Buenas Tardes from Itzapa

“Buenas tardes” they call out from the short steps of tiendas down the cobbled main street of San Andres Itzapa, Chimaltenango, Guatemala.

“Buenas tardes” I reply with a polite nod.

I walk about five minutes to the center of town where buses to the tourist hotspot, Antigua pick up and drop off passengers, and the daily farmers’ market takes place, and where one can purchase a choco-banana for 1Q (1 Quetzal (local currency)= $0.12 US).

Daily farmers' market in San Andres Itzapa

Everywhere I walk I find grinning muchachos, smiling abuelas and giggling chicas who know in a glance that I’m not from around here.

In fact, just about the only people in this ciudad of some 30,000 people who aren’t from around here are the 8 of us volunteers at Maya Pedal (www.mayapedal.org), a bicycle repair shop that makes bike machines (“bicimaquinas”) as well as pumps up the occasional soccer ball or sharpens a dull machete or two.

Maya Pedal was founded in 1997 with the help of the Canadian organization PEDAL, and has since been enriched and operated by mechanical engineering genius Carlos Marroquin and the countless volunteers who live above the shop during their stay.

Many bicimaquinas have been designed and produced in this shop, including pedal-powered water pumps (“bicibombas”), bike blenders (“bicilicuadoras”), and bike nut-shellers (bicidescascaderos).

Bicilicuadora in action, photo courtesy of Maya Pedal

The living space in the shop is communal and a fee is paid monthly by volunteers to keep up with expenses such as internet and necessities like sponges and soap.  We keep tabs on who bought the last bag of fresh pan dulce (sweet bread) or pina on a notebook in the kitchen, and eat most of our meals together.

It is exciting to live with, and to some extent, live like, the people of Itzapa.  While Maya Pedal has contributed immensely to rural agricultural communities in the area with its machines (especially the bicimaquinas which increase the efficiency of processing corn, assist in making tiles for rooftops, or which pump water uphill for drinking and irrigation), the building itself is not what a typical American would call “fancy”.

The cots we sleep in look like they’re reaching the three-decade mark, sometimes the water refuses to leave the spigot, we’re lacking a sink in one bathroom and a working shower in the other, and as I write this, my housemates are trying to figure out why the lights upstairs aren’t working.

But believe me, this is no complaint.  This is a “hallelujah!”.

View from the roof ("techo") of Maya Pedal.

I grew up in a middle class family in a 2-story house in a quiet neighborhood on the outskirts of town. I never had to worry about having “enough” of anything.  Christmas and birthdays were excessive when I was a child, and the same mess of strewn wrapping paper and mangled boxes that filled the scene in my adolescence remains the norm for my young nieces today.  As soon as one gift has been opened, it is briefly inspected, then literally tossed into a pile to open the next.

Young children can’t be blamed for their reactions; it is a family’s job to teach children respect for materials, and gratitude for them. This is the price of too much wealth.

This year, I won’t be around for the holidays.  I won’t be there to watch feigned appreciation or forced smiles over the wrong gift, or hear the common tune of, “Wow.  How nice. Didn’t you get me one of these last year?  I think I have three already.”

Rather, this year I will be celebrating simply with Carlos and the other volunteers at his home with his family.  “Nadie esta solo en la Navidad” (No one is alone on Christmas) Carlos told me when I inquired about his family’s tradition.

In fact, family is much of the focus in Guatemala, especially for Christmas.

On my way back from hiking Volcan Fuego with a couple of other voluntarios last weekend, I had a conversation about this with a local man in the back of the speeding pickup bed more than half a dozen people were crammed into.

“It’s a religious holiday for us”, he said in Spanish over the revving engine and clashing of the truck’s wheels against the uneven dirt road. “It’s a day to spend with family”.

I fumbled for the words to explain how much different it is in the States, what with the glaring advertisements and holiday decorations towering ominously over the sales racks of Halloween, but I gave up and settled on, “I like it your way better”.

People are always more fun to talk to on public transportation.

This year, there will be no Christmas tree.  There will be no family within a half hour bike ride. There will be no hugs from my parents, my siblings, my nieces and nephew, or even the smell of my mom’s infamous nut bread or lemon squares.

