What Can I Learn from a Pile of Sand?
Making difficult choices
“Why? Why do you do it?”
“Are you crazy?”
Over the last 25 years, solo multi-day bicycle trips have become part of my summer routine, and people have often asked me such questions. I get it. The trips are difficult. The weather can be tough—it can be too cold, it can be way too hot, there can be torrential downpours. I’ve gotten flat tires and experienced broken bicycle parts—one time my crank fell off the bike. The roads (and drivers) can be less than ideal. Hills need to be conquered, or they will conquer you. You can only bring as many pieces of comfort with you as can fit in a few bags. Biking all day, you need to be vigilant about protecting your skin from the sun and dehydration. You need to find a way to not completely run out of energy.
I suspect that most people who share this obsession with me undertake these kinds of trips for similar reasons: we like being outdoors; we thrive on tackling big challenges; we like the complex planning process involved; we know that the training is a great way to stay fit; we like interacting with strangers; we are okay with—and even welcome—the unexpected things that happen on each trip; and we look forward to growing from the things that we learn every time we set out on a new adventure. The very first time I took a solo bike ride of this kind, it had some lessons in store for me.
I had decided to ride my bike 65-70 miles from Arlington, Massachusetts, to the mountain town of Greenfield, New Hampshire, then stay overnight at an old friend’s house and bike back the next day. GPS wasn’t readily available yet, so I would prepare by getting maps of the area and writing out where the turns would occur and the mileages between each. I would need to bring food, rain gear, tools, and a change of clothes. I didn’t know it at the time, but this trip would launch me into years of more ambitious self-supported (i.e. carrying all clothing and gear on the bike) trips.
The ride to New Hampshire that day was lovely and uneventful—until I reached the last stretch of about 15 miles. Starting in Wilton, New Hampshire, the remaining part of my trip would entail climbing a long and constant uphill on winding mountain roads, with deep tree cover. But this is what I had signed up for and I knew that the next morning I would be able to enjoy an impressively long, meandering downhill ride.
I left early the next day and by late morning I was almost to the Massachusetts border. I had just pedaled up a long incline and then reached the crest, revealing a beautiful, straight, long downhill in front of me. This would be a treat after the energy spent reaching that crest, but it didn’t mean that I could relax: when you’re riding down a long hill with a lot of weight on a bike, you’ve got to make sure you don’t pick up so much speed that you can’t control the bike. But in the hot summer, you also don’t want to just hold the brakes the whole way down because that can generate intense heat and damage the rim. But as I started down the hill, everything seemed under control.
Not everyone likes a lot of “gear” on their bike. There is something freeing about the simplicity of a bicycle made up just of the basics: the frame, the fork, the cranks, the handlebars, the wheels, the saddle. It’s lightweight, it’s easy to maintain, it’s sleek and attractive. But there’s another school of thought that sees the need for…”accessories.”
Today’s electric cargo bikes—the SUVs of bikes—are the opposite of the simplicity of a fixed-gear bike (“fixies” often don’t even have brakes). What might you want to add to your bicycle? One of those little bells to warn people that you are coming? Or should you just yell out “On your left!”, instead? How about a rack on the back and panniers to carry gear? Or do you just want to use a small backpack? How about a bottle cage attached to the frame to carry your water, a “bike computer” to track your mileage, a phone holder, toe clips, mudguards, kickstand, front and rear bike lights, an under-seat tool bag? Hey, what about a rear-view mirror?
On that day, biking back from New Hampshire, I was on a bicycle that did indeed have a rear-view mirror (and some other accessories, but not too many). The mirror was mounted to the end of my “drop-bar” handlebars, on the left-hand side, six inches below where my hands usually rested. I could glance down at it to avoid having to swivel my head around to see if there were vehicles approaching: swiveling one’s head can dangerously throw off the trajectory of the bike.
I had now glided down about two-thirds of that mountain road and, in a relaxed moment, had the time to check my mirror to see if I was going to have the road to myself.
I wasn’t.
An 18-wheeler near the top of the hill was just starting to make its way down, which in itself was not a problem: just something to keep an eye on. I continued down the hill, at around 30 miles an hour (it was a steep hill). I kept gliding. I kept checking the mirror. The truck kept getting closer. All was well.
But then I looked ahead. I could just make out that at the bottom of the hill, where the road finally leveled out, all was not well.
Where it came from, I do not know (left over from the winter? washed out by recent rains?), but at the bottom of the hill, on the shoulder of the road directly in front of me, was a sand pit of sorts, directly in my path. It was not a small pile of sand, but rather a spread-out thick layer of sand completely covering the spot I needed to bike through.
I was calm, but my mind started to make calculations as the truck and I both barreled towards the bottom of the hill and as I glanced back and forth between the pile of sand and the truck.
I’m getting closer to the sand.
The truck is getting closer to me.
Sand.
Truck.
Sand?
Truck?!?
Hmmm…no matter what I do (there’s not enough time to slow down), the truck and I are going to reach the bottom of the hill at the same time.
I know that I cannot just bike right through a pile of sand. If I did, I would most likely lose control of the bike and could end up anywhere—the woods, the sand, in front of the truck. I cannot simply “go around” the sand because the only way to do that is to swerve out onto the road, right into the path of the oncoming truck.
I have only one choice.
I’m going to do it.
Right now.
I put on the brakes to slow down as much as I can without flying over the handlebars or losing control of the bike. And then, just as I reach the sandbar, I lean heavily to the left, tilting the bike towards the ground, as I kick the rear wheel to the right and out from under me, in what could be called a “controlled wipeout.”
I fall and slide on my left side, right into the sand, and my bike does a spin-and-bounce move. All of this happens just as the truck flies by me, so close to the shoulder that there was no question that we would have collided if I’d made even the slightest move to go around my sand nemesis.
I look up to see the truck starting to disappear down the road and I am left there in silence.
There are no other vehicles around; it’s a rural stretch of road with no other sign of life. A bird flies overhead. The sun shines through a cloudless sky. I take stock.
I am alive, with just a scratch on my left arm and a scrape on my left leg. I wonder in that moment if the truck driver even noticed what just happened. Or maybe the driver was oblivious or so focused on his own truck-driver needs that he barely noticed me.
A life-or-death drama had just unfolded on that road and the only thing left for me to do was to get up, brush the sand off my body, check the bike for damage, and get back on my bike to complete the journey.
Thinking back on what unfolded in that brief slice of time, I feel implied metaphors bubbling up in my mind:
“When you notice that you’re coasting through life, that’s the time to be vigilant.”
“To know what’s coming next, look as far down the road as you can.”
“Don’t ignore 18-wheeler-sized problems creeping up on your life from behind.”
The one that speaks up the loudest is:
“When confronted with two choices, both with bad outcomes, you’ll need to make up your mind and then lean fully into your choice: a ‘controlled wipeout’ may be the best solution.”