There was a time I aspired to a life like this, predicable and innocent. When my kids were little, I insisted on matching towels in the bathroom and cute little soaps. I sewed window valances that matched bed comforters and carpet tones. As if such coordination could keep away the scary things.
My need to be so matchy-matchy came from the chaos of my home life as a child. Not only did nothing match in the physical world but also nothing felt as though it matched: not the emotions that swirled around, dangerous and caustic one moment, kind and warm the next, nor the devout religiosity in which everything about my childhood had been steeped, intending to keep us all safe.
My father had been raised in an institutional home in Ireland—picture a Dickensian poorhouse for kids—and had been considered an orphan, though he had living parents. Together, the government and church had been in the business of taking away children who were thought to be in moral danger from their families. Since my alcoholic grandfather had abandoned his family (single mother = moral hazard), my father and his siblings had been shipped to various institutions to be raised by Catholic sisters, brothers, and priests who were paid a stipend per child. When those children reached the age of sixteen, they were ejected from the protective system to fend for themselves. My father didn’t meet his own brothers until he was ten. His sister Carmel died of tuberculosis in one of those homes.
Up until a decade before his death, my father couldn’t speak with any candor about his upbringing. “It was like being sent to a reform home,” he told me, something to hide from others because it reflected poorly on oneself. Amid that discomfort—family removed, disgrace added—religion became a deep and abiding comfort for him in a world that was bereft of softness. Perhaps one of the religious sisters or brothers had been particularly kind to him. Perhaps God himself reached out. He tried to bring that degree of security to our family life via recited rosaries, novenas, and family prayers declaimed on our knees before an altar and crucifix each evening.
My mother, meanwhile, had been the untreated victim of childhood sexual abuse, the youngest of ten children in an Irish culture that kept things about sex hidden, shamed, and hushed. At the age of ten, she had seen her father (the likely perpetrator of her abuse) struck by a bus and killed. If she harbored guilt and anger for the abuse, how might his death have complicated her recollection? Whatever she thought, one thing was indisputable: She developed severe emotional problems and medicated herself with alcohol and psychotropic drugs. The fact that my parents were able to meet, marry, move to the States, and raise five children was a miracle in itself, though their union left their children with more than a few scars. For me, there was confusion about what was real and what was the cleaned-up face we were supposed to show the world. Every Sunday, you could find us lined up, youngest to oldest, in a front pew at Holy Family Church. Shoes a little scuffed maybe, hair not always combed, hoping that looking good enough would mean that the difficulties and ugliness that took place during the week might fade into the background, a grape juice stain mostly removed, leaving only a ghost of itself.
As a young mother, I had been convinced that it was up to me to keep the whole family together and unified through my singular efforts. To let go, to see how events might unfold if left to their own devices, was to invite chaos at best and mental illness at worst. “Raising you kids did this to me,” my mother often said of her bipolar condition. And I believed her. If I had been able to relax and let go during my children’s young years, to relinquish the control I held on to for dear life, what was to prevent the same specter from visiting me?
Ironically, this is what I find myself struggling with now. Can I finally let loose all the constraints I’ve placed on myself and see what’s really here? Am I able to risk knowing who I really am?
Upstairs, Roger and Crystal have been awake for some time, brewing coffee and preparing breakfast. Though last night we’d urged them to sleep in and let us leave quietly, they’d insisted. “We don’t get visitors that often. We want to see you off.”
Last night, Roger had given me his card. “You get stuck anywhere in the country—anywhere at all. You call me. I have a truck. Tools. I can be there before you know it. And I know people everywhere.”
I tuck his card into my tank bag. I am grateful for his kindness but unused to strangers pledging extreme offers of help.
We all converge at the breakfast table. I pour a cup of coffee. After yesterday morning, I worry about being lulled to sleep again. And though I don’t want to have to pee ten minutes into the trip, I pour a second cup to err on the side of wakefulness. Fox News—anathema to a dyed-in-the-wool liberal like me—plays on the television. I have to reconcile my political views with the straight-up kindness and hospitality this couple has extended. We’re on the bikes by 4:30 AM, waving good-bye. Next stop: Beaver, Utah.
