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8/3/2019 Sample of "Lean Into Life: Lessons from the "Road"
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Te night beore returning to Charlotte, North Carolina,
rom my rst Conga ride in 2010, I rendezvoused with our
motorcycling riends in Asheville, a Blue Ridge Mountain
town a couple o hours away. My our riends had witnessed
me wiping out in a rainstorm three months earlier on a rented
bike, and although they worried about my saety on the 18-state
journey rom North Carolina to Oregon and back, they cheered
me on and helped me prepare. Returning unscathed to their
enthusiastic embraces and high ves was my rst emotionalvictory lap.
I knew that there would be V crews and a newspaper
reporter or two waiting to talk to me the next day at my
welcome-home party, but had no idea how I would respond to
the inevitable question o why I did it. Why had I done it? Yes, I
needed to work on the book project in Oregon, but I could have
LessonsLean Into Life:
from the Road
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easily own there and back, so that wasnt it. Why had I decided
to set of on a mostly-solo trek with so little preparation? I
listened to my answers careully that night as my riends asked
me about my experience, but I went to bed without the wished
or aha moment o clarity.
Te bikers planned a great route home through a ew
stretches o twisty roads between Asheville and Lake Lure. Askany experienced motorcyclist and theyll tell you how much
they enjoy a nice twisty road; ask any inexperienced biker about
riding twisties and watch the color drain rom their ace. I rode
in the cradle that daymy term or being in the middle o
the line o bikesand when we stopped or breakast in Lake
Lure my riends remarked that my skills were much improved
Why had I
decided to
set off on a
mostly-solotrek with
so little
preparation?
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ater 7500 miles behind me; I
could eel it mysel, too. But
something emotional was wellingup alongside the pride over my
technical skills. What was it?
Our next stop was the Bantam
Che diner in Chesnee, South
Carolina, chockablock with 1950s
memorabilia including a 1950
restored Studebaker and a 1958
BMW Isetta. You can smell its
cooking oil rom a block away on a
normal day, and rom three blocks
away on a summer day when the
air doesnt move. August 8, 2010
was a three-block day.
I love diners, dives and greasy
spoons, especially when the
kitsch on the walls is collected,not manuactured, and the
owners themselves rell your ice
tea rom a pitcher. No one else
in my amily quite appreciates
these establishments as I do,
which made me reect on the
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reedom Id enjoyed on my trip to eat where I wanted to, and
with whom I wanted. How I had lingered over interesting
conversations with patrons and wait staf and had been ableto tell them anything I wanted about mysel. Heck, I could
have even lied about who I was and what I was doing i Id
wanted to.
During that last hour on the bike, nearing the re-entry
zone o my ormer lie, I thought about identity, my identity,
and the identity that others ascribed to me. I thought about
the person that my ellow Conga riders knew me to be. She
was diferent in many key ways rom the person that my
closest riends and amily had come to know over a longer
period o time. Te Conga rider was a successul adventurer.
She had taken a risk that most people had warned her
against, and prevailed. She had done something that many
middle-aged women dreamed o, sometimes secretly. Most
importantly, she had changed the way she thought o hersel.
Wheeling into my welcome-home party at Caribou
Cofee where amily, riends, the anticipated V newscrews and a Charlotte Observer reporter bore witness to my
accomplishment, I was indeed asked why I did it. I heard
mysel say that Id had a lot o ailures in my lie and this trip
was a way or me to redene mysel as a success. Funny, it
only became clear to me why Id done it ater it was done.
Id had
a lot of
failures in
my life and
this trip
was a way
for me toredene
myself as
a success.
Funny, it
only became
clear to
me why
Id done
it after it
was done.
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From Failed Business Ownerto Successful Human Being
Rewind our years rom that rst Conga ride and Id havedescribed mysel as the owner and guarantor o a bankrupt
business. Facing weekly capital calls rom riends and amily who
had bankrolled the endeavor, I had taken a calculated risk and
ailed miserably, taking down with me people who had entrusted
their money to my business acumen. My bank account had been
swept clean by the Internal Revenue Service. Tere was no way
we could aford college tuition or our children.
Suicide began seducing me long beore I got the urge to take
action. Mental health proessionals call it suicidal ideation
when that little voice says, ake a hard let into the oncoming
lane and all this shit will go away. I that little voice has been
speaking to you, too, get help immediately.
One day I snapped. Not in the sense o alling into a heap;
what I ell into was a sort o trance. Driving home rom another
day o taking creditor and investor calls and dealing with a
I had taken a calculated risk and failed miserably,
taking down with me people who had entrusted
their money to my business acumen.
