zen and the art of crashing:

lessons from eating sh*t at Big Bend

Nov 25, 2024

“F*ck Fu*k Fck Fuk F*ck Fr*ck *uck Fuck* F*ck”

This is a glimpse into the dialogue rattling around my head as my most expensive purchase to date lies sideways in a cactus.

flashback

Growing up, we were a “Honda family” — we’ve always valued “cheap and reliable.”

My father's words still echo in my head:

“If German engineering is so great, why does it seem to break down more? And why do the parts and service cost so much?”

But there I stood in Richard's garage, surrounded by mechanical poetry: two classic Italian Ducatis, two Beemers, and one Japanese project cafe racer.
All pristine, all on battery tenders, waiting to be unleashed.

That's when I strayed from my roots and bought my first "ultimate driving machine."

The BMW was already kitted out with the modifications I'd want for a long off-roading adventure — knobby tires, shorter seat, aluminum panniers, even heated grips…

It wasn’t just a motorcycle; I convinced myself it was a tool—my ticket to the top of Alaska and a promise of freedom, exploration, and adventure.

(I still told myself this, even when the first maintenance bill came in and this tool cost more than my entire Honda CB400F build — parts, maintenance, and the bike itself…)

Flash Foward to Big Bend National Park

I'd ridden on dirt, gravel, and grass before. But boulders, steep grades, and riverbed crossings thick with sand?
Those, I quickly learned, are a different beast.

For the first half of the trip, I treated my German machine like fine china. Each fall onto rocks, into sand, or yes – even into a cactus – felt like a personal failure, sending pangs that reverberated through my psyche and wallet.

After the fifth fall, something else snapped.

I was feeling fear. The kind of fear that makes your hands shake and strips away muscle memory. The kind that makes you question everything and lose confidence. The fear that makes you spiral.

As I picked the needles out of my right hand, thoughts and emotions began to overwhelm me:

Anger: Why am I so bad at this? I thought you knew how to ride. You just wasted so much money.
Shame: My ego was crushed. Out of our group of three, I fell the most, and damaged my bike the most. I had to have both of them help walk me and my bike through certain sections of the trail because I was too shaky.
Sadness: Is adventure riding really for me? Do you really think you can make it to Alaska?
Fear: Pure, simple fear. I prayed we’d make it off of the trail. I wanted to stop. I wasn't built for this.

We didn't make it to our intended campsite before sundown.

The trail ahead promised more gnarly grades and loose rock that I knew I couldn't handle in my rattled state.

It felt like quitting.
It was quitting.
I hate quitting.

We set up camp where we were and decided to turn back in the morning, taking an alternate route to our next campsite.

I had overestimated my skills and underestimated the trail. But as frustrating as it was, I was reminded of one of life’s most valuable lessons.

Failing is a part of the process.

Thinking I'd be "good" off-road simply because I had a ton of on-road motorcycle experience was pure hubris. This was my first real “adventure touring” experience, and I'd attempted a trail far beyond my skill level.

How else would this have turned out?!

Despite my failures (or maybe because of them), the rest of the trip was unforgettable.

The following days were much better. After some camaraderie, food, and sleep — I regained some confidence and felt more comfortable on the bike.

I smiled more and fell a lot less.

(Big Bend exceeded my expectations. The stars were immaculate, the views breathtaking, and the silence was profound. Even during peak season, we didn’t see many people and it felt like we had the park to ourselves. A lot of the time, we were just consumed in the moment, trying to soak up all that our eyes were beholding.)

This experience motivated me to begin writing again. I guess that’s what silence, friends, and some poetry around the camp stove (no fire due to the burn ban) will do to you.

This experience mirrors my creative journey this year, particularly with writing. I had ambitious goals for 2024: specific weekly targets, quarterly letters, and consistent online presence. But as James Clear would say, "pros don't let 'life get in the way'" — and I let life get in the way. The same shakiness and uncertainty that plagued me on the trail crept into my writing: Should I be doing this? Am I good enough? Is this even for me?

Sometimes the difference between quitting and continuing isn't skill or courage — it's the people around you who help pick you (and your bike) back up.

The most valuable lessons often come when we're face-down in the dirt, wondering if we should quit. When the path ahead is long and winding — the answer, I've learned, is usually to dust yourself off, assess the damage, and keep riding.

ML and have a wonderful Thanksgiving,
Anthony

P.S. — For my lovely below-the-fold club, y’all get some brief life updates.

In the time I’ve been offline, a lot has happened in other life buckets:

LRL

Thank you to my friends who have kept tabs on me (and have helped pick me up) during this tumultuous/travel-filled/grind season of life.
Something special is happening the weekend of 1/18

Health

I have not hit 225 on the bench this month…yet (This being my only arbitrary metric of physical health/strength that I am tracking).

Career

A TON has happened in this bucket and it has been a priority for me since I took a break from writing.
- For a glimpse of what this fall looked like for me, check out this cool photo essay!
- and BTW — we are hiring a bunch of roles at Funga! Deadline for applications closes soon, if you or someone you know would be a good fit, lmk!

Creative