Aotearoa: The Land of the Long White Cloud. The Land of a Hopeful Wanderer.
“The further one goes, the less one knows.” - Lao - Tzu
Sitting on the ferry as it made its way to the North Island, I took one last glimpse at the mountains that welcomed my arrival three months ago.
I didn't know much then. I didn’t know much about cycling, about traveling this way. About New Zealand.
And about many other things. I still don't.
I didn’t know I was going to pedal or as most times, push my bicycle all the way up mountains I’ve never cycled before. Not because I’ve never been in New Zealand but because I’ve never been up a mountain, on a bicycle.
Had I known I was going to glide down those hills with who knows how much weight I had on my bicycle over roads with no shoulder, no rail guards between me and the cliffs and the logging trucks passing me by. Had I known that…
But I didn't.
Last June, I spent an entire Sunday afternoon planning a route throughout the South Island without ever paying attention to the elevation profiles. A route that was never followed from the minute I set foot on it, I went west.
I always go west. And the west always finds a way of setting me straight.
The truth is that had I known of those difficult days before I left, I never would have made it past day one. In fact, had I known those things, I would have never left Colorado.
Yet it appears that the best stories in life are crafted on a blank page.
Some years ago, I went on a guided ice climbing trip. The guide who belayed me, kept shouting at me:
“Commit to it Frances, commit to it!”
I was perched against the solid block of ice, looking at it, paralyzed.
I kept hearing her words as if she was next to me. I would whisper them back to myself.
“Commit to it, Frances, commit to it.”
I would slam the ax against the ice. And I would slam my crampons with intention, and I would prop myself higher and higher, trusting I was going to get up higher and higher because I was committed to making it happen.
“Commit to it, Frances, commit to it.”
I still have many more months to go, and I’m not sure what stories I’m bound to collect. I’m not even sure what countries I have yet to visit, what foods I’m going to try, who I will get to meet, to learn from, with whom am I going to share these lessons from the road.
I still don't know how hard the road is going to get.
I don't know any of this.
But what I do know is that as long as this fire within me burns in the most beautiful shade of orange I know that I’ll make whatever it is happen.
'The most effective way to do it, is to do it.' said Amelia Earhart.
Commitment, like anything else in life, is all you need to make shit happen.
During my late twenties, I made the commitment to be in a relationship with a man; a man who I later married. When things got hard – ugly hard - I was the first one to bail out. I wasn’t even committed to ending the relationship in an amiable manner.
It’s easy to be committed to anything when things are non-eventful; when everything goes my way. When the road is flat, when the sun shines.
It is when shit gets hard, and cumbersome and nasty when the quality of my commitments comes through. When things get ugly, that’s when I have to decide whether I'm going to show up or not.
“Commit to it” and with the exception of a few things like health, every else falls into place: money, planning or (un) planning, body strength, muscle, mentors, guides.
Years after this ice climbing trip, and well after my husband divorced me, I still hear the words of the guide:
“Commit to it, Frances. Commit to it.”
I hear them when the ride gets too steep. I hear them when I miss home. I hear them when the alternative seems easier than anything I’m doing at the time. It happens at work; it happens on the road. It happens in love.
By the time I arrived in New Zealand I had too much weight on me. I was just carrying too much.
Some of this stuff was mailed back home as soon as I arrived; other stuff made its way back home via a kind Colorado family I met in Te Anau. The rest of the stuff was either mailed in a second box, given away or tossed.
Carrying too much throughout my life has weighed me down. There’s the weight of my parents, of friends, of former lovers. My own. The weight hampers my growth, my relationships, my life overall.
I left New Zealand two days ago and much lighter than when I arrived. And committed to carrying my own and a much lighter load: on my bicycle and in my life.
New Zealand as I was recently telling my good friend is a place of massiveness. Massive mountain ranges, massive glaciers, massive hills, massive lakes, massive vineyards, massive adrenaline, massive espresso machines.
I ran my fingers over a wall map of the South Island, hovering with my index all the places I cycled. I still remember what each place looked like and how each place smelled. I still remember what the weather was like. Whether there was rain. Or sun. Or wind. I remember whether I was scared or not.
When I started sharing with family and friends this thing of getting on a bike and going as far away as I could, I would often get a "you won't come back. People that go to New Zealand stay there."
But New Zealand and its roads taught me how massive my love for Colorado is. A place I hope I can return to.
