Why am I going on this trip? Why did I quit my job, give up my apartment, and shed all of my belongs just so I can be homeless, sleep in the rain and have persistantly sore legs and aching feet? Throughout history and literature, people have tried to find the answer to why others do what they do. When George Mallory (I think it was him, I'll check my facts and update later) was asked why he climbs mountains, he famously responded "because they are there." In a popular children's song, a bear's choice to climb over the mountain is discussed then decided he just wanted to see what there was to see. Even the plight of the chicken across the road is questioned when in the end, he just wanted to get to the other side.

I can confidently say what this trip is not about. It's purpose is not to venture on an introspective journey, hoping to figure out who I am and what life is all about. If that was my goal, then I'd be supremely disappointed at the end, because I know I wouldn't have the answers. I believe life is what you make of it, it is a product of your imagination and the result of your will. It's meaning can not be determined or described when you're somewhere in the middle. It is like a mosaic or a quilt, a patchwork of tiles and fabrics and experiences, that when viewed up close, have no relation or resemblance. It's not until you back away and look at the whole, that you can see the beauty of the work, it's patterns, it's brilliance and it's meaning.

Because it is such a commonly asked question, I have spent a great deal of time thinking about the answer. Why am I doing this? Maybe it is my restless nature, a trait that I have come to blame on my blood. As I get older, the cloth that I was cut from looks remarkably similar to my cousin Judy's and our grandfather's. At a young age, my grandfather boarded a boat in Sweden to make a life for himself in America. While staying with siblings along the way, he meandered back and forth across the country, working the land until he met my grandmother and settled down in the farmlands of the midwest. His past was filled with stories of drifting, stories about his friends, his brothers and cousins, from a time when it was common to hop in a box car to try and find work somewhere, somehow. As I get older and with the perspective of time, I can see that it is those stories that make up the color of my blood.

Perhaps the reason for my trip is change. My life became stagnant, predictable, and mundane. I needed a change to my space and my perspective. I needed to observe new possibilities and embrace new experiences. I needed a jolt of energy, a shakeup, a new challenge and a new reason to get up in the morning. In short, I was bored and frustrated and needed an opportunity to grow.

In nature, when a bush stops growing it needs to be pruned. The existing branches are cut back and the dead ones removed, leaving nothing but the bare trunk and a few shoots of dormant life poking out like arms. Come Spring, the bush blossoms and begins to grow fuller and larger than the year before. Needing to grow, I chose to simplify. I decided to shed the excess, sleep in the rain, suffer sore legs and aching feet and just meander for miles and miles and miles. I have pruned my life down to a bicycle and a trailer.