Grief & Growth
A creative nonfiction short story from my 2013 bike journey, never before shared or published.
I'm safe. I'm healthy. I'm free of pain. And I'm on an unbelievable journey. It's not always going to flow smoothly. And, you know what? That's ok.
Everyone asked me if I was nervous. I told friends that I was excited, which wasn’t necessarily a lie. The body doesn’t delineate between nerves and excitement. Admittedly, I felt aimless, heartbroken, and afraid. Will I actually mount my bike and peddle away from my home state, cycling 4,200 miles to the other coast? My body began to buzz two days prior to leaving. I felt like a volcano, rattling, shaking, brewing up the perfect storm to erupt.
The buzzing was a response to push me out the door. It was human’s most basic survival technique, a hormonal and physiological response to flee from safety, run from lions, and forage for food. This reaction was DNA-certified to catapult me out of my gloomy friend’s basement, through the thick walls I’d built as shelter weeks prior, so I could pump my legs to the tune of my wild, beating heart, forgetting—temporarily—that it had been broken three times in three years.
My commitment to fulfilling a 23-year goal the summer of 2013 wasn’t any easier than keeping a New Years Eve resolution to give up chocolate ice cream. Ending a 19-year relationship three years prior required getting used to making decisions on my own. I needed certain things in order. I completed a 40-hour bicycle maintenance course, researched routes, and broke the news to my parents. My car was securely stored, my passwords and keys were in the possession of my parents, lest anything happen to me. To others, readying for a bike trip across America looked a lot like preparing to die, except instead of a will, I had checklists. I examined a variety of rain gear, shoe covers, helmet covers, gloves, knit hats, down jackets, and sleeping bags. Therma-rests, camping pillows, bike shorts and socks. Sunblock, sunglasses, stuff sacks, and flip-flops. Extra tires and chain lubricants.
Even with the checklists and new gear, I wasn’t able to prepare for many of the unforeseen events I was about to experience. I woke up and realized the natural stimulant hadn’t subsided. The buzzing. No—despite feeling downhearted and melancholy, it wouldn’t stop. I was all animal. No drug made me feel this way, no energy drink, or gold medal. My heart rate thumped faster than usual. My breathing felt short and shallow as if I had just sprinted a 5-minute mile. My senses cleared, concise, honed, and ready to take on anything. It was as if I shot a thousand b-12 pellets into my body; with all that buzz, there was no choice but to bicycle the Trans-America and Atlantic Coast route if just to level out.
I kept my eyes shut, savoring the last moments in my bed, whose decadent linen sheets I paid too much for. I had a man tell me once that he never wanted to leave my bed. It wasn’t because I was in it; it was the sheets, he said, and we both laughed. I rubbed my feet around enjoying the last moments of comfort in my cozy cocoon knowing that it would be at least 4 months until I was in its irresistible warmth again.
In my friend’s basement, just hours before embarking, you’d know I was anything but comfortable. If you were to study my body under a microscope in a bio lab, you’d see that the amygdala, an area of the brain that contributes to emotional processing, was sending a distress signal to the hypothalamus. “Release the endorphins! Kick it into gear so she’ll actually go!” it shouted. This area of the brain functions like a command center, communicating with the rest of the body within the nervous system so that a person has the energy to fight or flee.
Apart from fight or flight being human condition, to an athlete, it’s motivation. American Airline’s magazine, Americanway, printed an article on extreme athletes. “A significant part of attempting these feats is realizing one's ability to overcome fear and pain to accomplish a goal,” it read. “As athletes continue to push the boundaries of what's physically possible, people who study them are realizing that the mind is just as great an impediment as the body.”
And that is why my mind spoon-fed me endorphins like a parent feeding their baby pureed carrots. Not just my physical body needed fuel, but my mind did as well. It was odd to lie in bed, the safest place in the world and feel the buzzing. I felt more alive than I've ever felt. Sleep was fighting adrenaline, and it wasn’t going to win.
