Before my first bikepacking trip, I impulsively grabbed the razor in my childhood bathroom, which had probably sat idle for years, and took it to my pits. I’d been fixating on the damp, sweaty hair under my arms when I woke up, and I didn’t want to deal with it on the road.
As I dried off, the bare skin in the mirror left me a little queasy. I hadn’t shaved in years, and the sudden loss made me worry… Do I look less queer?
Normally, we wouldn’t consider visible queerness a source of protection, but as I’ve explored my gender expression, I’ve noticed more masc looks can produce a (perhaps, misperceived) sense of safety. I feel less anxious walking past men at night wearing a flat-brimmed hat and basketball shorts than a short dress. As more people in my life refer to me with they/them pronouns, I feel seen in a new way and walk taller. Whether or not I really make passersby question my gender identity, my growing sense of new enby energy helps me shrug off some of the anxiety of moving through the world as a woman.
When planning my trip, I focused on general safety, gathering first aid and bike repair supplies. When three friends asked if I was packing pepper spray, I wanted to deny needing it, but caved and bought some for personal protection. I remembered the alarm button my mom put in my Christmas stocking, and packed that, too. I tried not to think about what it meant to travel alone as a (perceived) woman, but knew the truth. Even if I dressed more masc, my assigned-female body put me at a higher risk than cis men.
Still, I had more practical concerns. New England had been getting slammed with rain all summer. I planned to bike 35-to-40-mile days from Massachusetts to Maine, but had only biked that long once. That had been on flatter terrain, without stuffed pannier bags. I worried how my strength and stamina would handle mountainous territory. I had watched bike repair tutorials, but not actually practiced them. I didn’t have a pillow, and worried about how well I’d be able to sleep. These concerns overruled any gender apprehension chewing at me.
The first morning, I started around 9 a.m., hoping to make the 36 miles from Massachusetts to New Hampshire before predicted thunderstorms started. I was just reaching the state border four hours later when drops started falling. The clouds rumbled, followed by flashes of lightning. I put on my rain gear and considered pitching my tent, fearful of traveling on a metal frame in a lightning storm, but… the tent also had metal poles. I pushed on. As the streets filled with puddles, I switched to walking. Rain soaked through my “waterproof” clothes. About six miles from the campground I’d booked, my back wheel jammed and I heard a snap. A strap from a pannier bag had come loose and caught in the gears, breaking one of the bag’s hooks. At that point (nearly 3pm), I called it. I looked around and gratefully noticed a house with pickup trucks in the driveway. I knocked on the door, relieved when a young mom answered and kindly drove me the last few miles.
Once I set up my tent, I stripped down and took stock of the situation. I was supposed to bike 44 miles the next day and couldn’t fathom it. Even before the rain had started, I had made much slower progress than anticipated, walking my bike up more hills than I wanted to admit, and I felt weak. I didn’t believe I was capable of biking longer and hillier days. I searched for train options, and found I could get partway to my next destination for $20. Sold!
I thought I would feel guilty for “cheating” so early, but as I meandered my way through the next, sunny morning, I only felt relief. I did laundry at my campsite, then explored the town next to it, Exeter, spending some time doodling and caffeinating at Flamingos Coffee Bar. At the train station, the conductors helped load my bike on the train. I got off in Wells, ME and had an easy bike to Kennebunk. I stayed with some wonderful hosts through WarmShowers, a biker hosting network. I’d had reservations about staying with strangers, trying to guess from details in their profiles if they’d be open-minded, but I felt so welcomed and supported by these hosts and their adorable beagle. I hadn’t even thought about my gender presentation until we were talking about my teaching job, and the husband asked if any book bans had affected me, pointing out my Boystown, Chicago shirt. Oh right… queer-coding shirt… I felt comforted to be seen, but also conscious of wearing the shirt in towns where I wasn’t familiar with their political leanings.
