Butch was an avid bicycle rider. Already retired, his best friend and bicycle buddy, Dick, traveled all over the world on his bicycle. Butch’s bucket list was headed up with retirement at age 66 followed by joining Dick on his travels.
Over the course of six years, he and Dick, accompanied by a changing crew of other riders, bicycled the distance between Canada and Mexico. The first year they hopped on their bicycles, rode out of our driveway nearly 100 miles to Chico, CA. They next day they completed what is now called the Chico Wildflower Century ride. In 10 days of wandering they covered around 600 miles. In subsequent years, they would bite off another big chunk of the California Coast and take the train to and from starting and ending places. They used a great book with information about campgrounds with bicycle camping, places to eat, and what the people would be like in various locals. The final year ended with their crossing into Mexico. They stopped in San Diego, rented a motel room, unhooked their BOB trailers from the bikes and cleaned up. The ride into Mexico would be short and celebratory. Butch, having grown accustomed to pulling the trailer and adjusting his braking to the extra weight, entered Mexico with a crash. Coming to an abrupt stop, he hit the brakes too hard for the bike without the trailer. Since his feet were clipped into his pedals, he and the bicycle flipped forward, landing him dramatically on his face. They giggled like little boys as they recounted the tale over the years.
The year they started in Canada, rode the ferry south on their bikes, and completed the north-most leg of the journey, it rained most of the time. That is no big surprise to anyone familiar with coastal Washington. It is lush and green for a very good reason. But knowing how rainy it is outside in Washington and experiencing how rainy it is in Washington when you are outside, traveling on a bicycle, are two entirely different things. Looking out the window at the rain with quick runs to and from the car is nuisance enough. But spending all day and/or night out in the rain takes it to a whole new level. They woke up each morning listening from inside their tents to see if it was raining already. They went to bed wondering if the water would rise around their tent or form a stream from above during the night. Finding a campground with some sort of covered area where they could sleep moved up on the value scale with winning the lottery. A truly epic campground included a covered area with a fire pit at its center where they could hang clothes out to dry near the fire and feel warm and sheltered. They would pack for the day completely differently than in sunny California. It takes lots of plastic bags or purchased “dry bags” to make life function at all. But every time you need to open one, the rain gets in. Food prep can be a big deal. Wet stuff is heavier than dry stuff, so the trailers are harder to pull. You find out if the advertisement for “rain proof” outerwear needs to be rewritten to “rain resistant”, leaking after hours in the rain. It was not unusual to find them in a laundromat (a sought-after hangout for warmth and dryness) at the end of a day’s ride, washing the clothes from that day, and drying everything they had so carefully packed in the morning. One day they stopped in a small town and asked the owner at the Mom and Pop store if there was a laundromat nearby. They were welcomed into the gym at the high school and allowed to use theirs. Butch loved a challenge and wrapped his mind around the problem, trying new ideas for packing, sleeping, etc. as the trip progressed. As he told the story once, he said, “That rain just wears you out. Every minute of every day is about the absence or presence of the rain.”
In the two years since Butch’s death, being alone has become like that rain in my life. In the same way that I never thought very seriously about rain before I heard the stories of that long week in Washington, I never thought very seriously about being alone until he died. I was often alone before. I was alone in my car. I woke up and left for work while Butch was still asleep. I went to bed alone more days than not since his work days started and ended much later than mine. We both attended social and holiday events alone because of our off-sync work schedules. I enjoyed the solitude afforded by his adventures with the guys, planning girl time and big projects while he was gone. He was rarely able to take time off for visits family in other states. All that aloneness was time-limited. And he was there at the beginning and waiting at the end every time. Shared days off were savored like the covered campground with the fire pit at the end of a long, soggy day.
A large part of becoming us without them means learning how to find joy in life despite being alone. Even if we have people around all the time, we don’t have the one person we long for the most. Living inside and watching rain through the window is completely different from living outside and wearing the rain all day. Alone time and being alone are, likewise, eons apart. From the first moment of awareness each day, to the last moment before falling asleep, the realization that we are alone is a constant companion. The majority of meals are eaten alone. We are alone in the car. We will pack everything differently now, whether it is the grocery bags, the laundry basket, or a suitcase. There are no “dry bags” that will prevent the seepage of aloneness into every nook and cranny of life. There is no laundromat where we can pop our lives into a dryer and find them good as new when the buzzer sounds. The connection and companionship that included retreats of alone time disappears. That is replaced by unrelenting aloneness with retreats of connection and companionship. Even the best social support, is time limited. We have to go home. The aloneness is waiting at the end every of every day and every adventure. The often painful and complicated relationships with others were once small, pesky tug boats in the sheltering harbor of the love and companionship we shared with our soul mate. They are now all that is left in the harbor. Hold tight to those unstable connections and we can feel torn in every direction. Cast off the lines and we are adrift at sea.
There is no fast forward button for this process. Each of us will eventually travel the distance from the old life to the new one. We can prolong the trip with denial and avoidance. We choose our own tour guides and traveling companions, some of whom may derail the whole train. It will most certainly include dramatic falls onto our face. It can be hard to believe that we will ever again find a campground with a covered place for shelter and a fire pit for warmth. Hold tightly to the hand of your grieving mentors. They know the way to all the good campgrounds.
I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord. Plans to help you, not to harm you. Plans to give you hope and a future……….