Finding Home: A Journey into the Heart of America

The Tao of Cycling

2007-12-07T19:53:00.000-08:00

This bit of esoteric rambling was inspired by Justin in Buffalo, New York, United States, planet Earth, Milky Way Galaxy, a fellow seeker, dreamer, a man in love with adventure of the body, mind, and spirit. Ride well, brother!

These are some of my thoughts on the metaphysical aspects of cycling as they pertain to some of the ideas, symbols and metaphors of Taoism and its close relative, Buddhism. I find great pleasure in contemplating how worlds intersect, how we have so much in common even though at first glance all we might see are contrasts. That cycling should lead me to Eastern wisdom isn't so strange. Endless hours in the saddle knock loose all kinds of vagrant ideas, most of which are, thankfully, lost in the crosswinds of the ride. Perhaps you'll wish this line of thinking joined its orphaned siblings on the prairie breezes, so read on at your own risk. While not exhaustive, my informal discussion here might inspire others to look deeper into the implied meaning of what they do. We are, as humans, the symbol makers. Our dreams inspire and enrich our lives, and, as John Muir said, "When one tugs at a single thing in nature, he finds it attached to the rest of the world." In thinking about this singular act of cycling, I find it hooked to much else in the universe, the one place, experience and life.

For me, this silly contraption of tubes and wires serves as more than physical transportation. Two principle schools of Buddhism are Mahayana and Hinayana, translated as "Greater Vehicle" and "Lesser Vehicle" respectively. Hinayana seems to be a term coined by members of the other school to exalt their own position: We are greater; they are lesser. That debate does not concern me. The metaphor of a spiritual practice as a vehicle does. In fact, the word metaphor itself comes from Latin terms that translate roughly as "a carrier of change." The technical explanation of metaphors involves the terms "tenor" and "vehicle" as well: tenor is the subject, vehicle the new image that carries the change of perception. For example: Life is a rat race. Life is the tenor, rat race the vehicle. So all of the terminology is hitched one to the other, all of it tangled up in the ideas of conveying, transporting, accomplishing a purpose, transformation. And the purpose of any meaningful journey is to become other that what we were.

Central to these Eastern schools of thought is the concept of the unity of opposites, the idea that the poles are connected in an intimate, unavoidable, necessary way. Symbolically, this is graphically demonstrated in the Taoist symbol at the top of this post, the Taijitu, or "diagram of the supreme ultimate" wherein the light and dark flow into each other and contained in each is the beginning of what it is to become. This symbol is dynamic, a concept central to the philosophy it signifies. The light moves into the dark as the dark moves into the light. One cannot exist without the other. Indeed, all the universe is an interplay of opposites: light and dark, negative and positive, good and bad, life and death, desire and fulfillment. Each of these concepts is meaningless without its opposite, all expressed in a process, a flow, a wheel of being and non-being.

Here the connection to the act of cycling emerges. The wheel of opposites, the cycle of Samsara (life, death, rebirth) as the Buddha calls it, carries us through many incarnations until we reach Nirvana--if we are doing the work. Nirvana is not a place like Heaven as it might be understood in the Christian sense, no clouds and angels and harps, big white bearded dudes in Lazy-Boys pointing fingers. Nirvana can be achieved here and now. It is a centered place wherein the enlightened one is outside the forces of fear, desire and social pressure. The cycle of Samsara is spinning around the focused, blissful, unmoving being at the center who has found, paradoxically, connection to and separation from the whirling madness around her.

In the notions of movement and stillness, of opposites married we slip into the heart of cycling. To ride a bicycle is to engage in a strange and wonderful dance. We must move but also remain still, and only in finding the proper flow do we make progress. We teeter on a razor's edge between disaster and success (motion), and this point is a blissful stillness that we can master only by shutting off the thinking, conscious mind and attuning ourselves to the wisdom and innate knowledge of the body. This is a rolling meditation. To see a child master a bicycle for the first time is to witness the bliss of being. In the chaos of Samsara, the escape, Nirvana, is found at the center, the still point around which the hurricane of life and death and rebirth rotate, so we need to find the eye of the storm. Fittingly, we can only make progress on a bicycle because we are attached to the hubs at the center of the wheels, the still points. The opposites of movement of the rims and the stillness at the hubs makes the vehicle.

Riding a bicycle, then, becomes not only something fun and practical. The device and the act of riding it are metaphorical for how we should lead our lives. As we balance the bicycle, so too must we find balance in our lives and search out the still places, the eddies outside the turbulence, the Nirvana at the heart of Samsara. As the bicycle is the most efficient mode of transportation ever devised, so too can it lead us to a personal economy of body, mind, and spirit. The spokes of the wheel, the lines of connection to the rim are those lines that link us to the world. Our stillness, our bliss, our sense of fulfillment are built upon these whirling lines. We cannot exist without them. But here is another lesson: If a wheel is quickly spinning, where is the safest place to touch, the spokes and rim, or the axle, the hub?

So the next time you ride your bike, you're not just out for a ride. You're engaging in a spiritual, a metaphysical act. Grin and spin and be one with your Schwinn.

Namaste!

The Last Photos

2007-11-21T14:16:00.000-08:00

These are not in perfect order, but they depict the mood of my final days. Also, note videos posted a couple of entries down.

Saddleback Butte at sunset:

Sespi River area:

The top of the last climb, the Pacific beyond:

Ojai Valley Bike Path:

The Mojave Desert:

Fittingly, a jerk honked at me as I took this picture:

On the big descent from Pine Mtn. Summit:

Mojave cobbles:

Pine Mt. Summit:

A photo of a big, recent burn:

Looking back towards Mt. Pinos from the big climb above Lockwood Valley:

The road down to the Lockwood Valley from Frazier Park:

Looking down into the Lockwood Valley:

Lockwood Valley Rd. area:

Jodi--who somehow puts up with my fits of madness:

Bar Harbor, Maine, before:

Ventura, California, after:

End Times

2007-11-18T11:31:00.000-08:00

Heavy with water for a dry camp and a fresh load of food and fuel, I grunted up the steep hills and slowly left the noise and aesthetic cacophony of Barstow behind me. Adios burger joints, car dealerships, liquor stores and motels. Until we meet again....

I pushed hard into the sharp afternoon light. The sun was diving into the horizon, and I felt a weakening, light-headed sensation that tells me I'm about to crash. I needed more calories, quickly. I crammed a Clif bar down my gullet and, twenty minutes later, two fists full of peanuts. I stood impatiently by Mojo and chewed quickly, conscious of the waning light. Gotta keep moving... The food did the trick and held off the developing calorie crash. I needed a camp. I wasn't desperate, but I was getting concerned. The developed areas were holding me back. I knew that if I kept pushing, I'd get beyond it and into some open desert, but where?

Finally, the sun almost down, I found a rarely used dirt road that led into a region of low hills freckled with widely spaced, anemic creosote bushes clinging to dusty grey soil. The plants had little green and looked barely alive, which is strange because creosote likes living in the bowels of Hell. I guess, even for Hades, this was a low-rent district. Still, it would do for me. I pushed the bike up into the rounded lumps several hundred yards back from the road--not perfect isolation, especially the occasional train noise, but all I needed. A chilly breeze cut through my camp from the west and too soon I was standing in the dark.

To the uneducated, the desert seems a mostly dead place. They are mistaken. Not as overtly flamboyant in expression, this land hides its life like a sharp poker player, keeping the cards out of sight. Hinting, bluffing, insinuating, the life of the desert is shifted to the dark side, veiled by sand, rock, and night. When darkness falls, the creatures emerge to hunt and forage during a more hospitable time. Unlike humans who so often seemed determined to make the worst of it, the animals here must be smooth operators, opportunists.

As for me, I found a mostly flat patch of dirt and spread out my tarp as a base of operations: Headlamp on, rig chair, set out stove, the familiar actions that I repeated almost every night. I cooked and ate while the stars saturated the heavens such that even the fetid glow of Barstow could not impugn their glory.

As I finished eating, I glanced up and perceived a problem, a puzzle--a gift? Twin stars were set down near the ground. They glowed bright and close-set then dimmed, vanished, reappeared. Eyes. Intelligence. I was being watched. The eyes, like the Cheshire grin, implied the beast. Silently, they winked, shifted, advanced, retreated. I was certainly the object of great interest. At last I could stand it no more and advanced with my light and camera, the eyes now holding me in a steady gaze, unblinking. What was this bold creature? With each step I expected it to vanish, bolt into the night, but the eyes did not flinch. Each of us mesmerized by the other, I slowly moved forward and could see ears sticking up--a rabbit? No, these were triangular, arrow tipped. Then all was clear. It was a sly desert fox come to beguile me. Not Rommel returned to tango with Patton who did maneuvers not far from here, but the small dog-like carnivore. Light gray, a perfect fluffy tail, piercing eyes and curious character, it stayed around for some time, circling my camp, even at one time approaching to within a few feet of me. It placed a tentative paw on my tarp and scampered off into the night. Perhaps some coup counting ritual for foxes?

How long it kept me in sight I cannot say, perhaps the rest of the night. No doubt, it distrusted tall, skinny men with strange bicycles. I was the interloper, after all. The cold night air cut over the ridge behind me. The stars burned and wheeled across the sky. The eyes of the desert studied me from a safe distance as I crawled into my own nylon burrow and waited for the sun.

The next day I camped in Saddleback Butte State Park after almost sixty five miles of effort across open country. I had to contend with some wind, but, thankfully, nothing brutal. I knew a weather system was coming through and my plan was to be resting on the day it did most of its mischief. And so it came to pass. On my rest day, as I was safely tucked in behind a wind shelter, the storm moved through. A rim of clouds in the western sky thickened and congealed, beat the sky black and blue-grey until the San Gabriel Mountains to the south were smothered in a fast moving wall. The winds sharpened, and I was grateful for my banging plywood barrier. Clouds of dust filled the air and deposited a fine grit over everything. Twice that day I was visited by Craig from a nearby town. We talked bikes and life--what else? Another road angel, he even brought me a map to assist my navigation of the wilds of Lancaster. Thank you, Craig!

My ride into Lancaster was more than I could have hoped for--clear, quiet, a pleasant tailwind. I sailed the creosote seas at nearly 20 mph for many miles. All the while, I kept looking over at the Tehachapi Mountains, my home only a long day's ride away. Soon, I thought, soon enough. Lancaster is a typical example of the expanding desert communities all over the West. For all the fretting and hand-wringing about a present housing slump, this placed seemed to be on full bore development. I feared for my sweet Leona Valley and what open space remained. With limited water, how could the development continue? A long stretch of steady riding took me at last to the wind-blown regions to the west. Plains of long dead grasses and low, scruffy vegetation dominate the landscape just beyond the final "Notice of Development" signs. I felt like I just escaped the houses spreading across the land like a hot oil slick.

The clear dome of the sky met the mountains to the south, west and north, no trace of smoke or haze or bad attitudes to obscure the outlines or dull the details of color and form. My home peaks swept up almost 5,000 ft. from the valley floor. The long ridge to my south was not nearly as high, but I would climb over 1,000 ft. even so. Effort, strain, distance--every view worth having extracts its price. I camped in the embracing arms of the San Andreas fault, the tectonic crease whereby California will at last be shed from the mainland, much to the delight of Heartland conservatives. Too bad they'll have to wait many millions of years.

I pushed on the next day through some hills of startling steepness. I was hardened to the mountains at this point, so no hill was too much. As I looked over at my home, I thought I would be more annoyed or conflicted or something about being so close and not simply riding home, but this was a game, and games have rules--in this case to reach the Pacific, to conclude my quest. To go home before achieving that would dilute the experience, corrupt the narrative. Each journey has a natural arc or flow. For my story, a stop-over at home, besides requiring lots of extra miles, would amount to an unacceptable plot malfunction. Home, Jodi, all of that was for the absolute end of the trek. Now, the protagonist had to continue alone, see it through, however it might conclude.

In Frazier Park, I made a brief blog post and looked about for a place to camp. Everywhere I turned, everyone I talked to seemed to shut me down. I was in town early, hardly past lunch. Why stop? The sun was high, the mountains calling. Keep riding and see what the road provides. Climbing still, over 4,000 ft. for the day, I grunted out of town and towards the National Forest. Outside of Lake of the Woods (where's the lake, anyway?), I took the first promising dirt track and galloped Mojo up into the trees--success! My last wild camp would be wild, pines and my tent pitched beside Mojo.

My final camping meal consisted of hot chai and cold sandwiches--canned salmon, avocado, wheat bread, mustard. I needed to eat through the last of my food, so I sat in the dark forest and munched sandwiches. I was out of sight from the road but not the air. A Forest Service helicopter trailing a massive water bucket made some passes, and I instinctively whipped off my bright windbreaker. Gotta keep it stealthy, eh? No rangers came calling, and as the night settled down, the chopper landed for good, the stars graced the heavens. I set up my tent and faced the end of my journey. I was excited, anxious, happy. I lay there and thought about all the miles I'd covered, the days and weeks and months, now, of riding. How could I be so near the end? How could this be? The next day I would stand on a high pass almost a mile in the sky and look down on the sea. Will it be enough when I reach it?

The wind sighed in the tall pines that overhung my camp. An occasional car rumbled by, the drivers oblivious to my presence. But soon, the cars would stop coming and only the stars would keep me company. When I reached the ocean, when at long last and finally I reached the ocean, would it be enough, when I reached the ocean?

Galumphing unto Zion

The mountain wall of the coast range blocked any view to the west, rising as it did in a 1,500 ft. wave. Highway 33 snaked and twisted out of sight, up, always up until it wasn't always up. Then it would be down, always down--a Zen koan road. What had the cyclist in Gorman called it? "A terrible climb"? No, it was a beautiful climb. I didn't have the heart to tell him that I didn't find it that difficult, especially now, after crossing a continent. My second time around, I wasn't worried. A good steady piece of work. Recent burns in the area detracted somewhat from the beauty, but much of the character remained. My end-of-the-tour high would not be dimmed. I geared down and winched my way into the sky.

The first, highest summit marked the penultimate climb. From my previous ride in this country, I knew one significant climb remained. Fittingly, I would not be free until I could see the ocean. Knowing it was there over the next ridge wouldn't do it. From Pine Mtn. Summit, almost a mile up, I flew in grinning joy down into sycamore-lined canyons, through narrows of glowering stone, under rock towers warm in the afternoon sun. My enchanted descent rivaled any on the continent.

Then I stood at the bottom of the last climb. I parked in the shade of a deep road cut and took a break, ate and drank, chewed on my thoughts of the conclusion and drank in my conflicting emotions, the stillness, the perfect autumn sky. The mountain wouldn't climb itself. I couldn't wait forever. This thing had to end. I clipped in and pedaled for the top. This is my last climb, my last mountain pass, the final miles of a dream.

I did not remember every turn, every corner. Was this it? This? This? No. Still more. Good. Don't finish. Never finish. The ride goes on forever. Life is the ride, the ride is life. Then a gap, only blue sky beyond, a break in the ridge, a turn in the road, a staggering drop down and down and down through convolutions of tilted earth and folded canyon out to a blinding mirror laid out between the coast and the Channel Islands...the Pacific Ocean, the far side of the continental plate.

I reined in Mojo at the very edge of the abyss and climbed off. Damn it all to hell, Scotty! That's the Pacific-freakin'-ocean! Land's end! You've done it. You've done it.

I punched the air. I yelled. I cursed and sang and danced a cyclist's happy dance in the dirt at the edge of the world. You've done it. Anyone seeing me from afar would assume mental illness, a schizophrenic plugged into his voices again. And they would be right. I was mad, insane, possessed by voices of delight, relief, joy unbounded, a divine madness I wished on all of humanity. I sat down beside Mojo and ate lunch and gazed out over the other side of my country, a view almost one hundred days from where I'd begun to ride.

Then I let gravity take over, an addiction, a high-grade narcotic, speed and corners, leaning out over the edge, pulling back, leaning out once more, the brakes whirring a song of restraint then letting go. Let it go. Let it go. Everything? All of it. Let it go. The sublime serpent of Highway 33 uncoiled beneath my tires, releasing me from the journey, the quest, the first half of my earthly life. The wind roared in my head and the road took me out into who I was to become. No regrets, no turning back. I rolled and rolled and rolled into the arms of Zion.

I stayed the night in Ojai with a fine host called Val. The last road angel of my epic, he opened his home and gave me refuge. We talked of my trip, his life, Ojai, but I was in a different place, a limbo of spirit, incredulous, stunned. How could this be the end? How could it ever end? Wasn't there another state, another mountain range? What's that next time zone? Keep pushing, keep pushing.

But when I climbed from bed after a fitful night, no struggle remained. I had no need to push. The ocean broke on the sand fifteen miles away--down slope. A quiet bike path separated me from the water, my wife, the life I'd left behind. Jodi was on her way. Django would be there. It was time to finish.

I took the final miles very slowly, hardly pedaling most of the time. I let the chill of the shadows ache in my fingers. I needed to feel everything. Slowly, slowly. The path curved gently between creek and road, trees and ridges that now and then blocked the sun. Cyclists passed me and they had no idea where I had started my ride. I was just another lanky fool on a goofy bike. Perhaps they smiled, but I moved on, propelled by my private knowledge, a secret imperative. Each pedal stroke, every breath, kilometer after kilometer counted down, brought me closer. This was not Zeno's tour. I would reach the end. I rolled as if in a tunnel, a path that cradled me from coast to coast. Images of the start played across my mind. The plane is just coming in from Boston. The clouds roil with my stomach. There is talk of not landing in Bar Harbor at all--but we do. Grey, damp, strange, in my foggy nausea, I stagger from the plane and search for my bags. Somewhere nearby the Atlantic waits for me. Good God, what have I done?! You can't do this, Scotty. But you've got to. You can't start. You can't finish. The serpent tightens around me and squeezes. Then I turned, a palm tree, a highway underpass, a final strip of bike path, then sand, the ocean wind, surfers cutting turns. The Pacific in its salty glory curled and rumbled hardly one hundred yards away.

I called Jodi on the cell phone. She was here! I pedaled the short distance down the beach and found her with Django and the car. Jodi's shock of tight black curls, her slim, muscular body--that was her all right. Django looked up when I rang my bell. His whole body wagged as he ran towards me. His dark fur glowed in the sun. I rubbed him all over with a ferocious joy. And when I stood up and at last held Jodi in my arms, I knew I was home and that my long ride across the country was over. It was indeed enough and more than I could have ever dreamed.

The Lost Videos

2007-11-17T09:20:00.000-08:00

Here are a few of the videos that I wanted to publish during the ride. I often didn't have the time or the connection speed to get these slices of cycling knavery up and running. Be warned, I am not Francis Ford Coppola.

Fighting high winds in western Illinois:

Open road madness--HP Velo fans will understand. Everyone else will want me locked up!

Cruising the Erie Canal Tow Path:

My posse in Ordway, Colorado:

Cruising the San Luis Valley, Colorado:

360 degree view of the New Mexico/Colorado border:

Cranking the grade over to Oatman, Arizona:

Route 60 in New Mexico:

I'm Baaaaack!