I departed from this mass of rugged beauty and left with a heart filled with massive memories.
And while I left with less weight on me, I carry the one thing I didn't know back then when I started pedaling west going up on Queen Charlotte Drive.
I didn't know that behind those mountains, and so much pedaling I was going to see so much, that I was to miss home so much.
That I was going to (un) numb so much.
This southern hemisphere summer is thawing my skin; there is so much being felt. A lot of laughter has been heard. And many private tears have been shed.
Amidst all of that, hugs and comforts and the love in the hearts of mere strangers has too been found.
Some strangers fed me, others cheered me as I was pedaling under the sun’s blasting rays. Others looked after me after this body fell ill. Others hosted me at their homes and helped me carry the load.
Others, while not precisely strangers, held me over the phone when this soul didn’t feel very strong.
On New Year’s Day, when it was past nine o clock in the evening, with fifteen kilometers to go, and a sliver of light left, a stranger pulled over by the gorge road I was traveling:
“It’s getting dark, you are on your own and you still have some road ahead of you, would you like a lift?”
“How do I know you aren’t a creep?” It was the first thing I managed to say to him.
“Well, you don’t. But I’m concerned. There is not much going on here, it's getting dark and you are still riding.”
He dropped me off right in front of the campground where I stayed that evening.
Days before that, during a Monday afternoon, I was riding west. The wind with gusts of up to 75 kmh was pushing my bicycle and me off to the highway. A couple in a camper van that had stopped earlier that afternoon to give me an apple and an offer to come visit them in Phuket whenever I reach Thailand, turned around and said:
“This wind is dangerous and it's crazy to be cycling in this weather, you probably won’t take a lift but if you want one, we can put your bike on top of our bed,”
The evening before, I completed over 60 km of gravel road over one of the most isolated terrains in New Zealand along with a French companion whom I met earlier in the day. When we arrived at the campground, both exhausted and hungry from having ridden all day, we befriended a family who were on their summer holiday.
The family asked us to stay for dinner. We were treated to a local dish of lamb, beets, kumara, tomatoes, wine, dessert. They were concerned we didn’t have much to eat and after dinner, they brought us bread and spread to ensure we had enough energy for the next day. An evening wrapped up by dark chocolate and a campfire.
The relationships I formed during my three month stay in New Zealand were fleeting. The more I said hello and the more I said goodbye. While the hellos were at times dry and customary, the good byes came to be rather special.
Over morning coffee, sunrise walks, dinner talks that lasted hours, sunset watchs, even during our frustration and boredom, bonds were created and strengthened. Our conversations ranged from travel plans, to where we’ve been and where we think we will go, what will we do when we run out of money, what do we plan to do when we return, if we return. What we may do if we get sick or if we get hurt. Excitements were shared when we spoke with our family, our friends. We spoke about the world; about how incredible is to be alive during this time yet how to hard it can be to take notice of that.
These strangers taught me much.
Yet there is this one thing that struck me most: fleeting, temporary friends realize that there is little time to be spent with each other. There is no time wasted on expectations, on arguing with each other, on casting judgements over one another. On holding onto each other.
There is only letting be and letting go. There is only love.
Four weeks before I turned nineteen, I was visiting Madrid. I came home earlier than anticipated only to learn that my brother, who was seventeen at the time, died unexpectedly. My brother and I saw the world very differently then and because of our differences, we alienated each other - just weeks before his death. I never got to say good bye.
In fleeting relationships, a silent realization exists - while we may see the world in a much different way and celebrate the things that brings us together we end up discovering that what initially did bring us together was exactly that: how different our worlds are.
I hope I am able to find the courage to practice this with every person I come across; whether I spend a day riding my bicycle with him, watching a sunrise with her, or whether I commit to waking up next to him - day in and day out.
In the end, we will not be here forever. We are all fleeting.
Had I known this much three months ago, had I known this much back then, I would had left sooner instead of waiting thirty-eight years to do something I knew I was going to since I was eight.
Then the image of Jeremy comes to my mind again. That fleeting friend I made years ago after picking him up on highway 40 as I was returning to Colorado from having spent Thanksgiving weekend amongst the red rocks of Arizona.
Our friendship lasted four hours. What I learned from my conversation with him seems to be lasting a lifetime.
Before saying goodbye, he hugged me and said:
"When you are open to pain, you are also open to love and Frances, there is so much love in this world..."
"That Wanaka Tree", December 2015.