A Texan in Tibet - Return to Nepal

"Nepal: once is not enough."
– Iumlenepal

Morning Monk at Everest Sunrise

After a very cold overnight at the rooftop of the world, I rose early to capture the sunrise at Mount Everest and to take in the mountain's majesty one more time. I had waited years to get here and leaving was bittersweet.

Our return to Kathmandu would prove to be even more challenging than our departure from it. We saddled up and departed Everest base camp in the Qomolangma National Park, making a beeline back to Gyirong Village; the gateway to the Chinese border with Nepal. Gyirong is where we spent our second outbound night on the road, even though it was only 40km from our first overnight. Once again, the chaotic unpredictability of the China/Nepal border required us to bake in an additional day to accommodate unforeseen delays.

Border Jam

Our team of six would have to seek permission to cross the border, despite the fact that we had visas in hand. Our guide was first in the queue at the Gyirong customs office, which placed us first in line at the vehicle staging area a few kilometers from the border. We were in place by 10:30am, but had to wait for the border office to open at 12:30pm. At 12:20pm, we all raged through the rocky, sorry excuse for a road that was dangerously slick from rains earlier that morning. This was not a race, but in a sense it was because every truck, car, and scooter wanted to be first in line at the border bridge. Two weeks ago, I would have found myself behind dozens of vehicles. But my time riding in China hardened me and fine tuned my aggression skills. Nobody passed me as I flew through the canyons and chasms. Riding a motorcycle gave us a distinct advantage over the others and we built a gap between ourselves and the other vehicles. Then it all suddenly ground to a halt. I could see the border bridge ahead of me. Problem was, there were dozens of massive trucks headed to and from the border, fighting for space in what what was barely enough for one lane; much less two. It was clear nobody was going anywhere anytime soon. But why?

Truck drivers were outside their vehicles, sitting at portable tables, and playing cards. Construction workers attempting to build an actual road went about their day as if we weren't even there. Finally, word made it back to us that the border was closed till 2:30. No reason was given. My mind began to calculate our arrival time back in Kathmandu, remembering the absolute hellish road ahead. It took us seven hours on our way out ten days ago, and that was with clear weather. Today, we were being chased by storm clouds and had been doing a great job of staying ahead of them until we were unexpectedly halted.

Gateway to Tibet - Just Call it China

Some time later, the border re-opened and we were allowed to enter a semi-paved staging area. I had figured exiting China would have been faster than entering because we had all been thoroughly vetted for our entry a couple of weeks prior. I figured wrong. Once inside the building, there were several administrative stations to pass through, each of which had a myriad of cameras and microphones; and those were just the ones we could see. We were forewarned that our actions, facial expressions, and everything we said were being recorded. The locals all covered their mouths as they spoke to one another, like an NFL football coach calling plays on the sideline. I just (uncharacteristically) kept my mouth shut. The entire process was clearly about intimidation. I'm not easily intimidated, but I am easily pissed off. It took all my patience to remain stoic and just comply. We were fingerprinted and frisked. Our bags were tunneled through an x-ray machine and then manually rifled through. Our phones were collected and photos were reviewed for any images of flags, monks, monasteries, etc. which are contraband. I had already offloaded anything I thought might raise eyebrows. At one point, there were three Chinese agents right in my face, one toe-to-toe with me and the other two on either side of me; our faces just inches apart. They just stood there, silently staring. My resting bitch face took over and I just stared back, eyes shifting to the left and right, but never turning my head. It was a really awkward position. I had no power whatsoever. The held all the cards. I was an American in China at a very politically tense time. All I could do was try not to look pissed off. After what felt like eternity (but was likely only about 30-seconds), one of the agents' radios barked out something in Chinese and they all stepped aside, I assume to intimidate the next in line behind me. I didn't look back to confirm.

