*Sometimes you can’t tell if the day is starting or ending without context*

I got back two days ago and have really struggled with writing my last posting. This trip ended up being a lot more than I had counted on, in terms of difficulty, duration, and meaning. Almost every preconception and expectation was eclipsed by the reality of this journey. I wanted my last post to capture my final thoughts and I needed time to process.

I spent my last night before seeing my wife in Falls Church, Virginia. I was beat up from getting bumped by a car. It was raining and I thought it was the right place to stay. The hotel I stayed at—I had lived there for almost two years while I was on a consulting assignment with Mobil. That project is where I learned how to be a consultant and had my first feelings of real competency.

I used to fly from San Diego to D.C. every week: United from Dulles to Los Angeles, and then a connector to San Diego. Ironically, I’m on a United flight right now as I am typing, flying from Dulles to San Francisco.

Surprisingly, I used to like to talk to people on the plane. Unfortunately, I played a stupid game. It all started when I met a guy from Arkansas. He was about my age and kind of odd, a real talker with a funny accent. I asked him a lot of questions, learned his story, and got his business card at he end. of the flight. I had learned to be a good interviewer in my job. At work, I had to do a lot of focus interviews to find out where the problems were in a company and how to fix them. I enjoyed it a lot. I would often find my best information from the person least likely to be a good source. I learned to take each interview very seriously. To do a good job you had to establish trust quickly or you could be easily dismissed. I was almost always younger than the person I interviewed, so it was easy to play dumb, because I was.

Sorry, back to the game. So on the next flight, I decided to be the guy I had been on the last flight. At that time, I had a very good memory for facts and details of conversations.(before a lot of self-induced head injuries). I decided I would be him, right down to the accent. I tried never to embellish; I would just stick to the previous story. If the conversation steered into new territory, I would try to answer in character. It was a long flight, and the game became a way to pass the time. I played a lot of personas, and at the end of the flight, I would pass them my “victim’s” card. I thought it was harmless and funny. I did it every Friday on the same flight. Amazingly, one of the “victims” got on the plane and recognized me. He said, “Hey, I called you when I was in Lexington to go fishing in your pond—you acted like I was some kind of freak. What the hell?” I lied and told him it wasn’t me, must have been someone who looked a lot like me. I showed him my driver’s license and he walked down the aisle, somewhat confused.

As an adult, I like to tell tall tales to see what people will believe. I find it’s more fun to be someone interesting than just myself. It is amazing what people will believe when they take you at face value. It is even more amazing—or ridiculous—that someone will do what I do. I do it with friends, and after a while they know what I’m doing. It’s a game. It’s a lot easier than being myself.

Since I retired, I have spent a lot of time writing satirical articles. I started doing it during the first Trump presidency. My favorite was Plumber's Union Angry That "Butt- Crack Guy" Assumed to be Part of its Organization

Plumber's Union Angry That "Butt- Crack Guy" Assumed to be Part of its Organization

Then I subjected my own city to my boredom through my LocalTattler.com blog, which may of caused us to not get invited to a few parties. Think of it as Lake Wogbegon on acid. Start at the beginning, it is actually a story that kind of gets overly complex and fizzles out. Sound familiar? Did it go astray when the pickle ball coach was killed and turned out to really to be philandering Russian FSB agent with a passion for “The Golden Girls”. I really did need to get out the basement.

Orinda Reevaluates Fourth of July Mascot, Billy-no-fingers, Amid Community Concerns. Please click on link for an informative article.

When I was preparing to go on this trip, I thought it would be fun to create some personas and have some fake business cards made to reflect them. I had done that once before as a joke when I was invited to a Halloween party in Shawnee, Oklahoma. I pretended to be a Russian oligarch who was visiting Seminole to partner with a local boat company I worked with. I was the worst portrayal of a Russian oligarch ever. Everybody believed me—some were offended by Vortek’s harshness and willingness to talk in the same sentence about his wife and his girlfriend and his proclivity for visiting waffle houses after a night at the gentleman’s club.

When I told my friend Skip that I was thinking of doing this, he laughed and we riffed on various personas. Skip is hilarious, and it was a very funny conversation. At the end, he did something he rarely does: he got serious. He said, “Steve, this is an incredible opportunity you have in front of you. Why don’t you take it seriously? I mean this whole-heartedly. I really mean this.” Skip is one of the few people I am serious with. With most people I just use humor to keep them from realizing how boring or awkward I really am. Kim and I went to dinner a couple of nights before we left on the trip with some close friends. My friend Carol said to me, “I want you to write about what you see—don’t make this a game.” Everyone else around the table agreed.

