The Lost Art of Getting Lost

Life in the Bike Lane

Tom Frady

There was a time when I didn’t consider getting lost while riding my bicycle a failure. It was called "Wednesday".

Before Garmins and Wahoos were attached to our handlebars telling us (politely) to "turn left in 300 feet"—we navigated using highly sophisticated technology known as "I think it's this road."

Sometimes it was.

Sometimes it wasn't.

Those wrong turns were half the fun. The ride leader would insist “I meant to come this way.  I wanted to show you this (fill in the blank).

Back in the old days, any ride could be a ride into the great unknown. You'd crest a hill and wonder to where the road disappeared.

You'd spot a hand-painted sign that simply read "Lake." Fun.

Three miles later you'd discover it wasn't really a lake. It was more of a pond with an ego.

Still, you had a conversation starter for the donut shop.

Today's cycling computers know everything. They tell us where to turn, how steep the climb will be, how many calories we'll burn, our heart rate, our cadence, and probably what kind of donut we should have ordered.

If we accidentally miss a turn, there’s a little beep and a map pops up showing you how to get back to the planned route.  Just a few years ago there was none of this “recalculating”.  We simply shrugged and said, "Well...this might be interesting."

Some of my favorite rides happened because I had absolutely no idea where I was.

I've discovered tall chimneys with no house around them, roadside fruit stands operating on the honor system, tiny cemeteries dating back to the Gold Rush, and enough old barns to keep this would-be photographer happy.  I've stumbled upon creeks, canals, and mining aqueducts I didn't know existed, roads lined with wildflowers, and hidden public restrooms so necessary for us seniors.

None of them appeared on a planned route, but many of them became a destination for future rides.

Of course, getting lost wasn't always charming.

There were occasions when a promising country road rudely transformed into gravel, ended at a locked ranch gate or turned into a climb so steep I questioned the decision that brought me there.

More than once, I've ridden five extra miles simply because I was too stubborn to admit I'd made a wrong turn.  Cyclists can be funny that way. We'd rather pedal another hour than ask a local for directions that might include a phrase like "Turn left where the old oak tree used to be." We trust satellites orbiting 11,867 miles above Earth more.

Progress, I suppose.

I'm certainly not suggesting we throw our Garmins away. They're wonderful tools, especially when you're trying to find your way home before dark or avoid riding onto an interstate by mistake.  I have ridden without my Garmin. It was like old times. It was calming.  It was freeing.

I hated it.

But every now and then, I wonder if we've become so efficient at reaching destinations that we've forgotten how much joy there is in wandering, which is, of course, part of why we are on our bikes to begin with.   

The best stories rarely begin with, "Everything went exactly according to plan."

They begin with, "You’ll never believe where the stupid ride leader took us today".

The quiet country lane or even an old road with new pavement becomes next week's ride with friends.

Maybe life works that way, too.  Not every detour is a mistake.

So, one of these mornings, when your cycling computer insists you turn left, go right. It will annoy the heck out of it.  You might get lost. With any luck, you'll find a story worth telling, if you can find anyone who will listen.

And that's a route no GPS can ever calculate.