“I know one thing for certain; it’s much harder to tell whether you are lost than whether you were lost, for on many occasions, where you’re going is exactly where you are.” -Norton Juster [The Phantom Tollbooth]

No one “finds themselves” on the road. Sure, we often set out in search of something: peace, distraction, adventure etc. but more often than not the road is a catalyst for revealing what we value. When we return home friends and family ask: What did you learn? What did you gain? The answer: a lot.

I learned how to trust my body, how to set up a hidden campsite, fix my derailleur, the value of campgrounds with coin-op showers, how to make camp stove shepherd’s pie, how to not get eaten by a bear. I learned to trust. I learned that staying dry is actually all in your head, that sometimes you should just pull over and sit under a tree and read while the rain passes.  I discovered how to communicate with cows, joy, that you can spend 24-hours a day with someone and still love them and find them magnificent. I figured out raccoons are vicious creatures, and that going up is just as valuable as going down. I found that most people are incredibly kind but not to mess with RV drivers. I learned to be quiet, to listen better, to dance (especially with cows), to get off the main roads, and that being a little scared is a good thing. I learned, maybe for the first time in my life, what being totally happy feels like.

We love to gain: friends, followers, possessions, experiences. There is great value in accumulating wisdom. Bringing others into your soul.

But what did I lose?

Four months have passed since we returned, twice as long as the trip itself.  We got a new president, new worries, a lot of snow. Jackson and I decided to part ways, knowing full-well the strength of our commitment to this trip and each other. I’ve hardened, built certain bridges I’ll need to cross later, and now the snow is starting to melt. Having those months between me and the Golden Gate Bridge it’s easy to tell you what I’ve lost since ending the bike tour.

Before I returned, I never understood people obsessing over bikes, gear, or other people’s bike videos online. “Go on your own adventure,” I thought. Now, I get it. I’m always in search of anything that can bring me closer to the depth of feeling I experienced on the road.  In return, I miss things more than I used to. I miss the warmth of the sun in early fall, I even miss the rain, the quiet moments filled with camp stove-sizzling. I miss my sleeping bag and misty mornings. I miss eating two avocados and an entire bag of chips and salsa in one sitting. I miss watching birds, having a sore butt, and being undoubtedly weird all the time. I miss me. The unabashed version. The dirty, un-insta-filtered version. I miss the Danielle I went on a bike trip for, the Danielle I promised would transcend the bike tour, flying above the mundane schedules inevitable in my non-touring life.

As I’ve passed in and out of the stages of loss, two months begin to feel like a trivial amount of time in terms of school, work, seasons, but I think about those two months more than anything else. They creep into quiet moments and late-night drives home. They are a good reminder to be bike-trip Danielle as much as I can and sometimes they are a crutch. They make me feel so in touch with the important parts of my life but simultaneously make accessing those parts feel so distant, and difficult.

The past four months I’ve thought about loss more than I want to. But I’ve come to learn, the answer to “what did I lose during the trip?” can have a more positive connotation.

On the trip: I lost my desire to rush, I lost my need for belongings, the need for a schedule, for control. I lost air in my tires, a pannier (damn coons), and arm muscles. I lost fear: of strangers, of people who have hurt me, coaches, myself, my body.  I lost the desire to be anywhere but where I was. I lost cleanliness, seriousness, being paranoid (except maybe of RV drivers). I lost distractions, and in doing so, I also lost my own insecurities. I realized I was never in need of finding.

A bike tour is a great way to expose yourself to your own insecurities. Add in necessary distractions of driving, bills, making money, all the promises I said I’d keep when I returned, the ones I actually kept, a new home, new job, new season, and where does that leave me?

Watching and making videos, longing for a bicycle ride along a shady river. Pushing tent stakes into the soft grassy ground, warming a can of soup until the sun sets, crawling into a cocoon to fall asleep to cricket chirps, hoping to be reminded of what losing feels like.

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The best moments of this adventure were never captured but I think these videos are about as close as it gets. Until next time, enjoy!