped while the sun was still up entirely too many times.

To that end, I learned a lot about what-not-to-do along the way. As much as I love (LOVE) my Big Dummy, it’s not the most efficient touring bike on the road, and I never expected it to be. I specifically went for a utility bike to say something about bicycles as transportation, and I can affirm that it is indeed possible to carry a huge load across country. (Most of that load was me, unfortunately) I will keep this bike forever, and I really hope to use it as primary transportation, grocery runs and the like. For now, its main job is running

For touring, I would seriously consider getting a real touring bike. The design has evolved for years, and those things are efficient, which makes it easier to get down the road, leaving more time for taking pictures and kibitzing with the people I meet along the way. In addition, my drybag system for rear storage was a big pain. It worked great, but people with standard rear panniers were unrolling sleeping bags in their tents while I was still digging the gear out of my bags. Strapping those bags onto the bike on a weary morning was an exercise in determination, while my touring bike friends were just snapping panniers onto racks, and pedaling off.

One late afternoon, my friend Nick drove out from Portland to camp out with me. He offered to lighten my load, and we threw all the bags on the bike into his car. I was expecting to go a lot faster for the final stretch, but that turned out to be wrong. I was still pulling a trailer with a dog in it. Trailers are like parachutes, or boat anchors. Later in the trip, I would lock the trailer up and leash Elke to the bike for a short run into town, and the Big Dummy felt like a Ferrari. The lesson is clear. Choosing to tour with a trailer adds a lot of effort. That being said, I’d still take the dog, if possible.

There were tons of little technical lessons, what to carry, what to leave, the best recovery beer, all that kind of thing. I’ll skip to the big lesson. When in doubt, follow your gut. There were many times when the directions were unclear, the signs made no sense, in short, I was lost. In almost every case, I had a clear gut feeling about which way to go. Being myself, I frequently used logic to talk my way out of what my gut was telling me, and in almost every case, logic was wrong. I remember one specific time in Monterey, I followed a pole full of signage to the park, even though my intuition was yelling to take that left turn. I ended up crossing several rugged ridges and 4-5 miles before I finally pushed my bike up the last steep grade into the park. The next morning, the park ranger told me to head back to town the other way. I coasted downhill for a half mile, and pulled up to a stop sign, right next to the stupid signs I had followed the night before. Just tuck that one your pocket. It will come in handy for more than bike touring.

And that’s the final point. Bike touring is complicated and technical in many respects. It makes you think. In other important ways, it clears out all the junk of daily life, and simplifies your life down to the next town, the next mile, and sometimes the next pedal stroke. In other words, it makes space in your head to actually hear that instinct. It’s good training for life.

Simple as that. Two things though. It’s a little disconcerting to spend two months passing places at bicycle pace, and then to pass the same places at highway speed. I rewound three days of cycling in less than 2 hours. Second, we went I-5 all the way, so after LA, we were completely off the scenic coastal route for the rest of the trip. That helped to alleviate the temporal disconnect. I drove hard, stopping only for gas, until I got dangerously sleepy in southern Oregon. I pulled into a rest area at 2 AM. I tilted the seats back, pulled out my sleeping bag for a blanket, and slept in the high altitude cold until the diesel trucks started roaring four hours later. I pulled Elke out of my armpit, snapped the seats upright, and drove some more.

I pulled into Sharon’s driveway around 1 PM, dumped the gear in the gear in the garage, went to return the van, came back, and fell asleep.

It was a snowy winter, which was just as well, because the doctor said the feeling in my hands may or may not come back. It was three months later before it even started to heal, another six months before they were semi-normal again. Well into 2009, I could call them back to 100%. I was lucky. Kids, make sure you pay attention if your hands get numb on the bike.

Unfortunately, 2009 also brought another heart attack, my second one. Like the first one, it was mild and no serious long term damage resulted. Still, it’s no laughing matter, and those of us who are susceptible should get under the care of a good cardiologist. You know who you are. Yes, I’m talking to you.

What else did we learn? Well, that’s a long list I’ll save for later.

