Jessica Lah

My week with the PV Biker Chicks was extraordinary! I led 9 ladies and one (very awesome) husband on the same route of my very 1st self supported bicycle tour back in 2010—Big Sur. With my bike-hero/bestie/copilot Spencer Harding by my side, we were an unstoppable force. Big Sur was his entry into self supported bicycle touring as well. Now 4 years later, we were guiding it together.

The best coastline you could ever ride in the world is right at California’s door. Secluded from big trucks and tour buses, HWY 1 from Monterrey to Pismo Beach has all the glory of dramatic scenery, fresh sea air, and untouched cliffs plunging into the ocean. I’ve driven this coast before, and so have many of the Bike Chicks. But as Nancy Linn put it “the experience of riding was… gosh… words can’t even describe.” Yeh, Nancy, it’s just like that.

Jeff, the team leader from Bicycle Adventures joined as the tour “Cabana Boy” to learn the region. He was hooked instantly, stuck on those vibrant beach sunsets—just California in perfect form.

Aside from the scenery, there was something special about this group. The camaraderie, the constant laughter, and the undying support through and through. On the first day shuttle ride, phones were passed around with pictures of grandchildren and stories of so and so’s husband were shared. This relationship between the gals goes deep, beyond the biker chicks group rides that Karen Ray started organizing over 15 years ago. Their lives have grown together and a bike has become a way to reunite them all.

Gratefully, the group doesn’t hold exclusivity to the core members. Tracy, Nancy R., and Doug were adopted for their cool tones, jolly talk, and harmonica tunes. Yes, this group has it all, and by the end of the week I wanted to scream “Adopt me as a Biker Chick too!”

So here’s to the lovely ladies! A toast to all them as a painting.

 

For the first time, I’m at a place where work feels more like play. I lead bicycle tours with Bicycle Adventures. Not the peanut butt’r jelly kind I normally take with stuffed panniers and washed clothes haphazardly strapped on my bicycle rack to sun dry. This is a different kind of touring. This kind of touring rewards a hard days play with a plush bed, top cuts of meat prepared any way you like, and a cup a sunrise coffee to send you off for the next day. The common demoninator between these two kinds of touring are the outstanding views and bicycles. I’ve met people from all over, from all walks of life with their own stories and adventures, I was lucky to spend a week at a time with them. In between shuffling luggage, honking my bugle horn, and hosting a week long party in some kick butt destinations, I got to know some really great people. So thanks to them! They are the ones enabling me to do what I love—bike, eat, and paint.

I gave guests my snapshots while out on tour. Art is to be shared.

Volcanos of Washington

San Juan Island 4day

San Juan Island and Victoria BC

Canadian Gulf Islands

Big Sur

Sometimes there’s a groggy feeling when the light is not yet out. Before the birds are chirping and the streets feel unfamiliar because the storefronts are closed, the streets are quiet, and the trash has been picked up. There’s something to a rising sun, that will change all this. I’m in Hong Kong, waiting for the 5am bus to the airport and this morning scene has become familiar to me from all over the world.

I reflect on my arrival in Paris almost two months ago. Before the sunrise, the airport was not yet open, dark, and a few people wandered the terminal for the first shuttle, taxi, or train. I, on the other hand, loitered for an hour outside of customs before initiating a search for a train into the city. I was waiting out the nervousness. Waiting for the anxiety that built up from months of anticipation, preparation, and expectation for the two month long journey to melt away. Finally, I mustered up the courage to buy a train ticket into Paris. Coming out of the airport tunnel on the train, one moment was all it took to wash away all the nervous feelings—I watched the sunrise. To the east, bare winter trees silhouetted against a warm sky, to the west, houses basked in a vivid orange light. The world was waking up, and I was under the same sky as I was in Seattle.

Mornings became my anchor for two months during my travel. The sun knows no boarders, and in the cities I traveled, Paris, London, Amsterdam, Chiang Mai, Yangon, Macau, and Hong Kong I realized all of us are under an undivided sky. The sun will rise everywhere and people will wake to greet it. Whenever I needed to orient myself, ground myself, and find comfort, I looked to the sunrise and watched a city of people meet a new day. A day of transport, commerce, and construction, the fabric of every city.

In Paris, a woman lights her 2nd cigarette of the morning and stashes the lighter in her expensive handbag while she walks along the Seine to work.

On the tube in London, a suited man with slick black shoes reads the City AM paper with music buds in his ears. Two loud Indian men to his right, a striking black girl in fur with red lipstick to his left.

