Not long after my grandmother then grandfather passed away, my boss made my job redundant. Dreams of accomplishing career heights receded. So too did my sense of direction and self-worth. Plunged into mourning, I felt untethered.

For a girl can only tread water so long, I determined not to flounder. In unlit waters without riverbed, rock-bottom or shoreline, the rock I clung to was a journey.

I vowed to cycle from Seattle, Washington to San Francisco, California. The wide-open American roads of the West Coast long ago having won my heart.

WHAT IS LOST

 The pale chalk-mark moon hung in pale blue skies. Below, the plane’s shadow skimmed the valleys and peaks of snow-dusted national parks. I surveyed the land I was set to cycle and gulped. With my one-way ticket, there was no turning back.

At over-size luggage collection, I couldn’t find my bicycle. The bicycle I’d bought with the inheritance from my grandparents. This adventure was my homage to them. My heart sunk. The adventure denied.

Airline staff confirmed my bicycle’s absence. There was no note of it making the flight; no notice of it assigned to my ticket number; no notice of it at all.

Lost to the international airport system.

That night, restless gloom.

***

As lost as we can become, there remains the possibility of being found, either by ourselves or some other. Thirty-six hours later, the airline staff reunited me with my bicycle. It had flown to Alaska on someone else’s ticket.

NEVER ALONE, NEVER ENTIRELY LOST

Like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz, my yellow brick road was lined with allies. I didn’t know they were waiting; I never once thought I’d have anyone but myself to rely upon. How wrong I was.

At a literal crossroads, I stood with my map of Washington State laid out across my handlebars. Checking it against the details in my book, Bicycling the Pacific Coast, it seemed I could go any of three ways. As I again studied the map, there came a voice –

“You could go any of those ways,” he confirmed. “But, I’m heading this way to a lake.”

Who was this guy? Where had he come from?

It was as if he’d materialised from one of the many bushes that lined the road. There seemed no other place for him to have emerged from, in this dull landscape of felled, parched pine.

If I didn’t mind a swim and picnic stop, he’d show me the best route he knew. At this point, I heard my mother’s voice swarming my mind, urging me to be wary of strangers. I eschewed her wisdom. He and I rode on.

At a point, he paused. His bicycle and mine coming to a standstill.

“Look behind you.”

I turned. Sure enough, the road led away to a pinpoint. There stood a mountain peak, snow-covered and hazy in the distance. The Olympic National Park beckoned me to turn around right there and pedal north. This is the danger Freedom brings. She sinks her teeth into your subconscious. She embeds, unfurls herself within. Then, you surrender to her invitations.

“And, look ahead.”

Ahead, there lay Mount Rainier National Park.

Dust chalk peaks met blue sky. This is what I saw from the plane. It was more majestic to witness from my saddle.

“This is my favourite road to ride because of this,” he said. This was his gift to me on that day.

Years later, I recall the morning spent in a stranger’s company. It was the first of many. From Sea-Tac to Square Lake, Washington state, I’d already encountered allies. Each meeting lasted only a short time but endured far longer than I’d imagine, until this day and on.

Many of the individual, fleeting encounters birthed profound and lasting effects. This highlighted the habitual, subconscious value I put on enduring relationships. I recognised the need to be mindful of the gift each encounter brings.

To receive the most from each person you meet, the one thing you must be is open. Then, grateful. Each interaction is an opportunity to learn and grow.

To achieve this, we must be willing to pay forward our positive encounters. In the end, what we create is open-ended reciprocity. Good intentions ride a wave from one person to another; the endless ripple effect of a stone cast into a lake. The stone we cast is the willingness to practice acceptance without judgment.

THIS IS WHAT I’M MEANT TO DO TODAY

My favourite statement came from a cyclist I met outside of Sausalito. I was lost but close to home, pedaling in dry thankless circles around streets that hid the cycle path I was after.

A Lycra-clad cyclist, upon a carbon frame road bike, sensed my problem.

