For two and a half years, Devi Lockwood, a journalist who writes about climate change, toured the world on her Surly Disc Trucker as she collected personal accounts from the people she met along the way. Her goal was to show how the climate crisis touches everyday lives. Lockwood has been featured in The Guardian, Slate, and Yale Climate Connections, and her stories amplify the voices of the people most impacted by climate change—voices, she says, that have been missing from the conversation.
Lockwood began each day without a plan; as she biked through New Zealand, Australia, Thailand, Laos, Cambodia, and the United States, she let serendipity lead the way. Of course, the openness of that approach was bound to lead to fascinating conversations. And the cardboard sign she was wearing—“Tell me a story about climate change”—certainly helped break the ice.
Lockwood has collected the stories in her book, 1,001 Voices on Climate Change: Everyday Stories of Flood, Fire, Drought, and Displacement from Around the World.
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We sat down with Lockwood to chat about ways to engage people with the climate crisis, the power of talking to strangers, and her love of cycling.
Bicycling: What was the goal of your world tour by bike?
Devi Lockwood: To speak with people who are experiencing the impacts of climate change firsthand. That inspired the first bike trip I did down the Mississippi River. The farther down the river I went, the more stories I heard about water and climate change, specifically with saltwater encroachment on the land, intensified storms, and people deciding to leave communities they’d called home for generations.
Why did you strive to humanize the climate crisis?
I wanted to recognize an issue that’s often discussed in abstract and numerical terms which feels inaccessible. I have the utmost respect for climate scientists, and their work is important. But there’s also space for dialogue with human-centered storytelling. I believe that lived experience with the climate crisis is an expertise that’s as valuable as academic knowledge.
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I could tell you about a millimeter of sea level rise or a degree of temperature change, but it’s hard to know what that feels like or how it impacts peoples’ lives. If I tell you about the mother in Tuvalu who, because of that small sea level rise, must make dramatic decisions in times of drought about whether to use a precious amount of fresh water to bathe her daughter or to cook rice, that becomes an easier way to understand the impact.
What was a story that surprised you?
On the Gold Coast of Australia, I met this couple, David and Sharon, who were Warm Showers hosts. [Warm Showers is a support network of people offering free lodging for bike tourists]. They wanted to tell me a story about the 2004 Boxing Day Tsunami. They were in Sri Lanka with their young boys, who were 6 and 8 years old at the time. They outran the tsunami but were separated when David went up one way on a hillside, and Sharon and the boys went another way. Hearing about this was one of those moments where it felt like time stopped. The intensity of their story moved me. The power of water marked a rift in their lives: the part they lived before the tsunami and the part after. They took their time together as a family less for granted and were more cognizant of the precarity of life in general, and the power of water.
At one point in your journey, you decided to stop flying when you crossed oceans.
In March 2015 I met Chris Watson, the author of Beyond Flying and an incredible climate activist in New Zealand. He challenged me to consider the environmental footprint of the flights that I had taken up to that point. I tried not to fly for as long as I could, which lasted about a year. I took my bike on two cargo ships and hitched rides on two sailboats around the Pacific. My routes were based on whatever country I could reach.
You’re also an advocate for slow cycling. What inspired that?
I was getting so competitive with myself when I was riding down the Mississippi River that it was taking away from my enjoyment of the trip. I ditched the bicycle computer after a few days and went with the flow, and developed fun rituals to keep things light. Whenever I saw a playground, I’d get off and swing. I love celebrating getting to the top of a big hill or a mountain pass by doing a happy dance and just feeling joy for having done something that felt big. I stopped caring about how many miles I rode in the day as long as I had food, water, and a place to crash.
There are many ways to ride a bike. I met some interesting people who were cycling in different ways than I was. Nico, this spritely Italian guy, would stop every 20 kilometers to roll and smoke a cigarette. He pulled a children’s trailer full of his supplies. We camped in the same field one night and shared stories. I was inspired by his gumption and determination, and the fact that he traveled on his own terms.
Other folks I met had the highest-end gear and were hypercritical of my handlebar setup. They wanted to tell me that butterfly or mustache handlebars were the best and would alleviate all my problems. The best bike to ride is the one you’ve got. There’s no wrong way to do it unless you’re harming someone.
How much did you have to rely on the kindness of strangers?
Frankly, I don’t think I would have survived without that. People helped me out in every single country I visited, whether insisting that I stay for the night or giving me a meal, or Warm Showers hosts putting me up. I used to think it was Southern hospitality during my first long solo bike trip down the Mississippi River, an 800-mile stretch from Memphis, Tennessee, to Venice, Louisiana. I had a tent and I think I only pitched it one or two nights the entire month. It turned out that it wasn’t just in the South. That form of kindness is something I experienced around the world.
Every story someone shared with me was a gift. People were generous with sharing those pieces of their lives with me. I’m so grateful.
What does cycling mean to you?
Freedom of movement. I love using the power of my body to get from place to place. The bike fosters a connection, and the more connected we are to the places we love, the more we advocate for their well-being. I’ve found an antidote to despair in riding my bike. Bicycles are joy machines.