In Amsterdam, the window instillation driver stops at the cross waiting for a herd of cyclists to pass. The man cycling with a rolling suitcase makes the driver miss his light.

Outside the old mote of Chang Mai, a mass of scooters weave through stopped cars to the edge of the intersection at a red light. A rather heavy set but upright Thai flicks his cigarette and ash falls to his green flip-flops before he makes a left turn.

On 29th St in Yangon, the woman with a painted face and beetle nut red teeth flays a fish over newspaper on the pavement while calling out the sale of the day. A Hindu woman carefully selects the freshest chicken of the fly infested pile across the sidewalk.

In Macau, the Chinese construction worker wearing grey fights for space at the front door of bus 34 while the ones in the back bob their heads falling asleep for the hour long ride.

In Hong Kong, the suited Chinese man with slick black shoes shouts in Cantonese on his phone at the international airport while his wife wipes a lipstick smudge with a tissue and stashes the rest in her expensive handbag. Two loud Indian men to her left, I am to her right.

On this morning of March 25th, I watch the sunrise from the Hong Kong Airport on my way home to Seattle. The hustle of flying halfway around the world almost makes me forget to observe such a momentous occasion. But in a moment, I catch the mountains silhouetted against a warm sky, the trees in a flowering spring bloom, and the vivid orange reflecting off the water. I’m brought back to my first day in Paris, nervous at the airport and searching for my center with the rising sun.

I’ve come a long way. I’ve hugged old friends shared stories of “back n’ the days.” I’ve ogled over voluptuous pastries and tall men with nice hair. I’ve played Cards Against Humanity with total strangers on the theatre steps at dawn. I rode a bike drunk over the canals of Amsterdam in the middle of the night and jumped on the bed because damnit “we’re in Paris!” I’ve flown around the world in anticipation for love only to be brushed off. I’ve danced and drank Johnny Walker with Burmese singing their hearts out to a guitar before noon in the park. I’ve tandem biked London streets wearing a loch ness onesie with a zebra at the steer. I’ve painted the night sky at the steps of St. Paul in Macau. I’ve made friends, felt romance, been loved and returned love. I’ve laughed with the best of them and toasted with others. I’ve erupted with heartache and I’ve found my way back to happiness, always beginning back at sunrise.

On this day, March 25th, I get two mornings. A beginning of the end, and a beginning to the future, departing Hong Kong at 7:55am and a landing at 7:45am in Seattle. The Seattle airport smells of fresh brewed coffee, outside a fresh fragrance of pine. The sunrise hidden behind the clouds and rain feels like home, but I watch from the train and bus as the city rises to meet the morning. The construction workers diverting my old bus route, the cyclists commuting on the streets. The quiet morning bustle feels familiar not because it’s home, but because it’s familiar to the other cities I’ve traveled to around the world. Beautiful in its own way, basking under its own light. This morning in Seattle is my second start of today, waking up to meet the prospects of the future.

By the beginning of February, I left my job and hopped on a plane to begin the next adventure. To start life anew, open to possibilities.

Back in Fall of last year I received two very big requests to visit two separate friends. One in London, the other in Myanmar. I was excited for London with my friend Elizabeth, and a boy in Myanmar. The boy (a long time friend) and I reconnected over a year ago. Things became serious when He asked me to find my way to Him. To consider the possibility, that two people living on opposite sides of the world, could in fact find a way to be together. I offered to visit with emotional hope but rational reserve. He offered to pay half my airfare and to share His world with me. This, as we defined our gray area relationship, would not become certain or real until emotions could be felt in flesh. Until then, a month long February date was put on the calendar. By March I would go to Europe.

Months, sweet emails, skype calls later, our “date” drew near. I began to feel the pressure from saving money and dropping my job, I was leaving stability. Four weeks from February, He asked me to switch Europe in front of Asia. His hope was to open the possibility of extending our “date” to a longer stay, potentially a move. I did, because maybe this was worth fighting for. I took action at his requests to make this trip worth it for us, and I found my emotions following the direction of my commitments. Maybe I was going to stay with him? Oh, the silly girl I am.

While in London, two weeks before the planned trip to Asia, He told me this wouldn’t work out, He was seeing someone else. After 6 months of reading “you might be the adventure I’m looking for…” This adventure between us was over.

