It was the last college summer.
Well,
for most,
but not me.
I was taking a gap year to focus on my small business at the time.
Things didn’t go as planned,
I got a severe burn-out and eventually gave up on the whole thing.
So I spent the rest of my gap year mostly inside my room,
distracting myself with video games and feeling like a failure.
That was when a few friends took me out to grab a bite.
They said I should go somewhere.
I said Alaska.
I asked them to ride with me.
They were hesitant, but they agreed.
The plan was then made, routes decided, bikes readied, and everything was taken care of.
The plan was to ride 04 motorcycles from Richmond,
then take route 76 and head to Alaska Highway.
But life happened.
As the day of the journey approached,
people started dropping out one by one.
On the day of the journey, the last and the final person backed out.
So, had to make a choice,
whether to give up on the plan or attempt riding across the country on a 20-year-old motorcycle.
I decided, what the heck, let me have a go at it.
If I don’t go now, I would never get things out of my system.
So I made up a mental agreement,
the moment when the bike gives up is when I give up and head back home.
And I was on the road.
The road took me across the country:
Pittsburg, Sandusky, Michigan Lake, Seattle, and all the way to Vancouver.
I drove from dusk till dawn, and take a quick nap whenever I could
at the bus stops, by the rivers, and under the oak trees.
Recipe for a horror movie, I know, but I was too tired to worry.
Living in the city for all of my life,
I almost forgot how peaceful it was to just fall asleep under a sky full of stars.
Spending most of the time driving makes you appreciate small things.
A hot cup of coffee in the morning feels like a privilege.
A double cheeseburger at a local diner feels like a warm hug.
And sometimes I’d get lucky after a long drive and chance into a dingy motel by the road.
I’d check right in because, after a few thousand miles of driving like crazy,
their rock-hard mattress would feel like a bed of sweet marshmallows.
By the time I reached Seattle, 04 weeks had passed.
It took a lot more than planned because I took a lot of detours at every interesting turn I found.
I followed my gut and kept my fingers crossed that I’d not run into any Freddy Kruger.
And there was no Freddy Kruger indeed.
Instead, I found a secluded lake tucked away in the forest,
an abandoned mall where I played one hell of a basketball match with myself,
and a piano left in the middle of the desert.
There’s something so sacred about finding hidden gems on the road.
Sacred and Surreal.
Like they were made for me, my own little corner of the world.
I promised myself that one day I would return.
I promised, then I marched on.
But the rest of the trip didn’t go as planned.
My bike broke down when I reached Beaver Creek.
What now - I think to myself.
I thought back to my initial pledge: “When the motorcycle gives up is when I will give up”
and was going to book a flight home.
But that felt like the easy way out,
so I told myself to hell with it.
So I sold the bike and walked.
I walked until each step was heavier than the last.
Until my breaths thickened.
I walked until I couldn’t, then I hitchhiked.
The miles ticked away and I found myself among the salt of the earth,
from the elderly couple who offered me cans of canned beef for the road,
to the veteran who offered me free lodging for a couple of days just because we all loved Chuck Berry.
When I told them about my plan, they all told me to go for it.
On June 28, I reached Alaska.
I burst with joy when I saw Alaska Range.
The beautiful, majestic Alaska Range with its’ snow-capped peaks and shimmering glaciers.
I stood there, in awe.
At that point, I had no strength left in me,
but I was filled with this warmth of never-ending freedom.
I spent the next few days at a hospital after losing over 20 pounds and dehydration.
Then spent a week staying at home just to recover.
Some asked me if the trip solved my problems.
It didn’t. Running away from them didn’t help.
My problems were still there, patiently waiting for me.
But I will say this, one morning you’d wake up in a strange land thousands of miles away from home,
and you’d be a nobody.
No expectation, no judgment.
So instead of acting how people expect you to be,
you act how you really feel, with complete agency and without feeling guilty for not trying hard enough.
That was what I felt, on my first morning in Alaska.
The problems I ran away from no longer felt as heavy as it was.
They just felt less overwhelming, less upsetting, and less scary.
And for the moment, it was enough to stay alive.
That’s what I’ll do.
To seek.
To strive.
To ride.
And not to yield.
I said it before and I said it again.
Life moves pretty fast.
If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you might miss it.