Almost to Portland and feeling the miles all the way to my soullllll

I found a beautiful and awesome sculpture garden called the Monarch Sculpture Park


This was at the sculpture garden. These are prayer ribbons.


Dear Blog,


88% of a biker’s power is used up battling air resistance. I know. I didn’t believe it at first either. But countless real-life examples have convinced me once and for all. I will be going down a hill, at a nice 11 mph and then a wind slows me down to 5 mph and I have to engage the motor to ease the stress on my knees. Then I look to the trees to see how hard this wind is blowing only to find the low branches on the fir trees next to me being tickled only slightly. This can be extremely demoralizing.
Furthermore, with the motor’s chain put on, each pedal has to turn the gear and turbine in the engine. This yields each turn of the wheel very inefficient, to the point where I will slow to a halt on a downhill if I stop pedaling. Therefore, I have sometimes resorted to removing the chain when I have a stretch of more-or-less level ground. Removing the chain takes a good 5 minutes and putting it back on takes about 10. You can only see so far up the road and it’s difficult to tell how the terrain will pan out. So it is always a gamble taking the chain off or putting it back on.
In a lot of ways the motor feels like a temporary solution, but I don’t see how my knees could handle traveling without it. I wonder how much weight I could shed by abandoning the whole system and if the difference would let me pedal without pain. Hmmm. Big questions.

I’m enjoying the book I’m reading: Bill Bryson’s A Walk in the Woods. It is about Bill adventure hiking the Appalachian Trail with his travel companion, Katz. I like the book not only because he’s a great, hilarious writer, but because he has a great way of putting the complex combination of profoundly monotonous long-distance travel and the beauty of just traveling; timeless, destinationless, traveling. He also fully understands the dynamic of journeys where the fact that you don’t have to do this never leaves your consciousness, and yet the mystifying sense of mission spurs you ever onward.
I guess I would say he is my traveling companion right now.

One of the richest descriptions he has offered is the strangeness of small-town America, a topic which has occupied my thoughts quite a bit lately. He describes Franklin, NC, (although it could have been any small town) as “small, dull, and cautiously unattractive, but mostly dull—the sort of place where you find yourself, for want of anything better to do, strolling out to the lumberyard to watch guys on forklifts shunting wood about.” My experience in several small towns the other day were similar, except flavored more with the feeling that I was patently unwelcome. After leaving Kati Thompson’s place in Olympia, I encountered a series of small towns. Kati’s, by the way was totally awesome. Kati sat next to me on the airplane ride to Seattle and gave me her card. I found it just in time to contact her in Olympia, and she invited me to stay the night. She has two cute kitties and a nice room to stay in. She and her husband have stopped drinking because they want to conceive a child. Men should stop drinking three months before conception and women one month. So they gave me browsing privileges to their beer collection. I had a delicious home-cooked dinner and breakfast, and got to watch a movie. It rocked.
Anyway…Walking into a tavern at 2:00 in Tenino, I was greeted by three large backs, midriff spilling out the bottom of each shirt, and a pitcher to the right of each one. Asking the woman behind the bar if there was a menu, she nipped back that menus are all over the place. So I found a piece of paper on the wall above one of the tables and studied it carefully, trying to find a burger. None appearing, I asked one of the backs where a guy could get a burger.
—What? Spoke one of the backs.
–A burger? Do you know where I could find one around here?
–This is it.
Scanning the menu once more and seeing no burger, I could feel the heat of helplessness spreading through the back of my neck. Should I get a coke then? Some wings? A beer?
Glancing at the backs again I realized that I would not be missed, nor when I feel any regret if I just left. So without a word, I walked back out into the daylight. I got the feel that each man in there felt silent, muted sense of victory.
So the next town I came to, Bucoda had a tavern that I was told by a woman had a good burger. Walking in, I got the same un-warm and un-fuzzy unwelcome feeling. I decided to stick it out and ordered a bowl of chili. And here I might add that my ordering skills have been wretched lately. I’ve been making choices like ordering a fish sandwich at a Thai restaurant, or an Americano from McDonalds when there is a cute espresso stand literally next door. So anyway, I order chili, and the woman tiresomely pulls a can of chili off a shelf, plops it into a bowl and sticks it into a microwave. All things considered, I realized that this was probably the only business decision that really made sense. So I restrained the urge to ask: Oooh, is this homemade?
When I told the woman that I was going to try to find a place to sleep in Chehalis, she gave me an unhopeful look and advised against it. Chehalis is kind of a dead town, she said. Again, I had to exercise self-control to not ask how Chehalis compared to this one. She suggested Centralia, a town about 4 miles above Chehalis. So when I reached Centralia and saw all the freedom is not free graffiti and the bumper sticker that said: For a small town, this one sure has a lot of assholes, I feared what Chehalis would have in store for me. But it was still rather early in the afternoon and I guess I wanted to prove the lady in Bucoda wrong, so I continued forth to Chehalis.
As far as I could tell, Chehalis wasn’t much different. Eventually I found a fire station on the south side of town and asked the fireman if I could set up my tent in their backyard. I could, as long as I didn’t go inside. Fair enough.

