#TilTheWheelsComeOff: Final Recap + You Can Do This, Too

Well, it's over. I'm back. In case you've missed it, I've been on a two-week road trip that took us from Pennsylvania to California and back again. You can catch up on the other #TilTheWheelsComeOff posts here. It's been pretty hectic for me since getting back, but I thought I'd wrap up this trip with a final recap, a few pictures (including the photo grab of the trip), and some thoughts for anyone who thinks they can't do anything like this.

Stats

Total Miles: 7,647 Total States: 11 (PA, OH, IN, IL, MO, KA, CO, UT, AZ, NV, CA) Total National Parks: 10 (Black Canyon, Mesa Verde, Bryce Canyon, Capitol Reef, Zion, Grand Canyon, Death Valley, Yosemite, Great Basin, Rocky Mountain) Highlight Cities/Towns: Colorado Springs (CO), Telluride (CO), Flagstaff (AZ), Las Vegas (NV), Santa Cruz (CA), San Francisco (CA), Lake Tahoe (CA/NV), Fort Collins (CO), Springfield (MO)

Most (Over)Used Word/Phrase

"Ew!"

Frequently Asked Questions:

Q: How was your trip? A: ...Pretty great. (I really don't know how else to answer the question when people ask me.)

Q: Did you like it? A: ...Yes? (Seriously, I love you, friends--but these are real questions I get.)

Q: How much time did you get to spend in __________? A: Not a lot. This trip, from the outset, was planned to be like a flight of beers at a brewery--just a sample, a taste of several places. We tore through the Rockies/west, saw so much, and now have a great idea of what we'd like to explore more.

Q: What was your favorite place? A: This is a really hard question to answer. My favorite national park to be in was Zion (I need more time in Yosemite). My favorite city/town was San Francisco. My favorite drive is a tie: the drive through Rocky Mountain National Park and the drive up Route 1 in California along the coast were both amazing. My favorite state: by a wide stretch, Kansas. A really wide, really flat, really boring, really sarcastic stretch.

Q: Did you guys get sick of each other? A: Other than a four-day stretch in which Ryan and I were perpetually in character "Ew!"ing and Jason probably wanting to kill us and/or himself, no, I don't think so. You can only do this kind of trip with a certain kind of person (or I only want to with a certain kind of person). I was so glad to be on a trip like this with guys who are flexible and don't freak out about little things or changed plans. And who can talk about anything and everything under the sun and allow each other to disagree.

Q: Would you do it again? A: If you're asking if I regretted doing it, then no--I don't regret it at all and would do it again. I wouldn't literally do this trip again, though. Now I have plans to take a whole trip to Yosemitie, and another trip to Vegas/Zion, and another to San Fran, etc.

Q: What next? A: Very immediately, I need to sleep. A lot. Beyond that, I'll be in LA next week to visit some awesome friends for a week. I've also already begun to lay the groundwork and set aside money for a two- or three-week trip to Europe next summer. If you've been there and have advice, I'd love to hear it.

And if someone makes a compelling enough case, I could be roped into one last crazy adventure before the summer's up. I'm all ears.

Why You Can Do This, Too

A number of people have expressed to me how lucky I am to be able to do a trip like this.

I'm fortunate, yes. And it helps that my job as a teacher provides a natural "break" to go on a long trip.

But even if you're not a single teacher in his twenties with no kids and some disposable income, you can do something like this, too. Maybe not for two weeks. Maybe not in the exact way I did mine. But you can do what you want.

I might have an easier time setting up a trip like this than some of you, but make no mistake--this trip didn't come about by magic. It didn't just fall into my lap and make itself happen. Do you want to know the most important thing I did to make this trip a reality?

I decided to make it happen.

I didn't just say, "Man, I'd love to do a road trip someday." Or "I'd love to see the west coast--that would be so cool."

In December 2013, I said to myself, "This road trip is happening." And then I asked people how much it would cost. And then I looked at my budget. Within a week of making the decision, I put a plan in place to sacrifice certain elements of my life to set aside money every month until I had enough to go this summer.

That's a snapshot of the myriad of small decisions I had to make and set in motion to make this real.

Maybe the amount of money you're able to sacrifice would mean you couldn't do a trip for another four years. So be it--four years from now is better than never. And working toward a goal, I've found, gives you a bit more zest, a bit more drive, a bit more satisfaction every day.

