As for the day, Vernal, Utah was my goal, just seventy-one more miles. None of it really mattered. I didn’t care. I wanted to throw my rear wheel as far into the desert as possible, followed by the whole damn bike. Then I would just lay there on the side of the road waiting for somebody — no idea who — to pick me up and drive me directly to Truckee.
In August of 2001, Cory Mortensen decided to take a two month leave of absence from work and ride his bike across the United States from Chaska, Minnesota to Truckee, California; no set schedule or reservations set up along the way; very little gear (no spare socks, cell phone, or even a helmet); just a wedding to get to eventually, and what he figured was plenty of time to test himself on the open road. Naturally, as these things go, Mortensen faced unexpected obstacles — from mechanical failures to hostile small town inhabitants to mental stress — but he overcame everything and better liked the person he was by the end of his trip. It’s not explained why it took him nearly twenty years to make The Buddha and the Bee out of his adventure (or even where the title comes from), but now that it’s out...it’s just okay. The writing is fine — generally the tone is sarcastic and self-deprecating — and not terribly introspective; this is a light and breezy read about a mentally and physically tough challenge; interesting if not exactly inspirational. (Note: I read an ARC and passages quoted may not be in their final forms.)
One could prepare for many things. One could prepare for climbing hills by doing hill repeats or for wind by riding in it. One could even build up a resistance to rain and snow. I, of course, spent no time training or preparing for any of these things. However, what I was completely unprepared for was the overwhelming sense of loneliness.
Mortensen wasn’t completely unprepared for his journey: he had run several marathons, was an Eagle Scout, had a history of cross-country motorcycle and international backpacking adventures, and owned an expensive (if not completely suited to the task) bicycle that he had used in road races before. Whatever the office job was he was taking a break from, it would seem it paid well: at thirty-one, he owned two houses (which, yes, he had bought cheaply and fixed up), and after selling one of them and renting out the other, it seems he had plenty of money for motel rooms and diner meals along the way; this is not an “everyman” story. On the other hand: he left home without proper tools, only four spare inner tubes, and when the pack he thought he’d be carrying on his back bumped up against the rear of his helmet, it was the helmet he left behind. (By the second day Mortensen reduced the contents of the backpack to the minimum so he could strap it to a rear carrier.) It would seem that this trip should have been much harder on Mortensen, but as a fly-by-the-seat-of-the-pants kind of guy, things just kept working out for him and he met all of his difficulties with the following humour:
I was exposed, helpless, naked, an innocent lamb in search of my shepherd. The dogs — maybe five, maybe ten, it was hard to tell in a quick, terrified glance over my shoulder — were fast and agile. Hellhounds, their hot breath straight from the fiery pits. Your hero was slow, weighed down, unprepared. The beasts could smell my fear, no doubt. My only hope for survival was the adrenaline now surging through my body — nature’s nitrous oxide. I sprinted. I reached twenty-eight miles per hour, heart racing, lungs wheezing, drool hanging from my lower lip, snot pouring from my nostrils, legs burning from lactic acid. In just twenty seconds — though it felt much longer — it was over. The dogs suspended their chase and stood in the street barking, the littlest one out front.
And again, I found this writing to be just okay (did not think it was okay that he kept using the phrases “dear reader” and “your hero” throughout). I had noted at the beginning that Mortensen would be on the road over Sept. 11th, and while he does relate how he learned of the terrorist attacks and how he reacted (a distanced reaction at first that slammed him later), even this part of his story didn’t really land with me. Throughout, as he writes about what little town he is biking through, he’ll wedge in some factoid that reads as interestingly as a condensed wikipedia entry; this is not first rate travel writing. And while Mortensen does eventually come to an epiphany about himself, it’s pretty much summed up here:
The road freed me from the daily chaos and doldrums of life. It freed me from everything. I had spent the last few weeks recreating who I was, without knowing it was happening. I realized now I could be anywhere and anyone or nowhere and no one.
I’ve read better memoirs about using a physically tough journey to transform yourself (Cheryl Strayed’s Wild:From Lost to Found on the Pacific Crest Trail, for one) and better on an epic bike trip (Lands of Lost Borders: Out of Bounds on the Silk Road by Kate Harris), so maybe I was expecting more from this? At any rate, I did think this was fine: the journey was interesting and I found Mortensen likable; looking at the website for this book, I’m glad to see that he continued to find adventure in his life and wish him well.
