Leah Day - Changing Gears: A Distant Teen, a Desperate Mother, and 4,329 Miles Across the Transamerica Bicycle Trail

Devil or Angel

October 20, 2019

Mallard Duck Campground, Virginia

There is a deluge of rain hammering on the roof of the picnicking pavilion. My son and I are feeling grateful for the added cover over our tent on this rainy night. We are camping on the western flanks of the Appalachian Mountains at the Mallard Duck Campground. The water is beginning to seep across the concrete floor and pool, lazily snaking its way ever closer to our temporary home. Sixteen-year-old Oakley sleeps beside me, blissfully unaware.

Dear God, I think to myself, I need to put on my cheerleading hat for this one.

Today is what some TransAmerica cyclists have called our last big challenge. We need to climb Mount Vesuvius, a steep four-mile ascent of 3,500 feet. Then we will follow the Blue Ridge Parkway for thirty-five miles and descend out of the mountains and on toward the coast of Virginia.

I sneak out of the tent and rustle up some coffee, hoping it will help me put on my happy face before Oakley stirs. The rain is coming down in torrents. We have been riding for nearly three months, all the way from Astoria, Oregon, and have traveled over four thousand miles. We have been camping most the way in all sorts of weather, and needless to say, I am losing my tolerance for wet mornings.

After two strong cups of coffee, I am ready to try my best to put a shine on the day, and I wake Oakley up with a promise of hot chocolate. He takes one look around and lies back down. You have got to be kidding me, he mutters. But he sees that there is no choice. The island of dry that our tent is perched on has shrunk to a mere footprint, and it is time to pack it up.

We persevere through a gloppy breakfast of apple-spice instant oatmeal and stow our gear in the trash bags that line our panniers. We dawdle a little, wishing the rain would let up a bit, but it doesnt seem to be cooperating, so we suit up in our rain pants and jackets and try to enjoy one last moment of having dry toes.

Okay, Oakley, its time.

Suddenly, like a Hail Mary, a pickup truck comes barreling across the lawn, sloshing through lake-sized puddles, and pulls up beside us. The driver is the owner of the campground.

You all are crazy, he shouts over the din of the storm. Put those bicycles in my truck, and Ill drive you up that mountain. Nobody should be biking up there in this. He climbs out of his truck and runs over to our little shelter. Listen, I done took eight bikers up this hill before. It isnt anything to be ashamed of. Come on.

The rain seems to intensify as if on cue. It would be so nice to get a ride. I am so exhausted, and another wet ride up to a cold ridgeline sounds torturous.

Thanks, but we cant, I say. That would be cheating.

Come on now. Its not cheating. Your bikes would still be going up that mountain, and look at your son. I look at Oakley. His eyes are bright with hope. He is positively taut with it.

Mom, come on. Its awful out there. Please. No one will know. I hesitate. It is so cold and wet. Please, he begs.

In that moment I waver. I am no Odysseus on a heroic quest. I am much more like Bilbo Baggins in The Hobbit, a reluctant adventurer. I would like to stay dry. We have crossed the high deserts of Oregon, climbed the continental divide eight times, raced through the hollows of Kentucky with wild dogs at our heels, and fought our way through the winds of Kansasand now I am just plain tired.

This man wants to help us; it would make him feel good, whispers Oakley.

A battle rages inside me. Is the campground owner the devil or an angel? I feel myself waffle.

Then Oakley puts on his bike helmet, and I realize he is expecting me to say no. He needs me to say no. He is unintentionally leading me and by so doing has made up my mind.

Thank you so much, I tell the man, but we have to do this.

You all are crazy, the man mutters as we saddle up and head out into the wet, cold morning.

Maybe we are. Within minutes my sneakers have become sponges, my gloves are sodden, and my bangs are plastered to my head. I look at Oakley and see rain dripping from the tip of his nose.

The climb is punishing. The roads switchbacks rise up and up and up through the dense Virginian forest, one hairpin turn after another. Several times I question what the chances are of a fifty-year-old woman having a heart attack. After an hour, Oakley and I finally make it to the top. We are cold and wet, but the last climb is behind us. Triumphant, we stand together gasping for breath. While we lean over our handlebars, I meet his eyes and cant help but ask, Do you wish we had gotten that ride?

Yes! he answers. But now he is grinning from ear to ear, and I grin back. What a stinking liar. I would say we both play our roles very well.

Following His Lead

January 15, 2019

Portland, Maine

Sometimes I feel like I live in this van, right here on this grimy upholstered seat amidst a patina of dog hair, food crumbs, coffee stains, and unidentifiable sandy grit. Today I am waiting in the parking lot of the Portland YMCA to pick up Oakley from swim team practice on a dark, rainy November evening. Because the weather is so gross, I am surprising him with a ride rather than his expected walk through town to the ferry terminal.

The clock on the dash reads 7:15. I am plenty early, and I have a few minutes before he should come strolling out of the building. The wipers sweep incessantly across the windshield, and the car radio drones on, playing a song that I have heard far too many times. The DJ repeats the stations tagline: Different is good. Its so irritating I could scream. Nothing different here. I feel restless, on edge.

Its now 7:20, and a slight premonition begins to prickle my skin. I ignore it and take out my phone. Nobody has texted me; no new emails either. How about some Candy Crush? Level 254.

By day I run a private practice counseling service. It is a good gig, and business is booming, but sometimes I feel like a fraud. My whole therapeutic approach boils down to the following: Follow your values, commit to actions that support them, and you can get through anything.

Level 254? What a waste.

7:25That prickly sensation has grown. It is morphing into a thought. Here I sit, waiting. For what?

7:30Suddenly, I am sure that I am waiting for nothing. Oakley is not in the YMCA. I know this as sure as I know that the sun has set. He isnt late yet, but I am certain. I have a spot-on intuition borne from years of experience. I know this kid and all his tricks. Why would I ever think he is where he said he would be? Without another moments hesitation, I pull out of the drop-off/pick-up spot and onto the road. Commuter traffic clogs the way, and the radio and wipers begin to rattle me. Where is Oakley? I have lost him again. Ugh!

This is the story of our life together. He runs, and I chase him. As I make my way through town to the ferry terminal where Oakley will eventually end up catching the boat home, I am feeling bitter and exhausted. I think of Prometheus and how he was chained to a rock on the top of a mountain, where an eagle would come to eat his liver every day. Due to Prometheuss immortality, the liver would always grow back so he would not die, but the eagle returned every day to do it again and again. Am I Prometheus or the eagle?

7:35I finally make it to the ferry terminal, but I dont see Oakley through the glass walls of the brightly lit waiting room. The boat doesnt leave for nearly forty-five minutes. Oakley shouldnt be here yet; he should still be in that pool. I feel a rising anger. The little brat. I should have known to never let my guard down. He never went to swim practice. He has been lying to me all week, I am sure. Where has he been? Fury begins to boil inside me.