Learning to Live the Blues

In November, as I conquered the Tail of the Dragon on Rusty Crusty, I shared my sabbatical question:

What would you do if you were not afraid?

Answers don’t come all at once. They come mile by mile. Since July, I’ve crossed 24 states and ridden over 7,000 miles of America’s story. Roads I once only imagined. I’ve learned when to lean in and when to back off; when to crank the music and yell, and when to pull over, shut it down, and listen to the quiet.

One item on my list pulls me back to my teenage years and a high-school English teacher who left a mark: Learn to play harmonica; live the Blues. (Thanks, Doc Tracy.)

Let’s be honest. I may be able to preach and teach, marry and bury—but I am not musical. I can’t sing and clap at the same time; one or the other, and neither is good. Blues harp isn’t for me. Still, I’m learning to live the Blues.

Yesterday, riding through the Delta, there was nothing hard about the road. No curves. No drama. Just cadence. Cotton to the left; cotton to the right. Long, straight miles that leave you alone with yourself. No distraction. No performance.

Turns out courage isn’t always about conquering something hard. Sometimes it’s about staying present when the road goes quiet and the questions stop letting you dodge them. Doc Tracy taught me the crossroads of Robert Johnson and Langston Hughes is where pain finds words and truth finally gets spoken.

This morning, I’m grateful for the miles—and curious about what’s still unchecked on that list.

So I’ll ask you: when the road in your life gets long and quiet, what do you do—speed up, turn up the noise, or stay with it?