Biking up Vail Mountain, my pedals revolved in lowest gear at a pace that if videoed via Snapchat, recipient viewers might confuse what they watched with lag and a poor Wi-Fi connection. I pulled up the rear employing a distraction mechanism recalled from practice-long conditioning sessions in college: “Tonight, I will be in my bed. Tonight, I will be in my bed,” reciting on repeat. I’d catch up with the group at a stopping point before the next climb where my friend, Brandon, encouraged with an estimate of how much further. I appreciated his intentions, but “I’d rather not know, Brandon.”

Not knowing. Thoughts of not knowing became my new distraction mechanism along the remaining ascent. Still pedaling like a lag, a quote I heard in a podcast from my favorite writer, Ryan Holiday, pedaled it’s way to mind:

You will feel less pressure and less insecure if you just realize that everybody’s winging it. And the people who are pretending that they’re not winging it or are presenting it like it’s all been part of a brilliant plan are either insane or lucky or lying.

I’ve always felt a self-inflicted pressure to know. Certainty is envied and uncertainty evokes worry. If you know, you have it figured out. If you don’t know, you better start figuring it out. At least that became my self-talk.

In high school, the question I feared most was, “Where are you going to college? You need to start figuring that out.” I was quietly envious of friends who knew where they were going. I had to know too. I committed to the first college that recruited me. “Now I know.”

As a college sophomore, the question I feared most was, “What’s your major going to be? You need to start figuring that out.” I was quietly envious of friends who knew what they wanted to study. I had to know too. I declared a major in Economics. “Now I know.”

As a college senior, the questions I feared most were, “What’s next? What career are you going to go into? You need to start figuring that out.” I was quietly envious of friends who knew what was next. I had to know too. “I’m going to law school.” “Now I know.”

As the law school application period approached, the questions I feared most were, “What kind of law? Why do you want to be a lawyer? You need to start figuring that out.” When “I don’t know” continually evoked looks of suspicion, I crafted an answer to earn looks of satisfaction – “I want to be a sports agent. I want to be involved in contract negotiations and help athletes get the money they deserve.” “Now I know.”

What I liked about law school, what it really presented, was a few years removed from fearful questioning. My ego liked the thought of saying, “I’m in law school.” That sounded better than “I don’t know what the f*ck I’m doing.” I never applied to law school. Four years of my life just to appear on track? That scared the sh*t out of me. That I knew.

I graduated college and moved to Perth without doing any research on Australia. Had I, probably first search results would have steered me to Sydney or Melbourne. I went to Sydney. I’ve been to Melbourne, Brisbane, Byron Bay, Bondi, Coogi, Noosa, and Cairns. When I go back to Australia, I’ll take the additional 6-hour flight to Perth.

I left Perth to extinguish a burning desire for a full ski season. I accepted a ski-instructing job at Beaver Creek, a mountain I’d never been to nor heard of. One conversation with someone who has skied in Colorado probably would have steered me to Vail or Aspen. I’ve since skied Vail. I’ve skied Aspen, Breckenridge, Keystone, Steamboat, Heavenly, Squaw Valley, and Park City. I went back for a second season teaching at Beaver Creek.

I don’t think these were some carefully orchestrated backlashes against certainty, though it does admittedly appear to be. There was no premeditation, no brilliant plan, no certainty involved. I was winging it.

When I chose a college to convey certainty, I was unhappy and transferred after a year to a school without visiting. I walked into an unknown and found my great college experience.

When I chose a major to appear decisive, I was unhappy and switched after a year to English. I walked into an unknown and found my obsession for writing.

When I crafted a script for law school, carefully sculpted to relieve pressure, to buy some time, to appear certain, to say “now I know,” I was unhappy to be conveying what felt fabricated. I abandoned that four-year satisfactory answer to embrace uncertainty.

The Stoics call it Amor Fati – a love of fate, making the best out of anything that happens, not forcing but embracing. I like that.

Here I will selfishly seek comfort in another quote (big quote guy). This time from Mark Manson, author of The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*ck, who says this about life:

It’s not about knowing everything, but becoming more comfortable in not knowing anything.

Or like I always say, When ascending a mountain, knowing where each switchback, steep section, or how much further does my pedals no good. I do know with certainty that’s not quite as ‘transcribe it to a beautiful sunset photo and post it to Pinterest’ as Holiday or Manson’s wisdom, but the foods coming from the same kitchen. I think that’s how that saying goes, but, I don’t know.

After driving to and through twelve states in twelve days, I’m reminded of my indecisiveness. My computer is flooded with windows of Word drafts at different stages. I jump topic to topic, state to state, unable to pinpoint a focus.