I launched into my trip like a space shuttle blasting into bright, scary orbit. I felt good, but the numbing of emotions, the walls of protection I had created for years, began to crumble like a cape flying away from a superhero’s back, exposing his Achilles tendon. Years of driving to and from Mount Hood to instruct snowboarding meant familiarity with every curve in the road, grade, speed zone and legend, including Silent Rock just miles before Government Camp, Oregon. The break in this massive rock where a section of road cuts through Highway 26 demands radios off and conversations to a halt, no matter how juicy or hilarious. I religiously respected this superstition hundreds of times over my 14 years in Oregon. Legend has it that when you respect the silence through the rock, you will have luck that day on the mountain. I wasn’t necessarily a superstitious person; however, I accepted every prayer sent my way, every good luck charm I received, and every positive “vibe” I could get. I turned off my music, removed my ear buds and paid homage, once again, to the silence of Silent Rock. Cycling through the 100-yard stretch, I reminisced of days snowboarding and the significance of this mountain in my life. Viewing its peak above the highest clouds from my airplane window, symbolized coming home. And now, I was leaving.
For the first time in all those years, I passed through this massive rock on a bicycle. The bike gears made their monotonous, yet soft clicking sound. My breath was deep and loud at this elevation. Cars and trucks roared by me. The wind whistled through my helmet. It was anything but silent.
When you take an extraordinary journey like this, you pause and process. You register it all: the air, manure, stagnant water, road-kill, and flowers. You allow the time and space for those smells to bring you back to associations of those fragrances and memories. You wonder if it’s a sign or a lesson to learn when those associations become something different. As I finished my respect to Silent Rock, I felt a sudden urge to be in uncharted territory, making new memories, instead of festering in the old.
After all, it was only 10 miles up the road from this exact place on the mountain, that 9 years prior I vowed “I do,” in front of family and friends that raised me to who I am today. We met in Mr. Carlyon’s physics class in 10th grade and were assigned lab partners. He was a skater with a pierced tongue and became more than a lab partner. It was the beginning of a 19-year relationship.
I completed my third day at a remote campground only miles from where my wedding took place. Why had I decided to begin this journey in Portland of all places?, I wondered. I took a right turn just past Timberline Lodge, thrilled that I had successfully accomplished a 59-mile day, ascending 5004 feet over the Cascades in 7 hours. I cruised down the single lane paved road into the Still Creek Campground noting the self-pay station wasn’t even being maintained yet for the season on June 5. I had the entire place to myself, and yet my tired muscles didn’t have the endurance to look for the best possible campsite, so I picked the first site I came to, dismounted my bike and softly placed it on the ground covered in moss and leaves. I observed the stature of the old growth trees towering above me. They must have been a thousand years old, and with that wisdom, seemed to say: you are young and naïve and have so much to learn. Yet the trees formed a protective canopy of greenery that created a secure feeling, as if back home in my bed. I set up my tent, fastened the fly down and grabbed my stuff sacks of clothes and toiletries from my bike trailer. As I walked back to the tent, I stopped suddenly as two butterflies passed inches away from my eyes, playing as dusk started to set in. In that moment, something inside of me broke. All the tension and grief I’d carried for the past few years began to flutter away. My failed marriage. My sad heart. I let everything drop out of my hands and allowed the first tears to flow in a very, very long time.
John, a good friend asked me over tea one day which emotions I looked forward to not having after this devastating time was over. I took a minute to process. Tears slowly ran down my cheeks. I tasted the salty water running into the corners of my mouth and my big, blue, sad eyes looked into his and I said, “None.” I need to feel sadness to feel happiness. It was the first time in my life I had acknowledged my feelings and vulnerability to this extent. I was finally allowing space to grieve and heal.
The surrounding evergreens at the campground absorbed my sobs, as I howled like a wild animal. I climbed and climbed that third day and hauled 80 pounds that felt more like 350 pounds of sorrow, shame, anger, guilt, hurt, devastation, and embarrassment. I did everything I could to push down the emotions around my marriage, a miscarriage, a death, and a new love. I processed, cried, screamed, and actually felt.
I wanted to heal. I cycled east in order to discard the pain. A modern form of fight or flight, since there were no wild lions to chase me. My strength grew, confidence took over, and the buzzing finally subsided. I shed that cape repressing sorrow and fear and began to genuinely feel excitement, independence, and freedom. The ride was anything but silent. Day after day, I clipped into my pedals, with a confidence so innate that my heart shouted, no matter what life has dealt me, I am Jess and I continue to be on an extraordinary journey!