I've heard so many of my friends talk about what they want to do, and it's usually followed by "Maybe someday" or "I can't really do that."

Can I politely call BS on you?

I don't think you really want to do it. I think you want to talk about it and daydream about it. If you really want it, then start aligning your decisions to reflect that.

There is so much more in this life that is possible and attainable than your attitudes and habits have told you is possible. It starts with deciding to do something.

Then take another step.

And another.

And another.

Maybe what you want is a trip. Maybe what you want is to have a different job or work in another field. Maybe what you want is something else entirely.

It's time to stop dealing in the abstract and imaginary, then. It's time to make things concrete. No more excuses.

It's your turn to annoy me with your Facebook and Instagram photos, and your presumptuous blog posts with a self-assigned hashtag.

I can't wait.

Picture Time

When You Wish for Death

This isn't a story about being suicidal.

This is a story about wishing for death, and there's a difference.

Let's go back a couple of years, to an early winter morning.

The suns struggles to rise as the sky tries to hold its golden head under the horizon. The light around me as I drive down the highway is muted, like looking at the world with a blindfold made of thin, violet nylon.

It's my morning commute, a thirty-minute drive each day that begins at 6:45 a.m. in my driveway and ends in the parking lot of the school where I teach, my mind trying to speed up on the on-ramp to hit the ground running when I walk into the building.

I usually love the half hour I have to myself in the car. Few distractions, nowhere to go--it's the perfect time to think. I like to ponder all sorts of things--contingency plans if my students hate the hamster-wheel of an experiment I have in store for them that day, what my role would be on the island if I was part of the show Lost, snippets of lyrics I make up for songs I may or may not ever write, which one of my friends I can convince to come on a midnight hike and exactly how I'll manipulate persuade them to do it, where and when I'm going to have my next batch of wings.

Those thoughts aren't in the queue today, though. Nor have they been for several months. Only one thought has run through my mind and brought all other thoughts under its subjection. One thought has slowly grown inside my head to the size of a midwestern storm head, a black monolith towering miles above anything and everything that would normally matter to me.

One thought this morning as my fingers constrict around the still-icy steering wheel:

How do I fix my marriage?

It's not a question I ask as if I'm standing in front of the kitchen sink looking at a dribble of water leaking from the faucet that I can fix with a Youtube tutorial and a washer from Home Depot.

It's a question I ask as if I'm a city official standing in front of a building whose structural integrity is in serious question, whose foundation is crumbling and load-bearing beams have rotted, and I'm considering evacuating the building of its occupants and labeling it Condemned.

It's a question I've asked through what has been a gauntlet of counseling sessions,

Dozens of nights slept on the couch,

Hundreds of nights of sleepless disbelief,

Thousands of smiles to convince people I was okay,

The repeated torture of someone inadvertently stabbing the knife in between my ribs when they say, "I love how independent you two are," and my gritting-my-teeth-to-hold-back-the-blood reply: "Yeah, it's pretty nice,"

The absolute deflation of hope when it feels like progress is being made, and suddenly we've slid back down to the bottom of the hill and have to push the rock back up all over again.

Now, as oncoming cars pass and burn circles into my eyes with their headlights, I scroll through the thousands of pieces of advice, the mantras, the maxims, the proverbs, the principles, the exhortations:

Love is patient, love is kind...

Love is selfless.

Love unconditionally.

Be a man and lead your wife.

Marriage isn't about you.

Serve your wife.

Pray for your wife.

Meet her needs.

Expect nothing in return.

Pursue your wife.

Woo your wife.

This morning, though, having thumbed through those solutions so many times that I've worn off the words, I stop at the only one I feel is left:

I don't want to live anymore.

Suddenly, my car isn't my car anymore--the 6:59 glowing on my dash, the line of headlights whizzing by my left, the bumps as my tires ravage road--it all disappears. I find myself in a room I've been before in my dreams: a vast, empty room, in a warehouse maybe, that's all darkness and nothingness and when my mind says the words, they shoot out into the black and it absorbs them and shoots them back at me like a cannon of an echo:

I don't want to live anymore.

