on the magic of bikepacking and microadventures

It’s 7:41 in the morning as I write this, a crisp September dawn wet and hazy with fog. In the distance, I hear a chorus of yellowthroats, nuthatches and goldfinches punctuated every few beats by a woodpecker’s quest for breakfast. The heat of a small fire warms my feet and in my chest, the morning’s cowboy coffee lingers bitter and hot. 

Last night, my senses were similarly overwhelmed, this time by the buzz of crickets and the clarity of the Big Dipper in the blue-black night sky as I sat by the fire, absorbed. I imagined the Dipper pouring a shower of crickets onto the field of sunflowers, daisies, asters and allies — a dream boosted by the abrupt cuts and dives of a bat feasting at a buffet. ​

Sentimental as I am in the mornings, I find myself reflecting on the joy this overnight bikepacking trip’s brought so far. Just like Vonnegut taught me: "Please notice when you’re happy, and exclaim or murmur or think at some point, ‘If this isn’t nice, I don’t know what is.’”

The 17-mile ride here was relatively brief and boring, mostly straight and flat, but I still pedaled through wooded, grassy trails, bumped along on gravel paths and blitzed past an admittedly slow-going parallel train. (As a certified party pacer, this tortoise race thrilled me.)
​
Ninety minutes is not that long, but it was long enough to see sunbathing turtles, shallow pools of squiggling tadpoles and the whitest and stillest egrets standing tall on the banks of the Scioto. It was long enough to feel chilled by a cool summer breeze as I divebombed a shaded forest path — and long enough to swelter under the sun while slow-rolling past soybean fields that stretched on endlessly like an ocean of green.

It was also long enough to nearly exhaust my water supply earlier than expected, so after setup I set off for a reup. The park ranger suggested a shelter with potable water was only a half mile away, but when a hill dawned on the horizon a quarter mile down the road, my legs turned to granite, refusing to press on; a fearful horse bucking at the thought of crossing a rushing river.

With far greater miles in my rearview on previous trips, I was initially confused. Now I suspect the sight of the Oak Grove Tavern not quite halfway up the hill presented itself to my subconscious like a tropical oasis at noon in Death Valley. ​

Inside the biker bar, the lights and AC were out, but a half dozen box fans and the night’s steak and taters special had the place bustling nonetheless. I didn’t linger long inside since my appearance at the bar — hipster dude in cycling cap, Chacos and socks, short shorts and a loudly bright fanny pack — had the visual presentation of a record scratch at a loud party. When I corrected the bartender that I wanted not one but four bottles of water, I once again felt the heat of eyes on my back and decided, to hell with it, I’ll have a bottle of Modelo, too.

And so, with a beer in hand, I walked my bright blue gravel bike past a row of black Harleys to a beer garden-type spot, situated next to a cemetery that looked a century untouched, and found an empty picnic table overlooking Alkire Road. The first beer went down smooth. I ordered another and sat and watched traffic like the other old timers there. All I was missing was a pack of Kamel Reds.

Two guys at the next table over discussed a car deal for someone’s daughter. Behind me a couple on a date and a table of a dozen or so, laughing and eating and drinking the late-summer evening away. Across the road, a lawnmower whirred and I caught the faint whiff of fresh-cut grass. The moment felt so pure I sucked it down like a summer shake, thick and cold, but too fast — the effect like a brain freeze, with a happiness so sweet it burned.

It wasn't long before I coasted down the hill back to camp, a newfound lightness buoying me. It was probably the alcohol but I suspect this morning, as I brush off a degree of reluctance to return to normalcy, that a deeper magic has been at play.

I remember the day before, when the train I had been racing crossed my path and paused, causing me to wait and retreat to a bit of shade. I struck up a conversation there with another cyclist, a man about my dad’s age, with cropped grey hair and a neat beard. A gleam of recognition sparkled in his eyes when he saw my bike loaded with bags, and the pride on his face was palpable when he told me of his just-completed biketour to DC and back.

Before I could think of a reply, the train gate arm had lifted, the red light warnings had stopped blinking and the old man was off in a blur — a vision of my future self spry and happy and chasing down adventures. And suddenly, I'm inclined to linger a moment longer, a sacred pause for a deep, dream-capturing breath — to toast the hangovers that don't hurt, the brief moments of joy wherever they are, and the small things that are totally big after all, even in bursts.