I was free to gather and repack my belongings and carry them to the awaiting porter who would deliver them to our awaiting truck on the Nepal side of the "Friendship Bridge". We were pushing our bikes and just ten feet from the borderline when they suddenly dropped the gate and ordered us all away from our motorcycles. We were lined up and led into a small office for one final passport verification with fingerprints scanned and a photo taken with a Chinese agent on each side. It felt like a conscripted political selfie. Nothing could have changed between this stop and the last one. I'm convinced it was just an intimidation play.

Finally, they raised the gate and a few steps later we were back in Nepal. It was 3:30pm China time, but upon crossing the border, it was magically only 1:45pm in Nepal. We gained almost two hours back by just rolling across the bridge. We would need every minute of that gain because the storm we had outrun had caught up with us and it was beginning to drizzle.

Thinking we were out of the woods, my resting bitch face morphed into a slight grin. This was it. The road ahead would be seven hours of sloppy, rocky, off camber crap, but at least we were finally able to get on it. Turns out this wasn't it. We still had to clear Nepali inbound customs.

Gateway to Nepal from China

 

Customs on the Nepal side was just a tin shack with a porch and a desk behind a window. An unmanned desk. We were losing daylight, the storm was approaching, and there wasn't an official in sight. Our Nepali guide (we said goodbye to our Tibetan guide before the staredown) found a local Nepal soldier and asked him to help find the customs clerk. The clerk, not expecting any business due to the border closing  was sleeping in an empty office. Four out of the six of us were processed with passports stamped, and then the clerk began closing up shop. When we protested, he just pointed at the Business Hours sign indicating that his office closed at 3:00pm. We had waited almost two hours for this clown and he was abandoning us...and the dozens of people in line behind us. We hastily collected about $100USD and offered it to him to process our last two riders. He grabbed the cash, stamped them through, and closed shop. The others had no choice but to spend the night in their vehicles, beside their motorcycles, or to grab a room at the nearest shack of a hotel a few hundred yards away. I suppose they could have just ridden off, but we had to have that inbound stamp to reconcile the outbound stamp from when we crossed into China ten days prior. Our bribe complete, we fist-bumped, praised capitalism, and rode off into the hellish hills, trying to outrun the storm again.

The route back to Kathmandu was only about 100km, but the weather, terrain, and the unusual amount of other vehicles made it seem much longer. When I rode this same route (in the opposite direction) on our way out, it seemed easier, perhaps because we were all full of curiosity for what lay ahead and full of energy from our non-riding days in Kathmandu. We hadn't been on the road for a few hours and yet after the Chinese drama at the border, I was already feeling tired and it was showing in my slowed riding pace. I battled a few more hours up, across, and down numerous tightly wound mountain passes slowly making my way closer to Kathmandu. Two environmental factors began to occupy my mind. My fatigue had slowed my riding pace to the point that the rain had caught up with me, and it was getting dark. I don't mind getting wet, but my vision sucks at night and trying to focus behind wet, foggy goggles didn't help. My slow pace was pissing off the locals behind me for whom this route was just another day in their lives. Furthermore, the rest of my crew were long gone because I was held up at a police check point and told them to go on without me. With no GPS and no map, I had no idea where I was nor how far I was from Kathmandu. There was only one way to go, but not knowing the remaining distance was having a draining effect on me. Drivers use the left lane in Nepal and in my fatigue, I drifted into the right in a tight off-camber corner and found myself staring into the headlights of a large truck that skidded to a stop just a few feet in front of me with its horn blasting. All I saw was a visor full of headlights. All the truck driver saw was a visor full of eyeballs.

I was done. I rode to a pull-out space on the road, pulled over, dismounted, and waited for the support truck. When Kumar arrived, I was almost choking back tears of defeat as I explained that I had no night vision and that I just couldn't safely go any further. He just said "hop in my friend". I was experiencing a whirlwind of emotions...defeat, excitement, relief; but mostly defeat. Although I had ridden as far as I could, I recognized that there was no valor in dying on that mountain. I swallowed my pride and hopped in the truck as our young locally-raised mechanic gleefully hopped on the bike and sped away.

