Things that matter, things that don't

Approximate days until departure: 21

I would suggest that an ideal human life lies somewhere between my own defiant indolence and the rest of the world’s endless frenetic hustle. My role is just to be a bad influence, the kid standing outside the classroom window making faces at you at your desk, urging you to just this once make some excuse and get out of there, come outside and play. My own resolute idleness has mostly been a luxury rather than a virtue, but I did make a conscious decision, a long time ago, to choose time over money, since I’ve always understood that the best investment of my limited time on earth was to spend it with people I love. I suppose it’s possible I’ll lie on my deathbed regretting that I didn’t work harder and say everything I had to say, but I think what I’ll really wish is that I could have one more beer with Chris, another long talk with Megan, one last good hard laugh with Boyd. Life is too short to be busy.

Tim Kreider, The Busy Trap

In the past few weeks I sometimes feel I’ve been granted the temporary clarity one only supposedly gets towards the end of their life. My last day at work was almost a month ago now. Since then, I’ve done a spectrum of things and had a rollercoaster of emotions. I visited a friend from college in Seattle, made new friends there, spoke to old professors, came back, made fancy dinner for a girl, promptly got sick (I assume from the Seattle airport and not the dinner), went dancing, went bowling, applied for plastic money containers with no foreign transaction fees, bought things with my plastic money containers, slept too little, worried too much, moved to Minneapolis, and now here I am.

I wish I could say in this flurry of activity the clarity I’ve been granted was that I should go bike around the world, but it would be more accurate to say that I should spend time with the people I love. In the endless frenetic hustle of my past few days -- on the day I moved to Minneapolis I woke up at 7 and didn’t get to bed until 2 AM -- my realization was that loving and being loved matter more than any thing I bought or rented for this trip and any trip I could possibly go on.

I’ve spent a lot of time wondering, what if my password gets stolen? What if my pot isn’t big enough? What if my tent breaks? Those aren’t bad questions, but the answer to all of them is the same: it’ll work out. The closer the date draws, the more it becomes evident there are more important questions: What if the girl I love isn’t single when I get back? What if Casey never makes me tea again?

I thought for a few days that I had allowed myself too much downtime between quitting Epic and leaving Madison. My mind had too much time to wander; was I just bored? But now I find the days are catching up to me, even sweeping me along, as I hold with clueless aplomb the idea of nothing changing, of always having time for one more museum with Casey or one more bike ride with Adam. A friend told me, “Let’s hang out every day -- this is the last week!” and I didn’t hit me at the moment, but it opened the pores for the realization to permeate, the realization that life as I know it is about to go on hiatus. I’ve spent the past few days worrying about waterproofing my tent and if I can get this credit card without being employed; I should have spent the past few days worrying about what I’m going to cook for dinner for this girl I have a crush on. I should have been worrying about an impromptu dance party with that friend I promised a dance to, or when I can get another beer with Alex, another coffee with Brianna.

A month ago at work, one of my customers said to me: this isn’t goodbye. I will see most of these people again (assuming I don’t get hit by a truck). They will have changed, and I will have changed. But still, we will love each other. It is with a calm, inner peace that I packed up my things. I’d rather be spending my time at karaoke with Mandy or eating tapas with Dubby, but those times will come. This isn’t goodbye.

At the end of this life, there are few things that really matter: how deeply we loved, how compassionately we lived, and how gracefully we let go. I like to think I’m getting points for the first one by ignoring the third -- there are people in Madison I love deeply that I don’t think I will ever let go of. I know I am doing this trip for the right reasons: to love and be compassionate towards others. I just hope, desperately, that I am not passing on my only chance to be with the people I love. I hope they will be there when (if?) I get back. This was never an issue when applying to colleges or choosing a job; perhaps the sentience of adulthood and perspicuity of conscious choice is having its way with me. In the past month I’ve come to realize how wholly my heart has settled in Madison, having never felt at home in Minneapolis or Seattle. I find myself contemplating how rare that is, if it will be waiting for me when I get back, if I can find it somewhere else, or if maybe the adventure of a lifetime I’m about to embark on isn’t worth the risk of losing it.

Time will tell.

Video Time!

I haven't yet decided if I am going to do a vlog of the trip; in the meantime, my creative side can't help but do a video to summarize the project. Enjoy!

Skydiving

The three most common responses I get to “I am biking around the world” are:

1. What are you going to do about the oceans? / Will you build a pedal-powered raft to get across the oceans? / Will you ride a stationary bike on a boat to say you “pedaled” across the oceans? (answered here)
2. That's amazing!
3. I could never do that.

