If you’ve been following this blog since the beginning, you’ll notice that our proclaimed destination has been Rosarito, Mexico. “Why Rosarito?”, you ask. We had originally planned to cycle to Tijuana and then head back to San Diego for our flight home. But Rosarito just sounds like a better endpoint to a long journey than Tijuana. We also hoped to spend some of our last hours sipping drinks on a warm, Mexican beach similar to those in Rosarito. Rosarito is only 20 miles from Tijuana, so back in August we figured “Why not? What’s an extra twenty miles?”

Unfortunately, we had been asking those questions only rhetorically until yesterday when we began to research cycling routes in Mexico. As it turns out, there aren’t any. There are two main driving routes from Rosarito to Tijuana, but one doesn’t allow bikes and the other may have large unpaved sections and is barely wide enough to allow two passing trucks. Not to mention that every time over the past few days we’ve told a cyclist that we plan to bike to Rosarito, each one gives us a look (one that says, on the surface, “OK, good luck with that,” but underneath is screaming “You guys are nuts!”). We crossed the border late this morning figuring we would speak with tourism offices as soon as we entered Mexico about the best options for cyclists. Apparently the tourism office found it funny that we actually wanted to cycle to Rosarito, but suggested a complicated route anyway. And on top of all of this, we had been unable to drop off luggage in San Diego, so we were still each carrying 80 lbs of easy-to-steal gear.

Given all these warning signs, however, Jason and I were still—largely in the spirit of adventure—considering cycling to Rosarito as soon as we entered Tijuana. We figured we’d grab a quick lunch and think it over. And there, in the middle of the pedestrian square in Tijuana, not 500 meters from the US border, finally came a warning sign we could not ignore. Jason’s rear rack—which supported all his gear and had required a couple repairs over the past few weeks—snapped and all of his bags were suddenly dragging on the ground. We shared a brief, quiet look that acknowledged “I guess this is it,” neither of us willing to admit aloud that we wouldn’t be able to ride to our proposed destination.

Unable to move Jason’s bike anywhere in its condition, we stopped on the side of the square and pulled out whatever we had to fix it. I had a few zip ties from the pump I had bought a couple days earlier and Jason found a slightly damaged spare tube. Using some creativity and resourcefulness, Jason was able to create a makeshift support system, but nothing that we could trust would hold on the barren, rocky desert road to Rosarito.

So, just like that, we had reached our destination, Tijuana, without even knowing it. We really weren’t sure when the right time to celebrate passed, or if there even was such a time. When we left Vancouver so many weeks ago, we thought we were headed for Rosarito, Mexico, and that reaching anything short of our desired destination would be considered incomplete. In finishing twenty miles short in Tijuana, today’s major revelation was the acknowledgment that our true destination was found somewhere along the way and that goals are often just a means to motivate the journey.

So although we have reached our (revised) official destination and can now consider the trip over, we both hope and expect that our journey will continue. Even though we didn’t complete the trip exactly as planned, we feel very satisfied because the completion in itself means little to us. Surviving all the way to Mexico was a tangible objective, but it was a really just a small piece of our ongoing desires to live our lives in a concerted fashion of our own design that challenges us, excites us, and connects us meaningfully with others. That is our definition of the good life, and we’re looking forward to continuing our ride towards it.

We hope to see you all along that ride!

With only a few days remaining, I expected that we had exhausted our opportunities for beautiful interludes with strangers. (As an aside, I’ve been thinking recently about the effects of adopting a mindset that strangers are simply friends we haven’t yet met).

But just as I began to think that there might be some finiteness to the goodness in the universe, the universe went and proved me wrong.

Before setting out for today’s ride into San Diego, Jason and I had picked a campsite near downtown as a destination. Approximately 20 miles outside the city, Jason (riding a little behind me) ran into a fellow cyclist, Jim. The two of them soon caught up to me and we learned that Jim is retired and cycles this far north every week or so to pick up some of his favorite ground coffee. He told us the route into the city can be a bit confusing, and since he was headed back home anyway, he offered to guide us to our campsite.

