The Lights Are Off

Gary, our sons, and I have always loved to hike. Our years living in New Hampshire and multiple cross-country road trips proved that we could eagerly tackle just about anything—mountains, hills, canyons, and even the mean streets of big cities. The dogs love hiking too, though their version tends to include more pulling, wandering, tangling, pooping, peeing, chasing squirrels, and digging random holes. Dog owners, you know what I mean.


One of the unexpected joys of life on the road is how much fresh air and exercise we’re getting. And with all that activity, we’re sleeping like rocks. When you live in just 250 square feet, with an “outdoor patio” setup that changes by the week, you naturally find yourself spending more time outside—walking the dogs, exploring new trails, swimming, eating outdoors, and driving with the Jeep top off, wind in our hair and not a care in the world.


Gary, of course, takes it to the next level. He’s a cyclist—a good one. Recently he added a new mountain bike to his already impressive gear, even though his road bike is likely to stay in storage for now. I have an older bike too, but it mostly acts as a decorative stand for the wind chimes I brought from my mom’s house—something familiar to hang outside and make our camp feel a little more like home.


I keep promising Gary I’ll ride more. I even said I’d try to keep up with him for at least the first mile of his twenty-mile ride. But let’s be real. After about twenty minutes, my rear end is aching, my knees are cracking, and my fingers go numb thanks to some lingering carpal tunnel. Honestly, I think Gary’s fine with that. He rides. I walk. We get a little time apart. And that, my friends, is probably one of the keys to thirty blissful years together: shared interests, separate paths, and mutual respect for each other’s quirks and comfort zones.