Don't Think Too Hard

In my experience, having an adventure is as easy as speaking before thinking. We're not taught to speak before we think; quite the opposite. We're supposed to measure our responses before verbalizing. But if I had considered the ramifications of a journey on horseback before agreeing to participate, I may never have said yes. And if I'd really spent time consulting my bank account and worrying about sunburn, I probably wouldn't have ridden a bicycle across the country with Andy last summer. If I'd thought long and hard about the risks of traveling through India alone and had tried to develop an itinerary beforehand, my plans would have withered from the start. All of my adventures have started with impulsive commitments to things I knew nothing about.

Once I make a commitment, I am typically steadfast. I don't even consider bailing, unless things are looking really positively dangerous. And then, it's usually too late to bail, anyway, so it's only ever a fleeting consideration, nothing more.

Yesterday Andy and I watched a documentary called "Ride the Divide" about a group of cyclists participating in the annual 2,745-mile self-supported "Tour Divide," a race along the continental divide from Banff, Canada, to the New Mexico/Mexico border. Andy decided immediately that he wanted to do the race. I thought I'd probably have to spend a year or two mountain biking before making an attempt, since I'm such a roadie, but agreed it looked outrageously appealing. Snow drifts, grizzly bears, gravel slides, herds of cattle, rain, injuries, wilderness, isolation, you name it. The winning time is usually 17 days and change. And half of the participants usually drop out. The documentary showed cyclist after cyclist collapsed alongside the road weeping. We also saw some mean looking blisters and wounds. The cyclists who go fastest don't carry tents and ride 15-20 hours per day.

Andy and I thought about the race all day today. Somehow, it wasn't until we were eating dinner that the stupendous realization dawned.

"ANDY!" I gasped. "WE COULD DO IT ON OUR TANDEM!" He looked at me with widening eyes and grinned. I launched myself across the table at him, almost overturning our soup bowls, grabbed his shoulders, shook him, and yelled again, "ON OUR TANDEM! WE COULD DO IT ON OUR TANDEM!"

From there we sprinted to the computer to Google the race's website. We clicked on the "contact" link and wrote a quick email to the race organizers. "Would we be allowed to participate on our tandem?" we asked, and clicked the send button.

Then we decided to take a look at past race results. There on the 2010 results page we saw a tandem bicycle listed -- the first and only tandem bicycle team to complete the Tour Divide. We would be allowed! We were psyched. We could take a train to Whitefish, get a ride to Banff, haul ass on our bike to the Mexico border, and then rent a car and drive home. We could leave our family in charge of our business while gone. We could do the whole thing in a month. We could save every penny and dime from now until then to pay for our emergency chocolate milk fixes and super-insulated sleeping bags.

And then we saw the date of the race. It's supposed to start the second Friday of June. And June 23rd is the date we're supposed to be hosting that big wedding party at our house. As in, our own wedding party.

Back while the soup was simmering before dinner, before I thought of riding the tandem, I spent a few lazy moments scanning over Facebook. I clicked a link somebody had posted to an article about the five most common regrets people express in old age. I've been worrying about mortality lately, so I had to take an indulgent peek. One regret was not living a life true to oneself; another was not making the conscious choice to be happy. A common regret men expressed was working too hard. Andy is always talking about working harder and making more money, and I'm always telling him it's far more important to do the things we want while we can.

After dinner, I told Andy about the article I'd read. "We shouldn't worry about taking time off from work or about whether or not we can afford it. We'll never regret it." Then I reminded him how happy we were when we rode across the country. "We were saying all the time how we wouldn't rather be doing anything else!"

"But what about our wedding?" he asked. Fortunately we were already married in Tennessee in October. But we were going to have a big party on Midsummer's Eve in Pennsylvania, with all of our friends, and even be legally married again.

"We can change the date," I said. "We can get married whenever we want."

He stills seems hesitant.

I think that if we think about it too hard, we'll decide it's too much trouble.
So I think we should just go ahead and commit. We can deal with the complications as they arise. The important thing is the blind, impulsive, happy commitment.

I'm ready to go.