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“My Gutsy Story” by Carla King

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Alone, Illegal, and Broken Down

A solo motorcycle journey through northern China.

It is my first day alone on the road and I am lost. The mountains of northern China beyond Beijing are vast and enormous. There are no road signs, only larger roads and smaller roads, paved roads and dirt roads. When I stop to ask directions the peasants simply stare because I am the first foreigner they have ever seen, and a woman. Putting myself in their place I can sympathize. I ride up on a big black Chinese sidecar motorcycle, the most expensive motorcycle in China. Then I remove my helmet. A blond braid tumbles down the shoulder of my black leather jacket and I mutter something incomprehensible and then look at them with slightly crazed green eyes.
“Wǒ mílù le,” I say. “I’m lost.”
But they just stare. Most villagers have never traveled farther than their network of about a dozen villages all of their lives. And there are no taxi drivers or buses or truckers to ask.
Nearly out of gasoline, I am sure that the town I had targeted for my first night on the road, will not appear anytime soon. The going is slow not only because of the dark but because of the potholes and badly banked curves and the asphalt that ends without warning.
Where might I be? I might have looped back to where I began. I could be far, far away. I remember how the land looked in daylight: the jumble of pyramid-shaped mountains covered in soft green foliage jutting through the landscape, the crumbling hillsides, the plunging cliffs.
The unfamiliar engine rumbles. I am still working out its idiosyncrasies. I don’t yet know this machine well enough to take comfort in its working noises, its hard clunk down from third gear, its slight pull to the left.
Shadow trees fly by and a small animal bursts into the road. A rush of adrenaline prepares me for hard braking, for swerving or impact. It races alongside me and, improbably, others join in. Finally I realize they are piglets. We travel together down the road for several long moments of dark indecision. I hold my breath while they grunt and squeal hysterically, invisibly.
Several times it seems that they will move off the road and and several times it seems that they will run under my tires. Finally, I gently let pressure off the throttle and engine noise changes. In response, one piglet lets out a sudden, long, high-pitched squeal. The others join in and leap off the road into darkness.
Miles later my fingers are still stiffly poised above the brake lever. The icy night air leaks up the sleeves of my jacket and between my collar and helmet. My joints ache from working the clutch and the gears of this heavy beast of a motorcycle, bumping along a barely paved road in the pitch black backwoods of China.
The dark shapes of trees hover above on either side. Long ago Kublai Khan had traveled through China and was dismayed at the unbroken monotony of the roadways. He ordered trees planted on every roadside to give solace to travelers. As my headlight shines on one after another after another white painted tree trunk I have the impression that it is they which move past me, and that I am sitting still like an actor on a movie set, the wind machine blowing in my face.
What does give me solace is the sudden appearance of two gas pumps under a brightly-lit shelter. Beyond it stands a building strung with white lights. I pull up to the pumps and after a moment a woman peeks out of the doorway of the attached shack. She hushes the two small children peeking out behind her to walk toward me. Her outfit is garishly illuminated under the fluorescent lights. She sports a shapeless lime green dress sprinkled with large white polka dots and opaque knee-highs that have left a sharp dent halfway up her short fat calves, set off by bright pink rubber pool sandals.
She decodes my rough Mandarin while she pumps gas into the tank. Yes, she nods, smiling. The lit building is indeed a hotel—her luguan. I can stay there, and it will cost twenty yuan.
I pass underneath a concrete archway and through a pair of open wooden gates into the compound where a low, cheaply built stucco building stands. It is L-shaped and there is a glassed-in hallway with motel-style doors in regular intervals, each painted bright red and illuminated with a bare bulb.
I unfasten my helmet strap with cold, stiff fingers. My back aches and my left ankle throbs from the constant shifting. I toss my helmet, gloves, and scarf into the sidecar and dismount, only vaguely aware of the rush of people emerging from the door in front of me. I step away from the bike, allowing several people to push it closer to the building. My forehead itches, my hair is stuck to the skin.
Despite my aches, I feel a profound gratitude for having found this place, for the reward of having pressed on without panicking. It is dark and cold, but I’d soon be safe and warm. Finally my eyes adjust to the dim light and looking up, I meet the gaze of a dozen young ladies dressed in pajamas. When I smile they burst into giggles, covering their mouths with their hands.
So many maids! Why would there be so many maids for such a small country motel? I look at them more closely. Their black eyes flash. So much makeup! They giggle some more, then, suddenly shy, lower their eyes heavy with liner and false lashes. Their lips glow with thick red lipstick and their lurid peach-colored polyester uniforms shine. They aren’t maids at all, I finally realize. I’ll be spending the night in a brothel.

