Why am I doing this?
As I write this, it is still pouring rain outside. It dumped 50mm today (that’s a lot of water), and it didn’t let up for one second of our 45km ride. It was hard. It took ten minutes to regain feeling in my fingers as I ran them under warm water. I got a flat with 11km to go, and rode it all the way into town for fear of getting too cold to start again if I stopped to change it. Not that my fingers would have been able to pry the tyre off the rim anyways.
It was one of those days when I wonder why I subject myself to this stuff. I’ve had similar thoughts mid-portage, and post stepping on a wasp nest while planting. But today, limping those final kms on a wobbling back wheel, water literally pouring off the rim of my hat, I was asking myself; why am I doing this?
“How’d you sleep?”
“Fucking terrible.”
This exchange was yelled between mine and Rob’s tents 2 days prior to the rain deluge. It was a clear sunny morning, but the night had been frigid, and Rob’s first back on a Thermarest after a few months at home. So, naturally, between the cold and lack of substance separating body from ground, it was not a restful sleep. I smiled. Reason #1 why I’m doing this: people are honest out here. Truth is an evasive concept in our world today. People will almost always tell you they slept well – even if their sleep was fucking terrible.
I check my phone – no service. It shouldn’t be suprising. We’re 2.5 hours into a ferry ride between two remote fishing villages on Chile’s rugged southern road, 50 km down a fjord. Still, the 4 empty bars on the top left of my phone screen makes my stomach turn a little. That’s the feeling of fear. Fear because I can’t look up what the next section of the road will look like. Fear because I don’t know if we packed enough food to get us to the next town. Fear because we are very, very remote and if someone falls or a bike breaks, there’s no one to call. Fear because for once, Google can’t solve my problems for me.
I look up from my now-useless phone at the snowy, jagged peaks rising from the ocean all around me. I smile. It’s just me, my intuition and the wild. I’m scared shitless, but man do I feel alive. I think about my book (still the same “Barbarian Days” by William Finnegan), and remember the quote with which Finnegan ends the autobiography:
Therefore we will not fear, though the earth give way and the mountains fall into the heart of the sea.
A quote from the Bible, Psalm 46:2. I’m not religious, but as I look out into exactly what this line describes, and I feel that fear disappear and give way to excitement, I feel the holiness of this land. Reason #2 I’m doing this: you have no choice but to face fear head-on. It is both humbling and empowering in the deepest sense.
I watch as Carlos fillets the fish we just bought from our host. He works efficiently, carefully. He’s a spearfisherman and has done this a thousand times. He’s biking solo and joined us at the campsite last night and in the rain today. We’re staying at a homestay with him, feeling lucky he was around to call phone numbers on doors marked cerrado (closed) – which was all of them when we arrived in town sopping wet at 5pm. He’s young, doesn’t speak english. He’s showing me how to tell if the fish is fresh – red gills, clear eyes, soft to touch. Rain is still hammering the tin roof of the shed where we’re working. Reason #3 why I am doing this: learning a new skill from a complete stranger, both speaking different languages. Real human connection transcends language out here. Suffering hours of rain and near-hypothermic riding, then sitting down to a plate of fresh fish by a hot fire is enough to make any two strangers feel like old friends.
This morning, after a strong cup of coffee, I finally dragged my ass outside to change that flat. My fourth of the trip. The town feels a little more awake today, the rain has stopped anyhow. Thick mist swirls through the surrounding mountains. There’s many reasons people subject themselves to suffering and seek out adventure – the raw honesty, the humbling fear, the human connection. Somewhere between the stunning views and miserable rain, we learn about ourselves. We appreciate the simple comforts. Life is less complicated.
We’ll bike again today. I’m not particularly looking forward to it after yesterday’s trials. But I’m also not thinking about it too much. For now, I’m sitting on a stoop, changing this flat, solving my problems with my own two hands. And for the moment, I’m perfectly content to just be. This feeling, above all I believe, is why I am doing this.
