The words don’t make sense. I don’t recognize them, in spite of having wrote them. That was a long time ago. I’m not that guy. I’m no longer me. Neither that nor this. Total, yet totally empty. Complete, yet completely alone.

Some people say you don’t really live until your parents die, focusing on a sense of freedom and self-discovery that often occurs from an actual or metaphorical loss of dependence and/or strong desire for parental approval.

I think otherwise. I think you don’t really live until your ego dies, focusing on true freedom and self-discovery that occurs from self-detachment from all third dimensional material things, like worldly labels or titles that own you.

Depression is an elusive struggle; an oppressive weighted fog. Difficult to remember when it started, not really sure what broke, but you know something ain’t right, until one day you realize that something ain’t right is everything.

Inside the fog is rough, a complete absence of light, blindly looking for anything or anyone to tether for grounding. More than a mere lack of eyesight, the fog continuously distorts and destroys one’s entire perception of the world.

Hopelessness inevitably takes hold, takes over your soul; and even those that find their way out of the fog, never really forget that state of hopelessness. All who’ve felt it are forever haunted by the indelible stain of hopelessness.

—ooOoo—

That was me at the time. The year was 2015, and I came up with a plan. Instead of riding back-and-forth across the country, I would ride around the circumference, staying away from big cities, visiting all of my bucket list places.

I bought a map, a road atlas, and a backpack, and I started to plot out some places and ideas. I recall thinking things like: I wanna ride the Extraterrestrial Highway because that’s fucking dangerous and badass (and I like the sign).

I remember wanting to find unique rides along the way, such as the Tale of the Dragon, the Twisted Sisters, and the Blue Ridge Parkway. I also wanted to hit iconic spots, like Niagara Falls, Mount Rushmore, and Devils Tower.

I had no intention of actually planning a ride. I gave up that nonsense on the second day of my first cross-country ride, when I quickly discovered it’s best to not plan or reserve anything, so you can be totally free to roam and explore.

—ooOoo—

The ride started on a Saturday morning; June 20, 2015. The night before, my family gave me a birthday cake, since I would again be riding around the country on my birthday. This wasn’t the first time, nor would it be the last time.

This ride was different. It would be my longest, figuring around 12,000 miles, which meant quite a bit of risk and maintenance on the road; and unlike those shows people feel compelled to tell me about, I don’t ride with a crew.

If my shit breaks down, I don’t have a team to help. There’s no van, no other rider, no one to even notice me crashing into a ditch. At night, it’s just my bike and me, camping under the stars, poking a fire for light, and to stay warm.

These things crossed my mind that morning when getting on my bike, especially feeling my kids watch me from the window. “You never know what’ll happen,” I thought aloud at the gas station, looking down at my “Day One” route.

Highway 49 to 120, then something about Yosemite going into Nevada. I didn’t know how the day was gonna end, but I wanted to see Groveland, where I spent many days litigating a case against the Community Services District.

I also wanted to end my day in Tonopah, Nevada, where Howard Hughes and Jean Peters got secretly married at the Mizpah Hotel; my fascination arising from: Empire: The Life, Legend, and Madness of Howard Hughes.

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