2010 February 11
Milwaukee, WI
A familiar gray Jeep Cherokee hummed patiently in the snowy drive when I began to ferry boxes and duffel bags of down porch steps. Into the hatchback went camping supplies, camera equipment, whatever else I deemed necessary, or at least highly desirable for a three-month bicycle ride down the Pacific coast. The driver greeted me with a chipper, "good morning!" I suppose in most ways she was right. Twenty-five years old, without financial debt or pressing obligations; free to be alone from men in the company of God, His creation, and the pulse of one's own mortal brevity.
We stopped briefly at her house to load a bicycle already cocooned in its corrugated cardboard coffin, and the cargo trailer I would be hauling behind it. A final trip to the grocery and sporting goods stores fetched me the requisite bear canister and too much zip-locked food to fit in it.
Erin drove me two-hours distance to Milwaukee Intermodal Station. There I would catch the four 'o clock Amtrak west to Olympia, Washington, where arrangements had been made for another friend to cart me up to Hoodsport. We abruptly unloaded baggage, checked in, and exchanged a hug and goodbye.
What a contrast with Greyhound! Earlier this month I had ridden over 7,000 miles in their buses. There is hardly any similarity. Amtrak delivers lots of leg room, quiet cars, a smooth ride. Lounge cars, diner cars, and viewing rooms with "conversationally positioned" seating. And not significantly more expensive. Best of all, they handled the luggage.
Late into the night I pondered my relationships, dwelt on prospects and hopes, and thanked God for bringing three years of anticipation to a head.
Milwaukee, WI
A familiar gray Jeep Cherokee hummed patiently in the snowy drive when I began to ferry boxes and duffel bags of down porch steps. Into the hatchback went camping supplies, camera equipment, whatever else I deemed necessary, or at least highly desirable for a three-month bicycle ride down the Pacific coast. The driver greeted me with a chipper, "good morning!" I suppose in most ways she was right. Twenty-five years old, without financial debt or pressing obligations; free to be alone from men in the company of God, His creation, and the pulse of one's own mortal brevity.
We stopped briefly at her house to load a bicycle already cocooned in its corrugated cardboard coffin, and the cargo trailer I would be hauling behind it. A final trip to the grocery and sporting goods stores fetched me the requisite bear canister and too much zip-locked food to fit in it.
Erin drove me two-hours distance to Milwaukee Intermodal Station. There I would catch the four 'o clock Amtrak west to Olympia, Washington, where arrangements had been made for another friend to cart me up to Hoodsport. We abruptly unloaded baggage, checked in, and exchanged a hug and goodbye.
What a contrast with Greyhound! Earlier this month I had ridden over 7,000 miles in their buses. There is hardly any similarity. Amtrak delivers lots of leg room, quiet cars, a smooth ride. Lounge cars, diner cars, and viewing rooms with "conversationally positioned" seating. And not significantly more expensive. Best of all, they handled the luggage.
Late into the night I pondered my relationships, dwelt on prospects and hopes, and thanked God for bringing three years of anticipation to a head.
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