Today was a different kind of ride. We were heading for the Mexican border, and stopping downtown to meet Kurt, the man who had set up our lovely accommodations. The main difference, though, was that we were traveling light. Everything, except the handlebar bag and a few tools tucked into the cargo slings was left in the room, I even reduced myself to one (gasp!) camera, which turned out to be a mistake.

I took some water for both of us, and headed out on Harbor Drive (again). On the eastern end of the airport, A Coast Guard helicopter was practicing hovering right off the road. I was fascinated. Then we turned the corner along the waterfront, which was loaded with historic ships. Fascinated all over again. We zig-zagged through downtown looking for our meeting with Kurt. Once we found the place, we just sort of stood around looking all obvious. Since we didn’t know Kurt, I figured he could pick us out of the crowd, which he did, after separating himself from his own crowd of hot women. Tough job, Kurt. We talked for a few minutes, I thanked him again, and he went back to *cough* business. Just kidding Kurt.

We caught the ferry out to Coronado, and for the second time of the journey had a ferry guy stumped as to what he should charge for a bike that is longer than some cars, but int he end we paid the bike rate, and rolled out on the island. The whole place was spectacular, not always on its own, but it was always backed by the city on one side, and the Pacific on the other. We cruised down Silver Strand into Imperial Beach. I stopped to take a picture back up the bay, which is when I discovered that my camera battery was dead. Perfect. Almost 1700 miles to get here and no photo finish.

Winding around through an odd complex of military and private places, we finally found ourselves at International Park, right on the border. A few moments of success, which confused Elke as I jumped up and down and yelled. She was looking around for threats, or anything that might present her with a snack. Nada.

Then a long silent litany of failure, par for the course for me. I have never finished anything without a giant mental pile of flaws to go along with a successful completion. Let’s make a list.

1. Obviously, not Florida, so mark one in the failure column.

2. My hands were numb, and had been so for 800 miles. I knew enough to know they may never come back.

3. It took far longer to get here than I thought. If there were a contest for slowest touring cyclist, I would win.

4. There was not enough money available to get to Phoenix, which was my next point of sanctuary, and my next real change to get home.

5. I was tired.

In the success column.

1. I proved that a heavy, diabetic heart patient, could in fact ride 1700 miles with the most insanely heavy touring load ever devised. I give thanks to my strong legged Calloway ancestors. Anti-thanks for the heart genetics.

2. Though my hands were numb, my more sensitive parts were just fine.

3. I passed a 7-year old girl and a bunch of rental bike tourists in San Francisco, and while I didn’t pass any serious cyclists, I did manage to torture a few by keeping up with them on their 14 pound racing bikes while they were trying to shake me. Sometimes I feel saucy.

4. I saw an endless series of incredible, wonderful places.

5. I met countless strong, brave, sensitive, caring, intelligent people from all over the world, and I like to think that I made a difference to some of them.

6. I grew in more ways than I ever imagined, made contact with friends old and new, and accepted the gracious help of many, and for that, I can’t count my gratitude and therefore, my success.

7. The scrapbook… she is massive. (In theory)

As we rode back over our path, back to the hotel, I knew what my decision had to be, which was hard but the most prominent emotions I felt were elation and gratitude. The elation is mine, but the gratitude, that’s on you. Thank you.

We skirted the ocean side of the UCSD campus and made the descent into La Jolla. If you are looking for a drug research company, I bet you can find one, or a thousand, there. La Jolla Blvd. turned onto Mission Blvd. while beautiful La Jolla became less beautiful Hermosa and more beautiful Mission Bay. Frankly, San Diego is fantastic. I can understand why people love it so much. After talking to some cyclists by the bridge, we crossed the river into Ocean Beach. The sun was getting low, and we began looking for The Pearl in earnest. At this point, I got confused, not an easy thing with a GPS strapped to the handlebars, and crossed the airport zone on Harbor Drive until I figured out that I was on the wrong side of the airport and rode back the way I had come until I finally homed in on the hotel.

