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Leaving on a Jet Plane
We rounded a corner and the gale-force wind that had been blowing in our faces all morning hit us from the side. I wobbled, struggling to keep my bike on the tarmac. I wasn't successful. In a few pedal strokes I was blown off the road and into the ditch. Fortunately, I managed to keep my bike upright - with all that cacti around, hitting the rhubarb was not a comfortable option. I dragged my bike out of the ditch, and with determination, set off again. All was fine for about half a kilometer. Then, following Sharon on a downhill stretch, I was broadsided by a gust that sent me skittering off the asphalt again. But, I didn't hit the ditch. Instead, I slammed against the guardrail and came to a stop pinned against it, dangling backwards over a terrifying drop. Dizzily, I began wrestling my bike off my leg, then realized that my handlebar - hooked over the guardrail - was the only thing keeping me from plummeting into the gorge. With Herculean effort I summoned every ounce of my abdominal muscles and managed to right myself. "This wind is too scary for me," I admitted, back on terra firma. Sharon - who had returned to see what had happened to me - acknowledged it was only a matter of time before she too suffered the same fate. We looked for shelter - pushing our bikes along the road. Even pushing was difficult. We were barely able to keep the rubber-side down. The wind kept trying to rip the heavily loaded bikes from our grasp. It took us half an hour to labour two kilometers. Exhausted, from the wind, from our scare with the shepherds, from our lack of sleep, I looked at my watch. It was 10 am. And we had already filled our quota for daily ridiculousness. "How about we call it a day?" I asked. Sharon agreed. We walked into a field and pitched our tent behind a thick sheltering bush. Before climbing into the tent, I braced myself in the howling wind and scrutinized the sky. Oddly, the puffy clouds overhead weren't moving at all. A problem with spending the whole day holed up in a little tent was that it gave Sharon way too much time to contemplate. I knew it wouldn't be long before she was battling another bout of homesickness. I had tinges of homesickness myself, but rather than dwell on the emotions, I told myself they would pass. And they always did. Sharon, however, chose to linger on those feelings. She spread our world map across the tent floor and pored over the colourful countries. Soon, she was rocking herself and scrinching her bottom lip. I knew I was in for a serious discussion. "How much longer?" she asked, already knowing the answer. "Well," I said, pointing to the various countries we wished to visit, "if we do all the European countries, and then Turkey, Israel, Egypt, India, Australia, and New Zealand, it's probably going to be about two years." To someone who wished they were home already, two years must have sounded like about 720 days too many. A fat tear rolled down Sharon's cheek and plopped onto Antarctica. While the cold wind shook our tent, Sharon wept, and with her tears, out tumbled her feelings, her gravest fears, her darkest secrets. I thought it was good she was finally getting it out of her system. She had been miserable since Christmas. "I miss everyone so much," she sobbed, blowing her nose. Crying was always such a messy business. I listened attentively while she detailed every loved one she missed, and what they might be doing, and what we were missing. We passed the afternoon sharing memories of friends and relatives, and decided we would write more letters and postcards so they would know how much we cared about them. Sharon fell silent. "I know you'd like to see everyone," I said. "I would too. I wish we could hop on a plane and see them for a weekend." Sharon's lip trembled into a smirk. She knew that after we were home awhile we would both long to be back on the open road. "Why had we quit?" we'd lament. "Why had we given up our chance to do something most people only dream about?" I thought we had solved our dilemma. Then, Sharon unearthed my greatest fear. "What if someone dies while we're away?" she asked. "What if someone dies while we're travelling? How would we deal with that?" We had discussed the dreaded specter before, and agreed that to have someone die while we were so far from home would be extra difficult. "Are we truly living life if we forever ask: 'What if'? Life holds so many possibilities, so many unknowns, if we ponder each one we'd be paralyzed, unable to make even the simplest decisions," I said. We didn't want to waste our energy worrying about a future that may never occur. We wanted to enjoy the present, to focus on living each day to the fullest. We decided, no matter how hard it was at the time, it was better to struggle through our bouts of homesickness than to quit. Our trip had grown on us. It was something we wanted to do. With life being what it is: mysterious and unknowing, we weren't sure we would ever have the opportunity to cycle around the world again. We didn't want to defer our happiness until retirement - only to discover we had missed our chance. It was important to make the best of the opportunity we had. We recalled too many people who had said: "I wish I had done something like this when I was your age." We didn't want to live forever regretting we hadn't done something we had always wanted to, and then, too old, wishing we had acted. "I feel better," Sharon whispered, blinking her eyes. "Let's live our dreams." |
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