Youth movement

This evening, I had dinner in Central Park with 31 young men and women who are on the last legs of a cross-country bicycling journey. Starting in June from Rhode Island, the group has ridden every day, on roads over you-name-it terrain and in the kinds of weather you might expect during the summer months (i.e., hot, humid, hot, dry, hot . . .), staying the night in church social halls, school gymnasiums, even in private homes, packed in like sardines in their sleeping bags. They're having fun, but the purpose of the ride isn't entirely for the fun of it: as their name implies, Bike to Build is raising money for Habitat for Humanity. Many of the riders have volunteered on Habitat projects in their own areas; joining up with this ride was another way they could support that worthy cause.

And they are such fun to be with—bright, exuberant (even after 3,000 miles or so of pushing the pedals), fresh-faced, and young, young, young; the three or four I talked a good deal with are in their early (and I do mean early) 20s (I mentioned that in 1988 I'd done a 1,000 mile ride; Rachel said, "That's the year I was born!" Sigh . . .). They're from all over: Florida, Rhode Island, Illinois, Kansas . . . Tuesday, they'll reach San Francisco, ride across the Golden Gate Bridge and come to the end of their adventure as a group. Some will fly home the next day, others will spend a few days in San Francisco ("What's good to see?" asked one; answer: "What's your pleasure—art? museums? music? food? ethnic communities? Take your pick; the City has it all and more.")

On Sunday, they'll start riding at 7:30 a.m. from the Davis Community Church, and some of us from the Davis Bike Club will ride with them for a while, out to Winters, up to Monticello Dam, maybe farther, maybe not so far. However far we go, it will be a treat and a privilege to join them.

Re-entry

Home after eight days away on a bike tour in Oregon. Spent yesterday just being here, working my way back into the rhythm of the day-to-day. Washed my breakfast dishes; hadn't washed a dish in more than a week. Looked through the accumulated mail; ditto the newspapers (the ones that somehow got delivered even though I'd put a vacation hold on them). Enjoying the peace and solitude after spending eight days with 17 other people; this feeling will soon devolve into feelings of isolation and loneliness, which will soon reverse as my ordinary life reinserts itself.

Glad to have been away . . . glad to be home.