Keep Going

I’ve been back from my bike-and-train tour for two weeks now. Before it recedes too far into the past, I want to share a bit about the experience. I’m happy to say it was a success. Each of the five shows was well-attended and well-received. Between these shows, I had time to catch up with friends and family, play lots of music, do plenty of reading and writing, and ride my bike around some of the PNW’s loveliest cities.

It's true that I did more traveling with my bike than on it, taking trains and buses and catching rides to cover the big distances. I have mixed feelings about this. One of the smaller but not insignificant joys of long-distance bike touring is seeing the amazement on people’s faces when they learn how far you’ve ridden—and, yes, the smug satisfaction this brings. On this trip, when folks asked in disbelief, “Did you ride all the way here?,” I had to be honest: “Well, no.” I’m sure I was much more self-conscious about this than necessary, feeling like the trip was somehow less legit because I used mass transit. It’s still a pretty badass way to tour. But it did leave me wondering how it would feel to do a music tour that was more like a proper bike tour, to plan my shows better so that they’re closer together and I can ride from town to town under my own human power.

At the same time, combining the power of the bicycle with that of alternative modes of transit is undoubtedly exciting, and I can sense that I’ve only just begun exploring this mode. I certainly want to do more bike-and-train combination trips; I’m also dreaming of touring Alaska someday by bringing my bike on the Alaska Marine Highway System, a.k.a. the ferry. I could ride up to Bellingham, catch the boat, and hop around the towns of Southeast Alaska, playing shows in each one. Why not? These days I’m trying to remind myself that I have a lot of say in what is possible. The laws of physics are the only hard limits.

To be sure, the bike riding I did do on this trip—all around Seattle, Portland, and Bellingham—was glorious, if a bit drizzly at times. And the tour was bicycle-themed in another way: at each show, I performed music I’ve been writing about my previous bike tour experiences, especially my months-long solo tour in 2018. This music was the centerpiece of my show at the Royal Room in Seattle on April 27th, where I was joined by my trio buddies Ryan Donnelly and William Mapp. That afternoon, we premiered my new “Bicycle Suite,” a set of four compositions inspired by different aspects of my two-wheeled adventures.

I have to say, I was overwhelmed by the response. Our show wasn’t even over, but at the end of the Suite, we received a standing ovation. After the show, one by one, folks came to tell me that they were moved by the music, that they could visualize exactly what it was meant to convey, or that it awakened some cherished memory. One person I’d never met before called the music “transformational.” Perhaps the most meaningful feedback of the day came from my godmother, Nancy, who said: “You know you were born to do this, right?”

As I write these words, there’s an inner voice saying, Quit tooting your own horn. Tone it down. Be humble. Fair enough, inner voice. But I also want to be honest: my tour was full of such affirmations, from friends and strangers alike, and I returned home feeling confident that I am meant to be a performing musician. That it is a calling.

I was recounting this realization to my brother on the phone the other day, and his response was something to the effect of, “Um, yeah.”

I thought I caught his meaning, but wanted to make sure. “Are you implying that this is obvious to everyone but me?”

“Yes. Maybe you can just know it now and never have to doubt it again.”

“I think I have to keep rediscovering it.”

“Yeah,” he said. “That’s probably right.”

Come to think of it, I wrote about feeling “called” to be a performer in a newsletter/blog post less than a year ago. I even wrote: “This might all sound simple and obvious, but it’s taken me a long time to arrive here.” I guess I'll keep arriving here. In all likelihood, I’ll be arriving here, and writing about it, for the rest of my days on Earth. 

Which brings to mind a passage from a New Yorker profile of the writer Wendell Berry I read a couple years ago:

Berry’s writing, like the seasons, has a cyclical quality, returning again and again to the same ideas. [His wife] Tanya once told him that his knack for repeating himself is his principal asset as a writer. He noted a few years ago, “That insight has instructed and amused me very much, because she is right and so forthrightly right.”

Isn't that delightful? I remember on first reading that passage feeling a sense of relief—I don't have to constantly be original! I can allow myself to be obsessed with whatever I'm obsessed with. Or, as Mary Oliver puts it, "You only have to let the soft animal of your body / love what it loves." 

I'm less afraid of repeating myself these days. I'm less afraid of repeating myself these days. (Sorry, I had to do it.) Maybe when you find the thing you can do again and again without getting bored, that's how you know you’re onto something. For me, without question, that is playing music.

To be sure, the tour wasn’t all insight and connection. The day after the Royal Room show, I took the train to Portland, where I’d booked myself an Airbnb in the northeast part of the city. After a long stretch when I had hardly a moment to myself, I was looking forward to having a couple days to chill and explore. 

Sometimes, solitude is just the ticket. This time, for whatever reason, it felt more like loneliness. I’m not sure what makes the difference. But as I walked the neighborhoods, waited out the rain in various trendy coffee shops, read Howard Zinn (I suppose his onslaught of brutal truths about our history might have been contributing to my mood) and wrote in my journal, I felt a gnawing emptiness—pretty much the opposite of how I felt at the Royal Room.

Maybe this contrast explains a lot. Every high has its come-down. For every moment of feeling connected, inspired, and fully alive, there will be many more moments of longing to feel that way again—even in a very good life. 

