To Shake the Sleeping Self

by Jedidiah Jenkins

  There was something endearing about Weston’s narcissism. Broke and drinking expensive beer. Handy, clever, and tireless. Always on fire for a new idea, a new girl, a new food. He had held a ton of jobs, started businesses, started newer ones in the middle of starting new ones. You never really knew where he lived or where he was. He was tall, muscular, tattooed. Handsome in a way, severe in another. Women loved him. He loved that women loved him.

  Why did he want the bike trip? I think he had burned that entrepreneur candle so hard, riding on the fumes of people believing in him, that he got singed. A long ride would be a reset. I thought there was a good chance he might get me in trouble or drive me mad, but maybe I craved that, so I said yes, and told Weston the plan.

  We would start the trip at Jessie M. Honeyman State Park, halfway down the Oregon Coast—the same beach where my parents finished their walk across America. I wanted to walk my bicycle into the water where they had finished. I would pick up the baton.

  A package came in the mail to my house. It was from my mom. I opened it up and it was a little pocket Bible. Leather-bound. Beaten up, worn, with rounded edges. I opened it up and found red and blue underlining everywhere. Notes in the margins. My mom’s handwriting. And some of my dad’s, too. I recognized each handwriting style. Inside the flap was a note. “Jed, this was the Bible I carried in my pocket during the whole walk across America. I read it every night. When I was scared, God’s word was with me. He is always with you. I love you. He loves you.” It was holy to touch. A tangible anchor to my mom in her late twenties, my dad in his mid twenties, the God of the universe with them. Wow. I kept it in my pocket from that day forward.

  As the day approached, the trip became the only topic of conversation at the office. My trick of telling everyone had worked a little too well. Everyone asked me about it. Are you ready? Did you learn Spanish? Have you been training? Nope. Nope. Nope. I had meant to learn Spanish. I even bought Rosetta Stone, which is like six hundred bucks. And I’d done it for a grand total of a week. Damn it. So typical. But here it was, the trip was around the corner. The spring and summer of 2013 disappeared, and August popped up like a jack-in-the-box.

  By the time Weston and I flew to Portland to start the damn thing, I was sick and tired of talking about the trip and not being on it. I wasn’t nervous. I was just ready to get everyone off my back. I was so afraid of being labeled a talker and not a doer. I boxed up my bike and some clothes and left the rest to buy in Portland.

  Weston had virtually nothing. A small bag. I thought I was unprepared. Weston was so self-confident, his lack of preparation came off like a deeply considered preparation in itself. “I don’t want to have too many things figured out,” he said the night before we flew out. “I’ll buy a bike on Craigslist when we get there for a couple hundred bucks.”

  “Are you sure? What if there aren’t any?”

  “There will be. There’s bikes everywhere. And if not, it’ll work out. Gotta trust the universe. If one door closes…ya know?”

  “Well, yeah, that’s cool. But we do need to leave on the twenty-eighth.”

  “Don’t worry, brother. I got this. I like that you worry. I like that you have a bike and extra gear and stuff. I got this.” He was so confident, it made me wonder if I was the one doing this the wrong way.

  We woke at 6:00 a.m., and drove to the San Diego airport to catch a flight for Portland. I checked my bike and watched it disappear on the conveyor belt. I paid fifty bucks because it was overweight. Weston just walked on.

  Chapter 2

  IT BEGINS

  13,990 miles to go

  At my friend’s house in Portland the night before we left, I laid out everything I was packing. I wanted to put eyes on it and wrap my head around my life-support system of things. The bike sat shiny and unblemished against the fireplace mantel. It had no memories. The rear rack was black and sturdy-looking. Next to my bike were the two panniers, made of black plastic with reflectors painted on both sides. One bag would be for my bike and camping stuff, the other for my clothes. I had five T-shirts, a pair of bike shorts, normal shorts, a pair of swim trunks, jeans, seven pairs of underwear, a sweater, a denim shirt, and a women’s rain jacket purchased last-minute from a Goodwill in Portland.

