There’s a Ray Bradbury story from 1952 called “A Sound of Thunder” that undoubtedly inspired plot lines in Back to the Future and The Flash and many others. It takes place in a future where time travel is possible, so of course the technology is monetized as exclusive tourism for the wealthy, who can travel back 60 million years and hunt dinosaurs. In one group, a guy veers off the path built to minimize time tourists’ impact on the world, which could have unforeseen consequences millions of years in the future. When they get back from the hunt, things are changed in subtle and not so subtle ways. Some words are spelled differently, and a fascist presidential candidate has just won the election that he had previously lost before the group traveled back for the hunt. The guy who got lost in the forest looks down at his boots and sees among the mud there the remains of a single dead butterfly, trampled as he stumbled through the prehistoric brush.

Treading on butterflies is unfortunate and causing the election of fascists objectively bad. But the notion that actions in the present can impact a future world is worth remembering. A lot of people I know are trying to become better versions of themselves. It’s one of the reasons I take these trips. But if all I’m doing is taking from the world I’m interacting with to try to make my life a little better, well that’s selfish. And myopic.

This trip began with a burial service for my father, who passed away a few months back. (The ground was frozen then so the burial service needed to be postponed.) At the service, the priest said a few words and then asked if anyone else would like to speak. Almost immediately someone did – a friend of Dad’s from 40 years ago who moved away 20 years ago. Then another. And then a procession of others. They all said the same thing, one way or another – that my dad touched their lives through his generosity. Not just money, but time and attention and wisdom and community.

I do think a person’s life can be measured by the other lives they’ve touched. and I remember distinctly thinking that, and thinking about my dad’s inveterate sense of community, as I rode out of my hometown the morning after the service. 10 miles later I stopped for breakfast in Camden, NY where I went to high school and where my dad taught chemistry for almost 40 years. An old guy was having a cigarette in the parking lot when I pulled in, and started to make his way towards me as I got off the bike and removed my helmet. He wanted to talk, clearly. I’m used to this on the bike. It’s almost always other motorcycle people who want to ask about the bike and the trip and offer advice. And so it was with this guy, whose son rides motorcycles. But this guy wanted to keep talking. He told me about engineering designs he had made including a design for a chair he was trying to patent (at age 83) and get into the market. He told me about how he invested $500 in IBM in the 70s changed his life financially. He told me about his wife who wanted him to stop working on a project that consumed him because he should have been retired, and so he did but for 15 years secretly hoped she’d relent and let him go back to doing what he loved. About how she passed and he missed her, but he relished his return to the project.

What was normally a 60 second exchange was a 15 minute conversation. Instead of cutting it short, I just stood outside with the man – Dave was his name – and listened. He needed someone to tell his stories to. Just someone to listen. If I had been traveling by car and on an inevitable timetable, I probably would have kept it short. In fact he probably wouldn’t have talked to me at all. Instead I had no place to be but the road ahead, and nothing to do besides try to be a better participant in this world.

Last night at dinner I thought about Dave again, and hoped he enjoyed telling me his stories. At the brewery where I ate, I saw a chalkboard behind the bar that said “Beer it Forward” with a couple dozen names written on it. I asked the bartender what that was about. “It’s something we do for the locals. It’s a small town and we have a lot of regulars. They can buy their friends a beer even when their friends aren’t here, so it’s waiting for them the next time they come in.”

Inspired, obviously. Normally I’d quietly regard it as such and get on with my meal. But after thinking about my dad and listening to Dave and reflecting on how these trips can make me a more active participant in the world, I said to her, “I’m just passing through and don’t know anyone. Can I still do it?”

She thought a moment and said “Sure,” so we came up with the idea that I would Beer it Forward to the next person who sat in the seat I was in at the bar. She gave me a piece of paper to put my name on (just “Mike”). When my check came it included the $8.13 Beer it Forward charge.

Whenever I learn something new there’s a period at the outset when I have to be super intentional about everything. I recently started taking tennis lessons and it’s mentally exhausting because of all the things I need to remember with each stroke. To make technique unconscious, it first has to be entirely conscious. I feel that way sometimes on these trips. But instead of grooving my body to hit a consistent forehand, I’m trying to teach my brain to be a more authentic and connected person in the world. And like my tennis, it’s awkward and faltering sometimes. But once in a while I hit a shot that’s pure, that makes me realize what it’s supposed to feel like.