When, at last, I catch up releasing my death grip on the handle bars, he is ready to roll. As stoker, what I lack in skill is compensated for by my one true attribute, endurance, more necessary a trait than I’d anticipated. We pulled a small trailer to haul our gear: tent, sleeping bags, air mattresses, bike parts, cook stove, fuel bottles, pot, utensils; coffee, oatmeal, peanut butter, granola, mac & cheese, rice & sauce, chili mac, lasagna. Boil water, pour it in, instant food. During our three years of planning, there was no end to my visions of calamity. I imagined being chased by wild animals, grizzlies in particular, teeth bearing down on our sinewy calves, one of us frantically pedaling, the other trying to kick them away, our bear-sized can of pepper spray landing on the asphalt. Sometimes I feared the human element, and worried that we may be targets on the open road for distant shooters with ill intent, bored in the afternoon heat, scoring two for one. Then there was Mother Nature. Wind, storms, hail, lightning. Worse still, a tornado, catching us with no shelter. And the bugs. Stinging, blood sucking, biting, crawling creatures haunting my dreams. Spiders, ants and snakes slithering into my sleeping bag. Our middle-aged bodies felt strong. Their feedback would determine our pace, accepting there would be pain. The road would teach us other painful lessons. The challenge of my husband’s daily anger over things he couldn’t control. Extreme highs when spirits soared, awful frustrations when they didn’t.
The Joy Ride * October 2011
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