But that’s okay.

My Escape is meant to be a learning experience. You never learn quite so much as when you’re far away from everything familiar, and you’ve up to your neck in avacadoes.

Or something like that.

This year, it’s “feliz navidad” for me, and I hope for you as well.

Simplify, simplify.  Hallelujah.

Thanksgiving with Carlos, Alan (the shop's one employee) and the volunteers.

Fear

"I'm going to be okay, right?," Maggie asked for the tenth time as she paused from packing her bike.

"The answer is always 'yes'," I replied, referencing an inside joke that had been a continuous source of giggles during the week we spent as room mates, work partners and newly-aquainted friends during our stay at Camp and Sons, a WWOOF (www.wwoofusa.org) farm fifteen miles East of Willits, CA.

But Maggie, an eighteen-year-old bike racer-turned-tourist, is on her own now to explore the coast, and she's both excited and nervous about it.

As the automatic gate closed between us, and I watched gravity pull her swiftly down the steep gravel road, I hoped I was right.
____________________________________

What is it that allows educated, logical, capable, and otherwise-confident women to hold onto so much doubt and fear? I see in Maggie what I see in myself and other female friends who dream big, but need truckloads of encouragement and reassurance to even get out the front door.  Thing is, they, and we, are told the world is not safe for women on their own.
________________________________________________

Months before I left on this trip, I told everyone I knew that I was going to take a year off of school to get an education, and that it would begin with a solo bicycle tour.  I was afraid that if I didn't announce it with gusto, I would back out and watch the dream slip away.

Many told me not to go alone because there are "bad people" out there.  Many asked what kind of weapons I would carry, and would I have a cell phone at all times, "just in case"?  

I let people tell me horror stories and exaggerated statistics.  I let them instill in me a mountain of worry, larger than any mountain I would physically climb, and I projected all of my fear onto one lonely road that to me represented all remote mountain roads I had never ridden: Highway 36.

The 36 is a 140-mile winding road that connects Red Bluff and Eureka, crossing the mighty Coast Ranges.  There are very few towns from Red Bluff until the coast, limited cell phone reception, and few cars.

No cars?  Sounds perfect, right?

Unfortunately, fear is a powerful driving force in my life, and I associate more traffic with safety; where there are people, there is help.  When I am alone, it is just me. If I need help, there is no one.

Just me, only me.  Alone.

And so, I did not ride across the Coast Ranges, and instead hitchhiked from Redding, which some might consider the riskier option.

Slightly defeated, and a little disappointed in myself, I continued on my journey, sometimes on roads with generous shoulders, and a few times on badly-paved narrow ones, the constant being a reliably heavy flow of traffic.

On the worst of them (a long stretch of 101 South of Crescent City, for example), I would hug what remained of the decaying white line and whisper-chant, "One revolution, revolution at a time," a mantra and reminder that every turn of the wheel is a step and a moment in a positive direction.  As I braced for the impact of every passing truck, I would try to reassure myself that I was getting closer to safety with every downward push on the pedals.

On what was scheduled to be my last night in Arcata, a local cyclist told me about a  short-cut to Bridgeville (and Stone Lake Farm, my next destination after Arcata) that would save me 15 miles, an extra day, and the hassle and danger of cars on the 36: Kneeland Road, the extreme opposite of the roads I have become accustomed to.

Kneeland is one of the most beautiful roads I have ever ridden, but it is by far the most challenging road I have ever ridden as well.

It wasn't the steep, winding hills that got to me, but rather the unexpected gravel which made up about half of the 45-mile country road.  After many miles and hours of dipping and weaving through foothills, I was totally surrounded by mountains, and very much alone.  Only one car passed me after the road officially turned to gravel, and because I have road, not mountain bike tires, and 90 pounds of bike and gear, I resorted to pushing (or more accurately, dragging and heaving) Salsa up just about every incline. 

After more miles, and more hills, and more hours distanced me from the last human I had seen, I grew increasingly aware of my frailty.  What began as a physical struggle to move my bike and my self, soon morphed into a struggle not to panic.