• • •
As I ride, the color-coordinated room comes back to me and I contrast it with my motorcycle riding. It’s more than just facing my fears. I’m jonesing for a kind of vulnerability, a willingness to allow others to see me in a compromised, don’t-take-a-picture-of-me-now state. A willingness to finally let the world know I’m not perfect and I don’t have the answers. Part of it has to do with my readiness to ask for and receive help and encouragement from others. Usually, I want to be seen as an expert before I’ve even learned the subject. And that ego-preserving state has kept me, over the years, from doing many things I would have liked to have done.
In my early twenties, I trained seriously to be a professional dancer. Then I got my chance: an audition at Disneyland. I was nervous but prepared. As the audition became more competitive, I lost my nerve. I didn’t want to be one of those escorted from the stage, publicly acknowledged as not having the goods. Within seconds, I convinced myself that I didn’t want the job. I was better off in my cocktail-waitress life. Before anyone had a chance to reject me, I picked up my bag and sauntered away.
And I never tried again.
I’m staring into a nasty bit of truth: I am naturally good at many things. But if you ask me to do something I don’t innately excel at, my first instinct will be to shut down. My second instinct will be to come up with creative reasons why I can’t possibly accept the challenge.
But now in my middle years, I realize I have a third option. If I can shut down the judgmental voices in my head long enough, another voice sometimes speaks in a timbre so gentle it’s easy to miss.
It’s okay to try it and not be good, this voice whispers. You might like it.
Rather than spending energy bemoaning what doesn’t come easily or getting angry with others who seem to do what I want with ease and confidence, I realize I have a better option. If I am willing to spend the energy and resources necessary to master something that catches my attention, I now understand that I can do it.
As I was getting ready for the hospital to give birth to Hope, my youngest, my brother Brendan called to wish me well. “You going to ask for anesthesia?” he asked. I’d delivered my older children without drugs, and I hoped for the same experience this time. He thought that was a good thing, if possible. “It’s important to feel all of life as it occurs.” His words stuck with me. I have spent decades trying not to feel big portions of my life, trying to hide from what feels frightening or beyond me or challenging in uncomfortable ways.
But something has changed, and I don’t know exactly what. How have I become this woman, crossing the country on a motorcycle, embracing risks I would have run from in my younger years?
I have some thoughts. I saw how my children struggled with learning, how they persisted and grew from the experience. They may not have known how to draw, but they noticed how much better their fifth attempt to draw an apple was than the previous four. My friend Nancy, who put herself through medical school as a single mother of four daughters, used to say that intelligence isn’t knowing everything. It’s the awareness that we’re capable of learning what we don’t know.
• • •
>
Though sleepy, I do a marginally better job staying alert as we ride out of Cedar City. The morning is cool and I’ve made a point not to overdress; that helps. We’ve barely left Cedar City when we stop in Beaver simply because everyone from back home has told us we need to stop there. This tiny town has gained fame from its “I (heart) Beaver” souvenirs. We pass through the little hamlet long before any of the souvenir-hawking businesses are open. But at a gas stop I scope out the limited selection of Beaver-related items in the service station. I pick up a rubber bracelet imprinted with I ♥ BEAVER and then a bumper sticker, wishing I could buy them for someone with a playful spirit at home. I’m a little embarrassed by the thought. I consider myself a feminist, someone who has a sex-positive outlook, and the beaver jokes feel a bit like teen-boy humor. Yet, I’m also kind of tickled by the silliness of it all. There is something about my life that has squelched the fun out of me and robbed this double entendre play of its inherent lightness. I want to discover what this kind of play is about. I feel giddy when I touch the words I ♥ BEAVER cut into this bracelet, followed immediately by a static cling of shame. I leave the gas station with no Beaver-related merchandise.