speaking of small towns...

The next day (yesterday) turned out to be what one might call a bad day. Well for most of it, at least. It started off with a slow and sore body. Soon I realized my fuel filter was clogged with gas tank gunk. After fixing that, I took a wrong turn, going a couple of miles out of my way. After finally getting back on track, I found out in Napavine that my muffler was broken. The baffle lost its welding, to be more specific. But to my great fortune, there was a muffler shop right in town. So I dropped off my muffler and went to a little café where I ate a very sad and kind older woman’s uneaten hash browns. In just this year she has lost her husband and her seven-year old granddaughter to cancer. It is always hard to know what to say in these situations.

So as I was putting my muffler back on I noticed that my jerry-rigged gas tank was leaking out of the valve. Now there was probably nothing I could have done to fix this, but the muffler guy told me that there was a guy about a mile back who has a bunch of lawnmowers in his yard who might help me. As it turns out, he was great. He moved with the patience and weight of an old man who has worked too hard his whole life. But he was very kind and into making everything work. It was just how I always romanticize help from strangers. So now I have a new gas tank.

This is the nice man who gave me the lawnmower gas tank.

Later in the afternoon, I took a wrong turn, going nearly fifteen stupid miles (yes every mile was stupid) out of my way. The views were gorgeous, but I definitely didn’t feel like seeing them twice. This was late in the day and everything hurt.

When I got to Longview, the place where I had worked out accommodations with a warmshowers.org member, I took several wrong turns, extending my journey a good hour longer than it should have been. That’s right, four wrong turns in one day. But the day ended with a warm shower, a delicious hamburger, baked beans, potato salad, an arm chair, a football game and a nice family. So I guess the day wasn’t all that bad.

So here I am, about 50 miles outside of Portland, taking a rest day. I’m afraid yesterday was too much for my feeble frame.

I find myself thinking about the difference between traveling solo and traveling with a partner. My thoughts right now are that traveling with a partner would be more conducive to fun, spontaneous interactions. I get self-conscious with the impression that I am perceived as homeless and in need of things. I feel that I am received with wariness. And I feel that I am less inclined to knock on the fire station’s door and strike up a conversation with a firefighter. I imagine that when you’re traveling with a partner, you look less needy, maybe less crazy and more like a young man on a bicycle tour. And I also believe in the magic that happens with a group where comfort zones are stretched a little and the bouncing around of ideas yields better ones. (The two minds are better than one phenomenon).
I’m not sure about all this, and maybe it’s just how I justify the lack of interesting interactions I haven’t been having.

In other news, I am beginning to think that I am doomed to be a domestic. Seeing mini-vans, well-taken care of houses, families, smoking chimneys, even witnessing sibling squabbles gives me peace inside. Now this is not what I was envisioning for my rugged solo journey. I was thinking more of getting in touch with my teddy Roosevelt rugged masculinity, but I guess you can’t fight fate…
John Shedd once said in 1928: “A ship in harbor is safe, but that is not what ships are built for.” It is very tempting when I find a comfortable situation to hang out and enjoy it. And that is ok for a moment to rest and recuperate, but I think I would feel much better if I kept moving. Furthermore, the domesticity that I find so nice I believe comes from feeling protected and warm and loved. But I wonder how much of this is just me faltering before I truly leave the nest, and that one day I will feel comfortable with uncertainty and not being supported by family. I look forward to this day when I will feel fully at ease outside the harbor. I bet this will be the day when I’m wholly prepared to be a provider and protector. Until then, I’ll continue to be on my own, aching for the ever-present love of my mama and my aunty and my sissy and Leonard. Note: when I speak of love, I now employ bell hooks’ list of ingredients which includes: care, affection, recognition, respect, commitment, trust, and honest and open communication.