I'm now aware of the gaping wound in my chest that I've refused to look at for months--the one that I've secretly known was there but couldn't bring myself to examine because I knew it was too grim and too gruesome and I don't do well with blood and guts.

And that room, the one in which you utter those words, is a lonely room. It's a room that you lock from the inside. You don't let other people into that room. They're not ready to hear the words you speak in that room because you're not even ready for them.

I pull the car over, and I break down.

***

Like I said, this isn't a story about being suicidal. I didn't want to take my own life.

I was tired. So, so tired.

I wished for death.

When you feel like you're a grain of sand trying to push up on the dark mass of ocean above you, when you feel like you've tried everything and nothing is happening, when you're on the verge of squeezing blood out of your pores as you pray for rescue, when you've grabbed God by the collar and, with rage and hate, breathe, "How could you do this to me!" and when God lets you sink to the floor, and the hot blood escapes your face and your clenched fists wilt in defeat…

You wish for death.

I wished for it. And I asked God for it.

But he didn't give it to me.

Instead, he sent a friend who sat on the floor there with me until I could get up.

He sent another who would simply hug me because that's all he could do sometimes.

He sent another who grabbed my arm, looked me in the eye, and said, "You're going to be okay."

He sent another who would leave me notes that said things like "Keep going," or "I'm proud of you."

He sent another who would cry for me until I recognized it was okay for me to do that, too.

He sent another who kept pouring strength into my glass to keep me from making choices I would regret.

He sent another who told me, "Don't believe your circumstances--you are enough."

And I've never, ever understood more what I actually need and don't need in this life. I've never understood more the saying, "My grace is sufficient for you."

I've never seen understood more clearly how life and death really work.

***

It's been a while since that day. I never was able to fix my marriage.

But lately, I've been saying the phrase "I could die right now" a lot.

It's not quite the same as that moment in my car. I say I could die right now because I've lived every day for a long time now in such a way that I've laid myself out, lived the most life I could live. If God decides to grant my request to die now, I'll go with a smile on my face knowing I've done everything in my power to squeeze every drop out of the days I have.

Before, I was tired. I was drowning. I couldn't tell which direction was up to be able to swim to the surface.

The only thing I really did during that time was hold on long enough. Eventually, I found myself back on dry land with my face blue and heaving water out of my lungs. And before too long, I could sense solid ground beneath me, and the sun warming my back.

I wasn't dead. I was alive, and I could live.

***

Feature photo ©2014 Kevin Dooley | Flickr

#TilTheWheelsComeOff: Plan to Break Your Plans

This is a story of my favorite singular moment of the trip so far and of the kind of adventure I hold dear. Enjoy. 

We didn't plan it this way.

When we stepped into the car after dinner, I looked at my driving buddy, Jason, and took a deep breath.We weren't supposed to be beginning our drive to Bryce Canyon from Mesa Verde at 8:30 in the evening. This meant at least another six hours and yet another drive through the night for us.

"Let's do this."

He smiled, and with guts of determination and a cooler full of Five Hour Energy and Starbucks Double Shots, we set off.

How'd we get ourselves into this? How did we get knocked off our plan?

Well, that's just it--our plan was to get knocked off our plan.

From the beginning, we've said that we don't care about any single item on our itinerary enough to be heartbroken if we missed it. We wanted to be open to explore whatever we came upon, or came upon us.

That's why we stopped to lie down on a road in the middle of the night in Kansas, why we grabbed pictures with the world's largest Czech egg, why we pulled the car over to climb a hill and look at the mountains around us, why Jason filmed me running through a field in the frigid morning air of the Rockies, why we slid down a bank and tramped through the snow at the Continental Divide, why we went hours out of our way to check out a bluegrass festival in Telluride, why we've stopped the car or turned around or said, "You wanna?" dozens of times.

Planning is good. I like to plan. But since our best-laid plans so often go astray, the best option might actually be to allow room to break from the master plan.

Which leads me to my favorite moment of our road trip so far, and it came only because we were behind schedule, only because we said "yes" to driving through the night anyway, and only because we said "yes" to the moment when it arrived.

The only light left in the sky was a faint glow of orange above the western horizon. We were flying down the road in the desert of Utah. Our headlights were on, and most of the rocky, craggy surroundings had begun to fade to black.

