"My wife and I have been planning on becoming full time RVers. What's been your greatest challenge?" That's what the solo bicycle tourer asked. He was resting at the coffee shop in Patagonia AZ, tweaking his fully-loaded touring bicycle. The answer was easy: "demographics." Since he was a married man, the brutally truthful answer to his question would have been, "Your wife." But I wasn't in the mood for being that brutal with a pleasant stranger.
Then I tried to pry him away from his pre-planned route along sometimes-shoulderless highways and tempt him into riding on dirt roads through magnificent high grasslands. Of course there was a disadvantage: it would put him behind schedule. I don't do "schedule." I doubt that he followed this advice. It's a good reason why I could never really relate to the culture of long distance bicycle touring. I have a penchant for latching onto these soloists.
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In Baja once, I met a young man who bicycled all the way down to the tip with his girlfriend, put her on a plane, and was cycling back to the USA alone. His rear wheel was falling apart. There were no real bicycle shops within hundreds of miles.
I had an unnecessary extra wheel (not just the tire) that was just taking up space in the van. I offered it to him for $10 or for a good letter explaining the art of bicycling in Baja, as he preferred.
He seemed taken aback by my offer, the way a wise child should refuse free candy from an older stranger. Peter was poor, idealistic, young, and proud. He was a struggling artist and a bit of a hippie, at least on the surface. He graciously declined and went back to his tent.
The next morning he relented and accepted the rear wheel on the terms offered. He brought over some bread baked in a wood oven at a locally famous baker, that had pulled him over to this spot in the first place. It was fine. Peter thought it was important not to commit to too many miles per day; he needed the flexibility to run into interesting places.
And off he rode. I never really expected to hear from him again. I watched him ride off like the old carnie watched Dorothy of Oz walk off with little Toto just before the twister hit and thought, "Poor kid--I hope he makes it."
A month later I was in this cute little town named Patagonia AZ, for this first time. I had just gotten a letter from Peter back in the USA (Bishop, CA) explaining the art of bicycling in Baja. It was literally the first day of spring and it had snowed here, 19 miles from the Mexican border.
That was a long time ago. What has happened to that young man? Has he married the girlfriend? Is he up to his eyeballs in debt and domestic trivia? Recall Tolstoy's famous comment in War and Peace, about how marriage and domestic trivia destroy all that is noble in a man's life.
Did he give up his painting? Oh probably so. He is a grown-up by now, you know. I never saw one of his paintings. If I had, they probably wouldn't have meant much to me, since art of that type never does. But how I admired his art of living.
Then I tried to pry him away from his pre-planned route along sometimes-shoulderless highways and tempt him into riding on dirt roads through magnificent high grasslands. Of course there was a disadvantage: it would put him behind schedule. I don't do "schedule." I doubt that he followed this advice. It's a good reason why I could never really relate to the culture of long distance bicycle touring. I have a penchant for latching onto these soloists.
_____________________________________________________________
In Baja once, I met a young man who bicycled all the way down to the tip with his girlfriend, put her on a plane, and was cycling back to the USA alone. His rear wheel was falling apart. There were no real bicycle shops within hundreds of miles.
I had an unnecessary extra wheel (not just the tire) that was just taking up space in the van. I offered it to him for $10 or for a good letter explaining the art of bicycling in Baja, as he preferred.
He seemed taken aback by my offer, the way a wise child should refuse free candy from an older stranger. Peter was poor, idealistic, young, and proud. He was a struggling artist and a bit of a hippie, at least on the surface. He graciously declined and went back to his tent.
The next morning he relented and accepted the rear wheel on the terms offered. He brought over some bread baked in a wood oven at a locally famous baker, that had pulled him over to this spot in the first place. It was fine. Peter thought it was important not to commit to too many miles per day; he needed the flexibility to run into interesting places.
And off he rode. I never really expected to hear from him again. I watched him ride off like the old carnie watched Dorothy of Oz walk off with little Toto just before the twister hit and thought, "Poor kid--I hope he makes it."
A month later I was in this cute little town named Patagonia AZ, for this first time. I had just gotten a letter from Peter back in the USA (Bishop, CA) explaining the art of bicycling in Baja. It was literally the first day of spring and it had snowed here, 19 miles from the Mexican border.
That was a long time ago. What has happened to that young man? Has he married the girlfriend? Is he up to his eyeballs in debt and domestic trivia? Recall Tolstoy's famous comment in War and Peace, about how marriage and domestic trivia destroy all that is noble in a man's life.
Did he give up his painting? Oh probably so. He is a grown-up by now, you know. I never saw one of his paintings. If I had, they probably wouldn't have meant much to me, since art of that type never does. But how I admired his art of living.
Comments
I sometimes remember with wonder those small things that ended up having an impact on my life. Chance meetings with strangers, seemingly random events, small unexpected happenings. Little things at the time but many years later I still think of them sometimes and the lessons they taught me.
I wonder if that young man remembers you and if he ever wonders where you are today?