  I knew that I wouldn’t keep the clothes folded for the whole trip, so I just shoved them into the left pannier, halfway attempting to keep the layers for warmth at the top for access. The right pannier got everything else: a tire pump, extra tubes, my hammock, a little bag of medicine and Band-Aids from my mom, my books, my journal, my multi-tool for fixing and adjusting bike stuff, and my food—almonds, apples, oranges, cans of tuna, crackers. The panniers hung from the sides of the rack, leaving the top of it open. That was where my backpack and sleeping bag went. Also a cheap, giant green tarp.

  Weston didn’t have money, which he said was intentional. He was experimenting with a form of fundamentalist anticapitalism. He gave hourly dissertations challenging society, the government, the wealthy, the systems of organized humanity. Whenever he was forced to use money, it seemed to be a small defeat. He had a prophet’s disposition, always feeling watched and therefore an example to the masses. He differed greatly in one respect from most evangelists, though: he was neither dogmatic nor forceful. He believed nothing was more powerful than example.

  That night while I was packing, Weston got on Craigslist just like he’d said he would. He found a road bike for three hundred dollars. It was pink and looked to be at least thirty, forty years old. He had panniers that a friend had made by hand, each one a little larger than a lunch box—which is tiny. My panniers were the size of couch pillows. He had no sleeping bag, either, just a blanket he grabbed from a pile at Goodwill. It wasn’t even a quilt or a full-size blanket, but a small, red throw that would only cover your legs. I think it was intended for decoration.

  As I fell asleep, I thought of all the things I was leaving behind. My comforts. My expensive coffee and craft beer and back-porch hangs with my friends. My routine and my life. I knew it wasn’t forever, but it felt like it. What if my friends went on without me? What if my absence revealed that I was never really necessary? What if no one notices I’m gone?

  I said a prayer to myself. “God, keep me safe. Keep Weston safe. Teach me what You want to teach me. Prove my mom wrong. Help me meet the people I’m supposed to meet. Don’t let me embarrass myself. Give me the strength to do this whole thing.

  “I hope I’m not making a mistake,” I thought. “Ugh. Am I? Is this some pride thing? To prove something to people? What if I can’t even make it to LA?”

  I had, in normal fashion, trailed off from talking to God to simply thinking. Talking to myself. I always scolded myself for doing this. For doing it wrong. For not actually talking to God.

  “Amen.”

  * * *

  —

  THE NEXT DAY, August 28, was launch day. It was time to go. But we took forever to get ready. We went through each piece of gear, speaking out loud its necessity. “Ten-gallon water bag, for the desert.” “Headlamp, for camping.” We went to the supermarket that morning and shopped for too long. We bought enough food for a bomb shelter, even though we’d be traveling in the United States for the next thousand miles, and never so remote as to not have a restaurant a few miles away.

  Our friends Collin and Stella drove us out. The car ride was charged with energy, with the feeling that we were all part of something important. Maybe it was just me feeling this. I was noticing the curves of the road, the laughter, the Rascal Flatts and Fleet Foxes we blasted on the radio, taking note to remember this drive and this moment. It felt like a slow-motion music video.

  I knew that the first thousand miles would be a training ground. I had never been the kind of person who knows how to do things. I had no idea how to work on a bike; how to change a popped tire, fix a slipped chain, raise or lower a seat. But I figured the first
leg of the trip would give me the chance to learn what I really needed: how to camp in the wild, how to hide, what food I needed, all of it, before I got to Mexico.

  We pulled our bicycles out of the car and hauled them over the dunes that separated the parking lot from the water. I recognized the beach from the grainy photos in National Geographic of my parents crying and kissing, walking into this very water after their five years spent crossing the country. A wave of sadness hit me, thinking about 1979 and the joy they felt at seeing this water…Knowing that in those photos my mom was already pregnant with my sister, that they had no idea what the future held for them. Deeply in love and freshly accomplishing the impossible. And God rubbing His hands together, laughing.

  The start of a big journey makes every detail feel monumental. At least it does for me. The color of the sand on the beach—an off white. The grass on the dunes—sharp and coarse. The breeze from the ocean—cold and smelling like dead fish. And underlying it all, my insecurities. I don’t know how to do anything bike related. I don’t even know if my body can do this. What if I have knee problems? What if I have back problems from being hunched over all day and can’t finish? Wait, I never even thought of this stuff. What else haven’t I thought of?