2007-11-17T06:42:00.000-08:00

The recumbent knave has landed. Repeat: The recumbent knave has landed! On Thursday 15th of November, 2007, at 9am, I pulled to a stop on the edge of the sand in Ventura on a warm, brilliant day and thus concluded the pedaling portion of my American odyssey, all 4,661.71 miles of it. I'm going to post a few more entries to provide some detail of my last days and upload some photos and video, so you'll have a bit more coming. I'm home now, feeling really strange and very happy. A HUGE thank you to everyone for following along and providing me with moral support.

More to come from the Elite Recumbent Cyclo-Nut.

Cheers,

Biker Scotty

One More for the Road

2007-11-13T13:09:00.000-08:00

This will be the last post from the road. I've landed in Frazier Park after a big day of climbing--3,500 ft. I'll have to do at least that again tomorrow. I'm just feeling super fit and excited to be on the road and nearing the end--but the cycling is fantastic, too. The best of all touring worlds.

The weather is simply spectacular--cool, unbelievably clear, a bit breezy. Today I had virtually no wind for the first half as I battled the steep climbs on Rt. N2. You'll get some pictures later, but it's a fantastic ride with little to no traffic most of the time--bliss! I hit some spankin' cross winds as I climbed to Gorman and the Frazier Park turn, but then it was turbo tails all the way up the long climb to Frazier Park proper. Here I've got to dig up a place to flop, and tonight it's pizza and a few brews at the local pizzaria. I could log some more miles, but I've done enough for one day. Lots on tap for tomorrow, but she's going down, ladies and gents, she's goin' down. Sometime tomorrow afternoon I'll look down on the Pacific for the first time. I won't dunk tires until the next morning, but there's one spot on the last high pass where you can look down the twisting mountain road and out to the ocean.

It's a bit strange and wonderful to be here. Was it all a dream?

I'll have lots more to say and pictures/video to post after I get home.

Cheers from the road and the Elite Feral Recumbent Cyclo-Tourist waging human-powered jihad against the forces of gravity and the awesome span of the North American continent.

Be well. Be safe. Be cool.

Biker Scotty---out!

We are Borg!

2007-11-09T14:04:00.001-08:00

I am Borg, Velo-man, half bicycle, half human, a 21st Century Minotaur. After almost 4,400 miles, who can tell where the bicycle ends and the man begins? Do I exist for the bike or does the bike exist for me? We're an old couple these days, swapping fluids (sweat and chain lube), grinding away the hours in this steady continental crawl. The desert expands and swallows us whole. Distance, sand, wind, the chocolate volcanic mountains sawing away on every horizon.

I've entered California. I can hardly believe it. I'm on my last week of the tour and very happy that I've chosen to cut across the Mojave and the coastal mountains to finish in Ventura. The riding has been wonderful, even the stretches along I40. In a couple of spots I've laughed in the face of regulations prohibiting bicycles on the interstate. Access to water and escape from a slice of Route 66 compelled my actions. The water needs are clear enough, but for those unaware of the section of Rt. 66 from Ludlow to Newberry Springs, beware. The route may be so wonderfully "Historic!" but the pavement is prehistoric. It isn't pavement. It's anti-pavement, the worst of all possible "improved" road surfaces. Jodi and I pedaled it once on the trike tandem, and I vowed to never repeat the experience, even with my soft-ride Mojo. So after a good night in the desert outside Ludlow, I sidled onto the lovely shoulder of the main highway and motored like there was no tomorrow. I ate up the miles, frequently cruising in the high teens. Traffic was light, the morning cool. Uber biker, however, can be stopped. My nemesis was Kryptonite in the form of a drywall nail. Even super goo in the tube couldn't withstand that bit of devilish chicanery. I'm an old hand at fixin' flats, so in no time I was up and zooming.

I arrived in lovely Barstow a little before noon and celebrated with a Starbuck's coffee and a newspaper--good coffee, bad news, as usual. I've decided that a night, let alone TWO, is unthinkable in this place, a raunchy clot wedged in between I15 and I40. I loaded up the mule with a big wad of chow, and I'm heading out for the great beyond. Camping has been a blast, and I'll take a rest day at Saddleback Butte St. Park about 70 miles down the road.

The desert miles have settled into my bones, the long, lonely arrows of pavement that draw me on and on and on. When the going gets tough, I pull out the MP3 and dose on a little Creedance Therapy--or some such elixir of rhythm and rocking and melody to drive my egg-beater cadence and so chew the distance that separates me from the coast and home. What can I say? This continent is going down. I've been lucky and graced and blessed to travel this road. The last few days will be packed with challenges, and I wouldn't have it any other way. Bring on the mountains so that I may taste the sea.

I'll be in the wilds, camping willy-nilly with hardly a Wi-fi or library to be found. I'm going rogue, going dark. I will most likely not be able to post again until the deed is done. I might get a chance in Frazier Park, but I'll likely be too wasted to do much but camp and crash.

Be well! This is Biker Scotty signing off for his last (?) dispatch from the Frontier of Human Powered Travel in the Great American Outback.

A foxy visitor:

Local artists along Rt. 66 before Amboy:

These Germans take their internal combustion seriously!

Relaxin' off the pedals:

A resident of Oatman, Arizona:

A doomed "World Famous!" buffalo burger:

I've been Knighted!

The Colorado River:

Wild camp along Rt. 66, California:

Into the Mighty Mojave

2007-11-06T13:00:00.000-08:00

I stood on a high pass and looked down 3,000 ft. to the Colorado River. On the other side, the desert mountains of California lay in rumpled brown ranks. In a couple of hours, I would be in my last state, home.

I still have several hundred miles to go, but I'm writing these words from Needles, CA, where I'll spend the night and push on for the deep Mojave tomorrow. I'll be following "Historic!" Route 66 for much of the way though some stretches of Hwy 40 will be unavoidable. I haven't much time, but I wanted to post a few shots and say that this has been a truly fantastic day, some of the best riding of the trip.

Mike and Mo led me out of Kingman, three bent riders storming the early morning streets. We left Mike at the turn to his work and Mo came along a bit farther. We dropped through a craggy, narrow canyon and out into the basin beyond. I left Mo and fell into a smart tailwind that pushed me on the gentle down grade for many miles. I devoured that basin like a lite snack. Then a big push up, up, up over Sitgreaves Pass, 3,550 ft., then huge, huge, HUGE descent through Oatman and all the way down to the Colorado River. I rolled down the mother of all bajadas until I was almost bored. Then, when I had to turn south, tailwinds again (heh, heh!) and I flew along, managing high teens to low twenties with minor effort. By 12:30pm California time, I was in Needles.

This town is something of a dump, but a motel and an early start tomorrow will get me out of here in fine shape. I've got a very long climb up I40 to get out of the Colorado River basin. I'll post next from Barstow, the finest little desert strip mall hell you've ever driven through.

Be well!

High and Dry

2007-11-05T13:24:00.000-08:00

We'll always have Prescott. I'd been feeling antsy and needed to get back on the tour. My experience there was a little strange. Being with good friends in a comfortable, familiar place put me in a kind of tour-limbo, almost as if the thing was done, but, of course, it wasn't, isn't. The large woman has yet to clear her throat on this ride. The mighty Mojave still awaits my presence. I left on Saturday morning, cruising fast and easy some downhill miles to put some distance between me and town.

Route 89 north of Prescott has some busy sections near town, but as I got further north, the traffic dwindled, and I pedaled often by myself, accompanied only by thousands of acres of junipers that cover this northern half of the state. I arrived in Ash Fork on Highway 40 at 1:30pm, far too early to think about camping. I decided then and there over a beefy ice cream sandwich that I'd gun for Seligman, another 25 miles, which would give me 80+ for the day. Light to no wind, bright sun, why not?

I'm so glad I've chosen this northern route to the coast. Rt. 66 was pure magic--quiet, empty, I found myself often riding in the middle of the road. I camped a couple of miles outside Seligman, a bit too close to a railroad crossing, so my night was routinely punctuated by the roar of engines, the clanging of bells, the whistle's moaning cry. The expansive land to the north was a private ranch with restricted access. Little sleep for me, but I spent some contented hours looking up into the blazing stars so clear now that the moon has gone back into hiding.

My next camp, pictured below, was in Grapevine Canyon, a spot recommended by Mike Kitchens, my contact in Kingman. This was an idyllic little spot with magnificent cottonwoods and willows, cacti dotting the dark rock walls, a small stream purling like a zen fountain near my bed. Some dried cow doo-doo sealed the deal on Western ambiance. In the morning, when these pictures were taken, I zipped the easy miles to Kingman where I write these words. The Kitchens have kindly taken me in for the night. Their sweet hounds, the Three Stooges featured below, became instant friends. Joy, the dark-patterned one, is laying on the floor next to me right now. Corgies rock.

Here's the bomb, ladies and gentleman: Tomorrow I land in Needles, California, home state to the elite recumbent cyclo-tourist. A few stretches of I40 will annoy his ears, but most of the rest will be on quiet roads. Stay tuned for a bigger update from Barstow, if he can find an open library.

Grapevine Canyon:

Open country before Kingman:

The Stooges:

"Gum-gum is yum-yum, Dumb-dumb!":

Climbing a grade between Ash Fork and Seligman:

Route 66--Yo:

The stream in Grapevine Canyon:

A character on the road that you'll read about in the book--or see in the major motion picture to follow:

Grapevine Canyon:

Bent Cowboy Chronicles

2007-10-31T10:19:00.000-07:00

A line of pines presented a dark edge to an expanse of pale, late season grasses that ascended in waves to some unknown summit above me. The afternoon sun banked off the road and into my eyes, sweat running down from under my helmet. My legs, by some incomprehensible miracle, kept turning and churning, muscles, bones, cartilage, tendons that have carried me across the continent and put up with too many ridiculous demands. Good legs. Can't forget to thank them. Better send a card for their birthday.

The White Mountains were my first test in Arizona. No snow yet, so they were shimmering gold and piney dark green. Route 260 was my path across some of the highest terrain in the state, a fact seemingly little known to National Forest Service employees I'd left behind. A wild-eyed bike rider flying high from the wide lonesome of New Mexico, I'd rolled into Springerville, Arizona, needing food and information--in that order. An attractive Mexican place soon caught my eye. A huge celebratory Chimichanga with south-of-the-border brew had a very short life expectancy when I walked in. I cut an odd figure among the small town locals, a pair of police officers and their friends, others dressed in casual jeans, t-shirts. My Chernobyl-green jersey clashed with the Old West decor--replica lever action rifle, horse shoes, the usual iconography. For such a short period of history, the Western mythology has tremendous staying power and commercial value. I suppose my cycling togs and clacking shoes were no greater an affront to the "Old West" of the place than the ubiquitous Budweiser advertisements.

After lunch, I headed out of town and stopped at the Forest Service for that much needed information...

Beware, cyclo-tourists, elite and otherwise, beware the women at the National Forest Service information center in Springerville, Arizona, for they know not of what they speak!

Let me preface this brief tirade with the comment that Rt. 260 from Springerville to Show Low is well worth riding. As indicated on state maps, the road is indeed "scenic"--lots of trees, open glades, the occasional view up to forested peaks or down into valleys. No quibbles there. She's scenic all right. I enjoyed the ride immensely although riders should know that traffic could be an issue during peak vacation periods in the summer.

But, and here it comes, I went into that office seeking not to confirm any aesthetic merits Rt. 260 might possess. No, dear readers, no. I wanted specific information concerning my chosen path. Consequently, I asked a few specific questions, such as 1) How far is it to the turn off to the campground that the attractive employee suggested I use? And 2) Do I need to be concerned about any major mountain passes? In other words, what kind of climbs was I going to face?

To the first question, the slim, blond one answered immediately, an indication of certainty and familiarity with the route in question: "Fifteen miles." To my second query she had the presence of mind to first ask if I were an experienced cyclist, implying that my fitness level would be an important consideration. That I had already told her I was cycling across the country should have been a clue here. Regardless, I replied in the affirmative. Then she paused, deep in thought, her eyes looking at some unspecific point over my right shoulder, scanning the interior of her mind like Data in Star Trek: The Next Generation. "I'm trying to visualize the road," she said. "No," she said, finally, "there isn't much climbing on Rt. 260. It rolls along, kind of up and down to Show Low." I then asked about Highway 60, the alternate. They were both emphatic that it was much, MUCH worse, with a huge climb mid-way. Thus reassured and assisted by these two helpful, friendly women, I set off confident I would reach camp before too long.

I did indeed reach camp, but it was not due to any overload of excellent information. Rest assured. These Forest Service employees were so utterly, totally, completely, amazingly, astoundingly, staggeringly, egregiously, mind-bogglingly wrong as to nearly defy my ability to apply a proper string of adverbs. For crying out loud, ladies, what the hell were you thinking! Don't you ever get out of the office and actually see the forest you are supposed to know? Good God!

First, this one in my favor, the turn off was about ten miles out of town, not fifteen. No big deal. Pleasant surprise. But again, a clue, eh, Holmes? And the climb, you ask with white-knuckled anticipation? Biker Scotty, what about the climb? By the time I finally reached the summit, I had powered through a good twenty miles and ascended over 2,400 ft. to probably the HIGHEST PAVED PASS IN THE STATE (emphasis mine) at over 9,300 ft.--higher even than Ponchas Pass in the Colorado Rockies, a saddle ringed by 14,000 ft. peaks. Now, one can easily imagine higher passes--the Upper Saddle on the Grand Teton and the South Col of Mt. Everest come to mind--but give me a spoke-busting break. How is it possible that she, an employee charged with knowing key information about the National Forest visible from her back window, didn't know even this most basic, fundamental topographical fact? Simply amazing. Such ignorance should be criminally actionable, if you ask me. Maybe a civil suit? Her powers of visualization must be dim indeed. Harumph.

Before the summit, I spent two nights in a deserted campground outside Greer, at 8,500 ft. After all the climbing from town and late in the day, I was feeling grumpy, ornery, feloniously inclined towards incompetent government employees. For the first time in weeks, some moron had honked at me in anger for being on the road. I descended from Rt. 260 towards the campground, and all I could think about was having to climb back out. My cranking was making me cranky. I'd come to recognize this end-of-the-hard-day condition. Worn down and strung out, ready for a camp that seems out of reach, I get short fused, impatient. Zen goes down the toilet.

I climbed again and at last found my campsite. I rolled through weakening, low-angled sun to my camp set in tall pines next to a small lake and meadow of dry tawny grasses. Deserted, empty, not a solitary soul, no RV's, no host, just Mojo and me, the lone cyclist, castaway, the last camper on earth, Omega Biker. The cold, with its long, probing fingers, began to search out my weaknesses. The sun was already low in the trees to the west, so I could not linger in my chores. Get that tent pitched and dinner on the stove. Before long, I sat down to my solitary meal in the trees in the White Mountains.

So was I lonely sitting alone at my table in the cold on this late October evening? Indeed. I missed having Jodi to share my thoughts about the struggles of the day, compare notes. We would not be curling up in the tent together to ward off the high altitude chill. Django wouldn't be snuggled up at our feet, his sharp ears ready to detect any intruders. But I wasn't completely alone. A line of honking geese banked in from the north in tight formation, bound for the water beyond the trees. I could hear the beating of their wings as they passed over in the closing darkness. Somewhere, lost in the forest to the east, bull elk called out challenges in their other-wordly trumpet, a haunting sound of the wilderness strange to my ears. We made a congregation of sorts in this temple of the woods--my rattling thoughts, the scratch of my pen on the note pad, the fading sounds of wildlife. As I at last settled into my bag and prepared for the long night ahead, coyotes howled and yipped and picked up the song of the mountains in autumn. They understood the value of a rising moon and told me I was not alone.

So passed my introduction to the state of Arizona. Too much more to tell for my little blog. You'll have to wait for the book to get the full story, but since my camp in Greer, I faced some bad traffic through Show Low and further west that is fueled by incredible amounts of development. Arizona in general is turning out to be less cyclist friendly than New Mexico. Since the Californians have invaded, what can you expect?

I eventually made my way, with much roady savvy and diligence to the edge of the Mogollon Rim depicted in photos below. I took the dirt road connector, which a local told me was "mostly flat"--ha! Yeah, right. Try 2,500 ft. of often steep, loose climbing. Still, the photos show why it was clearly worth doing. I want to try more dirt riding on Mojo but with proper shoes--wide, soft mountain bike tires. I did well nonetheless and did not push the bike at all. It was some of the hardest riding of the trip. Ugh! Although not very clear in the pictures, some of the ride was through a vast fire, the Rodeo-Chediski fire. There are great articles about the fire at the Cantor Law Group website: Rodeo-Chediski fire town meeting.

I battled extreme traffic to get into Prescott where I write these words and where I'll stay for a few days R and R. I was a whipped pup yesterday after almost 4,000 ft. of climbing, headwinds, and all the internal combustion madness. We're doomed, I tell you, doomed. Prescott is being loved to death, and I fear for her future. I love her still, and especially my friends here, but she seems headed for full-on Californication--of course with a veneer of plastic "Old West" lacquered on.

Although the fires in southern California seem to be settling down, I've decided to forego all the urban intensity of riding to San Diego and up the coast. From here, I'll head a bit north and pick up Old Rt. 66 through Peach Springs and down into Kingman. Then it's down to Needles and across the great Mojave desert along some pretty isolated, lone dusty roads--my favorite. I'll have a layover in Barstow, which should provide some "interesting" material; then I keep shooting west, both guns blazing, until I climb the mighty coastal ranges, about 11,000 ft of climbing three days, and drop like a stone into the Pacific near Ventura, end of the line, sweet, sad conclusion. In short, I'm almost done. You know you're a trans-continental cyclist when two weeks of hard cycling equates to being "almost done."

Since I'm in Prescott for a few days, you may hear more from me before I shove off. For now, this is a happily resting Biker Scotty signing off from the Frontier of Human Powered Travel in the Great American Outback.

Be well--or else!

Here are some photos from Arizona and New Mexico--in no particular order:

Atop the Mogollon Rim, Arizona:

Enjoying the traffic up I17 towards Prescott, Arizona:

This? This is my incredulous face up on "Mega Pass" above Springerville, Arizona:

Pines and naked aspen near the summit of "Mega Pass," Arizona:

Mojo on the Mogollon Rim, Arizona--Sorry, Wombatgirl, this beats Ohio:

The Rim:

Hello? Is anyone listening? The Very Large Array radio telescopes in the incomparable Plains of St. Augustin, New Mexico. Carol C., this is for you. You were soooo right about the phone!

Pie Town, New Mexico, on the Continental Divide. One can, in fact, get some mighty good pie there:

The notorious, doomed chicky chimi and beer:

Open camping in New Mexico:

The Omega Biker contemplates his fate:

Into the Arid Zone

2007-10-24T13:44:00.000-07:00

I'm a bit pushed for time right now as it's approaching 3pm, and I've got about 18 miles to do to get to my camp where I'll have a layover. I've been pushing steadily for a week since Sante Fe, and it's time for a break. New Mexico was fantastic, dare I say enchanting? Last night was my coldest of the trip, 24 deg. F. I slept out in the open in a grassy region with a few stunted pinyon pines and not a breath of wind. It was a solid 12 hr. lock down in the bag. I probably have a few more nights like that until I get to lower elevations. I'll be over 7,000 ft. again tonight as far as I can tell.