Eventually, the sun rises and the morning unfolds. We’re riding along Interstate 15 with a posted speed limit of seventy, which means we’re doing eighty or more. When we descend into the Utah Valley and Provo in late morning, the stark beauty smacks me awake. The sky’s bright blueness hurts my eyes. The clouds are whiter than any I’ve ever seen, shamelessly unambiguous against their cerulean background. It’s as if all the clouds I’ve known before had been hiding behind a kind of modesty scrim, and now, for the first time, I see them naked. I can’t stop staring.
We pull off the interstate north of Provo at the Timpanogos Harley-Davidson dealership. When we turn into the parking lot, we find wall-to-wall Harleys about to depart for a charity ride, almost all ridden by men. The few women present are mostly passengers. As we park, guys wanting to take photos immediately approach Edna. A woman rider with such a girlish bike is clearly a novelty here. Still, I’m heartened to know that the number of women motorcyclists is now rising. According to the Motorcycle Industry Council, “In 2014, the estimated number of motorcycles owned by females is 14 percent, a 50 percent increase over the last 10 years.”
• • •
Rebecca and I ramble through the shop, get coffee, rest. The dealership is amazing with lots of glass and weathered steel, a mash-up between rustic and ultramodern. There’s even a restaurant that makes the best skinny little French fries I’ve ever tasted.
Back on the road, we continue half an hour into Salt Lake then east on Interstate 80, climbing Parley’s Summit to seven thousand feet. When we cross the border into Wyoming, almost immediately we see huge, ambling bison. They’re not running free, ruling the Great Plains as I’d hoped. They’re corralled, zoo-like, in a pseudo nature preserve next to the interstate where we pull off to get gas.
The bison are slow-moving things—or so they appear. But don’t be fooled. Bison can outrun humans, sprinting as fast as forty miles per hour. More people are injured in Yellowstone National Park by bison than by bears.
I expect them to stink but they don’t, or maybe we’re not close enough to know for sure. They’re sizable: A bull can weigh more than eighteen hundred pounds and stand six feet tall at the shoulder. Bison once roamed the American prairie by the tens of millions and provided a way of life for the Plains Indians. But European settlers hunted them to the brink of extinction. According to the International Union for Conservation of Nature, only fifteen thousand of these animals considered “wild” remain free ranging and not confined by fencing. Tribes of the American plains once relied on bison for food, shelter, and clothing and as a powerful spiritual symbol. But now, corralled behind this fence, the bison seem disempowered, domesticated in a way that makes me uncomfortable.
I think of what I’ve learned about the dearth of female road trips and why taking this trip is so important to me. As women in this culture, have we been corralled and kept penned in like these bison?
But then another thought enters: Is it possible we have corralled ourselves? In what ways have I constructed my own enclosure?
• • •
After we top off, George approaches a man in a pickup truck. “Is there a good little diner to get something to eat around here?”
He gives us directions to Lucille’s.
We park the bikes, strip off layers—the day has gotten hot again—and settle into stiff chairs with plastic cushions around a wobbly Formica table. Looking at the menu, Rebecca and I realize we’re not in California anymore. Both Edna and George are accustomed to road food. Rebecca and I—runners, yogis, hipster spinners—are a bit prissy in our food choices. We’re mostly vegetarian, farmers’ market shoppers who prefer organic, non-GMO produce, especially kale. Here our choices seem to be French fries versus potato salad as a side with a traditional hamburger. Then I notice a green salad with chicken on the menu. That might do the trick.
“Does the salad come with iceberg lettuce?” I ask the waitress, trying to sound as if I’m simply inquiring and not making a damning statement on the nature of iceberg lettuce.
“Yup.”
“Is there some way to get a different kind of lettuce?” I ask.
“Let me check with the cook. I think we have some Rogaine in back,” she answers.
Rebecca and I look at each other, suppressing the reflex to laugh.
“Uh, I mean romaine,” she checks herself.