True to his word, Kurt had set it up and Greg had provided the room, and we found ourselves in probably the worst room in the place, right next to the bar, but this room was still awesome. Aside from the fact that it was a room, and it had a shower, the whole hotel was styled in original 60’s modern, right down to the 60’s era movies playing over the pool on a giant projection screen. I watched I Dream of Jeannie while I ate my dinner, and slowly unwound from the day. I had one more leg to the end of the Pacific Coast Route, and a hard decision to make.

I went to sleep with Elke’s alert ears flipping up and down, tracking the sounds from the bar.

I, on the other hand, was a man of sloth. I was well within range of my goal in San Diego, and was in no particular hurry to get there. Due to circumstance beyond my control, I expected that would be the end of the ride, at least for now. I still had some people to call, efforts to try to keep it going, but the chances were pretty slim. I had received so much help from so many people just to get this far, that I couldn’t imagine asking for more from any of them. In any case, I was sad to see it end, and just by slacking in the campground, I could delay that ending by at least an hour - a good hour.

When I was packing up, another couple stopped by, and the woman was, of all things, a registered nurse and diabetic trainer for one of the many pharmaceutical companies in San Diego. Quite a coincidence to have a random meeting with this person, considering what I was doing, and especially considering what I had been thinking about for a thousand miles. Not to get too spiritual here, but having a mind snapping, re-framing of purpose conversation, and a chance meeting with the one person who could help me forward my goals on the potentially final night of the ride, seems nothing short of a divine sign to me.

We’ve all had them, those reality shifting moments when we just knew, something was right, something was wrong, we fell in love, we fell out of love, we understood a problem, we found our God, whatever… those moments we experience an epiphany, a snapping of the mind, and things are never quite the same again.

There I was, right in the thick of it, and I’m still working out what it means.

I finished my day’s ride with a pretty typical ritual. I let Elke out on her leash, and we sat on the picnic table, just taking in our surroundings. I was concerned with things like the vast calm ocean in front, the nice older couple in the RV to my left, and the respectable space between me and the restroom building to my right. Elke was likely sorting the world into fetchables, throwers, and potential hugs and snacks. I waved and said hi to the man to my left, and then went to work pitching my tent and setting up my camp. By this point in my journey, it was something I could do in a leisurely 10 minutes, everything stowed, unrolled, and in the case of the bike, locked to the concrete table. From there, Elke got her food and water, which she always ignored until we got into the tent. I guess she felt vulnerable eating in the open in a strange place. I didn’t have a good plan for dinner, and I had no inclination to ride out in search of food, so I settled in with whatever I had in my food bag, and munched while I watched the other campers settling in.

As was often the case, I was rescued from my bad food planning by a total stranger. In this case, the man next door. I’ll call him Tom, just for his own anonymity. He invited me over, and I asked if it was ok to bring Elke. He said, “Sure!” About then, his wife came out of the RV and he introduced me to her. We all sat down, and they gave me food and beer while Elke made sure she obnoxiously jumped in everyone’s lap. They seemed to enjoy her attention, so I didn’t call her down. We talked about the usual stuff. Where are you from? What do you do? I told them about my trip and gradually the mood became closer. It was one of those stranger to friend in one sitting events.

Tom became serious and went on to tell me a secret. He had been diagnosed with a disease (again being general for his safety) which would slowly degrade his nervous system, and it was beginning to impact his work performance. He had a job which could let him go if he could not keep performing, and he had six months to go before he became fully vested in his retirement. In other words, he was under unbelievable pressure to hide his illness and its effects for six months to save his long term ability to provide for his and his wife’s future. He was a strong, caring man who lived his life without any serious illness, but disease had caught him, and he was afraid.

Being afraid is a hard thing for anyone to admit, but for a strong working man like Tom, it was beyond hard, and yet there, with the safety of a total stranger, he unloaded his burden of fear. He and his wife broke into tears at his telling of how it was making him feel, but he wasn’t talking to her. He was talking to me, about her, and she was obviously his foremost concern. His fear was not for himself, it was for her, and how she would live if the retirement was taken away, and how she would deal with the worsening effects of his disease. Tom bared his soul, shed his tears, and then, like the strong man he was, gathered himself up.