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Carla King Bio

Carla King has traveled the world on a fleet of various and often unreliable indigenous motorcycles. She chronicles her adventures in her Motorcycle Misadventures series of realtime online dispatches and books. Her popular blog is subtitled “a motorcycle travel writers writings, readings, journeys, gear, and recommendations,” but includes experiences on hiking, bicycling, scuba diving, boating, road trips, with musings from abroad and the San Francisco Bay Area, which she calls home. Carla has written for Women Riders Now, Adventure Motorcycle Dual Sport News, Rider, Riders of Kawasaki Magazine, Escape, Santa Cruz Travel Guide, many newspaper travel sections, and she is widely anthologized on the web. Her writing has appeared in anthologies including Rough Guide’s Women Travel, In Search of Adventure, Travelers’ Tales (including Food, France, and Best Travel Writing of 2011), Rough Guides Women Travel, and Wild Writing Women: Stories of World Travel. She is the author of American Borders: Breakdowns in Small Towns All Around the USA, and the upcoming China Road Motorcycle Diaries, as well as thousands of pages of realtime travel reports to the web from journeys in the USA, Europe, Africa, China, and India. No matter where she is, you can always find her at CarlaKing.com.

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Sonia Marsh Says

Talk about being a “Gutsy” woman who travels the world and doesn’t let fear of the unknown stop her. I look forward to your upcoming book, China Road Motorcycle Diaries, and where your next amazing adventure is scheduled to take place. I admire you and what you do to encourage women to travel and be “Gutsy.”

Do you have a “My Gutsy Story”?

To submit your own, “My Gutsy Story” you can find all the information, and our sponsors on the “My Gutsy Story” contest page. (VIDEO) Submission guidelines here. We now have 14 Sponsors, including the latest, Dave, The Podcast Guy, if you wish to learn how to make your own podcasts.

   

Each week on “Gutsy Living” we share an amazing story that will inspire or motivate you. Would you like to become a part of our community?

This week we are featuring “My Gutsy Story

“My Gutsy Story” by Larry Jacobson

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How I Chose Passion Over Fear and Sailed the World

 

How many people do you know who have actually made their dream come true—their dream based on passion and desire, not practicality or career advancement. It could be a dream of anything from travel to weight loss, from a new career to a new relationship. It starts with, “I’ve always wanted to . . .” and often ends with, “It’s just not practical,” or “Maybe someday.” At what point do we say, “Someday is here!”?

Reaching a new goal often means letting go of something, but would you give up a secure business career for your passion? What if you had spent the last 20 years building a highly visible company with a stellar reputation, loyal clients, and a steady flow of business, and you were surrounded by friends and family who admired your achievements and your perfect career? Could you walk away from all that to pursue a dream?

I did—or rather, I sailed away. I traded it all for the opportunity to make my lifelong dream of sailing around the world come true. And though some called me crazy at the time, I’m happy with my choice of seeing the world during six years of adventure on the high seas. Though I now drive a Honda rather than an Audi, fly coach rather than first-class, and live in an apartment rather than a house, I feel as though I’m the richest man in the world, because I’ve lived my dream.

Perhaps you’re a high-tech executive who’s a master pastry chef at home, and you’ve always wanted to open a bakery. Would you be willing to bake late into the night, spend your mornings serving fresh croissants, and pour your earnings back into the business? Or perhaps you’re a sales manager who takes writing classes at night because you’ve always wanted to write a great novel while living in a country village in Italy. There goes your chance to be V.P. of sales, as you spend your evenings developing characters rather than staying late at the office. In the end, you get to decide what you’re willing to sacrifice. Andre Gide said, “Man cannot discover new oceans unless he has the courage to lose sight of the shore.”

