Arriving Hall’s Hill for our wedding, Dec. 11, 2011

I’ve been re-reading this blog today with a sense of awe for the powerful transformation packed inside the simple frame of a little red bike left on my doorstep seven years ago.  Unbeknownst to me at the time, this bike would take me places I’d never dreamed of — into a brand new landscape of independence, adventure, exploration and, finally, reconciliation.

The journey had a circular nature from the beginning, not just in the wheels spinning under me but in the roads I traveled on Bainbridge Island, around the Western states and San Juan Islands, in loops large and small, over hills and highways, covering about 10,000 miles over five years.  The circles always led back to the beginning, of course — a metaphor that was not lost on me.  Perhaps the most amazing and unexpected loop of all occurred at the close of my 50’s  — the one that led me back to my husband, our valley home, a new marriage and a new life.

People ask me how Will and I found our way back together, and the simple answer is that it happened on the seat of a bicycle.  During our separation, while I was busy riding the Little Red Bike, Will bought a road bike of his own and embarked on his own separate journey.  Occasionally, we’d go out for a Bainbridge Island ride together and share thoughts about riding.  Despite living apart, we were never estranged from one another, and eventually, we discovered that having company on a ride was pretty nice.  Days, weeks and months passed, the divorce was finalized, and as time went by, we realized our shared passion for bicycling was building the foundation for a new relationship.  With every mile we logged, we reveled in the joy bicycling brought us, and one ride at a time, became fellow explorers.  We geared up with Trek 520’s, panniers, bike camping equipment, and set off on some trips together, as free and single individuals, “no strings attached.”  During that time we had a chance to reflect on our marriage, away from home, kids, friends and routine.

When did the fun go out of our relationship?  We met on the soccer field  in 1982 and for 20 years, played year-round on men’s and women’s recreational teams in wind, rain and mud.  We coached our kids’ teams, followed professional soccer, and loved the game with a great passion. When we finally quit playing soccer for the sake of our knees and backs, we wondered what could possibly replace the wonderful sense of play it had brought into our lives.  The truth is, nothing did.

For the next several years, the challenge of raising adolescents intensified, presenting difficulties and conflicts we’d never imagined. We worked hard to pay for programs and schools, went into debt, and slowly a darkness, like a heavy blanket, fell over our spirits.  We stopped having fun.  We forgot how to play.  We struggled and fought in the daily trenches and slowly but surely lost the joy of flying  through the air, laughing and loving life in an ageless kind of way, with nothing but the present moment and the wonder of our bodies in motion to consider.  As the years went by, we became stuck in roles of mother, father, wife, and husband, weighed down with the responsibilities and realities of growing older.  Not surprisingly, the weight showed up in our bodies.  I avoided mirrors and ducked out of photos.  We hid out, slogged on, and did the best we could.

Make no mistake, I’m proud of the work we did during that time.  We showed up for the challenges and tapped into every resource we could find.  As a family, we dug deep and found love and strength that enriched each of us.  That said, the energy expended took a toll in other areas of our lives.

Blessings from Lynn, who married us

When I turned 53, something deep in my body began to shift.  I could sense a restless, disturbed energy moving on subterranean levels, like molten lava.  The pressure building inside eventually broke out in my dreams — I’d wake up at night sweating and disoriented from visions of having my own apartment somewhere in the city, going back to school, starting a new career, meeting a man who could make me laugh again. Within a few months, the inner wellspring of change became so strong, I couldn’t fight it — something had to give.  The holidays came and went, and in the dark night of winter solstice, I met the truth:  I was finished with this chapter of my life.

On President’s Day, 2007, I moved out of our family house, into a small cottage on the same property.  I had no idea where I was headed, or how I would manage on my own.  I had no plan or goal of transformation – I just plunged along on intuition, knowing that I had to leave or suffocate.  Yes, you could call it escape, or “midlife crisis,” or whatever label works for you.  My direct experience did not feel like choice, it felt like survival.  Ultimately, it wasn’t about Will, it wasn’t about anyone or anything but me.  The sense of reaching the end of a chapter felt as deep and embedded as the marrow of my bones.  Undeniable.

Within six months of leaving my family home and husband, I had my last menstrual cycle.  I crossed this threshold wrapped in a kind of holy solitude and communion with myself as sole witness to a mysterious, remarkable transformation in my body, mind and spirit.  My body had morphed into a new shape.  My skin changed, my moods and sleep and hair changed.  I felt entirely different.  During this time, I realized the body has wisdom that the mind can not perceive, and I surrendered into that wisdom.  My body knew before my mind did that I needed solitude.  Within that solitude, I found new vitality, a new love of my body and my life.   I had given all I had to my children and my marriage;  if I gave any more, there would be nothing left of me.  I desperately wanted to feel alive again.  Shortly before my last menstrual cycle, the Little Red Bike showed up on my front porch, left there by a friend.  A coincidence?  Serendipity?  A miracle, perhaps?