Calmly, he said, “I haven’t told anyone about this, except my wife. Not my friends, not my kids. I’m not sure why I told you. But, I feel better. Thank you for listening.”

I said, “Thank you, Tom, for the trust. I’m glad, honored, that you could talk about it with me.”

He sniffed again, and looked at his folded hands in his lap.

I said, “You know, I feel strongly - I believe - that you will make it.”

Tom replied, “Thank you.”

It was hard to return to normal conversation after that, but we made the attempt, and soon enough, we all went to bed.

I understood the significance at that point, as I lay awake in my tent, that all the people I had met, all the instant friendships, all the personal details shared, pain unburdened, fears revealed, connections formed, challenges met, paths crossed, those were the important things. Not the miles, the scenery, the hills, the bike, not any of the things that could be counted and measured… It was the humanity, the journey of the soul that mattered. That’s what it’s all about.

Anyway, they turned out to be a nice family, a great bunch from Orange County just having a family weekend. I enjoyed meeting them. Around nine, I got serious about moving on, and strapped everything back on the bike. Elke tried to convince me to stick around (kids with frisbees, come on!) but I was on a schedule to San Diego, where a free room was waiting for me, and some hard decisions.

After untangling the local highway knot, I was riding south on the PCH, baking in the sun, and feeling a little like I had eaten something I shouldn’t have, but basically, all was right with the world. I had made it through Los Angeles, on a bike, and looking back, that was harder than all the Oregon hills put together. At least in Oregon, my dog was welcome.

The route pulled away from the ocean in San Clemente, which seemed like a nice town full of construction workers who loved to yell encouragement at crazy guys on dog trailer pulling bikes. I’m pretty sure they were calling their friends because for a while, we were being greeted by people lined up on the sidewalk, slapping hands and waving as we went past. After that we seemed to be following and old abandoned section of the highway, which served as a general purpose path, full of bikes, runners, and surfers heading for their favorite beach. The highway choked down to full freeway after that and so we took a detour through Camp Pendleton, a Marine Corps base.

The line was long as cars were inspected entering the base. I can only imagine what they thought when I pulled up on my carnival rig, and it was funny to see how their serious questions became friendly when they realized that there was a dog in the back. What kind of terrorist rides a bike in America, with a dog? Yeah, that’s what I thought too. Maybe they should have sent a memo to Johnny Law back in Brookings.

Military bases tend to be lots of open ground and not much else, so the crossing was long and dull. I did ride for a while with a man and his teenage son. They were obviously keeping it slow for me, just for something different to talk about, but eventually they got bored with us, and pulled on ahead. I was just getting to the will-this-never-end point when we rejoined civilization in Oceanside. Suddenly, I was in the thick of why people love this part of California. Beautiful towns stacked up along the beach, just a slight lean toward the Pacific, as if building entire towns to try to absorb as much of the ocean air as possible.

Afternoon was inching onward, and it was again time to start the daily search for a campsite. I rode most of the way with a nice fellow on a beach cruiser. He was on his way home from his job in Oceanside to his home in Encinitas, which was lucky for me, not just for the company, but because he knew exactly where I could camp for the night. With that worry removed, I had a great time just riding along and listening to his stories of life, and family, and his own adventure in the world.

He dropped off with best wishes and gave me a final assurance that I would find the campground up ahead. I saw the campground, stuffed into the narrow strip of land between the highway and the cliffs, long before I figured out how to get in. I finally found the entrance, paid my fee, and marveled at the fact that I was at a campground before the sun went down. That’s when the guy told me my actual site was a mile back the way I had come. The sun was dipping into the ocean, and the race was on. I was determined to reach my camp before the sun dropped into the sea. That old sun beat me by about 200 yards. Close enough…

Elke and I made our way back to the beach and its excellent bike path, headwind all the way. On the way in, the hills were my enemy. On the way out, they were my friends, since they could shield me from the wind. The last hill was a long steep ride back down to the beach. The wind was blowing hard enough that I never built up any speed. Even in daylight, I couldn’t find a convenient way back to the beach so it was back across the STD strip, and onto the path. During the night, the wind had blown sand across the concrete path, making mini dunes for me to push through as I headed south once again.