Fear of what a change might bring is one of the main reasons many people never let go, and so miss the opportunity to become something different and transform their lives. It’s a double-edged sword, facing the anxiety of walking away from the old while embracing moving into fear of the new. Even if your dream is just to get back into shape, the fear of failing may prevent you from trying. Take to heart the words of Gen. George Patton: “There is a time to take counsel of your fears, and there is a time to never listen to any fear.” Let your passion guide you. Don’t let the weight of the past or fear of the unknown get in the way of your vision. And realize that it’s not only fear and apprehension that prevent us from doing great things. Often, the good in our lives is what gets in the way. Many of us have a home, partner, family, career, and income—and who would watch the cat if I traveled to Europe for a year? Why risk the comforts and joys of our lives for a chance at a dream? Because, as Dale Carnegie said, “Take a chance! All life is a chance. The person who goes farthest is generally the one who is willing to do and dare.”

You have to be the one who makes your dreams come true, and nothing happens without action. Make your decisions, make your plan, and then take the first step. If you make no choice, you’re only fooling yourself. No decision is a decision.

I’ll admit that my own decision-making process was a scary mixture of excitement and cold feet. I reached the choice to leave my secure life when there was no more information to help me decide one way or the other. The fanfare and cheering crowds never materialized as in my dream. There was no line to cross that made it official. It was simply time to go. But I remembered that, as Emerson correctly said, “Once you make a decision, the universe conspires to make it happen.”

Was I brave, blind, or foolish? No, I was driven by passion. Yes, I was choosing an extreme change of course in my life, but I was drawn to it with a pull I couldn’t resist. And though I had been sailing nearly all my life, I wasn’t prepared for the magnitude of the challenges and fear that would come with sailing around the world. Still, passion trumped fear. It can for you too.

I untied my dock lines and followed my heart. What I hope you glean from my experience is that it’s possible to follow your passion and make your dream come true. Don’t wait for someday. Address your fears, make your plan, and take the first step. Untie your lines—whatever they may be—and go!

(This story was originally published in Forbes, with written permission by the author)

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Larry Jacobson, a California native, is a motivational speaker, executive coach, and sales trainer. His circumnavigation is documented in his book The Boy Behind the Gate: How His Dream of Sailing Around the World Became a Six-Year Odyssey of Adventure, Fear, Discovery, and Love. For a free download of the first chapter, go to http://larryjacobsonauthor.com and sign up for his mailing list. Larry welcomes new friends, colleagues, and feedback at: larry@larryjacobsonauthor.com.

 

I’ve had the pleasure of meeting Larry in March 2011 at the Newport Beach, California,  library when his book The Boy Behind the Gate, first came out. You can see a short video and our interview Want to quit your job and travel around the world?

Larry Jacobson is the real deal. He is the perfect example of someone who follows his passion and puts fear to the side. I’ve heard him speak and watched the reaction of those listening to him. He truly inspires and motivates people to follow their dreams. Please post your questions and comments below for Larry. he’ll be over to respond.

Do you have a “My Gutsy Story”?

To submit your own, “My Gutsy Story” you can find all the information, and our sponsors on the “My Gutsy Story” contest page. (VIDEO) Submission guidelines here.

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Please vote for your favorite January “My Gutsy Story” You can read all five here. The winner will be announced on Thursday, February 16th.

Please share the “My Gutsy Story” series with others on Twitter using the #MyGutsyStory. Thank you.


Have you tried couchsurfing?

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Have you heard of couchsurfing ?

I hadn’t until a few days ago when I met my friend Melissa Adams, a fantastic travel writer, who moved from Newport Beach, California, to Amsterdam, Holland. She wrote a story about her biking safari in South Africa, and other Gutsy adventures, called “Follow Your Dreams and Find Yourself.”

Melissa explained how couchsurfing has been a wonderful experience for her and how she’s been able to make new friends from around the world, either by hosting them at her place in Amsterdam, or by staying on their couch/spare bed, in foreign cities for free.

I started thinking about how many options we have in life that we don’t take advantage of, due to lack of knowledge, fear, or some other reason.

I’m sure most of you are thinking, how safe is couchsurfing? I asked Melissa to explain this, and why anyone would consider couchsurfing.