“This is what I’m meant to do this morning,” he said and led me half a kilometre through winding streets to the cycle path. It would lead me all the way to my favourite burrito place where I’d celebrate.

Again, in this encounter with a stranger, I learned. When someone interrupts my blissed-out moments, it’s a hard win not to snap. I know taking a breath before reacting is the better way to go.

So, I hold onto the statement, “This is what this morning is for.”

It’s my attempt to remember there is an aspect greater than our solitary selves. In our individualism, it’s easy to feel we’re disconnected from the whole. What we are is a community of individuals who can choose to say to another, “Sure, this is what my time is for.”

Why not be a part of that?

IN THE UNLIKELIEST PACKAGES

“I should warn you,” said the campsite official, “there’s a kind of hokey guy checked into the hiker-biker site. You might want to go with the regular campers.”

The campsite official’s face told me I’d be best to pitch my tent elsewhere that evening. He had some concerns about my fellow camping mate. Instead of listening to reason, I listened to instinct. I’d come so far, after all; I could handle someone, “kind of hokey.”

Rolling into the forest campsite, tyres pressing dried pine needles. I caught sight of my camp mate. White-haired, older, dungarees half-hitched, he was naked from the waist up. This short fellow, paunch rolling over the denim attire, was washing in the communal sinks. Hocking up mucus, he cleared his sinuses and carried on cupping water over his pale torso.

I wasn’t convinced but planted my bicycle against a tree. This was as much my hiker biker pitch as it was his. I set about making my home.

The earth, again, was too dry to hammer in my tent pegs. It would be another night of sleeping on top of my groundsheet and hoping the mosquitoes would be kind.

Sitting at the picnic table, I observed my camp partner, who was well into his sixties. He walked with a rolling gait. One leg didn’t bend at the knee so he pivoted upon it, bowing almost as he swayed from good leg to bad.

Peeling a beer from the four-pack, I offered it to Ed. Let’s call him that – it could well have been his name, even. We fell into easy conversation. He explained how, when serving in Vietnam, he got shot in the knee. Walking was difficult, but he could ride for miles. This was his second or third time riding the West coast. He was biding time, waiting for the completion of his shack in Alaska where he would see out his final days.

As other hiker bikers rolled into our site, I watched Ed take the measure of each new man. I sensed he was absorbing me into his protection and watch. These other men, after beers, began to show interest in the matter of my being female. Ed’s wariness of them grew. I had my wits about me, but was grateful for the presence of this, “Hokey Guy.”

When it came time to sleep, seeing my tent was impossible to pitch, Ed loaned me his tarpaulin for the night.

In the morning, rolling out of the campground, I stopped to let the campsite employee know about Ed. I let him know that Ed was alright while the others were ones to watch when single females were in camp.

Ed is a man I’ve thought of often. It was a conscious decision to stand firm and not heed the warning of another. I listened to intuition; trusted in something larger than myself. My initial impression of Ed almost made me opt for an alternative pitch. I’m glad I stayed. Meeting him enriched me, challenged me and, in the end, even offered me protection.

Initial impressions – especially those passed to us by others – do not count. Life’s lessons lie in curious places. If you’re prepared to test your limits of comfort, intuition and goodness will serve in your favour.

I AM FOOD. I AM SLEEP. I AM AN ORGANISM

When you pedal, there will be good days and there will be difficult days. There will be times when the wind is upon your back and you have the sense that you are flying. Miles pass with ease. There is nothing to stop you. The horizon evolves. Each milestone arrives without effort. The horizon you set as your goal becomes the object in your rear-view mirror.

Then, there is the effort. The day you did a hundred miles, starting at 5 a.m. then finishing at 8 p.m. belonged to a different person. No matter what you do, your legs will not find the strength to complete the downward rotation. There is no bounce in your step. You are tired to the core. You slump across your handlebars at your seventh stop that morning (rolling on the flat). You pull out your book to discover the next campsite is six miles away. Though it is only 10 a.m., you settle upon the fact that 8 miles will be your day’s total.