While it was happening, the time alone felt pointless, a misstep. But I probably needed that solo space, precisely to get in touch with my sadness and my loneliness—which are always with me on some level. It was just my expectation that the solitude should be pleasant and fun that created a sense of disappointment. 

My therapist is constantly helping me see the ways I'm looking to bypass or disregard or hurry through unpleasant feelings. He helpfully points out that those feelings, those parts of me that are harder to be with, simply want to be welcomed and loved. (Is even this attempt to make my loneliness feel meaningful another form of bypass? Probably. It's a deep-rooted reflex, to be sure.) 

Looking back on my 2018 bike travels from the comfortable distance of six years, it’s easy to regard that time as a monolithically awesome experience of adventure and self-discovery. In fact, I remember many moments of loneliness and doubt and fear along the way. I remember asking myself what the hell I was doing risking my life to pedal alone down highways, moving a bit farther every day from my friends and family and community and home. Wasn’t I just enacting some misguided Kerouacian impulse, some half-formed American myth of rugged individualist adventure? And for what? Of course there were plenty of exhilarating moments too, and now, having survived the experience and grown from it, I can confidently say it was all worth it. But that's no reason to erase the doubts and difficulties that were a big part of that year too.  

So my first couple days in Portland were pretty dreary. Happily, the rest of my time was a lot more fun. On Tuesday, I went with a couple friends to a place in Vancouver with saunas and ice baths and a hot tub. After two days of low-stimulation loneliness, this combination of sensory intensity and friend connection brought me back to life. On Wednesday, I played a lovely house concert in Sellwood. On Thursday, my friend Peter and I did two sets at a book-themed pub. It was great to see old friends at both of these shows, and to make new ones.

When I returned to Seattle on Friday for a friend’s birthday party, I was exhausted. I’d been drinking a bit too much, and not sleeping enough. My muscles were stiff from all the biking, and I wasn't looking forward to waking up early to catch the morning train out of Edmonds for one more show in Bellingham. I was long past ready to crash on my friend's extra bed, but the party lingered till almost midnight. I wished I was home. I’d been on the road for ten days, and I was feeling acutely that my body doesn't have the stamina it had ten years ago.

I got up just after 7 and started riding north through the morning drizzle along grey arterial streets. Imagining the whole hour’s ride, the big climbs ahead, my mood soured. But one of the beautiful things about cycling is the way it can imperceptibly buoy your spirits over time. Gradually, I found a rhythm. As I pedaled across the city, I was simultaneously traversing, without realizing it, the territory between grumpy and hopeful. My body waking up, my thoughts wandering pleasantly, I found myself in the zone. I crossed Aurora, hit the Interurban Trail, entered Shoreline. Before I knew it, I was zooming down the long hill to the Edmonds station.

After a gorgeous train ride north, I spent a lovely day in Bellingham bouncing from café to café, from park to park. By some miracle, while it was raining everywhere else, famously wet Bellingham stayed dry. I was impressed, as I have been in the past, by that little city on the bay. It has the energy of the university, a bit of a lingering 90s grunge vibe, plus a particular small-town sweetness I’ve come to love from my time in Walla Walla, Corvallis, and now Port Townsend.

That night's show was at Honey Moon, which venue was recommended by a couple new friends who used to live in Bellingham. They said it had a piano, though they didn’t know if it was any good. I’d done what I could to promote the show, but with only a couple friends in the area, I had no idea if anyone would show up.

When I rolled up at 7:20 for my 8 o’clock show, the bar was completely empty. Just me and the bartender. Okay then. I set up a microphone and tested out the piano—way out of tune. Not an auspicious start. Still, maybe because I’d had such a good day, I found myself ready to accept that I might be playing dissonant music for only the bartender and the two friends who said they’d be there.

But around 7:40, a few folks I didn’t recognize showed up. Then a few more. Then a couple came in and introduced themselves—they were my best buddy’s sister and brother-in-law! He’d told them about the show and they’d come down to check it out. Then my two local friends came with a whole crew in tow. By the time I started playing, the place was half full, and by the end of the first set, it was pretty much packed.

The energy was high. People were talking, and the boxy room was loud. I was in a good head space, so I accepted this, too. In the past, I might have sang louder or played flashier to try to grab some attention. This time, I was able to stay in the zone, connected to the music. I played for my own joy, and for the two or three people who were actively listening. To counteract the piano’s wobbly intonation, I leaned into a honky-tonk sound. I sang cowboy songs, and felt something like a cowboy myself, a solitary rider spending his days in the saddle, traversing the landscape. I was playing a character, I guess you could say. And maybe that’s why, on this particular night, I found myself unapologetically liking the sound of my singing voice. That’s a rare feeling for me.

With the conclusion of each song, I got a bit more applause, a bit more silence for the start of the next one. I kept playing not too loud, just wanting to invite people to listen if they wished. By the end of the first set, the whole room was silently listening.

It was such a surprising and wonderful experience that it verged on surreal. What space-time warp had I passed through to end up here, when an hour ago I thought I’d be playing for an empty room, and now I was playing the best solo show I could remember? It all felt like a cosmic gift, a whisper of encouragement from the universe. Keep going. Keep going.

***

Speaking of cosmic gifts, we were graced here in Port Townsend with a dazzling display of the aurora borealis last weekend. It was my first time seeing those lights. I was grateful for the reminder that we are tiny motes of consciousness floating through an infinite mystery. I'm so glad we're in it together.