The packing...

Part of the challenge of the first leg of this yearlong jouney has been how to fit everything that I will need while I travel for over three months on the motorcycle cross country and back. The process begins with denial, as you simply don't acknowledge the limitations of your situation, and you just make piles of things indiscriminately. This works for a while, unit you actually have to put them in bags and mount them on the bike...

And this is only one of the piles!

Eventually denial gives way to reality. With time growing more scarce and the July 7th date for my workshop in British Columbia looming, I  become more willing to edit what I have, and to give over to the constraints that, if not there, would normally paralyze me into too much deliberation and not enough action. Even so, the bike looks over-packed, and having never carried this much load on it before, I wonder whether the bike will handle well on the road - or simply bottom out on the first bump.

Yikes! Can you say top heavy?

With the house completely cleaned and emptied and the bags piled and lashed to the bike, I make my final goodbyes and set out for the road. At first suspicious of every sound and slight variation in handling, the first hour on the Pennsylvania turnpike is terrifying, and I begin to realize how little thought I had actually put into just how feasible carrying this kind of load will be.

But as I start really eating up the miles along Rt 283 and 322 running through Harrisburg, I start to relax, realizing that the bike is indeed capable of handling everything I am carrying, and I am able to start enjoying the breathtaking views of the Appalachian mountains that fill the space between Harrisburg and State College. Like giant Chia Pets hopped up on fertilizer, the ranges at times follow the path of the highway, forming a green wall that obstructs any other view. When I crest a peak, however, the view opens up and I realize just how vast these mountain ranges are, and it is then that I remember why I am doing this on a bike.

Nothing makes you feel more immediately in the moment - more mindful of your surroundings, than when you travel on a motorcycle. I have crossed the country end to end three times in my life via Greyhound bus, but it is only now that I feel that I am truly "experiencing the experience". Every smell, every subtle shift in temperature, every noise (even if it is only the sound of your own engine), make me realize just how desensitized I was on those bus trips, elevated and air conditioned like some alien spaceship noiselessly hovering just above the land, indifferently surveying the surface of the planet. The bike is my awakening to a truer sense of my surroundings, and I can't even imagine how that will feel as I start to pass through parts of the West - let alone my time in Alaska.

It is nearly ten o'clock on Friday night, and I am exhausted. I find my way to a motel right off route 80 in Youngstown, Ohio and, after nearly 450 miles of riding, I drag my equipment up the stairs to my second floor room and pass out on the bed, not stirring once all night.