  I carried my bike into the waves at Honeyman State Park beach in Florence, Oregon. Weston and I dipped our tires into the shallow surf, had Collin and Stella take a few pictures of us standing with the bikes like proud cowboys, and then carried them back over the dunes to the asphalt road.

  “I guess this is it,” I said. “It’s as easy as clipping in and hitting the road.” My panniers were heavy and full. My bike didn’t have a kickstand, which I found perplexing as I clumsily tried to clip the panniers onto the bike rack. Weston showed me a trick of spinning the bike pedal backward and then using it as a kickstand on a curb. This allowed me to attach my panniers, and then load my sleeping bag and backpack in between them, creating a massive camel hump of stuff on the back of my bike. By the time I got it all tied on, it looked sloppy, wobbly, like a homeless shanty on two wheels.

  I took my helmet and sat it on my head. It was big, bulky, and painted in bright, idiotic colors. Red and white and yellow. (It’s hard to find a cool bike helmet.) When I snapped it on and looked at myself in the reflection of Stella’s car, I gasped. I looked like a ten-year-old kid with a beard. I looked like a nerd. I didn’t look like some rugged adventurer. I looked like a kid on a leash.

  Weston didn’t have a helmet. Didn’t even buy one.

  When I tried to maneuver my bike around to mount it, I was shocked at the weight. It fell over. It was so heavy I could barely lift it. Shit.

  Collin and Stella stood back, arms crossed, laughing as they watched us. Collin was an avid cyclist. Stella wasn’t, but reveled in our clumsiness.

  “When you clip in, you will fall. Several times,” Collin said. “So just expect it. That way it won’t hurt your pride when it happens. Everyone falls.”

  I finally got the bike up and threw my leg over the saddle. Collin’s eyes widened.

  “Jed, your seat is way too low. Is that how you ride? When you’re seated, you should have to stick your leg out straight to touch the ground. No bend. Pedaling down should almost completely extend your leg.”

  “Really? Oops,” I said. “I’m so screwed.”

  “No, you’ll get it. It’s fine. Lemme fix your seat and then practice around this parking lot. You haven’t practiced with weight yet?”

  “No.”

  Collin looked at Weston.

  “Have you?” he said.

  “No. But I was a bike messenger in NYC. I’m all good.”

  Collin raised my bike seat and handled my heavy bike without effort. I was embarrassed, reminded of how bad I am at sports. He kindly and patiently gave it back to me. “Try this.”

  I got on and tried to clip my ugly bike shoes into the pedals. It didn’t make sense. Collin laughed. “You have to twist your foot in, and twist your foot out. Straight down won’t work. Wiggle your foot on it till they snap into place.”

  I did and they snapped in. My feet were now attached to the bike. I felt the bike begin to tip over, and instinctively pulled my foot to brace my fall. But my foot was attached to the goddamn bike. I couldn’t. I fell over sideways and hit the pavement, like something out of a cartoon.

  “What the hell!? How am I supposed to do this!?” I said, wiggling and still attached to the bike. “I’m gonna tear my ACL and MCL and AT and T!” I shouted.

  “It’ll become second nature,” Collin said, laughing. “Just get some momentum and practice.”

  I clicked my shoes in and out over and over until I understood how it worked. Then I rode around in a figure eight, cautiously.

  At 4:00 p.m., way later in the day than we had hoped, we hugged our friends, said goodbye, and rode away from the beach, with me looking ridiculous in my helmet. My body was an adrenaline whirlpool. Almost immediately, Weston was riding without hands. Sitting straight up with his perfect posture, stripping his shirt off, and looking free.

  That first day we rode toward Reedsport, along the coast and past tall pine trees and the occasional house. The day was sunny and beautiful and full of nervous laughter. Weston rode shirtless with no hands most of the afternoon, which would soon become his general uniform and style. His old cheap bike rattled in its imperfections, but it seemed to work. My new bike was heavy and strong. We were loving it, braiding back and forth as we rode, flowing like happy salmon up a river. Taking up the road, getting honked at, cussing at nothing and cracking up. We found it was fun to swear at the perfect sky and trees. Just shouting curses at them.

