Homeless. Kind of.

Did we really just get rid of (nearly) everything we own?

Yeah. We did. And it was easier than I would have expected. Emotionally, anyway. Logistically, not so much.

Why get rid of everything?

We were two people rattling around in a five-bedroom house. We built it to accommodate Beth’s aging father so he could have his own space to blast The Price is Right at full volume without driving everyone else in the house crazy. We always said we’d sell when the kids and Dad were gone.

We tried once before, but it was in the throes of the 2008 recession and nobody was buying houses back then. Then, the kids came back, so it probably wasn’t meant to be.

By 2020, things were different. The kids had moved into their own places. COVID-19 made for a red-hot real estate market in rural New Jersey so we decided to pull the trigger.

Seeds of change

Rewind three years or so. Beth is in her second decade working for a heartless, soulless, ginormous corporation, itching for employees like her to quit, disappear or be run over by a train. Professionals with decades of invaluable experience are just too expensive. And her employer doesn’t care a whiff about quality. Their motivation is single minded; shareholder rewards.

So they pile on more work with less staff, less money and fewer hours. With an endless line of young college grads knocking at the door, willing to take way more crap for way less money, you have two choices; grin and bear it or don’t let the door hit you in the … .

For years, I pestered her for big change. Let’s move to North Carolina. Let’s move to Philadelphia. Let’s move to Oregon. But she always rebuffed my schemes. The pain of leaving would have been greater than the pain of staying put, in those days. “When are you going to retire?” friends would ask. “Never,” came her reply. “I’m going to have a heart attack and die at my terminal. Do me a favor, when that happens, call my financial advisor. Then call Sal.”

Her stubbornness didn’t stop me trying. And one historic day, we were in the car on a two-hour trip. Wheels turning, as usual, I said, “let’s sell everything and ride our bicycles across the country.” Fully expecting the traditional no, she shocked me with a yes!

Oh, crap. She said yes. Now what?!

The pain point had finally tipped the balance. The kids were (really) out of the house and dad was gone. She could finally allow herself a vision of the future that did not include her lifeless corpse slumped over a computer terminal.

We immediately launched into a training regimen, riding as many miles as we possibly could, every week, all summer. We signed up for a 75-mile charity ride. We finished that ride (besting riders 20 years our junior and younger, I might add.) But, by Halloween the tragic flaw in the plan was painfully evident. Literally. There was no way we were riding across the country, unless we both had major orthopedic work, replacing old, arthritic, creaky joints.

But she had said yes. There had to be a plan B. Isn’t there always a plan B?

Plan B. And C.

The plan morphed. We’ll drive to the destination, then park the car and explore it by bike, blogging about our adventures.

But where would we stay? Couch surfing seemed too much trouble. Social networks for bicyclist housing were designed for those doing plan A, not cheating with gasoline in between. Hotels would be way too expensive. We’ll camp. After all, we are experienced Appalachian Trail hikers and we know how to rough it. Having a car to haul camping gear around would have been a four-star resort experience, by comparison.

But did we really want to spend the next X or Y years sleeping in a tent? Not really.

The plan morphed again. An RV! It seemed the perfect solution, we’d bring the office and hotel room with us. We’d drive to the destination, explore by bike, but always have a dry place to stay, no matter the weather.

And, while we’re at it, we might as well add breweries to the mix.

We’re microbrewery nuts. We plan vacations around brewery locations. We do weekend trips to breweries within driving distance. It was perfect: bar-to-bar without a car. Kind of.

A trial run confirmed the feasibility. We did a weekend in Leesburg, Va., riding bikes on the LoCo Trail to breweries by day and staying in a comfy bed-and-breakfast by night. We can do this. Full time. We just have to get her the hell away from that God-forsaken computer terminal.

Enter COVID-19

The big question was when? COVID-19 gave the answer: now! Beth works in healthcare. Before the pandemic, her job was miserable on the best day. After, it was purely abysmal, every day. She was exposed constantly to careless members of the general public, most with their face masks around their chins, many of whom were coming to see her for the COVID testing her employer graciously added to her team’s duties.

That all combined to make her—in her own words—a biohazard. She had to assume she was carrying the virus for the protection of everyone around her. That meant no contact with mom, 91 now, no visits to family in North Carolina—and the very real prospect of being unable to hold our first grandchild, expected early next year.

By summer, she’d had enough and was ready to take action. We met the realtor. We spruced up. Made some repairs. Put down a fresh coat of paint. Nothing crazy, like last time, when she painted every room a sickening beige and “staged” like some maniacal cable TV DIY star. I put my foot down. No staging. It’s crap. If they like the house, they’ll buy it. If it’s meant to be, we’ll get an offer. Colored paint on the walls and the odd accordion or two in the corners isn’t going to stop them.

We listed the house. To a person, friends and neighbors paid us the supreme compliment of being extremely pissed off about it. After 33 years putting down roots in the community, nobody wanted us to go. They understand, they get it, they supported our decision. But they weren’t the least bit happy about it.

One neighbor threatened to ride his bicycle naked across our lawn every time a real estate agent showed up. Another vowed to pour used motor oil into our septic system. Public displays of firearms training were also mentioned.

Sweet of them. We sure did appreciate it.

The thing sold in days. The first family to see it came in the middle of an unprecedented storm, knocking over trees and bombarding the town with hail the size of golf balls. They made an offer within a day, before the realtor had time to hammer a for-sale sign on the lawn. (The same lawn with two St. Joseph statuettes buried in it from last time. Guess old Joe was a little slow on the draw, but he came through in the end.)

We had already decided not to buy or rent another place. That left us about six weeks to get rid of almost everything.

That’s when the fun began.

TO BE CONTINUED

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2020 move