Kneeland Road

Between the dozens of prominent "NO TRESPASSING" signs and posted declarations that this area is patrolled by the local gun club, I did not feel very welcome on Kneeland. Adding to my worry was my concern that if I ran out of water, there might not be anywhere to refill for many miles. In addition, I needed quick, wholesome energy, and had not packed any fresh fruit because I knew I was headed to a farm where such a staple would be plentiful. Furthermore, I had changed my plans last-minute, and only two people knew where I was, and without cell reception, I couldn't call anyone anyway.

Just me. And Kneeland.

By six o' clock, it was clear that I needed to find a place to camp.  The road began to curve again, and I came across a small herd of cows.  "Follow the cows..." I thought to myself, glad to see another mammal.  A minute later, the road straightened out, and there on my left, just a little way down the hill, was my five-star luxury suite for the night: a weathered but sturdy-looking barn.
I checked that no one was around to see me scrambling down the hill in barn's direction (I was not terribly surprised to find myself still very much alone in the middle of nowhere) and surveyed my hideout.

The barn was nearly full of hay and it would have been pointless to try and open the door, so I climbed up the outer logs of the perimeter, then slid onto the neatly stacked bales. Yes.

Luxurious barn

While I cannot truthfully say that the sound of animals creeping about in the night didn't alarm me, or that I didn't clutch my machete like a teddy bear, that barn was the best place I could have slept that night. I also won't pretend that the following morning's bike-hiking was without the previous day's doubt and worry, or that when I finally reached that bright green beacon ("Bridgeville, 7 miles") I wasn't tempted to fall to my knees and weep, I am glad that I chose the route. 

Praise be.

In fact, I hope to ride Kneeland again, and again.  I hope to ride Kneeland Roads all over the world until I come to terms with the fact that sometimes it will just be me on my own, and I can take care of myself.  As Chico musician John Staedler sings, "There's nothing to be afraid of/ You are in control".

In the end, by the time I left Humboldt County, I had ridden almost exactly half of the 36-- the half I am told is the more important part to avoid when cycling-- and wasn't phased by it.
I am not cured, but I am getting closer.

Whatever it is that holds us back, keeps us down and whispers, "it isn't safe out there," there is something equally strong pushing us forward, lifting us up, and telling us to do it anyway.

To all women of all ages: What are your dreams, and what keeps you from reaching for them?

 All it takes is one revolution at a time.

Stone Lake Farm

There's nothing quite like the sound of a shovel scraping goat droppings from the packed dirt floor of a barn. There's also nothing quite as soothing as making this activity part of your daily routine.

I lived and worked at Stone Lake Farm for two weeks. On my second day, I told Francis, the man who runs this homestead, that I didn't feel like I was earning my keep with the simple chores I had been asked to do.

"Just wait til tomorrow.  We'll be hauling logs off the mountain for firewood" he said after his usual long, contemplative pause.

Yet despite the sometimes smelly, sometimes messy, sometimes physically demanding work it takes to keep a piece of land self-sufficient, my weeks on this WWOOF (World Wide Oppurtunities on Organic Farms www.wwoofusa.org) farm were far more enjoyable than anything.

My day typically began around 8AM when I woke naturally, turned off my alarm before the unbearable screeching could start, and shuffled through the shelves of dry goods (beans, rice, flour, spices) that were provided as part of my work-trade, and made pancakes and eggs from the farm chickens. A cup of fresh herb tea, tahini, goat cheese and garden greens completed the meal as I gazed out one of the many large windows in the Octagon, a solar-powered log cabin available to interns there.

From 10AM-2PM I worked on the day's project. This could be stacking wood for the winter, painting signs, making a scare crow, coring and peeling apples and pears for sauce, or gathering herbs for drying.

Earth and moon decorations for hanging in trees on.  Made of salvaged oil drum tops.

 

Lunch was an all-you-can-eat buffet from the garden: all kinds of greens, tomatoes, squash, cucumbers, carrots, beets, potatoes, apples, rasberries, strawberries and herbs, and something hot and filling cooked in a carboard and aluminum foil solar oven, which requires a little change of positioning and a few hours of afternoon sun to cook.  You can literally cook and bake anything in it besides twinkies (only because twinkies aren't food)and it will never burn. One day's meal was kamut-cornbread and chili and a nice strawberry goat-cheese cake for dessert!

