Lessons from a Night in the Woods...

On the date I set off pedaling from Worcester County on the lesser known stretches of Route 9, my mother felt it necessary to see me off with a grand breakfast. Those who know me can attest to my love of food, and know all to well that I'll never turn down a meal. The sole pitfall was that this feast, immense and delightful as it was, found me comatose on the sofa for two hours.

Needless to say this delayed my day considerably, and as nightfall approached and I was without cellular reception and seemingly no where near my intended destination, I began to search for any suitable, discreet place to make camp.

It was amazing how quickly an hour passed as the sun retreated beyond the tree line leaving only a fragmented amber glow. As the forest began to awaken with new life, I found a clearing at the top of a hill about thirty feet off the road. After riding about 60 miles, I now faced a new challenge--hauling my bike and it's nearly 70 lbs of accompanying equipment into my would-be campsite. Somewhere, somehow, I found the strength and upon reaching the top, I took a moment to observe my home for the evening.

The space stood distinct for two reasons. The first, was that this clearing appeared to be manmade as downed trees and logs lay in neat piles. The second, and more ominous, distinction was found no more than 50 feet away on a tree that stood on the bank of a nearby brook--it was a sign that read, "Atlantic Salmon--Catch and Release."

Under normal circumstances this sign wouldn't bother me, but as many of my friends and family were quick to point out--these circumstances were NOT normal. To many, the idea of riding your bike to San Francisco borders lunacy. When trying to assess my state of mind, one of the first questions was almost always, "What about bears?"

I should make it clear, as I've repeated ad nauseam, once you step out into the wilderness (even if it is only around the corner from your doorstep) you automatically drop down a few levels on the food chain.

As much as I had made this point, this sign brought the potential presence of bears straight into my awareness--and here I was pitching my tent in their kitchen.

Dried pine needles crackled beneath me as I secured my camp. Curling in my sleeping bag, I couldn't help but tune into every sound of the forest. Every buzz, every chirp, every breeze that stirred the trees, even the babble of the brook--every sound became menacing, but none as menacing as the rustle of the pine needles. The slightest sound, no matter how subtle, made my heart pound, and in a matter of minutes I found myself making my peace should a bear decide me a far better catch than a salmon.

After what seemed like endless prayer, I managed to salvage two hour of sleep before waking at 4am. I raced to pack up camp, figuring it was the prudent thing to do in case bears were most active at dawn, and found myself peddling into the sleepy town of Worthington, MA.

With the exception of a small town center, it was mostly rural farmland and I continued on my westward course. Were it not for what I saw next, I probably would've forgotten Worthington as quickly as I had rolled through it. I approached a farmhouse on the right and my eyes were drawn to the shaking grass. Curious, I crawled to within ten feet of the disturbance to find a large, black mess of fur--I don't think I need to tell you what ran through my mind and out my mouth..."BEAR!" The force of my...scream...nearly knocked me off my bike and I learned three valuable lessons:

1) Should you come upon a bear in the wild, keep a low profile, and refrain from sneaking up behind it and screaming. Move along--it's a bear, and therefore unimpressed by you.

2) Between their sharp claws and teeth, jaw strength, sheer power, and animal instincts, nature has equipped bears infinitely better for a fight. Remember fight or flight? In this case, hope that you've been genetically programmed for flight. Furthermore, hope that you're faster than a bear.

3) Know your bears. More importantly, don't be like me--know your beavers.

I don't know if beavers are equipped with the capacity to feel shame, but I'm pretty sure that beaver felt embarrassed for me.

As I continued to my next destination, Peru, MA, I found myself carrying considerably more weight--if I couldn't face a beaver or a few hours in the woods, how could I hope to make the trek to San Francisco?

But still I rode, knowing only one thing for certain--whatever the question, no matter how difficult or trying, I have one thing on my side--time. This is, after all, going to be a long journey.