Debrief

The debrief. 

I must admit that the buzz remains. I still hear the faint call of the sooty grouse, like a woofer in the wilderness. I can feel the light rain rat-tat-tating on the faded plastic of my helmet as it resonates a staccato rhythm down my spine and into the power train of my bike. There is a jazzy time signature keeping the elements together, playing with balanced harmony. My only responsibility is to hear them and appreciate their tune. How sad it must be for the Great Outdoors Band to play such sweet melodies for such a distracted audience. Or, most likely, they have been doing this for so long that the mere idea of reciprocation is unnecessary. We are free to tune in, listen and groove with it, or go about the important work of reaffirming the bias that our egos have established as the definition of who we are. This is part of the catharsis, the growth and the value of the retreat. It has been suggested that our lives amount to establishing a cozy, comfortable and convenient base camp from which to venture from and explore outside on a regular schedule. Think of work, school, vacations. Interestingly Americans, taking great pride in their hard-earned freedoms, take but a couple of weeks every year for these getaways. Europeans take months. I think the latter demographic gets it closer to right than the former. Shouldn’t it be a series of exploitative adventures, soulful enrichments of the spirit and a quick return for supplies and e-mail checks? Why in the world would we buy into such a skewed ratio of 50 weeks of hard physical labor (or a desk job) and expect stasis to be restored and batteries re-charged in a mere 14 days? WHO THE FUCK NEGOTIATED THAT DEAL? 

It is always bittersweet to return to base camp. The double-clutch downshift from cruise control at breakneck speed (the road) to the well ordered and ultra structured real-world can damage one’s transmission. Where the sounds of the wild are drowned out by the man-made cacophony of commerce. I woke last night in my warm and fuzzy bed after five nights in Whitey’s no-frills sleeping compartment wondering where I was. What is this deep REM thing taking place under a giant down comforter and above an electric fitted sheet? Where is my tent and where are the stars? Why is the refrigerator making that annoying noise? Where have all the eagles gone? 

I gave the verbal highlights to class this morning. They, and most of them had contributed to the event by purchasing a commemorative coffee mug and thusly had a vicarious presence on the trip, all seemed appreciate of its scope, effort, results and rewards. The drama is in the doing. Life unfolds before us. 

From my perspective, the most interesting take away, that wonderful moment of clear, unfiltered illumination, was on the circuitous loop around Lake Quinault on Thursday. We were rinding slow, looking at as much of verdant magical surroundings as possible. It dawned on me that this was, right then and there, the slowest I had ever traveled 30 miles. That reality presented another one a second later that might as well have been written in the sky.

The faster you ride the more miles you travel. But the slower you ride the more you see. 

Debrief complete.