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workorce that couldnt pass a drug test, the idea
persisted that there was one solution that would
make everyone happy. I I were dead I wouldnthave to deal with my bungled lie and my loved
ones would have at least some o their money back
rom the lie insurance proceeds. Youre probably
saying but a lie insurance policy wont pay on
suicide. As a ormer insurance executive I knew my
particular policy would.
Up in my bedroom, I powered up Word on my
laptop and directed my spouse in how I wanted
him to allocate the proceeds o the policy. Tere was
no goodbye, cruel world language; I was entering
a unilateral business transaction. My lie or the
insurance money.
Note nished, I surveyed the meager pharmaceutical
contents o my medicine cabinet, looking up each online,
trying to nd a lethal combination. With the realization that
laxatives, decongestants and analgesics wouldnt do the job,and that something more painul and messy was in order, I
started coming out o my trance. My amily trickled in rom
work and school. Someone had to make dinner. Lie went on
and soon the gravity o what Id almost done led me to seek
medical, psychological and spiritual caregiving. But it took
a cross-country motorcycle trip to bring back my mojo.
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It took a cross-country motorcycle trip
to bring back my mojo.
An Invitation to Lean Into Life
Motorcycling gave me a new metaphor or exploring the
road o my lie, including these insights:
Everything wobbles: Avoiding and recovering rom
the inevitable spills o lie.
Blind corners abound: Ride your best ride and take
uncertainty as it comes.
Explore the detours: Teyre usually providential. Embrace the switchbacks: Te saest way to the
mountaintop isnt the shortest.
I invite you to learn more about my story in the
orthcoming memoir, Lean Into Life: Lessons from the Road.
Ive never seen a story told in a 356-day series, which I do in
Lean Into Life, but the ormat makes sense to me based on
my morning ritual: a bit o yoga, inspirational readings and
quite prayer and reection.
I hope youll give yoursel two or three minutes each day
to traverse the highways and byways o lie with me. urn the
page or two daily samples rom Lean Into Life: Lessons from
the Road.
For books Ive written visit amelaRich.com/books.
Tamela Speaks
to community groups
and businesses on the
themes o rebirth and
transormation rom a
motorcyclists perspective.
She invites you alongor the ride rom the
comort o a conerence
room chair, at a corporate,
social or religious retreat,
or in any setting that
nds people ready to
absorb, be inspired and
come away motivated to
make an impact in and
through their own lives.
Get started by emailing:
TamelaRich.com/books 109
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Ask for helpI think theres a place or lone wolng, bootstrapping and sel-reliance,
but Americans place too much emphasis on rugged individualism.
Asking or help shouldnt bring you shame and it might just pay of or
all concerned. Know how I got my BMW motorcycle and the training I
needed to traverse eighteen states on my 2010 Conga? By asking.
When I asked the BMW Perormance Center to sponsor me with a
bike and training, I knew it was a long shot. I knew that women are
the astest-growing segment o the motorcycle industry and that BMW
motorcycle buyers are typically college educated, working in a managerial
or proessional role and middle-aged (in other words, women just like
me). I gured that my proposition would be odder or BMWs publicrelations team i I brought mysel and the bike back in one piece, but
during the middle o a recession, asking or sponsorship was a crap shoot.
From BMWs perspective, however, they could have spent hundreds o
thousands o dollars trying to nd a middle-aged woman whod agree
to go on a cross-country motorcycle trip ater a couple o days training,
and here I landed on their doorstep on my own steam. No wonder they
didnt hesitate to say yes.
Tere are only two answers to any requestyes or no.
I you never ask the question, the answers a defnite no.
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One day at a timeEveryone I knew, even those who wished me well and cheered me
on, worried that I was taking on an overly ambitious project7500
miles with about 1000 miles o seat time beore departure. Tey
worried about lots o things, not only the number o miles, but
the weather, the strangers and the animals I would encounter, my
lack o mechanical skills and the act that Id never traveled that
ar alone in a car with GPS, much less a motorcycle without it.
Looking at it rationally, they were right. But I knew I could do it.
o those who brought up the chicken and egg argument about
not having enough seat time to try this cross-country eat, I told
them that I was going to take the trip one day at a time. Te rstday that I rode solo I said, oday Im going to drive 275 miles
rom Cincinnati, Ohio to Valparaiso, Indiana all by mysel. Ill
stop when I need to stop and deal with whatever comes my way
as best I can. Its going to be un and Im going to be a better
rider by the time I get to Valpo. Sure enough, it was true.
Dont overwhelm yoursel thinking about the uture.
Do what you must do today to the best o your ability,
with ocus and a joyul heart. And do the same tomorrow.
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