Freedom tour '07

Ok, fine. I'll do it myself. Sheesh.

Due to irritating logistical factors such as the placement of towns in West Virginia, my actual trip will comprise six 30-mile days on the C&O canal -- which, for some reason, seems more daunting than the prospect of doing a five-day trip with slightly higher unit mileage (perhaps by virtue of my memory that after the 5th hour of cycling, any additional hours for that day are "freebies" that don't really register through the endorphin haze).

I'll admit, my first impulse was to cancel the trip rather than go alone. And I'm a bit dismayed about that -- have I really internalized the "oh, it's dangerous out there for a woman" attitude that much? Am I in self-imposed purdah?

Yeah, probably. Since returning from India (c'mon, you knew that was coming -- but that doesn't make it untrue), I've noticed myself doing fewer things alone. One picks up unconscious habits. After Thailand, I didn't even notice that I was going out of my way not to walk over grates (the source of many a broken ankle in the Lanna kingdom) until a friend pointed it out. This post-India habit is more pernicious for having a self-sustaining basis in fact: Look, the world is simply a more threatening place when you're under 5'0".

Safety isn't a negligible concern for this trip, but, after all, it's just a series of day trips, the likes of which I used to do all the time when I lived in DC before I met K. I'm even making a deal with myself not to camp, even though the cost savings is huge, because I know what my ability to freak myself out is like, and it's just not going to be worth the money or the "so there, I did it, nyah" bragging rights when it's 2 am and I think I heard a twig snap.

I could get a flat. But I'm going to carry a spare tube and maybe even an extra tire (and if that won't fit in my bag, duct tape).

I might simply not be able to do it and flounder in exhaustion before reaching my B&B. The longest bike touring trip I've done was only four days, though that was in worse terrain and against coastal headwinds. But I'll have my cell phone, and maybe even signal coverage, and the number of a shuttle service. And it's an off-road trail; if I can't reach town by dusk, it's not as though I have to worry about being seen by traffic. And there are primitive campgrounds with drinking water every five miles. If I absolutely have to sleep rough one night, I won't be pleased, but, realistically, my biggest problem will be mosquitoes and they're not even malarial here.

And there are zillions of trip reports on-line about solo males completing the trail.

One thing that I really hate about breezy "women: go out with a buddy!" advice? It firmly shifts the onus of responsibility. It's like Mumbai trains: if there's a women-only car to opt for if one doesn't want to get groped, what does that say about me when I opt for a co-ed car (say because there's no women-only first class, or because K and I are finishing a crossword puzzle together)? Believe me, the men on those trains think they know; it was evident in their stares and their leering. The women-only option effectively turns the other ten "co-ed" cars into men-only. Same with the buddy system. The "be safe -- go out in groups" option not only makes it my fault if anything happens to me if I disregard the warning, but creates a more conspicuous environment if I choose to go, uh, doe. (And gosh, isn't that lack of a suitable alternative to "going stag" an illuminating little linguistic/Whorfian fillip?)

Well, what if I want to be alone -- to think, to get centered, to wrestle a demon or three, or, fine, 'cause no one wants to go with me -- are we denied those options, too?

Fie on all that, I say. Fie.

Yes, I'm a bit scared: not only that my overheated imagination will reduce lovely pastoral scenes into hiding places for axe-murderers, but that I'll have to concede that my eroding state of fitness isn't up to the kind of trip I used to love a couple of years ago. It's an interesting experiment, too. Will my hyperactive "what if...?" system, my barely subclinical anxiety, be wearied into submission over the course of six days of deliberate overstimulation, or will it amp up to ultrasonic levels? (I picture all the dogs of Harpers Ferry, WV, pricking up their ears and fleeing in terror before a single, silent advancing cone of worry as I pedal down the street...) It'll be a stretch, both for my widening body and my narrowing emotional comfort zone, but, having considered it, I feel like the gauntlet has been thrown down, and, dammit, I wanna try.