I remind myself that just because we do things in California a certain way doesn’t mean the rest of the country has to follow suit. I hate myself for it, but I still want my dark leafy greens. Turns out they’re all out of romaine. I order the salad anyhow and make a note to pick up apples on our next provisions stop.
George pulls out his maps. “How ’bout we take Highway 89 instead of the interstate?” he asks. “The view and empty roads will be gorgeous.”
Rebecca raises her eyebrows at me. We both glance at Edna. Why not?
• • •
The sparsely traveled two-lane highway weaves into Utah, through Richfield (population 160) and Randolph (population 470), then returns to Wyoming. We travel north up the flat trench between mountain ranges. The day is unmercifully hot and I’m sweating inside my safety gear. We occasionally pass bikers attired in short sleeves, half helmets, and light shoes. I wish I could be that cavalier, but thinking of my family, I’m glad I opted for safety over comfort.
The miles tick off the odometer and I realize I’m riding on automatic pilot. It’s a dangerous lapse. Balanced on two wheels at seventy miles an hour, it’s necessary to be constantly on alert. But we’ve been at this so long now that it’s hard to pay attention the same way I did at the beginning. In many ways, that’s like life. With something new, we perk up and focus. Once we get used to it, we acclimate, we adjust to the newness, whether it’s something wonderful or tragic.
Interestingly, though, I learn it’s often easier to adjust to new but unwanted parts of life than to the new, positive things.
“We all have an inner thermostat setting that determines how much love, success, and creativity we allow ourselves to enjoy,” writes psychologist Gay Hendricks in The Big Leap. When we exceed our inner thermostat setting, we’ll often do something to sabotage ourselves, causing us to drop back into the old, familiar zone where we feel secure. Hendricks uses his own experience as an example, citing a time when he was feeling good and yet found himself manufacturing a stream of painful thoughts and images precisely because he was feeling good.
This phenomenon is borne out in the world around us with studies of lottery winners. One of these studies found that more than 60 percent of the winners had blown through the money within two years and returned to the same net worth as before their big win. Many ended up worse off than before they won. The idea that we are worthy of having our dreams come true, that we deserve good things, often runs c
ounter to what we have been taught or what we think we know about ourselves. This is because our inner thermostat usually gets programmed in early childhood before we can think for ourselves. And once set, if not questioned, this mind-set will hold us back from enjoying all the love, financial abundance, and creativity we might otherwise claim.
As an example, Hendricks cites the early days of the steam-powered train, when scientists wanted the speed capped at thirty miles an hour because they believed the human body would explode at speeds greater than that. “We’re approximately at that same stage of development with regard to our ability to feel good and have our lives go well,” he writes. “In the face of so much evidence that life hurts and is fraught with adversity on all fronts, having a willingness to feel good and have life go well all the time is a genuinely radical act.”
• • •
I’m floating off on these thoughts when I see George pull over to the shoulder. Edna and I follow suit. He gestures back down the highway where Rebecca has pulled over, five hundred feet behind, and is getting off her bike. We turn around and return to find Rebecca loosening her helmet.
“It just stopped running,” she says. I boomerang from pride in resetting my inner success thermometer to the thought that this trip is the worst idea of my life. Rebecca’s bike is nearly new, with fewer than five thousand miles on the clock. All along, Rebecca and I have reassured ourselves we’ll be okay because we’re on new bikes. What could possibly go wrong?
She pulls out her phone and calls her brother-in-law, Paul, a certified mechanic working at her shop. “We’re somewhere in Wyoming,” she tells him. The day is exquisite. I see a photo op and park Izzy Bella in the middle of the deserted highway and take pictures of her, all tricked out with her luggage and accessories, looking like a real road warrior. I’m working to distract myself from the dread that is building. Paul asks George to check the connection at the battery terminals. George locates a wrench in his kit, unlatches and raises Rebecca’s seat. A couple of twists of the wrench snugs the cable connections.
Harley and Me Page 12
