Living With Intention: Lessons From a Cross-Country Bike Ride

When I signed up to ride my bike across the country—Portland to Portland—I thought I might find clarity along the way.

I had just lost my friend Jessica, who lived with a deep sense of intention—making time for what she loved and showing up fully in her life. I wanted to honor that. And if I’m honest, I hoped for some kind of epiphany—a moment where everything made sense.

That didn’t happen.

What I found instead was something quieter, and ultimately more meaningful.

The training itself required intention long before the ride ever began. I spent hours on repetitive rides in my basement during the winter, and rode long distances in the rain to prepare for back-to-back days. It wasn’t exciting or dramatic, but it required me to consistently make the time and create the space.

And then there was the ride.

Some days brought intense heat, long stretches with no shade, and climbs that felt overwhelming. Other days required hours of steady effort—mile after mile of uphill, with no shortcut except to keep going.

In those moments, I came back to the same things: my preparation, the basics, and focusing on one pedal stroke at a time. I also leaned on the people around me—encouraging, steady, and a constant reminder that I wasn’t doing something hard alone.

What I realized is this:

Clarity doesn’t arrive all at once. It’s built quietly, over time—through preparation, reflection, and the choice to be intentional before the moment requires it.

Because when things get hard—whether on a bike, in illness, or in end-of-life moments—we don’t suddenly rise to the occasion. We rely on what we’ve already taken the time to build.

That’s what intentionality offers.

Not certainty, but steadiness.

If you’re new here, you can read more about why I write about living and dying well in my first post.