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As I spent the last days before embarking on the formidable task of boxing up my life and ridding myself of very many things, a thought began to form: we each have a shadow of history which trails along behind us. When moving from one home to the next, it’s far too easy to just put our history in a box and trail it along behind like a shadow that perhaps we no longer recognize; maybe to reopen on arrival, maybe to go on a shelf.
In my case, that shadow manifests itself in large part in *stuff*. I have a hard time letting go of the physical reminders of my past. Books I’ll never read again, old tattered clothes that maybe someday I’ll get around to repairing, collections of memorabilia from various aspects of my past, all of which have contributed to who I am today but are no longer essential to me.
Preparing for this adventure provided a much-needed incentive to let some of that past go, to pare away parts of my shadow that have become hazy and unrecognizable with time. I gave away half of my clothes, a third of my books. I spent time – but not to0 much, due to Julie’s stopwatch – going through those old memories, remembering the stories they crystallize for me, and letting them go. I felt such a sense of relief when I pitched my 25 year old bought-for-college footlocker, crusted with Greenpeace and Grateful Dead stickers, into the pit at the transfer station. Watching the ancient futon frame collapse on impact was cathartic and liberating. Giving old blankets and shoes and socks to the folks at the local homeless encampment felt like a best highest use, much better than yet another shelf.
Despite this, I kept too much – I have bags with stickers and concert ticket stubs. Burning Man memories have superseded those from the distant hippie / outdoor bum days of my twenties, and I kept pendants and patches and, yes, tickets. But I even let go a lot of these things. Not enough, but some. More shadows coalesce in boxes, on shelves.
Trimming the shadow of one’s own history proved a far greater challenge than I anticipated. I can only hope that in 18 months when I return to the life I’ve put on a shelf with all those boxes, I am able to look at the minimalism I’ve lived during that period and make another set of hard decisions, and trim more of the shadow.
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There is a certain cognitive dissonance to being at the Super 8 in Alturas *not* covered in dust head to toe …
I woke in Portland on Tuesday morning and spent some time determining optimal routes to today’s destination, breaking down the distance to cover over three days. However, I failed to consider the weather forecast, which has resulted in several cold, wet days. Yesterday’s ride from La Pine, OR to Alturas CA offered the following: 35° and snow, 48° and sun, rain and just about every possible combination in between. I know, this isn’t “real” adventure riding, but it’s certainly been a test of my ability to relax on the bike while cold, wet and extra-attentive to road conditions.
I planned to continue down 395 to Susanville today, but the gloomy forecast for NE California plus reports of snow amounts in passes has convinced me to take 299 to Redding. Hopefully I’ll be visiting some friends near Auburn tonight, but that will make for a long ride today, and I’m still warming up into my riding setup. We’ll see what happens.
In administrative news:
Okay, time to pack up and get moving again. I’ve got 300 miles ahead of me if I hope to see friends tonight.
Well, then, it’s done. Or perhaps it has started. Maybe both.
Around 4pm today, after saying the hardest goodbyes, I left Seattle on Day 0 of this crazy adventure on which I’ve embarked. After four years of dreaming, two years of scheming, a year of planning and many days divesting and boxing up my life’s goods and savoring final moments with my wonderful friends, I’m actually doing it.
Ho. Ly. Shit.
I’m exhausted and sore. Sleep now.
* Hopefully without the tragicomedy in the original.
Today has been pretty productive. So far I have:
I also had coffee and conversation with my good friend Tabasco, who luckily got first dibs on a big pile of clothes that I’m giving away (not to worry, gentlemen, he took mostly work clothes. Being a blacksmith, he is rough on work shirts and such). This evening, I’ve got plans to visit with other dear friends.
Yeah, good day!
Oh, and here’s a neat photo that was recently taken of me by Jeremy Center, a most excellent photographer I’ve known for a few years. Check out his work!
Many moons ago – in fact, back in August before I’d even bought the bike – I posted an expected itinerary. For a number of reasons those plans have changed somewhat, so here’s a revisit. The big change is that I probably won’t be venturing into the Baltic Republics or Scandinavia, sadly. I guess I will just have to save those places for another trip. :)
April 15th – June 1: USA (and a tiny bit of Canada)
June – October: European Pinball
Also mixed in there (dates unknown) will be likely visits to Amsterdam, Berlin, Prague, the UK (including the Isle of Jura, whence come the Shaws – my maternal grandfather’s family), Swiss Alps. Maybe Paris again, because it’s so beautiful.
Assuming the UK happens in August, and not factoring in any of those other spots, that looks something like this:
Fall: Ride into the Danger Zone
When I wrote up the initial draft of this itinerary, I certainly didn’t expect multiple democratic revolts and a civil war to erupt across the entirety of Arabic North Africa. As a result, these particular plans are the most volatile. If Libya proves to be out of the question, I’ll probably try to figure out a way to see Egypt and Morocco, and will sadly end up skipping Tunisia. Unless I can manage to purchase transport on some freight ship, rather than a ferry.
