So I dragged my buddy out of the car. On the roadside, the invitation disappearing in the rearview mirror as she drove off, we surveyed our situation: two figures alone on a two-lane road running north-south. I could see in both directions for miles, and there was nothing. No cars. No people. No houses. Only some lonely, dirty sheep, keeping low to stay earth-bound in the bluster.
For the first hour or so, we maintained our spirits by joking about our predicament, convinced it would end soon. The few cars that passed paid us no mind, and depression gradually seeped in as we realized there would be no surprises. We could see for miles in both direction, and nobody was coming for us.
As the sky darkened, we left the road and began foraging in the pasture for rocks, optimistically turning back from time to time to scout for our ticket out. A narrow ravine divided the pasture in two, and we started to build stone ducks along the edge. For something to do. To prove we were here. I started tossing stones into the ravine, trying to gauge its depth. Sometimes I could hear the rocks hit the water deep below; sometimes they would bounce off the ravine's steep sides. One, one thousand. Two, one thousand. Three, one thousand. I counted the seconds and tried to calculate the ravine's depth using my best high school physics, but my measurements varied wildly with each throw. I gave up.
Deflated, I sat down in this pasture, head in my hands, trying to figure out how I could reshuffle my painstakingly prepared itinerary to get back on my schedule and salvage this trip. At this rate, it wasn't going to happen. And then, in the middle of my anxious what-iffing, I began to feel a subtle change — the warm touch of the sun on my shoulder. It had succeeded in breaking through the shroud that had enveloped us all day, leaving bright streaks and a burgeoning rainbow. Behind the curtain of mist I finally saw the beauty that had been right before my eyes the entire time — a mad torrent rushing through the sheer ravine, the snaking ribbon of tarmac ahead and behind, and the emerald green hillsides dotted with sheep contentedly munching and chewing. And me, sitting in a quiet pasture on a lonely road in a lost patch of Scotland, in Europe, on an adventure. As the sun burned away the dampness, I realized this was it.
With four to five months away from the habits and routines that I had chained myself to at home, this was precious time. What was the sense of rushing down a beaten path with a map I had cribbed from others? This was my trip, my life, and I needed my own journey. I decided to throw away the itinerary and see where this might lead.
More than an hour later, an older couple picked us up and drove us the rest of the way to Loch Ness. We settled in, hung out at the pubs and cafés, took in some of the sites, and savored our time. Eventually, we returned to London. At a party in Soho, I met some people who set me up with their friends in Paris. A week eating bread and cheese, drinking wine from the bottle, and trading off between the jardins and the museums — I was ecstatic. Next I met some people grabbing a train to Spain and tagged along. I kept going: Madrid, Lisbon, Morocco, Barcelona, Milan, Venice, Bologna, Florence, Rome, Athens, Santorini, Crete, and everywhere in between. An ever-expanding realm of new characters and experiences greeted me at each stop. A local gadabout in a bar tipped me off to a secluded beach, full of naked travelers, in Corfu. I found it. The border between Greece and Turkey was shut tight over some hotheadedness, but a Swiss girl showed me another route on a fishing boat from Rhodes.
At a crossroads again: Marmaris, Turkey. My Swiss guide was heading for Afghanistan and points east, and she welcomed the company. It was July, getting late, and according to my schedule I should have been heading to Cambridge, Massachusetts, to start another leg of my life. I thought back to the road in Scotland. The choice was all mine. Where was this life headed?
Regrets either way, I forged ahead — to Istanbul. Rumor had it that I could get to Amsterdam from there and that Freddie Laker would honor my ticket to New York. I had never been to Amsterdam. Why not extend my journey another foot?
No time to waste.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
A HIGHLY COLLABORATIVE CREATION, this book leaves me heavily indebted to a remarkable group of people: Hollis Heimbouch, my trusty editor and guide, who saw a book where none existed and rolled up her sleeves to make it happen. I am forever hers. Kent Lineback, my partner in crime, who had the unenviable task of trying to form my incoherent ramblings into a story. He worked tirelessly and deserves the credit for much that is right about the book, but he can't be held responsible for its shortcomings. My lovely, precious wife, Debra, who continues to stick by me through thick and thin, even though I give her countless reasons to give up on me. Bill Campbell, my mentor and longtime friend, who refuses to take the blame for anything I may have learned along the way. Bob Roden, lawyer extraordinaire, who shepherded me through the Byzantine business of publishing. Patty Cullen and her merry crew, whose cheery Konditorei makes the best nonfat chai latte in the Valley. Constance Hale, cooler-than-thou, who translated my gibberish into English and got us out of a tight spot. Genoveva Llosa, who was always there with kind and generous support. Dan Kellogg, who put the fun into funerals. The many entrepreneurs, venture capitalists, and other business associates who have given me much more than I can ever return. My dear family, especially my mother, who mercifully avoided any mention in this book, and the innumerable friends, teachers, and fellow travelers I have had the good fortune to meet along the way, all of whom have given me plenty to think about. And, of course, my constant sidekicks, the Horrible Hounds, Tika and Tali, who lounge listlessly at my feet as I toil, rolling on their backs from time to time to demand a rub when they think I may be missing the point.
I thank you one and all from the bottom of my heart.
—Randy Komisar
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
RANDY KOMISAR lives in Portola Valley, California, with his wife, Debra Dunn, and Tika and Tali, the Horrible Hounds. He currently incubates startups as a Virtual CEO, helping to build businesses from vision and ideas. He has worked as an attorney in private practice and at Apple Computer, as the CEO of LucasArts Entertainment and Crystal Dynamics, as a cofounder of Claris Corporation and CFO of GO Corporation, and as a janitor, baker, and music promoter. He has also helped to build WebTV, TiVo, Mondo Media, and many other emerging companies.
KENT LINEBACK is a writer, producer, and consultant living in Cambridge, Massachusetts. He has produced seventeen film and video programs for Harvard Business School and is currently collaborating on a book about L.L. Bean and completing a screenplay.