It’s 8:20 a.m., and the Amtrak train is pulling out of Union Station in Portland, headed north to Seattle. I’m drinking drip coffee, which means my vacation is over. It’s one of the ways I ease myself back into my structured and mostly disciplined life.
While on our Oregon bike trip, I drank lattes instead of drip coffee. I washed my hair and let it dry naturally, sans hair product and flat iron. Sleeping was magic; for a full seven days, I slept like a log, and if I woke up, I simply rolled over and blissfully succumbed to the gentle tug of sleep.
I ate whatever appealed to me: grilled cheese sandwiches with potato chips, opulent caprese mini omelets at BNB’s, gorgeous multi-layer desserts with berries and ice cream. One night, I even threw some Bailey’s Irish Crème into my after-dinner coffee.
My husband and I walked through small towns with our arms around each other’s waists like a couple of teenagers. Our conversation was almost completely devoid of domestic business chatter such as what to pick up at the grocery store, what time the pups had their last potty break, and whether the auto insurance premium had been paid. We lolled, we rested, we ate, and we ambled each morning to find a new and charming coffee bar.
And then there was the biking. We pedaled past vineyards and orchards of hazelnuts, cherries, and apples. We screamed down hills through dappled sunlight. We slogged our way up tedious slopes that seemed to last forever. We posed for pictures in the shadows of magnificent mountain peaks. It was perfect.
I didn’t plan anything. I made game-time decisions about every aspect of our bike trip. Heck, I even avoided looking at elevation maps; I didn’t want to anticipate anything. I just waited and responded to whatever was before me: terrain, routes, wind, scenery, and effort.
Tomorrow I’ll be back at my desk with office coffee and Wheat Chex cereal for breakfast. I’ll track my time in six-minute increments. I’ll ambitiously plan my weekend schedule, which will be predominantly absent of fun or leisurely activities. I’ve got big projects and deadlines looming in the not-too-distant future, all which mandate planning with meticulous specificity.
The beauty of a vacation is the absence of required foresight: impromptu meanderings into dinner cafes, spontaneous decisions to leave the bike group for some solitary cycling, and free-flowing conversations. I shed adult responsibilities with child-like appreciation.
For the next three hours until the train drops me off into Seattle, the yoke of responsibility is off my shoulders. Then I will be converted into a middle-aged, diminutive Atlas bearing what feels like the weight of the world.
Time to plan the next vacation!