So I've finished my last "new" state as I've explored and biked some in Arizona before--though not in the eastern half of the state, so this will be new country. I am feeling strong and riding well, but I'm starting to feel the pinch of shorter days, and these cold mornings make early starts pretty uncomfortable, so I'm usually scaling back my mileage. It's fantastic country, so why not?

I'll write more when I've got the chance. I may be able to post once more before I get to Prescott. My concerns right now are whether or not I'll be able to bike over the mountains to San Diego. I didn't bring my fire resistant cycling togs with me!

Be well. Biker Scotty signing off from the wilds of Arizona.

New Mexico mountains from a high camp:

The big wide open outside Socorro, NM:

Working the grade towards the Continental Divide:

Mountains north of Route 60, NM:

Tour of Solitude, House of Ra

2007-10-20T09:32:00.001-07:00

I left Santa Fe on a breezy, cool morning and didn't take my wind shell off all day. In short order, the town was a thin line in my rear view mirrors. Then all that remained were the mountains and the sky, the sun glaring down.

These last few days of riding have been all about climbing, mountaineering recumbent style. From Taos to Sante Fe, almost 6,000 ft. My first day after leaving Steve's place, I climbed about 3,700 ft. Tough country. But the mountains, canyons and the magical days are fair compensation. If you can't handle the mountains, stay in Illinois.

Route 14 south led me through a series of towns, the most memorable being Madrid. Once a dead mining town populated by mice, coyotes, and cacti, in 1970 it was reclaimed by artists and now boasts a main street flanked by gallery after gallery. I stopped for coffee outside a cafe that sold t-shirts loudly proclaiming: "Bad Coffee Sucks." Indeed, it does. The brew I received was not bad, so there you go. I was immediately surrounded by curious folks asking questions and marveling at my bike. My heart, however, went out to one girl, a coyote mix pup called, "Trouble." I considered stuffing her into a pannier for a moment, but the owners were watching. Bark on, baby.

After Madrid, the climbing picked up, miles-long grades into the New Mexican sun. Traffic was light, and I settled into my own world of high cadence and slow ascent. In late afternoon, I came to the intersection with Hwy 40, passing on the way large areas of very expensive homes, retreats for the wealthy from the wilds of Albuquerque. Beyond, I expected to have the road to myself as I entered Cibola National Forest. Was I mistaken. The high forested region I was heading into was another bedroom community for the big city. Less exclusive than the region north of 40, it held many homes scattered throughout the pinyon pines and junipers. So a moderate, but steady, stream of traffic rolled by me as I labored up the road, blessed at least by a good shoulder.

All the while, I was concentrating on a camping spot, but the road followed a narrow gorge that offered no opportunities for a stealth bivouac. The day was getting on, and eventually, I slipped into a "Picnic Area" with "FINES" for camping overnight. Well bugger that. I'm stayin'! The sun was getting low along with the temperature, so I resolved to slap around any ranger that might give me grief. After some exploration, however, I found a perfect little draw well below the level of the road. Stealth jackpot--dark, hidden, high mountain bliss. I dropped off to sleep with the wind blowing in the branches far overhead.

I then headed south again along the eastern flank of the Manzano Mountains, the high point over 10,000 ft. Rolling forests gave way to open grasslands to the east. I pedaled through a string of land grant settlements. One particularly trashed curve of the road had a sign prohibiting the taking of pictures. I should have snapped a shot of the sign, but kept moving, thinking that if my hood looked this way, I wouldn't want people taking pictures either--rotting single-wides, garbage, rusting hunks of mettle, Junkville, USA.

My plan was to camp in Manzano State Park. At the town of Manzano, I stopped in a small market to resupply (an ice cream bar and an onion, which turned out to be largely rotten inside) and asked about the distance to the camp ground. The clerk, a middle-aged woman, said, "Oh, about a mile to a mile and a half, just up the road." Just the news I wanted to hear.

So, you know how this story goes, eh? No, lady, no, no, NO! It's six miles ALL UP HILL. What is it with people who have no simple knowledge of the places where they live? She wasn't just off by, say 50% or, say 100%. She was off by about 600%. Jeez. After three miles of slogging, I finally came to a sign that said I had another three to go. To hell with that. I spun around, zoomed back to the main road, loaded up with water, and continued along the main route.

Miles of warm, downhill, tailwind riding carried me away from that den of mis-information. I found my sanctuario in a stone and wood gazebo gone to seed. There was an outhouse and water, so I didn't care. I camped without a tent and watched the sun set through a sandstone doorway. I passed a good night but for the crazed howling and barking of a dog (no coyote) close by at midnight---arrrrgh.

Now I find myself a mountaineer in the town of Mountainair. I'll be riding west, into the wind, for about twenty miles to my camp. Tomorrow, I'll be in Socorro and primed for the last big push to the Arizona border.

The lone recumbent cyclo-tourist perseveres, mile after mile in the Wild West. This is Biker Scotty signing off from the frontier of human powered adventure.

Photographic evidence of the journey...

Madrid:

Development just outside Madrid:

Cafe in town:

The big country on Route 14 south:

A girl named Trouble:

Camp life in high New Mexico:

My sanctuario:

Keep your eyes set on the mountains:

Some affordable real estate:

Where's the Starbuck's?

South by Southwest

2007-10-17T09:54:00.000-07:00

The road turns. Faces appear and vanish. Winds drift through the sage and sing across my whirling spokes. I turn, someone smiles, exclaims at my vehicle and the nature of my pilgrimage, and I've found a new friend, a guide, the right person at the right time. And so it transpired in Taos.

A post-modern goddess, the shock of blond hair, two nose piercings, bangles, Lindsey Lohan style sunglasses, she had no trouble identifying me as the cyclist belonging to the heavily laden Mojo out in front of the library. Kayla had done a long tour herself and was thrilled to see me and hear of my journey. This was the person I needed to meet. I asked her about where I might camp for the night. Without hesitation she said, "Yes! The Hanuman temple has people camp out all the time. I live next door to the ashram. They have food and I'm sure they'd let you stay there." And so I would dwell among the Hindus.

Sometimes the magical guide is an aging hippie twisted up in front of a computer. Sometimes she's a pierced young woman in dark glasses. Sometimes he's a truck driver in paint-spattered work clothes, sometimes a grey-bearded farmer in Ohio. From one to the next, they've helped me along. When people ask if I'm alone, how should I respond? I am by myself for the long miles, working the passes, but am I alone? Everywhere I have been greeted with such warmth, openness, offers for help. People say I inspire them, but I suspect they do not fully understand that they inspire me in equal measure, perhaps more.

Buoyed by another instance of the road providing for my needs, I shopped at the local organic grocery store--Cid's Food Market--and encountered Kayla again. I would see her one last time in passing at the ashram, to which I pedaled after shopping.

Neem Karoli Baba Ashram. I crunched down a gravel drive and found myself in another world. A web of stone paths branched out from a loose fence of weathered vertical poles. A pair of young, very dark men stood beside a Jeep and spoke in accents heavy with the sounds of Africa--or so it sounded to me. A young boy of East-Indian descent exclaimed at my bike as did his mother. I asked her about the person in charge and eventually found Chris, one of the caretakers. Enthusiastic, himself a veteran of a trans-American peace walk, I received his blessing to camp behind the main building and an offer of food. I thanked him profusely and looked around the place.

The ashram and temple were of classic Southwest design--ringed with aspens, heavy wooden beams above windows set in deep, earth-tone plaster, ramadas covered in parallel branches, gravel and sandstone walkways leading to different corners of the property. Behind, where I would camp, lay an expansive grassy area. A cool, late afternoon sun cast long shadows through the trees, and the air was lightly scented with incense. I pitched my tent and quickly returned for food.

Chris had said that the temple was in the middle of a week long series of ceremonies for a string of nine goddesses, a gathering for one each night. This was a "low-key" event, he said, and for some ceremonies there could be hundreds of people in attendance. I passed only a few of the devout and picked up my savory dahl and spicy vegetarian masala. With loaded plate and bowl, I made my way outside to the long wooden tables. Simple food to be eaten in a plain, rustic setting--no linen or crystal, no fawning waiter hustling for a gratuity. Good food in the open air--what else could I need? That question was answered just as I sat down.

I had met her only in passing as I first came in. "Chooch," as she called herself, called out from across the gravel and walked toward me with her own bowl of food. Short, grey hair tucked under a warm knit cap, down jacket over a thick sweater, her eyes flashing with a quick intelligence, she said, "So what made you want to do it?" referring to my tour. I told her about my desire to see the country, meet people, invest myself in the journey in a more meaningful way. She seemed to like this response. What followed was a wide-ranging talk about life, my interests, the way physics and mystics are finding common ground.

Chooch called herself "intuitive" and a reader of hands. She said I had the hands of a musician and a good "writer's fork." I told her of my choice of the high road to Sante Fe. At this, she fished a coin out of her pocket, flipped it in the air, closed her eyes, then looked at the side facing up in her palm. "The high road can be dangerous," she said. "I wanted to make sure you would be safe. You'll be fine."

So I was. From the prayers of Midwestern fundamentalists to the insights of palm-reading, coin-tossing aficionados of the link between physics and metaphysics, I couldn't go wrong. I even had the Mormon angle covered. My diversified portfolio of spiritual support has rewarded me with deep dividends.

It didn't seem proper to attend the ritual that I did not understand, and I had not come here as an official member of the ashram and felt like something of an interloper. I retreated to my nylon shelter and listened to the chanting and music from across the field, the darkling sky grey and close. In the morning, I would take the high road to Chimayo, the Lourdes of the Southwest, beyond that, Santa Fe.

Two Little Inches

That's all it was on the map, a couple of inches, fifty millimeters, give or take. So much beauty and wonder, sweat and strain packed into the length of my thumb--big experiences in small packages. Beware the innocent map, pilgrim, beware.

Frost lay heavy on the ground, inside and outside the tent. I gingerly reached out through the mesh to check the temperature on my altimeter watch: 25 deg. F., coldest morning so far, but the sun was rising and so should I. These long nights were starting to remind me of winter tours in the desert. I thought of Jodi and home with a sharp sense of separation and got to work packing. Although I could not rush our reunion, I could take another step in that direction by getting this day on the road. I shook the heavy icing from my tent, resolving to dry it out later.

Before leaving, I needed to use the restroom. Next door was an open room with broad windows facing the glassed-in veranda. Inside, Chris, looking a bit pale, bearded and sitting cross-legged on the floor, carefully pumped a hand organ with one arm and sang a haunting song in a clear, melodious voice, all in a language utterly foreign to me. The sounds floated through the room, and for a moment, I stood enchanted. There was warmth in the building, but there was warmth, too, in his song. I stepped out into the freezing dawn and bid the Hindus farewell.

Later, while out on the road, toes numb, I thought about my experience at the ashram. The quiet lane, the the forest, and my rhythmic movement were good motivators to my own style of meditation. I thought how strange and wonderful it is--sometimes terrible, too--that human beings have found so many different ways to fill their days. Several of the non-East Indian Hindus I saw were rather grimly serious young white males who did not seem to speak and hardly cracked a smile--or any expression, one bearded fellow in particular spending his time walking to a fro, a shawl draped over his head and shoulders, spinning a prayer drum. With a wooden handle and weighted beads on strings extending from the center of a blue cylinder, the faithful could keep the prayers written on the drum in constant motion by wiggling his wrist, a sort of fully automatic prayer gun. Walking, spinning, walking, spinning--not unlike an elite cyclo-tourist. Like me, did this peripatetic acolyte sometimes curse the wheel? Did he cry out in joy upon some new revelation it had bestowed upon him? To what places did his rotating supplications take him? I would never know.

So I fill my days with musings, a cycling mendicant of sorts, a seeker bound for a vision out of reach. Or perhaps not. My Sunday, my day of worship led me into the mountains, higher and higher above Taos, juniper and cypress giving way to tall pines and huge stands of iridescent aspens. Great pools of gold washed over the slopes. I could not keep my eyes off them. The wind in their quivering leaves was all the prayer I needed. Indeed, their Latin name, populus tremuloides, rings like a poem and speaks of their gentle dance on the wind. These were the jewels in the heart of the lotus. What else? Higher and higher still, the mountain tested me, probed for weakness. Would I be found worthy? Little did I know that the pass was only the first of many to come. Time and again I would push for the crest only to plunge and climb again these enormous waves of a topographical sea.

The small villages followed one upon another--Vadito, Penasco, Las Trampas.... The last, Chimayo, was feeling too far off, the day rapidly reaching retirement age. My left knee was giving me some sharp pains, pulling down my spirits and rising my anxiety. I dreaded some terrible tendon injury, a failing of my body that would end my dream. No, stop it. You've come this far, over 3,000 miles through terrible winds, heat, ferocious climbs--you'll make it. This is only a temporary complaint brought on by too much climbing. Yeah, that's it. But my physical complaints could not diminish the beauty of the day, the glowing white clouds and sky of pure blue. On with it, then.

Later, atop yet another climb, I had the brilliant idea of stretching. I'd taken an anti-inflammatory with my noon meal, but I'd not done much stretching. What an idiot am I. Right away I felt better--a lot better. I resumed climbing with little discomfort.

After a while, I had to laugh at the relentless nature of the hills, cresting one after another between 7,000 and 8,000 ft. Perhaps I'd have my yellow jersey taken away because of a doping scandal, but I was determined to continue. To the east, high speaks broke free of the trees in grey pyramids draped with storm clouds and curtains of rain. Clouds, blue sky, storms, a full day on the high road to Sante Fe.

At last I topped what I believed to be the last major climb and pedaled into Truchas, a wind-bitten settlement on the edge of the mountains. Thousands of feet below lay Chimayo, lost in the folded foothills. A dark cloud hung over the town, and a chill breeze came off the high peaks and cut through the main street. I stepped into a tiny market and looked around to get my bearings. Weathered and worn bare wood floors stretched back into dark corners. Most of the shop was unlit. I could barely make out the cans on the shelves, and none of the refrigerated cases had light either. Next to the beer case, a card board cutout of a sexy young brunette in a tight bikini promised hot sex if only I'd drink Bud Lite. I peered into the murky depths of the case, pulled out two Coronas, and waded back through the darkness to the counter.

Dark skin, dark eyes, feeble dark soul patch under his chin, the clerk of the shadows looked up as I approached. I asked him where I might camp for the night. He stared at me like an iguana drunk on Valium. After an incredibly long pause, he said, "You mean, like camp out?"

"Yeah," I said," I'm on a bike. Where could I go and not bother anyone?"

Another...very...long...pause...

"Maybe up on the mountain?"

This was going nowhere and getting there quickly. I dropped the first line of inquiry and tried something simpler.

"I need some water. Do you have a sink or a faucet I could use?" This was an easy one, a problem with a solution served on a platter. No differential calculus here, no sir. Of course he had a sink, all buildings like this do.

He stared at me, looked out the window. C'mon, man, you can do it. REALLY, this is a no-brainer. I briefly considered another question for him: Would you like to have sex with an armadillo? At last, eleven years later, he said, "You can try across the street. He's got some water."

I almost lunged across the counter to slap him silly. I paid for my beer and stepped outside. The gallery across the street was closed. Then the stupefied reptile came out of the store, locked the door, hopped on an ATV and roared out of sight. I looked up and down the street, felt the cold wind on my face and wondered where I was going to spend the night. This place was dead. Rigor mortis had set in. The coroner was on his way. Time of death? I didn't care. Of course, there was a charming rental available down the street, complete with cracked windows, split and sagging dull orange stucco, peeling paint and rank weeds on the march to reclaim lost territory. Reasonable rates, no doubt. We needed to leave this carcass behind. C'mon, Mojo, let's get out of here.

We started down the long ridge that would take us back to the desert. Going slowly, we paused here and there, eyes sharp for a possible camp. Scotty boy, you can solve this problem. There's a place somewhere to camp on this ridge. A cemetery was too exposed, the land nearby lumpy and sloping. Down, down, down--there. At points along the ridge telephone poles were placed in flat areas with dirt access from the main road. The first I explored was so thoroughly trashed that Mojo and I backed out in disgust. Every pull out we'd seen recently had some of the same treatment, locals dumping trash all over the place. The second pull out was trashed as well, but there was one possibility. To the east and below I discovered the decayed remains of an old paved road, a now disused section of the main route. The black top was broken, cracked, run though with grasses and turning to sand, the center yellow line almost gone. The top section of the road ended in a berm and a flat, sandy area. Only a few plastic bottles sullied the scene. The site was below the level of the road with a mind-blowing panoramic view of the mountains in full sunset glory. Home sweet home. Mojo, let's do it.

My lodgings assured, dinner was hard on my mind and stomach. Fortunately, I had just enough water for the task. I cracked one of the beers and got to work. My recipe: Potato, broccoli, chicken sausage--into the pot with the lot of you. Gawk at the mountains while the pot simmers. Add olive oil, garlic, salt, pepper, onion flakes, top with grated Parmesan--food, oh my God, food--the great, deep pleasure of eating after a day of mountain climbing on a fully loaded bicycle. Animal joy, sustenance, calories, sweet, salty, savory, bite after bite I worked through the big pot of food and scraped it clean--twice--with pieces of sourdough bread (the carbs! the carbs!). I finished off my last piece of Dagoba dark chocolate spiced with chili. And I had an apple. I knew no shame, no limits.

All around the sky bruised and flamed, poured tears from October's heavy clouds and swallowed the sun in a final gluttony of raging orange.

Chimayo, Sante Fe, and a Rainbow Vision

I believed I had an easy day to Santa Fe. If you want a laugh, tell the gods your plans. In my innocence, I let the sun chase me out of the tent, a first for many, many weeks. I discovered that the mountains had not moved and that sunshine is a good thing. I lazied about my chores and didn't set off until 10am, a truly slacker start.

I screamed down the mountain, a bit of a shock first thing in the morning, and before long I was sliding through sinuous arroyos under brooding hoodoos. I turned towards Chimayo and discovered a true gem, a delight not to be missed by travelers in this region. Set deeply in a red stone canyon, the focus of the town is the ancient church, the Lourdes of New Mexico, with sacred earth that is said to cure the sick. My knee had already recovered, but I was happy for any prophylactic healing to cover the rest of my trip. You can never tell when you'll need some extra insurance.

Twin adobe towers hold wooden crosses aloft, calling out to the faithful. I stepped into the natural light streaming through windows in the thick walls. Red tiles led me into the inner sanctum, a humble place with paintings depicting religious events. To the right of the doorway stood a striking wood carving of the suffering Jesus, a stark, evocative figure that demanded attention, the sad eyes staring out of a dark wooden head. The hands had especially long, bony fingers that spoke of suffering as well as the eyes. All in all, a grim, serious icon. I had walked obliviously past a sign that said no pictures and took two before someone alerted me to the prohibition. My illicit photographs appear below.

After my visit to the town, I enjoyed a long, winding ride through juniper desert lands, more dry washes and intriguing cliffs. Most of the land seemed open to the public. It would be fantastic place to hike. I filed that information in the mental rolodex for future reference. My wild country riding ended when I reached Hwy 25 and picked up a frontage road for my long run south. This was a true Cadillac frontage road, wide, smooth, virtually no traffic. A long series of rolling climbs took longer than I expected, but at last I turned onto Old Bishop Lodge Rd. This led past one beautiful home after another set in a quiet valley separate from the main highway. Of the properties for sale, most seemed to be listed by Sotheby's, so I knew that if I had to ask how much? I couldn't afford it. It was nice to fantasize. The road, however, contained a lot of climbing, and I was starting to work extra hard--no easy day this! But I wasn't to be stopped. By 3pm, I was rolling into the Plaza in downtown Sante Fe.

