About People and Places that Set Me on Edge

While I realize that some of the sentiment I’m about to express may come off as either cliche or overly sentimental, or both, it is simultaneously sincere in the sense of my experience.

Over the course of my life, I must have read 50 different narratives of folks who have walked across America, or biked across the country, or done some other ridiculous travel that takes them through a wide swath of areas—rural, urban, suburban, ex-urban, but, undoubtedly, mostly rural. I mean, there’s no choice; there is just so much of it.  And in these tellings, the narrator will often indicate that s/he was most surprised at just how good, how friendly, most folks are.  

And we have certainly encountered some of that (e.g., the guy who gave Robert a twenty dollar bill to pay for our beers one night when he heard what we were up to, the Warm Showers hosts who have gone out of their way to show us trust and kindness, the old men on riding lawnmowers who inevitably wave and smile), but that’s not what has really hit me so far after three weeks. 

It’s this: I’m really guilty of setting up a narrative and running with it until I’m shown otherwise.  We are going through towns with lots and lots of Trump signifying. The flags, of course, but we’ve also seen homemade signs, a homemade statue, and businesses that seem to only want your business if you are comfortable around Trump World.  And that’s not different than I expected.  

That said, it’s put me on edge in every small town.  “What must this guy think of a spandex wearing bicyclist, for God’s sake?,” and I assume they just have a trigger reaction to dislike me.  And perhaps they do.  But man, do I let that expectation bleed over into every interaction.

For instance, we were riding down some awful country road in Indiana a few days ago, when an old beared guy pulls up next to me. He’s driving some type of large jeep or hunting ranger. While there were no political stickers that I could see, I assumed he was about to tell me to get off the fucking road.  Instead, he wants to know where we are going, and then he wants to mainly talk about himself—his bike ride across Indiana, some other epic bike rides.  Now, it’s not that I ended up liking the guy—nothing as dramatic as that, but it has made me double think my assumptions.  And while I believe there is a real benefit to a cyclist believing drivers might have an instant dislike for you, it’s also a good check on my assumptions.  

So, in the end, this not me saying, “Oh, people are generally good.” Or anything very Pollyanna.   Instead, it’s more of a reminder that maybe I should be more open to believing that everyone might not be horrible.