A leap of faith can take many forms. Sometimes we take them when our survival depends on them while other times it’s a leap to live more fully, more authentically in our lives. I’m taking a little detour from my usual photography posts to write something a little more personal about an experience I had recently that made me think about the little leaps of faith we all take in different aspects of life. I made a decision to take a month off and ride my motorcycle from San Francisco, through the Sierras to tour Canada and then back down the coast. I realized that I had traveled all over the world but I had never been to Oregon/Washington or Canada. It’s the adventure I’ve wanted to do for years.

The trip was more than I could have imagined, not just for the leap of faith it took to leave my business for a full month, but it highlighted how the journey we take after that leap can often look very different than originally thought. It was a metaphor for me about faith, expectations and then letting go, about staying present, open and trusting on the journey.

 

I’ve taken quite a few leaps of faith in my youth; those leaps seem much easier when you’re young. I was much more fearless. Maybe it was because it felt like, if I failed, I didn’t have as far to fall. When you’re young you feel invincible. I was a bit of a daredevil in my youth, I’ve jumped out of planes, climbed 1,000 foot cliffs, traveled the world and even moved to San Francisco with no job prospects simply because I loved the city. What I loved most about those decisions back then was that every time I made one, it seemed like all the pieces magically fell into place to help me follow through with my goals. As I look back, there was a lot of struggle and hardship along the way but the signs that I had made a decision to live more authentically were always there.

As I got older the fear of taking those big leaps got more intense. They became more about survival than they were about whimsy. Walking away from my business for an entire month was frightening. As a freelance creative person, or any small business owner can testify, there is a paradigm that exists in the way you approach your business; it develops over a long period of time. Unlike a job with a steady income at a big company, the entirety of your income falls on your ability to keep generating it. There are no paid vacations. You are called upon to always be working, thinking, growing and producing new work. Owning your own business is gratifying. It allows you to experience an awareness, a deep satisfaction that you are truly creating your own life but it also makes you keenly aware that if you’re not working constantly you’re not moving forward. Sometimes it’s hard to know when to take a break, to allow yourself to unplug without fear that you’ll be missing opportunities.

So the leaps of faith I’ve taken as I’ve gotten older were quite different than the ones I took in my youth. I focused instead on building my photography business. I focused on stability; increasing my client base, on advertising, better equipment and bigger and more creative jobs. While incredibly rewarding, I also felt something was missing, like had lost or forgotten a part of myself along the way; that part of me that took leaps of faith … for whimsy. It has taken some events in my life to shake me enough to realize that life is short; that you also have to seize the moments when you can and live your life more fully.

 

On my 50^th birthday I took a whimsical leap; I learned how to ride a motorcycle. This was no small feat for me; I’ve always been terrified of them. Have you ever examined some of your fears in life and tried to trace them to their origin?   When I was seven years old my mother grabbed me, looked me in the eye and told me to stay away from motorcycles; I was never allowed to have one. She had a friend whose son had died in a motorcycle accident and as a mom; she wanted to protect her son. There it was, the origin of one of my biggest fears. A grown man afraid of motorcycles because his mom told him he should be. It’s actually funny when I think about it. But at 50 years old, it was time to face that fear, to at least take a class and learn how to ride. When I made the decision to learn it felt right, all the pieces feel into place but what I didn’t know was that when you first learn to ride it’s about 90% terrifying and only 10% pure exhilaration! But like most journey’s, as time goes by, that ratio slowly changes and flips; peace, freedom and exhilaration dominates the terror and it becomes your happy place and I’ve been riding for over six years now. What I also didn’t know was how much I would absolutely LOVE long motorcycle trips. So this one leap led me to take 2-day trips, then 3 and 5-day trips; each one a stepping-stone in the big decision to take that one month off and ride to Canada.

When you finally decide, I mean really decide to take that leap, whether it’s for survival or whimsy, things began to happen. Once again, just as I had experienced in my younger days, I began to see all of the little pieces that started to fall into place to allow me to go; a few advertising clients and big jobs waited until I returned, a good friend supported me in my preparation to leave, friends rode with me along the way or gave me a place to sleep on the journey. All of my fears about loosing business or not being able to survive began to fade, not right away but they did fade and in their absence was the feeling that I was doing exactly what I needed to do. Just making the decision was the scariest part. Once you decide, it’s not so scary.

The trip itself was nothing short of amazing; not just for the scenery or interesting people I met along the way. It was life changing because when it was over I began to see how much the entire experience was a metaphor for taking leaps, experiencing the journey and having it look nothing like you had imagined. It reminded me that there are hardships along the way but staying open throughout the experience allowed me to see the bigger gifts; and those gifts rarely disappoint.