This is why I love my friend Jason: when we saw the sign for Natural Bridges National Monument, he had the same flicker in his eye that I did. That flicker said, "Who cares if it's dark--why not check it out?"

And when we pulled off the loop view drive, he didn't just stand at the railing, content to look into the darkness from afar. He walked down the trail, all the way to the railing that overlooked the Sipapu natural bridge.

And when we saw a sign for the Sipapu trailhead, he agreed to pull over and look at it.

And when we saw that the trailhead could take us down to look at Sipapu close up, and I asked, "Do you want to do it?" He replied, "Yes."

I love friends like this because it would only take one excuse out of the hundred that were valid to leave this adventure dead in the water, a boat without a motor or paddle or current:

I'm too tired. It's dark. We don't have time. We should be driving. I don't even think we're allowed to do this. (Technically, none of the signs prohibit hiking at night. Not that it would have stopped me.) What if...? But what about...?

Every once in a while, the stars align just right, and you say yes and the people with you say yes, and you find yourself in the midst of one of those forever memories in the making.

We grabbed flashlights and a pack of emergency gear, looked at the black abyss below, looked up at the stars popping out one by one above, and crossed the threshold of the trailhead.

I'll skip past our fumbling around the smooth stone and sand of the trail and the near face-plant I made into a giant spider web, and past the moment of heart attack when we heard thunderous flapping of a bird overhead (and since I'm no bird expert, I can only assume it was either a pterodactyl or baby dragon).

Within twenty minutes or so, we were stretched on our backs against the lines of the bowl that lies around the monument. Above us was the silhouette of world's second-largest natural arch bridge, Sipapu--black in the night, imposing. Beyond Sipapu was a clear sky saturated with stars, with an occasional meteor streaking by.

And I had one of those moments where all I could do was whisper to Jason, "This is unbelievable." How many people get to see Sipapu like this?

What's harder to fathom is the narrow margin by which we could have missed an opportunity like this.

Lying there, swallowed up by Sipapu and the night, I couldn't help but cling tighter to the idea that life is better when we open ourselves up to surprise, to the unexpected, to the deviation from Plan A.

It's not always possible. Sometimes, it's hard as hell.

But every once in a while, you pull that lever and the slots line up just right--triple cherries, triple cherries, triple cherries.

I've found that it starts with two things:

Learning how to say "yes" more to the types of things your heart wants--which is not necessarily jumping out of your car to descend 500 feet into a canyon in the pitch black of night. That's what my heart wants. I think it would be a tragedy for you to read this and think you should be more like me. We've already wasted too much time trying to be someone else or live someone else's life, haven't we?

Start saying yes to what your heart wants, and only you know what that is.

When someone asks me, "Do you want to come to this get-together I'm having to showcase my <insert health/cosmetic/clothing/insurance/whatever product here>?" I say, "No." In my head, I actually say, "Dear God no--I'd rather read the dictionary or rearrange the tupperware drawer." Because that's not what my heart wants. Not even close. But if someone says, "Do you want to meet up for <insert wings/cheesesteak/meat products/beer/coffee/conversation here>?" I say, "Absolutely." Because my heart wants that--good times with good people.

The problem is that we've already said yes to too many other things, or we've learned how to say yes to the wrong things. A lot of us have learned to say yes to comfort or security, so that when an opportunity for something that could lead us to what we really want comes along, we're answered for. Sometimes we have to sacrifice our comfort zones and our secure positions a little bit to say yes to better things.

Riding with someone in your passenger seat who says "yes" is a big deal, too.

Which, in a nutshell, means: the people you do life with matters. I've found the right people like this: I go full-speed ahead with life and what I want whether people are on board with me or not. The ones who catch up and want to hitch a ride are the ones who will continue to help me say "yes" to what will make me most fully alive. Find them. Hold on to them.

We shouldn't completely ditch everyone else in our lives, but these people are the ones who will propel us the furthest, so it helps to choose our time with people wisely.

Thanks to my co-pilot, we have a story from that Utah desert that's better than anything we managed to plan on our itinerary.

Plan to break your plans, and find people who can do the same. More often than not, you find something better than what you originally tried for.

