Land and Sea Voyages
I bought the bike. It’s an intro level Bianchi with low-level Sosa components, but I took it for a ten-mile test ride last night and found myself yelling “Wohooo!!!!” as I dug into the pedals and raced down the trail (I made sure there was no one around when I yelled “wohoo!”). Outside of my car, this is the biggest purchase I’ve made, and unlike my car, I bought this outright. It’s beautiful. To me. Here’s a bad picture taken with my camera-phone. 
Above the bike is a watercolor that my great-great grandmother’s sister painted. It’s of the ship that my great-great grandmother left on to come to the United States from Finland. She came as an indentured servant. Right after I took this picture, I found myself staring at that watercolor for a long time. I looked at the bike. I stared at the picture.
For the first time in my life, I started to really ponder the sacrifices generations of people made so that I could live the life I’m living right now. This isn’t a post about feeling guilty about buying the bike—I’m happy I bought the bike. Those generations of people would be happy I bought the bike. I just wondered what they would think of me now, in general.
Maybe this is a post about growing up. I guess I’ve been thinking about that, lately. At my grandmother’s 90th birthday earlier this month, it kept hitting home. Staring at the picture last night, I felt this sense of obligation. Not a crippling obligation, but an almost uplifting obligation. It was as if someone tapped me on the shoulder and whispered a secret in my ear. It’s like they said: “We’re on this really long journey together, and you just have to get this boat a few more miles across the ocean.”
I actually felt a little embarrassed, thinking about my debt and all the time I’ve wasted in life. But not horribly embarrassed. There have been great achievements and great failures in the life of my family. My great grandfather on my mother’s side was a prominent doctor and a state senator. His son (my grandfather) became very wealthy during WWII, and then lost his money after the war. My mother had a rough life, and in the big picture, that leaves me (and my sisters) the job of picking up those pieces and moving on.
But moving on to what? We’re all educated. We all have good jobs. It’s an exciting thought for me, all the sudden; the biggest—and maybe always the only—goal in my life. As I ride my bike over the Memorial Day weekend, cruising around the perimeter of Minneapolis and Saint Paul, I’m going to puzzle through what this might mean to me in the greater journey I’m, apparently, just a part of.