Once I got on my wheel, I decided to give seriousness a chance, at least until it got boring. I stuck to trying to find out as much as I could about people and saying as little about myself. I was just a friendly guy with no opinion—if you said something amazing or even mundane, I responded with enthusiastic curiosity. I was rewarded immediately the first night. When I was checking into my hotel, two guys from Mexico, who were local managers of the hotel, put up with my horrible Duolingo Spanish and invited me to sit on their back porch with a bunch of local friends. We drank beers, had a great time, and hugged when I left to go to bed. It was a joy.

As I progressed across the country, I tried to talk to everyone—especially those who looked different from me. If I saw a group of ranchers wearing Trump hats at a McDonald’s, I’d pull up a chair and ask if I could join them. All I had to do was be self-effacing, earnest, and curious, and I found I could get anyone to open up and be welcoming. A lot of the conversations started with “You’re from California. Why… I’m sorry.” or just a dismissive “hmpf.” We’d talk, and sometimes they’d say, “I bet you think people are nicer in one place than another.” My standard answer, and I really believe it, became: “We live in a great country, and every person I’ve talked to has been helpful and kind.” Then I’d tell a true story about someone doing something wonderful and kind to me, and the conversation would soften. After an hour together they would invite me to their house, or tell me I should let them drive me to the next town—“Come on, who would ever know? It would get you out of the rain.” I never accepted the offer, but it was the thought that counted. I was on a mission to make it to Washington, D.C., and not cheat.

On my journey, I tried to target locally owned stores or restaurants. My mom worked at a locally owned bookstore in Denver for 35 years. She loved it and was heartbroken when it was finally crushed by Barnes & Noble and Amazon. Ironically, the store was purchased by Barnes & Noble just this year. In a lot of the rural towns that I went through, all the local retail was shuttered. Main streets looked like ghost towns, with beautiful old buildings boarded up and falling apart. It was one of the most striking images of my trip. Where would people work if they weren’t on a farm, in a mine, or on an oil rig? Walmart, Family Dollar and Amazon had ruined that.

Two of my most meaningful experiences were facilitated by female convenience-store clerks who, after learning why I was wearing a spacesuit and riding a damn Roomba, made connections that will probably change my life forever.

Fauna can recognize a talker when she see’s one. Its got to be a Maupin

The first led me to find distant relatives I had never met in rural Kansas, who welcomed me like the prodigal son. A second clerk, in a town of 39 in western Kentucky, introduced me to Joe Bowen—the man who crossed the country three times on a bike and once on stilts.

The lady in pink connected the dots! The guy with the flag, that’s another story. Joe and I are on the ends.

I now talk to Joe and his wife Linda almost every day or at least exchange texts or emails. I’m trying to get the Maupin relatives to come visit my family in California. Joe is trying to get me to ride across the country with him again—on a bike. That old man is crazy.

More Maupins, but these ones arn’t dog theives

Those are just two examples among the many amazing new people I met. People that helped me, hugged me, prayed for me, and offered free food. The most generous were often the ones with the least. I met a young man named Perry who co-managed a convenience store called the Rocky Gap Grill, in western Virginia. He was probably about 28, with a drawl as smooth as the Frappuccinos I like so much in the morning. I watched him serve customers, treating all: little old ladies, gruff bikers, little kids—with gentleness and kindness that was astounding. I was charging my unicycle there and ended up hanging out for about two hours in their little seating area. He and the other two managers made me lunch and tried to give it to me for free. He had been in the military and had traveled all over the world. He was a military police officer in the Navy and had even been stationed in Lemoore, California and other places around the world. He told me stories about his travels and his thoughts about the world. He showed an incredible level of insight about the world, our nation, and people in general. He told me how the store used to be the center of town, and then some lady bought it, went to Walmart, bought a lot of stock, priced it so high that people stopped coming. Void of customers, she had to sell it. The new owner slashed prices to make it a “local store.” Once I heard Perry talk with someone surprised by the price of an item. Perry said, “Sorry sir, this item was mispriced—let me sell it to you for X.” As I sat and watched the comings and goings, Perry came over and sat down to talk. He spoke about his travels, what he had learned, and what he thought of America. He said, “People in America need to travel outside our country. They’d have a very different opinion. We live in a great country I was willing to fight for. But I learned two things overseas. One, we throw our weight around too much—lot of people hate us. I was in Okinawa and they hated us. We acted like we owned the place, but those Japanese have their shit together—they are amazing people. People see an American bully. But if you came to our town—or any small town in Virginia—you’d find we’re good, kind people who just want jobs, food, and a place to live. The other thing I learned: people in other countries have some stuff figured out that we don’t. We could learn a lot if we tried.” Watching those three managers—who didn’t own the store—act more invested than any employee I’d ever seen was inspiring. I once had a boss who said all you needed was put the right compensation structure in place and you get someone to do what ever you want. Maybe you just hire people with great hearts and common sense.

