This is Adventure
I wanted new wheels, but funds are limited until the sale of my house in Maryland is complete. So instead of buying a house on wheels or a new truck to pull a house on wheels, I bought a bike. Now when the tide goes out in the middle of the day here on South Padre Island, Texas, I pedal up and down the beach on the packed sand. In these moments I realize that I didn’t just buy a bike–I bought freedom on two wheels.
I’ve learned things about the island while riding my bike. I’ve learned that north is uphill, and south is downhill. Also, the wind usually blows from north to south. So when I pedal up the beach, the forces of nature are aligned against me. When I pedal down the beach, I feel like I am floating on the wind. On any given ride, I have to do both.
This is adventure, and I love it.
The weather is nice, the beach is peaceful, and my friends are jealous. I write until I lose momentum, and then I ride my bike on the beach. It’s not a bad way to spend the days–not at all. Getting here from Maryland, however, wasn’t all sunshine and rainbows.
I think back to a particular stretch of Interstate 10 in Louisiana–the Atchafalaya Basin Bridge. Eighteen miles of no shoulders, no exits, and extra wide trailers attempting to pass at the speed of light as I chug along in my 15-year old GMC Sierra pulling a U-Haul trailer.
My truck is a beast, and it has carried me through both heaven and hell in our travels together. It runs like a top, but it’s 15 years old. I don’t worry about the engine–I worry about whatever ancillary system might fail next. Like when the brake lines corroded and snapped. Or that time the front wheel bearing gave out, and the wheel caught on fire partway through Virginia. I’ve replaced a lot of parts on this truck. In fact, days before I started this drive, I replaced the power steering pump and an axle boot. But, there are still many parts that could need replacing.
At this point in the trip, I already know I need a new air conditioner–it wails like a banshee, echoing off the jersey walls of the 18-mile Atchafalaya Basin Bridge. Who knew I was supposed to shut off the air conditioning when towing my little U-Haul trailer uphill? Now I know.
Plus, the last time I stopped for gas and started the truck, I was greeted with an ominous red warning flashing across the dash–“Service 4WD Now.” But I already did the 4WD service, and I’m pretty sure the dealer told me that if I got an error message, it was probably just a faulty switch–nothing serious. Dr. Google advised me to shut the truck off for ten minutes, and that seems to have worked. The warning message went away, and I was certain it was fine to continue.
Okay, “certain” may be too strong of a word, but as I ride across the bridge, I can hear the steady hum of the motor–a soothing layer of sound beneath the wailing air conditioner that is strong and reassuring. I begin to dismiss the question of what happens if a vehicle breaks down on this shoulderless bridge where the trucks fly past using their lane and half of mine. My confidence slowly grows that I will survive this part of the drive.
I begin to find my peaceful center, and even the blown air conditioner seems to find peace as it settles into a barely perceptible whine. Wind whips through both open windows as another semi passes me–a short rig with no trailer attached. The truck lurches forward as it pulls into my lane, the driver determined to keep pace with the other trucks flying across the bridge at 80 miles per hour.
As soon as it pulls in front of me, billows of black smoke begin to pour out of the two exhaust pipes that jut up from the rig, making it hard to see. Ashy, crusty debris begins to fly in my open windows. I squint to see the road through the opaque cloud of black smoke, and I see orange flames leaping out the top of the exhaust pipes.
Crash (my semi-willing canine adventure partner) becomes concerned that the whole truck might explode, so I slow down to try and put some distance between us. The truck ahead of me slows down too, still belching black clouds of opaque smoke and flames. Other trucks are passing us, and I hope they are hailing this guy (or gal) on their radios and giving him (or her) good advice. I’ll never know. The smoke continues to billow, the flames continue to dance, and a scratchy piece of the crusty ash lands in my eye.
Eventually we come upon an exit, and the truck pulls to the side. I gratefully pass the smoking, flaming rig only to see it pull back on the highway behind me and accelerate again. But we are across the 18-mile bridge. We are further on our journey, and Crash settles back into his shotgun seat to contemplate what kind of therapy he might need when we finally get to the beach.
I guess this is adventure, too.