The funny part about going on an extended journey is that all of my time and energy leading up to it was spent on what I was leaving behind, not on what lies ahead. Consider this: On paper, I am the ideal candidate for adventure and spontaneity—I have no kids, no job and no spouse. Yet, I still devoted the better part of two weeks addressing the trappings that are under my care, like the dog, the three cats, the house, the pool, the garden, the lawn, the driveway, the car and the bills that make everything run smoothly. What I had viewed as mundane, routine tasks, suddenly took on a surprising importance—look, plants can go a solid week without water, but four months? So it was that I went forth among my friends to see who would lend a hand and found that the great divider between good friends and just friends is the kitty litter box. Thankfully, I have enough of the former to ensure that all will be taken care of.

The effort of making sure my little world will still spin in my absence left little time for any preparation for the actual journey. So, packing was relegated to the night before and I left with no itinerary and only a handful of campground reservations covering the first two weeks. But that was kind of the point, wasn’t it?

The other thought I had about leaving is that it was a lonely affair, at least for me. I have wonderful friends, but there is only so much you can ask of people, and I had met my quota. So, my actual departure did not include riding out in a blaze of glory befitting the huge adventure ahead. Rather, it was more like slipping out the side door. I confess to initially feeling a little hurt by the lack of interest, but I immediately recognized a few flaws in my thinking:

• I am the one who is leaving. Why should anyone else celebrate the fact that, conversely, they are staying?
• It’s my dream, not theirs.
• They are the ones cleaning out the kitty litter box—they don’t need to throw a party, too.

Instead, I am going to focus on the many gestures, both big and small, by friends as well as by some unlikely sources, that leave me feeling humble and grateful. Their kindness and support are allowing me the rarest of opportunities—a journey of self-discovery and fulfilling dreams. How lucky am I?

It is with very good reason that my plan to rent a campervan for four months and travel the western U.S. and New Zealand has been met with fits of laughter and no small amount of disbelief: a) I don’t camp; and b) I have no sense of direction or space. I do not exaggerate on either count here. I am one of those who, when told to go to the west end of the parking lot, will ask, “Is that the McDonald’s end or the Staples’ end?” I have described a half a mile as three miles, a hundred yards is a football field on a 72-inch screen, and every time I emerge from a NYC subway station, I invariably go the wrong direction for a block.

As for camping, I once stayed at a Motel 6. (Okay, maybe there is some exaggeration here. I have camped twice, but there were cabins and outhouses involved.) So, with what hubris am I striking out in unfamiliar territory, with a bed on wheels and no toilet? Well, for starters, there’s Tom Tom, my navigation system. And the iPhone. Armed with these, I feel like I might have a fighting chance of not taking a wrong turn to Oklahoma. Which brings me to another handicap: I am appallingly bad at geography. Only about two weeks ago did I discover that Colorado really isn’t all that “West.” It abuts Kansas for God’s sake.

And while the vision in my head of this trip is one of me scaling the Tetons, biking the San Juans, trekking through Redwood forests and surfing along the Pacific Coast, the reality is that there ARE Motel 6s, Walmarts and public restrooms to cater to my every creature comfort (not to mention, I don’t actually surf).

Yet I feel as if these are copouts and in no way honor my adventure. I’ve rented a campervan, with a small galley and a solar shower and, for all intents and purposes, it will be my home for four months. And why not? All the videos on outsideonline.com about van camping lead me to believe that this mode of travel is exciting, serene, otherworldly, simple and, often, in slow motion with a cool dog and a great soundtrack.

So, while it is a comfort to know that a motel or shopping center is never too far way (unless I’m giving the directions), I will not be availing myself of these with any frequency. Instead, you’ll find me curled up in my van trying to figure out how to work the headlamp so I can go out and pee.

Ever since I started reading, I have always gravitated toward books about travel and adventure, where something unknown lies around every corner, and discoveries abound. “Bridge to Terabithia,” the Narnia and Hobbit series, and “My Side of the Mountain” were my homes growing up. I didn’t get lost in these books—I truly felt found. Frodo, Jess, Leslie, Sam, Edmond and Lucy were my tribe—I felt their fears, their hopes and their experiences as my own. As an adult, my preoccupation with these types of stories only grew, except I was able to find books that put a real, attainable spin on fantasy adventure: “Maiden Voyage,” a book about a 16-year-old girl who sails solo around the world; “Eat, Pray, Love” and “Wild,” books about women who throw it all away and embark on fantastic personal journeys; and “Into the Wild,” a version of “My Side of the Mountain” that puts man squarely in the middle of nature to learn how to fend for himself (not very successfully, I’m afraid).

I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about why all of these stories appealed to me on such a visceral level. I think it comes down to my desire to escape to a simpler reality, to experience the extraordinary, to face the unknown and to take a chance. These worlds aren’t fraught with ambiguity—they are black and white, there’s good and there’s evil, there’s right and there’s wrong, and this appeals to me.

And just as I had when I was a child, I started to place myself in these stories and for a few glorious minutes, imagine my life differently and think, “There is no reason why I couldn’t do my own version of this.” And that’s when reality would set in with a tsunami of reasons, from mortgages to pets and from jobs to families. As it turns out, journeying to Middle Earth is not that easy; there are hurdles in every direction and no dragon to help you negotiate them.

But there are campervans and life transitions. It’s hardly jumping through a wardrobe, but they are means to an adventure nonetheless.

Not too long ago, someone I know said that every morning he wakes up and says, “Whatever” and, when he lays down at night, he offers a, “Thank You.” When I pressed him on this odd take on prayer (“Who are you saying this to?” “What if you have a really bad day?”) he simply said that it doesn’t matter. All he knows is that he is not in charge, that fate will deal the hand she feels like and that he will handle it, and be grateful for whatever comes his way. This faith, expressed in such simple terms, resonated with me. My spirituality is undefined at best and I have never engaged in any formal practice. Yet thanks to recent events (more on that later) I have come to understand that I have far less control over my life than I thought and, here’s the kicker, that’s OK. I have spun my wheels trying to orchestrate everything around me, when things will go the way they go, regardless of my efforts. As an added benefit, this simple realization frees up about 90 percent of my time and energy.

Not to mention, “Whatever” has a delicious ambiguity to it. Said in a mumbly, teen-aged way it signifies complete indifference. Said by someone who has just listened to one of my great ideas, it is a judgment. Said as a morning mantra, it is a world of possibilities and that’s the “Whatever” I love. It’s wide open.

Which brings me to why I am writing. I am contemplating selling my share of a business I have been involved with for 25 years and, in the meantime, will spin my wheels in a more productive direction by fulfilling the American dream (and a few clichés along the way). I am taking to the open road in the Wild West to discover…whatever.

The thing that excites me (and scares the living shit out of me) is just how undefined my future is—there’s no direction, there are no plans, no hints nor clues; there are only endless opportunities. I am taking to the road in an effort to find out what really makes me tick—what makes me happy, what brings me serenity, what I can live without and what I really need. I want to cut through the clutter, do away with distraction and just exist. In other words, I am embarking on a journey to find myself (Yes, I just wrote that with all sincerity. Note that it is cliché #33).