Honestly, it's not for everyone
Nebraska, South Dakota, arduous pleasure
In 2019, Nebraska’s state tourism board rolled out a new advertising campaign:
Nebraska: honestly it’s not for everyone.
I’m no stranger to cheeky marketing on this cross-country bike ride. But unlike my experience on the Loneliest Road in America, where I found the route to be more-trafficked than advertised, the Nebraska campaign was way too on the nose.
Because, within five miles of riding through the state, I realized that indeed, Nebraska was honestly not for everyone. And it definitely wasn’t for me.
There was desolation — but not the otherworldly kind you find in Nevada or Utah. Pressed between neverending fields of corn and soybeans, I found my mind wandering towards what it would feel like to disappear into the crop maze and be swallowed by the food and fuel. Then I started reading through plot signs — babble and jargon marking each field by seed strain and pesticide application — and thought the better of it.
I couldn’t wait to get out of Nebraska. And yet, I felt deeply uncomfortable about that emotion. Because on a trip that was intentionally designed to push out negative preconceptions about ‘flyover country’ — I found myself falling victim to confirming the desire to skip past the place as fast as possible.
South Dakota, though, was a different story. Although the daily routine was largely the same (Dollar General ramen, biting wind, soybeans and sunflowers) — the state awoke more curiosity within me. It came down, as most things do, to people.
Whereas Polo and I had extremely limited social interaction in Nebraska, our ride through the Mount Rushmore state brought a few more encounters — a sheriff run-in, American diner breakfast, and a night of beers and barbecue with Warmshowers hosts in Pierre. When the time came to cycle into Minnesota, I found myself grasping at the border, wanting to reverse the clock and spend more time in South Dakota: to sit by the Missouri River, to dive into the Badlands, to speak to residents of Standing Rock and Pine Ridge, to chase down Ted Turner’s bison herd.
Maybe parts South Dakota weren’t for me, but I found some of what I was looking for, there.
Somewhere in all the ennui and pedaling of the Heartland, I happened upon an interview between Jia Tolentino1 and Ezra Klein.
I listened, then listened again. Not everything in a discussion about Children, Meaning, Media and Psychedelics hit me in the way it might ten years from now, but I found myself profoundly struck by and stuck on Tolentino’s definition of fun:
What I think of as fun is, it’s much less enjoyment and more like pushing the limits of what — I don’t know — can stand or I’m capable of. I have a kind of arduous idea of fun.
Like, something that I long to do constantly is go to Antarctica and completely lose my mind. That sounds like one of the most fun things I can imagine. And so, doing psychedelics, it is extremely challenging sometimes and not always fun, but that is a specific kind of pleasure that the definition of which is very close to finding meaning.
Tolentino’s ‘arduous idea of fun’ is not novel. It falls squarely into the category of ‘Type 2’ fun that has been espoused by outdoorspeople for decades — fun that can be hot, muddy, and uncomfortable, but brings joy in retrospect.
But what I found Tolentino adding to the conversation was the connection between Type 2 fun and a ‘specific kind of pleasure’ that is ‘very close to finding meaning.’ She elaborated on this in the context of parenting:
And I found that the transcendent moments in parenting are the really just objectively boring ones, where I’m laying on the floor of my living room wishing I could read a book, instead of just stacking little plastic eggs on each other
I felt a deep resonance with her assessment of transcendence coming in via the objectively boring. This trip has involved some big climbs and summits, beautiful landscapes and close run-ins with the craziest people — all of which have taught me a lot about this country and its future and my place in it. But as much as I’ve learned from the outlier moments, I’ve also learned a lot from counting American flags by the side of the road like you’d count sheep and from studying the repetitive roadscapes.
Nearing the end of the trip, I’m reflecting on how its pleasure has been physically arduous — but it’s the mental challenge that has been formative. I’m reminded of what Richard, a Warmshowers host in Utah, said to me near in the first 1000 miles:
I’ve seen a lot of cyclists come through this part of the country. And the darndest thing is, you can’t tell by just looking at someone whether or not they’re gonna make it all the way. I’ve seen the younger, fit guys crack up while the old geezers make it. Cycling is a mind game.
You need mental fitness to push yourself up challenging rock climbs and through Ironman races. But you also need mental fitness to push past things like boredom in a job, or a trench in your social life — and to change the things about the world around you that don’t work anymore, instead of settling into under-interrogated acceptance.
350 miles before the finish line, I’ve been surprised to find that the exact same headspace muscles that got me through the painful first climb up the Sierra Nevada are getting me through the objectively easy crushed limestone trails of the Chesapeake Watershed. Both exercises have been forms of arduous pleasure; both are honestly, not for everyone.
I can’t wait to be done. I’ll be sad when it’s over. I’ll diagnose where this whole thing fell on the fun scale — and what it means — after some old-fashioned Type I fun with New York friends, eating pizza in the Central Park sunshine.
The voice-of-a-generation millenial writer who I feel a crazed level of kinship with given some weird parallels in our Texas upbringings.
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Did Richard predict you guys would make it?