I quickly developed a sense of how much sand it actually took to make the bike unstable, and spent my time weaving back and forth to hit the shallowest parts of the sand, made trickier by the need to keep the trailer wheels from dropping off the edge. One trailer tire in the deep sand and it would be like throwing out an anchor. Even with my new skills, every streamer of sand slowed me down, and I would pedal back up to speed only to hit the next one. It was a long slow slog down to Torrence Blvd. in Redondo beach. I was vaguely aware of some nice places along the way, but couldn’t muster the energy to pay attention to anything except the path and the endless sand.

Everything that was wrong with the beach on that morning became right when I turned east and the dune-making onshore flow turned into a glorious tailwind. Suddenly I was doing an effortless 24 mph, and cruising through Torrance. It was the first place in LA that seemed like a place you could actually live, but then, it may have just been the first place where I was awake enough to notice. A couple of jogs to the south and I was on Sepulvida Blvd., heading for the concrete-clad Los Angeles River, which I had seen many times in movies, but in person for the first time. Between Torrance and the river, I saw sections that seemed much less livable, maybe even a little threatening, but once I crossed the river, the neighborhoods returned to places that, if you like your neighbors close, would be nice enough to call home.

The bike path along the river was nice, wide open, but the wind was once again the bad guy in my little movie, and I was dog tired pulling south towards Long Beach. I was impressed with the waterfront area of Long Beach, clean, beautiful, and full of things to see and do. I did none of them, of course, because I had spent most of the day just getting their and it was once again time to start looking for a place to spend the night. After the previous day, I had no illusions about that. My blind faith in LA was gone, and was thinking of how dumb it is not to listen to good advice.

My first chance was at Sunset Beach in a county park. It was another RV parking lot, complete with DJ and loud music. This time, though, there was a human on duty, a relatively helpful one at that. He handed me a list of campgrounds south of there, and the list was compiled with cyclists in mind. A bit of my faith was restored, since someone had clearly given at least a little thought to the needs of cyclists. It was a lie.

I spent the evening, and into the night, checking the campgrounds off the list. Each one was another 10-20 miles of riding. Huntington Beach, no tents, RV only. Newport Beach, private campsite, $55 per night for a paved parking spot, no thanks. Laguna Beach, park closed for renovation, although I was tempted to pitch a tent anyway, except for the fact that the caretaker kept walking out of his trailer and throwing beer bottles at a power pole. I grabbed some dinner at a fast food joint in Laguna Beach, and spoke to a young guy who first tried to sell me some “sweet tasty weed” and then, when I didn’t bite, decided to spend his time telling me how many hills there were between Laguna and Dana Point, which was the next campground on my useless list. He was a nice kid, though. I’m pretty sure he was trying to be helpful, and besides that, he was right. It was hilly.

I rolled into Dana Point around 11:30, and couldn’t find the park. I went to a mid sized grocery store for some food and the manager kindly showed me the way, telling me I could almost throw a rock and hit it from there. I asked if they had tent camping and he didn’t really know. He acted like tent camping was a weird idea, so I decided he had grown up in LA. I soared down the hill, took a left and, lo and behold, a state park. not a county park, a real live maybe-there-could-be-burrowing-rodents-but-who-cares-as-long-as-I-can-pitch-a-tent STATE PARK. It was midnight, so I filled out my envelope, dropped in my $12 and went looking for the tent area, which turned out to be a hard packed dirt patch behind the restrooms, with enough room for maybe four tents, but whatever… It was a tent site. A place where I could spend the night without spending a fortune and without worrying about loud music, beer bottle throwing madmen, and whatever else Southern Cal had to offer. Turns out that was only partially true.

