100 Miles of Solitude

It’s 12:37am in Bucharest, Romania and who knows what time according to my body clock. I am not sleeping after the long flight here from Washington, DC—Northern Virginia (NOVA) actually, but that doesn’t matter to anyone outside of NOVA. Sleep has been less reliable these days. Maybe something to do with being 60.

I’ve been thinking about the 100-mile century bicycle ride I did just a few days ago. I had fun posting a few pictures of the journey in real time on Facebook. Many friends and family posted encouraging messages—“You can do it!... Way to go, Brian!... You got this!...” A few asked the key question. Why? Was this an organized ride? Was this for a cause? Is this typical for me? The answer to all these questions is “no,” which leaves the question, why?

On one level I can say it’s been sitting on my bucket list for years.

When we moved to NOVA from Amsterdam in 2008, I was excited to learn there are numerous bike paths in the area. I’ve always loved biking. In my own way. I’m not a road warrior racing guy. I’m not a Saturday morning group ride guy. But I’ve done a lot of biking. In Amsterdam, of course, a city built for bicycle transportation. But it didn’t start there for me.

When I lived in Southern California in my early 20s, I biked to work, to the YMCA, to town, to just about everything. I enjoyed that so much I signed up for a bike trek from San Francisco to San Diego, panniers (little bike suitcases) strapped to my ride with clothes, camping gear, food, etc. Words cannot express the rush, the purity, the sheer delight of flying through the downhill bends, the wind of accelerating speeds whipping across my sun-soaked skin, ocean shore a hundred feet below, the mountains of Big Sur rising above, hugging the cliffs of the Pacific Coast Highway.

I liked that so much I continued with one of the other riders to Tecate, Mexico. Why that wasn’t a good idea, why we had to ditch our bikes at a bus depot, how we ended up in a make-shift bullfight ring that collapsed on us, how we had to run through the border to get back to our bikes… well, that’s another story for another day.

But I liked that so much I trained to be a bicyle tour leader and led a group on a ride from Seattle to San Francisco the following year. How I was almost killed by a falling tree on the first day, how the experience led me to serious introspection and, among the majestic redwoods of Northern California one early morning, a turning to God… well again, another story for another day.

I guess the point of sharing those moments here is to say that cycling has played a special role in my life, in different times in different ways. It was perhaps inevitable, then, that I would want to complete what I came to call “the W&OD Century”—100 miles out and back between the trailhead in Purcellville, VA and Washington, DC.

I don’t know if that fully answers the question, why? Why would a 60-year-old with a cranky shoulder on one side, tendinitis on the other side, calves, ankles and knees that send regular messages that they are not alright, why do it? All I can say is it’s in me and it was time to come out.

Which leads to how. How did it go? How did it feel?

No one word could capture the full experience. So let me try and break it down. I certainly feel the satisfaction of a thing completed, something I planned for, prepared for, dreamed of doing one day. Done. And that feels good.

But there are other words, other feelings. One word that comes to mind… it was lonely.

I had hoped to ride with guys like Alex, Will and Paul. Every once in a while we come together for a special ride. Some of us completed the 184.5 miles of the C&O Canal tow path a ways back. A couple of years ago we rode 60 hilly miles to celebrate Alex turning 60. And we did an even hillier version of that ride when I turned 60 this year. None of them were able to join, however, so I would have to take this one on solo.

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t mind being by myself or doing things on my own. There’s a good dose of introvert in me. I like being able to do what I like when I like the way I like.

But that comes at a cost. I experienced that deeply when I was in my 20s and doing all the things. Colorado, California, the bike adventures, a 30-day trek in the Bighorn Mountains of Wyoming, New Hampshire, Spain. All on my clock. All on my own. With others, different people each time, no continuity, no enduring relationships, so on my own.

I prefer company. In our church community we call it fellowship. It’s not casual, it’s intentional. It’s not temporary, it’s enduring. It comes from a decision that life is better when lived with others. I made the decision in my mid-20s (remember the Redwoods?) to make relationships—with God, with family, with spiritual community, with friends old and new—the priority in my life. My best life is lived when adventure, challenge, meaningful work, relationships and growth all connect. Life is better together.

Maybe that’s why I posted the ride on Facebook. In a way I was able to experience community through the engagement. I suppose that’s the good side of social media, this opportunity to connect and share meaningful experiences when we can’t be together physically. If only that’s how people were using it. Some do, I’m sure. But I’ve seen too many people on my daily walks glued to their phones—ignoring the quiet call of nature, blocking out their kids and anyone else or anything else in the real time real world. Maybe that’s another story for another time.

In the end I feel like I stretched, pushed, tested, moved, reflected... and because of all that, I learned and grew just a little bit. In the end maybe that’s the why. It’s about exploration, discovery, about becoming more. I like that. Every answer leads to new questions. Every adventure leads to new paths. I look forward to the next one. And to sleeping.