Dispatches from the road: alone

Dispatches from the Road by Bill Poindexter

Alone 

There’s something very romantic about traveling solo

by bicycle and being self-contained: carrying my camping equipment, tools, clothes, food and water. I guess you could say I’m more of an old school bicycle traveler as I don’t carry a bicycle computer, I prefer a map and compass, sense of direction intuitiveness and common sense. I anticipate certain dangers, and therefore know how to self rescue-as I don’t put anybody else in danger. I do like to travel alone. But I can’t say I’ve ever been really alone, like a solo sailor in the middle of the ocean, or maybe like one of those people that do solo Arctic trips, or may be like adventures of the past who would head into the jungles by themselves, or across the desert, or live in a cabin in Siberia in winter with no one around them. And I wonder what that alone is. But with that I will say that on many of my trips I’ve been alone. I’ve slept in areas where there was nobody around for miles. I think the farthest I’ve ever been from a town was just over 100 miles not to say there probably wasn’t somebody living closer than that and definitely a road near were the one I was on. But traveling alone is relative to where you are and what your situation is. I’ve been on roads where I saw no other sign of life for a day and a half and at some point, I pulled off into a field or a forest and laid my bedding down and fitfully slept under the stars. No anxiety just me in the universe. But traveling solo scares me I’m not scared of the wilderness or of people or wildlife. I’m scared of those dark caverns inside my head those locked up thoughts of doubt, guilt, regret, self loathing, memories of things I wish would just stay locked up, and that I could forget forever. That’s what I fear. Even though I can distract myself with singing a song or making up a story in my head. Just being in the moment and appreciating that I’m alive and able to do what I do which is travel extraordinary distances by bicycle. And occasionally sometimes Fear has a way of creating stress and anxiety, and sometimes that can manifest itself into physical issues like, erratic heartbeat, an anxiety attack, nausea, diarrhea, neck, pain, vertigo, I fear those physical attributes as just an inconvenience and with proper self-care… Usually a few deep breaths, and a little bit of time, maybe some water and food and rest those issues will pass, but it’s being on the road mile after mile sometimes for me up to 100 miles a day maybe a little bit more but most days is 40 to 60 that’s enough. And it’s that self talk self encouragement and if really alone it’s just saying to myself “what’s the worst that can happen“ I guess just dropping dead? But typically my friend when I’m on the road and I’m solo I’m alone but I’m not lonely. I marvel at the earth around me and my bicycle rolling over a crunchy gravel road and animals and all the nature. Things, “visions” show themselves while traveling solo, especially when you’re on the loneliest part of the road, and you start to drift into another plane/Universe/dimension. It’s like that moment between being awake and sleep you get into that Zen zone and it’s almost like you’re flying, or leaving your body. People pay good money to have those experiences doing things like LSD, or Ayahuasca, or mushrooms, but I do that by traveling long distances on my bicycle. And at the end of the day I pull off somewhere, lay my bedding down eat some food, make a hot drink, slip into my sleeping bag, fully content, knowing that everything I need at that moment is with me, and no matter what happens I’m gonna be OK, and I drift off to the stars, maybe the sounds of critters, and the smells that are around me like-sage, pine, arid desert smell, and my eyes slowly become heavy and hard to open, and I fall asleep, with a heavy sleep. I wake in the middle of the night periodically, because sleeping out under the stars is different than sleeping in a confined space and I where can I look at the stars in listen to the wind or to the stillness maybe a beetle walking past me, ignoring the  little being perhaps the hum of a mosquito, looking for supper, and I fall back asleep content that I am at home on my planet as insignificant as I am, I feel at that moment like I’m part of everything all at once. And I wake up first light a bluish hue that turns into a golden hue, and then the sounds of the life become prevalent. And I get up and I pack my gear up and I roll-on alone alone into the solo wilderness. Thanking god for my short existence.

Thank you for reading my writing. I appreciate you and I hope you’re well. If you like my writings, let me know in the comments below. 

Support this journalistic endeavor: I am working on expanding my writings, into podcast, and videos on my YouTube channel 

Thanks to Elizabeth for helping Steve and Robert as well. And then many of you who bought me a cup of coffee and a sandwich on my last journeys, I’m grateful. I feel this is my destiny and I’m glad you’re along for the ride.

Peace and love, Bill

Feel free to email me at poindexterrecruiting@gmail.com

About Bill Poindexter, author, adventurer, philosopher 

Although Bill has been writing his whole life, he has in the last 23 years made a name for himself, writing about his lifestyle, living without a car, bicycling and walking every year for transportation and then also traveling by bicycle to various locations and writing about his experiences on the road experiences with food, culture, his own fears, the people he meets along the road, and what he observes in the world, in terms of nature and humanity. Bills has had an extraordinary life living life on his own terms for the betterment of humanity. The planet to Bill is pretty important too. Bill speaks the truth, no matter what the outcome.

the seedling

 the seedling

By Bill Poindexter

 A story inspired by Iohan, the bike wanderer and a man with kind dark eyes.

