I dropped a hat. It wasn’t just any hat. It was a Buffalo Bison’s throwback baseball cap. It was black and white with a red brim and it fit my head perfectly. I wore that hat everywhere: New York City, Baltimore, DC, the Carolinas and Kentucky. I wore that hat everyway: brim up, brim down, backwards, and sideways. The hat was stained with my sweat, covered in dirt, and faded from the sun, just like a professional baseball player’s at the end of a long season. I loved that hat. But I dropped it and now it is gone.
It all started with a large wooden dining room table and the Boy Scout motto--"Be Prepared." I had never been on a long trip, or on the open road alone, so I had little idea of what to bring. I knew that carrying something that I would never use would be better than forgetting something that I desperately needed. So during the weeks leading up to my departure, the table filled with supplies until the wood top disappeared.
It was everything that I could possibly think of:
a pair of jeans
a pair of cargo shorts
two pairs of rugby shorts
a bicycle jersey
two t-shirts
a rugby jersey
a short sleeved button down shirt
a long sleeved button down flannel shirt
a long sleeved cotton pull over
a wool sweater
three pairs of ankle-cut socks
three pairs of boxer-brief underwear
a pair of spandex underwear
a leather belt
a spring rain jacket
a pair of waterproof pants
two winter hats
a pair of winter gloves
a winter jacket
a winter jacket-vest
a bandana
a bath towel
a pair of leather sandals
a pair of running sneakers
a one and a half person tent
a forty degree plus sleeping bag
a camping hammock
one medium sized notebook
two pocket sized notebooks
two pens
two books for reading
a dozen folded road maps
a folding toothbrush
travel sized toothpaste
travel sized 2 in 1 soap and shampoo
travel sized deodorant
a half roll of toilet paper
a box of Ziploc sandwich baggies
a box of large trash bags
a deck of waterproof cards
a pack of cigarettes
a tin of chewing tobacco
a Zippo lighter
a homemade first aid kit
two flashlights
four AA batteries
four AAA batteries
a handheld FM radio
a set of headphones
ten feet of nylon rope
a cellular telephone
an AC adapter for charging it
a pocket knife
four one-time-use hand warmers
my wallet, four bungee cords
two extra bicycle tubes
three extra spokes
one extra tire
a handheld CO2 compressor
five CO2 cartridges
three extra chain links
a bicycle repair multi-tool
a bicycle helmet
a coiled bicycle lock
a bag of trail-mix
a jar of peanut butter
a half dozen bagels
four water bottles
a set of saddlebags
a backpack
a Buffalo Bison‘s throwback baseball cap
I would wear the bicycle jersey, the spandex underwear, the rugby shorts, a pair of socks, the running sneakers, and the helmet. The inner frame of my bicycle would hold two water bottles and the coiled lock. Everything else had to be placed on the rear rack of the bike. I hung the saddlebags, one on each side, and went to work. It took many attempts, different schemes, and complicated patterns, but somehow I made it happen. Like a real life game of Tetris I arranged and rearranged, and then re-rearranged. I shuffled, stacked, compressed, and dangled. Then I shoved, bent, inserted, and squeezed until every last item was on my bicycle. When the puzzle was finally complete the rear end must have weighed over sixty pounds.
It was immediately apparent that I needed to get rid of some gear. The first twenty five miles of my ride, from Buffalo, New York to my hometown of Elma, felt like I was dragging a bundle of bricks. The rear end of my bike swayed back and forth and I was concerned that the rack would snap off like a dead tree branch in the wind. A bridge over a set of railroad tracks felt more like a mountain than a gentle incline. When I reached my parents house I dropped my sandals, the winter jacket, and the winter jacket-vest with ignorant hope that the temperature wouldn’t drop.
In Rochester I dropped a flannel shirt and in Oswego the long sleeved cotton pullover. In Potsdam I purchased a lightweight pair of camping pants in which the legs zipped off into shorts. This allowed me to drop the pair of jeans and the cargo shorts. In Annapolis, Maryland I dropped the medium sized notebook and traded a Faulkner novel for a contemporary biography. In Charlotte, North Carolina I dropped a t-shirt, and the book I picked up in Annapolis, giving them to my friend Nate as a gift. I knew he would appreciate them more than me.
Somewhere in Kentucky I dropped the Buffalo Bison’s throwback baseball cap. I noticed that it was gone as I neared the Mississippi River and the Missouri border. It was hot and the sun was shining and I longed for the brim to shade my face. I tore through my belongings even though I knew that it wasn’t there. I always kept it right on top. I swore up and down the road, my eyes starting to mist, clenching my fist to hold back the tears. I considered going back, looking for it, but I knew it was a lost cause. I had traveled close to sixty miles already that day and it could have been anywhere between where I was and where I stayed the night before.
I vaguely remembered hanging the Buffalo Bison’s throwback cap on the low branch of a pine tree just before I laid down to go to sleep. I was camping illegally on the water’s edge at a place called “The Land Between the Lakes.” I cannot be completely sure but I could have sworn that I grabbed it when I left the next morning. Maybe I did and it fell somewhere on the road. But maybe I didn’t and it continued to hang on the branch. Regardless, it was gone, and I would never see it again. It would prove to be the only thing that I didn‘t drop on purpose.
In Manhattan, Kansas I dropped my bungee cords, giving them to an adventurous young man who was riding his motorcycle to the northern most point in Canada.
By the time I reached Denver, Colorado I had dropped thirty pounds of fat. It was all extra weight that my body apparently did not need and made me wonder what other extra baggage I was carrying. So I sorted through my belongings and dropped what I did not need: the extra tire, my backpack, hammock, leather belt, bath towel, Zippo lighter, rain pants, t-shirt, rugby jersey, a pair of rugby shorts, one flashlight, the deck of waterproof cards, and a winter hat. I boxed it all up, gave my friend Mitch ten dollars, and told him to mail it all to me when I got to where I was going.
After crossing the border into a new state I dropped the map of the one that I had just traveled through. I was always moving forward. On a frigid night in Kremmling, Colorado I remembered the hand warmers tucked into the side of my saddlebags. I tore them open and dropped them in my sleeping bag, but they did little to comfort my body from the cold. In Salt Lake City, Utah I picked up a lightweight long sleeved polyester shirt and dropped my wool sweater. It was the last thing I would drop.
By the time I reached the Pacific Ocean I was riding light. I had only my saddle bags, tent, sleeping bag, pants, long sleeve shirt, rain jacket, socks, underwear, bicycle supplies, two small notepads, toiletries, and water bottles. The sixty pounds I started with had dwindled to about fifteen. And I was absolutely content with everything on my bike, knowing that I could survive with just those few items. There was only one thing that I really missed.
The Buffalo Bison’s throwback cap was a birthday present from a close friend. I can still recall the moment I got it. It was a Friday night at a local baseball game. Between the third and fourth innings my friend told me to follow him, away from our seats and into the clubhouse store. For months I had carried on about how much I loved the hat--the sharp design, the classic style. We stood in front of the display. “Try one on,” he said. “Does it fit? Happy birthday. It’s yours.” It wasn’t even my birthday.
I often times wonder what became of the hat. Maybe it’s still hanging from the low branch of a pine tree on an island in “The Land Between the Lakes.” Or maybe it’s in a ditch off to the side of a lonely Kentucky road. I like to think that somebody found it, that they saw it and said, “Wow, this is a good looking hat.” I hope they picked it up and tried it on and it fit their head perfectly. I hope they wear it everywhere and every way. I hope they love the hat. The hat that I dropped.
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