The sting of giving in subsided as I settled into the warm, dry truck, caught my breath, and wiped the rain from my eyes. Then, I looked over at the dash-mounted GPS and the sting renewed itself instantaneously and exponentially. Turns out, I had thrown in the towel only six kilometers from the hotel in Kathmandu. Six kilometers. Once at the hotel, I poured myself out of the truck, joined the others in the bar, and heaved a long sigh of relief as I downed a shot of Nepalese whiskey. Nobody gave me any grief, perhaps because I was the old guy and they were shocked I made it that far in the first place. It was just hugs, handshakes, and pats on the back. It occurred to me that up to the point when I hopped in the truck, I had been the only rider who had not yet needed a lift at some point during the trip due to altitude sickness, cold, or fatigue. It was little consolation for my pride, but I'm alive to tell the story and after my close encounter with the truck near the base of the dark, muddy mountain, I can't say positively that that would have been the case had I not stopped riding when I did.

I managed to sneak away from our small celebration just long enough to visit the hotel desk and book an massage for early the next morning. I was facing thirty hours of travel time and needed the kinks worked out that I had built up of the the previous fourteen days' riding. Our host Kumar ordered up a fantastic meal for us all and we wasted no time gorging on it. Ever-disciplined, I skipped the elevator and climbed the 72 steps up to my third floor room and began packing. Being back in thicker air, thoroughly exhausted, and emotionally drained, I slept so deep I woke up underneath the mattress. I cursed my alarm until I realized that a massage awaited me.

The masseuse, a short yet rotund woman, handed me a robe and a pair of disposable paper-like black panties and then she just stood there while I undressed and put them on. I'm not remotely bashful, but it was a bit awkward. She must have thought I was an idiot because I couldn't tell the front from the rear of the paper panties. It didn't matter, as I would soon find out. As a practicing Licenses Massage Therapist for nearly twenty years, I had experienced every variety and modality of massage there is. At least I thought I had. This little round woman crawled up on the table and gently yet thoroughly beat the living shit out of me whilst twisting my extremities into a pretzel. I had become a bit proud of the muscle definition in my calves and thighs gained from my training and the previous days' riding, but she turned them into noodles in mere minutes. When she got to my glutes, she tore the paper panties away and turned them into a thong of sorts to expose my butt cheeks, which she then tenderized like a rump roast. The rest of the massage is still a blur. It was the best massage I have ever experienced and probably ever will. She poured me off the table and I staggered back to my room to change for my trip to the airport.

The drive to the airport was every bit as crazy as that first trip when I arrived twenty days prior. It was different this time, as there was no flinching, no butt puckering, and no life flashing before my eyes. It was just another day in Kathmandu traffic and I was absolutely chilled. After nearly seven years of scheming, dreaming, and planning, the adventure of my life was over. In 36 hours, I would be home to start taking action to realize yet another very different goal that I had set for myself five years ago.

L to R: Princess, Shrug, Romeo, 6-4, and Management

 

A Texan in Tibet - Syabrubesi to Kyirong Village

"Lighten up while you still can
Don't even try to understand
Just find a place to make your stand
and take it easy"
- Jackson Browne

Today would be a short day, riding less than 40km. The time needed to cross the border into China was unpredictable to say the least. Apparently there are rules, but also apparently, only the Chinese know them. Our fixer was top notch and had everything in order when when arrived at the Friendship Bridge. Whomever made up the rules must have also made up that name, because the process was anything but friendly.

Processing for crossing into China began at 10:30am China time, which was 8:45am Nepal time. Getting into China would prove much easier than getting out, but that was two weeks away and I had no way of knowing. Only two of us needed visas to enter. Our group consisted of four Australians, one Brit, and me ("the Texan"). Australia has a pretty much open border for Chinese, which I suppose affords favor upon them for reciprocal visitor traffic. Not so much for the Brit and the Texan; especially in today's political climate. The entry process took about two hours for the six of us to complete. With approvals in hand, we mounted up and hit the road for the short run to Gyirong Village. The nasty, hellish terrain we traversed the day before continued for about 20km, all of which was further impaired by Chinese road construction crews. There would be a nice paved road there someday, but not one that I would ever see.