I thought I might write about the outdoors and natural beauty – about the Pisgah National Forrest and hiking to the top of Looking Glass Rock, swimming in Skinny Dip Falls and Sliding Rock, laying down sleeping bags twenty feet from a three-step waterfall, fetching sticks to maintain the fire’s heat, and the oaky smoky stench that we couldn’t leave behind; or about standing atop Palo Duro Canyon watching the sun set, parading colors a skilled painter might hope to replicate; or about laying afloat in Mamby Hot Springs along the Rio Grande Gorge gazing up at stars an astronomer might better fathom but equally marvel at.

I thought I might write about culture, food, and music – about the best ribs I’ve ever had at The Joint, the best biscuit Joe’s ever had at Biscuit Heads, the best migas taco Ben’s ever had at Veracruz Food Truck, the best burger Rob’s ever had at Oskar Blues Brewery, and the unanimous best, well first, crawfish stuffed mushrooms at some unnamed tent; or about Jazz Fest and gospel tents and nine-piece bands made up of kids, friends; or about the all-the-time jazz shows day and night, weekdays and weekends, indoors and on the streets of Frenchmen, Bourbon, and Canal; or about silver dome busses converted to homes and the something-out-of-the-70s trailer park communes.

I thought I might write about the hours in the car – about the unrivaled feeling granted by the open road, or about the Blue Ridge Parkway, or about the chhhh sound of the walki-talkie when the caravan’s lead vehicle came on channel 1 to inform a turnaround, a pee break, a gas fill up, an inspiring JFK quote, or some nonsense road chatter to help pass time during the 4,000 miles navigating closely behind Rob’s 4-Runner on I-81 to Asheville, and I-185 to Atlanta, and I-59 to Louisiana, and I-10 to Houston, and I-290 to Austin, and I-35 to Dallas, and I-287 to Amarillo, and I-40 to Santa Fe and I-84 to 503 to 76 to Taos, and I-25 to Denver and I-70 to Avon.

And I might, we’ll see – indecisive, remember I warned?

The photos of the outdoors and natural beauty, the saved Snapchats of food and festivals, the Google Maps’ screenshot plotting the route spark enjoyable, though fleeting, reminiscence.

More permanent, however, what I think about daily, what needs no such spark, no location tag in Instagram: the people: the friends and friends of friends who paused daily routine for invading passer-bys eager for a couch to sleep on and a shower to rinse off in; the strangers who without reluctance guided out-of-towners eager for direction to the locals’ must-sees and must-dos.

I put these words atop this photo shortly after returning from New Zealand last November.

It’s been my laptop’s background since. The quote comes from Tim Ferriss’ Tools for Titans. It struck me. It read as true, like I knew what he meant.

It reminded me of my time in Perth where two strangers, Craig and Liam, housed me rent-free for five months. It reminded me of my time in Coolum where a stranger, Jay, welcomed my van-mates and I into his home for five days. It reminded me of my time in New Zealand where a stranger, Amanda, picked up four hitchhikers stranded beside a broken-down car in Wanaka and drove two hours out of her way to return us to Queenstown.

And it reminds me, now, of Tim in Atlanta, Wanda in New Orleans, Lauren and Ben in Austin, and Amy in New Mexico, each opening their doors to a group of roving strangers, eager to put it in park for a night or two.

Once strangers, I now call them friends. The former quickly becomes the latter. History is all that stands between the two categorizations – one encounter, one shared experience, one coincident location, one night on a couch, one time sticking a thumb up and asking for help. I might now revise Nemer’s quote, just slightly: “strangers are just people whose couch you haven’t yet asked to sleep on.” A little wordier, I know, but the meal is coming from the same kitchen, as they say.

I enjoyed the driving, the walkies, the hiking, the camping, the swimming, the food, the music, the experience. But the people, the friends, the friends of friends, the strangers now flown, or as the slight modification goes, the strangers whose couch I’ve now slept on – I hold a feeling of gratitude far exceeding, far outlasting any of fleeting enjoyment.

If I withdraw any experience from the memory bank, it’s never the places; it’s always the people.

You’ll remember Rob and Joe from my post, How to: Live In a Van For 32 Days With 2 Strangers – they the two strangers I traveled 2,876 miles along Australia’s East Coast with. We dropped off the rental van in Cairns, just before we were due at the airport for flights to our respective next destinations. I haven’t seen them since. Group texts are brief but nostalgic.

Flash-forward to March 2018. I get a call from Rob with news he’s moving from Pittsburgh to Denver, not far from where I am living. Joe finagled two weeks off work to co-pilot a twelve-day road trip by way of the South. Rob said the departure date hinged on how quickly he could sell his old car then buy a new one. They aimed ideally for the end of April.

