Godzilla Rides a Bicycle

"There are two hills, big hills, and then after is all downhill from the last one. When I see Nelson from the last hill, I'm glad to be there. And that's me, driving..."

"But you will be fine..." she reassured me trying to convince herself.

And off I went to the coastal town of Nelson. And yes, there were two big hills and some scary descents.

I thank the skies - sometimes that is - for my not so sane brain. If the sanity wires would had gotten plug in, up there, coming down, I’d still be up there.

The last hill coming down was a reminder of my gorgeous Colorado and its million dollar highway, the 550. The scenery, the tight turns and no guardrails. Add trucks coming down with their highest gears on carrying petrol, wooden logs, cattle, and a Latina on her loaded bicycle.

It was a ride that got me to rethink all of it.

Yet again. So let me back up. Lets go back to my very first ride which was ...

A week ago. A week ago was when I first got on my loaded bicycle. I rode it in the hostel I was staying in Wellington. On the hostel's hallway. I didn't make it far. I wasn’t able to keep the balance. Then, the bicycle fell on the floor and I couldn't lift the thing.

Truth is about to hurt…

A box was already enroute to Grand Junction, Colorado. From New Zealand.

Another box was then enroute to a man I've have somewhat grown used to calling ‘my boyfriend’.

 “I'm sending you one of my journals," I texted him.

 "I won't open the box until you come back home.” he texted back.

 If there is solid proof of a trusting relationship, try sending your three-year-soul-deconstruction-journal to your boyfriend of sixty plus days. If he reads it and if he still sticks around, he is a brave one.

But what I meant to tell him was that he could open it and read it. And that I hope his medical insurance provides trauma therapy.

I brought too much, fuck me. I fucking did it again. I brought too much. I still have too much.

Stupidity turned to anger. My bicycle landed on my left leg as I put the bicycle back into my room hoping it would disappear. I headed out to town with a bruised knee. I came back to the hostel with a belly filled of Persian pie and the brain filled with the million dollar question: how the fuck am I going to ride this thing?

And she was still there, perched against the bed. Beautiful Nicoleta Boii, the bicycle of my dreams, looking like a dinosaur with two wheels. I hoped for someone to take it but then I forgot not even Godzilla could have pedaled away on the thing.

Sunday morning came quickly and it was time for me to start pedaling down to the ferry that will take me to the south island.

Instead, I went out for a run and then for some espresso.

And Kiwis do know how to make a nice espresso. 

"May I have a fifty ounce flat white, please? I'm having a mental breakdown..."

But it was a bit too late. The brain wires had already shifted. The dragons were causing havoc in the dungeon upstairs.

I was in for some scary shit. Some shit I have not deal with in a long time.

I soon was slashing the dragons that come to visit every so seldom. The dragons I have learned to tame over the past few years. As tame as they have been, they don't lose their chance to poke their bloody fiery eyes through the creases of the cages they keep to.

And I'm not a bit surprised they want to make their appearance this early in my travels.

It's their land and a much known territory: she is alone, she is far away from home, she is terrified and she is yet again crafting the self in the lands of the unknowns.

Self-doubt is stealth. She is a lofty motherfucker. But I like to think I’m older and wiser.

 “OK, what’s up?” he asked over the phone.  

 And in between tears and sobs, the meltdown I haven’t had in months as I prepared to leave behind my corporate life in Denver came rushing in.

 “I have no idea what I’m doing. I’m in fucking New Zealand. I’m scared shitless.”

 Wow. You finally let it out.  

Ah. Nothing like telling the truth to yourself and to the man that somehow has figured out how to lift the spirits of this wild woman up.

My chat with him was followed by an email from a person that seems to know my brain better than I do.

“Frances,

You can ride that bike, even though it's heavy. Start in a lower gear, not too low, 3rd or 4th, is best.

It's time for you to put your big panties on, you are no longer dealing with the pussy, corrupt, corporate, collegiate environment of good impression.

This is the Universe you are crafting with now. Be brave and ask for help. And stop letting your inflated pussy ego infecting you with doubt.

Get on that fucking bike and ride, you wuss of a woman!

Love…”

This man knows how to pull me out when I can’t do it on my own.

Three hours later, I made an appearance into the garden of my first hosts in the country: Val and Don. A wife and husband pair in their late 60’s, now retired and both into cycling. And big into setting clueless wannabes straight.

Val, a wild spirited artist who likes green and other vibrant colors. Don, a wood artist who can make miracles with his hands.

Not long after my grand and heavy entrance, they noticed the obvious.

“You have too much!” she said.

I shrugged my shoulders and said:

“I already mailed stuff back home,”

“Well, it seems like you still have your hair dryer in there.”

I smiled.

She then said:

“How about you leave Tuesday? Tomorrow, we empty your bags and we’ll figure out what to bring and not. The things you don't take, you leave them here, you do your travels and when you come back in three months, you pick them up. By then, you can figure what you need or don't.”

So we did.

With Val and Don I left another journal, one too many pens, one too many shoes, one too many too many, one too many just in case I get eaten by a bear in New Zealand, just in case a meteor crashes in New Zealand, just in case I encounter the chupacabras. In New Zealand. You just never know…

And one too many twenty pounds later, she said to me:

“You know what the difference between us is?” Then she added “You brought a bikini to swim in…”

 “I don't bring bikinis. I swim in my underwear or I just swim naked.”

 New Zealand: Beware! The bikini stayed behind.

 Later in the afternoon, I repacked all my panniers.

 The morning after, after having enjoyed an evening with Val, Don and their family’s company over dinner, bubbles, tea and dunking biscuits, I was ready to set off.

I did my first real test run. Something I should have done back home.

I ran back to Val’s.

“I can pedal. I can ride my bike!” I said to Val who was sketching while sitting in the sun room.

She looked up and said: “Well, that's a bloody miracle!”

 After good byes, off I went. 

 And the hills didn't take long to appear.

As Val put it: “You don't come to New Zealand if you don't want to do hills.”

And as I understand it today:

I don’t come to New Zealand, on a bicycle, unless I want to learn one thing.

Or thirty eight…