Coming Home: Matt's Final Thoughts and Announcement

For a few days I was downright embarrassed about coming home. I was embarrassed to be home. I was dis-eased, to say the least.





Before we left I let the lease on my apartment in Huntington, Indiana run out. I wasn't dying to stick around after college. I was also pretty sure that I was going to attend Oxford University's Master's Program of Sociology (a fact that I think greatly surprised my professors...I'm not sure if that speaks to their impressions of my intelligence or to the rarity of getting into a place like that). So anyway, I left without occupying a place to live in the United States.





A few days before the ride ended, I learned that funding was not going to be provided for school like I thought it was. That's never good news.



(I guess it was one of those times that comes standard with being human when you've got things all figured out and then all-of-a-sudden everything goes away and you're left with nothing.)



Being home was embarrassing. Instead of being the one who graduated from college and then went on to pursue significant things that were already set up as the next step toward a successful career, happy marriage, and long and fulfilled life (etc); I wasn't going to do anything. I wasn't going to get more smarter :), or get to meet a lot of famous world leaders (turns out that Desmond Tutu is a visiting lecturer at the college I was going to go to at Oxford this year), or do anything at all anytime soon. After coming from such high plans, from such a worthy journey, that takes a few days to recover from.



It wasn't until the first week had passed that I was able to settle down.



I went, somewhat reluctantly, with my mother to the farmers market one afternoon. Wednesday, I think it was. There were a lot of people who didn't look like you'd expected them to after reading about them from educated, affluent writers in The Atlantic. I think maybe they just get their food from the 'elite' farmers' markets. (I don't care who you are, $3.90 for a peach is always insane; compare to $1.00 for Swiss Cake Rolls).



A guy with an old Brett Favre Jersey kept making my mom laugh with his low, mumbling voice and somewhat off-the-wall comments. At one point he made my mother jump back, raise her voice, and say "No! I definitely do not want to try that plum!" I haven't seen my mom do that in years. She really likes going to his stand. Mostly for experiences like that.

Spending more time with my mother I noticed that her lifestyle has become quite trendy in many circles. She buys her food fresh, in season, and local. She makes a lot of her own things. She's healthy. She's made, makes, or is capable of making her own clothes, curtains, quilts, and just about anything else one needs that has a cloth base. She reads often, and is well read, yet asserts her intelligence upon others only when asked. And when creating any kind of a mood for a home, or someone she's in conversation with, it's always peace.

So I quickly remembered the lesson that riding through green forests beside a river in any mountain range, deer playing in the forest not 100 yards into the forest: this is a moment of life, treat it no differently than the rest of the moments.

I've never been a big fan of the idea that one should "live like they were dying." It seems like if I really did that I would quickly fall on much worse times, as I would not only fail to plan for tomorrow, but I would do things that would probably have negative consequences tomorrow, as I invariably wouldn't have to face them. I'd be dead. I think maybe what the writer of that song was trying to express is this: savor every moment of this life instead of rushing them all along because you're too worried about the future.

And so I'll savor the time with my family. I'll savor the time meeting people at my dad's new church. I'll put mental emphasis on the people around me, instead of the fact that I don't have much to do and the embarrassment that comes with that. I'll enjoy getting to pick on my sister Amy when she doesn't want to do what the rest of the family is doing. I'll enjoy shopping and cooking with Karen. I'll enjoy playing basketball with my dad on Tuesdays. I'll learn from both of my parents via observation. And I'll enjoy spending long evenings talking to them about nothing in particular. I'll enjoy taking care of Andy when he wrecks his bike and tears his face to shreds, just because he's alive. I'll enjoy changing the community and learning from our my parents' neighbor. And I'll enjoy being in eastern penn. It's a beautiful place. Because soon I won't have the luxury of being around these people. I'll have moved on to the next thing, and if I don't cherish this time right now, with these people around me, I won't get another chance to do that with these people again. Not ever again. And so I think I've taken a few small steps toward understanding connection.

Seattle: A rushing end

Our ride into Seattle proved to be, perhaps, the hardest of the trip. The hills were steeper and much longer than any we had encountered to that point. We didn't see that one coming. We also got lost. After a while we asked a lady for directions and she just called her husband to drive us down to the Southworth Ferry so we didn't get lost. We were impressed with the kindness.

The ferry came and we rode on. Soon to encounter the city that was our dream all summer. Well, sort of our dream. The ride wasn't as bad as that might imply. Nothing really exciting happened. A pretty girl got on the ferry with us. But then she disappeared and we didn't see her again...I don't think she drowned--nothing in the paper the next day. We must've just missed her.

And so it goes. We rode to our host's home, met his room mate, a German student studying abroad, made some dinner and fell asleep to a movie. They each had studying to do, though the room mate invited us to her friend's CD release party and a few other events around the city that weekend. They were both very friendly.

The next day we were on our own. We explored the city. Morgan walked his bike everywhere, had pizza for lunch, and chilled out. Andy got his friend to get him a free Kayak rental and paddled around the South Lake, along with riding his bike around the city. Matt woke up after both of them and took his time riding around the city, eventually meeting his friend (whom we stayed with the rest of the time) as she got off work. We met up later that night and went to a block party, then a park with a great view of the skyline.

The rest of the weekend we spent figuring out our bikes, shipping, etc for getting back during the morning hours (our host worked the morning hours). During the afternoons we would go to different things: swimming (it was the hottest it had been all summer: 90 +), cooking a huge meal, and going to Mars Hill to listen to Mark Driscoll preach (it might also be noted that our Uncle Steve had some influence in seeing Mark; the other bit of influence was the fact that our host already went there).