A lifelong resident of San Diego, Jim provided a fantastic tour of parts of the city we’d never have seen had we gone alone. As we passed a little girl around 5-years old with curly, blond hair falling down her back and her mother near La Jolla Cove, Jim commented playfully to the mother that her daughter must be the original Goldilocks. I rarely talk to passersby while I bike, so this gesture made me smile. Not more than a minute or two later, we headed inland and passed a young female jogger who was being verbally harassed by a drunk, homeless man. The woman picked up her pace nervously. As we approached, Jim called out, “You’re OK now ma’am!” We rode with her until we were assured that she was safe. I’m not certain if it was the way in which he said these things or just the aura he carried for a 68-year-old, but Jim had me convinced that he must be a noble superhero in day clothes. I kept waiting for him to rip off his plain clothing and reveal the bright spandex bodysuit underneath. I felt so honored to be chauffeured by this unsung hero of San Diego.

As we approached the campsite, Jim decided—after a brief call to his wife—to offer us a bed in his home for the night. He and his equally charming wife, Barbara, took us out to dinner and welcomed us into their home. So excited by our journey, Jim plans to ride with us tomorrow to the Mexican border.

At a time when I felt least prepared for it, Jim has reminded me that there are heroes all around us. Heroic deeds need not be extraordinary feats; they can be every day feats done in an extraordinary way.

As we drove home from the marina, I sat in the backseat feeling a sudden sense of comfort and confidence. As I expressed a bit in my San Francisco post, the immediate future holds a lot of unanswered questions for me, questions that have been quietly lurking throughout the highs and lows of this journey. While I’ve been out here having a blast, I’ve still been feeling a bit of apprehension about the unknown. Not knowing where I’ll be living, how I’ll be supporting myself, or by what essential core values I want to be driving my life. I find comfort in the ability to accurately describe at last part of my near future, and when there are too many unknowns to do that, the future can become a frightening place.

As we were sailing back into the harbor at dusk on a boat with no lights, we knowingly made the semi-foolish decision to stop off at a marina-side seafood restaurant for a quick bite. By the time our detour was over, it was quite dark and difficult to navigate with confidence around the harbor. As Jason started the outboard motor and ran across the boat to prepare for docking, I controlled the rudder and led us back out into open water. While I should have been somewhat frightened by the darkness, the danger of sailing without lights, and my own naivety and inexperience, I was focused on the task at hand and exhilarated by it. We were clearly at risk of colliding with other boats as our motor stalled and the wind gusts picked up. But we survived and docked the boat beautifully. Once we secured the boat and packed up, I couldn’t help but smile. Sailing was an unknown. The dark harbor was an unknown. But that’s exactly what made it so much fun!

In the backseat of the car I was reminded of a lesson I have learned many times in recent years but find so difficult to follow faithfully: That unknowns are what make life interesting. And that as long as they are approached with the right state of mind, they are the only opportunities to put yourself in a new, potentially better place. I instantly felt a wave of warmth and comfort in the notion that all the unknowns out there, particularly the ones that have been nagging me for the past few weeks, are truthfully just undiscovered better places. If I can simply have faith that I will approach my unknowns with the right attitude and take advantage of the opportunities in front of me, I have nothing to fear. Unknowns present an invitation to adventure, to explore and, ultimately, to improve our lives.

I am no longer frightened but rather thrilled and intrigued by the uncharted islands ahead. Land ho!

Yesterday, on our “day off” in the town of Big Sur, we decided to tackle a 20-mile hike into a secluded hot spring. While the long walk was incredibly fulfilling and gorgeously scenic, we learned that walking recruits an entirely different set of muscles than cycling. After the first hour on the narrow and winding trail, I found myself in a trance-like, flow state, focusing intently on every step. By our sunset return to camp, we were exhausted and covered in blisters, but the trek and bath in the springs left us all feeling cleansed.

On this morning’s ride, I was taught a hard lesson on attention. Working our way south, we hit a 4-mile stretch of loose gravel rode construction which significantly reducing our traction. Construction vehicles were flattening the gravel and blowing dust everywhere, and in the interims trucks led lines of cars through one direction at a time. Gigi and I rode carefully and tentatively through the first patch and stopped to wait for Jason who had been inspecting his trouble-ridden rear wheel at our last stop. After about 20 minutes, I decided to go back to check on him, hoping that his delay was the result of nothing more dire than severe wheel problems. As I re-entered the gravel section of rode, I was concerned about staying to the right of the road so as not to be in the way of the work. The gravel was piled a couple inches above the narrow dirt shoulder leading to the vertical rock wall to my right. Already scared by the unstable and potentially dangerous gravel road, I became very focused on the shoulder, not wanting to slip of the edge.

