Meet "Unpaved Roads" in the Story Behind the Song
Meet the "Unpaved Roads" Substack by diving into the story behind the song that inspired it all, "Unpaved Roads" off of Lucky Lamond's album Carry Them All.
Welcome, friends, Romans, countryhumans!
Steph here rocking and rolling into my very first Substack. But why a Substack? Why now? What could I possibly add to the overflowing online word-space that is this wonderful, glorious platform?
In keeping with most of my ventures these days, I've chosen to call my Substack ‘Unpaved Roads’. I’ll be working in these digital pages to create a space for all of us to explore and celebrate the healing power of storytelling and authentic expression, all within the context that I believe that there is a vital need in today’s post-industrial Western culture to integrate connection with the ‘sacred’, whatever that means to you. In what will be the first of hopefully many iterations of the ‘Story Behind the Song’, we’ll be kicking things off by breaking down the track “Unpaved Roads” from my first album, Carry Them All. This song, and the experiences behind it, are a big part of the ‘why’. So lace up those boots, and let’s get going.
The story starts with my first motorcycle, a gorgeous (albeit dust-covered at the beginning) black 1983 BMW R65.
She found her way to me in 2018, and I named her Elspeth, after the first British woman to ride a motorcycle around the world. Elspeth Beard had accomplished this feat on a cousin of my bike, a black 1974 BMW R60/6, and I’d sit on the bike on its center stand before I was confident riding it and imagine I was her, deep in the wild, finding her way. Strong in the face of fear and the dismissal of the motorcycling world at the time because she was a woman, inspired to just go, Elspeth was my modern-day patron saint of the freedom and adventure that I’d find on this bike.
But first, I had to learn to ride it. And I had to tell my parents that I had bought it.
The first seeds of the emotions that would become the song took root when I told my mom on the phone that I had bought a motorcycle. Like the fantastic, caring mother she is, she cried.
She was rightly terrified I’d kill myself on this thing; to complicate matters, we were also deep in the throes of my coming of age and creating my adult identity after leaving for San Francisco after college. The necessary evolving of our incredibly close relationship already felt painful, so the bike in that moment was another physical manifestation of it (along with a new nose ring, and tattoo…). After a few days of space and licking our wounds, all was right, but a deep-seated fear had raised its head- that as I became more myself, the more I would drive away the ones I cared about most.
As I got digging into the ‘riding it’ bit, things were similarly not-smooth.
Remember, this was a vintage bike. I’d try to start her, and her carbs would overflow and spew gasoline all over my boot; she’d been sitting too long on her side stand, and needed a new float needle. Replacing the cafe-style handle bars with the original, higher bars, we stripped the triple tree, and needed to source and install a new one.
On top of all this, I was finding myself ‘choking’ as I got used to accelerating the bike from a stop, as on the many hills of SF she was liable to stall, and since she’s old, requires good knowledge of how much throttle to give. She weighs 400+ pounds, and I was still getting my sea legs, so every stall put me into panic as I fought with all my strength to not lose my balance on our famous inclines.
After one particularly exasperated and tearful moment, where I stalled so many times I drained the battery, I was walking the bike back to our garage when I lost the center of gravity and she just tipped. Over.
Those 400+ lbs came down on my leg as I tried to pick her up. Infuriatingly, I literally could not lift her. I screamed for my partner Tracy to come help, feeling as angry at needing the help as I was panicked that it had happened at all, and we got her back in the garage. With my tail between my legs, I retreated to our bedroom, hugging my guitar.
Noodling around, feeling glum, I kept coming back to a three chord progression that felt right next to what was in my head and my aching heart: C, G, D.
A little bit of grounding in there, still a major key, but ending with a question mark, something unfinished. As my inside started to match the music I was softly strumming, the first lyrics came-
“Oh I’m trying, but I can’t pretend I’ve got it figured out,
I’m learning, but I still gotta keep my feet on the ground,
It doesn’t matter how strong I make myself,
Still gotta let go.”
I was never going to learn to ride if I couldn’t let go of my fear of stalling, all tied at a deeper level to the fear of momentum, of actually riding; I was afraid that I couldn’t trust myself to handle the machine. Of course I could handle it. It was that immediate fear response I needed to gently push through.
With a little more strength coming, the next verse -
“I know I stand on the shoulders of those,
Who made their way down the first unpaved roads,
And when those trailblazing little girls come along,
We’ll show them what they want is not wrong.”
It was almost like Elspeth energy was putting a hand on my shoulder, saying “you’re not the only one who’s felt this way, and it’s all worth it. We’ve all made it past this part. So can you.”
Not helping the matter was that motorcycling was just the latest in my long line of male-dominated interests.
Growing up in music, then learning to work as a recording engineer, I was surrounded by the idea that I was a relative anomaly and would have to be scrappy to get where I wanted to be. If that doesn’t give one a chip on their shoulder to expect a life of being an isolated ‘only’, I don’t know what does. To top it off, I didn’t even know where that place to get to was.
I could never properly shake the ache of a skin that’s too tight and identities that didn’t feel right, but without knowing what I’d become when I eventually peeled it off. I just knew how to follow what called to me and trust that I’d learn along the way, though the following could likely involve a bit more grace for those around me.
From that place of deepest vulnerability, what would become the chorus -
“But that doesn’t mean that I’m not scared,
I’m still hoping someone’s there,
Waiting at the end of the road,
That I’ll still have a place to call home.”
The rest continued, a musing on the importance of community in these unpaved places, and a call to learn from those who came before. Then the bridge, moving from resigned, rueful, but almost proud, to a plea;
“Oh I’m trying, but I can’t pretend I got it figured out,
I’m learning but I still gotta keep my feet on the ground,
Still workin’ on gettin’ bein’ a daughter right.