Post-ceremony, the road unfolds before us…

All I know is that after four years of riding the Little Red Bike, experiencing once again the joy of flying through the air, laughing (whooping!), and loving life in an ageless kind of way, with nothing but the present moment and wonder of my body in motion to consider, I felt healed.  And, against all odds? — there came a chilly December morning when Will and I set off together and bicycled to the Prayer Wheel at Hall’s Hill Park, a magical place we’d visited on countless bike rides, and married again.   In our vows, we committed to a new kind of life together, one in which we kept alive passion for exploration and discovery, for play and fun, for the celebration of moving and laughing and loving, and for trust in the wisdom that lies deep in our bodies.  As we took those vows, our two children, now in their 20’s, stood by our sides as our witnesses.  At our first wedding, there were lots of people, lots of expectations, lots of hopes and fears and misconceptions.  At our second wedding, there were just four beloved people present to hear our words of intentions and love, with deep appreciation and gratitude all around.

Perhaps it’s hyperbole to say that bicycling saved my life.  Rather, I suspect it was a powerful instinct to survive and heal, lodged deep within my body, that did that.  Perhaps, too, it would be hyperbole to say that bicycling saved my relationship with my husband.   The truth is, a lot of factors came together to pave a new path forward.

Bicycling was, however, the fulcrum, the threshing wheel, the daily practice of my transformation.  The road was always the embodied metaphor:  the steep Bainbridge hills became places I reached down and found courage, the pain in my legs or my lungs were the by-products of grieving and growing stronger.  The mileage simply meant I was sticking with it, showing up, pedaling, one spin at a time, breathing, surviving, changing.  Most importantly, I was moving.  I wasn’t stuck anymore — I was going somewhere.  It didn’t matter where, only that I was on my way.

I saved my own life.  Bicycling saved my soul.

Specialized Myka Elite

Wow, it’s been awhile!  The original Little Red Bike that propelled me — literally and figuratively — to a new life, a new outlook and, ultimately, a new relationship (but that’s a story for another time), has about 12,000 miles on it now.  It’s beat-up, faded, chipped, dented, and with each new imperfection, I love it more. 

My newer, sturdier Trek 520 has taken me down the Oregon coast, to Canada, the San Juans, and will continue to be my travel bike. 

I’ve biked Bainbridge Island loops so many times I could navigate them in my sleep.  Touring still calls, but those trips take time, money and planning.  I’ve been feeling itchy for a new bicycling challenge, and the appeal of getting off the roads, away from traffic, has been growing in my mind.  Tom Clune, who runs one of our local bike shops, is a huge mountain biking fan, and planted the seed a couple of years ago.  The “vibe” out on the roads being what it is these days — with tension between bikes, cars and peds ratcheting up — the idea of being able to get out into forest and open land, onto off-road roads and trails, has more and more appeal. 

I’m lucky to live on an island that has huge tracts of publicly-owned forest property with many miles of well-kept trails.  Two of the largest parks are within a half-mile of my house — it all added up:  Get a mountain bike.  The search began, of course, with a trip to Tom’s shop, BI Cycle.  There was one women’s mountain bike in my range of interest:  the Specialized Myka Elite.  Hard tail, hydraulic disc brakes, lightweight (for a mountain bike!), some cool features.  I rode it around the parking lot and immediately had that feeling…  “this is IT.”   I bought it, and a week later, Will bought Specialized’s comparable men’s model, the Rockhopper.  

I’ve made a few trips to the Grand Forest — at age 58, I find I’m a little more cautious than I was even a few years ago.  It didn’t help that I hit a cluster of roots the first time out and fell on my ass.  You might say I now have a healthy dose of root respect.  For now, I’m just going slow, putting in the old “TIS.”  It’s always worked before, I know it will work again. 

There are now six bikes in the barn.  It may seem extravagant, but we can’t figure out which one we could do without.  Now, we’re poring over books about mountain biking in southern Utah, and I’m dreaming of camping and exploring new territory from a new seat and new perspective on this magical experience of riding bikes. 

One thing occurred to me today — I love putting on old pants, shirts, etc. to go bike riding.  There’s something about the messy, muddy GRIT of it this mountain bike adventure that I love.  After all, a bike may allow me to sail through the air, but moving along in touch with the earth — with all it’s direct, real experience —  is still what it’s all about, for me.   

More to come.

We also got off Highway 101 to a scenic shore drive at Trinidad where we had spectacular views of a windy, rocky beach.

Smell of the old forest in the sun and wild orchids (?) along the road simply intoxicating. Highway not as bad as we’d heard tell… Only a few spots with no shoulder, for short stretches.