I took some pictures with Fred and Janeanne, said my thank you’s, which were entirely inadequate, and saddled up on a calm sunny morning. Fred had told me the best route to get to the point, and I made way down from the hills, onto the flats, a mixture of agriculture and commercial zone. I was flying, fully refreshed from the rest and food, and it seemed like no time before I was parked at the point, watching Navy fighters take off from the naval base. Like so many times before, the ease of my morning should have clued me in for a tough afternoon.

Most cyclists were religious about getting on the train and skipping LA altogether. I, being stubborn, was determined to see the whole thing. How bad could LA really be? Well, I’m an idiot, and as it turns out, if you happen to be riding a bike, pretty bad.

A short time later, I passed a state park, which was the last known place to pitch a tent before LA. No way was I going to stop there… I was feeling great and making the best time of the entire trip, so I kept going. It was mid afternoon when I followed the Pacific Coast Highway into Malibu. I met a cyclist heading north who told me a way through Malibu that would get me off the highway. At this point, that was a good thing because afternoon traffic was building, and the highway was more like a freeway. My prior impressions of Malibu came from TV, and the TV wasn’t wrong. Lots of very shiny places along the beach, stacked on the narrow stretch between the mountains and the sea. My new impression from actually being there was the staggering value of the million-dollar cars just parked along the street. Seriously, you could have bought my entire hometown with four blocks worth of automotive exotica. If I ever had the chance to own even one of those rides (which I wouldn’t) you can bet it would live in a garage and only come out on sunny days in May. Yet, here they were, scattered about like so many Ford Festivas. Amazing.

I was beginning to feel a little tired as I approached LA, the so called armpit, and nervous as well. I wasn’t unaware of the reasons that a cyclist would avoid it, like traffic or crime, but those were the wrong reasons, even though traffic was getting very heavy as I passed the LA city limits sign. I poked along through the traffic, while waiting for the bike path system to begin so I could get off the freaking highway, and I was surprised by how many people rolled down their windows to talk to me. I was even more surprised by the fact that they were all incredibly beautiful women. Hmmm, maybe LA is not all bad…

I found the bike path as the sun was going down, and talked to a young couple about where I could get a cheap hotel room for the night. They said it probably didn’t exist in Santa Monica, but if it did, if was a mile or two ahead, and then a mile or two off the beach. I rode the bike path, passed the famous Santa Monica Pier just as the sun went down, and saw a man riding a Big Dummy. It was the first Big Dummy I had seen the entire trip, other than the one under me. He was riding the bike path with his young son following along behind on his own little bike. We were all weaving through the crowd, and I took the opportunity to verify the hotel information with him. he wasn’t a particularly friendly person, but I imagine that he was focused on keeping an eye on his boy in the swarm. He agreed that I should try the same area, so I turned inland an started checking on hotels.

Cheap, and I use the term loosely, hotels started a mile off the beach, and they were full - all of them. Every desk clerk pointed me further inland, and I kept going. The hotels got progressively rattier, all the way to downright scary, and rooms became available, but all of that was irrelevant because none of them would even consider taking a dog. LA had become the most dog unfriendly place on the planet for me. I was very tired, and starting to get a little desperate, but not knowing my way around, my only choice was to head back to the beach and keep following the bike path. A homeless guy told me there was camping under LAX, whatever that meant. I found the campground on the beach right off the end of the runway, and learned three things. One: In LA, a campground is a parking lot for RVs. Two: They are booked months in advance. Three: They usually feature a DJ with a 10000 watt sound system and a full-on dance party. One additional tidbit… Jet airplanes are very loud at close range, which is why the sound system needed enough power to knock a freight train off the tracks.

After that demoralizing lesson, I was running out of power myself. I started riding erratically and discovered how fast beach sand can throw you off a bike. Rather than pick the bike up, I got out the cell phone and called Sharon. I often joked the she had memorized the internet, and she got to work trying to find me a place that would take dogs. Thanks to her incredible research skills, she actually did. The place was in Manhattan Beach, which on paper didn’t seem too far, but it was a couple miles inland, and that meant a climb. The first trick was to find a way off the beach, since it was a very controlled-access area. I ended up riding through the gaps between the blades of a Severe Tire Damage strip to get onto the street. Then I climbed a steep ridge, and another, and another, before I dragged into the hotel parking lot at the stroke of midnight.