***

Feature photo: ©2013 David Kingham | Flickr

#TilTheWheelsComeOff: Suicidal Bunnies

The road trip continues. For those of you just tuning in, I'm trying my best to give my friends and family updates from my road trip, which I've called #TilTheWheelsComeOff and is taking us from Pennsylvania to California and back again. Here's my Day One recap if you missed it.

There's way too much I could talk about, so I'll keep it to a few fun facts and a story or two.

Quick Recap

Saturday: Colorado Springs, Garden of the Gods (CO) Sunday: Rocky Mountains, Black Canyon of the Gunnison NP, Mesa Verde NP (CO) Monday: Bryce Canyon NP, Zion NP (UT)

Stats

Total Miles: 2,500 Total States: 10 (PA, OH, IN, IL, MO, KS, CO, UT, AZ, NV) Total National Parks: 4 (Black Canyon of the Gunnison, Mesa Verde, Bryce Canyon, Zion--technically 5 because we drove through Capitol Reef) Total Ice Cream Cones I've Eaten: Only 6 (3 were yesterday) Total Animals Killed by My Car: 1 bird, 3 rabbits (read on for the story on this--it's harrowing), and 542,358 insects, all of which are stuck to the front of my car.

Best Part of the Drive

After we left Colorado Springs, we took Route 24 through the Rockies down to Route 50. If you're ever going through Colorado, I can't recommend this drive any more--it was amazing.

Best Brew Find

Nano 108 Brewing Company in Colorado Springs - They only serve beer, but they have a food truck outside with awesome brats. Their nitro and stout are so smooth, it's like drinking liquid clouds.

Best Sounds in Our System

NeedtoBreathe - The Reckoning Taylor Swift - Red (My choice. Unfortunately for Jason.) Silence. (To make it up to Jason for Taylor Swift) Partially Examined Life (A philosophy podcast. Jason's choice.)

Best Small Town

Telluride, Colorado. We stopped in Telluride because there's a big bluegrass festival going on. It was sold out, but we still got to hear some music on side stages in town, and check out Telluride's surroundings:

Best Dumb Decision I Made

Let's just say it's a tie between something I did on a bridge over the Colorado River, and the decision we made at Natural Bridges Natural Monument in Utah.

Biggest (and Most Harrowing) Surprise

The rabbits.

On Sunday night, we drove through the night from Mesa Verde in Colorado to Bryce Canyon in Utah. I don't know if you've ever driven through the desert at night with no moon.

It's dark.

It was hours and hours of darkness, except for the road right in front of us. I'm pretty sure we passed incredible mountains and rock formations, but all we could see was black. We could have passed Godzilla doing yoga on a plateau without a clue.

I learned something else about what hides in the desert--rabbits. Like, tons of freakin' rabbits. It started off as a cute, funny little desert quirk: Oh look! Was that a rabbit that just darted across the road? Ha! and Another one! Who knew there were rabbits in the desert?

Friends. That evening in the desert of Utah, we began the most harrowing, nightmare-ish drive of my life. I would be driving down the road, usually going at least 75 mph, watching the brush on the side of the road zip by, and all of a sudden, Whoa! A rabbit shoots out of the brush and right in front of the car.

And when one came out, they all came out.

Another would pop out. One would run at full speed, then stop at the last second, forcing me to swerve.

"These bunnies want to die!" I yelled at one point to Jason. "They're going kamikaze on us!"

Some of them ran parallel with us, as if to mock us. Or to signal the other troops that we were coming.

Finally, the inevitable moment arrived. I was singing along to Katy Perry or some other nonsense to stay awake. My car barreled down the desert concrete to meet fate just ahead in the darkness.

It happened almost as fast as you could blink your eye.

A flash of ears and fur. My breath leaving my lungs.

And a sickening crunch as my car smashed into a suicidal rabbit.

"That did not just happen!" Jason and I looked at each other. "Oh God."

People. This happened two more times that night.

For hours, scores of rabbits darted across the road. In our last hour, I counted almost 40 rabbits. That was one hour of about five. It was like a bad dream. At one point, I looked at Jason, my eyes bloodshot from anxiety and a lack of sleep and said, "I think we died a while back on the road, man. And now we're in hell--doomed to drive on this dark road and live in fear of kamikaze rabbits for eternity. It's sick."

