The first chapter of a new year always brings a need for new goals, ambitions, and pursuits. Though it’s also important to reflect on moments from the previous year that we can learn from—moments make us go whoa. Whoa’s can be positive or negative, filled with peaks or sunken valleys. Sometimes both. That’s the beauty, and deserves being remembered.
This past fall, just as the year began to end, sedated by the constant push for production in our overly industrial society, I decided to do something that promised to carry with it both highs and lows. Something just as difficult as the joy that it brought.
Living in the grandest metropolis in the world, New York City, has a lifetime of perks. It’s also easy to succumb to the embalming, saccharine element of the everyday hustle. People here are sycophantic on becoming. Becoming what? I guess whatever dream(s) that holds true to their heart. I’m evidently inspired just by living here. And whenever I find myself exasperated by the factorial grind, it’s been on two wheels, biking around Brooklyn that I’ve caught my breath again.
Camp Yoshi | Photo courtesy Alex Forestier
My 2023 delivered an overpour of blissful whoa moments. From seeing some of my favorite bands, Jungle and Miloe, live again, to getting my backcountry ski legs under me with Mountain Trip. I went on my first Camp Yoshi experience, celebrated Black-owned Blackstock & Weber product launches, and hosted gigs, pop-ups, and seasonal commencements. All in all, I found myself steadily adventuring, even while at home.
Life can be garish for an adventure-travel writer, actor, and stuntman. Being human, we all need a shakeup from time. It had been awhile since I last caught up with myself. So I read up on the Japanese practice of Misogi, the spiritual tradition of resetting under a waterfall (think cold water immersion/plunge). The Western translation of the ritual has morphed into periodically doing something physically challenging that you have a high chance of failing at. I was deeply attracted to that proximity of failure. And I wanted it to be on two wheels.
As I brainstormed how to go about my own misogi mission to chase discomfort, my friend and producer, Alexis Gordon reminded me that oyster season had started up in Boston. After some consults, and a wee bit of planning—and practically no training—I decided to bikepack to Boston for the freshest and tastiest bivalves this side of the globe. I loaded my Cannondale Topstone Carbon gravel bike with a filled Moosepack tube, handlebar and frame bags. I folded my Mountain Hardwear Stretchdown jacket, Remote Org Kit, and REI toolkit into an ATP adventure pack. I strapped on my Salewas, clipped on my Kammok hammock, and looked at the road ahead. Intentionally underprepared, I cheered to the upcoming 290 miles.
"Candy" the Cannondale | Photo by Joe Kanzangu
Ride
Pedaling away from a Brooklyn life of film screenings, media dinners, playing pool at suspiciously French bars, and homemade smoked sea salt butter, I felt myself flutter. I had never biked over 40 miles in one go. Ever. And here I was going over the Williamsburg bridge, on to the East River Greenway, racing trawlers, riding through the Bronx (where I thought deeply about stopping for a final chopped cheese) and making my way to Connecticut.
It was just the first hour of the first day of a three-and-a-half day trek, and I felt the soft rhythmic murmur of my soul’s groove coming back to me. Whoa.
Beyond the blue steeled Hutchinson river stream of the Bronx, I followed the shore road greenway trail into New Rochelle, home of the iconic Leno’s Clam Bar. I spent the night catching up with an old friend in Stamford, Connecticut. With 250 miles left, the cheese pizza at Bari167 turned out to be the cream on top of an already sweet day.