Once on pavement we found ourselves having a blast as we raged through dozens of hairpin turns whilst climbing and descending the final 20km of our route into Gyirong. We were energized and enthused. We were finally in China. This was really happening and Everest was just days away.

I'm going to go into a bit of a rant here, so bear with me.

Throughout the planning for this trip, I've used the term Tibet. The Chinese call it The Autonomous Region of Tibet, in shrewd ploy at attempting to appear tolerant of the Tibetan people and their culture. China essentially ran over Tibet in 1950 while the rest of the world was focused on slicing up post WWII European territory between the east and west.

When the Dalai Lama fled Tibet for India in 1959, his second in command, the Panchen Lama was left as Tibet's Buddhist emissary. In 1995, the Chinese kidnapped him, his family, and his teacher after he was formally recognized as the 11th Panchen Lama by the Dalai Lama. China, which had previously attempted to install its own chosen Panchen Lama, saw the Dalai Lama's recognition as a threat to its control over Tibetan Buddhism and its overall control over Tibet. The Chinese government then appointed another boy as the 11th Panchen Lama. He is widely viewed as a political tool, and although the Free Tibet movement has been largely silenced, there are continued calls for the release of the real Panchen Lama. In a failed attempt to demonstrate tolerance of the Buddhist faith in Tibet, the CCP appointed the Panchen Lama to Chinese Parliament, but in doing so forced him to move to Beijing, which separated him from his followers in Tibet.

 

Chinese Communist Party (CCP) flags are prominently displayed everywhere you look; every street corner, every building, every hotel, and every shack of a home. There are cameras and microphones on every street and gathering area. All public passenger transportation vehicles have cameras installed. There are speed detection cameras along all of the interstitial roads that connect the cities and villages and there are police and military checkpoints every 30 to 50km throughout the country. Everywhere you look, you are reminded of who is in charge. The Tibetans have struggled to maintain and practice their Buddhist faith for the past 75 years while the CCP actively works to erase all evidence of it.

 

Rant mode off.

 

Typical CCP Checkpoint

 

Our hotel in Gyirong was quite nice and quite modern. In fact, the entire village was quite nice. For a people who are repressed, I found them to be gracious and welcoming, and when they learned I was a Texan they all wanted to take selfies with me. Our guide assured me that it was okay, but not to flash any gestures or show any flags.

 

It was a short day, but we had lost two hours, so getting rest was priority one. We would depart early the next morning and cross our first 18,000 foot mountain pass. I had already started my Diamox supplement to combat altitude sickness. I was crossing my fingers that the tablets and my conditioning with the mask would help.

 

"Downtown" Gyirong

The Mountains Surrounding Gyirong Village

Art House Theater?

Gyirong Village Hotel

A Texan in Tibet - Run for the Border! - Kathmandu to Syabrubesi

“A good half of the art of living is resilience.”
- Alain de Botton

After the first day's hellish ride from Kathmandu to the border, we stopped for the night at a small hotel just a few hundred meters from the Friendship Bridge. Although the next day's ride to the scenic little town of Gyirong would only be about 40km, stopping on the Nepal side of the border for the night was necessary, although I wouldn't understand exactly why until tomorrow.

"Hellish" is an apt description for the first day's ride. The surface that some referred to as a "road" was little more than a path cut alongside cliffs and massive boulders that wound up and down through various mountain passes, over creeks, and across narrow bridges. The path was barely wide enough for one lane in most locations, but that didn't stop truck drivers from aggressively fighting for turf at every turn. I was reminded of my first enduro race over 25 years ago. It was to be a friendly ride through the west Texas canyons with regularly scheduled snack stops. Nothing in any description prepared us for the terrain we would face on day one. I thought getting out of the Kathmandu city limits earlier that day was stressful. I quickly realized that the only thing trying to kill me in the city was aggressively-driving people. The clear and present danger on the route from the outskirts of town to the border was nature itself; unforgiving, unyielding, and unapologetic. I figured it couldn't be any worse than the shit roads I traversed on my way to Alaska riding my 800 pound Harley in 2011. I figured wrong.