I told him I too was on the car market. Three coinciding factors created my desire to buy near my home outside of Philadelphia – I hadn’t seen my family and friends in some time, my birthday was on April 26th, and I’d a few left-behind possessions I wished to have in Colorado. Three birds stoned at once, or however it goes. Tentatively, I planned to be driving back to Colorado around the time Rob and Joe were. More tentatively, before this phone call, my mind crafted a straight-shot, two to three-day drive. Rob proposed a caravan; a not-so-distant cousin of the van, except two vehicles required, one following closely behind the other on the same route. A dubious, many-moving-pieces, can’t-commit proposition, but when the stars are fighting to align, best to let them duke it out, or however it goes. I asked Rob to keep me in the loop as the time neared, and we hung up.

A week later, Rob FaceTime’s me. Joe’s with him. “Here’s what we’re thinking: meet in Asheville, drive through the Pisgah National Forrest, then maybe check out Atlanta on the way to New Orleans for Jazz Fest, after that, push to Austin for a few days, up to Dallas, over to Palo Duro Canyon, haul it to Santa Fe, then Taos, arrive in Denver by May 11th. “Yea cool, love it, never been down South,” half-understanding where or what Pisgah, Jazz Fest, and Palo Duro were and half-believing I could afford a twelve-day excursion. If I kept a want-to-do list, returning to the open road with those guys would be near the top, but in reality, I hadn’t booked a flight home yet, my ongoing car search showed no promise, and I made a commitment to be back to start work the first week of May.

I pushed off buying my own car as long as I could. I’m indebted to countless for rides and lendings. I got by this past winter thanks to a roommate on the same work schedule, but that luxury ended with the ski season. It was time. I noticed that Subaru’s and Toyota Tacoma’s flood Colorado roads, presumably evidence they’re reliable mountain cars. I was set on one or the other. I landed in Philadelphia on April 24th. My dad joined me on the tour-de-dealerships for the better parts of the 25th and 26th. No luck. I remember feeling a sense of relief as Dad and I drove home; relieved that I had a good excuse. I was typing a text to Rob and Joe along the lines of, “I’m out, no luck on the car front, just gonna fly back to CO and find something out there,” when my dad interrupted from the kitchen, “How ‘bout this?” It was a 2013 Subaru Impreza on cargurus.com, sitting at Rafferty Subaru – 20 minutes from our house. We headed to Rafferty right then, took the Sub for a test drive, and I bought my first car on my 25th birthday, three days to spare before Rob and Joe’s finalized setout.

That was exciting, but I still felt anxious about the twelve-day road trip. I told a boss I hadn’t met yet I’d be ready to start work May 1st. Not wanting to get off on the unreliable foot, or however it goes, I typed, then deleted, then typed, then double-clicked the home button, swiped up, then opened iMessage again, typed, deleted, reworded, made up a tiny white lie, deleted, finally asking honestly and apologetically if I could push my start date back. Radio silence – no response for a fear-compounding eighteen hours. Well, unemployed, suppose I can do the twelve days now. And if I just eat rice and beans, and we’ll be camping or crashing with friends or friends of friends, and surely there’s plenty of seasonal work out there, and…the self-convincing was ramping up when I got boss’ response, “No worries take your time and enjoy!!!! Safe travels as well! See ya when u get here.” Shoot, that’s a lot of exclamations, maybe should have tried to wiggle my way into fifteen days. Hindsight always seems 20 times easier after it happens, or however it goes.

Car sorted, boss supported, left me no excuses; the stars won the fight. The caravan was a go, but only after a weekend with the boys – my group of nine, still intact, most-prized, never a day of GroupMe inactivity, friends since high school. The majority are living and working in Philly, the few that aren’t made the trip from NYC and DC. Late nights with the boys usually follow with early mornings – we call it the Schleicher Effect; a not-so-distant cousin of the hair of the dog, except no alcohol required, just each other’s company. The boys always make it hard not to stay home. But, more to see places and people to go with, or however it goes. Monday, April 30th, I pushed off for the little over nine hours and 600 miles to Asheville. Let’s see what makes my new Subaru a Subaru, or however it goes, doesn’t really matter, we’re going.

I could see The Remarkables mountain range rising sharply over Lake Waktipu from my bedroom window in Fernhill, New Zealand. Maps calculates that the drive to the Remarkables Skifield takes 44 minutes. I can’t remember doing it under an hour and a half. The commute was slowed by carpool pickups, gas station stops, bridge lane closures, broken down cars, tire chain fittings, parking lots at capacity, and the climb up unpaved switchbacks in second gear.

I could complain compellingly about that drive, or about cramming seven bodies and their gear in a minivan, or about the bridge that’s been under construction and forced to one-way for over a year, or about fitting chains to tires in the mud, or about spending three hours in a car just for three hours on the hill. The last feels most compelling. I’m not really sure what brought us back.