We're Back on the Road, in Search of Balance in Retirement

Hindustan Times

5 days ago

The first few years in retirement are often the most difficult. But they also can set the stage for how you'll fill the years ahead—both financially and psychologically. Stephen Kreider Yoder, 67, a longtime Wall Street Journal editor, joined his wife, Karen Kreider Yoder, 68, in retirement in late 2022. In this monthly Retirement Rookies column, they chronicle some of the issues they are dealing with early in retirement.
We needed a break from retirement at home, so we hit the road again for the summer.
Home, road, home, road. That's the yin-yang rhythm we've settled into for early retirement. We'll be on vacation from this column for a bit as well—as we also search for the right balance with our writing.
We are on our tandem bicycle, as is our wont, crossing northern states from Washington's Pacific coast to the Atlantic, camping along the way.
We should hit Maine by August—'Inshallah' as we learned to say when traveling in Islamic countries, 'the Lord willing,' as we intoned at my missionary-kid school in Japan.
At our age, it would be arrogant to presume. Despite logging two cross-country bike tours in the past four years, we wonder if this will be the time we can't make it. That's one reason we've set out again—age will soon force us to cut back on some activities we love, so we're seizing the day.
It won't matter if we don't make it. Each day we do cover will present a slow-motion, sensory-rich picture of America's beauty. Already, we've enjoyed sweeping scans from mountain passes in the Cascades, the scent of pines on Idaho back roads, the sounds of the first birdsong and rushing streams in Montana's mountains.
Soon we will be cruising Minnesota prairie roads to the tinkling sound that wheat makes in the wind, feeling the sunrise warmth and, certainly, raindrops.
Each day, we will continue to encounter people who enrich our lives, many of them seniors who give us a better picture of how other people retire and ideas of how we might enhance our own next years. In towns like Port Angeles, Wash.; Sandpoint, Idaho; and Whitefish, Mont., senior residents have approached us, curious about our tandem and eager to share how they came to retire contentedly there.
In campgrounds, retirees from around America have been our volunteer camp hosts, including the couple at Glacier National Park who are repeat hosts—an enticing model for volunteering.
In other campgrounds, we've met retirees in RVs who have found a comfortable pattern of alternating life at home with life in their road homes. We'll doubtless run into seniors like the ones we met in 2022 who had permanently retired from the Midwest to an RV park in New Mexico. They welcomed us with dinner of tostada salad and talked of their simple life and the health benefits of the desert there.
And we may get unexpected hospitality like we did from a retired doctor in Mississippi who offered us a bed in his waterside home. He and his wife served us redfish he had caught that day, and an opportunity to talk about the region, politics and what we shared despite very different lives.
People along the way ask us why we take the risks of road cycling. After describing the human encounters and sensory delights, we conclude simply, 'There's just nothing like it.'
We are blessed that our health and wherewithal let us do this crazy thing.
After Maine will come the blessing of getting home from long travels—back to predictable routines, reconnecting with friends, resuming volunteering gigs, sinking into a real bed and sitting in the easy chair with the morning paper.
The yin of home routines helps us appreciate our ability to travel adventurously. The yang of extended travel helps us cherish our lives at home. We will continue to treasure both facets of our retirement.
Karen
'What do you talk about all day?' one of my sisters asked us about the long stretches together on our tandem bike.
The question had never occurred to us. We don't run out of subjects.
That's too much togetherness for some couples. 'Wherever your relationship is going, a tandem will take it there faster,' is a saw among cyclists. Some call these bikes 'divorce cycles.'
Not for us. We have hundreds of hours to discuss things while pedaling. Some are serious; we'll fret about politics or speculate about how the economy might affect us. Then, mercifully, something better on the road changes the subject. ('It's so hard to stop worrying that this administration will mess up our retirement. Oh, look, a great blue heron taking off!')
We have time to wonder aloud what may come next in our retirement and what we should do about it. We're sure to become more frail in later years. Will Medicare be adequate—or even still around? Should we be buying long-term-care insurance the way our parents did?
Oh, well, let's talk about that later. How about a Snickers?
Heading out of Colonial Creek Campground in the North Cascades, our discussion drifted. Where does this route rank among our trips? What words did our parents ban? ('Gosh,' 'gee,' for sure, but how about 'darn'?) Is the word 'alacrity' necessary? Is the urge to drive fast a primordial instinct?
Then we stopped talking because the road got steeper heading toward Washington Pass, demanding serious-pedaling mode.
Passing sights give us abundant talking points, some recurring. Why are there so many old RVs rotting everywhere, and do you suppose they earned their keep?
For variety, we'll belt out songs in harmony as we finish crawling up a peak and coast down the other side, including lyrics from outdoorsy hymns: 'When I look down from lofty mountain grandeur; and hear the brook and feel the gentle breeze.' On a farm road in Montana, Steve asked: Can we still sing the second verse of 'Daisy Bell' ('…a bicycle built for two')? Yes, we could: 'We will go tandem as man and wife, Daisy, Daisy; Pedaling away down the road of life…'
We rate roads on a scale from A to F. And then there's our road-sign-editing game. 'How many words?' one will say, pointing to a verbose sign. The one with most trims wins. 'I can cut that to two words,' Steve once announced as we cycled by a series of signs, each proclaiming: 'No parking, no stopping, no standing at any time.'
We'll often go silent. In the predawn we'll ride quietly, listening to tree frogs and coyotes. We will spend long stretches in thought. Then one of us will say, 'I've been thinking…' and we'll launch into another discussion, sometimes serious, sometimes frivolous. We occasionally argue.
Sunday mornings, we often hold a lighthearted mobile worship service as we pedal. Chirping birds provide the prelude. We welcome visitors, usually a few curious cows. One of us recites a short scripture verse from memory, the other pontificates on it for a minute. Then we sing a hymn or two, which all takes us a few miles down the road, and it's time for snacks again.
Campgrounds offer still more time to talk, around a fire or in the tent as we watch raindrops trickle down the outside. And when it's quiet time, I pull out my Kindle. I've downloaded novels set in each state, to read as we pass through. That will be 15 on this trip—and we'll return to these pages in the fall.
Inshallah.
The Yoders live in San Francisco. They can be reached at [e-mail].