Mmm! Salad!

Rice and beans, heated by the sun!

At 5:30, I fed the chickens, refilled the goats' water, cleaned up after them, and sent them to pasture by luring them out of their pen with tempting greens or apples. 

At sunset, Francis and I would watch the sky turn pink over the mountains of the Coast Range, and make a fire when it got dark.  Even though it was just the two of us, and neither of us really left the farm, it was hard to miss the city (the closest is a 2-hour drive) and all of its conveniences, bustle and noise.

There, I could simply relax, carve a spoon, write down my thoughts, take my time, paint, hug goats, and harvest the bounty of the garden. I adored carrying my bok choy and rosemary, an egg, a handful of basil, an apple or two back to the Octagon.  I took pleasure in slicing my carrots and seeing progress in the solar oven.  Living [mainly] off what the land provides is how people have always lived (until recently) and will have to live again.

I picked up Ernest Callenbach's Ecotopia (1975) from the bookshelf in the cabin during the first week, and was barely able to set it down until I finished it. 

It's a fictional account of a future in which Northern California, Oregon and Washington secede from the United States and form a seperate country called Ecotopia, from the perspective of an American journalist who visits to report on whether rumors of barbarianism and squallor are true.

The story quickly reveals Ecotopia's history- the demolition and reconstrucition of government, businesses and cities, the abolition of petrochemicals, plastic and cars, the restoration of forests and waterways, and the establishment of train networks, small towns and communes.

Reading this book and living on this farm got me thinking about the future again, and the paradigm shift that has to happen sooner or later (and wondering why it can't be now).  

If only people were like the goats at Stone Lake; just wave a rotting apple and some cumphrey leaves, and they come running.  They'll follow you anywhere for the promise of something sweet or something crunchy.

For now, I'll be content to shovel manure and pick chard and learn what I can, both at the farm and on the road.  I could have happily lived there for months, but I really must keep walking (and biking) this path until I am ready to lead with confidence.

First, become educated.

Then, educate others.

Tell them how sweet those apples are, then toss them as far as you can , and watch them dash into the open field with the breathtaking view of the Earth. 

No Car, Just Karma

"Here, near, black water/

Divine is/ dangling from every branch, black water/

Swallow up our hollow fears/

Steer us on, unphased"

-MaMuse

I gazed up at the dark, rainy heavens, stars barely peaking out from coastal mist, and sobbed "thank you" to the Universe.  

As I pedaled back to my base camp, a warehouse/jewelry studio on N Street, I sang Chico duo MaMuse's "Red Bird", a song that continuously becomes more and more meaningful to me.  It is a song I played during my first pre-trip breakdown a month before my departure, as I sit on the windowsill and hyperventilated, surrounded by the overgrown plants that hugged the walls of the house I called home.  

Still, I sing it.  Without any music to listen to for the first week and a half of my trip (for no obvious reason, my mp3 player became dysfunctional 2 days before I left) I sang to myself as my primary on-bike entertainment, and often "Red Bud" left my heart through my lips.

"Faith, faith we come from miles around/

Just to hear that precious sound/

Of harmony, from the mouth of the fool"

Tonight, I sang that song again, for new and deeper reasons.

"Fool, fool who is the innocent/

Courageous words are heaven-sent, to remind/

Strike the chord while it's hot/

Lead us to that sacred spot/

Where believe it or not, we are found"

I came to Arcata less than a week ago.

I wanted to spend a little time here so that I could get to know the place so many have called 'progressive'.  I thought I would get to know its progressiveness by touring its wastewater treatment marsh, visiting the Campus Center for Appropriate Technology (CCAT), and by observing its famous plaza.

And while I did all of those things, the phone call I made on my first day here changed the shape of my week exponentially.

When I visited Humboldt County with my room mates a month ago, I came across the Northcoast Environmental Center's (NEC) office near the plaza, and saw that an event called the All Species Ball would be taking place during my stay.  

This Monday, I called NEC's volunteer coordinator, Lisa, about getting involved with NEC during my stay. She told me, "Your timing could not be better" with a mixture of surprise and glee in her voice.