The next day, it rained again. I tried to justify biking some of the way, but after consulting my hosts, realized it wasn’t worth it. I didn’t want to make myself so miserable I’d be dissuaded from future bike trips. Luckily my sister was driving to meet me in Portland and could pick me up on her way. We had a fun day-and-a-half walking all over the city, visiting the Portland Observatory, the public library, Blackstone’s, and the Cryptozoology Museum (where I learned “crypto” means hidden, or not obvious; call me “cryptogender”). Our time together gave me the pick up I needed to get back on my bike.
Next, I biked to the Desert of Maine, a seemingly kitschy tourist trap that was actually a fascinating geological phenomenon. I spent the evening wandering the dunes, reading plaques about how glaciers pushed the land down, then melted to leave behind a sunken space where sand collected. The next morning, I went into the nearby town of Freeport and got a hearty smoothie from Sip House. Then I moved on to Bath, where again I stayed with generous WarmShowers hosts, sharing a raucous game night. The next morning, I helped in their garden, removing Japanese beetles and collecting fresh raspberries. From Bath, I biked to Boothbay, where I roasted color-changing marshmallows over a campfire while spotting more stars than I could ever see in the city.
The days started following a pattern. I’d bike off mid-morning. Some scary-looking hills were a manageable climb, while some gradual hills snuck up on my calves, forcing me to walk. I walked a lot, and learned not to feel embarrassed by it. I was trying to have fun, not prove something about physical endurance.
I stopped mid-day to visit libraries. Their event flyers and resources, emblems of radical, simple community care, always made me cry. I’d arrive at my next stay in the late afternoon. Hosts wanted to compare maps, recommend local attractions, and offer supplies. I acquired bungee cords and a Swiss army knife, which I greatly cherish. We talked about jobs, housing, and ways of living that confirmed and widened my anti-capitalist beliefs.
The “woman traveling alone” conversation often came up. I chose not to come out as nonbinary to protect the acceptance I received. I also realized that most conversations were not that gendered. Hosts saw me as a fellow biker before anything else. They reaffirmed that what I was doing was wonderful and hard and badass for anyone.
When I reached my final destination, Acadia National Park, I sobbed. Twelve days earlier, I cried in my tent ready to give up, but here I was, with 278 miles under my belt, and a collection of meaningful experiences.
I didn’t always feel safe. I biked country roads peppered with Blue Lives Matter and Trump flags and hoped desperately I wouldn’t need their help. I thought about shirt choice, usually saving the queer ones for pajamas. I didn’t correct people using “she/her” pronouns. I thought a lot about physical and emotional safety, the ways in which they converge or diverge, and which to prioritize in a particular moment.
But in the best moments, I didn’t think about my safety. I was fully enrapt in the physical experience. My body was just a body without gender. When I hiked Cadillac Mountain in Acadia, I went down the incredibly difficult West Ridge, despite my hiking inexperience. The trail was so steep at points, I scooted down on my butt, destroying my gym shorts. My body shook and ached at the unfamiliar muscle exertion. Along the way, I gathered blueberries. I ate the sweet fruits while admiring the peaceful view. Mountains look so gentle from afar, despite the challenges they create.
Descending Cadillac Mountain with a fistful of blueberries, I felt transported to a time in childhood. Before I was aware of what it meant to have certain body parts, I was just gleeful to have a body that could run, climb, and bike. Gender didn’t matter when I was a kid, and it didn’t matter on my bike, either.
While I thought the trip would force me to “play woman,” it actually offered a newfound gender liberation. I carried this feeling with me biking off Mount Desert Island, and tried to hold it as I transitioned back to my Brooklyn life. Despite the early hurdles, I left the trip feeling stronger and freer than ever, motivated to keep pushing myself.
As I write this, I’ve started planning a four-month cross-country bike trip and dream everyday of the new joys and challenges it will bring me.
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About the Author:
Caro Tyner is a 27-year-old queer nerd living and teaching in Brooklyn, NY who has been writing as long as they can remember. They have been published in The New York Teacher and The Creative Zine. When not writing or teaching, they can be found cooking, biking, or watching Jeopardy.
