We all like the safety of known routines.
My life had lately been in a state of constant disruption. For over thirty years, my routine consisted of going to work and then returning to the comforts of home and family. Going home aftera day of work or play soothed my soul. Going home was all about being safe, wanted, and needed.
As I pedaled down the Pacific coastline, I headed straight into the unknown. I had no idea what lay ahead of me. My routines of thirty years were gone; in the two years since my return from the Appalachian Trail, I had begun to chisel out a new shape for my life, adopting new habits and daily rituals. Now it would be months before I could go home to the solace of that relatively new life. I needed to establish some routines on the road, something that added a small bit of predictability and consolation to my days. This was important if I wanted to find peace on my new journey.
And so I got up every day and went to work. My work now was pedaling my bicycle. The assignment for the day might be to reach some town seventy or eighty miles closer to Key West. Rather than the profit and loss statements that had measured my previous life, maps and miles traveled gauged each dayâs efforts. (Yes, I take pleasure from the small successes of daily life.)
Coming home each night was now simply finding a room for my weary body and my bike. The bike stayed with me; all my worldly possessions were in its panniers. Instead of being greeted by spouse and family after a day of work, my reward now was a long soak in a hot bath. That soak became the incentive for me to reach my daily goal. Many times my weary body fell asleep in the tub and Iâd awaken much later, looking every bit like a wrinkled newborn. Next came a search for food. And later, I would take out my computer and maps to plan the following dayâs journey. My final act would be to complete my daily blog and my personal journal entries.
Once in my motel room, Iâd settle into that evening routine and I was home. Yes, I had a different home every night; but each night four walls and a roof represented safety at the end of another long day. And isnât that what routines are all aboutâfeeling safe?
I settled quickly into my biking routine, a routine I hoped would bring me comfort and keep me one step ahead of loneliness and despair.
Leaving Astoria, I found my way to Lewis and Clark Road, which would lead me to the coast and a day filled with spectacular scenery. Morning mist blew in from the ocean as I pedaled through the coastal towns of Seaside and Cannon Beach.
The dark mouth of a tunnel loomed ahead of me. As I neared it, I saw huge signs installed on either side of the entrance. Bikers wishing to enter the tunnel were to push a button that would activate flashing lights on the signs. This was a warning to oncoming cars that a biker was in the tunnel. I pushed the button and entered, but there was no shoulder to ride on and it was a nerve-racking ride to reach the daylight at the other end of the dark passageway.
As I crested hills that morning, I looked out over large fog banks hovering above the Pacific waters. Dark monoliths rose out of the fog like mysterious citadels guarding the shore. By afternoon, the sun had burned off the mist and the full beauty of Oregonâs coastline was unveiled. I followed beaches where ocean waves lapped at the very edges of the road. Waves thundered against the rocky sentinels offshore, the slow but ceaseless erosion sculpting the unusual pillars of stone called sea stacks.
Although the route could not be described as mountainous, the hills varied from two hundred to eight hundred feet in elevation. Coming down the hill toward Nehalem Bay, my bike was rolling along at speeds of almost 40Â mph.
My goal the next day was the seaside town of Newport, where I was scheduled to meet a friend from long ago. First, though, my route curved inland, through more countryside that looked very much