Oh, one of the cool things about biking is that you are starving most of the time. When you have food, can justify sending a little money, or find a generous soul, food is amazing. The even cooler thing about being starving while you bike is that you pass over all kinds of litter on the side of the road. Little nuggets of encouragement, telling you that when you reach the next town, there will be a Dairy Queen Blizzard waiting with your name on it. I believe that deep down, that is why people toss trash outside their window. They’re like the scratches on the post outside a house that tells other travelers that it is a friendly one. They’re artifacts of civilization, passively informing you that there is good to be found in the next town.

My last thought: I am constantly searching for an occupation that would suit me, and none come to mind. I worry that I will end up unhappily toiling for a capitalist who has no concern for my or my fellow worker’s well-being. If not that, then I worry that I will forever be unable to decide and will be stuck in a cycle of aimless, kinless, penniless vagrancy. I don’t truly believe this, but that is a good example of the type of anxieties that enter the mind a young burgeoning twenty-first century Odyssian consumerist. I do believe that one day I will find my niche. Until then, I think I have decided that my greatest asset (gift, or whatever you want to call it) is my unquestioning kindness and eagerness to just listen.
Lately however, I have gotten the impression that I’m not conveying this very well and I just kind of confuse people or make them uneasy. And I think this may be because I’m not really comfortable and confident when I approach people and this is perceptible. For a good interaction to happen, I think both people need to feel at ease if not confident. For me, I feel that said confidence will come soon, and that will make things much more enjoyable.


Wrap-up: I’ve biked about 220 miles. I average 40-50 miles a day, have taken a couple of rest days, and my knees are hurting. My wrists and elbows may end up being the worst injury of all. I’m feeling fatigued with life on the road. I waver between awe and bliss at the beautiful landscape to pining for a lawn chair, a hot burger, and the radio. The chain goes on, the chain comes off. The buckets unpacked, the buckets re-packed. The bum breaks in the leather saddle, the leather saddle breaks in the bum.

mossy minks, snug jeans, and too many words

Dear Blog,

Let’s here it for success! Three cheers for 100+ miles!! I am feeling proud of myself and am going to bring you in with me. I never thought I would actually be on an adventure. It seemed like it was never going to happen. But I have spent hours and hours on two spinning circles making my way south. The motor has had some troubles, but for the most part, has been a real trooper, taking me up the hills and through scary merge situations on questionably biker-friendly highways.
A recap: I set out from Mercer Island around 2:00.

That's I-90. You can see Mercer Island across the bridge.

I biked downtown to Pier 52 where I boarded the ferry to Bainbridge Island. I had planned to make my way off the island by nightfall, but was foiled by my ineffable dread of being alone in the in-between of towns. So as per a man’s suggestion on the ferry, I decided to stay in the Fay-Bainbridge State Park on the northeast end of the island. En route, I found myself with a grand view of Seattle from across the Sound and I bid an over-due adieu to the city I cam to know so well. And I never saw it again. (or at least I haven’t yet).

I spent the evening trying to ward off the piercing alone-ness by catching up with as many people as I could and spent the night in a little slug-loved and damp campsite in the park.

