A Woman Travels, Alone

I have solo travel on my mind. Specifically, what it means to travel alone as a woman. 

In full disclosure, I really hope that whatever comes of my 16-day, 300-km walk from sea to sea across Northern England will be a successful tale of adventure – of smoothish miles traversed across wild, rugged landscape. 

A tale of learning and yes, some struggle, but perhaps the kind of struggle depicted in films, where despite all the rain and dirt and bloodshed, the heroine’s makeup is still miraculously intact. And while she may cry a few tears, this is limited to exactly three tears before she draws on an inner well of strength and carries on to the rising swell of a symphony.

This is what I hope.

But I am not very good at hope.

I’m often convinced that Hope and Trust, in and of themselves, have gotten me in more trouble than my good friends Doubt and Distrust ever did. 

So I do what I suspect a lot of people do. I prepare myself for the worst. I imagine arriving at the airport only to learn my luggage hasn’t made it. I envision getting on the wrong train and having to backtrack. I anticipate hiking along what turns out to be a goat track for hours. Leaving my phone on a rock in the rain. Things like that.

I have a knee injury that still niggles at me years after I had it repaired. While my ACL is intact, my tibia sometimes dislocates from its groove with a smooth, audible clack. And while I’m well-versed at popping it back into place, it takes about twenty-four hours to feel better. So as you can imagine, I picture limping through slippery mud, miles from anywhere, while sheep bleat and laugh at me.

I anticipate rain, and unhelpful people, and village stores that are closed because I arrive too late. I operate based on the assumption that I’ve mixed up my dates, and that I’ll inevitably show up at an inn during a rainstorm only for the staff to share bewildered glances. “You don’t seem to be booked here tonight,” they will say slowly, apologetically, while I drip on their carpet. 

Or maybe I’ll just be tired. I have spent the last few years in my cozy home, being cozy. Although I’m reasonably fit in a general sense, I’m not much of a walker. Truthfully, I prefer to bicycle. So maybe I’ll be moody, and frustrated, and unmotivated.

You have to understand, I don’t contemplate this because I tend to over-plan every detail to the nth degree. I simply want to be stalwart in the face of disaster. When things go sideways, I want to be able to smugly tell myself, “I told you so.” 

But wait, whose voice is that? Who is it telling me she told me so?

This is the question I’d like to investigate today.

I realize I have a choice as a writer and chronicler of events. I could choose to present myself as super cool, outdoorsy, and confident in my abilities when tossed into the sea of the unknown.

But I want to tell you the truth.

And the truth is that, at this point in my life, my tolerance for risk is at an all-time low. 

My joie de vivre, the buoyant confidence I had as a youth, has deflated like a sad balloon. If you’re in a long-term relationship, you might relate to what I’ve realized, which is that I’ve slowly, subtly, become accustomed to outsourcing decisions, opinions, and problem-solving to my husband. I run things by him before doing things, even if they have nothing to do with him. I find myself asking for permission, verification, validation. Is this a good idea? What do you think of this? Can you double check this? What would you do if… 

When I do this, Spencer often looks at me, utterly perplexed. “I don’t know,” he says. “If you think it’s a good idea then you should do it.” He seems confused when this doesn’t seem to make me feel better. It confuses me too.

Over time, this habit of mine has made me doubt myself. I have lost a realistic sense of what I’m capable of doing on my own.

I could stop digging there, but I’ll keep wading deeper, into the grey and lesser explored waters of womanhood – into what it’s like navigate this modern age, as I have experienced it. 

Here is a deeper truth. The harder truth. I have experienced things that I was taught to fear and be prepared for when I was a girl. As a result, I tread much more carefully in the world. And now I am over-prepared.

Nature and Fear of The Unknown

I find that women are prepared for the world in a “brace yourself for the unknown storm ahead” kind of way. When I was a Girl Guide, the motto was literally “Be Prepared”, which, when recited to a group of ten-year-old girls, rings more as an open-ended warning than advice for being in nature. Like one of those horror movies where a ghost covered in blood appears, whispers, “They’re coming”, and then disappears. Thank you. Very useful.

Be Prepared, because the world is a big, wild, predatory place, and you are just a little girl. Remember that, and good luck out there. Here’s a song to sing and instructions for mending your socks. 

