What sends a sixty-something woman across the United States on a bicycle, alone with all her stuff for four months? I could argue the case for adventure: “Because it’s there,” or the outcome of unmet dreams: “Because I can,” or the calling of God: “And to some He gave the gift of legs.” I could sit with you for hours and wines on branches of what I audaciously call “me,” but will let them unfurl as I go along
I’ll get right into it and say that the route follows mostly rural, little traveled roads, avoiding cities and major highways. This provides the best scenery and the least danger from cars and trucks. But it also offers fewer stores, motels, and restaurants. And that means I must pack a tent and sleeping bag. Don’t get me wrong, I like a bed and a hot meal, but when you choose the road less traveled, you often accept a campsite in a strange forest, granola for dinner, and eerie sounds in the night.
If it mattered more to me whether I survive, I’d fear the bear, the rattlesnake, and carless or intentional assaltants. But I have already died. That’s harder for a young person to say than it is for me. My life is basically lived now; there’s little to protect.
