My Transitional Trek

I stand on the sidewalk outside of an Upper West Side hotel, where a friend has gifted us with a two-night stay. It’s a Monday in early June and a morning flow of New Yorkers hurries by, young and old heading back to school and work, their faces serious. Savor this moment, I tell myself. You get to take a bike ride today. It doesn’t matter what day of the week it is. I have no meetings, no agendas, no deadlines. How many times over the years, caught up in my work-a-day routine, have I dreamed of blowing it all off and going out to play on a day like this?

Five weeks ago I left my home and my husband, Bob, in North Carolina to bike with a long-time friend, Dee, from Key West. Three weeks from now we’ll reach the Canadian border in Maine. I am 58 and scratching an itch. For decades I have built a carefully balanced life of work and play. But doing everything in moderation seems to add up to a life of mediocrity. I am ready to shush the naysayer in my head who for decades has doubted all of my aspirations, from career goals to physical pursuits. I want to do one extraordinary thing while I still can.

The longest I’ve ever biked is for a week, maybe 300 miles. I want to prove to myself that I can bike 3,000 miles over two months, long enough to get accustomed to living simply with just my bike and what I can carry in my bike bags. I want to connect the dots of my life, from elementary school in Atlanta to junior high in Baltimore and high school in Boston, plus a few summers working as a camp counselor on Cape Cod and in Maine. I am drawing a line from south to north along all those coves and harbors and through favorite cities and enjoying the satisfaction of traveling those miles under my own power.

But the older I get, the more selfishness is morphing into self-care.

I’ve dreamed of this ride since my twenties. But I’ve been busy raising kids and moving homes and meeting work deadlines. Even now, as an empty nester, the idea of taking two months off and leaving Bob and our two dogs to go ride my bike seems a bit selfish. But the older I get, the more selfishness is morphing into self-care. Our kids are grown and living in New York City. They don’t need much more from me now than paying our group cell phone bill and texting the occasional affirmation after a bad day. Bob knows how much I love to ride my bike and how badly I’ve wanted to do this East Coast ride.

The first green light was Dee — my decades-long running and biking pal — retiring from her college teaching job two years ago at 65. When my boss approved my two-month leave, our preparations began. Dee and I built an itinerary with an average of 60 miles a day. We lined up friends or family who we could stay with to cut the costs of motels and Airbnbs. Dee’s spouse, Sally, drove them from Rhode Island to North Carolina to pick me up and on to Key West to drop us off.

Most people who dream of an epic U.S. ride choose to bike across the country coast to coast. But the idea of riding through the desert for days and up and over the Rockies doesn’t sound like fun, just a test of will and grit. So far, the East Coast has offered its share of challenges: headwinds, busy roads with tiny shoulders, bleak stretches of strip malls. But as much as I embrace the beauty of natural settings, I am a child of the suburbs. I find comfort in never being too far from civilization—convenience store bathrooms, say, and roadside motels. I am hugging the coast: venturing out on the water without hitting the open sea. I prefer to keep the shoreline in sight.

Looking back now, six years since Dee and I reached the St. Croix River dividing Maine and Canada, I see how much those two months on my bike taught me. I always thought I was my best self when I traveled. By leaving behind routines and mundane tasks, I am more entertained by new sights, sounds, and smells. Traveling by bike intensifies the happy traveler effect. I can become a kid again, living outdoors all day with no worries except following the route and keeping myself fueled. But living this way for eight weeks, with great expectations riding on the trip, made me face aspects of myself that aren’t so appealing–like my irritability, especially when hungry, and my fears, from crossing high bridges to doubting my strength. To navigate (sometimes literally) so many days and nights with Dee, I had to find my true voice, a delicate balance somewhere between passive and assertive.

If I could hold on to my newfound trust in my abilities and keep my mind open to the present, not just the destination, my journey wouldn’t have to end when we reached Canada.