We made it to Bryce Canyon--barely--just before sunrise, just in time to catch the first rays of daylight hitting the Bryce Amphitheater and setting the canyon below ablaze with color and life.

But somewhere on a godforsaken stretch of cracked desert road, the bodies of three bunnies lie still and broken. A thousand other bunnies hide away to rest in their holes until the next night when they will carry on the legacy of their fallen comrades, striking fear into the hearts of men and bringing them to their knees in terror.

#TilTheWheelsComeOff: Day One

We did it. My friend Jason and I left for our cross-country yesterday morning at the brightly dark time of 3:53 am. We're sitting at a coffee shop in Colorado Springs called fifty fifty, in the shadow of the Rocky Mountains. I've named our road trip #TilTheWheelsComeOff. The hashtag is currently trending about as well as the one some sorority chick somewhere tweeted out last night, #ThisIsTotesTheBestNightOfMyLifeLikeSoFar. I promised you some blog updates, so here we go.

I'm going to give you a random run-down of some of our highlights so far. You'll want to stick around for the story at the end. Let me know if this is all too scattered for you, if you'd rather me focus on one thought or aspect more, or any other general feedback!

Best New Knowledge

"Elefantenrennen (elephant racing) is the German word for when one truck tries to overtake another truck with a minimal speed difference, blocking all lanes in the process."

Now you know the name for this nonsense: elephant racing. (And we ran into several of them yesterday.)

Best Food Find

Papa Roux outside of Indianapolis, IN - Great Cajun/Creole sandwich spot.

Best Sounds Playing in Our System

Twin Forks - Twin Forks Sam Smith - In the Lonely Hour Michael Jackson - XScape Sleeping At Last - Keep No Score Shane Koyszan - Remembrance Year

Best Surprise

We were driving through Illinois when I started to search for our required daily ice cream stop. By chance, the ice cream spot that popped up on Google Maps happened to be in the Mark Twain Historic District right along the Mississippi River. We got to eat ice cream, melt in a disgusting amount of humidity, and check out some cool Mark Twain-related stuff, including his childhood home.

Trying to get in touch with my inner Tom Sawyer. Jason and I decided we're more Huckleberry Finn guys anyway:

The Mississippi looks cool from far away. Up close, it's nast-ee:

Best Part of Kansas at Night

We decided to get off I-70 and take Route 40, which is the first federally funded transcontinental highway. It's exactly the empty, small road I wanted to be on while driving through Kansas.

We pulled off to the side of Route 40, got out of the car, and lay down in the middle of the road. The moon's waning and doesn't come out until later in the morning, so the sky was super clear and we could even see some of the Milky Way cloud. First thing that happened when I looked up--huge, streaking shooting star. Off to the distance in one section of the horizon, we had a show of lightning from storms we found out were all the way out in Nebraska.

Perfection.

(Also: as we drove, lightning bugs would smash into our windshield and create a neon splatter. So disgusting/cool.)

Worst Part of Kansas at Night

We kept running into interesting little things as we drove through 40 in Kansas. At one point, we saw this:

"World's Largest Czech Egg"--might be the coolest thing Kansas has to claim. We had fun with the egg, anyway.

While we were outside here, we discovered the worst part of Kansas at night:

The mosquitos.

Dude. Kansas has giant, killer mosquitos.

When we got back into the car after taking all of the obligatory "I'm holding up this giant freakin' egg!" pictures, we thought were safe. But no.

Suddenly, I heard buzzing all around me. We had at least three or four of these bloodthirsty monsters in the car with us, looking to feed. We ducked. We swatted. We clapped. We slapped the windows and ceiling.

I felt something on my face, and I can't even tell you exactly what happened in the moment, but this was the aftermath:

Blood all over my face. Blood all over my hand. Splatters of blood on my hoodie. On my jeans. On my steering wheel.

Looked like a scene from freaking Carrie.

I got the demon mosquito, though--somehow was lying on my steering wheel, covered in my blood, a mess of legs and wings and Satan's steroids. I drove away horrified. Worst part is, I sent out a distress call on Twitter, and none of my friends cared. Except Denny. He followed up with me, because he loves me and is a real friend.

Forget the rest of you. I could have died last night--sucked dry like a prune by the night predators of Kansas.

Yet I live to see another day and another adventure. Stay tuned for the next update.