As I began to make a slight right turn downhill, I focused so much on the shoulder that I veered toward it. Knowing that I was at risk of falling off the bike if my tire slipped on the gravel edge, I focused even more on not getting too close to the edge. And, as was inevitable, I veered closer. Understanding the risk of any sudden movement on the gravel, I could do little as I quickly headed directly towards the shoulder. Had I simply focused on riding where I wanted to be riding, I should have had no problem maintaining a straight path. But instead, my fear and focus on what I didn’t want got the best of me and SMACK! My bike slid from underneath me and my left elbow and knee were the primary victims. I stood up slowly, pulled the gravel out of my shorts, and continued towards Jason on foot—frustrated and dismayed by my progress on the bike—with my first aid kit in hand. As I patched my bleeding arm, I found Jason attempting to fix two broken spokes on his rear wheel, a task for which he lacked the proper tools.

After some effort to make his broken wheel ride-able, Jason admitted defeat and hitched a ride 50 miles down the road to the nearest bike shop while Gigi and I finished the day’s route. My aching knee is an annoying reminder that keeping myself focused on what I want is a much more promising technique than focusing on what I don’t want.

A few days ago I had been imagining myself as a sponge. After traveling for weeks, living out of the two small bags strapped to the sides of my bicycle with very little to offer the world, I have been amazed and comforted by the ever-present willingness of other people to help. By offering maps. Answering questions. Or sharing a simple smile or honk of encouragement. And all too often I feel as though I have nothing to offer in return. “Thank you”… but it’s never enough. So I have been turning into a karma sponge, soaking up the positive gifts of the world around me and not finding myself in a position to pass them on. I was in the middle of committing this image to memory so as to remember it after the trip when we met Scott.

We arrived in Santa Cruz around lunchtime—after a short ride from rural Pescadero—when we were approached by a smiling college student curious about our tour. He and a friend had just returned from a coast to coast ride before returning for the fall semester. Still carrying the spirit of all the people who helped them on their journey, Scott offered to call his cycling partner Zane who room for us to stay for the night. We had planned to camp few miles outside town, so the offer was very appealing. After exploring the town on our own for the afternoon, Zane and Scott cooked us dinner and put us up for the night. They expressed a deep gratitude for the help they received along the way, the extent of which surprised them. It seemed so simple and obvious to them that offering us what they could was a way to begin giving back.

As we shared stories over dinner tonight, Scott—who was just beginning his studies as a freshman—explained the power of taking a bicycle tour before coming to college. While other incoming freshmen were complaining about the size of dorm rooms, the lack of food options in the dining hall, and the inconsiderateness of their roommates, Scott and Zane were filled with gratitude. Weeks on the road, sleeping wherever they could—including abandoned houses and baseball field dugouts—left them extraordinarily thankful for the roof over their heads, the availability of drinking water, and the abundance of food on campus. “I have a bed!” Scott exclaimed with zestful appreciation. They found themselves uninterested by conversations about petty complaints and instead connected with people over their passions for adventure while acknowledging their fortunes. In that mindset of gratitude, Scott and Zane took the time and effort during their first day of class to make Jason and I feel welcomed.

Some of the positive karma they received on their journey has now been passed to us, and Scott and Zane have served as brilliant models to remind me to spread and share the karma I am soaking up, even when I feel I have little to give back.

This city is absolutely amazing! Too much to explore intimately in the little time we’ve allotted. Gorgeous Muir Woods and Golden Gate Park. Cultural vibrancy in Castro and the old Beat hangouts. But my favorite moment so far has been hanging precariously off the side of cable car at dusk that carried its passengers across the city’s impressive hills with a feeling of rawness and wildness lacking in most forms of modern transport. Well, except perhaps cycling.

Packing up and leaving Philadelphia to take this trip has left me with a lot of unanswered questions about place and home. Jason and I have gotten into a few conversations recently about schemas and mindset - sets of assumptions or expectations we have about the world and how those affect the ways in which we interact with the world, limiting or serving us in various ways. I’ve been thinking a lot about how our environment - literally, the place where we live - affects our schemas. By moving around so often on this trip, hopping place to place before we have a chance to feel settled, everything becomes ephemeral, including our temporary schemas. I found myself to be a slightly different person when in Seattle than when camping under redwoods in northern California. Sometimes, when I like a place very much, I think it might have less to do with the place itself and more to do with how much I like the person I become in that place.

