Also, I know this is another melodramatic title. For some reason I felt obliged to reference the final stage of the "hero's journey" despite my lack of heroism. Let me know if anybody finds the "gift of the goddess" I'm neglecting to bring back, because as it is, this feels pretty anticlimactic.
This time period started by marking myself "safe" from a pipe bomb attack in the NY metro near Penn Station, where I dozed uncomfortably on the grimy floor while waiting for a train to Chicago. New Yorkers are excellent at being sick and tired of things, and this was no exception: reactions decayed from "oh shit" to "why hasn't this been solved yet, I have places to be" in less than five minutes, and snarky complaints were shared freely among strangers in a touching display of community bonding. I'm convinced this town is built upon mutual fed-uppedness.
Not much else really happened, as the bulk of this time was spent on a train. I disassembled my bike, stuffed it into the Amtrak-provided box in New York, reassembled it in Chicago, put it on another train to Champaign, and rode it to my new home in Urbana. The 28-hour train ride via Washington, DC was only really remarkable for the sheer number of babies that were brought in and out of the train along the way, providing fresh reinforcements whenever previous squadrons became tired enough to nap.
The vivid fall colors I saw throughout the Appalachians made me question the decision not to simply ride by way back to Illinois. I could've stayed with the pedicab driver in DC, experienced the fall colors in their full glory through the Blue River trail in Virginia, taken part of the Trans-America trail that I missed all the way back to Carbondale, IL, and bushwhacked my way up to Urbana from there. Seeing these colors through a window felt profoundly disappointing even though I knew it was probably best not to put my knees through the dramatic ups and downs of the Appalachians. I tried not to think too much about whether my presence on the train represented some fundamental character flaw; logically, I know it doesn't, but I wish somebody would tell that to my more intrusive thoughts.
I'm not in much of a state to provide a satisfying conclusion right now, so I'm leaving that for a later post. I do have a fittingly patriotic image to leave you with after my trans-America journey, however: please stand for the red white and blue!
I had considered getting a tattoo to commemorate this experience, but I'm fairly certain this tan line is permanent.
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