I told her that I didn't intend to spend my week lazing around on the beach.  I'm not that kind of person, and I didn't decide to take a year off of school to become that person, either.  I left school because I didn't believe I was helping anyone by poring over books or regurgitating information.  I left school to learn, to grow, and to contribute wherever help is needed. (Read about a hero of mine I have yet to meet: http://www.lostvalley.org/talkingleaves/node/114)

This turned out to include participating in CCAT's Volunteer Friday for a a few hours, and helping the NEC prepare for last night's All Species Ball, in total some 20 hours of service.

For the event, a fundraiser and celebration for the environmental coalition established back in 1971, I made 2 wooden signs that ideally will be used for years with minor touch-ups, tabled at the NEC's booth at the County Fair, and because the girl originally signed up to paint kids' faces at the booth had canceled for the morning/afternoon shift, I was able to try my hand at face painting on fidgety children. Enjoying that experience, and wanting to help out at the Ball anyway, I ended up painting even more faces for several more hours, and then cleaning up and organizing from the end of the Ball til midnight when it looked like there was little left to do and I was falling asleep.

I don't know how many hours I spent painting this...

...or this one!

This was my first "customer", a girl who wanted to look like a cat.  It felt really good to see a direct relationship between my efforts and the NEC donation jar.

Cheetah.

As the evening ended, I was introduced to a member of the NEC's board I had not met before, a man with sincere eyes and it seems a good judge of character. He was interested in the person who had shown up out of the blue on a bicycle, and who had been so enthusiastically painting signs and faces.  

As I started to leave into the rainy darkness, he stopped me to ask if I had received compensation for my hard work.

I nodded towards my panniers and said I got a free loaf of leftover bread.

A slightly overwhelming conversation followed, in which I was told that my energy was noticed and appreciated.  I left with cash in my pocket that I had not asked for, had not hoped for, and felt a little guilty for accepting.  Much more importantly- exceedingly more important- I learned that the man from whom I had just received a great deal of praise (and several bills) is the president of the NEC.

Every day this week, I have come accross more reasons, arguments, and people to [almost] convince me to move to Arcata and go to Humboldt State for a degree in Art and minor in Appropriate Technology.  

Many times last night, I had to physically leave the building and run into the warm rain, sit silently alone on the gymnasium floor of the Ball and process my thoughts, or break out in a furious, ecstatic jig on the dance floor to the live music.  My emotions were simply too much to contain.

"Geez! I could just move here!"  I would suddenly half-shout, half-announce to my new friends.

"Yes, you should." I would hear in response.

But last night, I came away feeling sure.  Sure that if I came back here in April-- after WWOOFing, riding to San Francisco for Critical Mass and Halloween, speaking at a panel on the spiritual journey of bike touring at Chico State's This Way to Sustainability conference, Maya Pedal in Guatemala, and Common Vision's fruit tree tour, all as planned-- I could settle here.  By the time I left the Ball, I felt confident that I could integrate myself quickly into this community through the Kinetic Sculpture race I will likely have the honor of participating in, the cycling community, CCAT and Humboldt State, the NEC, and the best connections I could have dreamed of.

This trip- my so-called Great Escape- is not an extended vacation.  My actions have been deliberate and calculated, but also out of love.

I don't carry hand-made prayer flags and thank you cards to give to people who help me because I want to make sure I can count on those people to help me again, I give my time, my energy and my gifts to others because I feel an urgency to give back as much as I can because I have been given so much. 

"I give thanks for what is given/

All for one, to the next/

Downstream, row, row/

Row your boat, gently down/

May the circle, be unbroken/

Merry-go-round/

Again."

I feel carried by karma.  Again and again, I give and receive, so I must give back again.  It is a lot of work to try and keep ahead, but I don't believe I could be happy any other way.

"Red bird who weaves the elders' song/

Into a message nest/

We are not alone/

We are the wellspring of those who came before us/

Of theirs our voices born, their song so ancient/

Older than we can imagine/

The gift of fearless love-givers"

I am reminded once more of something I was told by a woman in Trinidad, Carol, who was offering strangers hospitality through both http://www.warmshowers.org/ (a network of bike enthusiasts on tour, and those able to host cyclists who are) and http://www.couchsurfing.org/.

