Before the Beginning

This is where I'm supposed to tell you how the best adventures begin with friends. This is true of fiction. When telling a story we leave out anything that doesn't serve a purpose in the story. This is not the story of life-long friends taking on epic challenges. This is a story of opening up to possibilities.

I'm a tethered nomad. My greatest contentment comes when I'm out exploring the world. Usually, about 3 days in to a week or longer trek. By the time I figured this out, I'd already established a profitable "IT" career, accumulated diversions, and tied myself to a physical address. As a child, I spent hours a day bicycling. When I got my driver's license, I spent as much time as I could driving. When I finally started working, I spent my evenings and weekends driving. Then came the motorcycles and over the course of a year I became a full-time motorcyclist. Building and maintaining friendships is difficult when the only thing you really want to do is spend countless hours rolling over the open road. I haven't had many close friends, and I've failed miserably in my responsibility to maintain those relationships. I'm learning to be better.

Life has been slapping me upside the head for years, but I've only started understanding why over the last year or two. As long as I'm on the move, doing stuff, I'm perfectly content to be by myself. The fibers of my very being tingle with excitement when I consider the challenge of pitting myself against circumstances (and my own failure to plan/research/prepare/etc) and harvesting rare experiences. I had an epiphany one evening, after a long day of riding alone. Waiting out the lonely hours between making camp and drifting off to sleep sucks. I'd spent 15 hours riding around the desert, hadn't spoken a word to anyone, gone way off the beaten path with no-one knowing where I was and almost gotten stuck. I was okay with that. It was the emptiness of camp, with my mind and body idle, that became worrisome.

Fast forward 18 months. I still do most of riding alone, and all of my big trips are solo. I've seen snow in the desert and bumped against the edge of hypothermia and ridden around weather to transform what was supposed to be an easy day into the longest and hardest of the trip. The experiences are always incredible. They are always lacking, too. I'm increasingly aware of missing social element. I'm increasingly tired of making camp (or checking into a hotel) alone.

I'd joined, but not participated in, a Facebook group for single motorcyclists. Events transpired to shine an even brighter light on my situation and I decided to be active in the group. There was a camping trip planned and I decided to go. I didn't know anyone in the group. I'd never ridden with them, or spent any down time with them. The mileage was short by my standards. I felt incredible trepidation. It may have been the best decision I've made in a long while.

As of this writing I remain single. The benefit of deciding to participate, actively, in the group is the new friends I've made. One of those new friends recognized my particular brand of crazy. We started conversing about summer trip plans. At first there was talk of riding east. He suggested Montana, I suggested Maine. Then came the proposal to ride the Washington Backcountry Discovery Route (WaBDR). I was tempted, but everything I'd read and heard said this would be way over my head. My loose surface experience consisted of a 1 day class and less than 50 miles of super easy Forest Roads. Upon reviewing videos of the route, though, I decided I was okay getting in over my head.

I knew I needed tires more suited to the terrain. I knew I needed practice. I took every opportunity to ride challenging terrain with others. I ordered and changed tires, and then went out and road some more. By the start of the trip, I was up to a whopping 200 miles of loose surface experience on a bike that is intended to be ridden on pavement and hard-pack. During the final week before heading out I prepared. Actually, I over-prepared. I spent hours looking for a piece of gear I'd already packed. I spent hours trying to make sure I had everything I needed while simultaneously, and unsuccessfully, trying to pair down my gear to the essentials. Preparing for an adventure provides its own sort of excitement. Then it was time to ride.

If I hadn't taken the step to open myself up to possibilities I wouldn't have made the new friend and I wouldn't have had this opportunity. Interestingly, at its heart, this trip was the same thing I always do. It was a week of riding. But it was also different. It was almost entirely primitive roads and there were others along for the ride. Until I found this group I thought people crazy enough to ride like I ride were incredibly rare. Now I know these people are incredible, and rare, but not incredibly rare.