A view from Fay-Bainbridge park

The next morning after getting to a late start, I discovered I had a flat front tire and experienced my first flat-fixing session with a loaded-down bike. Then about a ¼ mile into my ride, the idler pulley that gives the chain on my motor its tension decided to play hide and seek in the bushes while I was flying down a hill. This meant I would either have to hurt my knees on the up-hills or wait for help. Wisely, I chose the second option, and serendipitously, a pick-up stopped next to me, offering me a ride wherever I needed to go. He dropped me off at a hardware store, where it just so happened to be customer appreciation weekend and I was handed a hot-off-the-grill hot dog. They didn’t have what I needed, but I found my way to a bike shop where the mechanic there dedicated himself to my problem, crafting a new idler pulley out of an old rear derailleur. After several hours of sweaty adjustments, I had a working motor again. I decided to spend the remainder of the afternoon/evening in a coffee shop, planning out what to do next. As evening fell, I went in search of a sleeping spot. Bainbridge Island seems to be pretty well snatched-up as far as land goes. So I biked up a long residential hill, asking anyone who was outside if they wouldn’t mind lending me a section of their lawn to set up a tent. The 4th guy I asked said yes. He was interesting in that there was nothing interesting about him. Nor was he interested in why I was asking to sleep in his yard or who I was or anything. He matter of factly offered me his hose an then later a shower (which I declined). After a good meal of split pea soup and leftover salsa from my Mercer Island days I was feeling darn good. Being alone was no longer nearly as daunting and lonely. I think that actually having a small crisis and then overcoming it did a lot to my easing my anxiety. It was as if the whole time before, I had to throw up. Then finally I did, and felt much better afterward.
I left early the next morning and headed for Belfair, where I had arranged a house to stay in via warmshowers.org. It’s funny, after blasting destination orientedness, and our culture of destination orientedness, I found that having a destination is very comforting, and in this case, not limiting. Knowing where I was going, and knowing that I was going to have a place to sleep waiting for me helped me to have a really nice ride that day.

I remember one moment in particular when I was riding right through the Hood Canal watershed. The terrain was perpetually slightly downhill. A cool rain was falling through the canopy above and I was surrounded by old firs, ferns, and a sundry of other green things. The tall trees were wrapped in the mossiest-colored moss I have ever laid eyes on. It was as if a mob of mossy minks scurried in tight spirals around the trunks and limbs, leaving dense trails of fur behind them. It was magical. I couldn’t imagine the landscape without rain. Rainy seemed to be its natural way of being and I was perfectly content being a part of it all. After passing the entrance of a Christmas tree farm and then the exit and one Doug Womack for mason Public Utilities sign after another, I made my way into Belfair. David, my host for the night came and picked me up in his pick-up in front of the QFC and drove me to his beautiful 40 acre family plot. His house was situated near the top of this hill, next to a flourishing garden. I enjoyed talking with him, meeting his family and eating his delicious, expertly-executed omelette. We toured his garden and he gave me various colored potatoes.

Today was a nice ride; much drier than yesterday’s. I made my way to Olympia, stopping in Shelton for a grilled chicken wrap and a Blizzard from Dairy Queen. Sections of my route were along water: Oakland Bay and Oyster Bay. I finally got myself onto the Scenic Pacific Coast Byway (101) and made good time, as most of it was downhill, and my knees were hurting enough for me to use my motor liberally.

I am now In Olympia, feeling more American perfectly American, sitting in a coffee shop. The house whose yard I will be sleeping in is bright yellow and very pleasant. Like many of the homes out here, it is adorned with beautiful plants edible and ornamental. I am very intrigued by this city. It seems so familiar to me. It’s beautiful, full of beautiful people doing beautiful things.

this is the yard where I slept my first night in Olympia
It’s the kind of place that makes you acutely aware of your lack of spunk, of your mediocrity. But then you realize the people you’re surrounded by are not too cool for their britches, but simply seem like they have figured out what they want and need and are at peace. They seem intelligent and open to casual encounters with strangers. Everyone seems organic-fed and bicycle-thighed (this is only an assumption because most people’s thighs are stylishly hidden behind well-fitting blue jeans. But there are bikes everywhere. It’s the kind of place where you don’t want to be a passer-through, but actually live in. You look at everything with envy and awe. Looking out the window of a café, you have seen one person turn into three, turn into eight, all the while, the same chairs finding bottoms from new people. It’s like a low-pace game of musical chairs where everyone seems to know each other and instead of music, there are conversations. These conversations are embellished with friendly waves, shared cigarettes, shared doodles, and shared high fives. You see vagrants of all kind, young, dirty and healthy, living out of ratty back packs or crappy yard sale bicycles with wooden slats holding up a bundle of necessities. You want to be in the scene. You wish you grew up here. You wish you had a schtick or a very long luxurious beard or could sit for hours playing Go with an older intellectual.
It’s a place where you’re not rewarded with attention when you’re doing your own thing because everyone else is doing their own thing and doesn’t wonder at you or feel any jealousy.

