Intro

Welcome to a story, or stories I should say. A compilation of adventure tales. An ongoing itch to see, smell, and touch the world, or at least the deserted roads and rarely trampled mountains of America. Characters within the descriptive paragraphs of these stories carve out the coming and going companions in life; vital life people and pieces that parallel a universe for moments, days, years. And then spear off, leaving granules of magnificent memories of magical places. They leave a lasting trace, a gained sense of courage to stand tall on oxygen deprived mountains and shout absurdities like: I love you Ralph! Ralph is a teenage reindeer stuffed of the finest synthetic polyester fiber poof; he says made in Indonesia but really tells me he is from the North Pole. Delivered through a chimney one December night 20 years ago, we instantly became cuddle buddies upon that morning's sunrise. He is the instigator. The inspiration. And the imagination. He breathes creativity. Laughter. His is a dear companion. And yes, at 4lbs he tags along atop a pack or strapped to a rack. In delirium of 107 degree heat, the small possession of material belongings gain a persona. Innate objects become friends of the road and trails. And as for the humans who accompany, their presence reads priceless. Without O'Reilly, a 29 year old New Hampshirian with superior taste buds, the mathematical six foot four inch tall German, or handful of organic peanut butter and 99 cent jam eating munchkins, there would be a lot less excitement. The encounters we make with our specie, encapsulating the world with their awkward ways and over consumerist love, somehow we have managed to become overly adored creatures. Their generous hearts restore a faith that goodness prevails in the upheaval of a sometimes lost humanity. As for myself, I'm just the navigator, paddling up the stream of life munching on Clif Bars, with an iPhone documenting the frailties and goodies underneath all the simplified complexities in the world we reside. So again, I welcome you to get lost and dream a little through this typed text and your imagination. My name is Kristen Gentilucci. I live in Berkeley California and I love dogs.


Friday, June 20, 2014

North America's Backyard

Returning to civilization was not easy. But bug bits healed, cracked lips mended, and a snobby nose for only high quality wine returned. Adaption to social normals crept back, but so did the need for long mindless miles. After a solemn days worth of pedaling roads connecting roads of our hometown, through blanketed golden hillsides that thirsted for water and forest infused tunnels that winded like snakes beneath damp redwood pine needles, the miles drank every ounce of fuel. A stop was needed to restore muscles with some sugary protein infused plastic wrapped dense bar of carrot flavor. Upon return home that evening, Ralph sniffed me out like a search dog on a mission. He knew of that smell all too well, carrot cake Clif bars, and having sat in a laundry basket for way too many days, too dirty from the Utah dirt to share a bed or pillow with me, he demanded a reward.

But first let me introduce Papsi, another dear friend, who hogs the big golden dog's corner of our apartment with two wheels and a stellar frame. She is built only of plastic and the fanciest of Italian parts, light as a feather, but fierce as a Mammoths jaw, she beats any fogy up a mountain. Her frame reads Ritte, built in Los Angeles, adopted from Portland, she is a Belgian mutt of glory. Papsi has never spent a night in the cold, or carried any load of any weight, but has her share of travel. Open roads of very long distances over California's backyard mountains, she shifts to precision, hits corners at exact angles, and thrives on thrills for speed. She seeks long smooth rolling roads that give way to room for head space and effortlessly flow like the wind. P and I have had our journeys. Deep in thought, sometimes 5 hours of pulling the mind in all directions. Ideas pinching through at the tissue creases of the brain. She doesn't let the world go by without microscopic observation. As if then we are sensitized to the things and people around us. Unable to walk through life in a state of oblivion and constantly reminding us that kindness is free and happiness is simple.

Long rides with Papsi spark the questions: is riding millions of miles, the urge to pick up and just go, a constant run from something? Seeking something greater than society can provide us? Can the stars answer that question or are they simply the most beautiful distraction out there? Have we lost direction in the whirlwind of our busy emotional lives? Or are the delusions of happiness sought in what the masses partake in? Are all of the miles and hours on the backs of Papsi and Bianchi galloping to find something greater or fleeting from something unwanted? Maybe they are intertwined- needing each other to spark the inspiration to search for something yet unknown. 

Knowing one too many youngsters that passed away this year, we take for granted the picture of ourselves old and gray. Maybe all it took was hearing about a friend on the side of a road in Kentucky 6 days ago, at age 24, cycling from Maryland to Portland, struck dead by a car. Life is in the moments we choose now, and it is too short to waste. Too many un-lived dreams drown in the background. Sometimes the only option is to take the open road that calls your name loud in the distance. Uncertain of its direction, there are lots of comforts to toss into the wind, but journey doesn't happen by sitting back and waiting. Only regrets will remain like an unused new pair of running shoes sitting in a dark closet. 

This was all stewing for days, like the perfect farmer's veggie braise. As if the brain was a porous sponge, absorbing every ounce of desire within. There was nothing to fight, the inkling was too strong to ignore, and too many coincidences collided. Sometimes you just gotta go, be a little selfish, quite your job, and do something completely out of the norm.

Friends and family were flabbergasted, but with an all too supportive curiosity. Without a set plan beyond wandering north on Bianchi with the Utahan comrades, could we reach Alaska, 3000 miles north, before the bitter cold of autumn turned trees a deathly yellow? Or where would we end up? Casing summer, long days, warm nights, and friendly strangers in small towns, up the continent of North America on bicycles, suddenly a world became an all to huge backyard of freedom. Where spontaneity can run wild, control is handed over to life's circumstances, and once again so grateful for a healthy physical form that can pedal to infinitely and beyond, we will see, smell, and touch the corners and crannies of this planet.

Ralph and I sat down for a serious talk. This was no longer an excursion around a desert state for a handful of days, but a serious undertaking of miles and gear. Bianchi would have to be upgraded, shedding her birth parts for a few lower gears, and Ralph, love the dude, but the reality was he was simply a materialized bulk of non necessities. Our talk turned into weeps, then sobs, and I was left pillow-less for the night, as this stubborn reindeer refused to share a bed. Trying to bribe him with a stamped boxed plane ride to see his dear German friend in a far away town of Munich, nothing satisfied his adventure-protesting soul as he insisted this story would be incomplete and dull without his boisterous input. Desperation set in as he did laps around the squareness of our apartment, trying to trade a single pound of carrot poof for a ride on Bianchi's back. There was nothing left to say, I was about to once again haul a stuffed reindeer thousands of miles up the North American coastline in search of something unknown. Staring deep into Ralph's eyes, somehow this mass of furry weight became an all too real catalyst to a childhood imagination of a fairy tale world that we were about to once again escape to.