I Learned I Would've Made a Lousy Bombardier.  I missed my Squatty Potty!

The Tibetan Border from my Hotel

Electric Cars from China Awaiting Transport into Nepal

Even the "Strays" Were Decorated

Riding Up in Dry Weather Was Easy. Down in the Rain, Not So Much.

Unlike my Harley Davidson Road Glide that I rode to Alaska, my rented Royal Enfield Himalayan motorcycle was an appropriate bike for the terrain. But, it needed serious suspension work and it had a carburetor instead of fuel injection. The odometer read 40,000km. This bike had been there and back. My conditioning for the trip allowed me to dampen the brutal bumps and potholes with my ankles, knees, elbows, and shoulders. I essentially became a bio-mechanical extension of the Himalayan's suspension. Still, I knew I was in for a world of hurt once we climbed above 15,000 feet. That train of thought would have to wait as I focused solely on the immediate challenges.

After each mountain pass, we would ride into small towns with roads wide enough for two vehicles. Unfortunately, the "extra" space was typically occupied with livestock; goats, sheep, cows, yaks, pigs, chickens, horses, donkeys, and even some strange variety of deer. Every town was an E-I-E-I-O experience. We were forewarned to beware of free ranging livestock and to avoid them at all costs. Hitting a chicken was easily a $200 payment to its owner for the chicken, and all the eggs and chicks it might produce over a lifetime. A goat was $500. It was as if they had a published price list. So, any respite from the mountain terrain we might have enjoyed in the small villages was negated by pedestrians and livestock. The locals easily spotted a tourist mark and would stand directly in front of our bikes trying to sell us trinkets. Some would send their kids up to beg for money.

Beat Up and Wondering What I've Gotten Myself Into

After seemingly countless mountain passes and small towns, we found ourselves rattling into the border town of Syabrubesi and into a small hotel for dinner and a much-needed shower and bed. By western standards, this hotel was a dump, but it was clean, the staff were friendly, and it had surprisingly robust Wi-Fi. In the coming days, I would learn that this would be the last usable Wi-Fi I would see until we departed China. The doors in this hotel had outside deadbolts so they could lock "guests" in if needed. I was on my best behavior, just in case.

Dinner was served around 7:00pm, and while we were starving and ready to eat, we were all still tweaking from the ride in. The Tweaking didn't stop us from cleaning our plates though and we began to relax as the beer in our bellies absorbed the spicy hot food. I was silently praying I wouldn't need a fire extinguisher in the bathroom.

We knew the hardest part of the trip in terms of terrain was past, but we were keenly aware of two facts: One, altitude sickness would be a real threat in the coming days as we passed through the northern part of our route towards Everest, and Two, We would have to traverse the same hellish route we had just completed twelve days from now on our way back to Kathmandu.

Those facts didn't sway our collective enthusiasm. Our little group came back to life as the evening passed. We were one step closer to realizing a shared dream of gazing upon Everest, and the next step would be crossing into China tomorrow.

Dinner! I Brought My Own Fork and Spoon

 

 

 

 

Door Latches Outside the Room

 

I Was Glad I Ate Before I Saw the Kitchen

Retirement Musings - Pre Retirement Announcement

"Retirement is wonderful. It's doing nothing without worrying about getting caught at it.
- Gene Perret

It's time. I'm tired and I've had enough. I watched my parents work till the day they died and neither had anything to show for it. I refuse to accept that demise for myself. I'm retiring.

Abe Lemons said “The trouble with retirement is that you never get a day off.” I'm willing to find out for myself just how troublesome this is.