Perry and the other co-managers of the Rocky Gap Grill. Great people!!!

On my journey, a lot of people asked if I was lonely. I really wasn’t. Before this trip, I was feeling isolated—sitting in my basement taking online classes, writing snarky articles, and riding my unicycle. I had a few close friends I interacted with, but outside of my wife, my kids, and a couple of friends, I lived a pretty solitary life.

On this trip, my friend Skip set up a chat group with friends from Stanford that Kim and I had made two years ago. Skip had done a great job staying connected—something I had not. I was comfortable being in my head, hesitant to reach out. I don’t know why. They were amazing people, but I felt they were a little beyond me.

Suddenly I had a cheerleading group that propped me up each day, sent hilarious texts, and FaceTimed me out of the blue. When I was lying in the mud in the dark at snow line, lost and freezing, waiting for search and rescue to find me—my phone was on my chest, and a stream of texts from my wonderful Stanford friends came pinging in. They were chatting about something funny. I was too cold to read them, but watching them arrive made me feel hopeful.

People reached out whom I hadn’t heard from in years. Some met me on the road, others called or sent warm texts. A lot were folks I thought about often but never reached out to. People I should have kept in contact with, but didn’t.

There was Skip Victor, who called me every night and debriefed the day. One night, he called while I was lost in the hollers of West Virginia. He kept me company while I charged in the dark at a closed volunteer fire station. The station had an open Wi-Fi network, so I was able to call him. I had been searching for hotels within a 60-mile radius but couldn’t find any. Skip got on the phone and found one 20 miles away. He was always encouraging and made my day better.

There was Jeff Shober, a dear college friend who called and texted every day. He’d send me facts about the towns I was about to visit and connect me with old college friends. Jeff was raised in a coal town in Wyoming and had a special insight into life in a rural town, where coal is king.

I had my friend Kurt, who is more like a brother. He would call or text and encourage me. He was on an adventure himself on a sailboat in the Mediterranean Sea. I was worried about him. I don’t think he knows shit about sailing. I think he was worrying about me because I don’t know shit about a lot of things.

Bill, the gruff engineer I met at Northrop, who asked me the first time we met in his cubicle, “How in the hell did someone like you get that job? You have no qualifications whatsoever.” Bill sent me texts, helped with routes, called me, and helped me with my writing.

My mother, whom I didn’t tell about the trip until she found out through others six days into it, was initially appalled—as any good parent would be—but she became my most loyal blog reader. We talked on the phone a lot, and she offered advice and context to what I was seeing. She had never heard the Dolores story, which surprised me. She’d wake in the middle of the night to see what I had posted—I think she was keeping proof of life.

Then there was Christine Fisher, who brought me into her home, showed me Hays, America—I mean Kansas—and let me play with her dog. Later on the trip, I heard from her that a new patient had come into her clinic and said that they had met me. I was surprised. I texted back, “How?” She responded that I had asked him if he knew Dr. Christine Fisher, when I heard he was from Hays. Either Kansas is a small state or Dr. Christine Fisher is a big deal. I think the latter.

Oh, what about Jeff and Mike Peets, travel consultants? We’re having coffee in a couple of hours. I’m having some issues with the bill they submitted. (I still have to learn what their last names are.)

And finally, Betsy Andersen. She was one of my Graland school friends who reached out and told me I had to visit if I made it to D.C. She probably made the invitation thinking I wouldn’t make it—like that relative you invite because your mom thinks you should—hoping they don’t. She took us on a tour of the Smithsonian, where she had worked for 35 years. She took Kim and me on a wonderful insider’s tour. We saw the Presidential Portrait Gallery, where we saw paintings of real presidents. Go figure—she’s friends with Alex Nemeroff, a famous art historian at Stanford, who got upset with me for laughing in one of his classes because Skip said something about how it was unfair that he had a laser pointer and we didn’t get to have one too. The next class, we brought our own. I heard somewhere his aunt was Diane Arbus.

A treasure that showed us a national treasure.