I want to talk today about response #3 – “I could never do that.” This is, of course, an entirely fair response: uprooting your entire life for 1-5 years so you can see the world is quite a commitment. I am leaving behind friends, family, a stable job, a girl I can see myself falling for, and the knowledge of where I'm going to sleep every night. I'm putting a hold on the American dream, that golden brick road supposedly pre-paved for all of us willing to work hard enough, tried and true and definitely something I could easily do, to do my dream. I am trying to have faith that I will be happier and more fulfilled if I do this other thing that hardly anybody does than if I do what is implicitly expected of everyone in America.

It is, to say the least, terrifying. The closest analogy I can draw to my feelings over the past few months, and in particular, the past few days, is being in a plane going up to go skydiving. I spent 30 minutes on the ground, paying money, signing my life away, promising not to sue if I die (because I could), getting suited up, and figuring out what to do about my glasses. I asked and answered the logistical questions and the silly questions and at some point, I walked out to the plane, didn't say goodbye to the ground quite as thoroughly as I probably should have, and climbed on board.

When I went skydiving, it was a small plane crammed full of people sitting on the floor. Closest to the front of the plane was the last jumper, facing backwards. In their lap was the second-to-last jumper, in their lap someone else, and so on all the way up to the door. I was in the lap of my tandem, and someone was in my lap. There was little room to move, and if I didn't jump, the person behind me couldn't jump.

I was committed.

The plane took off and we climbed. That was me putting my notice in to work, more than three months ago now. We climbed, as I handed off my customers. We climbed, as I bought a bicycle frame. As my last day at work came and went. As I sold my first postcard. We climb, and my tandem holds his altimeter up so I can see how far we've come.

We climb.

[Listen to this quote here, it’s better than reading it]

Look again at that dot. That's here. That's home. That's us. On it everyone you love, everyone you know, everyone you ever heard of, every human being who ever was, lived out their lives. The aggregate of our joy and suffering, thousands of confident religions, ideologies, and economic doctrines, every hunter and forager, every hero and coward, every creator and destroyer of civilization, every king and peasant, every young couple in love, every mother and father, hopeful child, inventor and explorer, every teacher of morals, every corrupt politician, every "superstar," every "supreme leader," every saint and sinner in the history of our species lived there—on a mote of dust suspended in a sunbeam.

The Earth is a very small stage in a vast cosmic arena. Think of the rivers of blood spilled by all those generals and emperors so that, in glory and triumph, they could become the momentary masters of a fraction of a dot. Think of the endless cruelties visited by the inhabitants of one corner of this pixel on the scarcely distinguishable inhabitants of some other corner, how frequent their misunderstandings, how eager they are to kill one another, how fervent their hatreds.

Our posturings, our imagined self-importance, the delusion that we have some privileged position in the Universe, are challenged by this point of pale light. Our planet is a lonely speck in the great enveloping cosmic dark. In our obscurity, in all this vastness, there is no hint that help will come from elsewhere to save us from ourselves.

The Earth is the only world known so far to harbor life. There is nowhere else, at least in the near future, to which our species could migrate. Visit? Yes. Settle? Not yet. Like it or not, for the moment the Earth is where we make our stand.

It has been said that astronomy is a humbling and character-building experience. There is perhaps no better demonstration of the folly of human conceits than this distant image of our tiny world. To me, it underscores our responsibility to deal more kindly with one another, and to preserve and cherish the pale blue dot, the only home we've ever known.

Carl Sagan

Some people say they could never do this. There is nothing wrong with that. Me, I watch the news and skim social media and see the ignorance and fear and animosity in the world, I see the injustices we put on each other, and I could never see that and not be moved. I could never not do something, even if that something was just feeling hurt. Don’t get me wrong, this isn’t self-righteousness (can you be self-righteous about something some would call foolish?). We all have our own paths to follow, our own things to do. This is my path.

I am compelled to do this trip. To try and make the world a little more kinder, a little more open, by making myself vulnerable to it, and sharing the results of that experiment. I could never not do that.

There are all sorts of reasons I shouldn’t do this trip. I won’t go into them here, as I’ve already thought many of them through. Despite the possible negative consequences, I have faith that it will work out. More than work out: I’m pretty sure it’s going to be awesome. Adventure, to me, is often worth the risk.

The plane is still climbing. I have yet to put my belongings in storage. I have yet to take the first pedal stroke. But at some point we'll reach jumping height. The door will open, and despite the pit in my stomach, despite the part of my brain that says jumping is stupid, humans can't do this, you could die! Don't do this! – despite that, I will scoot forward to the door, look out at the world I've yet to see, lean out once for momentum, rock back in, lean out a second time, rock back in, and then?

I'll jump.

#beablackburnranger2017

There are a multitude of ways to get financial support for biking around the world. One of those ways you may know of already: selling postcards, of course!

Another possible way? Partner with a company like Blackburn Design.

