Copyright © 2024 Tom Turcich. Excerpted by permission of Skyhorse Publishing Inc. All Rights Reserved. THE NOTE IN THE DESERT Fueled by empty hours and coca leaves that numbed my lower lip, I managed one stretch of desert after another. Savannah and I covered a minimum of twenty-seven miles a day. Sometimes we walked thirty miles or more to ensure we made it to town before running out of water. During the stretch of desert after leaving Joe, we walked thirty-six miles in a single day. After that, when we arrived in Mórrope, I found us a twenty-dollar room where Savannah slept fourteen hours and I stayed in bed listening to my legs throb in my ears. In the north desert, the road was flat, but as we moved south, the Pan-American was nudged to the coast by the last ripples of the Andes as they descended into the Pacific. Beside the coast, the air was salty, and the towns were tucked into narrow valleys. The desert became drier and more lifeless, too. Sometimes I didn't speak to anyone for days. With no internet, I listened to old podcasts just to hear someone's voice. I blared Sam Cooke, The Black Keys, and The Beatles on my speaker. I sang with uninhibited passion, often pushing my cart ahead so I could conduct with my hands. When I grew tired of singing, I talked to Savannah. I wasn't delirious enough for full conversations, but I was bored enough to make comments throughout the day. "What a view." "At least it's cloudy." "Peanut butter, peanut butter, peanut butter." My fraternity brother and native Peruvian, Arturo, was waiting to host me in the capital, Lima. That made the desert more challenging. I had nothing to do but fantasize about the plush days that waited ahead--his parents' vineyard, their beach house, ceviche in the city. Thoughts of a bed and a shower were poison for my happiness, but that didn't stop them from coming; in fact, I welcomed them. The desert was numbing. Each day, I felt less and less, but at least with visions of Lima I had something to hold on to, some reason to push through the never-ending sand. I was increasingly dull, empty, lobotomized. What I was doing, I could barely remember. One morning, I sat in an abandoned house tapping the back of my head against the wall to knock some life into myself. By looking at the map, I knew I wouldn't encounter a thing for another two days. I dreaded it. My boredom would turn each mile into five. With the length of the days increasing, I should have been enjoying a morning coffee, but I left my stove in Bogotá. I knew water would be scarce in the desert and by leaving my stove I could save some weight, so instead of sipping on a hot coffee, I washed down a caffeine pill. "Come here, Savannah." I pulled her head to my chest and rested my head against her side. I closed my eyes and focused on how her fur felt on my cheek, how her chest rose and fell, but Savannah wasn't one for affection. The moment I let go of her collar she walked off and sat by the steps to tell me she was ready to start walking. At noon, I rested on a rock off the side of the road. I didn't feel like making a sandwich or having mixed nuts, so I ate peanut butter with a spoon. After enough scoops, Savannah and I resumed walking. The miles passed slowly, but in the early evening we stumbled upon a restaurant that I hadn't seen on the map. La Balsa was at the intersection of the Pan-American and a dirt road that led to the fishing village of La Gramita. For a restaurant in the middle of nowhere, it was surprisingly busy. I took a seat at a table along the wall and tucked Savannah by my feet. I wondered if I could convince the owner to let us sleep inside for the night. They would open early, which meant I'd have to leave early, but spending another night in the desert was as appetizing as a mouthful of sand. "From where do you come?" asked the waiter. "The United States." "On bicycle?" "On foot." "We've had only one other walker." The waiter pointed to a collection of photos on the far wall. "Look." I dropped Savannah's leash and walked over to the collage. On the wall was a familiar photo--Karl Bushby, my idol, hands to his chest, face wrapped against the sand, standing in the Peruvian desert. It was the very picture that had been burnt into my head since seventeen. Surrounding the photo of Karl in the desert were framed clippings from Peruvian, Chilean, and British newspapers. "I know him," I said to the waiter across the room. "I spoke with him before I left. That's Karl Bushby." The waiter came over and stood beside me. "He started walking in 2000." "No, it was more early, '98, I think." "Ah yes, that's right. He was here in 2000." I leaned closer to the articles. Even though I'd seen the photos before, they held new meaning now that I was walking the same road Karl had walked sixteen years prior. I wasn't as tough as Karl--I wasn't an ex-paratrooper. I skipped the Darien Gap while he crossed it, and I had no interest in swimming the Bering Strait like he had, but we were of the same cloth. The club of world walkers was few. Although I'd spoken to him only once, I felt I knew him. I understood what it meant to leave, to be a stranger, and to have the insatiable need to be out there . The Goliath Expedition A World-Record Walk Around the World! I inspected Karl in the desert, two-wheel cart attached to his waist. He was covered head to toe, only his hands were bare. If I hadn't seen this photo at seventeen, I would have never bought a bike trailer then gone to The Factory to have it modified. I would have never met Tom Marchetty and he would have never held a press conference. Without a press conference, I wouldn't be sponsored by Philadelphia Sign. I was connected to this photo by a straight line, and looking at it I understood how one thing leads to the next and the next thing leads to all others. I wasn't an individual set apart in time, but a continuation of ideas; not the brush, but the paint; not self-governed, but guided by greater forces. The photo brought me to the photo. "Bring your cart in." I turned to the waiter. "Bring your cart in so nothing is robbed." "Oh yes. Good. Thanks." With the cart, the waiter led me to an area behind the register where an old man wearing a surgical mask sat at a table going over four tomes of handwritten notes. I parked my cart and the waiter gestured for me to sit across from the old man. "This is Clemente," he said. "The Angel of the Desert." "Good afternoon." "Your friend." Clemente turned one of the tomes and slid it to me. Scrawled on the page was the drawing of a man in hiking boots and patched pants with a cart attached to his belt and a British flag flying behind him. Above and below the drawing was a note: ON FOOT FOR THE WORLD RECORD!! GOLIATH EXPEDITION Punta Arenas - London. No Planes, no ships, no cars, no buses, no train and . . . NO BIKE ! 36,000 miles / 57,000 kms (-7,300 km) 11 years (-1 year 4 months) Alone in a bad ass world, chin straight with just enough money in my pocket to rub two pennies together, little food or water. Then, stumble out of the desert into this place and find the kindest man on Earth, Clemente. God bless you dear old chap! Fed me like a king, restores my faith in humanity, pay your respects to this man, people! Karl had drawn a map, too, marking points of interest-- nice and green, bad arse desert, lots of fun, cute girl . I put my head in my hands and cried. Other than my parents or Layla, Karl was the only person who could have written a note that cut to the core of me. I knew he was only a man, but he was also an idea that had fossilized in my soul over ten years. He was adventure, discovery, perseverance. He had written a note in the desert sixteen years before and now I was reading it--reaching Clemente and his restaurant while experiencing the same relief as Karl himself. "Where is he now?" asked Clemente. "Russia, I believe." "It's been a long time. It makes ten, fifteen years. When was that written?" "It makes sixteen years. He's been walking for more than sixteen years." I read the note a dozen times and with each pass I felt color returning to my thoughts. The desert didn't seem the burden it had a few hours before. Karl had walked it when it was even less developed. At least I had abandoned houses to sleep in and podcasts to listen to. "There's more." Clemente moved a blank sheet of paper which was covering a page I assumed was empty. On it was a final note: Whatever your plans, go for it! Keep on the road. Drive hard. Live it! Rage on you crazy mothers you! --Karl Bushby-- Excerpted from The World Walk: 7 Years. 28,000 Miles. 6 Continents. a Grand Meditation, One Step at a Time by Tom Turcich All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
