Under the overpass

Here's something you don't yet know about me:

When I was nineteen years old, I cycled across the United States. As in, I rode my bicycle from Florida to California. Three months and over 3,000 miles.

Crazy, huh? People always ask what possessed me, and there is no good answer. I was bored and restless in college and wanted some time off to figure out my life. Oh, and there was, uh, a guy. Sometimes it seems like there was always a guy behind my stranger decisions.

Anyway, the story of that trip deserves to be told another time. Suffice to say it was a long, hard journey, but one full of interesting encounters and eye-opening revelations. By the time we reached the Pacific ocean, I had thigh muscles like tree trunks. And the guy in question turned out to be something of an anal-retentive fuckwit. He used to yell at me for not tying the knots on the panniers tight enough, and he would never let me put the tent up in case I somehow damaged one of the itty bitty poles or heaven forfend, got dirt on it. Even though we were camping! Sleeping on the ground! Ground means dirt! Let's just say more than one journey ended when we got to California.

But I digress. I was thinking about that trip today for a different reason. You see, no matter which state we were in, there were lots of long dull stretches of road where nothing much happened. In Florida there was lots of flat farm land, and orange trees. In Texas there was lots of flat scrub brush and cows. And day after day, we'd ride the white line, with the wind blasting in our faces. Everyone knows that the wind blows out of the west, and we were heading right into it. As far as journey planning goes, not one of my cleverer moves.

Some days we'd pass through little towns in the middle of nowhere- so dry and remote, so down in the mouth that I would shudder. The houses had crumbling porches and needed paint. There were rusted- out cars in the front lawn. The only shop seemed to be a 7-11 or a withered Dairy Queen. Some nights we ended up stopping in those towns because we could find nowhere else to camp, but if at all possible we would press through until we could find a less depressing prospect.

Invariably after one of these small town interludes, I would turn to Mr "Don't Get My Tent Dirty" and say, "I never want to end up in a place like this."

And he would roll his eyes, before pedalling off at top speed, miles ahead of me. Leaving me to wonder if perhaps there were any axe murderers lurking in the shrubbery by the side of the road. Actually, there weren't- although there was this one town on the Florida-Alabama border where a disconcerting proportion of inhabitants appeared to be lacking limbs.

Eventually, I became slightly obsessed with worry that the trip would never end, and I would find myself living in a lopsided shingle house beneath an overpass, in the kind of place where people like me pass through going "Who the hell lives here?" What was really odd is that when we finished the bike trip, I flew back to the east coast; whereupon I promptly got a job in California and two weeks later drove back across the entire country. So I got to experience some of those same charming landscapes twice.

The irony is that it seems like despite my best efforts, I've ended up under the overpass anyway. I don't mean in the literal sense, obviously. But in my head, I feel as if I've arrived at a dry, desolate place- stranded on the way to somewhere else- and I can't get out. It's exactly the place I didn't want to be, and here I am anyway. And there's not even a fucking Dairy Queen.

Still, I have hope. I believe that if every day I climb on my bike, and pedal as hard as I can, one day the dusty plains will eventually be behind me. That I will see the ocean again. And that I will get there with all my limbs, and my sanity, intact.

But right now it's just wind in my face, mile after mile of white lines, and barrenness punctuated by sadness.

Comments

[thalia]

Well, I personally will continue to visit you under the underpass until those thigh muscles are well trained again and they can pump you out of there.

[Sophie D]

When I first started reading this I thought you were going to say how sometimes we have those long stretches of highway where it is is kinda dismal and boring and you wonder when it is going to end and then you get to your destination and BAM/WOW - life is good. My initual though was, YES, that is how I feel waiting for us to finish our domestic adoption homestudy and getting on the list is just one long boring highway but WAIT TILL PRIZE AT THE END! You were putting in words how I have been feeling. But then I kept reading and you did not go down my road - you are down a far longer and sadder highway than I am right now and I just want you to know that I am so sorry you are feeling like this cuz with your words, you made me feel better and I wish I could make you feel better and I want to tell you that one way or another, there is the prize you are waiting for at the end of the long boring empty highway you are on, and perhaps even a Dairy Queen :)

[Mia]

I thoroughly enjoyed reading about your journey and am sorry you feel like you aren't getting anywhere. I hope you find a more beautiful landscape soon.