@cyclehumanity just applied to #beablackburnranger2017. This could be me! Hi @blackburndesign!

A post shared by Kyle J. Egerdal (@cyclehumanity) on Feb 26, 2017 at 3:06pm PST

Blackburn Design is an outdoor adventure company that makes parts like pumps, trainers, tools, cages and racks. Every year, they run the Blackburn Ranger program to put a few lucky cyclists on routes around the world. This year, the routes are in Europe. I'm applying, because honestly, I'm biking across Europe and blogging about it whether they like it or not! And below is my application video. Wish me luck!

Dreams, Fears, and Hard Decisions

I sometimes think that people imagine me sleeping in a cardboard box in the rain surrounded by angry bankers and debt collection agencies and friends and family chiding me for being so bloody stupid as to not plan properly for 'the future', my accounts emptied and all I knew and loved having cruelly turned on me as I descend into penniless poverty hell.

Tom's Bike Trip

In the spring of 2013, I traveled to India for a project I conceived of and crowdfunded called 90 Bikes, 90 Days. Within the first few days, I found myself face-to-face with an aspiring 3D animator who needed help with his bike so he could ride to class. He was confused what a Caucasian was doing in a bicycle shop in India -- many Indians believe all Caucasians are rich and therefore would not deign to associate themselves with an impoverished person’s mode of transportation. I was impressed that a 15-year-old Indian spoke impeccable English and was taking 3D animation classes at a community college while attending high school. We chatted about the importance of following one’s passion despite what society, or one’s parents, might have to say about it. Before he left with his newly repaired bike, he told me, “Stick with your passion. Don’t give in to the corporate monster.”


The paragraph above was the opening for my personal statement on my application for graduate school. I applied for MS Psychology at the University of Minnesota and the University of Madison, WI and got in to both. Now I find myself reading it again and chiding the irony. The moment described above -- the 15-year-old Indian boy telling me not give in to the corporate monster -- that was the moment I knew I wanted to be a psychologist. What made that Indian boy and I acknowledge and ignore the expectations set out for us by society? What was he doing studying animation? What was I doing there in India?


What am I doing now?


With less than two weeks before my last day at Epic, I have a crucial decision to make. It's not as if the weight of the world is on shoulders, but: bike around the world or go to graduate school? On the one hand, a life of adventure, probably danger, and the unknown. On the other, a life of surety and stability. I am passionate about both ideas.

This is your life. Do what you love, and do it often. If you don't like something, change it. If you don't like your job, quit. If you don't have enough time, stop watching TV. If you are looking for the love of your life, stop; they will be waiting for you when you start doing the things you love. Travel often; getting lost will help you find yourself. Some opportunities only come once, seize them. Life is about the people you meet, and the things you create with them so go out and start creating. Life is short. Live your dream and share your passion.

The Holstee Manifesto

I know, I know, #firstworldproblems. This seems a perpetual debate for me: do I uproot my life to live as a nomad? Or do I get a degree, start a career, and live happily ever after? I'm 27, which feels old, but I know it's young. However young I might be, though, I won't be that way forever. If it takes five years to bike around the world, can I establish a life afterward? If I get back and want to go to graduate school, could I get in again? What about my friends, family, and potential relationships? There is so much I am leaving to fate if I choose to leave.


But then, everyone I talk to says they wish they had traveled more when they were younger. "The longer you wait, the harder it gets," they say. First, it's a degree, then a job, a relationship, a house, kids -- and before you know it, leaving even your home state for more than a week or two becomes near impossible.

There are two ways to be rich. One is by acquiring much. The other by desiring little.

Jackie Collier

Sometimes it feels as if my heart is being torn at the seams. I'm terrified of making the wrong choice. I like to think if you're afraid of something, that's how you know you're passionate about it. But thinking that doesn't help you be less afraid.


Travel aligns with many of my philosophies; in particular, the philosophy that too many of us do what's accepted because we fear otherwise doing it wrong. Capitalism posits that happiness is some reward that can be achieved and held on to. Businesses want you to think this so you buy their product: most ads are structured around making you feel something -- happiness, badassery, sexiness, whatever. Don't buy their stuff, and your life will suck: you can't have peace of mind, you won't have a secure retirement, you won't get laid. That's what many of us have been raised to believe: stuff makes you happy. But we've only been taught that by people who want us to buy into the system so we buy their stuff.


Here's the thing: stuff doesn't make you happy. Experiences make you happy.


Happiness is a state of being that you enter and exit, flowing like water in a river through it, into other emotions, back to it, and so on. Once you accept where you are, wherever you are, non-judgementally, you can fully experience happiness and other emotions. If you hold on to happiness, you will only be unhappy once you lose it. If you let it go, and allow yourself to be sad, or angry, or thoughtful, or whatever it is you are, letting happiness go when it is time to let go, then soon, you can greet happiness back as you would greet an old friend.


