On Wednesday evening, the day before I was supposed to leave for the Nutmeg Nor’Easter, I let a thought in. Just a brief, fleeting seed of an idea, but it lodged itself in one of the plentiful cracks in my psyche, and took root.

What if instead of driving north… I didn’t?

Nourished by weather apps and forecasts for theoretical alternate destinations, as well as by nostalgia, sun worship, anti-social tendencies, and my own singular iteration of time anxiety, when I finally climbed into the van to start driving to Connecticut on Thursday, the thought was no longer a seed, but a full grown mania.

So with a small resigned wave to the north over my right shoulder, I impulsively turned left, merged onto I-40 and drove west toward a low and brilliant sun instead.

“The fuck am I doing?” I asked the octopus.

He stared at me blankly.

Stopping a few hours away at Highland Brewing in Asheville, NC for a beer and dinner, and to figure out a camp spot for the night, I was pleasantly nonplussed to be recognized and comped a pint by the bartender “for running a cool bike shop.” A small thing that, however grossly misinformed, still helped take the edge off any anxiety I had about my decision. And let’s be real… I’m not an anxious person. I’m too detached and aloof for that kind of nervous energy. Sure, I occasionally wake up in the middle of the night to pee, and on the way to the toilet remember that at 47 years old, I’m still perpetually broke, and get to have a dance-party with that thought all night. But that’s just reality… not anxiety. And sure… I’ve been known to wrestle with thoughts of self-harm and disappearing forever. But that’s just existence… not anxiety. Even at my most despondent and desperate, I’d never call myself anxious. Just… agitated. Arguing quietly in the shower with ghosts about futures and pasts that may or may not exist. But I admit… for the first time in a bit, I felt a twinge of something. A mild mini-panic that can only come with freedom of choice. Let’s call it FOMO.

Because the entire point of the time I’d scheduled off was to attend Ron and Arya’s Nutmeg Nor’Easter, an event I’d been looking forward to for almost two years. I’d finally managed to make it in 2021, at what we all hoped was the tail end of Covid (that’s funny), and knew it was a thing I needed more of. And yet, as I looked at the building weather for the weekend, and projected myself into a blanket of cool, wet, northeastern clouds; a place I’ve been many many times, and would soon be again for too many months… my mind revolted. And I remembered waking up to brilliant prairie sunshine in Wilson, KS. To fragrant mesquite trees and warm rocks in Palo Duro Canyon, TX. Sure, I could go be a cool guy with the cool kids in the rain… or I could go be alone somewhere in the sun.

What can I say? I’m a lizard.

That first night, I pulled into the blissful darkness of Big Creek, just shy of the Tennessee border. One of my favorite ninja camp spots. Sipped bourbon in the van and watched Get Out on my ipad until lulled to sleep by late night waves of unavoidable rain and the eponymous sound of water rushing over rocks.

Making coffee the next morning, I looked at the map and made vague decisions. Galvanized a very rough plan to head toward Bentonville, AR, for no reason other than a wistful memory of a sunny, warm Autumn ride on the Back 40 trail, followed by simple, but notable gin and tonics at Hotel 21c. From there, I could see what my timing looked like and decide what, if anything, was next. But Bentonville is a long damn way away. Eleven hours from Knoxville, which in van-time, translates to at least 12 hours. Which, again, in van-time, translates to at least two days, because neither the van, nor myself, are much for driving more than six hours a day.

From what I could see, Friday rain was unavoidable in every direction, which meant riding trails in Knoxville was out. But Nashville looked to be clearing up. I could always plunge onward and find gravel near there. But the trouble with gravel is routes. Trails are easy. Even the most convoluted, sprawling system is typically still just a closed loop of some kind. But missteps in gravel can mean super sketchy parking, poor road choice, and miles and miles of backtracking. So I pulled into Knoxville to get more coffee and use wifi to download some routes; giving myself options all over, from Nashville up into Kentucky, into to northern Mississippi, on to western Arkansas, and even as far as the forbidden roads of eastern Oklahoma. By the time I was done, Tennessee Valley Bikes was open, so I popped in to say hi to Scott, Colin and co. “It barely rained here,” Scott said in his singular deadpan drawl. “Like… the trails are totally fine.” So after a little hemming and hawing on his part about playing hooky, that’s what we did.

