3 – I Have to Listen - Travels with Walter

June 1, 2015

3 – I Have to Listen

It rains when we wake up. It rains when we eat breakfast. It rains as we sit inside the tent with our lower halves tucked in the sleeping bag to try and stay warm. An inch of water pools in the plastic that covers Walter's crate on the bike. Fat drops of rain charge down into the gap between my rain jacket and my neck every time I walk below the awning of the bathroom or the laundry room. It's so wet and so cold that even the German tourists tell us they've had enough and they're leaving the area for some place sunnier.

It's a terrible day to ride. But spending all day inside a cold and wet tent with the air around us thick with the smell of damp feet seems like a far worse fate. And so we pack up our bags, shove the soaked and dirt-covered tent into the stuff sack, and get ready to head out. We don't like the rain, but we know we can handle it, at least in small doses. Walter doesn't. All he knows is that he's already wet, already cold, and that it might be a long time before either of those things get better. But there's nothing we can do to make that happen. Although we created side curtains of canvas that attach to the crate with Velcro and can cover the top with a heavy sheet of plastic to keep Walter dry, none of them can help him keep warm. And when all of them are in place it limits his view of the outside world to only the back panel of the crate.

I find myself on the edge of tears as I lower him down into what amounts to a cage or a jail cell and strap him in for the ride ahead. He's shivering and he's afraid. It's a terrible situation and I'm the one placing him into it. We tried to account for bad weather before setting out on this adventure, but we never expected this much rain and this much cold together this late in the year. Maine is setting all kinds of record highs and lows right now, beyond what we thought we'd see anywhere in America this summer. Walter has little choice but to suffer through it.

We set out with a frigid headwind and light rain bearing down on us. Neither are helped by the fact that there's one road in and out of Mount Desert Island and Bar Harbor, and a lot of people are leaving those places behind right now. Everything turns worse when we end up trying to ride through a construction zone where there's no shoulder but where drivers pass within two feet of our panniers anyway. This forces us to head through dirt and sand and get bogged down in the mud alongside the highway to try and get around the mess. Highway 3 is a loud, dirty, stressful place today.

As the afternoon turns to evening the roads fill with drive-time traffic. All of it blows by us at fifty-five miles per hour in a hiss of engines and tires and then water spraying up from the road. Whenever big trucks pass they shower our left sides in a mist of grit and soaking filth. For all of this there's little reward. We see some charming houses and a few meeting halls that date back more than 150 years, but views out to the coastal bays pass in only seconds, swallowed up by trees and houses and machine shops. We're too wet and cold and focused on not being run over by an impatient garbage truck driver to notice much of anything else.

The lone highlight is finding a small country store in Surry that sells cheese, Triscuits, candy bars, and craft beer. It gives us a place to try to keep our energy up, to dry Walter off and let him warm up with a walk, and to figure out where we might be able to sleep for the night. The only other customer drives a small truck with a personalized license plate that reads BOW HNT.

Just beyond the store we turn off onto a much quieter back road. The traffic goes away, the rain goes away, and the wind turns itself down. We come across our first cows of the trip, which somehow makes it feel like we're cycle-touring again. We talk to them and let them inspect us from the other side of the fence line. But for the most part we ride alone. It's peaceful enough that we can hear the gentle hiss of the wind passing through the boughs of the spruce trees.

We also hear Walter's constant complaints. He whines and cries when he's covered. He whines and cries worse when he isn't. We know that it isn't the crate itself that he doesn't like. If we're stopped he's content to sit in it, to lay down in it, and to fall asleep in it. The up and down motion caused by the bumps of the road don't affect him either. So many years of traveling in a Volkswagen Vanagon with worn out front shocks has left him familiar with those feelings. It's when we stop by the side of the road and move the bike with our hands while it leans against the kickstand that we find out where the problem lies.

It's the side to side motion. He's never felt it before. But more than the uncertain feeling it gives him, that motion keeps him from ever finding steady footing. He hates it. I know he hates it. Kristen tries to stay positive. She tells me that he might adjust, that he might get more comfortable with the motion of the crate over time, that it's too soon to give up on him. In principle I agree with her. But I also know this dog better than I know anything in the world other than myself. I've spent more time with him than anyone else. I have a strong sense of what he needs, what he's feeling, and what he's capable of. And I know that he thinks riding on the back of a cargo bike in a crate, whether it's covered or not, is so much bullshit. That's what he's been trying to tell me for the last three days. And as one of the two people in the world responsible for his well-being and happiness I have to listen.

But no solution to Walter's troubles exists on the back roads of Eastern Maine. We press on. Soon after we rejoin the main highway we see a sign pointing toward something called the Great Pond Mountain Wildlands. It only takes a few moments to decide to head down the gravel access road and find a quiet place in the woods to bunker down for the night, safe from the rain that could continue all through tomorrow. Under a light shower we set up the still soaked and still dirt-covered tent that we took down only a few hours earlier. We throw everything inside, dry ourselves off, and jump as deep into the sleeping bag as we can.

I'm heartbroken. I wanted so much for Walter to enjoy traveling by bicycle with us. Back in California it seemed like he would. But the differences between day rides in perfect weather and long miles under angry skies are huge. Those differences are coming to bear now. What they mean for me is a future I hoped I wouldn't have to face. I'm not willing to leave Walter behind, which means that unless some magical solution appears in the next day or two my cycle-touring days are about to come to an end. This sharp, sudden truth hits hard. Traveling long distances by bicycle and writing about it aren't just hobbies for me. They're two of the only things in the world that I don't just enjoy but love. They're two of the only things in the world that I'm better at than just about anyone else. They help form the core of who I am and how I think of myself. They help give my life meaning. The thought of losing out on them for the next ten or twelve years seems like too much to bear.

I think about the adventures I could go on with Kristen and Walter that don't require pedaling. I enjoy traveling in my van. I also like the idea of learning to sail and experiencing life from that perspective. And both of them seem on the surface like possible replacements for seeing the world from the seat of a bicycle. But each one is missing one key ingredient: hard work. For as much as bicycling makes me tired or sore or frustrated or sweaty, it also makes me feel good. It makes me feel capable and strong. It makes me feel alive. Knowing that I arrived wherever I happen to be under my own power, while carrying with me all of the stuff I needed in order to get there, is one of the most fulfilling things I know. The pace and rhythm and connection to the world that come along with traveling in this way give me more joy than I have the ability to describe.

And now it looks like all of that is about to switch to the past tense.

I don't know what to do.

I'm lost.

Today's ride: 29 miles (47 km)
Total: 70 miles (113 km)

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