by Liz Jansen

Growing up in Niagara, close to the U.S. border, it was commonplace to go “across the river” for shopping and entertainment. Any photo ID would do; a passport wasn’t necessary. Once I started traveling, especially by motorcycle, we’d cross regularly, traveling through or to American destinations.

Five years ago, I got a Nexus card to ease land crossings. It’s much faster during peak time bottlenecks, way better than baking in the sun while waiting in line, and saves carrying a passport.

So imagine my surprise when last month, U.S. Customs officials seized my card. I’d used it in April with no issues. This time, I was making a routine crossing with a friend to hear Paul Pelland, aka Long Haul Paul, speak to the BMW Riders’ Club of Western New York. Jeff had cleared uneventfully and was waiting for me to do the same.

Inadvertently, I’d tried to use a card that had expired on my birthday in May. After a very brief secondary check, customs officials cleared me, although they kept my card.

Passports are valid for ten years; Nexus cards expire after five. In 2013, when I got the card, I was preparing for a six-week pilot trip to the Pacific Northwest, experimenting with living and working from the road. That trip led to my extended quest, begun in 2014, seeking the answers to how the experiences of my ancestors had shaped me. It was a life-changing trip in every way.

Now in 2018, I’m not the same person I was when the identity card was new, yet I was trying to pass off an outdated version of myself.

Rivers, bridges, and borders are all symbols of crossing to a new state of being. My old identity worked that evening and got me to the meeting, but it was the last time.

It’s easy to fall back into old patterns, thoughts, and beliefs rather than questioning whether they’re still valid (or ever were). That’s what my quest was about. Spirit has a way of reminding us to question the stories we tell ourselves about who we are and where we’re going. Sometimes, the message is subtle; other times, as with my border crossing, it’s vivid and definitive. Still, the meaning didn’t sink in for two weeks, and then it was unmistakable.

So it’s time to update how I view myself and how I operate. Old ways of being no longer work to get me to my destination.

Watch for the signs. If your identity’s due for a refresh, they’ll be there.

What “aha” moments have you had recently, and how did they come about? Tell us in the comments.

Photo credit: Internet Archive Book Images on VisualHunt / No known copyright restrictions

by Liz Jansen

It was a bad idea from the start. Yet determination out-muscled my rationale and patience.

Trudy, my Triumph Tiger, is a fantastic motorcycle, and I love almost everything about her, except getting her onto the center stand. I can’t do it by myself. Her height, high center of gravity, and my reduced upper body strength work against doing it alone. It’s frustrating.

Every time she needs routine chain care, I have to find and ask for help to heft her onto the stand. The only other option is to clean and lube the chain, push her forward, and repeat until done. That would be an absolute last resort. I’ve installed an automatic oiler to reduce the frequency of lifts, but she still needs to be on the center stand to adjust the chain tension.

When my landlord, a retired auto mechanic, told me I could use the hydraulic pump lift parked under his workbench, it sounded perfect. Last Sunday afternoon I tried it.

A neighbor had cautioned to use a spotter, a wise idea. But there was no one around, the chain needed cleaning and tightening, and it seemed simple to try.

I removed the panniers and proceeded cautiously, putting a short piece of 2X4 under the side stand to get her as upright as possible, then positioning the lift beneath her undercarriage. I kicked myself for filling up the gas tank the day before. Slowly I pumped the handle with my left hand, keeping my right on the seat, feeling for movement and balance. All I needed was to get the rear wheel off the ground. It was so close to happening when I decided it was too precarious and stood back to assess the situation. I had to come up with another solution.

Using even more caution, I let her down in minute increments. Still, she lost her balance and tipped towards me, away from the sidestand. I couldn’t hold her up and she fell to the ground, scraping and bruising my legs on the way down. Her back end had fallen on the lift and I couldn’t pick her up alone. Now I had to ask for help, for more than I’d needed in the first place.

Reluctantly, I called a friend who happened to be home and lived not too far away. Since the rear wheel was now up in the air, rather than sit there and wait for him to arrive, I cleaned the chain and rear sprocket. With his help, we had her up in no time, a shattered turn signal lens the only damage.

Have I learned my lesson? Time will tell. In the meantime, we devised another option. I rolled the rear wheel  that piece of 2X4 and with him spotting, lifted her onto  the center stand, by myself. I still need to have the patience to find a spotter, but somehow, being able to do the lift makes all the difference to my independence.

Do you have similar stories, where your will got in the way of reason?  Share them in the comments. I’d love to hear them.