Ok, I’m being a bit facetious… I loved being a Girl Guide. And I say this with compassion: We do the best we can for our next generation of girls by warning and preparing them. It’s just sad that we have to. And it’s sad that they have to take it on.

This kind of warning has a profound effect. Rather than moving forward in an uncomplicated manner, girls learn how to take a defensive stance. We become suspicious and learn how to anticipate danger, aware of the fact that we don’t have much of a shield and a lot to lose… before we even know what it is that we are trying to protect or maintain.

I have more than once felt stopped in my tracks by the “what ifs” and “then whats” and “but have you thought ofs” that the world rains down, as I try to mimic my male compatriots’ smooth self assurance. As humans, we love dividing women into the sensible, intelligent variety and those women. Obviously, women try quite hard to be in the former group. But as many of us find out, even with the best planning and hyperawareness, it is all too easy to end up in the latter. I told you so, says the voice when this happens.

Car Versus Bicycle

I think we’re probably (mostly? maybe?) beyond the point where people blatantly say things like, “Well, she shouldn’t be out late by herself” or “What did she think was going to happen, being a woman out here trying to [do an interesting thing]?” or “Did she even consider [logical thing]? Does she in fact, have a brain?”

What I sense today is something a bit different – something I would like to propose as “car versus bicycle”. If a driver crashes into a cyclist, we may be past the point of saying, “That cyclist deserved to be injured.” But we tend to point out that while the driver is legally at fault for hitting the cyclist, the cyclist is the one with permanent damage. So cyclists, we cry, do not take risks out there! If a car hits you, it doesn’t matter if they’re legally at fault – you’re always going to be worse off. It’s just not worth it.

In other words, sensible people don’t ride bicycles when it’s dangerous. But there are those people who insist on cycling in traffic, at all times of the day, in all weather. In these cases, how bad should we feel for them when they’re hit by a car? When cyclists force themselves into a world designed for automobiles, what can they expect? At face value, it seems pretty reasonable.

So let’s pretend for a moment that women are cyclists. In this metaphorical reality, women can’t drive cars. We must cycle to get from place to place, simply because we are women. So we prepare for danger from a young age. We purchase thick helmets, reflective gear, and elbow pads. Our mothers teach us how to take back roads and watch for drivers who aren’t paying attention or are drunk and reckless. We make sure our lights are on, ride in groups, tell our friends where we’re going, and limit solo travel. When we can, we pair up with drivers and become passengers in their car. We beg the city to put in bicycle lanes, but it’s an uphill battle because drivers don’t see the value, not being cyclists themselves.

Maybe we get into an accident once and decide never to leave home unaccompanied again. Or maybe the fear of injury and death alone is enough to prevent us from going out, because we know that if we’re ever hit by a car, it’s going be bad for us, no matter the circumstances. Meanwhile, regular drivers drive without a second thought. They obviously won’t be injured in a car-bicycle collision, so their personal safety is not a consideration. It’s not that they all have it out for cyclists – a cyclist’s reality is simply outside their consciousness unless they choose to think about it. This is the world that girls navigate starting at a young age. It’s a strange parallel existence.

To make things more confusing for girls, training to being prepared for danger is in direct conflict with our other important training – to trust in more capable people, seek protection from stronger people, get answers from smarter people, and wait for direction from decisive people. To be patient, likeable, and agreeable as a proven strategy for survival. To avoid causing others concern or pain at all costs. So we do these things, and navigate the shady roads the best we can, all while being reminded that we’re taking needless risks; we’re those women.

And then when something bad happens, here comes the admonishing voice from above, from all around, from everyone, from inside ourselves: I told you so.

A girl grows into a woman. And the woman becomes thirty-four-year-old me. And here I am, still navigating this mire.

I’ll name the most obvious things that girls learn to fear and anticipate: harassment, abduction, assault, abuse, rape. But this is only the worst of the worst. I think our everyday fears are actually broader, more ingrained, and in some ways, more insidious. We constantly anticipate: humiliation, rejection, disrespect, blame, pity, dismissal, judgment, shame, ignorance, doubt, mockery, abandonment, betrayal. Or gaining the reputation of being silly, crazy, out to lunch, over-emotional, bitchy, boring, unattractive, naive, liars, replaceable, unimportant, clingy, frivolous, weak, demanding, dramatic, stupid, illogical… There are many more.