I'm a big fan of Southwest architecture, so the homes and businesses all appealed to me. The town was crowded with tourists, me included, but the very center of the Plaza had portions off limits to automobiles. I puttered around, had a late second lunch/early dinner, and headed off for Steve Kerr's place on the southern edge of town.

After some struggles with one way streets, I picked up a designated bike route and made good time to Rainbow Vision, the condo community where Steve lives. Steve is the uncle of Ann and her sister, Gay, in Cleveland. When I told them I was traveling through Santa Fe, I immediately had a contact. The community of Rainbow Vision is an upscale development of pueblo-style condos and some apartments with a new point of view: The developers have marketed the homes as a special place for gays and lesbians, though, unlike eHarmony, they are not discriminating. As one fellow said, "We're straight friendly!"

Some of you may raise an eyebrow at this considering my experience in rural Illinois. That bloke was a sad case. As I said, I'm happy to associate with all types and, frankly, I find the different perspectives invigorating. I couldn't have asked for better references than Ann and her sister. Steve, a cyclist himself, is the consumate gentleman and a perfect host, giving me the run of his home and taking me around town for errands, too. Everywhere I've been in the community I've been greeted like an old friend. After meeting the people here, all of whom seem to be accomplished professionals, some retired, some not, I can see why they want to live here. Gay, lesbian or straight, the energy is warm, inviting, and relentlessly friendly. I could see, too, how having a place that is predisposed to accomodate different orientations would be very nice. No one is offended or finds it strange if you give your partner a hug and call him or her "honey." Home should feel safe, and Rainbow Vision goes out of its way to make that possible.

Mostly I've been doing not much. Steve and I went out to Harry's Road House cafe for a fantastic lunch. I was in heaven when presented with a grilled chicken tostada overflowing with fresh greens, avocado, chicken, fresh salsa--a huge, elite-cyclo-tourist-size portion that left me waddling a bit as we made our way back to Steve's car. If you go to Santa Fe, don't miss this restaurant.

Mojo's got a new set of shoes. I've installed new tires shipped by Bent Up Cycles to Steve's--thanks, guys! I couldn't find a slime tube for the smaller front wheel, so I purchased "Tuffy" liners to guard against thorns. We'll see how that goes. Tomorrow, it's back out into the wilds, south by southwest. I'll be in Arizona in less than a week if all goes well. I may be going dark for a few days, so fear not. I'm still out there plugging away, slapping black top into submission on Mojo, the super Street Machine. The Wild West is an unpredictable place--straight, bent, you never know where it will take you.

Biker Scotty signing off from the Frontier of Human Powered Adventure in the Great American Outback.

Photos from the journey:

The ashram:

The ceremonial fire pit:

View from the big climb:

Into the first valley of the High Road:

My typical situation for the day:

Camp below Truchas:

The Sanctuario in Chimayo:

Hoodoo that voodoo?

Low-end real estate near Santa Fe:

Steve's condo:

The Dream Time

2007-10-13T13:03:00.000-07:00

Sun and sky, wind and distance, the constant churning of my legs to carry me onward--my life is simple but often difficult. A single day carries me across the range of emotions. In the morning, I am strong, upbeat, ready for anything. By late afternoon, my energies fading, I struggle for the next mile and lament the wind that punishes my progress. It could not be otherwise, nor would I change it. The range of experience is the point. Still, some tailwinds would be nice, eh?

I left Salida on a chilly 35 deg. F. morning, the valley still in the shadows thrown by the ring of alpine peaks. My feet went numb quickly, but the rest of my person was happy in the newly acquired cold weather gear. Trey, his dad, Mike, and mom, Eloise, were great folks. Thanks for everything! But I could not stay, as much as I would have liked to set up house in that enchanted valley. My first work was about 1,800 feet of climbing to Ponchas Pass at 9,010 ft., my high point for the entire tour. I'll cross the Continental Divide down in Pie Town, NM, at a much lower point. The climb was a steady, methodical affair that went in a little over an hour. Then it was down into the unbelievable San Luis Valley, bordered on the east by the soaring wall of the Sangre de Cristo mountains. They take their name, legend has it, from a Conquistador of Old, an unfortunate bloke who found himself skewered by a goodly number of arrows cast by some disgruntled natives. In his last throes he cried, "Sangre de Cristo!" and expired, his own blood sanctifying the soil. Tough life when you come to take over the hood.

For over 100 miles, the road ran arrow straight and nearly level. Though I contested a slight headwind, I was a cycling god, just eating up the miles. The mountains and the stark plains gave me strength. I cranked up some scorching flamenco to ignite my cadence and burn the miles. Slashing guitars pushed me against the wind and the vanishing point of the horizon--eighty miles to the river town of Alamosa where I camped beside the Rio Grande.

Up the next morning, geese overhead and heavy fish breaking the dark, silent water, I packed and braced for the last miles of the valley. Most of the day I worked towards a dome hanging at the bottom of the southern sky like an island. Hours turned and slowly I reeled it in--Mt. San Antonio, a volcanic bulge of the earth, its creases and folds choked with aspen giving the mountain a hot yellow flow of living lava to remind us of its vulcan past. The winds picked up, first from the west, then head on from the south. The enormous land opened up and swallowed me whole, whisking away any sense of self importance, of ego. I didn't matter here. Stay humble, mate. You've got no choice anyway. Keep your head to the task. The miles will come.

Near the end, after fighting the good fight for 15 miles, I was strung out and needing to stop. I paused at one point and just hung my head over the top tube of the bike, gasping. Job on a bike. At Tres Piedras, my hoped-for resupply point, the store was closed. No problem. I always carry too much food anyway. I tanked up on water and headed east, towards Taos, and began my search for a camp. In just a mile I saw a rough track dropping off the main road. What's this? A disused dirt road that was once the principle line that led down to an abandoned bridge, rusted steel and exposed rebar, but stout enough for one recumbent cyclist and his load. At the far end, I found a flat spot and called it camp. During the night, coyotes howled, one barked outside my tent, and I heard its gallop as it raced across the bridge. A familiar? An avatar? The pulse of this narrow New Mexican arroyo.

Now I'm in Taos and a bit worried about where I'll spend the night. As a tourist area, options are limited and expensive, so I'll just have to head out of town and get into national forest land. So it goes. The mountains are alight with glowing aspens. The winds are cool, these mountain nights frosty. It's a good time to be on a bike.

Signing off for now. I'll have more time to expand when I have a layover in Santa Fe. The recumbent adventurer bids you farewell!

The Valley of Salida:

The climb to Ponchas Pass:

Yo, baby!

Gas station at the end of the universe:

Coffee house at the end of the universe:

This isn't Kansas, nope:

The big open and Mt. San Antonio:

Self-portrait while grunting:

My camp outside Taos:

An "Earthship" in a community of such places outside Taos:

A burley denizen of the road:

I keep everyone interested:

On the bridge across the Rio Grand Gorge:

Mountain Madness

2007-10-10T12:29:00.000-07:00

Pueblo could be called the Bakersfield of Colorado, the coarse, often disrespected step child of the state. Everyone I'd talked to had warned me about the place. As I enjoyed cool riding and mild wind conditions on the way in from Ordway, I wondered what I would find. As I slipped onto Highway 50 and my final approach to the city, I observed another kind of town: prairie dog villages lining the road. The animals are basically like ground squirrels, squeaking and popping up and down out of their burrows. They've been known to create vast colonies and have often been poisoned by ranchers and used as target practice by varmint hunters. I found them quite amusing as they'd wiggle their stubby tails and dive headlong into holes in the ground. They would never let me get close enough for a picture, so you'll have to take my word for it.

On rolling into town, I found the descriptions I'd heard to be largely correct: rough, edgy, hoody. The downtown area was dead on this Sunday afternoon. I cut back and forth through the main district and enjoyed a couple of the sculptures on display, but it was not a place to linger. I headed for the park where I'd been told I could camp. After stocking up on food, I landed in the park and realized I had a problem: Sunday. No officials. I'd just have to stealth camp somewhere. On the far northern edge of the park, I found a dirt lot and baseball diamond. The other side of the field looked to be unregulated land. So I'd spend my night on a bluff overlooking the Arkansas river as it flooded over a dam. Not bad. I set up on the outside of the the fence enclosing the ball field. Mistake.

No tent, asleep under the dome of heaven, I was ripped into consciousness by the heavy machine gun splatter of large drops of water. Up, man! Quick! Go, go, GO! The sprinklers had come on, and, like an idiot, I had forgotten the camping axiom of cyclists in the West: If the grass is green, you are going to get hosed. Period. Fuming, sputtering, cursing, I grabbed my stuff and hurled it out of the soaking zone. Midnight. Thirty seven degrees and falling. Lovely. I reset my dampened pad and bag and crawled in. By morning, frost would cover all of my gear when I emerged into a 28 degree dawn. Hey, Mojo, let's get out of here.

The road to Canon City and my entrance to the Rockies was Highway 50 with wide shoulders and only moderate to light traffic. I was really hoping for a better night than Pueblo. I hit the lottery. After research and supplies, I headed out of town to gain access to a natural area and, the Holy Grail of wild campers, public land. I rode down a smooth double track, a bit steeply near the end, and pushed through a narrow gate--cyclists, equestrians, walkers only. In a moment, I was parked in a stand of bushy junipers surrounded by peaks, valleys, crags and views out over the town. Free at last! I did a happy dance and went about setting up camp. No tent, just bag out in the open--no sprinklers, cars, flood lights. Just me, the mountains and the stars. Blessed bivouac of the elite cyclo-tourist.

My freedom was at odds with much of the local population, however. Freemont county and the region around Canon City were home to thirteen state and federal penitentiaries, including a so-called SuperMax, a lock down for the worst of the worst. In one photograph I was able to include three prisons. This area had made the incarceration of criminals its financial foundation. I suspect crime is low in Canon City with so much evidence of where potential perps will land on every corner. The town even boasts of a prison museum, perhaps so would-be criminals can see how good convicts are treated today? I did not have time to view it as I needed to find a place to camp.

My long night passed quickly enough, spiced now and then by the yip yap howl of coyotes in the near distance. Sometime late, the wind picked up, and I burrowed more deeply into my bag. Out of the west. Hmmmm.... This didn't bode well for the next day's ride. I eventually crawled from my nylon cocoon into a blustery morning. I brewed up quickly and did a short hike into a nearby canyon, a cleft into the craggy walls to the west that led into a sandy arroyo decorated with large blocks of sandstone and flaming yellow cottonwoods. I so wanted to have Jodi and Django with me, the best of companions, to join me in exploration and exclamation. I took pictures and sauntered back to camp. I only had 45 miles to do--or did I?

I'd been too casual about reading the map. ANOTHER cyclist's axiom: Read the map. Read the map. Read the map--duh. On leaving Canon City, I found that I had almost 60 miles to do. Jeez. Oh, and the day began with an 1100 ft. climb to a pass not indicated on the map--even after I read it. A long, slow grind too late in the morning meant I had to make steady time to get to Salida before too long. I was staying at Trey's place, a Warmshowers host most excellent.

After the summit, I enjoyed a long drop that I knew would be followed by more climbing: Canon City was at 5,200 ft., Salida at just over 7,000. I entered a wonderland--high, barren peaks over 14,000 ft. on the skyline, narrow, craggy canyons, the glittering Arkansas River cutting a meandering path down low. For mile upon mile, I drank in what I had so long desired. The fly in the ointment? For there is always the fly, no? Oh, yes, the winds kicked in, blowing steady and strong into my face. What would have merely been a strenuous day was turned into a real burn. I frequently faced the discouraging reality of shifting into my lowest gears for the slightest of grades. Traffic was light to moderate but comprised of too many trucks for my taste. In this area, at least, I was lucky. I passed river rafting company after company, all closed for the season. Each had a small fleet of buses for transporting riders up river. Consider the highway with dozens and dozens of buses running round trips, the usual truck and car traffic, and factor in what must be astronomical recreational traffic of trucks, fifth wheels and mega RV's, and cyclists would be well advised to stay away from June to September. In places, too, the shoulder is non-existent. I was blessed with a Tuesday afternoon in October--no skiing, no rafting, kids all back in school. Elite cyclo-tourist one, traffic zero. Well, almost. I was still annoyed and had to keep an eye out, but conditions on this road were far better than I had faced in some other places.

By noon I was needing a serious break and pulled over at a river access area and campground to make lunch. With a pained sigh, I realized I still had 40 miles to go. At least the beauty of the scenery took away much of my misery. If I were going to struggle, this was the place to do it. Each turn of the road revealed a new vista, a curve of the river, a new imposing crag breaking out of the steep juniper and pinyon pine covered sides of the canyon. As I progressed, I got closer and closer to the massive peaks I'd seen when first breaking the pass earlier. Twelve, thirteen, fourteen thousand feet, they heaved their mighty bulks into the clear October sky. Wind-scoured, barren-topped, the summits were only exposed stone, far above the region where trees could take hold. Even the hearty lichen would have trouble up there. I had troubles of my own down below. I'd have to come back some day and hike these majestic peaks.

I stopped for ice cream about twenty miles out of Salida. Treat yourself when you're feeling thrashed, I always say. I sat on a bench outside the store and looked up at an American flag snapping merrily in the breeze, such a happy, perky snap, snap, snap. Each snap a nail in the coffin of my energies. Gotta fight, Scotty boy. That's all there is to it. C'mon, Mojo, let's get that Mojo goin'. Back into wrestling mode, I headed out...only to find the winds stopped, a door shut on the west, and I was free, even, at times, getting a little assist. It must have been the ice cream. Whatever the cause, I was deeply grateful and cruised the remaining miles at a much faster, easier pace, realizing that the winds had been taking three to five miles per hour off my average speeds.

At Salida, the heart of the Rockies, I slipped into the old, classic part of town and found the bike shop Trey had recommended--Absolute Bikes. A fantastic staff greeted me like an old friend and I chatted some time with the crew until hunger overcame my convivial impulses. Must...have...food. No worries. Sidle next door to the Bongo Cafe, order large mixed green salad with balsamic vinegar dressing, a large bison burger, an "adult malted beverage recovering drink," as one of the bike shop blokes put it, and dig in. Life was perfect: Fine people, good food, grotesque volumes of hard exercise, what more do you need? I cleaned every crumb and drop of food from my plates and stepped out into the chill of the early evening. I needed to find Trey's place. I pedaled through the deepening shadows as the last rays of the sun glowed on the Sawatch range seven thousand feet above.

The photos are out of order, so sue me!

Downtown Salida:

For Dean--fly fishing on the Arkansas:

Cottonwood in the canyon above Canon City:

Cranking hard for the mountains of mystery:

Lizzie, my mascot:

My camp in the junipers:

On the way to camp:

Downtown Canon City:

Fall color in Canon City:

Frosty gear in Pueblo:

Wall art in Pueblo:

Graffiti in Pueblo:

On the cusp between 2,000 and 3,000 miles:

Borderline Personality Disorder

2007-10-05T15:40:00.000-07:00

I finished Kansas before Kansas could finish me--although the outcome was in question for a while. My last night in the state in Tribune went well enough. I'd been told that I could sleep in the park and that, if the restroom were closed, the sheriff's office could open it for me. So upon finding the door locked, I returned to the office and was told--by a different person--that I was out of luck: No John for Scotty. Crap. I'd stayed in a town back in Indiana called Denver that also had no John. Well, no Rocky Mountain High for the Midwest, and Tribune, Kansas, was continuing the tradition. So another commando camp it would be.

I returned to the park and filled my water containers and studied the area to the north of the park. I could see trees and some buildings. Perhaps... I cut around a fenced field, spotted some grassy area at the far end of another section of the park, and motored cross country to my campsite, which was actually on the border between the park and undeveloped country. Perfect. Trees and scrub would provide a suitable cat box, and I was far from the road. Little did I know that my short cut would have some mildly serious consequences.

In the morning as I pulled away from camp, the bike felt strange. What's wrong with this thing? I jumped off to find not one but two flaccid lovelies splayed out under my once proud rims. (Insert ranting, profane tirade.) Well, this fine turn of events ruined any early start I'd hoped for. The good news was that it was not raining nor was the wind blowing, and I could push the bike over to a picnic table under a light. There in the tread of the tires, buried up to their hideous, bulbous heads, were several nasty thorns, goat heads, what I later heard called "Texas tacks." These are fiendishly effective tools for the puncture of bicycle tires. I lay wounded Mojo on his side and pulled the wheels. Step by step, I scrutinized the tires and pried thorns and tips from the tread. Needle-nose pliers were vital here (praise the Lord Leatherman). I then studied the interior of the tires, careful to invert the inside so that I might expose any remaining points. The rear tube already had two patches and probably two new punctures. I tossed it. Another mistake I could not at the time foresee.

Once on the road, I pedaled straight into a fog bank--huh? No wind, thank you, but this grey muck was no joke. My friends in Bakersfield, California, will know this kind of fog, a thick, gooey, opaque mass that leaves too much to the imagination and covered my glasses with dense moisture. I repeatedly had to wipe my lenses to clear my vision. A final farewell gift from the Great State of Kansas. As I neared the Colorado/Kansas frontier, the sun began to break through, and there, just as I was about to cross, sun hit the pavement and created a muted "fog bow" in the clouds that arched perfectly over the road, a sign from the gods that I was welcome in my first WESTERN state. I did my border crossing rant, and pedaled through the fog of the threshold and into the next phase of my journey. As if to fully signify the event, I broke clear of the sludge just west of the border and sailed into a bright, nearly windless Colorado day. The air was dry, the dome of the sky an almost unbearable blue.

Range land, ladies and gentleman, range land unfurled about me. Cottonwoods filled the stream beds and stood green and familiar here and there. Although I would still see a few more corn stalks to remind me about the past, I was in cowboy country now, coyotes and jack rabbits. And just the next day, I would see the Rockies, mountains of my dreams. I cued up some Grace from the Apostle Paul (Simon) and grinned down the road, my spirits restored, my legs ready for the day.

To seal the deal on my arrival, I met my first long-distance cyclist since Steve in central Ohio. On his way to Illinois, Theodore and I stopped and talked for a while. In the eager, happy way of cyclists, we swapped war stories and information. I was able to give him my map so that he could save some miles on his way. We were both reluctant to get back on our solitary treks, but the miles wouldn't do themselves. To Eads, Colorado, for me, to somewhereville Kansas for Theodore. Ride well, brother. You can have tailwinds after I get mine! I was to get no genuine tailwinds, but I was given a temporary reprieve, so I was thankful.

Got another thorn flat a few miles further on and learned from an old Mexican caretaker how to identify the dastardly plant. After almost 3,000 miles without a flat, I was suddenly getting way too much practice at fixing the damn things.

I arrived in Eads in high spirits with a resolve to take a rest day. I'd been pushing hard since Manhattan, and I needed a break. On studying the weather on the Net, however, I discovered more winds were marching north. If I took my rest day, I'd have to battle some horrible conditions, especially as I was headed south and west, the precise direction of the wind. I scrapped my rest day and resolved to get my earliest start yet.

