“There are two kinds of adventurers: those who go truly hoping to find adventure and those who go secretly hoping they won’t.” -- William Least Heat-Moon, “Blue Highways: A Journey into America”.
Twelve years ago, I could not have read that sentence at a more perfect time in my life. I had just completed 5 years working for the a monolithic corporation and a sense of stagnation sat on my shoulder. I was living on the outskirts of a gentile Southern city but suburban life wasn’t sustaining me. I felt a need for something different but the comfort of “the known” confined me to my familiar tracks. Yet, something rekindled my childhood love of motorcycles
With my first chance for a long vacation and just 6 months after buying my first road bike, I planned a 3-week ride that would take me 7000 miles through 16 states and over the Colorado Rockies. The first half of the trip would be with 3 other guys who I’d met through the online (yet fictitious) motorcycle club, the Denizens of Doom. We met for the first time at gathering, known as the Right Coast Ride, in Maryland. Two days later, we set out on our adventure and our paths would not separate until we reached the Ride ‘N Feed in Boulder, Colorado, a week later.
On that trip, I took one book to read: Blue Highways: A Journey into America by William Least Heat-Moon. I picked that book, which had been recommended by a good friend in college, because like Mr. Heat-Moon, we were making our way via the old, pre-interstate roads. In fact, our journey out only included about 6 miles of interstate required to get us across the Mississippi River.
As one would expect, we had our share of adventures from motorcycle accidents, mechanical failures, unexpected weather, large animals (e.g. bison), unusual and interesting people, and that typical motorcyclist malady, law enforcement officials. Early in this journey, I read the following sentence in the book which has stayed with me as a kind of touchstone for my choices:
“There are two kinds of adventurers: those who go truly hoping to find adventure and those who go secretly hoping they won’t.” (pg. 50).
My father, if he were still alive, would tell you that I was always a cautious kid -- I would always look before leaping. To be honest, I would “analyze it six-ways to Sunday” before my feet left the ground. I was a kid and young adult who liked the security of what was familiar and I expanded my universe not in giant leaps but in baby steps. I was not one to catapult myself into uncharted territory.
I’m not quite sure what the catalyst was but by the time I was 31, my sense of stagnation cultivated a need to venture beyond my own backyard. However, as I embarked upon this cross-country journey, I was probably one of those “secretly hoping they won’t” find adventure. Yet, something changed for me during that trip. By the time I limped into Lander, Wyoming, on a banged up bike with a mess of dirty clothes and in desperate need of a good bath, I was ready for change -- it just took me a few more days to realize it.
I could drivel on about this or that experience but a few days later, I was walking down the wide streets of Lander, and I remember saying to myself “I could live anywhere!” For me, that was when I knew I could take the road not taken. Four months later, I was living in the San Francisco Bay Area and my house in North Carolina was for sale. Little would I know at the time how propitious this move would be for me.
So, what’s my point? As cliché as it may sound, life is a journey and the linear way in which one step builds upon another can turn a seemingly small event, comment or decision into a life-changing sequence of events. By the time I arrived home from my journey, I had grown just enough such that I was “truly hoping to find adventure” or at least open to possibility of it.
Twelve years ago, I could not have read that sentence at a more perfect time in my life. I had just completed 5 years working for the a monolithic corporation and a sense of stagnation sat on my shoulder. I was living on the outskirts of a gentile Southern city but suburban life wasn’t sustaining me. I felt a need for something different but the comfort of “the known” confined me to my familiar tracks. Yet, something rekindled my childhood love of motorcycles
With my first chance for a long vacation and just 6 months after buying my first road bike, I planned a 3-week ride that would take me 7000 miles through 16 states and over the Colorado Rockies. The first half of the trip would be with 3 other guys who I’d met through the online (yet fictitious) motorcycle club, the Denizens of Doom. We met for the first time at gathering, known as the Right Coast Ride, in Maryland. Two days later, we set out on our adventure and our paths would not separate until we reached the Ride ‘N Feed in Boulder, Colorado, a week later.
On that trip, I took one book to read: Blue Highways: A Journey into America by William Least Heat-Moon. I picked that book, which had been recommended by a good friend in college, because like Mr. Heat-Moon, we were making our way via the old, pre-interstate roads. In fact, our journey out only included about 6 miles of interstate required to get us across the Mississippi River.
As one would expect, we had our share of adventures from motorcycle accidents, mechanical failures, unexpected weather, large animals (e.g. bison), unusual and interesting people, and that typical motorcyclist malady, law enforcement officials. Early in this journey, I read the following sentence in the book which has stayed with me as a kind of touchstone for my choices:
“There are two kinds of adventurers: those who go truly hoping to find adventure and those who go secretly hoping they won’t.” (pg. 50).
My father, if he were still alive, would tell you that I was always a cautious kid -- I would always look before leaping. To be honest, I would “analyze it six-ways to Sunday” before my feet left the ground. I was a kid and young adult who liked the security of what was familiar and I expanded my universe not in giant leaps but in baby steps. I was not one to catapult myself into uncharted territory.
I’m not quite sure what the catalyst was but by the time I was 31, my sense of stagnation cultivated a need to venture beyond my own backyard. However, as I embarked upon this cross-country journey, I was probably one of those “secretly hoping they won’t” find adventure. Yet, something changed for me during that trip. By the time I limped into Lander, Wyoming, on a banged up bike with a mess of dirty clothes and in desperate need of a good bath, I was ready for change -- it just took me a few more days to realize it.
I could drivel on about this or that experience but a few days later, I was walking down the wide streets of Lander, and I remember saying to myself “I could live anywhere!” For me, that was when I knew I could take the road not taken. Four months later, I was living in the San Francisco Bay Area and my house in North Carolina was for sale. Little would I know at the time how propitious this move would be for me.
So, what’s my point? As cliché as it may sound, life is a journey and the linear way in which one step builds upon another can turn a seemingly small event, comment or decision into a life-changing sequence of events. By the time I arrived home from my journey, I had grown just enough such that I was “truly hoping to find adventure” or at least open to possibility of it.
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