Photo credit: dingler1109 on VisualHunt / CC BY

by Liz Jansen

The home where Dad and his mom lived for two years.

One year ago, Dad and I were preparing for the trip of a lifetime.

For three years, I’d been on a quest, learning about my ancestors, and how their experiences had shaped me. As part of that soul journey, in 2016, I’d taken a motorcycle trip, dubbed the Ancestor Trail. It traced the migration of both sets of grandparents through western Canada after they landed here as refugees in the 1920s.

I’d often call Dad to ask questions about our history. He delighted in unearthing family stories and getting together with his sisters and cousins to help me with my research. Through regular phone calls during my time on the Ancestor Trail, he’d followed every mile while I rode my motorcycle around the country.

Beaverlodge, in northern Alberta, and two hand-made wooden valises were his only connection to Johann, his father. Johann had died at age twenty-eight, two years after arriving in Canada, when Dad was only two years old. He was buried in a now-derelict cemetery on land he’d once tried to tame.

At age 91, Dad walked with a cane, sometimes a walker, but his health issues were stable after falling and fracturing his hip early in 2016. This window of opportunity would unlikely open again. He and Mom, who was in long-term care with dementia, had been back in 2000, but now we had more facts and history. I’d discovered a 1928 probate file Dad hadn’t known about, which specified the exact quarter-sections of land Johann had farmed, and where Dad had lived. This trip would fuel him with stories and memories to last at least through the winter.

“How would we go?” he’d asked, pondering the idea when I’d asked if he’d like to go to Beaverlodge. He thought I was thinking of putting him on the back of my motorcycle. I laughed.

“We’ll fly and rent cars out there,” I said. “You cover the travel expenses. I’ll look after you.” I’d checked with my siblings to make sure they were comfortable with this arrangement.

“In fact, if you want to go to Namaka (the area in southern Alberta where he’d lived between ages four and eleven), too, we can extend the trip to a week. It will be tiring, but you’ll have lots of time to rest when we get back.”

It would be strenuous for both of us, me more from worry that he’d lose his balance, fall, and injure himself, especially when he was alone in his hotel room. Knowing how fatigue made him more vulnerable, I was afraid to let him out of my sight, but I’d have to, just as he’d had to let me be independent.

“I can make it. You can bury me when we get home.”

We began planning where we’d go, and whom he wanted to visit. He asked to extend our time in Alberta by one more day.

And so began a journey that can best be described as extraordinary, for both of us.

A month after we returned, he became ill and died less than a month later. His life had come full circle as he’d reconnected with his father, and his past.

That trip was the greatest legacy he could leave me, and a vital piece of my quest. With great honor, gratitude, and much love, I remember him this Father’s Day.

The above is based on a story that’s recounted in detail in my upcoming book, Crash Landing, The Long Way Home.

Related Story: Learning How to Live From Being with the Dying

by Liz Jansen

“Where are you riding to this year?”

It’s a question I’m commonly asked, as people know I love long-distance motorcycle travel. It was especially relevant as I was at a Horizons Unlimited meeting, attended by people who have traveled the world or are dreaming of other adventures.

Last season I didn’t travel far in deference to writing Crash Landing. This year I’m nearing completion and aiming to have my book completed by Christmas, so travel doesn’t fit into this season either.

I explained that to the asker.

“What a cruel and unusual punishment!” he said.

Really? I’d never looked at it like that. If I’m using punishment as a motivator for anything I do, I’m way out of balance.

Writing this book is a joy, and the culmination of a powerful quest, or at least this phase of it. It’s no sacrifice, let alone a punishment. Besides, I’ve already enjoyed a short eleven-day ride with friends in the Appalachians while my manuscript was with my copyeditor.

Make no mistake. I LOVE getting out on the open road with Trudy, and being at an event surrounded by people who share this passion, plants ideas. But right now, my heart wants to complete a different journey.

I realized he was projecting his thoughts on me, but I also recognized a lesson.

I can form an opinion about someone’s actions without knowing much about them or their intentions. My cultural training and personal experiences shape my perspective and my natural tendency is to see through that narrow lens.

Listening to stories and traveling to different cultures have helped me understand others more, and shown me how limited my world-view is. Reconnecting with my roots and getting to know the culture into which I was born, has helped me appreciate my ancestors’ experiences, how those experiences and beliefs shaped them, and in turn, shaped me.

Traveling, whether it’s an external or inward journey, broadens the lens through which I view the world and others in it.

I don’t have to be on a motorcycle or in another country for that to happen. I just need to make sure I’m using the right lens.

Photo on Visualhunt.com