Since San Francisco has been a city I’ve never visited but wanted very much to like, the idea of setting up the proper schema before even arriving was on my mind. I wanted San Francisco me to be gregarious, adventurous, humble, and compassionate. Having been here a few days, I feel that my hopes have been largely overshadowed by the power of the city. That’s not to say that my schema in this city is one I dislike - it’s just one I felt I had little control in creating. San Francisco took the reins and dropped me off wherever it felt appropriate.

Being unsure about exactly where I plan to live upon the trip’s conclusion, I’ve been thinking a lot about what schemas I have formed in cities I know well: Philadelphia, New York, Boston. And what opportunities there may be for me to develop new schemas in new places.

While I’ve come to no conclusions yet, one of the greatest lessons of a bike tour is the infinitude of space. There is so much to see along every road, so much one could learn by pondering the existence and grandeur of a single tree, that perhaps there are always opportunities to open ourselves to new tabula rasa environments in which we are free to rewrite our schemas. We don’t always need a new city to catapult ourselves towards a new approach to life. Maybe we just need a new tree to sit under. Change is always accessible.

My favorite Rilke quote has emphasized relevance today: “Whoever you are some evening take a step out of your house which you know so well. Enormous space is near…”

Working our way towards the California border in southwest Oregon, today’s destination was Brookings, OR. After an evening food stop in Gold Beach - about 25 miles and a large, undulating climb away from Brookings - the three of us split and decided to meet at the first peak three miles away. I was the last to depart at around 5:30, just minutes behind the other two. A mile out of Gold Beach I got a flat. As I stopped to fix it, I noticed that it had happened conveniently at a road turnoff facing the gorgeous ocean and the setting sun. I began work on the bike happily, enjoying the serendipity of it all.

I had run over a 2-inch nail that had fully embedded itself in my tire. I pried it out and replaced the tube while chatting with a few locals walking their dogs. A few days earlier, I had bought a new pump (having not brought one originally) that was lightweight but put pressure on the valve stem and required great care to use effectively. As I began to pump the new tube, the stem ripped off leaving me with another flat. That was my only spare. I decided to blow up the tube I had put a nail through to assess its patch-ability. In the process, I ripped that stem off too. A broken stem is nearly impossible to fix.

I was starting to forget about the sunset. Conveniently, I had saved a tube from Seattle that had a slow leak. I installed that tube and reloaded my bike. It seemed to be holding air. By that time I had been toiling for about 45 minutes, and the boys were surely wondering what happened to me. I called them both, but neither had cell reception on top of the hill. I began to ride, carefully, to catch up in what was now dusk. About a mile up the hill, the tube from Seattle was leaking again! I decided not to worry and figured I could keep pumping this slow-leak tube to climb the hill and borrow a new tube from either Jason or Dmitry. But when I stopped to add air as it became too deflated to ride on, I broke a third stem. At this point, I was beside myself with frustration. I began to walk my 80-pound bike with a flat uphill, but I soon realized it would be completely dark by the time I hiked the remaining 2.5 miles. So I locked the bike bike to a guard rail and began running uphill.

It suddenly occured to me that I was merely assuming that the boys were waiting for me atop the hill. If they had decided to descend while they still had daylight, I’d never reach them by foot. But knowing that my only other option was to carry my broken bike back to Gold Beach, get a motel room (Dmitry was carrying my tent poles), and wait for a bike shop to open in the morning (if there was one), I kept running with hope.

As I reached the top I called out to them through the dense trees. They soon emerged, curious about my delay. “Code Red” was the only explanation I could offer. Fortunately, Dmitry had one spare tube that would fit my bike. He and I biked back down the hill to fix it as Jason volunteered to walk. As we found my bike, it was officially night and we used our headlights to quickly replace the tube. At this point all we could think about was the 25 miles of mostly uphill still between us and Brookings. Just as we finished the repair, a truck pulled up. The driver was a fellow cyclist, Eric, who wanted to be sure everything was okay. We assured him we were set and he nearly left. Just as he grabbed his door handle (and at the same moment Jason arrived), I put a bag back on my bike and - BANG! The new tube exploded. I had destroyed four tubes in two hours. I shrugged my shoulders and we graciously accepted Eric’s offer to drive us to Brookings. He had been driving the opposite direction on his way to Portland, but he didn’t think twice about backtracking to take us to Brookings.

As we sat in the back seat of Eric’s truck flying effortlessly over the 25 miles of hill, Jason and Dmitry chatted with Eric about his insane cycling adventures. I was mostly quiet, wondering how on this most unfortunate of evenings a savior had found us at the perfect moment. I reached Brookings exasperated but smiling from deep within.