How’s my body? Sore. My knees undertook a beating today and my elbows and wrists are starting to file complaints about the handlebars they’re forced to lean on. My muscles are feeling the burn, but in a good way. I think I have discovered that if I focus on using my muscles, my joints hurt less. Perhaps I have spent my life relying on my structure to do the motions rather than my muscles. Perhaps this would explain my perpetual and mysterious problems with joints. Perhaps it would explain my lack of large and impressive beach muscles. But these are all just peculation. I will have to look more into this topic.
I keep feeling like I should have something on my back. Perhaps it’s an association in my brain with this trip and the many back-packing trips I’ve taken over the years. Or maybe it’s some weird thing that happens when you are being propelled by a motor. I just hope its not a vacancy where my guardian angel usually hangs out.
I have not picked out a route for the rest of my way to Portland. And when I’m doing that, I’m not going to use Mapquest, because as David explained to me last night, when Mapquest doesn’t find the street you typed in, it defaults to the center point of the zip code. For Belfair, this spot happens to be in the woods next to David’s house. He wrote Mapquest a letter after many encounters with folks looking for the library and other institutions highly unlikely to be found way up his windy gravel road.
So I don’t know yet how I’m getting to Portland or when I’m getting there, but the prize is in sight. This excites me greatly and fills me with confidence that I can in fact accomplish a goal this summer.
Thanks for reading, and I wish you all good luck and motor assists in your own journeys.

Leaving?

Dear Blog,

It looks like I'm finally leaving. Is leaving the right term? Leaving seems to imply moving away from something negative like a bad relationship or a stifling hometown. Or leaving something behind. That's definitely not what I'm doing. I haven't counted, but I'm pretty sure I have been living with my cousins on Mercer Island for over a month. It has been an awesome month. Even though all the days have blurred together, I am here on the eve of departing with four close family members I probably never would have ever really known. I have made several new friends with some great folks. I have a new bicycle, and a growing knowledge base of 2-stroke engines and Starbucks lingo. I have evidence on my body of passing time (located on my chin and head), of bicycle repair (mostly on my hands), and of amazing meals and desserts (located mostly in the hips and buttocks). I have the confidence to find a store in Seattle without Google maps, and the ability to make a delicious salsa without epicurious.com. There is a lot that I will take with me from the time spent on Mercer Island and I am at a loss as to how I can show my appreciation to my cousins for taking me in as a third child home from college.
For those reasons, I am hesitant to say that I'm leaving.
But there's more. I'm also not leaving because it implies an end-- a clean break. But tomorrow morning I will walk out the door, mount my bicycle, ride for 20 minutes, and still be on the island. I will cross the I-90 bridge (which will seem much longer than it is) and will be able to look back on the island and actually see the house. It's on the hill on the southern side, right in front of the line of trees that border the QFC and the little shopping center a block from the house. I will then bicycle through Seattle, and until the afternoon will only be a bus ride or a phone call from domestic comfort. A ferry will take me to Bainbridge and I could still be considered to be in Seattle. And all through these landmarks will be minutes broken down by seconds during which I will be encountering various incidents and accidents, all the while thinking, reacting, and munching on food still cold from the refrigerator. It will be a gradual change into adventure mode, and that's just what I'm doing: changing. I'm going to be changing location, lifestyle, mode of transportation, spending habits, many things. And gradually, but before I know it, I will be on a vagrant bicyclist, looking (and being) homeless, dirty, spontaneous, and more public than most. Or at least that's how I'm choosing to romanticize it at the moment. But anyway, I'm not leaving, I'm embarking. That sounds much more exciting and enticing to the Gods of Adventure.