“I learned about couchsurfing through my son, Blake, when he was studying art in Florence, IT. The concept fascinated me as a way to meet locals and experience destinations the way residents, not tourists, experience them. Since 2007, I’ve surfed couches in Vienna, Jerusalem and Paris. For the past year, I’ve hosted guests from around the world in Amsterdam, of all ages and all walks of life. I’ve never had a bad couchsurfing experience. Indeed, my visits to foreign cities have been enriched and deepened through the eyes of locals. And my guests have taught me so much! I learned how to make homemade mayo from Austrian world-traveler Angie and how to travel to the Galapagos on the cheap through Ecuadorians Juan and Leo. My friendships are now global and I’m confident any of my past guests would gladly host me in their cities.

To those who think the concept of staying in the home of a stranger is unsafe, I say this: Couchsurfing is a world-wide community based on trust and the desire to connect with people of different cultures. Hosts are verified and prospective guests can see testimonials and references on their profiles. Hosts can also research guests through their profiles. While I’ve been robbed in traditional hotels and know others who’ve found intruders in upscale hospitality digs, I’ve never lost a trinket or feared for my safety when hosting guests or sleeping in the homes of former strangers.Couchsurfing is open to those who don’t have a couch to offer. While reciprocation is nice, it’s by no means mandatory. You can be a guest and down the line you might become a host. However you tap into the network, one thing is certain: you’ll have interesting friends from around the world, as close as a click on a computer.”
Take a look at Melissa’s profile on the couchsurfing website.

Yes. CouchSurfing is committed to making it easier for all people to explore the world and share inspiring experiences. It will always be free to join CouchSurfing. Hosts should never charge their CouchSurfers; anyone who does will be removed from the site. Most CouchSurfers do like to thank their host with a small gift or an act of kindness (such as cleaning the house or cooking a meal), but this is not required and should not be requested by a host — the only thing that’s expected is an inspiring experience!

Melissa Adams Thai Carving

Melissa Adams
Travel & Lifestyles Writer

Learn how I found myself in Amsterdam

Read some of my cover stories.
Globetrot with me at The Write Brain and Trazzler.
Learn about European travel & cycling.
Tune in to my YouTube channel.
Join me on Facebook!
 “What gets the equivalent of 1,000 miles per gallon, doesn’t pollute, will save the world, and transports you in breezy style? Your bike.”  —Mark Jenkins

“Members choose which information they wish to share with the CouchSurfing community by selectively filling in their profiles, and by customizing their privacy settings. “

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Melissa will be happy to answer your questions below. Please share with others.

I searched Orange County, California, and to my surprise found many couchsurfers in my city. Now if I need a free couch to sleep on around the world, I know where to go.

House-sitting is another option which Nikki Ah Wong, wrote about in her “My Gutsy Story.”

I’m a firm believer that there are always ways to see the world, make new friends and experience new adventures, for less money, if you are Gutsy like Melissa and Nikki.

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Short Video from Sonia Marsh to thank you for your “My Gutsy Story” submissions

Gutsy cave-tubing in Belize

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After our morning of zip-lining and repelling, we welcomed a quick Belizean lunch consisting of chicken, rice and beans, with fresh, juicy pineapple for dessert.

Now it was time for the six young women and I, to try cave-tubing in the underground caves of the meandering Caves Branch River.  In a weird way, I looked forward to overcoming my fear of claustrophobia, and what better place than in the underground caves where the Mayans had once lived and worshipped. Considering this happened to be one of the most popular tours in Belize, I refused to back out.

Jungle walk & cave tubing - Belize

Photo credit kthypryn

The young women and I changed into our bikinis, and carried our inner-tubes through the jungle.  “How many of you thought you’d be hiking in the jungle in a bikini, with an inner tube and flip flops? I asked. “What a fashion statement,” one of the girls said. A section had been landscaped for the tourists, with paths and labeled trees, such as the poisonwood tree. “You better stay away from that one,” I told the girls, remembering how my son, Austin, had suffered for five weeks after touching a poisonwood tree when we first moved to our hut in Belize. We reached a small area of rocks perched above the Caves Branch River. “For those of you who don’t want to wait, you can jump off this rock,” Sylvan, our guide said. “Others can take the path to the right and wait in line.”

“Are you sure it’s deep enough?” I asked Sylvan

“Yes.” So I jumped in.

