Ahhhhh.... the spoils at the end of the journey: the pillows, the bed, the refrigerator, showers we can use anytime we like. Its been this way for three weeks now, and the lethargy that has set in here in Tucson has kept us/me from journalling duties, apologies. Aunt Diane has specialized in the unwinding of these ball-of-string minds. I've done the math, quantified the miles, partially out of awe, partially out of relief, mostly out of boredom and bragging rights: over 1200 miles on the bikes, a little under 8 weeks. Quite the adventure we both agree. There is something that comes over me now as I look back at the pictures, a sort of dissolving, melding over of memories. Recollections that come in images: Brit's smile as she looks back at me on I-10, waves crashing into cliffs outside of Big Sur, shimmering desert pavement, broken tubes, the bikes under drop clothes, hot tea in the morning, setting up the tent in a wind storm. There are conversations about the motives of the face painting lady in Monterrey, the swerving "bras" in jacked up trucks leaving San Diego, infinity, where the bums sleep, elephant seals and most importantly, the conversation (either soken or unspoken) about motivaton, what keeps the legs moving; the continuing dialogue in each of us. There are smells of exhaust, wet sage, saltwater in the air; there are emotions, prayers, chants that beseige me in the night, in the day, triggered by nothing. These memories are the trip, some are the stories I'll never remember how to start or end, town names, routes, acquaintences. Their power, the real strength of any journey is in its pliablity, the way it shifts shape in the mind. But there are constants also, rocks in the sand: Brittany Jones, the bike, the need to press onward.
If we imagine our lives as a single day, we can see the attraction of both the elderly and children. They have the best view of themselves, they have the longest shadows in the early dawn and right before dusk. The shadow is augmented, stretched by the shade of our stories and songs, future dreams, directly correlated to the passing of the day, of our lives. Those of us who are young, but growin older, are pedalling in vain to keep the shadow from retracting, to create stories and dreams that will stick to us in the noontime of life when the sun is hottest, when the shadow is shortest. We childern are chasing our shadows, Pans pleading against the inevitable. I suspect towards the end, when the shadow grows longer again, we revisist our childhoods to search for these past dreams, the stories and songs that have never left us. And the house money says we learn to retell better stories, to indulge, so the shadow grows longer, to keep it in front of us as a banner we carry into the afterlife.
Enough with the metaphors. Go out and ride a bike. There are the practical arguments: the rising price of gas, the mechanization and not-so-deliberate pace of our society. The psychologists will rightly tell you something about endorphins and self-assurance. Einsten was riding a bike when he produced the theory of relativity. I'm sure Jesus would have been pedalling, the Buddha too. Reconnect with the childhood that brought you skinned kness, jumps, and familiarity with the neighborhood.
As for Brit and I, we are already scheming over the next adventure. I look forward to telling you the things I remember and making up the ones I don't. Your support, both seen on the screen, heard in the voices, or felt in the heart has not gone unrecognized. We succeeded because all of you helped us keep the idea of home, friends and family as the true destination. Save us a seat at the bar.
Peace
Chris and Britt
-tation