I had emailed her about a place to stay on my way to and from a friend's wedding in Crescent City.  She got back to me quickly, and hers was one of many similar messages in my inbox that week, mostly from people I had never met, but who were eager to help me however they could.  Carol had even taken to sending me relevant information about Appropriate Technology and Humboldt, and went as far as trying to track down a person I had heard built elaborate solar-oven adult tricycles and the likes in Arcata.

I felt compelled to tell Carol how grateful I felt after receiving the latest batch of useful emails, including several from her.

"I have a feeling I'm going to be 'paying it forward' for years to come for all the generous offers of hospitality I've already received from [you and Sid (another Trinidad resident and my future host)]  and others.  It's great to be reminded that most people are really nice." I said.

"Realize that WE are paying it forward for generosity shown to us by others, too." she replied. 

And so the circle continues, unbroken.

_________________

I met the right people here.  I accomplished exactly what I needed to.  I made an impression on people who collectively make up a place that made an impression on me.

So this is magic...

______________

All song lyrics from "Red Bud" by MaMuse of Chico, CA.  Please visit http://www.mamuse.org/ for more on my favorite singing duo.

Correia

I hate Arcata.

It's a nearly-Utopian society nestled between some of the tallest trees on the planet and the watery edge of the world, the Pacific Ocean. People smile at you as you pass on bicycles on the road, brightly-painted hippie vans can be seen parked near curbs throughout town, people with huge backpacks and foot-long dreadlocks can be found saying their 'thank yous' and farewells at the Plaza to heavily pierced-and-tattooed lesbian couples who picked them off from whichever highway they hitched from, and I haven't seen a McDonald's or Walmart for days.

I really hate Arcata.  That's why part of me wants to move here for college.

________________________________________________________

Yesterday, as I was pedalling past the Co-op, I heard an older woman behind me squeal, "Oh, what sweet little prayer flags!" from her bike.

She was referring to the string of hand-stamped, recycled fabric scraps I had tied to the back of my panniers.  I made about 20 of them before I left home, knowing very well that I was going to receive many favors from strangers, and would want to give them something meaningful in return.

The woman, Correia, is a married mother of three girls, a former Menonite, a long-time Arcata resident, and a newly-established bicycle-commuter.  Having recently lost 50 pounds since choosing to ride instead of drive, Correia was more than a little enthusiastic about her new wheels, and was even more interested in mine.

Within five minutes of having met me, this near-stranger was inviting me to dinner, offering a place to stay, and asking if she could pay me to babysit her youngest children.

I really, really hate Arcata.

_______________________________________

I assured her that if she was serious, I would love to talk bike touring, answer her travel questions as best I could, and eat Potato Broccoli Cheddar Soup.

By the end of the evening, we had made plans to go on a bike ride and picnic at the Arcata Marsh, and were already discussing my coming to stay for the Kinetic Sculpture Race (a human-powered race of huge, ingenius, psychodelic  contraptions in the design of animals, eggplants, etc. that must be able to move over land and water) in May.

Just before I left for the night, I gave them a prayer flag for their home.  In Nepal, these flags represent compassion and peace, and fly from homes and rocks in the mountains.  I know that this is a home that represents those ideals, too.

You're killing me, Arcata.  It's hard to feel so blessed.

Give, Receive, Give, Receive...

Aware of the location of both machete and pepper spray, I looked at the three middle-aged men whom I had just met, and who had just agreed to drive me the 150 miles from Redding to Eureka.

"I told my mother I wouldn't get in the car with a bunch of guys, but you seem nice enough... Mind if I text message a friend your license plate number?" I asked with forced confidence.  Seconds later, we were heaving Salsa's heavy rear end into the RV, the vehicle still dusty with the traces of Burning Man desert.

This is how adventures start.

__________________________

I had been trying to hitch a ride all day, starting at one gas station, moving to another, then back to the first when the phrase "no loitering" was uttered.  I found a homeless man digging through the trash behind one of the food marts, and asked if he had found any cardboard I could use for my sign.  We decided that the plastic-wrapped piece he pulled out immediately was perfect: no traces of rotting meat or diaper anywhere. Excellent.

I paid him with a squished bagel.