Physically I grew stronger with each passing week. By the time we reached the halfway point of Washington, DC, I knew I could handle biking sixty miles or so for days on end. It took a little longer for things to click in mentally and emotionally. By the time I found myself standing on that New York City sidewalk, after so many weeks of living outdoors in the sun and rain and surviving a few scary stretches, the wisdom of mindfulness was beginning to take hold. If I could hold on to my newfound trust in my abilities and keep my mind open to the present, not just the destination, my journey wouldn’t have to end when we reached Canada.

That’s the lasting gift of my trip: believing in possibilities as I step into life’s third act. Having realized a dream — mapping it out, taking the journey, and reaping the benefits — I grow nearly evangelistic if someone tells me there’s something they’ve always wanted to do. Especially if they are empty nesters with new-found time. Do it! Take the trip, learn a new sport, downsize your stuff, write your story!

I know I’m not alone in harboring wanderlust. Early on in our trip, I started to recognize a certain wistfulness as we told people what we were doing. Just south of Amelia Island in Florida, we stopped to chat with a park ranger on Little Talbot Island. He offered a few pointers, like where to pick up the greenway again on Big Talbot Island, just off a parking lot. When we told him that we were headed for the Canadian border, he looked off at the horizon. “I wish I could go with you,” he said, not entirely joking.

Thousands of miles later, Mary, our host in South Dartmouth, Massachusetts, was heading out for a morning run as we packed up to leave her house. “Next trip, let me know,” she told me, with the same wistful look on her face. And Mark in Boston, watching us get our bikes ready in his yard to head out for our last week, said he felt suddenly jealous. He had biked with us the last four days, so he got it. Packing up each morning and heading out starts to feel like a way of life, knowing you’ll encounter new places and people, sights and sounds, challenges and delights.

I recognized the wistfulness because I’d felt it most of my life. I always thought adventures were what other people experienced, not me. Pick your excuse: I don’t have the money, can’t take the time off work, have to take care of the kids, can’t leave Bob or the dogs, I don’t know how, I’m a little scared.

If someone told me even ten years ago that I would love my sixties this much, I might have laughed. I hadn’t yet learned how to drop all my excuses for why I couldn’t pursue dreams and instead consider how I could.

In the six years since my trip, Bob has retired and I work half-time at a good job that pays me well and gives me four-day weekends to run, bike, go to yoga, and walk with friends and dogs. As an affordable, eco-friendly way to travel, bike trips are still my favorite adventures. Two years ago I biked from Pittsburgh to Washington, DC, with a friend, Jen, while Bob taught a class in England. This past fall I biked for three weeks along rivers and canals from France to Germany with another friend, Jan. Bob met me in Germany to bike for another week along the Danube River to Vienna.

If someone told me even ten years ago that I would love my sixties this much, I might have laughed. I hadn’t yet learned how to drop all my excuses for why I couldn’t pursue dreams and instead consider how I could. I am not reckless. I still meet my work deadlines and I don’t burn cash in great big bonfires. But I am quicker to recognize possibilities and know when to say yes.

It’s OK that I had to wait until my early sixties to get here. I feel rich in time, experience, and perspective and steeped in gratitude. I’ve shushed my inner critic for the most part and in its place I hear all new compassion for myself and for others. I’ve done the work, I know I can carry myself over hills and across bridges. I’m even learning to recognize when it’s OK to coast, when I can stop pedaling so hard because the wheels are spinning just fine.

About the Writer

Lisa A. Watts directs communications for the Gerontology Institute at UMass Boston. Her new book, Crossing Bridges: What Biking Up the East Coast Taught Me About Life After 60, is a travel memoir told in short essays.

RECOMMENDATIONS

Listening:

Two of US, by The Beatles

Reading:

"A Walk in the Woods" by Bill Bryson

Viewing:

"Wild", based on the book by Cheryl Strayed

Drinking:

Bicycle Kick, a zingy mix of cachaça, ginger and orgeat.