 

Far away, long ago, there was a man who traveled the Earth on his bicycle and his name was, Iohan. He was of average height, had dark hair and dark eyes that looked very kind. All he wanted to do was explore the Earth and see what it was like from atop a bike.

 To earn a living he took odd jobs, one of the jobs was planting trees in an area where old trees had been cut down.  He said he enjoyed planting trees in the summer. He would walk all over Canada planting seedlings to fund his bicycling adventures. One of the seedlings grew into a fine very tall tree.

 The young tree grew and grew. Enjoying the fresh mountain air in which it lived, loving the mild summers, colorful autumns, fresh new springs and even its harsh cold winters when it mostly slept. Even relished playing with the wind, feeling the sun, and drinking the life giving rains, and it never felt alone as there were many birds and insects, and squirrels which made their home on the tree. The tree was very happy.

 One day the tree was cut down and was sad and scared. But the tree had a soul that was spread throughout its trunk, limbs, branches, roots and the tree, no matter where it was, always had a connection to the Earth for the tree had roots underground into the soul of the Earth and the tree would always be a part of the Earth, forever.

 The tree was turned into many things: paper and pencils for school children, comfortable chairs, a table or two, a park bench, and finally some paper that was placed into blank journals. It liked the park bench best because it felt loved as people would sit and talk on it and eat their lunches, children would climb all over it, pets slept next to it, and sometimes at night someone might even sleep on it. All was wonderful.

 But the tree had no water since it was not in the ground and it became old and brittle and there was a crack in one of its legs. One day it was removed from the park and placed in a small shed. The tree became very lonely for there was no one around besides the spiders and their webs, and the sparrows that lived in the rafters and the mice that lived underneath the floor.

 One day the door to the shed opened and an old man, with gray hair and a beard came in and sat on the bench that was the tree. The tree was happy. The man slowly ran his hand all over the tree to see if there were any breaks in the legs as the tree had been without water, except from rain for many years.  The tree felt the touch of the man and remembered the side of the mountain from which it came, and the man, Iohan, who planted the seedling, who was now the tree.

 “Hello my old friend!” The old man with kind eyes said with a soft gentle voice.

  “I am glad you are here. I will fix your leg and replenish your wood with some natural oils from the Earth so as to give you strength.”

 The old man and the tree worked together over the next week. Every day the man would come by in the evening and sand off the old stain, fix the break, and apply the new coats of refreshing oils for the tree. The tree was very happy and felt loved.

 The tree, one day, was taken to the mans cabin, on the side of a mountain, and placed on the front porch. It was a good place to go as now the tree was in the woods again; with clean air, other trees, and all sorts of critters to watch as it sat on the porch.

 Over the years the tree grew to love the cabin and the old man, with kind eyes, who gave it a life again. It had been so lonely in the shed, unwanted, rotting away. But now the tree was happy again.

 Everyday the man would ride his bicycle to town and every night he would ride his bicycle home. But one day he did not come home. He was an old man, and old men die. The man had been very kind to the tree, the tree was sad.

  Then the tree had a new friend who bought the cabin. The new owner, a young woman, a writer, whom, everyday sat on the tree, on the front porch and wrote stories about what she could see from the porch and then would read the stories aloud, to see how they sounded and would rewrite them over and over, then read aloud until she was satisfied. The tree liked the stories and was very happy again.

 One day the woman brought out a dusty old box which had been the old mans, and on top of the box there was a note:

 “These are blank journals which came from a tree I planted many years ago when I was a young man. I followed the life of the tree and was there when the tree was cut down and the wood harvested. Some of it was made into paper- these journals here and a bench, the same bench on my front porch of my cabin on the side of a mountain, the same mountain I planted the seedling on that became the tree. If you find these please write about what you see for the tree energy is the bench and on the pages and the tree will take you back to the Earth if you are lost, its energy, and mine will always be alive.”

 Time moved on and the tree and woman enjoyed their time together. But as with all things, change came about and the woman grew old. But the tree is still there on the porch.

 I write this, from paper, on one of the journals Iohan had saved. It was in a box I found that was my mothers, who had lived on the side of a mountain, and who was a writer, who sat on a bench, that was once a seedling, planted by a young man with dark hair and kind dark eyes named Iohan whom traveled the world by bicycle until he satisfied his wanderlust and just wanted to sit on the porch and feel the good Earth and be with the tree, his friend, the seedling.