Into the Wind

I can still hear the sound the moment the road bit back. One second I’m coasting down a mountain, sun splitting the red rocks, and the next I’m flying. Not the good kind of flying — the kind where your brain can’t tell if you’re in a dream or in that moment just before death. I hit the ground at 45 miles per hour, my body engulfed in rubble. You know that moment they tell you about, where your whole life flashes before your eyes? Well, that didn’t happen. Instead, time slowed to a near halt, giving me just enough of it to think: this is it. And in that strange cinematic chaos, I heard the whisper of a question. Was it worth it?

Let’s rewind to 2011. GoPro has just released the Hero 2 with the slogan “Be a Hero.” I’d spend the next ten years obsessed with action — so much so that my friends dubbed me JoPro. Eventually, someone offered to pay me, and so I bought my first real camera, thinking that first paycheck meant that I was on my way. Instead, I found myself making videos for dog grooming companies. And this is whenever I stumbled upon Joseph Campbell. His hero’s journey goes like this: separation, initiation, return. It sounds super simple until you see it in every movie, book, and person you’ve ever known. And I couldn’t unsee it, which felt like my call to make a movie.

I’d never made one before, but the dream was real, and I had a hunch I needed three things to make that happen: a grand journey, something most people wouldn’t want to do, and a deeper why. So I landed on riding a bicycle across North America for mental health awareness — something that I had struggled with through much of my adolescence. Now it was time to find a bike. You might have a reaction to this, but Patrick, my friend here, might tell you that I had one method at the time, and that was jump first, ask questions later. And so I borrowed his mom’s bike. The East Coast to the West — the Outer Banks to Santa Monica Pier. 55 days, 2,886 miles. Patrick would drive the van and take photos. I’d film and ride.

We made a deck of playing cards to interview strangers with questions. Each card had a question like, “What is your dream?” and “What is your biggest fear?” And people answered. We talked to cowboys, truckers, preachers, and addicts, soldiers, lovers, widows, and firemen. Some laughed, more cried. One man gave me a pocket Bible and told me, “Talk to God.” I tried. The East Coast was kind — ribbons of road and a fresh pair of legs, pancakes in diners with $5 specials, and singing along to Keith Urban and something called a holler. One night in Oklahoma, a man drew the Ace of Spades: who is the hero in your story, and what will they overcome? He hopes the hero is himself. And what does he hope to overcome? Himself. Every pedal forward felt like an act of worship, as if movement itself was holy.

New Mexico is where the journey cracked. We were 2,000 miles in, finally camping in the wild — cool nights, deep convos, and smoky clothes. There’s a stretch near Albuquerque where the world drops off. I was flying downhill, wind in my face. I checked the dump truck in my mirror. I was safe. And then, that thunderous roar. You see, the bikeable route was on the shoulder of a highway, and I’d just passed through a construction zone. I was going 32 miles an hour. The dump truck passed me going 75, and just before it passed me, the driver decided to reach down and flip the switch. Instantly, 15 tons of gravel, asphalt, tar, and rock slammed into me from behind and swept me away. It buried me waist-deep and cheese-grated my entire left side for 100 feet. My bike was broken, but somehow I stood.

The paramedics told me to count my stars, but lying on that road, I didn’t feel like a filmmaker or a cyclist. Just a body — broken, helpless, and small. In a sea of red, I had a choice: end it there, or finish the last 900 miles. And that’s when I remembered my why. You keep going, especially when the journey gets the hardest. And so I got back on the horse, one day at a time. I’d sweat into those wounds. The sun would sear them. And three days later, a blood infection nearly took me. No more camping. But I kept going. With the help of friends, I chose to finish — not because I’m a hero, but because I believe you write your own story.

I limped into Santa Monica Pier with some nasty scars and even more questions. I thought I’d feel something big — joy, relief, an epiphany — but mostly I felt empty, like a storm had passed and left behind a quiet nothingness. I kept waiting for that big realization to hit me in those last few miles. Instead, I returned home to the same place I left. Months later, I realized you can’t always tell the difference between who you are today and who you were yesterday. But if you zoom out and look at the person that walked out of the Atlantic versus the one that walked into the Pacific, that’s where you find your answer.

I went looking for a film, but what I found was a mirror. I wasn’t just the one chasing the dream — I was the one standing in the way of it, too. Hopefully your dream doesn’t require what mine did. But if you ever find yourself flying sideways and holding your breath, remember this: the story doesn’t end at the fall. It begins with what you do next. Thank you.