At first I planned to sleep in the open, but as I finished dinner, I could see sprinklers coming on across the lawn. Pitch tent or get drenched. As I was setting up the fly on the tent, a sprinkler erupted from the ground right in front of me, its ugly head bursting out like an alien from an unsuspecting space traveler's belly. Water sprayed directly into the tent through the mesh. I quickly grabbed my pot and tried to cover the sprinkler but without much success. I ripped my tent from the grass and scrambled to get everything clear of the watering system. Exhausted, angry, frustrated, I just wanted to lay my sorry ass down and sleep. I had a bunch of gear scattered on the parking lot. With a sigh of resignation, I began picking up all my stuff and transporting it behind a small building where I could see no freshly irrigated grass--just dry dirt and leaves. I threw my pad on the ground and worked on getting a little sleep.

I was up and packing shortly before 3am. This wasn't cycling. This was war. I was going to escape the advancing armies in the south or know the reason why. I was riding by 3:35am. Good grief, man. Have you completely lost it? I left the pools of light in town and quickly became engulfed by the vast emptiness and darkness of the high plains. Only a few very distant homes and a cell tower or two broke the perfection of the night. Overhead, Orion burned its skeletal form in the velvet black of the sky. A crescent moon glowed through a high thin cloud. Mojo and I made our way towards the mountains we couldn't see. To the south, flashes seemed to indicate lightning. Such a strange and solitary life!

Shortly before dawn, I pulled into a dirt lot to use a restroom, and before I knew exactly what surface I was on, I saw the telltale grass of vicious thorns. Damn double crap! I swung away, looked down and found the tools of detumescence protruding from the rear tire. I pulled out the biggest one to hear the song of my frustration whistling shrilly from the tiny puncture. On fixing this flat I discovered the folly of throwing out that other tube: The additional spare I thought I had was, in fact, for the smaller diameter front wheel. Running low on patches and tubes, I was starting to get worried. The nearest bike shop was still about 90 miles away in Pueblo. I fixed the flat and just tried to be as careful as I could.

The dawn was a magical ride into immense grassy expanses turned to gold in the early light. This was fine compensation for my brutally early start. Then, at precisely 7:19 am, I saw the Rocky Mountains for the first time, a peak off to my right--Pike's? I couldn't say. But the mountains were still there. I would reach them somehow, and these trying high plains would fall into my wake to become a good story rather than the present trials.

After a short break, I started up Mojo only to feel that uncertainty on the road that only meant one thing: another flat. This one, however, was of the slow leak variety, and I decided to ride on, pausing occasionally to re-inflate until I got to Ordway, about 25 miles away. It was obviously a small puncture and would likely require placing the tube under water to detect. I did not have sufficient water to do the job in the wilds where I found myself. Every twenty minutes I would dismount, pump until my arms started to ache, then ride another twenty. This went on until I encountered another cyclist, Matt, on his way to Philadelphia. A fine young lad, he gave me a spare patch kit. I gave a map to Theodore only to receive this. We cyclists must look out for each other, pay it forward, as they say. With renewed repair supplies, I pushed on into the rising wind and heat. Ordway seemed to be a long way off.

The town was guarded by a feed lot with the wind cutting right across my path. Fine particulate matter and raunchy odors assaulted me as I pedaled as resolutely as possible to clear the zone. I pumped up the tire one more time and rolled into town. Matt had told me of a hotel across from the park with excellent ($25/night) rates for cyclists. Couldn't pass this up. I'd stay for two nights and make a real rest of it. The Hotel Ordway was temporarily missing a clerk, and check in wasn't until 2pm anyway, so I went to the park to work on my bike in the shade.

I was right away approached by a small squad of young boys. Eli, the oldest at 14 and a freshman in high school, and his friends quickly became my Ordway Posse, and we spent the afternoon talking about all kinds of things as I worked on my bike. They liked this little town and made a definite point about how much safer it was than Pueblo, which was now known for gangs. I asked them about what they were reading in school, and one boy said, "Not much. We don't have to read much of anything. We don't really like it around here." Nice kids, but I fear for their futures. Later, we did a tour of the town, I riding along at about 3 mph with Eli walking on one side and his cousin, Chris, on a BMX bike on the other. Eli narrated: "There's our saloon. That's the bakery. The library's down there, way at the end of the street." He checked with his cousin to confirm that the street was almost exactly a mile long. The electronic bank sign listed the temperature as 93 deg. F. Only about one thousand people lived here, and Eli explained that it was "an old person's town." What exactly that meant in his mind was unclear as I might be quite old to him. Perhaps affordable real estate meant retirees.

After our tour, I checked into my room and bid the young men good day. It was an excellent introduction to a quiet escape from the road. As I settled into my room, the winds picked up and lashed the trees into a frenzy. The next day I would sleep in, read, write, and do as little as possible. The mountains would come soon.

Looking back at the foggy Kansas/Colorado border:

Sunrise on the high plains:

Have the Slovenians overtaken me? No, this is Theodore, headed east:

A knee's-eye view of the road:

This is what it's like in video. Too cool:

Wits' End

2007-10-03T13:17:00.000-07:00

In the dark of an early October morning in Kansas, a television glows into a motel room. A man with a forced, phony smile explains the weather for the coming days. Like a chant, he repeats the phrase "South winds, 15 to 25 mph, South winds, 15 to 25 mph," for all the days into the forecast. For almost everyone in the state, this causes no particular emotion, just a shrug of the shoulders--Oh, well, so it's going to be windy today. For a lone cyclist in that particular motel room, these words are a meteorological prison sentence for which there will be no pardon, no time off for good behavior, just hard time in solitary confinement on a recumbent bicycle.

I set off knowing that I would be facing more punishment. Earlier is better, for as the day warms, the winds intensify, so I was rolling before first light. Always from the south today came the wicked force, the road straight and predictable, no surprises. Oh, look at that, a field of corn stubble. Wow, haven't seen one of those before. Oh, say, that's new, a grain silo. Such novelty. How can I bear it all? Here's something else to add to the list of things I dislike about cycling in Kansas: truck traffic. While the traffic in general is fairly light, most of the vehicles are big rigs, growling monsters stalking the highway. While I am plugging along, taking the general abuse of the cantankerous wind currents, getting pushed and nudged this way and that, I'll see a dragon approaching from the west. As it closes in, I brace for what is coming. The Doppler-shifted groaning of the engine reaches me first, and I instinctively grip the bars. For the wind my have its way with me, but what is soon to come is a full-on Gretzky body-check. The grill of the beast, its chrome teeth, swell in my vision, but at the last instant, I tilt my head down and close my eyes in preparation for the blast. Then it hits, a wall of roaring sound and turbulence that leaves me momentarily fighting for control. A second or two later, the event is over, and I may ride for several minutes before I even see another vehicle.

Part of the issue here, I'm sure, is the harvest season. The wheat seems to all be collected, but lots of corn and milo still stands. The hundreds of square miles of crops mean steady trucking for many days. I'll have to leave farming country to be free of all this. So it goes.

At one point, late into today's ride, I started to lose it. Something deep within me cracked. I had this overwhelming sense of how funny my circumstances were. Spontaneously, I yelled out to myself, to the insensate wind: "Wooo--ha! Fuck YOU!" The deep absurdity of what I was doing gripped me somewhere deep and I started to laugh, a genuine visceral rising of mirth that I could not resist. I was yelling and pedaling and rolling and laughing down the highway, a mad cyclist gone mad. This lunatic high didn't last long, but the after effects carried me the final miles to Tribune and my third Time Zone--yeah--Mountain Time. Tomorrow, it's Colorado. The West is almost mine.

Biker Scotty without coffee:

Biker Scotty WITH coffee:

Getting closer:

I purchased a bunch of real estate on my way through:

High Plains Drifter

2007-10-02T13:43:00.000-07:00

These miles come dearly, distance claimed with a currency of vain curses, grit-filled eyes, a pummeled body, mind and spirit. The road stretches out infinitely to a liquid horizon that I can never reach. Mile follows upon identical mile. I've been beaten, whipped, lashed, thrashed and wind-lynched across the high plains.

This is the most difficult part of the journey so far. I have logged my lowest daily average speed (8.5 mph), but it's the relentless nature of the landscape and wind that wear me down. Mostly, I have not faced direct headwinds. The blasts usually come from the south or north, pushing me back and forth across the road. I spend my time in the saddle getting bitch-slapped by God.

Sometimes I make progress in a rage-filled push, but I can't sustain anger for long. A few miles fall to this technique until I'm worn out and back off, drop once more into single-digit speeds, weave and wobble like a drunk punk. Many times I can look fore and aft for miles and not see another vehicle. All points of the compass speak of emptiness save for a distant silo or spinning windmill. Now and again, green locusts pop up from the road or fly across my path, caught in the gale as I am, and bounce of my legs, my chest, my face and then vanish into the vast fields of chopped corn stalks or milo or plowed earth.

This is pure, raw, animal struggle, and there's just nothing else to do but endure. I tell myself that this is why I came, to dig deep and face my own weakness and uncertainty. This is the marrow of the journey. Crack the bone and see it ooze onto your shaking hands, fool. Who are you to be out here on your own, miles from nowhere? Are you mad? Take it and like it. Choke on the bone. Rejoice in the struggle, for it is all you have.

The temperatures swing wildly. Two nights ago I awoke to a fine, chilly low 40's F. dawn. This morning, I faced the low 70's F. This happens all the time. The forecast now is for highs in the upper 80's. Summer will not lessen its iron grip. I just have to endure. About five more days and I'll be in Pueblo, poised to enter the Rocky Mountains. It can't come soon enough.

Stay centered, Scotty. Walk the path, talk the path, be the path:

Shots of classic motorcycles I saw at a Museum in central Kansas. The place had at least $1 million's worth of beautiful machines:

Classic guerrilla campsite-- I just pulled in behind a utility building:

A Rob Thomson shot (See 14degrees.org):

Got it made in Manhattan

2007-09-25T11:11:00.000-07:00

The Midwest stretches on and on and on. But twisters and broom-wielding witches aside, this first stretch of Kansas has been beautiful if not more annoying (bugs/heat) than some earlier segments. Here's my first revelation: Not all of Kansas is flat. Eastern Kansas is hooked up to western Missouri, if you haven't noticed, and that there is hill country.

I camped in Louisburg at a vast sports park, endless soccer fields, baseball diamond, and, of all things, a small observatory. I rolled up as folks were gathering for a picnic and evening's viewing of the celestial orbs. I parked a couple of hundred yards away behind some trees and the edge of a field. I had every intention of taking a look at the heavens myself, but fatigue crept in and dictated that I just sleep as much as I could. My wake-up calls were coming in at some pretty sharp hours. I arranged my camp while the gathering crowd set up additional scopes and one fellow flew some model planes. As the sun went down, so did I.

The camp:

At 2 am, nature came calling, whispering at first, then pinching me, waking me up. I hauled my groggy frame from the tent and marched over to the outhouse under a clear canopy of moon and stars. Back in the tent I lay for long moments, listening to the wind in the trees and, for the first time, coyotes. God's dogs have a wide range, but for me they have always symbolized the West. They are guardians of the broad threshold I was crossing, canine singers of a moonlit night for a solitary traveler, a pedal-powered Odysseus bound for Ithaca. The undercurrent of the wind, the quavering melody of the coyotes floating faintly in the background, and the primordial sky all left me in a state of profound wonder and gratitude. What a strange and wonderful place is the world. For all my complaints and grievances, I cannot deny this appreciation.

A few hours later, I climbed and descended on long, gradual hills, many times ripping into the darkness at unknown speeds, over-driving my meager light, flying on trust and hope and slow-drip adrenaline. Still in the dark, I began to encounter tule fog in the valley bottoms. The weird mists clung to trees and obscured the farm houses. Like smoky rivers, the moisture flowed along the depressions, one after another, as my morning effort unfolded. Could such a morning give way to a day in the high 80's? Oh, yes. In the Bakersfield area of California, these conditions only occur in the winter, but you're not in California anymore, Dorothy. Kansas has a different game plan.

And so went my day. Smooth roads, long, gradual climbs and descents, a rising sun that burned away the fog then burned away at me. My leg was bothering me some but not as severely as the day before. I was a bit more conscious of taking breaks. After midday I arrived at Osage City, end of the line for this Sunday. After some calls made by the helpful crew at the Casey's mini-mart, I was clear to camp behind the store next to the police station. Okay, shouldn't be bothered here.

What followed was a "challenging" bit of camping. First of all, I was reduced to drinking "Light" beer, Coors Light, to be specific. Scandalous, I know, but there it is. Actually, with the intense heat and humidity, it was more refreshing than I expected. Even so, I think this qualifies as a new low for me, this tour, and adult malt beverages. One never knows what rigors the road will impose. We can only be flexible and endure. The town (all of Kansas?) has some quaint blue laws, only allowing the sale of beer between 12 and 8 pm on Sundays, and the clerk at Casey's said that regulations were in the works to keep the mini-mart from selling any beer at all on the Lord's day. The religious-based motivations for these laws are clear enough. I wondered, though, if they had actually done any good. Do the alcoholics forget to stock up on Saturday for their early Sunday binging? Certainly, I would not be able to buy a can of suds to pour over my Wheaties on the Sabbath. Another aspect of personal freedom taken way by the powers that be. Oh well....

Besides the limp lager, the roughest part of the camp was the incredible humidity and heat. I've complained about this often, but it's hard to get over what it's like to seal yourself up in a tight space under these circumstances, sweat oozing from every pore, gasping for breath like a beached sturgeon, begging for release like a tortured sinner. GET...ME...OUT...OF...HERE! But you can't get out. You've got to fight for sleep and keep a wall between you and the snarling insects eager for fresh meat. A breeze picked up, and at last I was getting some sleep until the rain started. Once I'd jumped back in after setting the fly over the tent, the misery index climbed back into the stratosphere. Worse, in my haste, and undetected for some time, were the handful of mosquitoes that followed me in. And so began the blood bath. Morning couldn't come soon enough.

But the day always seems to bring new hope, and my enthusiasm for the quest remained undiminished, especially since I was headed for my nephew's place in Manhattan where I would take a prolonged rest stop. This anticipation fueled my drive, but the quality of the riding was gift enough. I toured through an area called the Flint Hills or "Native Stone" region, a land of mesas and long, horizontal ridges creased by forested ravines and creek-filled bottom lands. Each climb would lead to an exhilarating drop twisting through the trees. This was a "Western" landscape, no doubt about it. This was limestone country, and the miles of hand-built stone fences attested to the nature of the stone and the people who had settled this country. I stopped for an early (1st) lunch along one of these walls and was impressed by the unimaginable back-breaking labor they represented. Thousands upon thousands of limestone plates were collected, hauled into position and lifted into place. No hydraulic-swing-arm-fork- lift-diesel-powered assist here. Muscle, bone and determination built these walls. I sat on the wall, munched my sandwich and contemplated my good luck at missing that work party.

The wall:

I'd roughly calculated 65 miles for the day. "Roughly" was rough indeed. After almost 78 miles, I found Clint and Jen's place in a suburb next to Kansas State University, an institution that truly dominates the town. Much of the day had been spectacular tail winds, but the last ten miles or so were cycled under buffeting side winds, and I was tired, hot, ready to finish. I stepped into their small, three-bedroom home and found AC, air conditioning. I almost cried. The sudden release from the grip of the meteorological beast was precisely what I needed most. Next cool shower and cortisone cream for my piteously perforated body--bites everywhere: belly, back, butt, ankles and elbows. Sleep, rest, recover.

Now I lay low, let the squad cars search in vain, an APB for naught. I'll be here for three days at least, recharging, preparing for the next leg, over 500 miles of straight roads to the Colorado Rockies, which I will enter at Pueblo. I've already begun the long, gradual climb across the craton. I'll ascend, somewhat imperceptibly, another 4,000 ft. as I cross over. Each foot I climb adds up to cooler weather, cooler nights, drier conditions. I've covered just over 2,500 miles, so by my calculations, I'm over the halfway point. It's so strange to think about where I started. I can now look at an overview of the USA and see the huge chunk I've accomplished and the big piece remaining. This is not even the end of the beginning. I'm in it now. My leg is feeling better. In fact most of yesterday's ride was trouble free. So it was just one of those temporary body rebellions that we elite cyclo-tourists must endure. Sometimes our muscles still balk at what they are asked to do. The will, however, must be stronger than the flesh. This period of rest, however, is going to be a very good thing indeed.

The road ahead:

Kansas splendor:

That's all for now, kids. Be kind to your pixels, for they represent you. Biker Scotty signing off from the Central Zone of the Great American Outback.

Slappin' Dorothy

2007-09-22T12:04:00.000-07:00

My instincts about where to stay last night were spot on. Just as I'd ridden into town, I noticed an access way into a grassy field beyond a massive blue water tower, the constant signature of towns across the Midwest. I spent the evening at a park where I cooked up and watched the sun set then cruised over just before dark. I glanced this way and that. The coast was clear--go! In I bounced across the grass and in behind a stand of trees--mowed grass, hidden from view on all sides, totally perfect--and free, the best of all possible camping worlds.

The vampires were out as I pitched my tent. My technique is to get everything ready then dive in, zip the screen down to foot level, rip of my sandals or shoes, and crank the zipper shut, hopefully keeping the blood suckers out. Only one got in, which I quickly dispatched with the hand of God--mine. No good Jain here: All mosquitoes and biting bugs must die.

Because of the heat, I was sleeping without the fly on the tent to maximize whatever pitiful air movement I might get. Not much help there. I just lay in a sweating coffin, waiting for things to somehow cool off. I eventually drifted off to sleep...to be suddenly awakened by rain drops hitting the tent. Out! Out! Keystone cops run around and get that fly on, cover the bike, dive back in before you're soaked. Just as I settled back onto the pad, the rain began in earnest. Safe and hot, I fell back asleep...only to awaken at 3:30 with an urgent need to water the foliage. Damn, couldn't sleep, had to get up in thirty minutes anyway. Wait, debate, give up and give in. All right, all right, I'm getting up. The rain had long since stopped. I packed, rolled back to the park for gawdawfulearly breakfast and hit the road before 6am.

My escape from Clinton was along route 7 towards Kansas City. This, at first, had a superb shoulder, smooth and mega-wide. I was about to praise MODOT to the skies when the shoulder turned to shite, long sections of totally tattered, gravelly, chunky mess. C'mon, people. Y'all can do better than this. So I was often forced onto the main road where I would stay until traffic forced me back onto the shoulder, which was okay some of the time, too. Fortunately, traffic was very light during the pre-dawn hours then quite moderate for a four lane divided highway thereafter.

I've been dealing with some mildly painful tightness behind my right calf and hamstring, but I pulled through today without too much problem. I made a good point of stopping every hour for a bit of just walking and light stretching. I don't know what the problem is since my left leg is fine. Still, I had a fine day of cycling on generally smooth roads at high speeds. My average was close to 13 mph. Contrast this with my slow days when I've averaged as low as 9.7 mph. Now, to those of you riding around in cars this may sound laughable, but when the pistons are your legs, your heart and lungs and guts your engine, this is a HUGE difference and represents, for me, a fun, quick cycling day from one with a good deal of strain and strife. Tail winds and only moderate climbing really helped though today I did climb for a total of 1,300 ft.

