Afoot and light-hearted I take to the open road,
Healthy, free, the world before me,
The long brown path before me leading wherever I choose.
“Song of the Open Road, Walt Whitman

This morning, Laura and I loaded all our gear onto our bike and hit the road. The equipment we chose to take was the result of months of deliberation and thousands of miles of bicycle travel experience. It may not be perfect, but it was well thought out.

Consequently, when you notice that a watch is not among the dozens of items we elected to carry, you can be certain that this omission was not a mere oversight. In fact, the watches we are not carrying may symbolize our trip better than any item we are carrying. You see, as of 10am this morning, Laura and I have officially entered “the slow life”.

Now perhaps you are thinking, “Well of course you’ve entered the slow life: you’re travelling on a bicycle!” But it’s not that simple. I have seen people bicycle across the country and and never lose the hurried, distracted, even frantic mentality that they hoped bike travel would deliver them from. The bicycle is no magic bullet, but it is the best tool I have discovered to aid in becoming more observant and generous of my time while travelling.

Our consumption-driven society seems to present two mandates to us:
1) Spend money like you’ll never run out.
2) Spend time like a miser.

It seems to me that bicycle travel effectively turn this philosophy on its head. It is a mode of travel that places so small a demand upon your finances that you find yourself freed to spend your time generously. Two week vacation? How about two year. Stop and ask for directions? How about a thirty minute chat with a local. This is the essence of the slow life.

For example, this afternoon Laura noticed a woodpecker on a dead, barkless tree off the side of the road. So we stopped and watched this beautiful bird enter and leave her home, peck away at a new hole, and fly around the forest near her tree. The head of the woodpecker was brilliant crimson, her wings were inky black and her breast white. We sat beside the road for half an hour, watching the bird go about her business and taking pictures. Numerous cars flew by as we sat, passengers craning their necks in an attempt to see what it was we were looking at. None stopped, and none saw.

Earlier that morning in Deer Creek, Laura and I were able to pick up a hitchhiker on our bike and ride along together for several minutes. We have only two seats on our bike, so the butterfly was forced to ride on our top tube, but the arrangement was comfortable for all. At 60 mph, I doubt the interaction would have been so peaceful.

On our bike journey, Laura and I hope to learn what Whitman calls “the profound lesson of reception”; we hope to slow our lives enough to allow spontaneous and meaningful interactions with our surroundings. After all, is this not the essence of travel?