I still wasn’t done. The normal unloading process was complicated by the fact that my room was on the second floor, and only reached through an elevator two feet shorter than my Big Dummy. While I was trucking it all up to the room, a nice lady in a wheelchair kept Elke company, and her family kept an eye on my gear. Thanks, folks. The hotel staff was also very friendly. They told me where to order food at that time of night, and seemed happy to see us, which actually means a lot after 14 hours on a bike, and 25 failed attempts to secure a room. We finally got everything in the room, ate our respective food, and collapsed.

The price for this little island of rest. $100 for me, another $100 for Elke. There went about 400 miles of bike touring in one shot.. I was too tired to care.

I spent a lot of time trying to understand what kept me from actually picking up the proverbial pen and putting words to paper. In the simplest terms, it’s this… I’m a wuss. In more complicated terms, it comes down to the fact that I have spent a good deal of my life around highly critical people, and it’s never the writing part that throws me. It’s the part where I finish something and reveal my deep personal feelings for review, and the expected harsh criticism that (in my head) is guaranteed to come with it. I understand that I’m not alone in this fear, but it has always been a large, hairy companion, and it always leads to the one inner question that shuts me down. Why would anyone care what I have to say about anything?

Now, I know intellectually that I have done a crazy range of stuff, that I might have some perspective to share that someone somewhere may find valuable, or at the very least, an interesting diversion, but then I stumble on the whole set of emotional expectations about where that leads, and off I go, asking the dreaded question, and then I step away from the keyboard, and go look for something new to learn. (run on sentence, anyone?)

When the idea for the Big Dummy Project first hit me, I thought, “This is something that would make me worthy to write, something big enough to give me the authority (in my head) to write.” There, I’ve outed myself, and you are all victims in my ploy to fool myself into having the courage to write.

The funny part is that it actually turned out that way. I do feel authorized somehow to write, but not in the way I imagined. It’s not about the ride itself. The ride was technically a failure. I set out to ride across the country, and I only made it to the left turn at San Diego, or roughly one third of the way. In any number of quantifiable ways, I failed. I went much slower than I thought. I didn’t raise money for the JDRF nearly as well as I thought. I didn’t write nearly as much as I wanted. It turns out that riding a bike all day makes you tired. I didn’t handle the promotional part a well as I imagined. I didn’t follow up with all the people who deserved it. Failure across the board, so how is it that I managed to find my voice in the whole mess?

Simple. I found that part of what makes me valuable is the screwups. All along the way, I met people. People have problems, yes? Well, I’ve done enough wrong in my life that there are very few problems that I can’t relate to in some way, very few things that I can’t either shove to the side or pick myself up after committing and failing. There is something about bike trips that creates microscopic and yet deep connections with people. So many times, I would meet someone, and 3 minutes later feel like we were friends. Discussions of life ensued, and problems arose. I found that I could say something that helped. Or at the very least, I could listen and commiserate, but more often than not, I could dredge up a story of my own life full of mistakes that would give just a little new perspective to the person in question, and they would walk away feeling a little bit better. Ten minutes later, my new best friend was gone, never to be seen again.

Sometimes, I’m sure it was just the connection itself that did the trick, just the simple fact that total strangers can meet, share a piece of themselves, and move on, both improved a bit in the process. It’s a beautiful thing when you think about it. It’s not about me. It’s about humanity, and yet, I found my own voice in the process.

In any case, I’m still a wuss. I have written a great deal in the past two years, including the book version of this blog*, but I still have to wrestle myself to the the keyboard. I still have to work hard to push the publish button, and even harder to submit to agents, publishers, or to carry a heartfelt letter to the mailbox. But thanks to the ride, I’m a tiny bit more courageous than I was before.

* Actually, Elke wrote most of it.