And I’ve resolved to purchase a new pump.

Last night after setting up camp and hopping on our bikes to visit nearby Cascade Locks, OR for dinner, I was astonished as Dmitry and I emerged from the wooded park into a clearing. The night sky was like a dazzling 4th-of-July freeze frame. Having spent most of my life in the light-polluted Northeast, I had never seen anything like it. Dmitry and I found a small field away from streetlights where we rested our bikes and lay flat on our backs to marvel at the awe-inspiring universe. I felt like an 8-year-old kid camping for the first time.

With a semester of astronomy under his belt, Dmitry explained that the hazy band that stretched across the sky was the collection of stars with the flat, disc-shaped Milky Way. Before last night, I cannot recall seeing a shooting star. In that field I saw six.

Here in Portland, we’ve already visited a bohemian cafe, the largest independent bookstore in the nation, and an amazing century-old seafood restaurant. This city may be the friendliest place I’ve ever been. I can’t wait to explore further and reconvene with Jason.

One of my college buddies, Dmitry (who was also my travel partner in Europe), met up with Jason and me in Seattle. He plans to ride with us for a few weeks to San Francisco. None of us have ever toured in a group of three before, but we figured it would add to the adventure. Last nightour triad rolled into the foothills of Mt. Rainier, a 14,000-foot peak in central Washington. We were forced to camp below a roadside bridge in the small town of Elbe as it became too dark to ride to the campsite down the road. Today’s ride included a 5,500-foot clmb up the south side of the majestic Rainier, and the three of us decided - based on our different styles of riding and a bit of the inevitable tension when three independent-minded males convene - to meet on the other side of the mountain in the town of Packwood 70 miles away.

Riding alone gave us all a chance to explore at our leisure: waterfalls, hiking trails, groves of towering trees, and old lumber villages. With so much to see, I had to hurry on the descent to Packwood in order to arrive before sunset. As I approached town, I saw neither Jason nor Dmitry and hoped they were not far behind. But as I sat worrying curbside in front of the busiest gas station in this small town, darkness came quickly. There were no streetlights on these roads and the last 20 miles of the road passed one house and many miles of sheer cliffs. As I gazed into nothingness, I promised myself to be more patient and loyal with my two friends, finally understanding how much of what is important to me on this trip is time with each of them.

As I fought off sleep after the long day of climbing, I eventually saw a glimmer of a bicycle headlight in the distance. Dmitry had survived the darkness, and I was ecstatic to see him. But where was Jason? Dmitry hadn’t seen him since we split in the morning. As we began to imagine worst-case scenarios, my phone rang. It was Jason calling from a campsite payphone not far from where we began the day. Less than an hour earlier he had been riding towards Packwood in the dark when his tire went flat. His pump had broken a few days ago so he had no way to fix it. Fortunately, a car driving through Rainier National Park after hours spotted him and gave him a ride in the direction they were headed - back to the base of the mountain where we started. So Jason will have to fix his tire and climb the same mountain pass again tomorrow.

But at least he is safe. And at least I am learning what it is I value most on this trip.

Jason Flying a Kite in Seattle

Rainier

And then it hit me.

I saw Mexico. And every twenty-meter section in between. And everything stopped. My bike felt like a loaded 18-wheeler. I did my best to dismount from my bike without falling over and pulled out an energy bar for respite. Jason, taking my break as an open invitation, stopped beside me and we laughed. Tackling this first real challenge thrown in our way, we had stopped, admitted defeat, and began to feel grateful: for the beautiful scenery around us, for the gorgeous August weather, for the health and opportunity to be challenging ourselves in this most luxurious of ways, and for surviving as far up the climb as we had before stopping.

We found a cycling shop in Anacortes, WA that kept his bike overnight while we ventured out onto San Juan Island. Claiming the world’s only park designated for whale watching and thousands of acres of undeveloped forest, the island is rich in natural beauty and a haven for cyclists. I plan to ride the perimeter today while Jason heads back to the mainland to fetch his bike. We are staying with a fellow bike tourer on the island who has come from England to cycle the Pacific Northwest. He returned last night after a few too many beers and entertained us with his stories from the road, making use of every British expletive I knew and many I didn’t.

Sunburnt and unshaven, our current plan is to head into Seattle by Friday night. Continue sending your well wishes (best aimed at Jason’s bicycle for the time being)!