I was still going to Myanmar, it had been my plan. He said with all intention, He wanted me there as a friend. Plans kept changing and I kept trying to role with them. On March 5th, my departure date, I hugged my dear friend Elizabeth goodbye on the Piccadilly line to Heathrow airport. I held her tight before she left at the next station, she held back just as hard. London commuters had their newspapers high. She said ‘I love you’ loud and clear, exactly the way I needed to hear it. I said it right back at her. For me, Europe had already been full of tears, but Elizabeth had taken care of me. Full of kinship, struggle, drunkin’ nights, quiet moments, holding my hair while I puked behind parked cars, a fight that had me screaming at her in the streets, she was there. I was saying goodbye, while London for the first time, was in perfect form. The daffodils fully bloomed, blue sky, and the warmest temperatures since I arrived. I was leaving a beautiful day and Elizabeth. I was about to begin the next part of my trip—I was going to see Asia and Him.

I spent my passage to Chiang Mai, Thailand (another diverted route to Myanmar) questioning how I would react to Him in person. I lost romantic feelings for Him well before the trip began, seeing small signs. On the plane my emotions were lost and with a countdown, entirely confused. How would I spend 2 1/2 weeks with Him?

When I first saw Him at the airport, 10 minutes was all it took to feel an emotion. I was casually introduced to His beautiful Venezuelan girlfriend, she had a feather in her hair. Emotion hit like a tidal wave and it felt like cabin pressure at 40,000 feet dropping fast for landing. Sensory hearing, smell, and touch had gone numb, breathing had become a conscious effort. I was seeing Thailand for first time, and it passed by like a TV on in the background. I was completely incapacitated from everything besides feeling the horrible outpour of sadness. And pour it did.

I pondered, “Had I allowed myself to fall in love?” No, I hadn’t. “Had I set up preposterous expectations?” Maybe, but not enough to merit the degree of pain. I had come prepared to see him as a friend, but as He changed and overturned plans 67 times before I arrived (including 24 hours before my flight) I should have known. In person, I could tell my resonance with Him as even a friend had dwindled for a long time without me knowing and now it felt like nothing. All I knew was I didn’t come here for this no matter how the definition changed. I decided to reroute my entire Asia trip, and go into Myanmar alone.

The next day over fried fish at a lakefront cafe, I told him of my new plans to continue on my own. A withered black cat came begging for scraps at the table. He and I began to argue over how butchered this “date” had become. At times I wanted to pin Him for the wrong he had done against me. The pain I felt, the airfare he sidestepped, the stress, struggle, and tears. All of it. Instead I breathed, fed fish to the funky dying cat, shortened the argument, and held onto the last of the dignity I had. Withholding my shame, agony, anger, and tears from him was the only way to empower myself again.

I thought back to my argument with Elizabeth, screaming on the streets and crying all night long. Amidst, I yelled “I know tomorrow I’m going to still love you. I’m not going anywhere, no matter how pissed I get.” Something happened between us that night, we had extended our trust for each other. To me, that’s a fight worthy of love.

With Him in Thailand, I found the answer to the feelings I questioned: I had cared all along. When I physically saw Him, it struck me that recklessly, He didn’t. I was kicked to the ground, and didn’t have it in me any longer—He wasn’t worth the fight.

In my final day in Chiang Mai, I meandered the temples on my own and painted. The sky was a hazy yellow and sun glowed a vivid orange-red. The start of my visit was timed at the end of “burn season.” The smoldering sky caused by the slash-and-burn agriculture dominating Southeast Asia. Though apologies were made for the unsightly landscape, the conditions seemed to mirror my feelings perfectly.

He and I said goodbye yesterday at the bus station, and did so respectfully. On the way to the boarder town of Mae Sot, I watched the endless burnt landscape pass through the bus window. The earth charred and dead. Yet amongst the death, black, and smolder, the earth will be tilled to finally give life again. Though I would not see it on this trip, the promise that the ground will return to a beautiful state of growth is enough to hold onto.

Today is March 10th and I’ve been in Thailand for 4 days. I am taking the leap to Myanmar on my own. I’m taking back control of my journey.

I hope one day Seattle will reach the pinnacle and become the new Amsterdam. Because, when I woke in the morning, dressed, got to the market right when they pulled out the fresh croissant and found myself cruising down the street… I was in bliss. Crumbs to wind!

In Seattle, most bike commuters wear a badge. This ranges to the degree of dedication of cycling. I admit, as a car free cyclist, I wear one. In Amsterdam there are no badges because everyone, kid or old, rides all the time. It’s beautiful.

For the days my friend and I were in Amsterdam, it was free. She felt it, I felt it. Late night after museums and dinner, following Elizabeth through the madness of canals and streets, I found myself swirling the handlebars, popping over soft curves. I genuinely love the feel of a clunky steal, upright kids bike. Thanks cousin for letting me borrow it!