Two hours later, as Scott and I finished a truly delightful ride on the Urban Wilderness loop, a young man loitering in the parking lot asked for a ride back to his car a few miles away. Apparently he’d gashed his rear tire and couldn’t get it to seal. “Do you have a spare tube?” I asked. “No,” he replied. “It’s set up tubeless.” “So… you don’t have a spare tube?” I repeated. “No. I’m running tubeless.” Oh. Ok. So, here’s the thing, kids; Even if you’re running tubeless, you still carry a fucking tube (and a tire boot)… for this very reason. I thought this was just unconscious knowledge. Scott had to get back to the shop, so I gave the young man a ride to his car. He got out, thanked me and went away, and as I was getting back in the van to drive off into the sunset, a woman approached me.

“Excuse me… is your van stick shift?” she asked.

I’m used to that sort of thing, as the van is many things, conversation piece being one of them. “Yes. Wait, ha! No.” I said, answering the question before I’d processed it. “Sorry. No. It’s automatic.” Which is a little odd for a Vanagon, I know, but that’s what it is.

“Oh. Well, can you drive stick?”

“I… can,” I said hesitantly, unsure where this was going.

She then explained that someone had parked uncomfortably close to her own truck on an incline, and she did not trust her own stick-shift skills enough not to crash into the other vehicle.

“Hmmm,” I replied, with no great enthusiasm.

Because just so you know… asking me “Can you drive stick?” is like asking me “Remember the movie Hoosiers?” or “Did you take algebra in high-school?” Yes. I do. I did. I can. But, like… give me a fucking second, ok?

In my early twenties, I owned a manual Isuzu Trooper and drove it all over the eastern half of the US. It was a fun car that I covered in cool guy stickers that said things like “Animal Liberation,” “Equal Vision Records,” “Shelter,” and “Neurosis.” And once, in Scotland, Dorothy rented a car, quickly realized she was out of her depth, and it fell to me to drive around the whole of the country in a stick-shift Fiat. On the wrong side of the road. In the wrong side of the car. It was fine, btw. But I definitely did a lap or two of the airport parking lot before I merged onto the M8 toward Edinburgh traffic. And the stakes somehow seemed less high than two pick-up trucks in Tennessee.

Sighing and pulling myself into the driver’s seat, I assessed the situation and shot her a dirty look. “Oh… sorry. I’m so short I had to tape a block of wood to the clutch in order to reach it.” I eyed the awkward chunk of hewed 2×4 strapped to the pedal, contorted my body in such a way that I could reasonably step on it, turned the key, and started her truck. Then took a moment to make sure reverse was actually reverse and to try and find the sweet spot in her clutch. Put it in gear… and proceeded to roll straight into the other truck with a loud bang.

It was dramatic enough to startle random people idling about the the parking lot. And at least one couple driving by gave a wide-eyed and audible “Oh no!” as they cruised past. I looked over at her horrified expression… and started cracking up. Because, I mean, come on… that was a perfect moment. I took a moment to compose myself, wiping away tears of laughter….found the sweet spot in the clutch… again… then reversed her truck carefully away and parked it. No damage to either vehicle. And even though I did exactly what she had been afraid of doing, she still called me her hero and gave me a parting hug.

And after some pizza and beer at TVB, I reluctantly got in the van and started driving west. It was much later than I’d intended, and rough math put my theoretical camping spot in Natchez Trace about four hours away. Five, if I stopped in Nashville for dinner. So I found my mind revolting once again at the prospect of driving for any considerable length of time. Approaching a fork on the interstate, I made another impulsive decision… and turned south toward Chattanooga, TN. I’d never been… at least not since my ex-wife and I visited Rock City in our 20’s… and supposedly there was good riding there. So why not?

That night I found some truly delicious beer and food in a bustling downtown, and watched bikes of all shape and size flit about the streets. Then found a quiet, shady spot at a nearby Walmart and parked for the night.

Crawling into bed, I checked the weather for Killingworth, CT one more time. 90% chance of rain through 5pm Saturday. And while I didn’t give myself a pass, necessarily, I did give myself a little leeway. That’s a lot of wet.

That night I dreamed that I was attending the triumphant and long-awaited return of Stevil’s Underbike Party. This year, it was happening underwater, in a huge warehouse filled with floating lights. As usual, I had done absolutely no preparation, so my scuba gear was a mess. As everyone else was having fun down below, I kept having to swim to the surface to fiddle with my oxygen tank and clear my mask. Then I would plunge back down to the party, only to find my foggy mask already filling with salty water.

I feel like… there’s something in that.

Next up: Part Two. Probably.