Here's another thing: Many people, when notified I'm riding east to west, make the crack about riding against the wind. Dudes, I'm not at 40,000 ft. in the jet stream. Conditions on the ground vary a lot. Sure, there may be general trends, but don't count on tail winds if you're headed east. You will almost certainly be gravely disappointed. Steven Kraft, whom I encountered in Ohio, commented on plenty of winds out of the east. Today, I was headed north and west--with tail winds. So there you go.

So, shortly before noon, I hit Kansas. Carry on my wayward son. There were only three things to do: Take a photo, get back on the bike, and blast some Van Halen (the early stuff) to power me into town just a few miles away. Runnin' with the devil, baby, runnin' with the devil. Some jerk gave me the sign of the flying bird because I was pinching traffic a little (no shoulder). I just laughed out loud and waved happily. A new state, by gum. No sad bloke was going to tarnish this high.

I've got information on where to camp. I'll grab some grub and head for the park. This tour is going well indeed. Just three more days to Manhattan. I can't freakin' believe I'm in Kansas. What's this world coming to? Let me at that wicked witch. I'll drill her with my chain rings, the noxious wench. This is your faithful correspondent signing off from the left edge of the Great Midwest Outback.

Spanked Katy

2007-09-21T13:39:00.000-07:00

I've landed in Clinton, MO. Not much doing here, but I did laundry and downloaded some stuff for the long road ahead. That mp3 player is going to be my salvation. The Katy was fun, but I'm glad our relationship is over. I didn't mind riding her, but the limestone dust and slower speeds were starting to be a drag. No photo uploading on this machine, so you just get my scrambled, mis-typed prose to tickle your nose.

Sedalia wasn't a half-bad stop. After my last post, I explored a little and landed at a very pleasant--mostly empty--brew pub. Missouri is blessed with a pretty good brewery, Boulevard's. The pale ale and unfiltered wheat are especially good. I ordered up a pint of the former and sat on the patio to dig the Missouri scene. Okay, not much. It's not the Champs-Elysees, but it would do on a hot afternoon. I sat in the shade, sipped the icy perfection, and read my most excellent science fiction novel: The Ghost Brigades, by Scalzi, good escapist stuff for my life of sweat and toil.

After stocking up with too much stuff at the grocery store, I headed for camp, which I thought was free. No such luck. $10 for a patch of grass surrounded by monster RV's. Me and my one person tent and kinky bike. The contrast was grotesque and hilarious. Only one person showed interest in what I was doing. A lady in the closest RV was friendly and her chihuahua was a blast. Her husband was a scowling, downcast, coughing smoker. Maybe he was just preoccupied with how good it felt to be feeding his tumor, who knows? He said not a word. Fine with me. They were quiet, and I found an excellent use for the big RV--shade. The hot sun was low in the sky, and I set up in the shadow thrown long by their enormous rig.

Then I did something horrible, foul, unspeakable: I ate a steak. Cow meat. Deceased bovine flesh. Holy horrified Hindus, Batman, that guy's eating red meat! The cow that provided the steak was not organically fed, not grass fed, not free range. I am not part of the solution. I am part of the problem. And like all true sins, it tasted good--really good. I just sparked up sparky, poured a little olive oil in my titanium pan, and slapped in the meat. Sizzle, sizzle, fo' shizzle, the cow did cook. A wee bit o' garlic, some saline powder and peppah, spear with fork, hack with blade, masticate and swallow. Yup, this carnivore was a happy camper. Gonna do it again tonight as I couldn't buy a quantity small enough for just one meal.

I consume mass quantities on this tour. Never before have I done so much exercise for so many days in a row. I had little excess on my bones to begin with, so to keep from vanishing completely, I just eat and eat and eat. Sometimes too much, for sure, but that's how it goes for high-end recumbent cyclo-tourism. Until next time, keep yer cleats clean and yer tires full. This is Biker Scotty signing off from the western frontier of Missouri, just one more state I'm going to leave behind.

Along the Missouri

2007-09-20T11:12:00.000-07:00

Since the fall of Troy, your hero has been busy. I've been riding every day since, and I think I'm going to keep at it until I get to Manhattan and Clint and Jen's place where I'll just crash for a few days. The Mid-West is tough for several reasons: heat, humidity, bugs...and it's so freakin' big. And the sense of size is magnified by the sometimes monotonous terrain. Missouri for all its challenges has been the most interesting Mid-West state. I think Kansas may be the toughest. We'll see.

After leaving Troy, I was concerned about another killer day, but my reading of the map was confirmed when I found little heavy climbing. I mostly rolled through gentle grades and worked my way south to the famed Katy Trail and another great river, the Missouri. At one point in my descent to Marthasville and my connection to the trail, I hit 49 mph. What a screamer. I was getting a little nervous on that one, but Mojo and I were solid. Marthasville was yet another of these anemic towns, bled dry by changing demographics and economic shifts. Somehow, a few businesses hold on, but most of these places have a number of empty stores and run-down houses. The main supply points are the mini-marts, which leaves a clear picture of the nutritional content of people's diets: high fructose corn syrup and nasty oils.

For those of you out of the loop, the Katy Trail is a 200+ mile conversion of an old rail bed to accommodate cyclists and pedestrians and, in some sections, horses. The surface, like the Erie Canal Tow Path, is firm crushed limestone. This is a gem of a trail in many places, especially for history buffs as it follows the Lewis and Clark trail. Travellers will find many signs and interpretive stations showing where the adventurers camped, the cave they discovered and other bits of this classic American story. The path is sometimes hard on the river, other times cutting through fields. Much of the route has excellent shade from the close, often overhanging trees. This has been a huge benefit with the tenacious heatwave we've been having out here. Normal temps should be in the high 70's F.. We should be flirting with 90 F. or so the next few days. Ugh, ugh, ugh. Anyway, here's a video of one of the better Katy sections. This is just outside a town called Rocheport, where I spent last night:

I have become somewhat weary of the crushed limestone. Although an acceptable surface, it's slower, especially when trail crews have added fresh material or some sand has washed over it. And it's incredibly dusty. My bike and the rear of my panniers are covered with a fine, grey dust that's going to be great fun to clean off. Most of my encounters have been short term Q&A's: Where ya comin' from? When ya gonna finish? What do you do for a living? Yadda, yadda, yadda. I'm a good sport, really, I am.

I've been seeing a lot of cyclists, naturally, but they are all on local or extended Katy-only tours. I may have seen the last of fellow trans-Am riders for the rest of my tour. I'll be the lone cyclist out on the Great Plains and through the mighty mountains and deserts of the West--with the exception of my doppelganger, this mystery rider that greets me most mornings with a challenging pace. I strive to overtake him, but he stays ahead until mid-day when I finally get the better of him. He's elusive, quick, a mysterious challenger who dogs my every pedal stroke. Call him Ghost Rider:

Then, of course, there are the Slovenians. These jackals of the peleton have broken away and set their fangs on taking me down. Let them try! My lead has been secure for over 2,200 miles. I'm keeping it. There can be only one World Champion Recumbent Cyclo-Tourist--at least in western Missouri in late September, eh? So let the pretenders have their fantasies. My legs will do the talking.

Here are some shots from the road:

Taking a break from the heat at a trail head:

A typical "green tunnel":

Tin foil hat or...house?

Chasing down Louis and Clark along the Missouri:

My 4 am game:

Okay, some soy fields look pretty:

One of the trail head stations:

I've stared at the glowing screen long enough. Time to tool around town a bit and find my way to the campground. Showers tonight, yeah! Till next time, Recumbent Cyclo-Dude signing off. Missouri, your days are numbered.

The Great State of Misery--er--Missouri

2007-09-17T12:27:00.000-07:00

I'm so tired I can hardly write, but it's nice here in the library in Troy, MO. I had a grand time along the ol' Mississippi, but I had to turn inland, and so my tale of woe began.

But first the good news. After yesterday's post, I cranked off a couple of miles to get to a decent grocery store, thinking all the while that I might have to backtrack the whole way to a camp- ground, which was opposite my direction of travel. I had no place to camp and was feeling that little anxious feeling. How the hell is this going to work out? The road will provide. After shopping and dealing with another rather low IQ sort (I seem to be a magnet for these) who kept asking endless, rapid-fire questions like a five-year-old, I was approached by a normal fellow interested in my journey. He wished me luck and went into the store. On exiting, he said: "Would you like a hot, home-cooked meal?" I'd just purchased a bunch of food, but I wasn't going to brush off this road angel so quickly. "Sure!" He then asked: "You're not a vegan, are you?" "Hell, no," I replied. "I'll eat anything." Which was basically true. Even if it's still moving, it won't be for long after I get through with it.

Mike called his wife, and we were set. He didn't live "very far" as he put it. I took him at his word and followed on my bike as he cruised through a series of streets into a very nice hood: big trees and classic brick homes, including his own. I pumped like crazy to not fall too far behind, my legs yelping at having already survived 75 miles then being asked to do more. Shut up, boys, you can take it. I followed Mike into the house and met the rest of the Mitts clan: his wife, Shelley, and the boys, James, the biggest dude, a junior in high school, and Tom and Dan, skate punks of the finest sort. We feasted on jambalaya and fresh apple pie, amply seasoned with lively conversation. Mike recalled tales of his life in the Marines at 29 Palms and hitchhiking to Palm Springs to catch flights back to Illinois for the weekend to see Shelley. True love, eh? Shelley recounted the interesting characters she'd encountered working in a town, Louisiana, Mo., that I was soon to pass through. Sometimes she referred to it as "Loser-ana" when thinking about some of the people she met while working for a podiatrist who visited the town. It seems that some of these people rarely see doctors and feel compelled to share stories and symptoms other than those foot-related. One character just had to exhibit her major surgery scar for Shelley: "Yep," said the woman, "they opened me up mountain tops to glory hole!" and hoisted her dress for maximum effect. Another woman with a well-since-I'm-at-the-doctor's-I-might- as-well-show- 'em-this-too attitude lifted her dress to reveal a bulging hernia the size of a small pony. Ah, the joys of rural medical practice. Be strong, Shelley, be strong! You folks are the best. Thank you!

The next day, I made easy miles into Hannibal and left Illinois for the last time. As expected, the town was a ruthless tourist trap, but it was nice to see Twain's actual boyhood home and tour the museum. I skipped Tom Sawyer's cave. Out of town, I immediately hit the terrain for which Missouri is so notorious, at least for cyclists. It would be a day of relentless, grinding climbs. A few level stretches offered some relief, but they were always followed by a punishing climb where my lowest gears were barely adequate. I learned the fine art of zig-zagging up hill to cut the grade and avoid total blowout. The scenery was most beautiful and sweetly bucolic, but it was a beauty viewed through a fog of sweat and strain. What began as some good, hard work in the morning left me cursing each grade in the afternoon.

One significant event transpired during one of these climbs, however: I crossed the 2,000 mile mark. Eat my grits, Missouri, I done 2,000 miles!

My day ended on the shores of the Mississippi at an old fisherman's hangout. A set of tracks cut through the woods behind me in the trees, and a train bridge spanned the river to the south. Fortunately, rail traffic was light, though the ground did rumble when one of the diesel spewing dragons squealed by into the night. Mostly I just watched the slow, dark water ease by the overhanging maples. A heron perched on mostly submerged snags and watched for prey, looking like a grim undertaker from a Dickens tale with its hunched shoulders and dark cloak of feathers. Heavy-bodied fish jumped in the shallows and night fell on my Huck Finn camp as I cooked on the shore, happy to spend a night by myself, just me and the river.

Today was more of the same terrible climbs--lots more. Add heat in the high 80's, a head wind, shake AND stir, pour out the cocktail into a set of aching legs and wind-blown skin. My mantra: Just today and tomorrow, then I'm done. Just today and tomorrow. Tomorrow I reach Marthasville and the start of the Katy Trail, a virtually flat run due west across most of the state. Free camping and river towns to explore. Can't wait.

No photos today, kids. Older computers in libraries seem to lack the drivers I need. Oh, well. Until next time, keep yer powder dry and yer flints sharp. With a rebel yell, this is Biker Scotty, World Champion Recumbent Cyclist, signing off from the Great American Outback.

Hey, I take back that biz about photos. I've just checked into the Holiday Inn, and the dudes have got a 'puter with high speed connection. Enjoy.

A new game show! Reality, of course...

My Huck Finn camp:

The country I cycled today:

Days of Miracle and Wonder

2007-09-15T14:05:00.000-07:00

I've slipped into an early taste of autumn in an amazing way. Last night, I camped right on the edge of the Mississippi and the temperature was 40 deg. F. when I got up. Didn't climb much past 65 F. all day--simply amazing. The hammer of summer is not done with me yet, however, as in a couple of days we should be up into the mid-80's again. I'll be back on my 4am wake-up schedule for those days.

Many times today the road was hard on the river, meandering, sweeping, gently climbing and descending under a cool blue sky. I stopped in Nauvoo for a while and paid my respects to the home of Joseph Smith. It's a vast Mormon shrine--the whole town, that is. A few conventional Christian denominations struggle for attention with little signs and buildings here and there, but then you come upon the Mormon Temple, a soaring monster of stone towers and glass surrounded by finely pedicured lawns. The old town site where Smith and his clan settled is one giant historical district with all the buildings finely preserved. Here and there, groups of well-groomed families followed tour guides dressed in suits--black with white shirts. As I stood in front of the original cabin, a pair of Canadian geese honked by overhead, bound for the river only a few hundred yards away. The whole place was quiet as a museum, which is what it was, of course, just on a small town-size scale.

Mostly I traveled empty roads and made good time. Tomorrow it's Hannibal and the Mark Twain house! Gotta rock with the master for a bit. He'd probably puke at all the commercialism and certainly write a few scathing stories, but I've got to go anyway, kind of like a Mormon making the hegira to Salt Lake City--or Nauvoo and Palmyra, for that matter.

The mighty river:

A low-key homestead on the water's edge:

My pal, barney:

One cool 'bent in Nauvoo:

Main St. Nauvoo:

The new TEMPLE! in Nauvoo:

An old out-building at Smith's original home:

Be well, one and all, and enjoy the change of seasons.

Recumbent Cyclo-Master signing off from the Great American Outback.

The Encounter

2007-09-13T06:47:00.001-07:00

I've paid the ferryman and crossed to the other side. This is a big milestone in my traverse of the country. From here I head mostly due south for over 250 miles into Missouri just west of St. Louis. From there, it's due west again for the astronomical tedium of Kansas and eastern Colorado. You may see me begging for corn and soy after a few days out there. We'll see.

I spent the night before this stage in a city park--quiet, no bothers, and another first: I was able to just throw my pad out on the grass--no bugs or significant humidity to speak of--and cool. It was in the low 40's when I got up at 4am for the ritual coffee and packing ceremonies. My fingers and toes were a bit numb for the first hour or so on the road. The sweet clear light of autumn was in the air; my headwinds were gone, cycling the empty county roads a vast pleasure.

The night before was rather more "interesting." In a small, central Illinois town I was set to camp in another town park. I'd done a bit of cleaning up in the men's room and was cooling off under the pavilion. The bugs, however, were fierce, the mosquitoes and flies contesting for which could take the most blood. I was about to put on long pants and such when I was greeted by a fellow walking by with a soda he'd purchased from a machine in the park. Ron was a nice enough sort, and before long he'd offered me his place to cool off, "relax" (something he kept repeating) and escape the bugs. He stood close to six feet tall with closely cut hair but going bald, a thin mustache, heavy in the belly with thick fleshy arms and soft round hands. It was fairly clear from his speech that he was probably a homosexual, but this did not really concern me. To each his own, I say. Ron seemed particularly lonely and made a point of emphasizing that he lived by himself. In retrospect I should have been more attentive to some of these clues.

I moved my gear over to his house only about twenty yards or so from the edge of the park and went in to escape the insects. His home was small, just one restroom, and paneled in dark wood. In the front room, images and busts of John F. Kennedy and Lincoln were everywhere--pencil drawings, a rug draped over a chair, two dead presidents on display. Wall units with numerous cubbyholes held tiny toys and old products from early in the previous century--bars of soap, figurines of dogs, barnyard animals, antiques of every sort. A candle burned on a chest used as a coffee table, and a Cubs game played on the TV in the corner. Some of his displays were dusty, but the overall effect was orderly if cluttered.

We ordered pizza that we had to go out to pick up and got some beer on the way back. He graciously paid for the food. We talked about my travels, and he had an odd pronunciation of "wow," drawing out the "o" into and "ahh" to round out the sound: "waahhow," again and again. He would punctuate many of his statements: "Do ya here what I'm saying?" a tag expression I came to expect throughout the evening. I told him about my life in California, and he related some details about life as a traveling in-home caregiver to the elderly, a job he said he liked.

After dinner, we watched some TV, Law and Order. In the middle of some scene where the heroes were interrogating a witness, I caught a swift movement out of the corner of my right eye, and suddenly, Ron was sitting beside me, his hand caressing my bare leg. He was quite impressed by my physique, it seems, and needed some closer inspection. I was startled, of course, particularly since he knew two key pieces of information about me: I'm straight and happily married. His touch, which lasted but a moment, spoke to me on levels he never intended. His touch spoke to me more of sadness and loneliness than sex. One man, fifty years old, one house, three televisions. A solitary gay man in a tiny mid-western town, he wandered the countryside helping people but had not much life of his own. He spoke earlier of a cherished visit with a friend in Colorado but made it clear that he hadn't contacted her in over four years. He was a man without real goals, no motivation to travel, nothing but his closed house with piped-in images of the outside world. He seemed to be devoid of ambition but for the short term objective of bedding a world-class recumbent cyclo-tourist.

In rapid fire, he said, hand on my thigh: "This doesn't offend you, does it? This doesn't offend you?" That, however, was one thing he could be sure of.

I said in clear, measured tones: "You need to back off"--the law and the order.

As quickly as he'd arrived, he was back in his chair, staring at the screen as if nothing had happened. Later I imagined some snappy speech or comment I might have made, but I sat there, too, processing the strange, sad encounter. I couldn't imagine how hard is life must be in some ways in such a place. I was, however, certain about my desires and how they did not coincide with his. For some reason, I stayed, thinking, on the whole, that I had judged his character correctly. When I lay down on the floor to sleep, however, I began to have second thoughts. The darkness of the house closed around me. He'd spoken of his ill mother, but I imagined a dessicated mommy dearest in the next room, rocking her dusty way into eternity with a mummified toothy grin. What if he were armed and loaded? What if he came storming into the living room, .45 at the ready, and demanded what is was he so clearly wanted? On top of these troublesome images, a wall clock chimed obnoxiously every hour. I slept little and was up at my usual 4am to get packing.

Nothing happened. I had my coffee and cereal and pushed off into the chill September dawn, miles to go before I would sleep again. A melancholy mist hung over the land and my spirits as I wheeled westward. Feeling much as I had after leaving the faded glory of Buffalo, I found that the best antidote is movement, the straining and striving for the next town, the heart and lungs and muscles clearing my head and soul until only the effort remained, pushing back the darkness and loneliness.

