Before every big thing, there’s a moment where you haven’t actually started yet, but you also can’t seem to let go of the idea. You orbit it. You research it. You start making lists you don’t show anyone. You tell yourself you’re “just exploring” while quietly arranging your life around the assumption that yes, you probably will do this ridiculous thing. I’m standing in that moment.
Technically, I haven’t signed up to ride my bike across America. I haven’t bought the bike. I haven’t put the dates on the calendar. I haven’t officially told my partner (though that’s happening tonight — wish me luck). I haven’t notified my job. I haven’t done a century ride, or an 80-mile training ride, or even a 50-mile ride that didn’t involve an electric assist motor bailing me out like a reluctant friend with a truck on moving day.
But.
I keep reading other people’s stories. I keep making lists and loose plans. I keep researching bikes. I keep playing with the math of miles-per-day and wondering whether Kansas will break me (probably will). I keep picturing myself dipping a tire in the Pacific and—hopefully—the Atlantic months later.
There’s an oddly specific panic that comes with contemplating something you’ve never done before.
Most people say, “You just have to train for it.” Which is like saying, “You just have to learn the violin” when you’ve never held one.
I did a 38-mile ride recently on my e-bike. The fact that I’m describing it as an “achievement” says a lot about how far I have to go. About halfway through, I found myself negotiating with God, gravity, and the battery percentage remaining. And that was on a bike that politely pretends to be your friend when things get hard. The e-bike motor, which theoretically assists a sad, out-of-shape rider like me, acted more like a well-meaning coworker who enthusiastically joins your project… and then ghosts you the second actual work appears. When the grade hit double digits, the “e” in e-bike became more philosophical than practical.
So yes: I am acutely aware of my physical limitations. And yet: I’m still standing here, on the edge of this very large, very ridiculous goal, wondering if I might actually try.
For the record, I’ve basically made some decisions:
- Gravel bike. The extra tire width feels like the training wheels for adults who fear potholes and tipping over.
- May start date, because my job is busier in the fall and I’m aiming to stack the deck in my favor.
- Cross-country route: TBD. Though I’m pretty sure there’s no “easy” one.
What I haven’t fully decided is whether I’m allowed to disrupt my tidy little life for six to eight weeks to do something that may or may not work out. I love my job and the work I do. And I know how it might look to step away for a while to go play Lewis & Clark in spandex.
But I also know this window doesn’t stay open forever. I’m not 25. I’ve got one uncooperative foot, knee, and back, a freshly acquired gluten allergy, and an entire library of half-baked existential reflections that come free with turning 50 and losing a parent.
Sometimes the weight of your own mortality doesn’t push you toward recklessness. It pushes you toward deliberate bigness. Toward choosing something hard.
Toward proving—to no one more than yourself—that you’re not finished yet. I want to live very deliberately for a little while.
So here I am: Not committed. But almost. Standing at the edge, squinting at the horizon, wondering what would happen if I just started pedaling.
PS: If anyone has strong opinions about gravel bikes for cross-country rides, or wants to sponsor a middle-aged woman’s midlife crisis on wheels, my inbox is open.