lesson of the day...

What does it mean to run away?

Something I have been thinking, feeling and living for a year, exactly one year today thankyouverymuch. I remember as a really young kid wanting to run away from home, and making it as far as the tree-house in the back yard, and having the conviction to stay gone until I got hungry or distracted by toys inside I should have brought with me. Secretly (or not so) when things got tough for me in the past, when I was a younger man, married, following, I used to fantasize about gathering a few things and fleeing to someplace more of my choosing. Sometimes it was as simple as someplace warmer or more sunny during a long, wet, cold Oregon winter, or back to San Diego where I once had a perfectly good routine, and friends of my own. Classic American Beat writers (had I known any then) whose words were echoed in some of my favorite bands, would have hearkened my developing male psyche to a bygone era, a time of hitting the road, thumbin' and bummin' across the states to see friends, drink cheap wine, pop pills, and philosophize their way through the bigger question of fitting in. But I had not read those dudes, not yet.

When I worked at Anchor Brewing in SF, there was a dude there, a real self righteous prick named Kevin who was often the object of my loathing. Shortly after the death of his grandfather, he started preparing an old BMW motorcycle for a cross country road trip. He could also be found rolling his own cigarettes, or in the break room reading beat poets, and was working on a pretty impressive beard. What a dick. Something about the obviously inheritance-fueled journey into manhood this 25 year old straight white kid from an affluent east coast suburb was going to embark on made me an outspoken opponent of rich kids having all the privilege to "find themselves" out on the open road, the cares and worry of the next meal left behind as the tail lights slowly fade away. Of course, most of this was borne out of plain old fashioned jealousy, wondering when I might get the privilege to find MYself, a jealousy-turned-criticism in the wake of my own developing sense of self, largely informed by the working class ethos I was being handsomely rewarded for at the brewery. This combination of working class roots sinking further into the ground in a city I never thought I would be able to afford, and the stories I was all of a sudden aware of (graduate exchange programs I could not afford, putting in for transfers at big corporate jobs I would never sell out to, and the occasional art freak who never sold a piece of art but somehow was able to run off to France and join a traveling gypsy street performance troupe...) only fueled my distaste, disgust and misunderstandings of a life incongruent with mine. Classic xenophobia I'm almost proud to say. Kerouac, and those who read him in public took the brunt of my prideful mouth.

Truth be told, I only read Kerouac for the first time about a year ago. (I know, I'm a hypocritical, mouthy, opinionated, usually wrong, self righteous Douche!) I was given a copy of "On the Road" from someone who knew me well and whose library I respected. I read it and I dug it. I read all his stuff in the course of the last year, found some random collections of poetry and thought it great, even got into an album last year of two of my favorite song writers who put Kerouac lyrics to their twangy road-trip sounds. Not that I'm Old Jack's number one fan or anything, but there was something in there ringing true for me, and his overarching theme of running hit home.

Running.

Its definitely true that at first I felt like I was running from. I needed to run away from the angry and painful (usually in the opposite order) detachment I knew I would not be able to make from the life I lived in northern Colorado. I had but a handful of people worth sticking around for, a little bit of money, and a loaded motorcycle. I was running from hurt, but into a pain and loneliness I could not have imagined. Alone on the road, and in the woods for 13 weeks, into towns just for groceries every couple of days, staying in my head and helmets, alternating between moto- and bi-cycle rides, keeping to myself at campsites, and having very little in the way of human interaction I was forcing myself to deal with the serving on my plate. From Bogan's house in western Colorado to the northern California coast was a lonely stretch of American road, but somewhere in there, hitting me square in the face with the emotions I felt as I crossed into California from Oregon on the 101, I stopped running from, and started running to, better yet, into. Into my own thoughts, into my feelings, and head first into the big bag of dicks I had been ignoring for some time, my own special blend of check-able and seemingly un-losable baggage. This bag would definitely NOT fit in the overhead compartment. As I dug and rationalized my way through the detritus of a broken life, I began to see the common thread of friends, the friends who had always been there for me with consistency and honesty, and usually a tall cold one.