Now, in Muscatine, Iowa, my circumstances could not be more different. I hit the library, and the first person I met was Dan Warschauer. A retired teacher, he had cycled long distance himself. Before long, I had a place to stay. I met is wife, Irene, who worked for the library. They lived outside of town about 10 miles, but they happened to have a van that would carry my bike, a good thing because I had already ridden 75 miles and was wanting to rest. We ate out last night, and I got to see some rehearsal of a play for which Dan, a musician, had composed some music. He and Irene are both classically trained in the musical arts. Dan taught music in public schools for thirty five years, and Irene plays flute for the local symphony. At their home on ten acres they have both a piano and harpsichord. My kind of people.

For now, it's some R&R. I head south tomorrow along the Great River, chasing the ghosts of Sam Clemens and Huck Finn. Until next time, this is the World Champion Recumbent Cyclo-Tourist in the Great American Outback signing off.

Goy Boy Soy Joy

2007-09-11T13:15:00.000-07:00

I've made peace with this landscape. Like the weather, there's just nothing to be done, and now that I'm hitting better weather, I'm able to see more of the beauty in it. I've covered over 1,700 miles now and will be done with the northern section of my route tomorrow. I've been rained on, sweated out, beaten by the wind, pursued by the hounds from hell. It's been a grand old adventure with lots of interesting people.

I let women pick me up at libraries:

In central Indiana, the town of Rensselaer, I did my usual routine. Libraries, as I've gushed before, are the place to go in the bigger towns for information--not to mention updating this site and sending emails. After doing some of these things and researching where I might spend the night, I went out to move my bike out of the rain--81 deg. F., 65% humidity until is started raining, the soggy fist of summer. Under the overhang, I met two women interested in my journey, Louise and Madge. Before long I'd met Madge's husband, Marv--a vivacious man built like a barrel and training for a marathon at age 70--and I was headed to their fine log home just outside of town. What fantastic people I keep meeting. Later that night, we got together with Louise and her husband, George, and their sons, Mike and James, for a BBQ. They fed me like a king--and I ate and ate and ate as only the perpetually moving can. The calories just vanish into me to be poured out into the pedals and the pounding of my heart. The next morning, I was on my way again after meeting Madge and Marv's grandson's, one of whom is convinced he's either a) Gene Autry or b) the Lone Ranger. He gallops everywhere to show that he's on his horse. "Cowboy" was four years old and weapons-grade cute. I gave a final pet to King, the super dog, and headed off into another gray day.

I battle canine devils:

I cruised merrily through the corniferous forest, insouciantly sailed the seething soy seas only to round a corner and find three dogs startled at first by my appearance then convinced I'd make an excellent snack. Adrenal NOX blasted into my turbos and I kicked up my speed as the dogs closed in--12, 15, 18 , 20 mph straight and true. In a rage I looked over at the large black one, the one still hanging with me, his snarling bark ringing in my ears. "Is that all you got!" I yelled. "Is that it? C'mon you fat-furry-four-footed-fuck, bring it! BRING IT!" I knew that I could take this dog. And before long, he started to fade. I was too much work. Shortly he was just a panting black speck in my rear view mirror. I'd be the big one that got away, a story to be retold the next time devil dog and his crew gathered around the local fire hydrant.

Freaky shadow play:

King:

My hosts and grandchildren in Rennselear:

The weather today--fierce winds, glorious skies, a hard fight for my 65 miles:

Tomorrow I cross the Mississippi, the Big Muddy, Twain's river of dreams. The weather has set cool and fine for several days. My next post will likely be from Muscatine, Iowa. I won't be completely finished with Illinois as I will play tag with the border for a while as I work my way south. But like Huck, I'm lighting out for the territories down river, Mojo and I bound to see what's around that next bend.

Child of the Corn

2007-09-08T11:23:00.000-07:00

The North East is going to be the physical crux of this journey, but the Mid-West is going to be the psychological crux. Although often pretty in a rural fashion, the pattern is brutal and relentless: corn, soy beans, corn, soybeans, farm house, barn, silo, corn, soy beans, corn, soy beans--more soy beans for variety--then some more corn, farm house, barn, silo.... These patches are separated by stands of extremely thick trees that rise like islands or mesas out of the agribusiness sea. My father once said that it was possible for a tree squirrel to go from the Atlantic to the Mississippi without touching the ground. When I realize that at one time all these tree-islands formed a single arboreal continent, I can visualize what he meant. What a true wilderness of trees that must have been!

I seem to be getting my sea-legs. Yesterday, through a morning storm and heavy winds, I managed almost 82 miles. Today I'll clock about 70. I rise like the undead at 4am to do my chores and roll off into the darkness on silent wheels, my small headlamp cutting a small patch in the surrounding night. It's a great time to be out, and cycling during the transition is interesting. By lunch time I've logged a good portion (most) of my miles for the day. As long as it stays hot and muggy, I'll be on this routine.

Hey, I just found out! I crossed into a new time zone. Holy trans-American, World Champion Recumbent Cyclo-Tourist, Batman, that rocks beyond rock. It's like uber rock, or something. I should dispense with Indiana tomorrow. Illinois is a bit longer and should take me three full days, but then it's due south for a while along the Mississippi, Huck Finn on a 'bent and all that.

Here are some photos from the wilds of Indiana:

THIS is a "rancid meat morning." What did I tell you?

Flowers I found this morning:

My lunch stop today:

Until next time, be well and ride on!

Scotty

Rest Day Grab Bag

2007-09-06T07:52:00.000-07:00

Today I'm kicking back in the wonderful Monroeville library, a new edition to the community. Let me say it now and for all time: Libraries and librarians are the best. My students, of course, need to spend more time with these places and people. For me, especially on this journey, they have been of immense value. The bibliophiles have all been warm, supportive people with access to all the crucial information I need. The facilities help me keep in touch and provide some escape from the often challenging weather conditions--islands of calm and repose in the ever-changing world of the nomadic cyclist. A blessing on all of them!

I'll be in the library most of the day as there is nothing else going on in Monroeville. This is small town rural America. This new library is one of the biggest things to happen in a while, made possible by dedicated tax dollars that go only to libraries. In most of the rest of the country it seems to be a battle royal for public funds, librarians going to the ropes with fire fighters, the police (who have guns), and other necessary public services. Indiana had the good sense to acknowledge the value of the free public library. Well done.

Chris, the main librarian, related a humorous story of how the library was constructed. There was an old building next door to the soon-to-be constructed library that needed to be taken down. The town, working on some kind of draconian budget, hired a blind demolitionist, "Blind Bruce" they called him. He drove a bulldozer and truck--obviously not too far, but that he was allowed behind the wheel at all leaves one wondering, eh? Chris informed me that the entire two-story structure was taken down by hand, sledge hammers and crowbars. Pounding and yelling would issue fourth from the site day after day. A crash! Someone yells in pain. His co-worker yells back: "Shake if off, dude, shake it off." Finally, OSHA showed up, put hard hats on the workers and took the keys away from Blind Bruce. The building finally came down without any serious injury.

So today is going to be a mixed bag, rants and raves, tech reviews, forays into the twisted mind of a bent cyclist left alone to his own devices with a continent to cross. Proceed at your own risk. Lock the children in a darkened room. Helmet and kevlar vest recommended.

Tech Time:

I'd like to say a few things about my gear because many readers or gearheads like me, and some are thinking of long-distance touring. Here's a run down of some of the main equipage at this time:

The bike: As I expected, the Street Machine, set up so expertly by Dana and Fernando at Bent Up Cycles in Van Nuys, California, has been a nearly flawless performer. I've had only two ultra minor problems: 1) The rear wheel developed a tiny squeak that I could only hear during slow speed climbs when there was almost no other sound. I'd be grinding up some killer hill, trying to "Zen-out," and this little squeak, squeak, squeak would pierce my lactic acid enhanced meditation. In Palmyra, NY, Jeff, the son of my hosts Dale and Nina, Dale and I took off the wheel, and Jeff checked the tightness of this and that, cleaned off some gunk. After we put Mr. Wheel back on, no more squeak. Sanity restored. 2) The kickstand poked through the rubber tip so that it was rendered useless. Now, on grassy, soft or tilted areas, I place a squashed beer can under the foot of the stand. I'll carry that can across the country. I can recycle it when I get home AND I got to consume the contents before giving it a second life. Can't beat that. Other than those two things, no problems in almost 1,400 miles. No flats on the solid Schwalbe Marathon tires (new version--not the racers). The wide (1.5 in) tires and suspension of the bike have been superb assets. I'm hitting chuck holes, ratty pavement, errant barnyard animals, you name it, and the bike stays solid. I'm especially happy when I've got to cross railroad tracks, which I do frequently. Thump, thump, and it's all over. By the way, God, Shimano, and HP Velotechnik have yet to invent shifting/steering/ergonomic bliss better than my under seat bars with bar-end shifters.

Camping gear: The alcohol stove continues to be one of my favorite pieces of gear. Easy, fun, silent. Go make one. My tent, a Sierra Designs "Light Year," has been perfect for little ol' me. Just three stakes and she's ready for the storm (likely scenario tomorrow, by the way). This model is especially nice because I can sit up to change clothes, read, arrange my life. When the bugs are swarming or the rain coming down, that means a lot. Sleeping in these hot, humid conditions has been a challenge, however. In the closed space of the tent, the temperature is even higher and the air, mostly still in the evenings, doesn't seem to move. Indeed, it seems to have left entirely, maybe vacationing in Pismo Beach, who knows? So I lie there, sweat pouring off me, and try to relax. Slowly, bit by bit, the conditions ease, and I can drift off to sleep. When it's bad, those first 30 or 40 minutes are just plain nasty. I question my sanity and look forward to the arid West in the fall with a passion you might well call immoderate, excessive, pick-yer-adjective-get-me-the-hell-out-of-here-now intense. Adversity provides spice to the journey, but sometimes you just choke on that fistful of minced jalapeno. Gimme bland, bland I tell you! I want white bread and mayo--okay, maybe not, but you get the analogy.

Monroeville, Indiana:

It's hard to overstate what this backwater place means to long distance cyclists. They roll in from all over the country, all over the world and find refuge from the rigors of the road. Joe Clem, who recently passed on, was a founder of the cycling-only refuge. He enjoyed talking to all the different people and had a huge, giving heart. This same energy is found in the whole town, friendly people who are just happy to see you and give whatever help they can. Warren Fluttrow and Jennifer Yoquelet are two other key players in the refuge, but it's supported by the park service, too. Cyclists, free of charge, get access to air conditioning, full shower and laundry facilities, full kitchen, cots, access to the library and everything else in town within a few minutes walk. For a couple of nights, I'll get a bug-free, sweat-free sleep. I can lock my bike in the living area and walk around. Also a tradition in the center is to invite any cyclists to whatever functions might be going on in the hall adjacent to the living area. Mostly the building serves as a community center, housing weddings, family reunions and the like. We need more places like Monroeville.

One interesting exchange I had occurred at the local market (minimal resources here, so don't expect fresh veggies). A fine old gentleman, standing straight, was hanging around the front of the store, and we got talking a bit about my travels and such. It turns out I was having the honor of talking to Harold, a veteran of the Battle of the Bulge. Evidently, he survived. Considering the battle was over 60 years ago, he was doing quite well. He said the army always made sure they had tobacco: "They gave us cigarettes before they gave us food!" He was a member of an armored battalion, and his tank had a tread blown off when they hit a landmine. They stuck with the tank and kept firing, providing cover for the advancing infantry. "We fired every last round of ammo!" he said. Feeling humbled by this man's service and experience, I bid him farewell and trundled off to the library. Encounters like this will not be possible in the near future.

That's all for now. Since I can now upload photos and video more easily, you'll be seeing more visual additions. Looks like some wet work for tomorrow, but the heatwave is set to break. I'll be looking at a long string of days in the 70's and nights in the 50's. The World Champion Recumbent Cyclo-Tourist lives again. Your correspondent signing off from the frontier of eastern Indiana, Monroeville, a haven for the wayward, pedal-powered lunatics on the backroads of the Great American Outback.

A few photos to catch up...

2007-09-05T12:37:00.000-07:00

I'm camped out for a couple of nights in Monroeville, Indiana. The riding has been very hot in the afternoon, so I've been getting up at obscene hours--like 4am--to be on the road before 6am. I need to ride with lights at that early hour, but I find I've knocked off 20 miles before I'm even fully awake. How cool is that?

Today I'm going to just post some photos with a caption/explanation of each to give you a little visual input. I finally figured out that libraries with security lockouts will allow me to upload directly to the blog but not through photobucket.com, which I've been using to resize for the blog. What this means is that, depending on the connection, when you go to enlarge a photo, it may be HUGE if it had to go directly to the blog from my camera. Oh well, at least I can now always add a photo or two.

This is the grand moment when my secondary counter rolled over to all zeros! That's 1,000 miles to you folks out there in Internet land:

Labor Day parade, vintage Jeepsters and vintage drivers, Freemont, Ohio:

Freemont cuties all tarted up for the event:

Rock 'n' Roll museum in Cleveland, Ohio:

Far out church in Napoleon, Ohio:

Motoring through central Ohio:

This kid was soooo excited about my bike and my tour that he needed to have his picture taken with me and the bike. This is at a vintage tractor show I stumbled into in Gibsonburg, Ohio:

Some of the hardware:

This is Steven Kraft, recently out of a twenty year stint with the US Marines. Way to go, Steve. His new civilian life fit him well. We met over the Internet after he responded to some of my stories. We made "plans" to meet up somewhere in the middle of the country as he was starting from the west coast and I from the east. Damn it all if we didn't find each other in the middle of corn fields a bit east of Bowling Green.

Detail of art guitar at Rock and Roll museum:

Napoleon...Dynamite!

2007-09-04T09:44:00.000-07:00

Here's a shocker: More pedaling today. Jeez, who woulda known? Still in Ohio--but not for long. Tomorrow it's Indiana and the bicycle-only lodgings in Monrovia. I'll take a rest day there as that will be seven consecutive days on the bike. Yesterday and today are a bit shorter than I have been riding. I'm usually in the 60 mi. range with one 80 miler so far.

Ohio has been a varied experience. Recently, the minions of Satan have been loose on the land, imps ejected from the sulfurous bowels of Hell itself: mosquitoes. The flooding that I missed has given birth to legions of the vile demons. Each evening as the punishing heat of the day recedes, just when you are getting relief, they come out to feed. Lordy, does I hate dem bugs or what? The nights have in general been okay, sometimes too hot, like last night, but otherwise tolerable. Just gotta keep pushing.

My lodgings have been in the full spectrum of possible experiences. East of Cleveland I found myself in a tight situation. While looking for a hardware store to replenish my alcohol supply for my stove, I ran into a couple to ask for directions. Missing a few teeth, and those left heavily stained by tobacco, they smiled with pure delight as I pulled to a stop. He was short and slim in blue jeans and t-shirt with native American symbols on it--neat but casual. A short-billed white cap hung over his glasses, and he gripped and released, gripped and released a walking stick. She had the fewest teeth of the pair but was more enthusiastic and talkative, her red hair shot with grey pulled back. I told them of my situations--needing directions and a place to camp--and they yelled out: "Heck, you can stay with us!"

Now, many of you may be thinking: What was he thinking?! But I couldn't turn this down. These were marginal characters, no doubt, but the road will provide, and something about them appealed to me. They had no car, walked everywhere, and were quick to inform me that they were both in The Program. He (call him Bill) was noticeably edgy, a man holding on to his sobriety in a pretty desperate fashion. She wore hers more securely. He'd been clean for just over six months, she for over 16 years.

I called them both road angels, and they said the same of me. They were such kind, generous people and seemed inordinately happy to be talking to anyone. So for that day and night I was to bear witness to their on-going struggle. I picked up some food and followed them home in stages, going ahead and waiting for them to catch up. I later learned they walked 8 to 12 miles every day and that this exercise had made her (call her Jane) much healthier. She was walking without a cane now and looked slim. She said she had been up to 160 lbs. and used a cane with four feet at the base. Now she moved right along, smoking cigarette after cigarette and chugging Dr. Pepper, her other substitute addiction.

At last we arrived at their apartment, and I stabled Mojo next to my hosts' bikes and walked up to the second story. Before going in, I witness a telling scene that set the tone for the building: A woman yelling at her young son to get in the car because the father had "a real attitude problem!" and they were going to Grandma's house. The complex had a complex, one desperate dysfunction junction: All night I would hear: "Fuck you!" "You slept with that bitch? Fuck YOU!" back and forth in a monotony of invective and sour unhappiness. The back beat was provided by one character with a loud electric bass. Oh yes, even at 2am in the morning.

Inside the apartment was chaos, especially in "my" room, a veritable moraine of piled clothing covering most of the floor. My hosts quickly shoveled it to one side and vacuumed the stained rug where'd I'd lay my pad for my night of wonderful rest.

For all that, we cooked and ate, and I did have a place for the night. They both seemed very concerned about explaining how they had come by all their belongings. Bill would mention some good thing that had happened, like meeting me or just being sober, and he'd exclaim about God: "It's undescribable, it's just undescribable!" Repeating the poorly constructed term like a mantra. I was treated to their prized Jesus picture with a four-leaf clover taped hopefully above. When you tilted the picture, the eyes of the Son of God opened and closed. Bill held out a small stuffed frog that croaked when I squeezed it. "God gave that to me today, " he said.

And so the evening went, the rumbling bass, the strident cries of domestic misery, the acrid smell of tobacco smoke permeating every surface and air molecule.

Once in Cleveland, I fell into a crowd of delightful, functional, NICE! cycling people I met through Warmshowers.org. Ann, Mary, Ann's sister Joy and her husband Phil and a whole platoon of other relatives gathered at Phil and Joy's place for a classic Labor Day feast--great BBQ and local beer, screaming kids and snappy conversation were the order of the evening. I couldn't have asked for a better experience--and such a nice contrast from the night before. The next morning, Phil guided me out of the Cleveland tangle of streets to the outskirts of town. Thanks, everyone in Cleveland. You made my day!

I then camped behind a decaying and almost totally abandoned shopping mall. Call it Zombie Mall. I bit odd, but I wasn't bothered (except by mosquitoes) and slept well.

What will tonight bring? I've got a request into couchsurfing.com, so we'll have to see. I need to ask around, too. I'm definitely not up for another 60 miles today to get to my next destination, so I've gotta make something work. I may break down and get a motel room.

There's always more to tell, but that will have to do it for now. Until next time, this is the World Champion Recumbent Cyclo-Tourist reporting from the outer fringes of human powered adventure in the Great American Outback.

Be well.

Oh-HI-Oh

2007-08-31T13:30:00.000-07:00

I'm on the move right now, working on places to stay, so I'll post more--and pictures later. The big news as the title implies is that I've finished with New York, blasted through a little slice of Pennsylvania, and am now in Ohio, about 60 miles east of Cleveland. Yesterday, I broke the 1,000 mile mark--oh, yeah, baby. That feels good, like I can actually do this thing. The riding has been flat and fast, and I often average 15 mph for long stretches. Lots of farm country and views of Lake Erie--so damn bloody big. I saw an ocean-going-size freighter out there this afternoon. Lake Ming this is not.

