Two weeks ago we arrived in Vancouver after nine weeks of cycling. Our journey started in the Southeast’s stifling humidity proceeding into the triple-digit heat of the Midwest and then to the relentless wall of mountains of the Northwest. This account has only touched the surface of the experience, for the days didn’t offer enough time to record the inspiration each brought. I haven’t returned to read any of it, but can’t stop thinking of it all. Folks ask “was it what you expected?” and “what was your favorite part?”, two questions I can’t quite answer with anything more than an anecdote or two, but the one question I can answer is “what was the hardest part?” The answer to that is; coming home.
I’ve had a rough time getting here. I started from the Vancouver airport two Saturdays ago and within 12 hours had covered the distance it took over two months to pedal. During the flight I looked out the window trying to discern something below that was familiar, and imagined I did, but the perspective from 36,000 feet at 600mph is far different. The mountain roads looked flat, the rivers just random squiggles through the landscape, the massive wheat fields just sheets of yellow. Irrigated green circles framed in grey passed below, odorless. This flashback did no justice to my recollection of a fat grain of wheat or perfume of alfalfa, there were no water towers announcing an oasis of humanity sprouting from the endless landscape, not a church steeple over any of the congregations about to welcome us with local recipes and sanctuary. No, that wasn’t under me, for it is over, behind me somewhere fading in memory.
God knows my heart aches for you, America. Not for what the media presents you as, but for who I know you are. I fell in love every day, taking part of you with me but never feeling burdened for it. I miss you so, and those who accompanied me in this adventure. My fellow cyclists and I share an experience so special for the generosity you showed and the endurance they demonstrated. All of you; sponsors, hosts, and cyclists, will live in me for the rest of my days, for each of you offered something that is now an essence of my being.
It’s been a struggle since we parted ways. My views toward the things I thought were mine had changed. I felt I was simply returning to serve my possessions, my employer, my obligations; my sentence. We led a simple life on the road, serving our mission toward providing decent housing for those less fortunate so that they may be better able to live as families contributing to their communities. I returned in my leased car to my mortgaged house in a neighborhood of strangers and was back to my job that is so necessary to keep it all, none of which I wanted any more. Inside I was kicking and screaming, fighting against what I’ve selfishly squandered my life for.
Understanding the psychological dynamics of culture shock, and knowing all along I’d suffer it doesn’t reduce the suffering. I’ve been through it before. In 2005 I worked in Hong Kong for a couple of months and then again in 2008, each time having a remarkable experience. Even along the way of this Fuller Center Bicycle Adventure I experienced culture shock, which for me has three phases; enchantment, disenchantment, and acceptance. The return from each experience is an ice-cold plunge I anticipate but still can’t prepare myself adequately for. It’s just a matter of adjusting and finding perspective.
One thing I’ve learned from life is to reach out for help during such times, and to take measures to ameliorate the symptoms. From this recent trip I was inspired by all the churches we were guests of, realizing the role of that institution in society and their importance to the individuals attending. Folks who participate in community are just better folk, and I want to be like that. There is the relationship with God I’ve merely maintained but failed to nurture, so Sundays I’ve started the practice of driving out in the morning and simply dropping by one of His houses until I find a home. I’ve been inspired to serve mankind, and imagined going off somewhere to serve someone, somehow, but now realize instead of going to some imaginary land serving an imaginary people with imaginary tasks I must look at where my feet are, and then start walking to the nearest need to satisfy it. Tomorrow I resume service at the local retirement community.
Another practice I must resume is something I learned in Hong Kong. While standing among the masses in the subway I looked about with amazement at that place, while those around me were blindly staring into space, electronic device, or just nodding in bored fatigue. Our perspectives were very different. I then thought if I took any one of them back to my mundane world they’d be just as wide-eyed in amazement as I was at that moment, so why can’t I look at my day-to-day with those eyes instead of glazed indifference? I watch fireworks every night at work if I want, but have found if I turn my back to the show to watch it reflect in the faces of our guests, I see a different light. Life is remarkable, everywhere, always.
America, you’re beautiful.
It’s good to be home.
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