My first job beyond getting a modest allowance for chores at home was a paper route, throwing the Garland Daily News to about two hundred homes when I was twelve years old. It seems inconceivable these days that a child would come home from elementary school, roll, rubber band, and bag each days' edition, then take off on a bicycle to deliver them, getting back home at dusk in time for dinner. Even more strange is that that I used to walk up to strangers' porches with a pocket full of cash to collect subscribers' payments every month. This seems strange today, but it wasn't back in the day because there were hundreds of paperboys like me hitting the streets daily. I had Saturdays off, but Sundays were long days that started early because subscribers expected their paper on their porch first thing in the morning, and they had no reservations about calling to complain if it wasn't there. Every Sunday, I would be out on my bicycle before dawn with bags on each side of the rear wheel and one on the handlebars because the Sunday

Winchell's Donut House 1974 - Garland, Texas

edition was much larger than the weekdays'. When I was 14, I noticed that many paperboys were actually paper men and women who worked in teams and threw the papers from their cars to several routes combined into one large one. I couldn't compete with that kind of volume, so the Garland Daily News eventually gave my route to someone with a car. My favorite part of the paper route was stopping by a Winchell's Donut House on my way home after my completing my Sunday route. I would give the lady behind the counter a paper and she would give me a box of free hours-old donuts. Simpler times.

Sheraton Inn Today

Losing the paper route didn't bother me because at fourteen years old, I got a job as a busboy at a Sheraton Inn. My stepmother worked there and got me the job. I lied on the application, saying I was 15 years old, but it's not like she didn't know. Again, it's astounding in today's world to picture a 14 year old boy busing tables in a busy restaurant and taking room service meals to complete strangers' guestrooms on Saturday nights. I recall my mother warning me to be on the lookout for weirdos; especially during room service deliveries. I saw more than my share of interesting things, but the weirdest weirdo was the restaurant's lead cook who was a self-cutter. Joe was a big, strapping Italian guy with slicked back hair and a wicked set of chef's knives. I once watched him cut his forearm and dribble the blood into the hot grease fry vat. I told the manager and Joe was gone. Still, i never ate food from the hotel after that.

My shift was 6:00am to 2:00pm, and then 5:00pm to 11:00pm on Saturdays, and the same on Sundays, except that my evening shift ended at 7:00pm because I had school Monday morning. I made $2.35 per hour, plus room service tips. The waitstaff was technically supposed to share 10% of their restaurant tips with me for bussing their tables, but it occurred to me that it appeared to them as if I was just working for pocket money, and they had adult expenses and families to support. I never took the payout from those who offered. What I did earn was major cash for a 14 year old and I was able to help out at home buying my own lunch at school and occasionally slipping a few bucks into mama's wallet when she wasn't looking. Also, mama wisely made me bank most of it. I was saving for a motorcycle, which I purchased when I was 15. I credit mama and my stepdad for not only letting me work at the Sheraton, but for driving me to and from when the weather was too bad to ride my bicycle. Sometimes when there were vacancies, the hotel would allow me to stay over on Saturday night. This was a win for everyone. My parents didn't have to stay up late and get up early to drive me, I could get more sleep between shifts, and best of all, I could watch the pseudo dirty movies on the hotel TV. They were innuendo at the worst back then, and would probably be on Nickelodeon these days. That job came to an end when the Sheraton was purchased by another hotel chain and shut down for renovation. Over fifty years later, it's actually still there and has changed names more times than I can count.

I continued to work through high school for pocket money, gas for my bike/car, insurance, and to help out at home. Mama and my stepdad divorced, and my 18 year old sister was killed in an accident just days prior to her high school graduation in 1978. Mama was understandably an emotional basket case and by that time I was old enough to recognize our financial dire straits, so anything I could contribute to ease the pressure was never given a second thought. I worked three part time jobs my senior year. I was a porter at Treasury Drug Store, I drove a Sunday morning distribution route for Mrs. Baird's Bread, and I sold tokens and maintained the games at a local video game arcade called The Twilight Zone. It never occurred to me that this work ethic for a 17-18 year old man-boy was extraordinary but looking back, I suppose it might have been in some peoples' view. I managed to graduate high school in 1981 in the bottom half of my class of 600, and worked through the summer until October. I was leaving for Air Force boot camp on October 30th and I followed mama's advice to take some time off before my departure. My Air Force years could be their own blog fodder, but I'm not going there in this one.