  I had posted on my Instagram for launch day, “Four years coming, it’s coming tomorrow.” Friends and family and people I didn’t know commented. “So excited to follow along!” “Ahh I feel like I’m doing this with you. I have so much anxiety!” “I just want to pick up and quit my job and join you!” How did these new people find me?

  I didn’t want to do the normal “travel blog” thing. I had never loved those blogs, as they were long-winded and the formatting was ugly. Writing essays about my trip and assuming anyone would care seemed self-indulgent. I thought, If everyone is already checking Instagram, I’ll just give them little updates and photos as I go. That seems less presumptuous and easier.

  I had never done a long ride. Neither had Weston. Latin America loomed ahead of us. The Southern Hemisphere. So far away. Thoughts crept in while I rode. I speak almost no Spanish. Weston is the same. What’s the word for bathroom again? But when the surge of anxiety would swell up, my optimism would kick in, like it was triggered by a racing heart, and I would be flooded with certainty that it would all work out. I wonder if the old explorers and bold nomads of the past had this chemical nature to their brain. A foolish hope that the other side of the mountain wouldn’t kill them.

  We cycled down the coast of Oregon. Tall evergreen trees pushed into the clouds like sticks into a pillow. We watched the coastal sand changing from beige to black, the rocks rising sharply out of the ocean like an invading army. Nothing here was smooth, not even the waves. They erupted in jagged rollers of green and blue, lifting knots of seaweed and sticks to smash against the rocks.

  I tried listening to music that first day, but it felt wrong and forced. Even with all my natural positivity, I was feeling heavy, dragging behind my bike all the billion unknowns. When will my tire pop? When will Weston’s bike fall apart? Where will we sleep tonight? And the next night? And the next?

  My phone was clipped to a holster at the front of my bike, between my handlebars and right in my line of sight. It was my map. I plotted the day’s journey on Google Maps, and then followed my phone as we rode. Later, this became very helpful when towns would have confusing and winding streets. And even without service, my GPS and map would work, so long as I loaded it in the morning.

  Westo
n rode in front of me. His natural pace was stronger than mine. On a long, straight stretch, he pulled back next to me and wanted to talk. “Think we could get our trip sponsored?” he asked.

  “By who, like a company?”

  “Yeah. You’re writing about it. I can write about it, and I think a lot of people want to do what we’re doing. We could get a bike company or a camping company to give us money.”

  “That’s not a bad idea. But how? Do you know anyone?”

  “I’ve made pitch decks before, in my New York life. That would be rad.”

  “I thought you didn’t believe in money?” I smiled as I said it.

  “It’s not that I don’t believe in it. I want to dethrone it. Money is a currency, like a current, it should flow through me. Savings is stagnant. Feels wrong.”

  “Sounds like something Jesus would say.”

  “I mean, that’s why I gave all my shit away. Jesus said to the rich man, give it all up and follow me. Well, here I am. Don’t know if I’m following Jesus or just the truth behind what he said.”

  “Are you calling me Jesus?” I said. We both laughed.

  The clouds were fat and lazy on the shore, but sometimes the road would wind into a river valley away from the ocean. The sun would shine just one hill away, and we’d strip off our shirts. My soft white body looked absurd next to Weston’s Adonis tan and abs, but for stretches we were alone on these roads, and I felt invisible and free. It was the end of summer, and I’d expected more road-trippers, more tourists. But for whatever reason, we often had the road to ourselves. Sweat would build up in my helmet and, upon a certain turn of my head, it would pour out down the bridge of my nose like a faucet. As the sun started to touch the western hills, it was time to watch for a camping spot.

  I had gotten in my mind that I wanted to sleep under a bridge. It seemed like something Kerouac would’ve done. The romantic tramps and drifters of the past. It also seemed like a smart move in case it rained. We’d cycled over a few, but I didn’t know if we’d come up on one as the sun was setting. I told Weston to keep his eyes peeled for a perfect bridge when the day started dimming. I watched the sun move across the sky, and watched the road, and looked at the map on my phone, and hoped for the best.