Winter 2011-2012
Spring – Fall 2012:
I’ve purchased all my new riding gear for the trip. Here it is, from top to bottom (photos of me in gear forthcoming once the helmet arrives):
Sorry about the radio silence of late – more soon, as the date gets closer.
tl;dr: I don’t like making concrete plans when I travel, preferring to sketch out a plan and letting the details fall into place on the fly.
I started traveling relatively late. My first trip abroad (not counting excursions to Canada – no offense intended to my many wonderful Canuckistani friends) was in 1998. I was 30. Shameful, I know, but my youth was misspent in ways other than itinerant backpacking around Europe.
After a year or so of contracting at Microsoft, I realized that I could reasonably afford to travel for a spell without worrying about whether I’d still have a home upon my return. I first considered a trip to Europe, but realized pretty quickly that I wanted to go for something less familiar. I decided to go to Thailand for a month by myself. I was (and still am, after four trips) fascinated by Thailand and SE Asia, and was intrigued by the concept of my first trip abroad being a country that is ~95% Buddhist. I expected it would fry my circuits a bit, and I was OK with that.
So I bought a R/T ticket. I had an arrival date and a departure date. Through friendships forged while I lived on Orcas Island, I had a reservation at a guesthouse in Bangkok called Shanti Lodge, which sounded to me like some magical oasis in the heart of one of SE Asia’s most dense and chaotic cities (turns out, it was and still is exactly that). I had a vague idea based on my readings that I wanted to go to Koh Phangan, an island in the Gulf of Thailand, off the east coast of the long tail of the southern portion of the country. I had no more concrete plans than this.
The morning after I arrived in BKK, I met a delightful German couple who were on their last 36 hours of their trip to Thailand. I was fresh and green and had no clue what the hell was going on around me. We hit it off, and spent most of the remaining waking hours before they returned to Germany wandering Bangkok together.
The next evening, after they left, I found a new adventure. Anthea, a cute British woman staying at Shanti, was headed to Khao San Road with friends for drinks and socializing. At this point, I don’t remember if she invited me or I invited myself, but no matter: I found myself on Squalid Backpacker St, beer in face, munching on dried cuttlefish, fried crickets and grubs, flirting mercilessly and soaking in the hot, humid culture. Over the course of the evening, I mentioned to Anthea that I was headed towards Koh Phangan, and she said “You must go to Thong Nai Pan – it is the BEST beach on the island.” With that sort of recommendation, where else could I go?
A few days later, after a night train ride with its own stories and a passenger ferry that was more than a little skittish-making, I found myself on Koh Phangan. I got my bearings, found a ‘taxi’ (actually a small Toyota pickup with lining the sides of the bed) pointed to Thong Nai Pan, and hopped in along with three other passengers. I chatted a while with two of them – a brother-sister pair from North Carolina, then we all settled into silence for most of the remaining ride up and over the spine of the island. Eventually, I struck up a conversation with our remaining passenger, who clearly understood the lay of the land here much more – he was wearing a sarong, didn’t have a massive backpack, and just seemed … mellow. Turns out he was also a Stuart – a choreographer in Sydney for half the year, Thai beach resident the remainder – and on the return trip from the Malay border for a visa run. He asked if I knew where I was staying, and when I confessed that I didn’t he just said “Come with me.” He dragged me to his favorite “resort” on the beach, a cluster of a dozen or so bungalows with a bed and mosquito net and a bathroom. For five dollars a day. Thirty steps from the beach. I decided that this would be just fine.
I’d “planned” to stay on Koh Phangan for four or five days. Suffice to say, I stayed for ten – and the only reason I left was because Anthea, the cute British girl from Shanti, was going to be in Phuket soon, and I was at least a little smitten.
So then, off to Phuket! I had a phone number in my notes, for Kim and Apichart (the owners of Shanti Lodge, who I had briefly met while living on Orcas – which is a story unto itself). I called and spoke to Kim, relaying the close mutual friend we had, and she basically said “So, do you want to meet for dinner and get your bearings, or would you like to come stay at our place?” Of course, I opted for the latter! I ended up there for another ten days or so, spending time with Kim and Apichart and their delightful children, and with Anthea, who arrived a day or two after me. I thought about heading elsewhere, but decided that was foolish. I only left when my flight home drew close, in order to give myself enough time to wrap up details on a suit I was having made.
This trip – my first time really traveling – helped me realize that I like having loose, flexible travel plans. I’ve done my best to continue living this travel philosophy since this trip, whether traveling solo or with a partner. I fully intend to keep as flexible as possible while on my upcoming adventure.