Sometimes, from one day to the next, I didn’t know where I was going to sleep. I was truly making it up as I went. There were days when this kind of gypsy life made me weary but after a while, I began to trust that the perfect spot would reveal itself and it always paid off. The ride through the Sierra’s took me through some of the most beautiful scenery I’ve ever seen. I rode through Lassen National Park, Lava Tubes Monument, Crater Lake and Mt. Saint Helens. It was kind of a “volcano tour” of California. Every one of those destinations felt earned because there is no escape from the elements when you ride; the weather and wind, much like life, are just part of the journey. Riding 200 miles a day on twisty mountain roads on a motorcycle takes stamina. Some days I was feeling strong, balanced, and one-with-the-bike. I love those days! Other days I just didn’t have it, every hairpin turn was awkward for me. You feel every gust of wind, every bump and every uneven surface in the road. In a car you may not notice the thin twisted tar patches that they use to cover cracks in the roadway, but for motorcyclists, we call them ‘snakes’. Every time you go around a curve that’s covered in those snakes is to feel your back tire slide ever so slightly before it eventually grips again on the solid part of the road. This happens over and over and each time, even though you know it’ll probably be ok, your fear and adrenaline spike. There are days when those snakes take their toll on your nerves. This was a daily part of the journey I hadn’t considered when I imagined my trip, but it was those damn little snakes that made me realize that you eventually have to trust, not to dwell on them because while it’s scary, your back tire does find it’s grip, and when you ride around a big curve and see a glacial lake surrounded by old growth forests, the entire struggle it took to get there just melts away.

The roads in Oregon are packed with huge logging trucks. When you’re behind one you’re being pelted by pieces of bark being blown off of the logs, and trust me, there’s a difference between bark hitting your car windshield and when it hits your leg at 70mph on a motorcycle. When you pass a big semi, there is a back draft that can violently buffet you when you approach it. As you start to pass, that back draft wants pull you into the truck. The only way through is to gun the throttle and get past it as quickly as possible but once I passed it I also realized I could smell the differences between pines, redwoods or spruce trees because you can smell everything on a bike. Then you finally turn off the interstate and on the next road is a volcano turned into the deepest fresh water lake in the country and it takes your breath away.

On a month long ride you go through some very extreme weather. It can be 45 degrees in the morning and 95 degrees in the afternoon. Those extremes are intense, very uncomfortable but it allows you to pull over, put on or take off some layers and you end up meeting another rider at a rest stop who clues you into a road you may not have planned to take. When you ride in the rain you can feel it on your body, you can hear those raindrops echo in your helmet the same way you can hear them on the roof of your house. If you’re dressed for it it’s not so bad. But in a torrential downpour like I experienced in Vancouver and Washington, it’s terrifying. You can’t see very far because, of course you have no windshield wipers on your helmet and the road fills with water very quickly. Sometimes you can pull over for a little while until it passes but other times, you have to slow way down, turn on your hazards and pray that you wont hydroplane or that a car won’t come up behind you too fast. But pulling over in that rain allowed me to find a fun local diner and try Elk. That rain is why Washington and Olympic National Park is a rain forest. When you finally arrive, get off your bike and walk through an actual rain forest in the rain, it is one of the most peaceful and spiritual experiences you can have.

Next time you’re following a motorcycle in your car, see if you can spot the bond between riders; when we pass each other, we give a little wave, an acknowledgement to be safe, that you’re not alone. It’s a comforting gesture and one I always enjoy when I ride. One of my biggest goals on this trip, one that I reminded myself every morning was to stay open to meeting new people and connecting with other riders really added to the experience. We chat each other up at rest stops or restaurants. We are fellow travelers, swapping stories, giving each other tips on great roads to take.  I met some really nice Canadian riders on the ferry from Victoria to Port Angeles Washington that told me about the road to Cape Flattery, the most northern part of the U.S. and another rider and friend that told me to take the ferry to Whidbey Island and through Deception Pass as way of by-passing the logging truck laden I-5 to Vancouver. It rained on that leg of the journey but I got to take my first ferry ride, park my bike at the front of the line and just enjoy the ride. I was able to experience rain on a less traveled road and saw some of the most beautiful views. There is a camaraderie between travelers and when open to it, takes you to some pretty amazing places.

All in all, I rode over 3,000 miles on my trip. I stayed in 20 cities, camped in some amazing spots, made countless detours just for the adventure. I rode further north than I’ve ever been, stayed in a haunted hotel, had to hold up for three days in Portland because of a storm in Canada, found the most peaceful lodge in Ucluelet, BC. The journey, once I decided to take that leap of faith was nothing like I thought it would be.   It was epic, life changing, terrifying, exhausting, exhilarating, peaceful, tedious, sweltering, freezing, wet, beautiful, awe-inspiring, magnificent, strange and wonderful. It was a constant reminder to me that taking a leap of faith and staying open and present on a journey, however it unfolds, will give you more than you ever could have imagined.