The water was refreshingly cold by Belizean standards, around 70 F. I settled my butt inside the tube and waited for the other six women to join me. They all took the speedy route, jumping in one after the other.

“Who wants rum punch?” Sylvan asked. I vigorously flapped my arms backwards to reach him. I figured better to numb my claustrophobic fear with a cocktail than be overly anxious for the next hour and a half.

“That’s one strong punch,” I told Sylvan.

“I made it myself. It makes the ride more fun,” he said. It certainly helped for the moment, however I couldn’t figure out how to hold my drink, flap my arms and move forwards into the dark caves, since the river current didn’t seem to be cooperating. “Bingo! Just in the nick of time surprise number two. Marco, another young Belizean guy, showed up. “Why don’t you put your feet under Tracy’s tube and we’ll form a chain,” he said. “I can pull both of you along.” Now I’d been upgraded to first class, rum punch in one hand, gliding effortlessly inside dark caves with a miner’s lamp attached to my forehead.

Some beautiful photos of cave-tubing from the Caves Branch website.

We weren’t alone in these sixty- foot wide caves. Several cruise ship passengers were ahead of us. The inside of these vast caves was illuminated by flickering miners’ lamps. Poor Marco did all the work while Tracy and I looked around the caves’ ceilings looking for bats. Marco pointed out some beautiful stalactite crystal formations with an extra strong flashlight.

“Butts up,” Marco shouted, breaking my relaxed trance.

“We’re reaching a very shallow spot only four inches of water, and your rear end gets a rocky ride if you don’t lift it as high as you can.”

We slid along to the impossible spot forcing us to get out of the tube and walk over some painful rocks. Fortunately, Sylvan showed up for a rum punch re-fill, just in time.

I preferred zip-lining to cave-tubing. I had hoped to see some Mayan artifacts and with chilled bones inside dark caverns, I couldn’t wait to get out and warm up. Walking on slippery wet rocks was no easy task, but this was our only option to get out of the river and change into our dry clothes.

The old, yellow school bus, our transportation back to the boat, waited for us with reggae music blaring; just what I needed for the ride home. Rum punch and beers flowed, and everyone seemed content and exhausted. Sylvan stopped at a local store to get some ice for our drinks, and then we headed back to the boat.

“It’s going to be a long boat ride home, especially as the winds are picking up, and rain clouds are forming,” Sylvan said. I couldn’t believe I’d forgotten my jacket. Now I only had my wet beach towel for protection. Belizean rainstorms were aggressive, especially when sitting in a moving boat. They attacked you with piercing pellets resembling mini ice picks injuring your skin. I had two choices, either to laugh or to cry. I decided to laugh; it helped ease the pain.

Above photo credit Satanoid.

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Do you have a “My Gutsy Story”?

To submit your own, “My Gutsy Story” you can find all the information, and our sponsors on the “My Gutsy Story” contest page. (VIDEO) Submission guidelines here.

*****

Please share the “My Gutsy Story” series with others on Twitter using the #MyGutsyStory. Thank you.

“My Gutsy Story” by Dodie Cross

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Snorkeling the Great Barrier Reef

In the 60s, I reluctantly signed up for classes on SCUBA diving. My husband was excited; he thought it would be great for the two of us to dive together.  What I didn’t bring up to him, and what had been a deep, dark secret for years, was my fear of sharks and the big deep—the ocean!   I’d always been the first to run into the oncoming waves, knowing I’d go no deeper than my midriff, but actually acting as though I’d go out as far as anyone else if need be. I could outswim anyone in a pool, as long as I could see the bottom.  Lakes and rivers held some worry for me, but somehow I felt a shark couldn’t make it in those waters.  Maybe it’s the fact I can’t see what’s down there around my legs, ready to carry me off to the deep, and then include me in their digestive juices.

But, I shouldered on, joining him in the classes.  I was the only female in a group of eight men; two of whom I might add quit when the going got tough.  I actually made it all the way to certification—that is until the diving instructor took us out to be certified.  We had to snorkel out to the kelp beds, put in our regulator and dive to 50 feet to be certified.