I didn’t even mention the museums! Oh gosh are they amazing. I just had to indulge this post on bikes for a moment. But art is here!

There’s not enough time in the day to see all the art that is in this great city. There also isn’t enough time for me to sit back and draft a loquacious response to my travels. So for now, all I can say is I’m productive, more than I’ve been in a long time.

I get up in the morning, rush out the door, zip past the commuters in the subway. I’m on my way to the art museum and Sargeant, Vuillard, Van Gogh, and John are waiting for me. So step on it!

I burst through the museum entry doors like a greyhound off at the gate, I march through the museum like I own the place, the echo of my cowboy boots high in the halls. When I reach Bellows, Bernini, and Bonnard, I look ’em right in the paint…and draw.

The following are the best of the mass.

I made the happy mistake of planning Paris off tourist season. From February 3rd to the 9th, the Paris sidewalks were open, kitschy souvenir stands were shut, and the Parisians a bit tolerant that you don’t know French. Without the crowds, lines, and tour buses Paris was not the Disneyland I initially imagined it to be. Paris was Paris in its most beautiful form.

So I’ll indulge in the romantic in me during this post because Paris was just that, romantic. Beyond the obvious mecca for arts, history, and food which I won’t neglect to note later. The most striking surprise was that Parisians didn’t seem to care. Let me be precise, as this comes off already as a negative. I don’t mean “to care” as in consideration for an individual significance, but rather a “As long as you don’t hurt anyone or damage property, why do I mind what you do?” For example, my first day in the D’ Orsay museum, I found a quiet corner to draw. I pulled out one charcoal pencil and looked both ways, then another, then nervously a single pastel stick. By the end of the day, three paintings later, I was sprawled on the floor, my entire pastel set out, 5 minutes until closing, and no one was there tapping their foot to scoot me out. As my visit began, I structured my days, adhered to rules, and made a plan. Towards the end, down to the minutes, I was unabashedly following my own desires as they arose.

My days structured themselves in ebb and flow between myself and the city. Days were spent revolved around the art, seeing and creating. The best brasseries and boulangeries turned up on the corner when I began to crave expresso and a croissant. Evenings took on good times with a friend, a fine French restaurant, a bottle of wine, galavanting the streets where another monumental cathedral/sculpture/official building popped up on every corner. We were led into a deep rabbit hole of French history and architecture.

Wine flowed, the people were beautiful, and on the final day Paris blew a perfect rain storm that crushed me into admittance that I love Paris. Outside the Montmartre Basilica, Roy and I sat outside a corner brasserie sipping cafe au laits. To my right I shared seats with an older French couple in charming chatter, wine and cigarettes. When the sky grew dark the pace of the side walkers picked up. A crack of thunder and a fast breeze ripped the sky open in a downpour and the wet streets began to glow, reflecting the lights from the cafe and toy store across from us. The French couple and waiter chuckled over the weather. Our waiter a performer, a magician. He leaped out from under the awning into the rain as if appearing on stage, his audience—the cafe. When we paid our tab, he twirled his hands from his apron pockets to reveal change like a rabbit from a hat and delivered each bill like a mystifying card trick. The rain cloud passed within 15 minutes and revealed a dusk sky. The moment however, became a lasting impression that Paris is a magical city.

The galleries below are divided into artwork created from the Paris trip and art replicated from the masters I observed in the museums. Au Revoir!

5:45AM and I haven’t left the Charles de Gaulles airport in Paris. Shops are barely opening and people linger waiting for rides, a train, or a next day flight. By dawn I’m on the train watching a beautiful sunrise into the city. I take comfort in the morning glow and the feel of a new day.

At exit Alexandre Dumas I find a cafe open at Rue de la Reunion. Monday mornings are quiet while mostly blue collar men and the homeless walking the street. I cram my three bags through the door and find a seat in a tight corner. The bar is nearly full of Monday morning locals. On the agenda for today is to sit in a French cafe, just to sit and listen to the sounds, for hours. I order a “cafe au lait” and the barista responds with words I don’t understand. I smile and try to agree with a question I don’t understand. With a glance of the pile of luggage, the barista gets my lack of response and serves me with a sympathetic smile. He must know this is my first stop.

Hours after sitting and drawing, I sip the last of my water and coffee and pack my things. A gentleman grabs the door for me and the barista gives me a smile and a wave as I walk through the doorway. The day still crisp, but now the streets are awake with people.