For several years, bicycles have been my passion. What started in childhood as a means of commuting became more of a hobby when I went to college. I have fond memories of riding a cheap hardtail mountain bike up into the foothills around Boulder, whether hauling myself huffing and puffing up steep mountain roads to Flagstaff and Gold Hill, or rolling around singletrack mountain bike trails. I was never in great shape for these adventures--I nearly always wanted to stop riding at least once during the steep climbs--but there were always something satisfying about being out in the mountains, and there were always amazing views at the top.
Yet in spite of my home state's reputation for outdoor life, It wasn't until I moved out to east Tennessee that I really got into cycling. I spent most of my grad school time commuting to and from campus on my bike, and I found that being on the saddle was also a great way to explore parts of Knoxville and the surrounding area that I hadn't seen before. I increasingly turned to my primary bicycle--a 2015 Salsa Vaya I dub the Blue Meanie--as a vehicle to enjoy life. Part endorphin rush from cardio, part means of staying in some semblance of shape, part world exploration, part time to enjoy other's company (or my own, when riding solo), rides have nourished my body and soul alike.
Over the years, as I rode more, I began to get interested in bike tours. I heard of my in-laws' trips across the country and over Europe, read about people riding all over the world, and dreamed of doing similar adventures. There was always something keeping me from taking a major trip--I never felt like I had the time, resources, or possibly even the courage to go cross-country--but I started to find ways to do weekend excursions. In 2016 I went out to the North Carolina coast for Cycle North Carolina's annual coastal ride. A couple of times I rode my bike down to Townsend for cabin overnights on trips in the Smokies. I did some day-trip mixed-surface adventures in the mountains with my friend David. Then in 2019, over a couple of weekends I rode from east Tennessee's northern to southern border (a little over 200 miles), spending one night camping between Knoxville and Chattanooga.
I had every intention to keep doing bigger and greater trips. In the winter of 2019, I started planning to ride parts or all of the Appalachian Gravel Growler in western North Carolina over the span of a few weekends in Spring 2020. This trip never materialized because of two reasons. First off, in early March 2020, I rode the route of the Hardford 50, an annual gravel grinder--the supported ride is in August--in the mountains of east TN/western NC with over 6,000 feet of climbing. About 2/3 of the way through the ride, and with the greatest climb still ahead of me, I hit an emotional wall. The thought of hauling myself up another hill made me miserable, and I thought that if I could get a ride to the top of the last climb, I would do it. Unfortunately, this was in a remote area, so I was on my own, and it was getting close to sundown. I think the only thing that kept me moving forward--often pushing my bike rather than riding it--was the fact that I was in the middle of nowhere with no phone service, and that I wasn't prepared to camp. If I didn't move forward, I would risk below-freezing temperatures with no food or shelter. Fortunately, I made it back to the car shortly after sunset. But the experience left me a little less confident in my abilities. Gravel and elevation, I learned, make a significant difference in the amount of ground I can cover in a given time.
The second reason my Appalachian Gravel Growler trip never materialized is the same reason that so many trips never materialized in early 2020: the pandemic. Looking back, I could have managed this trip during COVID, since it was a series of largely self-supported weekend camping trips. But early on, we just didn't know how much risk we could take. Sure I wouldn't be exposed by riding solo outside, but if I needed to get supplies, or if something happened and I needed to get a ride from someone or stay somewhere overnight, I feared exposure to an unknown and unprotected illness. For the first few months of the pandemic, I only did rides where I could start and finish at my house, so I wouldn't even have to worry about stopping for gas or bathrooms along the way.
Still, I continued to get ample saddle time through day rides. In 2020 the bike was probably my main coping mechanism for all of the anxiety I had surrounding the pandemic and presidential election. I managed to ride 2500 miles in the calendar year, a personal record I have yet to beat. Then in 2021, I continued riding, adding mountain biking--I purchased a hardtail Trek Marlin--to the road adventures I had been enjoying for years. Then, my riding dipped, but for a happy reason: in November of 2021, my wife and I welcomed our son Ian into the world. Rides since fatherhood have become shorter and more local, usually centered around when Ian goes down for naps and/or we have additional help.
Being a dad has given me joys I didn't know I could experience, things that are really hard to put into words. Still, I can't help but feel like I stopped bicycle adventures just as I was getting started. Now, I wouldn't trade my time with Ian for any sort of two-wheeled experience, but I sometimes I wonder why I didn't do more when I had the time. I was always worried about saving limited graduate school funding, and then needing to establish myself in a new career. Then when I got work, I didn't want to take time off. Now, I can't believe I didn't take advantage of all of the opportunities I had. I worry that my window has passed. Sure, there's a chance Ian will want to go for rides with me when he gets older, but we're years away from that, and it isn't even a guarantee that's something he'll want to do.
To a degree, I think the solution here is for me to just accept the fact that I may have missed my chance for certain adventures. Having a child requires sacrificing some of my own dreams, and that's just the way of it. I would feel greedy and negligent if I spent all my time on the bicycle while leaving my wife to take care of raising Ian. Lately, though, I've wondered whether perhaps I've gone a little too far to the other end of the spectrum. The experience of Hardford, the pandemic, early parenting, and more general uncertainties over my family's health have started to instill a fear of going into unknown environments. What if I got stuck in the middle of nowhere and couldn't get back to my family? When we travel, what will we do if someone gets sick and needs a doctor? Several times over the past year, we have had to cancel or postpone plans because of illness, and part of me even wonders whether it's easier not to make plans at all, so I don't get disappointed when they flounder. I think it's possible that I'm sacrificing some experiences I don't actually need to sacrifice.
I want to continue to be able to ride, even as I navigate the challenges of middle-aged adulthood. Earlier this year, I was forced to take a couple months off riding altogether after crashing my mountain bike and breaking bones in both my hands earlier this year--an experience I would not recommend, by the way. Being off of the bike made me realized just how much a few rides every week can do for my mental health, to say nothing of the physical benefits. I want cycling to be a part of my life, and I think that I am better off with it than without it. And even if I'm not going to be riding cross-country any time soon, I'd like to still see if there are ways I can do shorter adventures, possibly even ones where the family can accompany me. I miss riding to Townsend and meeting Katie at a cabin. I wonder if there are ways we could go out for a few days in the mountains somewhere where there is enough for Katie and Ian to do while I go on a grand ride or two. It might even be nice some day to try a weeklong trip, provided we can manage childcare and work schedules.
Lately, I've been thinking lots about the Buddhist idea of the self. The second of the four noble truths postulates that suffering exists because of our clinging to an idea of self that only exists as a mental construct. The entity I label as "I", "me", "myself", etc., is not a fixed item, but rather an ever-changing accumulation of thoughts, feelings, experiences, and actions that only solidify as an entity in our perception. This amalgam feeds on clinging to thoughts and ideas that are not necessarily in line with reality. In my case, the notion that I will always be able to ride like I did when I was younger could be seen as one form of trying to attach permanence to a fundamentally impermanent existence. At the same time, though, I wonder if the adventure-free life I have now has arisen from clinging to an idea that I can somehow prevent bad things from happening to me and those around me if I lead a guarded and passive life. The self-construct is tricky like that--the impulse to carefully craft and protect an idea of a fixed self can come from multiple, sometimes conflicting, angles.
Spending more time on my bike isn't going to automatically bring me happiness if I continue to cling to an illusory self. At the same time, avoiding bike time altogether can lead me into completely different patterns of clinging. Ultimately, my challenge here is to find the best way to live in the present, with those I love, and to live without fear and without regret. I think that some amount of time on two wheels would help achieve this goal, but no amount of time on the bike alone would get me there.