Guess I’m lucky I got parents to keep up at night.
But that doesn’t mean I’m not scared…
I’m still hoping they’ll be there.”
It ends, when I’m performing it right, in a raspy achey howl, begging that the ones I love will still be there after I’ve come out the other side in a skin that fits. In real life, happy to report, so far so good. But there’s still always a kernel of fear that self-realization will lead to isolation. It runs deep, so I think just might be universal.
After all, when humans were new and most of these responses were being wired, being ‘different’ meant risking ostracization, which meant death.
Heck, it still does if you’re the right brand of ‘different’; I write this with all the white- straight-cis-passing privilege a gal can have. But when you’re going to choose a path outside of the norm anyway, to exist in spaces you don’t fit yet, how do you work with that elemental fear to still break into momentum and forge your authentic path you’re here to explore?
The key for me was breathing through the fear and practicing trusting that I’d know what to do when the bike got rolling. And remembering that what was on the other side of this, as the idea of Elspeth had taught me, was worth it.
I did learn to ride that bike, and have felt the limitlessness of riding with the hawks and the vultures, out in the deserts of San Diego and in the rich fields and forests of my Northern California home.
I’ve cried at the feeling of oneness I get with my California landscape when I’m on those two wheels. It’s quieted my soul in a profound way. Moving beyond the fear of those early days steeled me like no other pursuit so far has, reminiscent of a favorite author Sharon Blackie’s writing of her time learning to fly a plane in her book If Women Rose Rooted. I’m grateful it was tough, and continues to be. And I owe my developing path to the toughness I found within myself pushing through that initial fear in learning to ride.
So back to today—why Substack?
In short, I’m on a new Unpaved Road in my professional life in my work with my creative studio, new music releases, and other things not quite ready to be mentioned. I want to share what I’m learning and what I create here in the hopes more of us can push past the fear and find our own authentic paths.
After integrating the things I’ve found in my exploration, instead of feeling like an outsider in these patriarchal worlds, in a skin that doesn’t fit, I’ve taken inspiration from the selkie/sealwoman and maighdean mhara (mermaid) myths about reclaiming one’s skin. I now feel lucky to be born feeling like I don’t fit, and I think more of us who share this should embrace it as an opportunity to discover where we do. Ironically, we’ll be less isolated when we know we’re in this together.
In addition, while considering my obsession with the healing power of storytelling and expression (did I mention I’m obsessed with the healing power of storytelling and expression?), I realized the root of these questions was a search for what a modern connection with the ‘sacred’ can look like. While time spent at the water’s edge and storytelling and creativity for me are the vehicles for this, there are myriad opportunities on an individual level for people to re-integrate connection with something greater than ourselves. I believe this is vital to pushing past that fear towards self-actualization and a healthier, kinder culture and planet.
In sum, if it’s being lived truly authentically, a fully realized life cannot have a trajectory like anyone else’s, but seeing bits of ourselves in others’ stories can help us bring our own into focus.
When we examine others’ stories, we find that everyone was scared. But they found that the authentic life is worth it.
In this Substack and in this next phase of my work, I’ll be sharing how my connection to the ‘sacred’, storytelling through song, continues to transform me. We’ll dig into the ideas behind why it does and how this can be applied to others finding their own connective, authentic expression.
I hope you find a meaningful companion in these words, offering perspectives that will invite you to this self-examination and act as guideposts as you travel your own Unpaved Road. There’s at least one person who will be here at the end of the road with you; that’s me, and the community of explorers we’ll build here.
Know the world absolutely needs you on that path. Thank you for existing.
Listen to “Unpaved Roads”
Read on for the full lyrics of “Unpaved Roads”; a “meditation”, as I wrote on Bandcamp, “on feeling like you weigh significantly less than both your 400+ lb motorcycle and the expectations of yourself and your family.”
“Oh I’m tryin’, but I can’t pretend I got it figured out,
I’m learning’ but I still gotta keep my feet on the ground,
It doesn’t matter how strong I make myself,
Still gotta let go and ride the wave.
I know I stand on the shoulders of those
Who made their way down the first unpaved roads,
So when those trailblazing little girls come along,
We’ll show them what they want is not wrong.
But that doesn’t mean that I’m not scared,
I’m still hoping someone’s there,
Waiting at the end of the road,
That I’ll still have a place to call home.
Oh they say it’s often a long and lonely way,
For all our sisters trying to get ahead these days,
But I don’t think that we have to accept that that’s the case
‘Long as we lend a helping hand and a friendly face.
Oh you can’t always tell where someone’s been,
Not all stories are written on wrinkled skin,
But those are all the ones I want to hear,
Teach us green folks how you made it here.
But that doesn’t mean that I’m not scared,
I’m still hoping someone’s there,
Waiting at the end of the road,
That I’ll still have a place to call home.
Oh I’m tryin, but I can’t pretend I got it figured out,
I’m learnin’ but I still gotta keep my feet on the ground,
Still workin’ on gettin’ being a daughter right,
Guess I’m lucky I got parents to keep up at night.
But that doesn’t mean that I’m not scared,
I’m still hoping they’ll be there.
But that doesn’t mean that I’m not scared,
I’m still hoping someone’s there,
Waiting at the end of the road,
That I’ll still have a place to call home.”
What a heartfelt depiction of your journey! As for being THE terrified mother (and one who always will be! ) it was enlightening to read about "your side of the story." What an insightful analogy of learning to ride and how it relates to your self actualization. Brilliant, my daughter! The ancestors are cheering you on and smiling! xo