The weird thing about this trip is that it was actually my idea.  One evening last year, while Katie was deciding where to go to college, we were telling her that we wanted her to stay local.  Her response to our advice was this dramatic sobbing thing, the back of her hand on her forehead, heaving gasps emanating from her chest.  “I can’t stay here for college!  I just can’t!” and more such drama.  So eventually she stormed into her room, and we remained in the kitchen sipping wine.  I was cooking dinner, Dana watching me cook dinner.

The man does not cook.  It’s OK, I’m good with that.

Whenever Katie does the drama hand thing, I get upset.  I often yell back, and sometimes I cry, and sometimes I chase her into her room shouting obscenities.  I’ve even been known to slam a few doors.  Dana is much calmer with her, so that night, after the where-to-go-to-college dramatic presentation, I followed his lead and calmly sipped my wine.

Did I mention that I love sipping wine?

And we discussed where we had gone to college.  Not that we hadn’t already talked about college on many occasions.  We’d laughed about our bad roommates, roach infested apartments, drinking mistakes, 8 AM calculus classes, and all the rest of what college was, and still is, about.  But when our kids started going to college, we began to take a new look at our own experiences.  So, when deciding if we were right telling Katie to go to college close to home, we agreed that my college in Albany, about 3 hours from my home in Brooklyn, was a preferable situation to Dana’s college in Boston, about 2000 miles from his home in Florida.

“You know,” he said, “whenever I went home to see my mom, I wanted to ride my bike but I never did.  I took the bus a few times, or the train.  Once I got a ride with someone.  But I never rode my bike down to Florida, and I really wish I had.”

And then the wine replied “So why don’t we do it now?”

And that was that.  It was settled.  I came up with the 57 idea, I came up with waiting until Katie’s sophomore year, by which time we assumed Bill would be out of college.  Which he won’t be, but that’s another story.  And Dana took the idea and ran with it.  Or pedaled with it, or whatever.  I have created a monster.  A pannier packing, camera weighing monster.

In just over 2 months, on May 31, we will start our trip.

Shit.  I’m scared.

Dana is totally excited.  He’s like a little kid going camping, or skiing, or whatever, for the first time.  He’s spent the last 4 months buying electronics, and then weighing each little gadget.  The camera weighs 4 ounces.  He’s very happy about that.  I really don’t care.

And he has taken his panniers out of the garage.

OK, it’s probably wise to take the panniers out of the garage, because it’s still winter, and every winter various little critters choose to live in various pieces of equipment in our garage.  Bike shoes and lawn chairs fill up with sawdust and birdseed.  And poop.  And sometimes with dead critters.  It’s gross.

A few weeks ago I went to the gym, and I brought my hiking boots with me.  After my workout, I went into the locker room, and when I tried putting on my left boot, I felt something in the toe.  So I turned the boot upside down and out fell some birdseed.  Which didn’t really bother me, but I felt a little guilty dumping birdseed all over the nice clean locker room carpet.  I was trying to pick it up when a women turned around and glared at me.  “What is that?!” she asked, with a bitchy tone.

I allowed myself to sound like the loser dork many people assume I am.  “Bird seed” I responded cheerfully.  “I think it’s cool that mice live in my garage.  Clearly there was a mouse in my boot.  Awesome, huh?”

She was not impressed.  Which was no surprise, because she never liked me anyway. She and I have kids of similar ages, and when the kids were younger, she decided my kids were inferior, and spent a few years trying to treat me like shit because of it.

But now all of the kids are grown up, and maybe my kids are doing better than hers.  Or maybe they aren’t.  And I don’t care because MY KIDS ARE GROWN UP.

YEAH!!!

Well, sort of grown up.

yeah?

They’re in college, which means they are out of the house most of the time, but are still dependent on us for everything.  They would tell you that they are independent adults, which is crap, because they are going to college on our nickel, and living in dorms and crap apartments on our nickel.  And driving crap cars that we own, and insure, and repair when needed.  But at least they are out of the house, out of Westford, out of our daily lives.  And we are out of their daily lives, which I why I don’t care what the bitchy mom in the locker room thinks of me or my kids or my hiking boots or my garage mice.

But I digress.

So anyway, Dana brought his panniers into the house, checked them for critters, and lovingly laid them out in the family room.  I asked if he’s planning to pack them, and repack them, and play with them, and then pack them again, for 9 weeks straight.  And he replied “Yes, I am.”

In case you don’t speak bicycle, panniers are those bags that hang on the sides of your bicycle wheels.  We bought ours over 20 years ago, when we bike toured in England and France.  And since we haven’t used them much since we had the kids, I figure they are still good.  Dana is muttering about buying new panniers.  He says we can get lighter ones, nicer ones, better ones.  I say we can use the ones we have, which are in fine shape and practically new, even if they are like 25 years old.

You know you are old when you describe something that’s over 20 years old as “practically new”.  You also know you are old when you say “These are really good dish towels, you should try them”.  Which has nothing to do with biking or panniers or anything else here, it’s just about being old and dorky.

Speaking of being old, Dana and I are in a milestone year.  We are turning 57, and we were born in ’57, which is a symmetry that us dorks appreciate.  And in honor of this milestone, we are going to ride our bikes – yes, bikes, not motorcycles – to Florida.

From Westford, Massachusetts.  Which is like 2200 miles.  2200 hilly, miserable miles.  And we are planning to do it in 57 days.  I figure, we’ll either come out the other end happy and thinner, or we’ll get divorced in Connecticut.

So maybe you are reading this thinking that we are too old for this shit.  Or maybe you are thinking that we are not old, we are just whiny and young and bragging.  Because age is relative.  And if you are younger than us, you think we’re old.  And if you are older than us, you think we’re young.  Whatever.  The way I figure it, we are young enough to attempt this ride, and old enough that it’s going to be a challenge.  And if we finish it, we will have something to feel good about.

And our 2014 Christmas card pictures are going to kick ass!