Determined to figure it out myself, but not become the headline of the local news ("21-Year-Old Female Bicycle Tourist Does Not Notice Bloody Pick-Axe on Front Seat; 25 Other Reasons Not To Hitchhike") my goal was to find a ride with a couple of women, a family, or a van full of hippies.

I was really counting on those hippies.

But the hippies did not come, and it got later and later.  I didn't want to appear (or become) desperate, so I barely asked anyone, and instead sat in the shade observing potential rides and drawing and painting a redwood tree to pass the time, which a sweet older lady bought off me.  

I rejected the 20-something-aged guys in a tiny car who seemed a little too interested in helping me out.  I even rejected the lady with a kid and a truck who would have taken me somewhere near Weaverville, and the single man who had space for my bike, a pleasant smile, and only good vibes.

And still I waited.

Finally, I rode further up the 299 and came across the three men with dusty bikes and a flat tire on their RV. 
Going by their Burning Man alter-ego names Kava-Mar, Flaco and Choco, brothers and friends heading to McKinleyville, took to calling me "Bluebird", and wouldn't accept my offer to help with gas.  I asked if they would accept a painting to commemorate their trip instead.

So I made them this, drawn and painted almost entirely in a moving vehicle between snacks, conversation, and long dreamy glances out the window at the passing scenery.

While I kept an eye on the guys, I knew they were trustworthy somewhere between when I overheard a discussion in the front seats about the biological makeup of antelope horns, and the one about the pros and cons of medical marijuana cooperatives.

And, because giving me a safe ride across the mountains wasn't helpful enough, they got me as far down the dirt road to my destination that night as they physically could.

Give, receive, give receive...

And there at the end of my ride, as if waiting to pick me up from my drop-off point, was a large and friendly black dog.  He seemed to have an old soul, and reminded me immediately of the dog I saw with my room mate, Meagan, 2 nights before I left.  We likened that dog in Chico to Sirius Black in the Harry Potter series; a protective godfather in disguise.

I heard someone whistling for the dog in the distance, but that dog didn't budge.  As I frantically packed my things back onto my bike by the dim light of my headlamp, I was more than thankful for that furry, panting guardian by my side.

I know there are more angels of sorts following me as I go. People at home, people where I go, animals that sense our needs, and trees that provide shade. I feel protected.  I feel grateful.

Give, receive, give, receive...

Deciding to Leap

It has now been five months since I made the decision to take a year (or as long as required) off school to hit the 'refresh' button, clean the scratchy CD with the edge of a t-shirt, and compost the organic matter of my existence into something healthier, freer, and more like the person I want to be.

The decision was made on a couch in a dark room as I stared up at a spinning ceiling fan, crying and likely talking to myself out loud. I had once again returned from a bicycle tour both shaken and stirred.  I was in a miserable state of longing for the split-second of my lifetime that had taken me some five hundred miles to gorgeous Yosemite National Forest with beautiful souls in cycling shorts. I wanted nothing more than to feel the way I did on that, and every tour I have been on, for more than one meager week at a time.  Since the first tour, I have dreamed of where I might go "after I graduate", "some day" or "in the future," those imprecise deadlines that never come unless we insist they do.

But there on that couch, less than an hour after arriving home from my latest adventure, I gave myself permission to do it again, but without limits.  I gave myself permission to escape so that I might breathe properly again. To take a chance and do something that might teach me something not found in a text book.

A 3.83 GPA student for years, yet barely able to focus through the end of the semester, I clung with determination to the vision I began to dream for myself. I reluctantly sobbed onto older friends' shoulders and attempted to calmly explain my rationale to the ones who raised me. Days after one of the most challenging decisions I have yet made, I wrote this:

March 29, 2010

I'm sitting in a chair in the corner of the BMU [at CSU, Chico].  A quick glance around my surroundings conjures images of corporate advertisement, televisions no one is watching, packaged food, toxic chemicals, locked doors, and technological dependence.

[Daniel Quinn's] Ishmael  by my side, I was here to do an assignment, but I'm thinking about my friends instead.  I keep daydreaming about my newly chosen path: a journey on my bicycle around California, learning building, farming, animal husbandry skills and life experience of the highest quality.  It will be like Into the Wild except I'm staying local and hopefully won't be eating any poisonous plants.  I feel gratitude for the events and people who have made my visions of escape within my grasp and who have helped me help myself by showing me I am capable of more than I thought.