The other morning I thought that I was leaving and I had the jitters the entire day. In all honesty I am very nervous about this trip. I have never really done a bike trip, nor have I traveled alone for more than 48 hours, not to mention traveling alone on a bike trip for an undetermined amount of time. So many things are up in the air. For example, even though I have spent nearly every waking hour on preparing my steed for travel, I have no idea if it will behave or hold up to transit.







I can't even lift the darn thing off the ground!

Then there's my body. That hasn't been the most reliable part of my summer so far. I have no plans for where I will be sleeping from here on out, and for some reason finding a sleeping spot is much easier with another person to weigh in on decisions. Heck, most things seems much easier with a companion. Especially late at night when the bugaboos come and anxiety starts filling in the space where your lungs go.
Gosh, I hope my mama keeps her phone on the next couple of nights!! :o

But even though I'm nervous, I am definitely ready to leave. The summer has passed and folks around me are going back to school. It's time for me to take advantage of my free time and to go get em tiger and all that.
This is all, of course, hinging on whether or not I am able to actually and finally depart. My rig is the most ridiculous bike I have ever seen, but I think it's ready. Wish me luck, and please hope with me that the next blog comes from a new location typed by a young man full and intact. Oh, and while you're hoping, pray for me to find a thesis topic, will ya?
Thanks

Au Revoir!

P.S. Does anyone have a net for all these butterflies in my belly?

the guy at Starbucks officially knows my "usual"

Dear Blog,

So adventures are inherently uncertain. I'm pretty sure that's the source of their appeal and the reason for their pursuit. But when does uncertainty leave the realm of psychological or physiological arousal and enter the realm of inconvenience and disappointment? For the readers of my last post, you might think I am living it up on Lopez Island with my buddies, rumbling around on my motor bike. Well the day I was going to go meet the others, I learned that they were all experiencing travel fatigue, no one wanted to pay the ferry fees, and Casey wanted to go to Sarasota for a week or so. So I stayed in Mercer Island and my cousins extended their indefatigable welcome to all my buddies. So I said: Ok, as long as I get to see my friends I’ll be happy. This was true…to an extent. Friend times are always the best of times, but gosh darn it, I need to change the tempo of this summer. I need to go to places I’ve never been before, live with a mission. I’m afraid I have completely lost touch with the grand vision for the summer.

Patience, young flower; your turn will come.

The past few days have been quite fun. It’s been great introducing my friends to my family and visa versa (although I’m not sure how well I prepared Marvin and Kathleen for our collective laissez-faire/ je ne sais pas… life-affirming style. But it’s all been great.

The other night the boys, Cousin Caitlin, Rachael and I drove out to Carnation to watch the Perseid meteor shower. We were having a blast in our primo location on a dark baseball field and suddenly around 2:00, two police cars pull up. So we pretend to be asleep whilst the ultra-bright search light passed repeatedly over and around us, ruining our night vision. Now for some reason playing opossum seems to be the obvious response to these situations, and I’m willing to bet it’s because of the natural phenomenon with all police encounters, in which you are automatically guilty no matter what you have or haven’t done. There’s some deep psychological power inside that question: So what’s going on, guys? And then: Do you know that you are trespassing?

-…Sorry…

-You guys are going to have to leave.

-…Ok… The light scans our cluttered area and stops on our boxes of Girl Scout cookies

-Actually, none of you guys are on America’s Most Wanted list or anything, are you?

- I don’t think so…

-Ok, well you don’t seem to be causing any harm. I tell you what, you guys can stay.

Amazing! That encounter has taught me two important lessons: 1. Police can in fact be reasonable, and 2. Always carry a box or two of Girl Scout Cookies.

So a couple of days ago we dropped Casey, Evan, and Devin off at the airport. Gabe left yesterday. I have continued and will continue to work on my bike motor and hope to leave on a solo trip to Portland. If all goes well, this will be my maiden voyage on my new vessel, and I will be able to report to Casey that I am ready to begin our mission.

I haven’t lost sight of the original passion and dedication to the Listen Mission, and I am more ready than ever to make it happen. I hope, hope, hopey McHopelstein that the motor will be the answer to my woes. I guess we will see.

