Getting my mojo back…

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Fuck me.

Life is such a wild ride… and I know I am not alone in this cacophony of insanity.  But for me, it is probably because I tend to leap before I look, which somehow lends itself to dramatically polarize the outcome. Whowouldaknown? Yeah sure, some days are diamonds, some stones, but my history seems to be full of blinding rays of ecstasy juxtaposed to boulders that would make Sisyphus walk off the job.

Right now is freefall.  Teeth sunk deep into a new project(s), cliff jumped off of, and as usual I’ll figure out the parachute before I slap the earth at terminal velocity, or land smoothly and safely – who knows?  Guess we’ll see.  But that is how it always is because that is me.  Safe sucks. Never mind how fucking boring it is. After decades of both soft and hard landings, I gatta say, it is gettin’ exhausting. And this last chunk of time has been kinda bouncy. Took some wind out of my sails, blurred my focus on the important thangs.

But I kinda figured it out. What happened. And I am sharing this because maybe it has happened to you. The fuck else am I supposed to do?

It all started when I was a little shit; I’d ride my bmx bike to the local Honda moto shop to fantasize and stargaze about riding across this continent on back roads – lifetime dream.  The owner of the joint was a hero.  He’d let me climb aboard some of the larger than life motorcycles, grab the bars, and let the gleam in my eyes burn bright until I had enough or it was time to head home.  I’d sit there and stare at the map covering most of a wall printed in great detail with only the back roads and ways to travel by two wheels all over Amurka.  I’d trace a route from one ocean to the other, dreaming of seeing it all in person, utterly mesmerized. My elementary mind pressing hard against unknown boundaries and hurdles, seeking only the enlightenment and raw experience of those I learned of early on like Heyerdahl, Magellan, and all the other white people public education near a military base allowed.

It continued as we moved from town to town, I’d spend from sun up to sun down riding and exploring my new world, sucking in as much experience as I could possibly handle.  As I grew into adulthood and continued to uproot and plop down, it happened the same, sometimes on a motorcycle.  Always two wheels, maybe by foot.  And it continues today.

In around 2000ish I learned about the Great Divide.  I remember thinking to myself, “There is a way I can ride all the way across the country on a mountain bike trail? No inattentive drivers or stop lights constantly stymieing my life?”  My mind flashed back to the Honda shop, the map on the wall.  The dreams and thoughts and visions.  I knew then I was going to do everything in my power to reflect on that experience tucked in to my deathbed.  And in 2014 I did.  The years of planning, racing, riding, training, eatingsleepinglivingbeing the TDR was always in the back of my mind.  It was that life goal that up and until my plane touched down in Calgary and my bike was handed to me by customs, I never truly believed I even had a shot at even trying.  A couple weeks later on the 4th of July I was sitting in Dirty’s pick up truck smelling like I’d bathed in shit, eternally hungry and in a complete state of awe trying to digest the experience I had just had – while fireworks flashed in the distance on the way to Tempe where I would finally shower and sleep in a bed. Fourteen years in the making.

And then I woke up one day and had nothing to shoot for.  I had chased after it for so long, it became defining, and when it was over there was really nothing left… other than riding around the world, but I don’t have the funds or credit or trust fund or whateverthefuckittakes to quit my job and figure that out.  So I stopped trying.  (side note: if you want to fund my travel just let me know)

Sure, I still did some tours and long rides and such, but the drive had faded and the urgency and desire went with it.  I had lost my will to adventure.  The quick local poach camping that peppered my life was gone.  The exploring relaxed.  And again, I kinda stopped trying.  My focus was now the rest of my life, and how I was going to do it.  A job.  An income.  Retirement planning.  All that bullshit.  It was a desperate situation.

So here I sit, finally found an opportunity to succeed in this capitalistic nightmare, and I am taking it. 

Will it work?  Who knows. 
Will I be happy?  If I want to be. 
Will I be ok?  Of course, I ain’t got time to die.

So now, almost 10 years later, the bug is crawling back and digging in like an emaciated tick.  Not sure how or where it began to overtake me, but I finally got the itch.  I want to not have anywhere to be but pedaling toward whatever is over the next mountain pass.  I want to wake up wet from the rain, jam soaked everything into dry bags and ride into a growing storm smiling like a Cheshire Cat. I want to struggle, hurt, and overcome this physical world to see the wonders shoved in my face doom-scrolling on a three inch square, and share new ones with the trolls and those taking their morning shit.

I have absolutely no fucking clue how I am going to make it happen, but I kinda don’t have a choice in this.  It simply must be… because this is who I am.

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About Danimal

it's all bullshit, all of it.

7 Replies to “Getting my mojo back…”

  1. well, the only thing left is the doing then #keepepdaling #whentheygetpissedIknowIamontherightpath