The people I immediately think of ride bicycles, often long distances.  Many of them prefer facial hair.  Some ride absurdly long bicycles with too much stuff on them.  Some of them work with flowers, with vegetables, with compost. Some dance and sing and play musical instruments, some tell stories around campfires and whisper "I love you" .  Some bring me socks when my feet are cold, some show me how to use power tools, some massage my back while I am chopping vegetables, some tell me I'm beautiful when I don't believe it, some talk to cows, sing to cauliflower, carry their garbage for weeks at a time [for the Zero Waste Challenge], rant about 'society' and let me do the same, and some simply acknowledge that I exist.  All of them give me permission to shine my brightest. They say, "Yes, you can".  And I can.

My Great Escape is still a very long way away, but I'm preparing my mind now, because despite how far I've come, I still must overcome my doubts, disregard "better judgment" and reject the idea that the most respectable, educated people are the ones who receive diplomas [although I believe I will eventually do the same].

I want to learn the hard way; it builds character and is a lot more exciting. 100% Authenticity.

Why I Ride

 As I pedaled my way out of Oroville on my beloved [and over-burdened] bicycle, having just gambled for the first time, having stopped at the Feather River fish hatchery information center where I finally came to understand the highly unnatural human 'intervention' in ecosystems that hydroelectric dams require, and having just glanced over at the towering Buttes that had been previously hidden from view by the man's seemingly structural genius, a huge smile erupted from within my face.

I thought about the last few days' adventures, a mixed concoction of sweat, wild nature, and cars, cars, logging trucks, and more cars.

A sensible person would have driven a vehicle from the valley to the Regional Rainbow Gathering in the mountains on a hot summer weekend, because a sensible person wants to get to their destination in an hour and a half, not six and a half hours on the saddle, and six hours of badly-needed rest breaks.  A sensible person does not cycle laboriously through 111 degree mid-July heat on curving mountain roads, nor do they wear red monarch butterfly capes and zebra-print mini skirts over padded shorts.  But a sensible person has far fewer stories to tell than long-distance touring cyclists.

Without a car, everywhere I travel can become its own adventure with extreme highs and lows both geographically and emotionally.  Because I cannot speed through anyplace, I can't help but notice my surroundings.  The unexpected becomes the norm, and the unexpected is what keeps living beings from sinking into the death bed of dullness.

At Gold Country Casino, an impulsive detour, I strolled through a maze of bright flashing lights and and expressionless, empty gazes that watched them, hoping for a big win that might make today a little less dull. Almost as soon as I entered, a tiny white-haired woman touched my arm and half-whispered to me, "Dear, I just wanted to tell you how attractive I think you are.  I just love your pretty shawl and just had to come over here and tell you how nice you look!"

I thanked her and explained that the butterfly wings help me glide up hills faster.  I think I must be the first young person she'd seen in awhile.

Being a thrift queen as always, I decided to try my luck on an entire dollar, and in a flash of colored lights and repetitive jingles, it had disappeared before I understood the game I was playing.  They don't let you use coins anymore, and the pull-handle didn't work.  Nevertheless, no money wasted since I made myself an iced coffee from the Complimentary Drinks section.

I had only been away for a few days, but looking back on the ebb and flow of my experiences, from the excitement of leaving town with my friend Karen, to the frustration of infinite climbing, to the exhaustion of summer heat, to the worry of running out of water, to the relief of a fresh water spring, to the joy and danger of speeding downhill, to the beauty of sudden glimpses of vistas and blooming flowers, to the feeling of accomplishment and happy reunions, how much longer it seemed I had been gone!

There are some minutes and hours when I am touring that I question my sensibility in choosing a form of transportation that makes everything more complicated, more difficult, more physically demanding, and more dangerous...

But the rest of the time, you'll see me --cape fluttering in the wind, lips mouthing the words to my favorite singing-songs, sweat beads rolling off my cheeks, and legs pumping to the rhythm of the universe-- smiling from eyes to toes and back.

Isn't it great to be alive?