I worried about what my kids would think. It was a surprise to them what I was doing, and I thought they’d find it embarrassing or stupid. Instead, they were supportive—they called and texted me. I channeled each of them as I rode: David for his understanding, Kate for her adventurous spirit, Mark for his discipline, Heidi for her caring and empathy , and Kurt for his resourcefulness and ability to be calm under pressure. I spent a lot of time thinking about them and how I needed to be a better parent—not that I was any great shakes when they were younger.

The main question I got on this trip was: “What does your wife think?” That’s a complicated answer. Kim had planned for this to be a summer of fun social and family activities, culminating with my daughter Kate’s wedding. We had just returned from scuba diving in Indonesia for 3 weeks before the trip and were ready for a wonderful summer. When I sprung this idea on her, she recoiled. “I’m fine with this, but why not next year? We have so much going on. You could do such a better job if you waited and planned this. Next year you’ll be sixty-five—we could turn it into an adventure I could support. I could meet you on the way at points. It’d be fun. What if you get hurt or worse? How would that impact everyone who loves you?” I read her my rationalizations from ChatGPT, and when she heard it, she said, “I can see why you want to do it.” It’s tough being my wife—imagine having a spouse who spends most of his life in his head, pretending to be someone he’s not. I told her I was happy in my routine, but in truth I felt isolated. I saw all she was doing—corporate boards, nonprofit boards, friend groups, faith groups, group walks, college friend trips—and realized how isolated I was. She supported me, but it meant I missed some very significant events and caused her six weeks of constant worry. It was a selfish act—I knew it, and I did it anyways. She was right to be worried and I was foolish to continue. I had a lot of very close calls not documented in the blog, especially with cars and big trucks. Once Google routed me onto a four-lane highway with no shoulder and a 70 mph speed limit. I rode the white line between the left lane and gravel/ guardrail., watching my rear-view mirror, waiting to be hit. It was one of the scariest experiences of my life. I thought, “If I survive this next 17 miles, I will never do this again.” I called Kim halfway through—I just needed to hear her voice. I was worried it would be my last call. She dutifully answered, even though she was in a meeting, and told me she loved me. I didn’t tell her what a mess I was in. You can only do that so many times. When I finished, I was covered in sweat and had to go to Starbucks for an hour—not to recharge, but to get my wits together. On this flight home, it occurred to me: why didn’t I just stop and flag down a highway patrolman or call AAA? I was too stubborn and too much in my own head to make the right decision. This is a persistent problem. Not to draw an outlandish parallel, but I’m reminded of watching the movie Free Solo. Free-climbing El Capitan is about 10,000 times harder and more dangerous than what I did, but I remember watching part of it and turning it off thinking, “This guy is a selfish jerk. What if he falls?” His girlfriend was supporting his self-centered, daring adventure. I realize that although this was a transformative journey for me, it was a painful and lonely experience for my wife, who was sweet on the phone, saved me on the mountain, and met me at the end.

This morning I took an Uber from my hotel to the FedEx pack-and-ship location near Dulles—a drive I had done over a hundred times years ago. My Uber drivers name was Girma Akalu. He was from Ethiopia but had lived in the U.S. for thirty-five years. It turns out we were the same age. He had to flee Ethiopia at 21 because the communists had taken over, killed Haile Selassie, and were killing young people indiscriminately. He escaped by bus out of the capital city. He then found someone called a “liner” who guided him by foot through the desert into Sudan. He spent five years in Sudan, where he met his wife—also displaced from Ethiopia. After five years, he got asylum and moved to the U.S. They married, worked hard and had children. They had three daughters—the oldest is a bioengineer, the second is in medical school, and the third is a speech pathologist. He said, “I am an American. I love this country. Look at what we’ve achieved. Look at my daughters. I am so proud. I have come to America and found incredible success. ” Today, he also learned that our president is considering putting a travel ban on people form Ethiopia and twenty other countries. Its probably not a coincidence that Steven Miller, Trumps mastermind behind these horrible programs, has a striking resemblance to Joseph Goebbels. We could use many more people like Girma Akalu—who love this country for its promise, not its military strength. Maybe we should deport people like Steven Miller, who is the mastermind of these policies, back in Satin’s Butt Crack. He is not like the Americans I met on this trip.

I come from a privileged background, was given every opportunity, and here I am—crossing the country on a unicycle—searching for purpose, meaning, and connection. Maybe I should just look at what I have and realize that I’m already a success, thanks to my wife, kids, and dear friends. This morning, my wife asked me to lay low for the next few months and enjoy all the joyful experiences we have planned as a family. I don’t need to unicycle across the country to find connection and success. I have it at home—with my wonderful family and caring friends. Oh, and I’m lucky enough to live in a small town called Orinda.

The end, or the beginning

I made it