I have worked pretty much nonstop since I was 14 years old. Put a fork in me 'cause like I said above, I'm done. I've come to recognize and more importantly, fully comprehend the difference between lifespan and healthspan. Lifespan is just that; our living years. Healthspan refers to the quality of life during those years and while I appreciate the prose and sentiment, Mick Jagger was wrong. Time is not on my side.

It's been said that our life leading to retirement is typically experienced in three segments:

• Go-Go Years: Living an active and purposeful life that requires and builds strength and endurance
• Slow-Go Years: Living a less-physically demanding lifestyle, yet maintaining relationships with others
• No-Go Years: Living a more sedentary life when mobility and physical capabilities have diminished

I plan to spend my first year in retirement in what I will call my great personal reset, during which I plan to rest, recreate, and rejuvenate during the onset of my senior Go-Go Years. We have all had to unplug our home computer or internet router that was running sluggishly. Sometimes, just simply unplugging these devices for a short time provides the reset they need. I believe the same analogy applies to us; or at least to me. Obviously, we don't unplug our electronics for a year like I'm planning for myself, but when I put it in perspective and consider a working career spanning 45 years, a one-year personal reset is reasonable.

So what's in my reset? I plan to spend time trimming and pruning to make the tree groves on my land look like the park I have in my vision. I plan to spend more time with my livestock. I plan to become a more competent beekeeper. I plan to build a shooting range in the back corner woods on my land and become a better marksman. I plan to reinvigorate my passion for playing drums and to channel that passion into a low-pressure, light commitment, occasionally-gigging band. I plan to take the time to no longer dread what's coming tomorrow, and I plan to accomplish this by living a smaller, peaceful life, free of hustle, traffic, and corporate stress. I realize that retired life will be neither perfect, nor totally stress-free, but I am confident that the stresses I will experience will be easier to face in my post-rat raced life.

It occurred to me eight years ago when we first moved out to the country that it was time for me to redefine my vision of success. Through this introspect, I've realized that time is far more valuable than money. I can always get more money, but my time to enjoy life, family, and personal passions is finite. I realize that this isn't some profound epiphany, but facing it objectively was a profound moment of clarity for me. I have chosen to retire during the youth of my senior years and to be the master my own uncomplicated (or at least less complicated) life.

I don't want to be alone. I just want to be left alone.
- Audrey Hepburn

When it comes to true friends, I've never really had that many and like many, that number tends to dwindle as we age. And I'm aware that the considerably few friends I have now will likely be even fewer once I'm retired. In my career, I worked either from home or as a crew of one at client sites on the road, so I never really had work friends either. Having moved out to the country and now living on a small ten-acre homestead, I've grown accustomed to a limited and measured social circle. I have always been a type-A personality, but again, in retrospect, it occurred to me that I have become increasingly content with my own company. Having spent a cumulative total of over 2,000 nights of the last thirty years on the road and alone in corporate hotel rooms will do that to a man. I still see my oldest friends from school and some band mates, but I'm the one who moved out to the middle of nowhere, so getting together tends to fall on my shoulders if it's going to happen. I'm OK with that, and I know that a little of me goes a long way, so I'm sure they're OK with it too.

Some of the very few people with whom I have shared my retirement plans have asked about my getting lonely living in the added solitude. It's a valid question and after giving it some thought, I don't believe that one necessarily has to lead to the other. To me, solitude provides time for self refection and introspection. I view loneliness as a consequence of being isolated, rejected, and forgotten. And, while I have come to recognize a greater sense of being alone, I have never felt lonely.

I have also decided to take a stab at documenting the experience of transitioning to retirement. I'm slowly creating content for a YouTube channel called My Rural Retirement. The channel is created, but I don't plan to be on the air until May or June. It will be a stream of conscientiousness view of my transition to life in the slow lane after a 45 year career in the express lane. Stay tuned. It could be fun.

View From the New Office