A Lonely Road to Nowhere, Article 5: Waiting is the Hardest Part

The year that followed my decision to delay the beginning of my bike ride was simultaneously the most frustrating and exciting year of my life.

It was frustrating because all I wanted was to be on the road.

It was exciting because for perhaps the first time ever, I knew where I was going.

In the year that followed my decision to go on my bike ride, I moved on three separate occasions, I quit four jobs, and I lost a ton of sleep thinking about just what exactly I was preparing to do.

For most of the spring, summer, and fall of 2024, my mind stayed focused on work. I moved back down to the Kenai Peninsula and worked another full summer at the lodge.

I asked my mentors Dave and Harrison a ton of questions about their respective rides and bikes in general. To their credit, both were incredibly helpful in their guidance and advice.

I also started researching bikes. I knew I wanted a touring bike that was sturdy and could hold a lot of weight. That much I managed to figure out on my own.

After scouring the Internet through the summer months and covertly stopping into some bike shops for test rides, something started happening that caught me by surprise.

With each new step I took towards this weird idea that wouldn't leave me alone, I felt myself inching towards something resembling a meaningful path.

All my life to that point, it felt like I had been drawn in twenty different directions all at once.

The opportunities for me felt endless, and it seemed impossible to determine which way I ought to go. So, I mostly made decisions based on what would be met with the least resistance.

I hadn't ever wound up half-dead in a ditch somewhere by following that course of action. But I can't say I ever truly felt alive, either.

Everything about what I had done before setting off on my bike ride felt up-in-the-air. I made my decisions by shrugging and heading somewhere new rather than stepping back and determining what would be the best course of action for me.

That philosophy started to change with each new step I took towards my ride.

With every new development or regression during my year of preparation, I kept returning to that one question that was keeping me up at night: What decision would lead to the bigger life?

When I'd quit my telecommunications job, that question had tapped me on the shoulder begging for an answer.

Not-So-Sweet Ride

After an entire summer of research, I finally decided on my dream bike: The Kona Sutra touring bicycle. It was tough, built for long distances, and it had a classic look with a nice Brooks saddle and fenders on both wheels.

It looked like a bike I could spend the better part of six months riding across North America. I called a bike shop in Seward, Alaska, to see if they had it in stock, and the owner said they did.

I drove out to take it for a spin. Surprisingly, it was a bright, sunny day in the little fishing port of Seward. Perfect conditions for a bike ride. I moseyed into the shop and talked to Karl, the owner, for a short time.

Karl and my mentor Dave were good friends, and as such, Karl probably thought I knew a thing or two about bikes. I did my best not to tip him off to the contrary.

I eyed a Kona Sutra bicycle in the front window and asked if I could take it for a spin. Karl took it down, screwed some pedals on, and wished me well after I left my driver's license behind on his desk.

I took off down the sidewalk towards Resurrection Bay. Within seconds of riding the bike, I knew it was the one for me. It was smooth, sturdy, and not too hard on the wallet.

A smile spread across my face. I was taking another step towards my ride. A big one, in fact.

I cruised down a walking path that ran along the bay and took in the stunning views. Because the weather was nice and it hadn't quite reached shoulder season in Alaska, tons of people were out and about.

I rolled down a flat stretch of sidewalk past a playground filled with kids playing. I slowed to a halt to test the brakes, and they performed well.

As I started to put one foot on the pavement, I felt my shoelace get stuck in between the bike chain and the front derailleur. I couldn't get it free, and I started to lose my balance.

Gravity took over from there, and I tumbled to the pavement right in front of all the little children frolicking about on the playground.

The most magical invisibility cloak in all the wizarding world of Harry Potter couldn't have hidden my humiliation at having crashed a bicycle I didn't own on flat ground at a dead stop in front of a play area filled with elementary-aged children.

A guy behind me asked if I was alright, and as I awkwardly picked myself back up off the pavement and freed my shoelace, I waved off his concern.

Physically, I was fine. My ego, however, had just taken a major blow.

I considered it a sign and flipped the bike around to head back to the shop.

I was one (very embarrassing) step closer to the beginning of my ride.

The Next Step

I didn't end up buying the bike that day, as much as I wanted to. I waited for another few months to make that purchase.

But I did plan out my first-ever bike trip. I took three days off and drove up to Denali National Park near the end of the fishing season on the Kenai Peninsula. Once there, I rented a bike, hopped on one of the park busses, and rode to the end of the Denali Park Road.

Back in 2020, a landslide took out a section of the road at Mile 45.

Adventurous souls could skirt around the landslide on foot by following a gravel bed, and I chose to do so. Because for whatever reason, I considered myself an adventurous soul.

Some “adventure” my decision turned out to be.

During that 60(ish)-hour trip in Denali, it rained on me for about 55 hours.

A series of streams with ice-cold, chill-you-to-the-bone water cut into the gravel bed. Trying to get across these streams with a fully-loaded bike without getting soaking wet was a futile endeavor.

By the time I reached the road on the other side of the landslide, all I wanted to do was turn back and drive home so I could get a nice, steamy shower.

I plodded on through the freezing rain for the next two days, though.

I drove home through the night and made it back to the Kenai Peninsula tired, cold, and very much discombobulated by the experience I'd just put myself through.

By the time I took that shower and laid my head down the following evening, one thought kept running around in my addled mind: Did I really want to do what I'd just done for a whole six months?