Progress has slowed slightly, as I think I have come down with a stomach bug. Last night I slept 14 hours, more than half of which were spent in a half-awake feverish delusion where I thought my body was an extremely heavy motor and each sleep session was responsible for making some sort of important, yet impossible connection with the exhaust pipe. I am feeling a little better, but still weak and nauseous (wow, how did that word get so many vowels?)

In other news, I am becoming increasingly worried about getting a job in this world. If you’re not an expert in something, it seems like it would be hard to find meaningful and invigorating work. And since I am having trouble finding something I would be willing to become an expert in, I am fretting. And then I look at commercials on the Olympics and I realize how good people are out there at what they do. Somehow a credit card company is able to wrench my heart strings and it’s more than their use of sepia tone and an emotionally charged Olympics story. It offends me and yet awes me at how affected I am. How can I be so impressionable? These marketing teams are unbelievable. They are masters at their art. Somehow they are able to make Michael Phelps’ diet of 10,000 calories per day and his video game addiction seem endearing and hear warming to me. I don’t know. I shouldn’t worry about these things. Right now I need to worry about getting out of these suburbs where people who stand out because of their joviality are dismissed as being “Zoloft-happy.”

I apologize that this post hasn’t been as enjoyable and rich with quotations from philosophers and insights, but I’m finding optimism in short supply. I have made the big leap to do something difficult and off the beaten path and have found myself freeloading at my cousin’s house for a month. How can I justify not getting a job or taking a semester off if I’m not out there figuring thing out, making discoveries and meanings?

I know, I know… it’s a strange way to approach life, living with all these lofty goals and romanticizations, but maybe one day, I will truly learn to find beauty and love wherever I am and in whatever I do. And then I will strum a few chords on my lute and ride off into the sunset on my motor bike, a wise and bearded man.

Did I mention all of the beautiful sunsets we’ve been having?

movies, ice cream, ice cream, pie, reading, coffee, ice cream, berries, driving, ice cream

Dear Blog,

So the title pretty much sums it up. I'm still on Mercer Island. Not to cheapen my time here, but I haven't written in over a week and I suppose it's because I haven't felt that the recent past has been all that noteworthy. Furthermore, I am so removed from the adventure that is The Listen Mission that if I were to write anything, it would be more appropriate to put it in a diary or a blog called David's Blog. So I had been neglecting my updates because I guess I'm not currently officially on The Listen Mission. But then I realized that the audience of this blog is only about as large as my close family and a couple of close friends, all of whom are not necessarily in it to see how the project is going, but to see how their little Davy-train and Casey-treat are doing. So now I'm finally blogging again.

I believe it's important for me to keep reminding myself that this is my big youthful summer of freedom and exploration; my time to rack up memories and stories so that I can encourage youngin's to do the same when I'm older and wishing I weren't weighed down with responsibilities and joint pains. Gosh, I guess I'm half way there already...
But it doesn't feel like I'm on my big adventure. The way things are right now is definitely not how I had imagineered in the months leading up to here. I am not that tan, sinewy, weathered yet jubilant traveler I had dreamed of. In fact my current lifestyle seems to yield results on the "au contraire" side. But to be optimistic about it, it is important for me to remind myself that this is indeed an adventure. Indeed I am taking a semester away from school and I am indeed learning new things. I am learning how to navigate the city, how to convert a car to run on veggie oil, how to use a bread machine, how to roll pie crust dough, how to make a mean chocolate sauce, and I am learning a little family history. I've also learned (through a conversation with cousin Kathleen) that perhaps I might be interested in adventure education. But don't get too excited. More than likely that's just the flavor of the week. Possible thesis topic? Who knows!
From another angle, I think it's important for me to remind myself I'm on an adventure because it is too easy to take everything for granted. Especially right now as I am living la vida luxury. Sure you could say this about anything: good health, or having people who love me and who I can love, etc. But right now, it's my ability to take time off from school, to have the privilege and freedom to embark on this Grand Tour of sorts that I feel grateful for. And I really think I should acknowledge this. Not with the angst that one often feels in confronting one's privilege, but in a way that involves sincere appreciation and the impulse to use it to its full potential. So in that light, hopefully I'll be able to join in the lifestyle that is more conducive to making memories and stories, but until then, I will continue to be revel in my stable and immobile state.
So how about a summary of my past week?
Well, sitting here trying to recollect makes me realize that all the days blend together like so many Starbucks Vivanno smoothies. I suppose I could make a list of things I remember in no particular order ... Would that be fun? Cool:
Hot tubbin, family movie nights with pizza and salad, fancy anniversary seafood dinner at Ray's boathouse, swimming in Lake Washington (especially challenging for a Gulf guy), driving Cousin Marvin to Tacoma, helping him pack and move out of his old office, painting walls a nice warm yet pale yellow, Ballard seafood festival, kite flying, berry picking, kayaking on Union Bay, Pendleton sweater buying, Adam living here for several days, veggie oil conversion attempt, bicycle searches, physical therapy exercises, drive to Mount Rainier National Park, card games, dominoes, dishwashers, Starbucks, pleasantries. Of course there's more, but I'm afraid that was going on too long.
If nothing else, this time has given me some peace and quiet. Time to be by myself a little. The last semester was so overwhelming. And then gearing up for this trip combined with the after-effects of the semester stress seems to have left me and my fragile psyche somewhat out of whack. This has been rather providential in that I have been forced against my will to relax and be content with inaction. I have been able to process a little which is something that even if I think of it, can never seem to do most of the time. That said, it hasn't been totally sweet missing out on the bike tour...