You can't buy happiness, and you can't hold on to it. Experience it, enjoy it, and when the time has come to feel something else, graciously accept that.


In other words, I can't have one foot on the dock and the other in a boat and expect to go anywhere. It is a tough decision. If I decide to travel around the world by bike, I'm not sure I can fully enjoy it if I'm always wondering what could have been. Or, my bike trip may change me so fundamentally that grad school may not be part of the new me.


If I decide to climb into the boat, it would be best to take a deep breath and let go of the dock.

To realize one's destiny is a person's only real obligation.

Paulho Coelho

I did try flipping a coin. Heads, I bike. Tails, I go to grad school. I sat there, turning the coin over, saying it over and over again. "Heads, I bike. Tails, I go to grad school. Heads, I bike. Tails, I go to grad school. Heads, ..." Finally, I composed myself and sat up straight. I delayed another few seconds, staring at the coin as if daring it to disappear into another dimension. It didn't.


I flipped it.


Destiny?

The Fisherman

An American investment banker was at the pier of a small coastal Mexican village when a small boat with just one fisherman docked. Inside the small boat were several large yellowfin tuna. The American complimented the Mexican on the quality of his fish and asked how long it took to catch them.

The fisherman replied, "Only a little while."

The American asked why he didn’t stay out longer and catch more fish. The fisherman said he had enough to support his family’s immediate needs. The American then asked, "What do you do with the rest of your time?"

The fisherman said, "I sleep late, fish a little, play with my children, take siestas with my wife, Maria, stroll into the village each evening where I sip wine and play guitar with my amigos. I have a full and busy life."

The American scoffed: "I am a Harvard MBA and could help you. You should spend more time fishing and with the proceeds, buy a bigger boat. With the proceeds from the bigger boat, you could buy several boats; eventually, you would have a fleet of fishing boats. Instead of selling your catch to a middleman you would sell directly to the processor, eventually opening your own cannery. You would control the product, processing, and distribution. You would need to leave this small coastal fishing village and move to Mexico City, then LA and eventually New York City, where you will run your expanding enterprise."

The fisherman asked, "How long will this all take?"

To which the American replied, "15–20 years."

"And what then?" asked the Mexican.

The American smiled broadly. "That’s the best part. When the time is right you announce an IPO, sell your stock to the public, and become very rich. You'll make millions!"

"Millions! Then what?"

The American said, "Then you would retire. Move to a small coastal fishing village where you would sleep late, fish a little, play with your kids, take siestas with your wife, stroll to the village in the evenings where you could sip wine and play your guitar with your amigos."

Another one of those moments

I mentioned in a previous post that on a bicycle tour there aren't too many "this is happening" moments, at least not compared to the length of the trip.

Suffice to say: I might be eating my words, because I just had another one, and I'm sure at least one or two more are coming.

This one happened just today, when I started looking at ukuleles.

I know, I know... who looks at ukuleles? And who cares? Well, the reason this was a big deal to me is because I was looking at ukuleles and not accordions.

I've played accordion on and off -- mostly off, admittedly -- for the past ten years or so. It's been more of a retirement project that I'm getting a head start on than any serious commitment, but I do consider it part of my identity. Accordions match my personality: they are goofy and expressive. I have a meaningful relationship with my two accordions. They don't make music unless you help them breath -- you take their lungs in your hands and pump air in and out and in exchange they make music for you (we call their lungs "bellows"). They have a distinct smell which reminds me of pipe smoke and tweed.

So, I'm attached. And I'm trying not to be over-dramatic here, but if I didn't play accordion for 2-5 years, I'd wonder if I was leaving a part of me to go do something else (of course, "leaving a part of me" probably deserves a post of its own).

However, even the lightest accordions weigh 10-15 pounds. I'd want to bring one that's capable of doing more than a few chords on the bass side, so I'd be looking at about 20 pounds. I expect my total load to be no more than 50 lbs, meaning the accordion would add 40% to the extra weight on the bike. The bike can handle it. But that's a lot of extra work, over 18,000+ miles, for a bit of self-expression. Accordions are fairly expensive compared to other instruments, and a bit more sensitive to the elements: they make music using metal reeds waxed on to wooden blocks. That's a lot of different materials contracting and expanding in the cold of the Himalayas or the heat of the African desert; the wax could freeze or melt.

Ukuleles weigh about 1.5 lbs; a case, 3 lbs. They are much less expensive, and while extreme temperatures are less than ideal for the mahogany, they can weather a desert or a mountain pass much better than an accordion.

So, it is with a heavy heart that I resign myself to the researching of ukuleles and their cases.

This is happening.