It was a violently stormy day as we made our way to Black’s Beach on the California Coast. The breakers were over ten feet.  I donned my suit with shaky hands, then my footies and gloves.  Someone, not sure who, helped me on with my weight belt, and off we went.  As I was snorkeling out with my husband in front of me, I had the distinct feeling that I was sinking.  It was hard to keep afloat.  I struggled so hard I began to hyperventilate.  Was the fear of the darkness below? Where a shark might be in waiting, licking his chops, causing this hyperventilation?  I couldn’t let this happen.  I removed my snorkel and yelled to my husband:   “I’m sinking!  Help me!” The instructor, swimming nearby took one look at me and immediately reached out and flipped open my weight belt. As the belt sank I began to return to the surface. Obviously, someone had given me a weight belt meant for a two hundred pound wrestler.  By then I was so exhausted the instructor sent me back to shore.  I half crawled up the shoreline, dragging myself over the sea urchins as they tore my booties, gloves and the skin beneath. At the sight of blood I panicked.  Got to get out before a shark gets my scent, I thought, as I groped in the sand for handholds to pull me up and out.  Sadly, for my husband, that was the end of my diving career.

That was over fifty years ago, and I knew I would never go back into the deep.  That is until two weeks ago when a friend and I visited Australia. I reluctantly signed up for a snorkeling outing on the Great Barrier Reef.  Now, I knew I wouldn’t do it, but my girlfriend was so excited about the tour, I had to pretend I was excited as well.  I figured I’d go along with the farce just long enough to keep her happy.  But when it came time to don the gear, I’d amazingly get a headache and have to decline.   However, when the instructor began to hand out the masks and snorkels, I had an epiphany:  It’s time to quell your fears.  You’re not a young woman any longer, and why take a dirt nap without conquering this fear.

I asked the instructor about the Great Whites. Had any been seen in these waters or nearby? “Not for years,” he said, “no problem, mate!”  So I suited up.  My heart beating so hard I feared it would show through my bra top. I valiantly stepped off the swim board and jumped in.  The water was glorious, so clear you could see for miles. I did some rather strange rotating, though, to make sure nothing could sneak up behind me.  The longer we were floating out there, the more brave I became.  “It’s okay, I said as a mantra:  You’ve finally conquered your worst fear.

Then something brushed my leg. Something big! Omygod!  I whipped my head around, terrified that I might see a huge shark, and there, staring me right in the mask was the most beautiful fish I’d ever seen.  It was over three feet long, and the most vivid turquoise blue.  Its lips were the size of tractor tires and it was smiling at me.  Our dive instructor told us that this fish always visits the groups in the water, and has been doing this for quite some time.

After my heart quit doing the Macarena, I meekly reached out to pet this beautiful fish.  You see, I thought, all those fears all those years, for nothing.

This morning as I worked on my computer and half-listened to the TV news, the anchor interrupted with: “We have breaking news” which normally means a car chase, a stock market plunge or surge, so I paid scant attention.  That is until I heard:  “A Great White Shark has just killed a man off the Australian coast.

So much for conquering your fears!

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 Dodie Cross Bio

About the author: Dodie Cross is a freelance writer who has received numerous awards for her writing and poetry, among them the prestigious Southern California Writer’s Conference First Place Award for “Best Nonfiction,” as well as First Place in their inaugural Poetry Award. She has accrued first and second place prizes in her published articles. Dodie has traveled the world, writing about her life in foreign countries such as Iran and Thailand, as well as American locales such as New Orleans, Orange County, California.

 

Check out Dodie’s website where you will find her next book: A Broad Abroad in Iran: One Strappy-Sandaled Foot Ahead of the Mullahs: An Expat’s Life in Iran Before and During the Revolution.

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Thanks Dodie for sharing how you overcame your fear of scuba diving and snorkeling, and just jumped back in. To find out more about Dodie Cross and her humorous writing, please check out her blog: A Broad Abroad. Please share your comments or questions with Dodie who will be over to respond to them.

 

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Want to share your own “My Gutsy Story”?

To submit your, “My Gutsy Story” please go to the “My Gutsy Story” contest page. (VIDEO) and Submission guidelines here. You will also find a list of our wonderful sponsors and prizes.

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VOTE FOR YOUR FAVORITE DECEMBER “MY GUTSY STORY”

Read their stories here. Winner and the prize they selected will be announced on January 12th.

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