These fears are deep and real and crippling. Women are still called these words in courts of law. People yell obscene things to us on the streets where we live. These words are used behind our backs and closed doors. And so, early on, we do everything possible to be better than these words. Sometimes we use them on other women so that we feel better about ourselves. Even more often, we use them on ourselves. We try to beat the world to the punch by calling ourselves these things first.

And we start to believe that we shouldn’t do the things we want to do. We shouldn’t be different. We shouldn’t be authentic, or take risks. We learn how to be very, very careful in our temperament, in our bodies and clothes, in our words, in who we associate with, our choice of career, and in our actions.

I’ve become a bit jaded, myself. When certain people remind me to be careful out there in the world, I experience a deep, visceral reaction that I try to squash. I understand the intention is genuinely good, and so I take “be careful” in that spirit as much as I can. I am grateful. I thank them for the reminder. I receive the love in their eyes. But inside, I can’t ignore the clear voice that always rings out:

You have no idea what it means to have to be careful.

The consequences of over-preparation

All of this said, I can’t help but think that I’m a little over-prepared. Even in the light of bad things I’ve witnessed and experienced, the crashes I’ve personally been involved in, I put far too much energy into anticipating bad things. These days, my ratio of undue caution to actual bad things that could happen are severely out of proportion.

So I’m going to say it. A courageous thing, maybe a foolish thing: Yes, the world can be a scary place. A dangerous place. But, could it also be true that it’s statistically…. here it comes… pretty good? Could it be true that the lens through which we choose to see the world distorts it? That our own selves are substantial barriers to fulfilling our desires? That when we look for bad things, we see bad things? That when we fear bad things, we twist ourselves into knots that are even worse than the things we fear?

Ooooh I said it! I feel like I’ve done something illegal. I keep trying to type words that assure my poor readers that I’m not insane, that I’m not trying to wash away people’s traumatic experiences by saying it’s not that bad, or say we should throw the baby (in this case, healthy awareness) out with the bathwater (paralyzing fear).

It just strikes me that the more fearful and cautious I decide I must be, the more fearful and cautious I become, regardless of the way the world is.

That encountering difficult moments out there is not as bad as never leaving my comfort zone.

That the less I trust my intuition, my intellect, and my joy, the more I outsource my choices.

If I continue in this vein, I’ll keep running on my little hamster wheel, because no one else can get me off. If I want a change of perspective, to be saved, or to experience a bold re-entry into the world, it is up to me.

And I don’t know about you, but I’m pretty tired of waiting, and instinctively seeking validation and whole-hearted agreement from other people (who usually don’t have a horse in my race) to do things that feel good and right for me.

I must decide today that the world is a place where I can ride my bicycle. To do it with awareness, because life is what it is, but also to do it with joy. To rejoin the ranks of women who have the audacity to show up exactly as they are without apology, even when they are afraid.

I’m doing it anyway. Maybe that’s all that matters.

You know what? Catastrophizing aside, I am a lot of good things. I’m smart and savvy. And for all my grimacing, I think I’m even optimistic. I do believe that in the end, I will get where I need to be. I know how to take care of myself.

This is a good trip for me. I am not fancy, in a way that I adore about myself. There will be no makeup for my tears to smudge, because I’m not packing any. The painkillers for my aching feet and crotchety knee already take up too much space.

And I’m pretty sure I can do it, although I’m not certain. I’m starting to realize that even if things go seriously sideways, I’m not any less worthy.

And I think you can do it too, whatever it is. Even if walking slowly for many miles is not your personal call of the wild, you do have one. No matter who you are, something speaks to you. Something that you consider privately, and then think, “Maybe one day…” Places you want to go, things you want to pursue, experiences you want to revel in, just for yourself. Something that you dare to poke and prod at, only to feel overwhelmed by other voices with their “what ifs” and “then whats” and “but have you thought ofs”. 

If you feel sticky resistance with regards to something that magnetizes you, it means you’re on the right track. And screw those voices.

Please know that my shaky, but growing, confidence in myself is extended, and expanded, for you. I think you can do whatever you want, and that you should fucking do it.

After all, there is no way of knowing what you are capable of… not until you’ve done it.

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