With a smile on my face, and clean fresh air in my lungs I started checking off the mountain bike rides I have always wanted to do, Bend to Sun River and back, McKenzie River Trail, some cool spots in Humboldt county I had heard about along the way, and a good couple days at Boggs Mountain before running into the arms of friends. I worked my way down to San Diego to see Cousin, who came through for me in a big way when I really needed it, with advice, hugs, pictures of us as kids, a celebration of my Mom, and some carpeted floorspace. I was stoked to be in SD for the first time since I left and was thinking about making it home again when the opportunity to come to Italy breezed in through the open door. I felt a little like I was running again, this time a little prematurely. As I sit here writing this on a warm day in the Italian countryside I realize now that this is actually the continuation of the running, the journey, and with language barriers, quiet natural time on bikes, in the fields, and a zen like job working on bikes, I realize that this is just the next leg of a really long run.

Its more than half way through the season and I'm looking forward to coming home, to see friends and families, to eat a damn burrito, drink an overly chilled Budweiser, and shoot the shit in Engrish again! Being away from the things I love, and the people who have supported me so much in the past year has made me think about what it is I really value.

The last few weeks I have been thinking a lot about how lucky I am. I'm not blowing through an inheritance, racking up more student loan debts, cashing out my savings, or here on some sort of grant. I'm here on my merit as a cyclist and as a mechanic. I'm here because of my work ethic. I'm here to WORK. And its good honest work, its thorough, and it allows me to zen out with the cyclical patterns I have developed in the 400 some odd bikes I have probably prepped by now. Its my favorite thing to do - working on bikes, and I'm getting by with the money they pay me. But its not the money I think about. For the first time in my life I'm not worried about money, and its the LEAST I've been paid since making sandwiches at subway back in high school, way back in the V-cut days before plastic gloves!! What fuels me here is the privilege, the privilege to be here, to drive a big van, to see the country on the clock, that crazy ferry boat ride from Barcelona, driving through France. Not what I expected to be the spoils of a dirty fingernailed mechanic in a cut off jumpsuit and mohawk. Wasn't I supposed to work real hard at an expensive grad school, and get a job that sucks my soul out of my eyeballs, and scans my brain with alien technology, then put in for a transfer and keep my soft supple fingers crossed? I remembered a feeling the other night. The feeling I got when the friends of my attorney wife would remark that I had it easy 'cause I got to dick around in a bike shop all day while she "made all the money." (I wanted to run then - who wouldn't?!) It's all the love, trust and commitment I have put into "dicking around" with bikes that has given me the privilege to be where I am right now, and don't think its going to stop me from running. I have finally found a way to be in a stable committed relationship AND run away whenever I want. I HEART BIKES. Or more importantly, I value bikes.

All this running from and to and into has led me by the hand right into a big steamy pile of everything I have ever valued, distilled and condensed right down to its very essence, like distilling a flower to make perfume, and the smell is fantastic.

A friend once challenged me to make a list of everything I valued, an exercise I had never really thought about before, but one I worked through with an open mind. Who would have thought that running away from all the things and people and places and habits I once found comforting would lead me to a better understanding of my own personal values, the same values that have helped me weather a pretty big storm and navigate some of the roughest seas I have ever encountered. Digging deeper into my values has left me missing home a bit, Ill admit that, but it leaves me feeling that when I do return I will be much better equipped to focus on the things and the people who are most important to me, and not get so distracted by the "good times" that have played a prominent role in distracting me from feeling or acting my age!

Now don't you worry - I'm still gonna have a good time, this trip has not lobotomized me, and I got some good old fashioned bourbon to drink with my boys (and one AnchorGirl). And I can't wait to go to the gayest dance club SF has to offer, karaoke myself an honorary pan-Asian superstar, heckle (and by heckle I mean fall in love with) some Roller Derby Girls, and ride bikes/talk shit with my homies. These are some of the things I value.

This trip continues to teach.

S.