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Years ago, a young man in Brooklyn wheeled his bike out the gate. His plan, to cross the land, exact route left to fate. The first week was the hardest, scared, he doubted his quest. It took all his courage, he says, to keep heading west. To conquer fear, he says, we have to face it and just go. Don't stop, commit, don't just drift with life's flow. Ride a red road through a canyon and crest the next range. Cross the river, flee the bear, embrace the change. Much of bicycle touring is miserable, It's not all soaring. Worse than miserable he adds, much is boring. He doesn't gloss over this, he does confess. But no better moments can you possess. He advises you, when possible, to step into the unknown Follow your passion, and someone might write a poem. But while I admire Leon, and his trip does inspire. He did ride into a real tornado, but there's now a metaphoric fire. The jailbirds are loose, bad cartels cross the border. To pursue freedom's road, you do need some order. Myself, I've been warned off some roads in the Southwest. Exploring is great, but prudence is best. I marvel at the story he tells, of strangers trusting him. Friends of friends gave him house keys,  went out on a limb. I admire that he could join up with new pals on bikes. Or pause his trip for side-trip hitchhikes. I couldn't do it, that's for sure Maybe that leaves me bitter, maybe leaves me poor. But the most amazing thing to me, that makes me shudder... Is his diet on the trip - some beer, and mostly peanut butter. Don't tell Leon McCarron that I wrote this rhyme He had a great trip, why ruin his good time?