Lack of sleep thrusts a blow that has a lasting effect. When you ate rubbish the day before – empty calories, no protein, no carbohydrates – you know it. Eat well, sleep well and the reverse is true: the next day is yours.

Rising with the sun, setting off on my bicycle as daylight broke, I observed where I sit in my place in the universe. I am light-activated. I am sleep-dependent. Food is not a luxury: it is a necessity.

I am the breath in my lungs; the strength in my core, and the will to keep rolling. When desire fades, so does momentum. All I want for are the perpetuation of movement, hydration, and nourishment.

Life becomes simple when you experience it in this way. You want nothing more than no headwinds, sunshine, a quiet safe place to sleep, and nourishment. Wanting for anything else, recedes. Everything else dulls. What grows in importance are the views; the momentum; looking to the next curve while tending the moment and place you are within.

DIG DEEP: YOU ARE ABLER THAN YOU THINK

The mantra I found myself chanting at the end of a 100-mile day was, “Dig deep.” My bike and I were on the upward slant, fog rolling in off the sea as I made my way towards my first evening’s camping in Oregon. I’d spent the day pushing through Washington state, determined to reach Astoria, to stop for a bite to eat, to press on.

Stopping never happened as I’d planned. Somehow momentum had a hold. On we rolled, putting miles under my wheels as if they were nothing. For three days or so I’d pedaled through Washington in blistering heat. Had celebrated Independence Day at a KOA site, but wanted to get out, to get on. Oregon was calling.

There I was, eight miles yet to go and climbing while darkness threatened to descend. I wanted to find my pitch; to make my tent, to crawl into my downy soft sleeping bag. On that road, exhaustion coming on in waves, the campsite seemed too far. The pleasure I’d had in cycling all day, the ease, was withdrawing. In its place, effort and slog.

“Dig deep,” I told myself.

There are reserves aplenty when what you cannot do is stop. Outside of my comfort zone, I extended beyond my usual reach.

Too easily surrendered to are these notions of hunger and fatigue. I was a little tired. I was peckish, but not starving. We can go so much further than we think we can. When you think you cannot, dig deep and you will find an unlimited reserve.

GOLDEN GATE BRIDGE: RISE TO EVERY CHALLENGE

On the last day, in the last hours, I faced one last climb that I did not want to make. The looping switchback road out of Sausalito to Golden Gate Bridge is steep.

I deliberated long and hard over this short climb. I’d done it before on an unladen bike, even then almost admitting defeat. Deciding that I’d come so far, I felt I could forgive myself for dodging the ascent. I’d catch the Sausalito ferry to downtown San Francisco instead.

In my favourite burrito place, I fell into conversation with someone, also on a bicycle. She was pedaling into the city to meet friends at a bar. She said she’d be honoured to ride the last couple of miles of my epic journey with me, then go for a pint to celebrate.

It’s like the universe didn’t want me short-changing myself.

Pressing my full body-weight down into the pedals, muscles burned. My lungs filled, grateful for every inhalation. Up we went. The trees parting, the famous red bridge, my goal for so long, was magnificent, not as magnificent as I felt though. The sense of achievement brought such joy, contentment, and peace.

So, when you think you cannot; when you have come so far, credit yourself by going that bit further. Complete the journey. Know that you can do it.

Altered, wiser to my role in nature and nature’s role in me, I propped my bicycle against Golden Gate Bridge. I smiled a smile so wide, so deep. What was lost was coming back.

Lost as I was, I went out into the world. This journey was to honour my grandparents’ love of travel and adventure. This was the gift they gave to me when I was young. What I’ve written about were the gifts imparted during the journey.

If you have never ventured out from that place of comfort; should you ever want to know how capable you are; to see that help is available; to understand that help is a gift we can offer – leave the rhythm of your current existence. Rise with the sun, settle with the sun. Eat. Sleep. Be open to the journey’s gifts, no matter how fleeting. And, for every person in the world who cannot let’s take some time out of our day for them. Maybe, that’s what it’s for.