Sunday night we also went to a catholic church to hear hymns played by a beautiful pipe organ and different men in the community sing. It was beautiful.

And so that was our last weekend on our bicycles. It was ideal, probably. We all enjoyed ourselves. We enjoyed talking to and learning about our beautiful hosts (they were all women, seven of them, to be exact). We appreciated their hospitality and putting up with our mess as we tried to cram our stuff into big cardboard bike boxes. The whole was bitter sweet. More sweet for some. More bitter for others. The whole weekend was pretty busy though, and there wasn't a lot of time for reflection.

And so the journey ends. It's back to the Americans on the other side of the country--only it'll just take a few hours this time.

Idaho's northern tip: 150 miles of hunger, irritation, and bliss

We had stayed longer than we thought we would in Hamilton. That was OK. It was more than OK. We had three weeks to get somewhere that would only take us a week to ride--if we were going straight there, that is. Nevertheless, there was no doubt that all of us were still a little tired.

So, being tired and all, we decided to ride. From Hamilton, Monday morning, we proceeded to ride 90 miles to Jerry Johnson Hot springs. They were less commercialized than the first hot springs we had stayed at in Southeastern Idaho (remember Challis?), but they weren't as far away enough from the road to make us feel comfortable breaking the rules and pitching tent beside them.

Along the Clearwater river runs rt 12, through the beautiful Northern part of Idaho. It's green forest, clear river, and mountains made for excellent riding, not to mention that everything was at least slightly downhill--it's all river-grade from the top of the Lolo pass to Lewiston, ID on the other side of the state. The wind often made up for the slight downhill, however, and riding wasn't always as easy as it might have been. Welcome to our summer of riding bicycles.

Jerry Johnson Hot springs were a series of ten or more pools formed beside the Clearwater river. The pools that did not connect to the river were between 80 and 100 or more degrees. Others mixed with the river water to make cooler ones. Everyone had their pick. There was also a sign that said "clothing optional." That was a first was a couple of us. Luckily no one else was there.

Later that night our camp-stove ran out of fuel and we, being 50 miles from the nearest town, began to get a little nervous. We salvaged some dinner--cold baked beans and a few pieces of bread--and sprinted to set up our tents as a swarm of mosquitoes started biting us all of a sudden. We were also running short on water. We were beginning to second guess our decision to stop at the hot springs, but we had already pedaled 90 miles. We couldn't really have gone much further, right?

The next day proved that wrong. We made 50 miles in the morning like it was our job. Or like we didn't have any food left. Or like we were going to ride 150 miles that day to meet our friend. Though it would be lying if we said that we weren't a little annoyed at each other during certain parts of the day.

50 miles, or was it 55 miles? to a town in the state park that had a loaf of bread and water that wasn't drinkable. We ate peanut butter and honey--a recent staple in our diets. Morgan was getting tired of peanut butter so he had trail mix. Andy couldn't help but argue about the mix of peanuts he had just paid a high price to eat. It was one of those irritable moments for all:

Andy: "Matt, go tell him he can just buy something down the road. They have a grocery store."

Matt: "haha, is he irritated with you?"

A: "Ya. It's too bad I'm the one who has to give him any good advice. He won't listen when he's tired of me."

M: "That's too bad. You give such good advice."

Morgan walks around the corner carrying Chex-Mix and a peanut based trail mix. No one said anything. We all knew we were a little tired and that spells of irritation came and went. kind of.

Andy waited a while to pick up the bag that he, no doubt, thought Morgan needlessly spent an African village's water money on:

A: "Do you know the main ingredient in this is peanuts? Didn't you say they were making you sick?"

Morgan: "Peanut butter was. There's a difference."

At least their voices were kept low. The argument continued.

Other than the occasional fits of irritation--and they were primarily held in those morning hours--the ride that day was quite pleasant. It was cool. The woods were among the most beautiful we had seen. And after the first 70 miles we had food and water aplenty.

Except for the trucks. Did I tell you about the trucks on rt 12. Everyone told us about them. They didn't really tell us not to ride it. Well, they did. But they also told us that all kinds of others ride it. They just said it was miserable. And they were right. For probably 20 miles along rt 12 there isn't really a shoulder. It's right along the river, so at least if you go over the 20 feet or so of steep hill it's just into the water. The trucks literally came within inches each time at about 60 mph. Matt swears one of the trucks brushed up against him.

The adrenaline that each passing truck forced into your system was enough to make you insane. That sort of energy created from a negative situation makes it hard not to blame the individuals themselves for the situation. I would imagine that years and years of that would make you want to kill all kinds of people. I wondered if wars and mass killings weren't more than just the killers' faults. Often we don't fix situations we have the power to do something about.

Eventually we would ride in the middle of the road and put our hands up when we saw truckers coming. They slowed down, and were often quite unhappy. They gave us more room, though.

We stopped at a subway with 40 miles to go. At this point we had realized that if we got our friend to pick us up in Lewiston, and if we were going to go to Portland after his place, that we would be coming back down south anyway--so getting a ride straight north wasn't technically cheating. That was pretty exciting. And with that good news, a stomach full of subway--both of which contributed to a high morale we set out to Lewiston.

We arrived at midnight, or close to it. We had just pedaled 150 miles on bikes that weighed 80 pounds. We were pleased with ourselves. We were pleased with Jon. We were pleased with life.