The funny thing about setting specific goals for yourself is that you risk failing. Without goals, there is no clear success or failure, only good fortune and bad. If you go a step further and set goals that involve other people, the potential for things to not go as planned only increases.

As Laura and I began this journey, we made it our goal meet the people who live nearest to the heart of every state. Our desire was to listen to them with the belief that everyone has a story to tell. We also hoped to make this journey not merely about us, but about the places and people we come across.

Yet this goal obviously sets up the possibility of failure; sometimes people’s experiences make them hesitant or frightened to share with others. Unfortunately, such was the case with the family that lives nearest to the center of Oklahoma. Despite one phone conversation and a few messages left, they never did return our calls.

So Monday morning, we set out to the center of Oklahoma not knowing who we would meet or speak to. With GPS unit out, we homed in on a small neighborhood in north Oklahoma City, just east of highway 77.

The entrance to the neighborhood informed us that we were entering “Broadway Park”. As we wandered among the older but mostly well-kept homes, we noticed that the forces of fear and distrust have been at work in many homes here. Yard signs warned would-be intruders of monitoring by such-and-so security, and barred windows were in vogue.

Following the GPS unit’s lead, we happened upon, appropriately enough, “Oklahoma Avenue”. The street soon dead ended at a creek, where we followed a path across and out into a field of wildflowers and tallgrass. One solitary cedar stood in the middle of the field, and after fifty yards or so, we arrived at the geographic center of Oklahoma.

To our south was Broadway Park; to the north were an apartment complex and a self-storage facility. Yet the center laid in a lovely undeveloped field teeming with purple coneflowers, Indian Blankets, and many other wildflowers. One in particular caught our eye–it was short with bright pink blooms that looked like an exploding firework. Later we learned its name is “Sensitive Briar”. We took in the scene, then made our way back to the bike.

Back in the neighborhood, we looked around for another nearby resident to chat with, and after two unanswered doorbells, we spotted a group of guys in their driveway, apparently working on cars. We headed their way but were intercepted by a woman pulling out of her driveway. She inquired about our bike, and soon we were chatting away. In no hurry, Robbin Higbee pulled back into her driveway to talk more. In the back seat were her sons, Mikey and Chris, who were eagerly awaiting their trip to purchase a yard pool.

Robbin had moved to Oklahoma only five years ago from South Carolina, and despite a lingering love for her former home, she had come to appreciate what Oklahoma has to offer. When asked what she liked about the state, she quickly answered, “The people–everyone is so friendly here. And the community–if something goes wrong here, everyone pitches in to help.” Her least favorite part? “Tornadoes.” Robbin’s experience thus far in the Sooner State perfectly mirrored Laura’s and mine on our four day shakedown tour in Northwest Oklahoma.

From the heart of the state, we made our way towards Deer Creek to connect with our families’ history in Oklahoma. Just recently, Laura and I found out that the home that my grandparents and father grew up in is less than a mile from the farmhouse that Laura’s family had homesteaded in back in 1895. We visited both homes; the Beese house stands empty since the death of my grandmother, while the Cartmill farmhouse is inhabited and on the National Registry of Historic Places. The current owners were unfortunately not home, so after looking around we hit the road.

Staying north of Oklahoma City, we rode along Coffee Creek road for mile after mile. The pastoral and farm-oriented scenery soon gave way to sprawling estates of north Edmond. Despite being designed to clearly communicate “I have arrived,” these Coffee Creek castles instead proclaimed a profound lack of contentment to us.

Ever eastward we rode, and soon we were out of reach of Edmond sprawl. Traffic and homes became rare; open fields and rolling hills were the norm now.

For our first night of the trip, we headed down to Lake Arcadia to camp for the evening. We swam until we were hungry, ate until we were full, then slept until we were rested. It seems that “the profound lesson of reception” that we hope to learn from bicycle travel applies not only to our surroundings, but our own bodies as well.

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?

There are some who would say that the Age of Exploration is dead. We look around and find every peak summitted, every continent crossed, every ocean sailed. Is there nothing left to discover? Does the spirit of adventure no longer beckon? Is exploration dead?

Yet with the dirge still echoing in our ears and the dirt still fresh on the grave of the First Great Age of Exploration, we find a new age dawning. Exploration is being reborn in our lifetime, with the same soul of discovery, yet with a new focus. The previous Age’s gaze was perpetually squinting at some distant horizon, craning up at some lofty peak. The explorers of old cried, “To the ends of the earth!”, meanwhile rushing right past the magnificent middles of the earth all around them. Their attention was fixated on the extremes: hottest desert and coldest arctic, highest peaks and lowest depths, richest individuals and poorest nations. For centuries humanity explored these extremes and expanded the boundaries of the known world, until one day we found all the limits delimited and all the boundaries marked. So perhaps it was inevitable that the Second Great Age of Exploration should then turn back to the great interior and the marvels of the middle as its new frontier.

This great rebirth of exploration retains its predecessor’s spirit of adventure and unwavering resolve to discover. Yet whereas the previous paradigm saw humanity pushing forever outwards, we now resolve instead to probe ever inward. Those who went before reveled in the extraordinary, while we now can extol the glory of the ordinary and the dignity of the commonplace.

Moved by this zeitgeist, The National Geographic Center Society was founded in January 2007 with the following goals:

1. To discover and document the geographic center of every state, and
2. To promote the exploration and enjoyment of ordinary people and places everywhere

The National Geographic Center Society is currently admitting new members and seeking patrons to fund exploration. To become a part of the Society, click here.

(In case you’re still unsure—yes, we are being silly here. The Society exists more in spirit than in substance, and yet you really can join in the fun of our journey by joining our made-up Society. So go ahead, get involved!)