The Time In Between
After adventures end. And before they happen. And once they start.
“What was the best part? What’s the craziest thing that happened? Did you have any near-death experiences?”
Returning from a 4 month cycling trip through Chile’s coastal mountains, these are the types of questions I am confronted with at reunions. In all fairness, those are undoubtedly the most exciting stories, the ones that are quantifiably ‘epic’. Of the same token, no one asks “Where did you sleep? Where did you get food? Where did you go to the bathroom — what did you do with the toilet paper?”. Yet, it’s the answers to these questions that constitute 99% of such an adventure, and of all our lives. It’s the mundane, tedious time in between epic moments that no one seems to really talk about.
I’ve been home for over a month now. I’ve sat down at my parents’ dining room table countless times to start this piece. Each time I leave it to ‘come back to’, but I never do because when I return I begin to question what I wrote. The title hasn’t changed, I’m trying to make sense of all the time that makes up the vast majority of life during which we perform our least exciting or remarkable duties. The longer I sit in one of these periods, the more I understand that absolute clarity is not in the cards. So I’m just going to give it my best shot.
Yesterday I watched an interview with Chai Vasarhelyi, the mastermind director behind Free Solo. She explained that most of her best ideas come during what she calls ‘transitions’. A two hour drive with her daughter asleep in the back seat proves more creatively fruitful than a day of office brainstorming. This resonated, as I do a lot of my writing during flights. These are times during which we have a few hours of peace (read: unable to use phone) to reflect on what’s just happened or what comes next. Barber Shop Therapy was written on my flight home from Vancouver, as I tried to make sense of my life. When we are wrapped up in the thick of an experience, it is often difficult to simultaneously understand how it is affecting us and what we will ultimately take away. John Steinbeck said of his late-life American road trip that “Sometimes understanding is possible only after”. I agree wholeheartedly, yet as I sit here I keep reflecting on the guts of our adventure, the expanses of unremarkable routine that transpired between exciting moments. In the context of this particular trip, that would be the daily grind of gear maintenance, preparing meals, setting up and taking down camp, sitting under bridges waiting for rain to pass, patching flats, squatting in the ditch and yes, a lot of pedalling. What does all of this add up to — Does it even matter?
“… Immediately upon crossing the overpass, we are hit with the most incredible view of Volcan Villarica — our destination. It is a moment of elation, of pure satisfaction for our trio. We stand on the side of the road for a couple minutes, wooping with joy and pointing at the impressive snowy beacon on the horizon.”
(From Whoever Gets The Worst Tan Wins)
Why was this one of the greatest moments of our journey? For no other reason than that the volcano was a visual representation of the mountainous pile of stuff that had to get done in order for us to be standing there. The trees planted, wasp assaults survived, money saved, gear acquired, sweaty and stressful airport layovers navigated with bike box under arm, Spanish phrases learned (sort of), stray dogs escaped, hundreds of kilometers of dusty highway shoulder cycled, flats changed and cold oatmeal consumed. It was all of these unglamorous endeavours that culminated to lend so much excitement to this moment of simply seeing a volcano on the horizon. I remember watching cars pass, families who had driven down from Santiago, Chile’s capital, to get there. The kids didn’t even notice the volcano — too busy watching Netflix on their iPads. Why would this be exciting if all you had to do to get here was pile into a car on dad’s orders?
My friend sent me a podcast the other day wherein a professional rock climber talks about how the fully-sponsored, perfectly executed remote first ascent expedition of his dreams fell clear short of expectations. Everything went perfectly, and when he reflected back on the whole adventure he remarked that it lacked depth. He hadn’t had to spend a cent of his own money. They had been flown to the base by chopper and nothing had gone wrong on the climb. When he stood on the summit — the first human ever to do so — it should have been the greatest feeling in his life. And yet, without the build-up, the struggles and gritty tests of commitment in order to make it happen, it felt hollow. So much of the greatness and depth of our experiences and accomplishments are owed to what we sacrifice or endure in getting there. When we experience something, or when we talk about an experience, I believe it is important to consider the full depth of that transaction — to appreciate all of the planning, saving and frustrations that culminate in the climactic moment. But we do not only want these things to feel worthwhile once they conspire to an achievement. I want to remember that the time in between is noble while I am spending it as well.
Last week Paul Dewar, a politician from Ottawa, passed away from brain cancer. He left us with an inspiring message about hope, love and community that I would encourage everyone to take 5 minutes to read. In it, he speaks about his outlook during the year-long battle with the disease. here’s what he says:
“I told you that I thought my illness was a gift and I genuinely meant that. In this time in between, I got to see the wonder of the world around us”.
(Paul Dewar)
In our fast-paced world, we become numb to the mundane necessities and routines in our lives. We take things for granted and constantly look forward to the next destination or event — to getting There. In doing this, we put blinders on and try to tune out anything that does not directly contribute to our end goal. We hack and code and use any means possible to remove the tediousness of mundane tasks like working, commuting or cooking. But what if we heeded this note from Mr. Dewar. What if we looked at all of this time in between with the lens of someone who knows they may be experiencing it for the last time. Would that commute feel more special? Would we smile and say hello to people on the bus? Would we enjoy the process of cooking dinner? Would we take a moment to feel gratitude for all the simple pieces of our life that so often get swept along as we busy ourselves with bigger plans?
It seems to me that on a cycling trip it’s easier to appreciate all of the time in between because it is quantifiable and ever-changing. Each day you cycle some number of kilometers, you see new landscapes and even though the cycling becomes routine, there are always new challenges. Each night when you crawl into a sleeping bag, your legs are a painful reminder of what was accomplished that day — and sometimes the day before, too. Each pasta dinner is a feast when you are starving and tired. Because you are doing something unusual and visibly challenging, people see you on the road and honk or cheer in encouragement. Imagine if every time you were commuting to work people did that? “Keep it up! you’re killing it!”. Unfortunately I doubt it’ll happen, but we can do that for ourselves. Try to recognize the simple joy and value of this time in between and let it drive us forward when doubt sets in.
I have always been a dreamer. I spend too much time cooking up grand plans for life, always focused around some lofty goal. I tend to put too much weight on the validation and appreciation I receive for my accomplishments. The one thing I have found consistent across any achievement is that once you do it, it loses a lot of its perceived glory. People congratulate you and then move on. You enjoy a beer at the end of your bike trip, and then you go home and resume your life. The beer tastes great not because it is of superior quality, but because it is 3000km of hardship and fun in a bottle. The more we consciously acknowledge and appreciate even the dullest of those kilometers, the more rewarding and enjoyable the beer — and the life.
For those interested, here’s a short video recap of the trip. Feel free to reach out with any questions about the route or trip planning! https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=McLaP0a5K0c&feature=youtu.be