[Mellie]

Oh Mare, I don't think you're really under the underpass. I'm not saying that you're not in a less than desirable locale right now, but you didn't end up in that exact place you feared. There may not be a DQ near-by, but you've lived a life the people who truly ARE under the underpass could never even imagine.

Pedal on, my friend. I hope you're headed for a downhill soon.

[seepi]

In Australia small towns tend to be cute. Remote sure, but people are house proud, houses are old and cute and streets are wide.
On my one trip to the US I drove into a small town, thinking it would be a cute place to get a coffee.
Nuh uh. It was as you say - tiny little houses near the highway, with rubbish in the front yards - and no shop anyway. So we went back to the highway and found a service station to get a bad coffee. Disappointing!
I loved your story though. And I don't think you have reached the end of your highway - there are plenty of turn-offs along the way which hold promise.

[Pamplemousse]

Keep on keeping on, my friend.

Oh, and can you reply to my e-mail from beneath the underpass, eh? You could just reply with 2 words if you do not want to?? No pressure.

[T]

Aw Mare, I'm so sorry. I would say, you still have wheels and can you still see the sun from the underpass, but really - what good would that do, eh? Especially with no dairy queen! Thinking of you.

[wessel]

Waving at you from the underpass across the way -- over here! Hi! (And I don't even have wheels, so you can imagine how desperate I feel.)

Sigh. Sometimes you have to pack that bike into a box and board a bus or a plane for the remainder of the trip. Don't ask me what that means in practical terms -- I was just continuing the metaphor because I thought it was so great.

[Lut C.]

Sigh. What a beautiful way to describe your sorrow.

[fisher queen]

Maybe we should start a tent city. I feel like I'm never going to be able to get out of here.

[Tiffanni]

Wow..cross country. That is something.
My middle name is 'Anal Retentive', so unfortunately I can understand the tent thing. It's a sickness.
Gasp! No DQ?!!!!

[swissmiss]

First, wow, that's an impressive journey. I'm a cyclist and I used to track my training miles on a map of the US - I crossed the country in term of miles eventually but you actually did it. Wow.

Second, I'm sorry you feel like you're stuck in some small dying Kansas town. I hope the wind shifts - you deserve a tail wind!

[Samara]

No DQ??? Oh lord... if I had some way to send it to you I would... However I will continue to support you under the underpass and hope that the wind dies down and lets you take a moment to just breathe...

[Jill]

Mare, I read this a few days ago, and am still so blown away by how you can make such an awful time sound like poetry. I am encouraged that you still have hope.

And we have all made stupid decisions because of some guy. We just hope we outgrow that.

[Georgia]

Beautiful post, Mare.
I hope the winds change soon.
xoxo

[Beth]

Mare,
I have never read a post of yours that didn't just awe me, but you really blew me away with this one. I have read it at least 3 times now. Not only is the trip that you took across the country amazing, but the allegory with where you are now is a powerful image. Thinking of you and hoping for a change of scenery for you soon.

[Heidi]

My jaw just dropped to my extremely unathletic thighs. At one point I entertained thoughts of cycling across...um, Vermont. And, yeah, that never happened. You? The U.S.? Unbelievable. I bow down to you.

As for the rest of te post...again, I bow down to you. So brilliant and poignant, you.

[JennaM]

I loved this post. I relate to all of it--the trip, the boyfriend, the fear of being fated to live among limbless Dairy Queen customers...

But I think desolation is sometimes lovely, and so unexpectedly clarifying, because it is so often more true than romance or abundance. And after all these years, and all the lies that life tells, I must cling to that kind of desolate beauty.

[Sunnie]

This is by far the BEST post I have ever read.....goodness.