SheJumps has reached a good amount of cyclists this summer! Here, Nastassja "Staj" Pace, tells an awesome story of "jumping" and, most importantly, what she learned from taking the leap! Read up ...

“I am an adventure cyclist. I am an adventure cyclist.” I repeat this phrase several hundred times during the final days leading up to my departure. Nervously knowing it isn’t true I hope the repetitious assertion of it will somehow convince even the most skeptic of believers, myself.

When Rick, my boyfriend of two months, left for the summer to embark on a 4,000-mile bike ride retracing the 1920 National Park-to-Park Highway, I fully supported him, but I absolutely had no intentions of going with him.

Three weeks later, when my grandfather whom I lived with until the age of 8 fell fatally ill, everything changed. At work, holding back tears, I smiled and pretended everything was okay, but it wasn’t. While my body was present my mind and heart were somewhere else.

“Love is the law,” grandpa used to say. Instilled with his values I knew he would want me to be out there on the road, with Rick.

So I decided to take a risk and JUMP! I jumped headfirst into a new relationship, onto my bicycle, and completely out of my comfort zone, taking a leap of faith that my untrained legs and 22-year-old bike would make the journey from Portland, OR to Telluride, CO. In sync with the moon, my menstrual cycle kicks off day one of the tour, and I begin to wonder exactly how all this bike touring stuff works (wool shorts with butt padding, rub-on anti-chafing bars, clip-in pedals, front panniers)?

I’ve biked before. I commuted 4 miles to work, most days. I went on a 45-mile ride, once. But bike touring—living by bike, carrying everything I need to survive, sleeping outside each night, and riding everyday for hundreds of miles, consecutively—I have NEVER done this before. I’m stoked to be free though. I quit the job, rid myself of the apartment and donated half of my belongings to Goodwill, so even these new intricacies do not deter my newfound liberation.

By day three I’m riding high and loving life on the road. I pedaled 195 miles, conquered Santiam Pass (Elev. 4,817—the lowest of 9 more passes I will climb), discovered 3 epic swimming holes, and spent 2 peaceful nights under the stars, with just a few layers of nylon between the Earth and myself. Two days later, my high dissipates as the sobering reality of bike touring seeps in. It’s nearing 100 degrees. I’ve been pedaling uphill for 6 straight hours. I’ve consumed nothing but Clif Bars. With a screaming sunburn, severe diaper rash, and the constant internal grinding sound of knee bones ripping from the tendons, I break down. “I am so stupid; an effing moron!” I yell.

Feeling incapable of competing the day’s ride, let alone wanting to continue the journey at all, I realize I am a failure, already. Slumping down in disbelief, Rick pulls me to my feet, reminds me that all up hills lead to down hills, and offers to buy me lunch at the diner he so conveniently pulled over in front of. My partner’s support and compassion mixed with a giant plate of cheesy potatoes fills my belly, lifts my spirits, and I jump back on the saddle. I am determined—at the very least—to make it, what will take us five more days, to reach the California border.

I, shockingly, make it 11 more days, but now it’s not me breaking down—it’s my bike. Every revolution of my legs causes my gears to slip. Lacking the ability to apply any pressure and the constant crunching sound of metal becomes intolerable, and I realize I have to hitchhike 80 miles to Truckee, California, the next town with a bike shop. Rick attempts to repair my bike, again, but fails.

He’s pissed. I’m irritated. We both begin to lose our cool, but before our lids totally pop off a maroon truck whips around. Pulling off into the dirt, dust trailing behind in the hot, midday sun, the driver calls out from inside the cab, “You need any help? I’m a bike mechanic!”

After effortlessly repairing my chain and adjusting my gears Jay, the random passerby bike mechanic, who I decide is an angel, tells us he stopped because of life. “That’s the point,” he says, “We’re all here together.”

It’s day 20. Blue and purple spots flood my vision until it’s almost solid black. My head spins. I’m dizzy. I call out to Rick, but it’s no use. He’s too far ahead and his iPod is on. Somehow, but definitely not gracefully, I pull over and dismount as I faint and fall to the ground. Coming back to consciousness provides little relief, as a sharp stabbing pain fills my abdomen. My body is not happy, and whatever has caused this unfortunate sickness decides it’s coming out of me, right now.

Fainting, almost crashing, and explosive diarrhea prove to be not enough for one day’s mishaps, and within less than an hour I get two flat tires.

Sitting on a rock on the side of the highway, encased in sweaty dust and black bike grease, replacing the last spare tube I have, I begin to laugh, hysterically. Nestled between thick forest, sharp cliffs, and a million dollar view of Lake Tahoe, I realize, in this moment, that there is nowhere else in the world I would rather be, doing anything differently, with anybody else.

Biking will do this to you. It will make you slow down and force you to be present. With no petroleum whizzing you down the road, no A/C cooling you down, and no doors covering you from the world—biking exposes you and brings to the raw basics—of your own strength and ability to let go and laugh.

Rick and I ride 9 more days to Fresno, CA, where we rent a car and head back to Portland, OR, to take a break and tend to family matters.

It takes us 13 hours to drive the distance that took us 29 days to bike. I slept outside for 25 of them and haven’t showered in 12, so I am looking forward to all the amenities back home. But the 4 lane highway, strip malls for miles, and millions of lights making the stars impossible to see remind me of the all things I was so happy to leave behind.

It’s easy to get caught up in the hast and complexities of life—stressing future deadlines, adhering to schedules, cleaning yesterday’s mess, buying stuff for your things, driving fast to wait in traffic…they never end. To-do list’s tasks are never all crossed off, so take a break. Take a risk. Jump out of your comfort zone and into the outdoor life. Love hard and laugh often.

For me, my trip was one slow pedal at a time, but my adventures, experiences and lessons were sped up, heightened and came in the hundreds. My priorities were simplified out there on the road and life became a whole lot fuller.