Bloomington, Indiana

Three Flights

The alarm woke me at 3:30 a.m. at the Juneau hotel.

When I was based in Nairobi managing a project in Somalia, I had to get up at 3:30 a.m. every few months to catch a UN flight to Mogadishu. I dreaded those early mornings. I’m not sure why—I liked Mogadishu. I enjoyed meeting with Somalis, working with my staff, traveling the city, and visiting project sites when possible. But the entire week leading up to each flight felt heavy with dread.

Today’s early rise was different. I didn’t mind it at all. The timing felt right—enough time to get organized, change clothes, drink coffee, and lug Lucy and her saddlebags down to the lobby. I dropped off my key and joined the shuttle with a couple heading to the airport. The ride took all of five minutes.

It’s hard to overstate how small Juneau is. I’ve ridden through both major clusters of town, and it’s still hard to believe 33,000 people live here.

The Delta staff were already at work, efficiently checking in box after box of halibut, trout, and other frozen fish that tourists were taking home. One Indigenous woman kindly lent me some packing tape so I could seal Lucy’s box. The line was relatively long for such a small airport, but the staff ran things like a well-oiled machine.

Pre-Check or Not Pre-Check

At security, all the retirees crowded into the TSA Pre-Check lane—though few, if any, were actually enrolled.

One retired woman rushed to the lone TSA officer checking IDs.

“I was here first,” said a second.

“This is the Pre-Check line,” the first snapped.

“Well, I’m Pre-Check too.”

“But you’re in the wrong line.”

“I didn’t think it mattered—there’s only one person checking IDs,” she scoffed.

Suddenly, the entire general boarding line of retirees abandoned their queue and joined the Pre-Check lane. A young Filipina who’d been in front of me said, “I guess I’ll go too.”

After the first retiree got cleared, instead of proceeding to the scanners, she turned around and started chatting loudly with the others in the Pre-Check line.

I was now the only one left in the general security line—fifteen retirees and one young woman now stood in Pre-Check.

The next woman handed her ID and paper boarding pass to the TSA officer.

Meanwhile, the chatty retiree came back. “You already cleared me,” she told the officer.

“Just wait here,” the officer said, pointing to where I was standing.

Instead, the woman returned to the back of the Pre-Check line.

A few seconds later, the officer called out, “Ma’am, you need to come up. You’ve already been checked and you have my card.”

“But you told me to go to the back,” she replied.

“No, I told you to wait here.”

She came forward and proceeded through.

“You’re not Pre-Check,” the officer said to the next woman.

“I’m not?” she asked, feigning confusion. “Want me to go back?”

“No, go on,” the officer sighed.

Then she pointed to me.

Post–500-Mile Ride

At the end of every long bike-packing journey, I experience a mix of emotional letdown and accomplishment, blending into emerging priorities.

So yes, I’m a little sad that the ride is over. It was hard—at times, very hard—but never too hard. I’m happy to be going home. The next few days will be filled with family and friends. Then it’s back to Florida, back to the farmhouse after four years away, and on to new challenges. These are both at the front and back of my mind.

Not dread. Not even anxiety, I don’t think. Just… existential consciousness.

Here I am. There are two dozen key tasks mapped out across a rough timeline. Be aware, Craig. Stay present. Do your best without stressing. Because when you stress, you damage your health—and stress everyone around you. Not good for anyone.

There was a time in my life—around the time I was barred from returning to Pakistan for my own safety—when I was profoundly unhappy. I couldn’t imagine a happy semi-retirement. Toxic anxiety defined me. If someone passed me at the train station, it upset me. If people walked too slowly, it upset me. If family or coworkers didn’t do things exactly as I would have, it upset me.

I lost all sense of how to return to peaceful spaces. For years, I couldn’t find peace.

I worked. I performed professionally. My evaluations were mostly “outstanding.” But I made life difficult for some around me. I held international staff to higher standards than local staff. I expected them to match my pace. When they did, I praised them. When they didn’t, I let them know.

At home, I must have been a terror. And it went on for years.

Gradually—over time—I began to work on myself. But that’s another story.

Suffice it to say: today, I’m happy. Most days, I can find my way back to peaceful spaces. I don’t always live in them, unfortunately. But I can find my way back.

With very little stress or incident, I arrived in Indianapolis on time. My wife and two grandkids were there to pick me up. We carried Lucy-in-a-box and her saddlebags to the garage and drove to Bloomington.

I was happy—very happy—to be reunited with them after a month away. But I was also exhausted.

I got to sleep around midnight.