Going Somewhere: A Bicycle Journey Across America (23 page)

This is a work of narrative nonfiction. It is true. It is also a story. In telling it, I make use of certain tools (section breaks, snappy transitions, narrative distance) that were unavailable while I was living it. I have done my very best to use said tools artfully—to tell a good story—without in any way misrepresenting my experiences or mind-set at the time of the trip.

In an effort to best recall those experiences and that mind-set, I pretty much memorized my bike trip journal, and spent untold hours re-creating our route on Google street view, and re-rode or drove many of the miles we covered, and called everyone we met along the way to say hello and compare recollections and make sure I wasn’t totally full of shit.

Still, most of this story comes from memory. I’m sure I got something wrong. If you live in Richey, Montana, and can’t believe I’d call those buttes “blue-brown,” or if you are dismayed that I’ve labeled
you
a serial killer when you were just trying to help, or if you, the something that was lurking outside our tent in Minnesota, would never
ever
describe yourself as a snorter, well, I’m sorry. I did my best.

Some of the dialogue is exact quotation, but much of it has been re-created based on my memories and my consultations with the characters involved—especially Rachel, who sat down for many a rambling conversation and shared journal entries and even responded to an absurd, written-by-her-ex-boyfriend survey that included the question, “I guess what I’m asking is: why’d you fall for me?”

I compressed time a bit in the first two chapters, so as to get us on the road sooner, but I wrote no composite scenes. Neither did I form composite characters. Matter of fact, every name in the book is the character’s name in real life: these people are all that generous and good. Hearing their voices made me want to drop everything and do it all again. And again.

The prospect of honoring everyone who helped me write this book is utterly overwhelming, and I’m not sure where to start or end, or how to best balance humor with sincerity, or whether I’m better served by short, simple declarations or effusive looping run-ons, or . . . Actually, I guess writing acknowledgments is not so different from writing a book, and on that note maybe it’s best I begin with Karen Karbo and Cheryl Strayed, both of whom are even now perched on my shoulder, whispering advice like a pair of literary Obi-Wans.

Karen, from the first you asked infuriatingly good questions and helped me learn the language with which to answer them. You went to bat for this book and its author well before the book felt like a book and its author like an author. “Gratitude” is such a puny word.

Cheryl, thank you for a mantra called “dig,” for invisible last words, for being nice to my mom, for having the grace and presence of mind to, in the middle of your whirlwind rock-star book tour, pick me out of a standing-room-only crowd and say five words I very much needed to hear. You deserve statues and parades.

A big thank-you to David Biespiel for helming the Attic Institute, where this book was born, and to Liz Prato, who pulled me aside at the end of her fantastic workshop to tell me about a train I ought to hop on. A salute to David Forrer, my agent, for his unwavering belief in this book, his patient fielding of my naive questions, and his refreshingly liberal use of exclamation points. And a deep bow to Denise Roy, my editor, for expertly, gracefully, downright Socratically leading me back to the story I set out to write.

I am forever indebted to Laura Koch, Brian Rae, Jessica Harrison, Neil Schimmel, Nate Schlingmann, Emily Gowen, Noah Beck, Michelle Helman, Joe Greulich, and Janelle Bickford, all of whom welcomed me into their guest bedrooms and family cabins and furnished basements when I was too focused on writing to be bothered with securing my own housing.

I’m buying the next round for Emilee Booher, Kristin Bott, Breesa Culver, Celeste Hamilton Dennis, Carl Gustafson, Julia Himmelstein, Ted Lee, Ashley Mitchell, Vijay Pendakur, Sarah Royal, Gram Shipley, Melia Tichenor, Nick Williams, and everyone else (you know who you are) who, during the writing of this book, offered a well-worded critique or well-timed note of encouragement, or who maybe just leaned across a table full of empty pint glasses and grabbed my hand and told me to shut up already.

To everyone who offered a bed or a meal or a ride or a power wave from a passing car, thank you for reminding me how good people can be. I talk of you all often and think of you even more.

Rachel, you have been unbelievably graceful and supportive throughout this process. In more ways than you’ll ever know, you made it possible for me to write this story.

Beau and Joe and Joe and Josh and Anna and Bethye and Danny, you are and always will be home, and you know it, just like you know the name that’s absent from this sentence but present everywhere else.

Galen, your conviction is a contagion. You’ve made so many of us better.

Leah. You’re my favorite.

Mom and Dad. Everything, always, unequivocally.