Seeing Adam has reminded me though, that even when I miss out on an experience or adventure with my friends, I'm not losing something irreplaceable. If I am on the trip, then whatever is happening is what is happening. It's the current reality, it's fun, and it doesn't seem all that remarkable, even if the stories are awesome. Then again, if I'm not on the trip, it feels like I am missing out on something colossal. But of course there is no allotted amount of awesome experiences and new ones are always just an impulse away. Plus, I am so lucky to have friends where every time we see each other, nothing is different, regardless of how much time or how many experiences have transpired in the interim.
So this time away has been good. I am so fortunate and grateful for having my cousins out here. They have taken me in as their own. They feed me and take me kayaking and let me borrow their car, gave me my own room, and include me in their activities. It has all been so relaxing and comfortable. But it has also been a time warp. It’s about time I get back on the road. There’s something about not having a day full of activities that make days seem extremely short. And there’s something about having a bunch of those days in a row that makes them all indiscernible from one another. It’s funny; this summer was supposed to be the most jam-packed, bodacious summer of all time, and yet of late, it is one of the only summers I can think of when I have experienced boredom that is often associated with a poorly planned summer vacation.

One of the first things Adam said to me when he got here was that I needed to leave. I think he’s right. He always seems to be right. He’s inherited the wisdom of his mama and every time I see him, he’s filled into it more. Our conversations send my brain on important trains of thought that it never would have boarded without him.

So I should leave… well it just so happens that-- dun-dun-dun!!! I probably can! No, my knee isn’t better. But that doesn’t matter! I’m motorized!! Well, almost. I need to find an industrial-strength chain tool and figure out how to get the thing started. But the big news is that I have bought a 70 cc motor and a mountain bike. Together, I should be able to travel upwards of 25 mph for a whopping 100 miles a gallon. It has taken me hours and hours of grease and magic curse words (and magic curses and greasy words) to get it all put together, but today I see an end. I also sold the original touring bike that facilitated my cartilage damage. I don’t harbor feelings of resentment for it, but I was happy to see it go.

So here’s my plan: Tomorrow I finish the motor and gear up the bike. Then the next day I figure out a way to get to Lopez Island where I will meet up with the rest of the gang, fresh out of BC. We have a good buddy from New College who lives out there in a house his father built. I hear it’s beautiful. It will be so nice to see everybody and hear the adventures and start living the life of the vagrant. We will come back through Seattle, though, and I want to cook a big celebratory feast for the family and friends. And then Casey and I can start filling up the website with content! Oh boy! The feeling of inspiration and purpose returns.

So I’ve been on Mercer Island long enough to clip my fingernails twice, and I am about to enter the lifestyle where all fingernail clipping will be done with my Leatherman.

Cue Gene Autry's "Back in the Saddle Again" (which coincidentally is on the Sleepless in Seattle soundtrack).