The moisture in the air is a constant wonder and frequent hassle. I woke up to a clear, clear morning, just beautiful clouds out over the lake--and everything was as soaked as if it had rained all night. Well, all this greenery has to survive on something. I've learned to just pack up the tent and whatever else is wet and hit the first laundry place I find and dry out. Not bad as I only spend a few quarters and I'm done in about 15 min., just long enough for a good break.

Now I'm off on the hunt for a place to stay. Tonight could be "interesting." Tomorrow, I think I can get something lined up for Cleveland--where I may or may not take a day off. Folks have said I gotta go see the Rock 'n' Roll museum.

Until next time, your intrepid correspondent signing off from The Frontier of Human Powered Travel in the Outback of...Cleveland?

Tatanka Trip

2007-08-29T14:58:00.000-07:00

Not much to add on my day off. Since I have access to an incredible computer, I thought I'd load up some pictures of my day in Buffalo. I met up with a great couchsurfing host, Paul, and he led me on a walking tour of the town. There is an unbelievable wealth of classic architecture in this town, including the world's first modern "high rise" building, some of the most classic art deco designs on the city hall, and more. Everywhere you turn, it's fantastic. This was all a result of exceptional economic activity in the 19th and early 20th centuries. With the opening of the Erie Canal and the electric power provided by Niagara Falls hydro plant, this was one of the richest cities in the nation with many millionaires building palaces during the heyday of mega-expansion in the early 1900's especially. Buffalo was the world's first electrified city, the talk of the civilized world.

Now, the town is falling apart. Many of the classic buildings are empty and decaying. There has been a rather extreme urban flight such that on a mid-day, mid-week when one would expect lots of hustle and bustle in a town this developed, the streets felt rather empty, kind of like San Francisco at 6am on a Sunday morning. Some parts of the town are being gentrified, but Buffalo needs some motivated cash to get back on its feet. As a couple folks have said, Buffalo's biggest export is educated young people--lots of great colleges, very few good jobs.

This house sold for about $240,000!

This one was recently assessed at $120,000. Anyone want to move to Buffalo?

This is Zoe, the other groovy hound keeping me up with my doggie fix.

The Buffalo Shuffle

2007-08-29T07:51:00.000-07:00

I confronted a grim-visaged customs agent at the Canadian border. What? No passport or birth certificate? He was unhappy, but upon seeing my bike and my massive legs (The Guns of Navarone), he had to submit to my desires. A world champion recumbent cyclo-tourist will not be denied. He made a couple of starts into his carefully memorized lines about Canada being a "multi-cultural community" and how they have to treat everyone the same--yadda, yadda, yadda. But no one treats the recumbent cyclo-tourist like everyone else. Besides, the agent was a cyclist, too, so there was no helping it. He waved me through.

I quickly picked up the Niagara Recreational Trail and zipped along to The Falls. I was confronted soon enough by The Horror: a clot of development, a hideous gorgon of Las Vegas and Disneyland overlooking the Canadian side of the falls--space needle, rides, cheesy attractions. I resolved not to spend a dime in the area. Then, of course, I wouldn't have to deal with exchanging currency.

The good thing about the Canadian side of the falls is that you can get very close and have better views generally. And you can turn your back on the lousy glitz and just think about all that water, Great Lakes changing places over immense drops. The magnitude of this cascading ocean is difficult to comprehend. Like most of the world's great dramatic features, it tends to shut down our chattering minds for a moment and make us feel very small. Our meager self-importance dissolves like the mist rising in vast clouds from the churning cauldron below. We are nothing and this proves it. I enjoy that feeling--as must the untold multitude with whom I was sharing this private little moment.

Afterwords I called Jodi from a park and for the first, last, and only time I got to say this and mean it: "I've got to shuffle off to Buffalo." On the way I had a funny encounter. Needing to use a restroom, I pulled into a construction site to use one of those blue outhouses. A hardhat wearing foreman of some sort emerged from a nearby building. "I just need to use the outhouse," I said.

"Sorry," he replied, "but you don't have proper protective equipment." I laughed and pointed to the helmet on my head, surely sufficient for the radical dangers of a wee tinkle in a booth of blue plastic, but he would have none of it and sent me packing. Canadians are tough customers, that's for sure.

By early afternoon I was cranking over the Peace Bridge back into the USA, Buffalo, NY, to be exact. I slipped into an area of semi-urban blight, such a drastic change from the multi-million dollar estates along the Niagara Parkway and the quiet forest scenes along the canal. Buffalo has its rough edges as I was quickly discovering. I soon found my way to my host's place about an hour before he was due. Since Justin wasn't in, I hung out with a group across the street--a tangle of laughing little kids and adults sitting in the shade on their front steps, the kind of scene we rarely see in Tehachapi. Three able-bodied young men were in the group along with several women coming and going. I wondered about these working-age fellows doing nothing on a weekday afternoon. When I asked to take their picture to help document my journey, there was a lot of laughing and smiling and comments like, "No, no, I don't think you'd better do that!" implying a subtext of a life that is better left undocumented. The one with the big Dior sunglasses looked particularly interesting. Another photo-journalistic opportunity best let go. At their suggestion, I photographed the kids instead.

Justin finally showed up and helped me get settled in. I'd stumbled into a nest of mostly twenty-somethings, a classic big house with a constant flow of people coming and going, the expected disarray, everyone as nice and easy going as they could be. This would do! Justin lived in back in a rough loft over an aging garage with his dog, Dutch, a sweet big goof, excellent doggie fix for me.

That night I got to visit a bit with his family, his father Jan especially, who also rides recumbents, and then we hit the town for a stroll and brew at a local watering hole. The Elmwood district is where the locals go to socialize, eat, soften brain cells. Justin told me a lot about his life, including being with a friend in a rough part of town when he was shot down before Justin's eyes. Edgy Buffalo, what? The friend lived, but that event along with other changes has led Justin to the adventurous, questing life he his now pursuing. About the time I get home, he'll be headed out for New Zealand with a friend for three months of travel. He then plans to just wonder the globe for a while, working, seeing, living, finding, as he says, another part of himself everywhere he goes. Good man. Don't let the bastards hold you down.

So I'll lay low here for today, assiduously avoiding certain parts of town, and head out west tomorrow. I may sample some of the "wings" that Buffalo is famous for, and there are some other classic food items I've been told are local must-eats. We'll see. Dietary restrictions are pretty much out the window at this point. Bicycle touring does terrible things to a man.

Note some new photos and a little video on earlier posts.

Until next time, your faithful correspondent signing off from The Frontier of Human Powered Travel in the Great American Outback.

Canal Cruising

2007-08-27T12:26:00.000-07:00

I'm certainly out of the mountains now. For the last two days I have been motoring along the Erie Canal tow path, a multi-use path that was once used by teams of horses to move barges along the canal. There is a series of wonderful towns about every ten miles, places like Fairport, Albion, and the end of the line, Lockport, where I'll be spending the night. Beautiful clouds and warm but not hot weather have graced my passage these days. Yesterday, I had the great pleasure of camping right on the canal at Holley--with access to the showers that usually only the boaters get (the canal is no longer used for commercial purposes--just recreational boating and tourism).

Some of the path is paved, but much of it is a very firm crushed limestone--a little dusty but generally affording a good ride. I managed to average between 12 and 16 mph without too much trouble. Flat riding, what a pleasure!

Tomorrow, I'll be doing the recumbent boogie into Canada and the tourists throngs around Niagra Falls. I was concerned about getting into Canada without a passport or birth certificate, but I met some locals who said it's still okay with just a driver's license, so I'm going for it, especially because there is a very scenic bike path along the river on the Canadian side. Hey, I love Canadians. They gotta let me in.

I've been meeting the greatest folks. I tooled around Albion and marveled at the churches, one after another doing battle for highest steeple and most dramatic edifice awards--just fantastic. In front the the Catholic church, I met Brian, arborist supreme, who gave me a little tour of the church--where he (now 44) was baptized, where he was married, where he has rejoiced the best of life and mourned the passing of loved ones. His pride and connection to the church were an inspiration. You da man, Brian!

Much of the riding has a European feel, kind of like a New Yorkian-American Dutch thing. I've got a terribly slow connection here, so I'll post pictures later when conditions are more appropriate.

Until my next post, this is Scott, Wold-Champion Recumbent Cyclo-tourist, signing off with his latest Dispatch from the Frontier of Human Powered Travel in the Great American Outback.

One of many classic barns:

Typical canal scene:

The town of Holley:

Sculpture titled, what else? "The Big Apple":

One of my favorite canal spots just before Albion:

A New Kind of Roast

2007-08-25T20:10:00.000-07:00

Dispatches from the Frontier of Human Powered Travel in the Great American Outback

Yesterday's ride started out well, but after I posted a blog update, I pedaled into a soggy furnace. Not my longest day, nor one with the most climbing, but near the top of the difficulty scale because of the 90+ temps and high humidity. I had grandiose plans to make it to Palmyra, but there was NO way that was going to happen. The country was beautiful, but it was viewed through a fog of sweat and strain. Well, this is what I signed up for. At one point (see the picture below), I stopped in the shade of a mausoleum surrounded by gravestones. I understood how they all felt. The picture says a lot, I think.

As hard as that ride was, the night that followed was worse. I needed a place to stay and headed out to a park near a lighthouse. I talked to the two docents, and--wonderful!--they made it their mission to find me a place to set my tent. One of them, Edi, had me come to her house. I later pitched my tent in the back of their home on an enormous lawn virtually walled in by some kind of cypress. No wind could penetrate. A storm was due in that night, so I protected everything and kept the fly to the tent ready. I crawled in after dinner only to begin the supreme discomfort of a close, hot, damp unmoving air trapped in my nylon sarcophagus. Death by insects or suffocation? My legs had been totally ravaged below the knee at my previous camp by some phantom piranha circling in the air about the shores of the lake, so my skin burned with a raging itch only made worse by the heat. The storm was only sound and fury at Sodus Point where I was camped, so I didn't even get the cooling effects of the rain.

The morning finally came, a blessing and a curse. The night was over, but the daily roast was about to begin again. The good news was that I was only riding 30 miles to my next stop where showers and cycling friends awaited. I did enjoy Pultneyville, which has an amazing historic district of 19th century homes. Today, after the ride, I rejoiced in a blessedly cool shower, did laundry, hung out with my hosts. Still scratching, but I'm starting to feel normal again. Tomorrow it's on to the Erie Canal Tow Path, some interesting civil engineering features, great history, and about 90 car-free miles.

Until next time, this is your correspondent signing off.

Portrait of the Artist as a Thrashed Athlete:

A short video of cycling on this hot day...

To the Inland Seas

2007-08-24T06:57:00.000-07:00

I'm officially out of the New York mountains and slogging it out across the upper state. I spent last night on the shores of Lake Ontario, the last ocean I'll see until the Pacific--amazing.

I awoke in Boonville in a camp tucked into the far reaches of a fair grounds. Up half the night doing battle (not!) with a skunk, I struggle out of my tent into a dim morning, the sky hanging like a vast beef steak gone bad, an immense grey slab of meat hanging low over the earth. Not inspiring. But it was cool and not raining--yet--so good enough for cycling.

I'm a constant source of interest wherever I go. I end up answering the same questions a lot (where from, how far, did you make that...?), but this offers me a way to open conversations and meet folks, so I have to be patient. The people continue to amaze me with their generosity and kindness. I expect that experience to be one of the greatest legacies of the tour for me. What a great bunch of people we have in this country.

I crossed the 700 mile mark officially this morning. My body has mostly adapted to the demands of the tour. The various bits and pieces may complain a little, but they know their work: a 4 to 7 hour spinning class every day.

Soon I'll be on the canal path, about 90 miles of car-free bliss and then Niagra Falls. I wonder if anyone has ever ridden a German recumbent over the falls?

Ack--a 'Dack Attack!

2007-08-22T12:05:00.000-07:00

Been in the dark zone lately as I struggled across the Adirondacks. Fortunately, they just aren't as steep as the rest of New England, so the going was easier--though my second day in totaled 3,500 ft of climbing. The place is a bit wild with neat little towns sprinkled here and there. The riding has been wonderfully cool, as good as I could have ever hoped for. I know I've got more heat in my future, but this has really been working out in my favor.

I'm out of the mountains now, so I've got a lot of easier going--like weeks and weeks of it. I'll be begging for the Rockies by the time I hit Pueblo. I'm currently in Boonville, NY, if you want to look it up on a map. As usual, I have no idea where I'm going to stay, but it's only a little after 3pm here, so I've got time to work things out.

I had a neat encounter back in the hills. I was hunting down a campsite, starting to take a local's advice, when I didn't like the fact that I was headed off my route. I spun around, got back on route, and was promptly hailed by a boisterous group of TransAm riders from Adventure Cycling. There was one woman in the group who had recently turned 70. Gotta love that. We had a great time. It's funny how the road seems to provide just what you need when you need it. I got a good jolt of motivation by being around people who had already been on the road for over 80 days.

The shots of the town are from Blue Mtn. Lake where I had a rest day. And the chairs? Well, you've seen the mountains, now dig the furniture!

Cheers,

Scotty

The Last of the Worst

2007-08-19T03:27:00.000-07:00

Dispatch from the frontier: Middlebury, Vermont

Yesterday was another big one. This professor is getting schooled in New England: I now have a Master's in Getting My Ass Kicked. As my title suggests, I think I'm over the worst of it. The early part of the day found me in a soggy camp. A light, steady rain started during the night and continued off and on for much of the morning. It started to break up around noon, but I rode for some distance in my rain gear.

I assaulted the "Bread Loaf" climb to Middlebury Gap. This had yet another 2 mile torture ramp of 12%. What is it with these New England road builders? They all must have studied in San Francisco at the Hyde St. School of Civil Engineering. Below is one of the steeper bits that required me to get off Mojo.

I am now in the land of Robert Frost. I found this poem that I think speaks well to my journey:

Forget the myth
There is no one I
Am put out with
Or put out by.

Unless I am wrong
I but obey
The urge of a song:
I'm-bound-away.

"Away"

I rolled into Middebury a bit late, and after shopping, really had to scramble for a place to stay. I eventually stuck my head in a just closed cafe, and one of the workers, Julie, a couchsurfing.com host, offered me a spot in her flat. Presto. The road turns and provides. She was a great host. Thanks, Julie!

Today, I'm bound for New York. Another state goes down--yeah. Below are more shots from yesterday's ride.

Another One Bites the Dust

2007-08-17T12:17:00.000-07:00

Eat my syn-lube, New Hempshire, I'm a Vermonter now. Just crossed over this morning. Yesterday was a serious monster day--61 miles and 4100 ft. of climbing. After my brief post from Woodstock, I hit what I expected to be an easier climb than Kancamagus Pass. No deal. This was harder and had a two mile section of solid 12 %. To be fair to the bloke who advised me about this, I don't think he'd actually ridden it himself, but any cyclist would never forget that climb.

I finished my dance with the White Mountains in a long, sweeping drop to Haverhill (Have-yer-HEART-ATTACK-after-that-hill). I was a spent doggie and needed a place to crash. Some locals advised me of the high-end bike shop down the road: High Intensity Bicycle Shop, just perfect for this high intensity day. I talked to them a bit, and they first, offered my a place to pitch my tent; second, offered me a nice room, shower the works! Sweet. The couple who own this shop originally had it as a B&B/bike shop, but the bike business got to big. So they have this large 19th century farmhouse with a barn and all set up for selling super mountain bikes. The husband, Tom, was some kind of pioneer in the downhill scene and so specializes in "free ride" and other wild mountain bikes. In all it was a perfect place to stay, though I did get a solid dose of ribbing for cooking broccoli, which grossed them out big time--the smell, I gathered. They all had a whopping dinner of pancakes and sausages. Tom, at one point, had been a fruitarian of all things. People change. I told him I was a recovering vegetarian. So went my stay at Camp High Intensity.

Today has been one glorious green vista after another. A total screaming riot of chlorophyll. Scads of it. Oceans of it. Green, wondrous green and blue skies to cry for. The climbing has been tough, but I've parked the ego and don't worry about pushing, which I did a little of today. I met my first trans-Am couple who were headed east. They, too, had done some pushing. So it goes.

My body is slowly adapting to this riding, and just about the time I can tear the top off any mountain, I'll be in flatsville. Oh, well. The road pulls me onward to turn and climb and fall like the wind through twisting valleys. I ride along in stunned gratitude and joy at being here in this time. Be well.

Deep in it Now

2007-08-16T11:00:00.000-07:00

New Hampshire is as wonderful as I expected, and the riding conditions have been excellent. I just crossed Kancamagus Pass at 2,855 ft., the highest I will be until the Rockies--hard to believe. Yesterday I laid low in the North Woods by Red Eagle Pond, my own private Walden--with beaver, loon and all. Mist on the water in the morning and very few mosquitoes. My knee seems to be improving nicely, so it's on into the mountains of Vermont by tomorrow. These little eastern states go quickly.

Had a sad little going away party today for my cycling shoes--my Seven League Booties, they were. The sole was starting to delaminate, so rather than face a catastrophic meltdown in the sticks, I picked up a nice pair of Luis Garneau mtb. shoes--didn't have to alter them for my cleats, either--though I started to before getting smart and just slapping them on. I know own a pair of EIGHT League Booties, yeah, you betcha sweetheart.

I've picked up the habit of naming my camps as the Bushmen in Africa do. The last, was Camp Thoreau. I'd upload some photos, but even here in the Internet cafe ($$), the computer is locked out. Gotta get into those backwoods libraries, which seem to be more open with this sort of thing.

I'm finding this life rather compelling, getting up each day, a new road ahead, places and people never seen before. The effort, too, is clearing my head. I like the simple set of duties each day.

On my next entry, I'm going to start a GearHead's Corner for folks who want to know how my selections have held up on the road--what I like and not, etc. Stay tuned to your monitors for more riveting action from the road.

This is today's Dispatch from the Frontier.

Adios!

Live Free 'r Die!

2007-08-14T12:24:00.000-07:00

I've dispatched my first state. Adios, Maine, you've been a peach--a hot, hard, sweaty peach. My foolishness with macho hill climbing really scared me yesterday. I awoke this morning hoping everything would be on the mend. The weather has been perfect today--most of the over-the-top humidity is gone, at least for now, and temps are in the mid-70's. It's a sweet foretaste of autumn.

I spent the night behind a handball wall next to a tennis court in Lovell--out of sight, shielded from the afternoon sun, places to set my beer. What more does a bloke need? I motored out at about 9am, just eating up this fantastic place. If you haven't been to western Maine/eastern New Hampshire, you gotta go. New Hampshire! New Hempshire? Think of the possibilities with the dope smoking set: New Reefershire, New Spliffshire...

The Conway area is a bit of a tourist trap, but still nice. I celebrated my first state with a fat burrito at Cafe Noche then researched bedding possibilities. Campgrounds and hostels are too expensive. I'm going to load up and head into the woods. Better to take my chances with bears and porcupines than snoring hostelers.

I got off route for a few miles and had to back track. This area is a rat's nest of roads and intersections. Some roads have three numbers in some places. All told, only about 25 miles or so today, but the knee was not any worse that I can feel. A rest day tomorrow spent loafing, reading, writing in the woods should do us both good. I will channel Thoreau and live simply. Then I assault Kancamagus pass at about 2,800 ft., the highest I will be until I hit the Rockies. Hard to imagine all the low land out there. The miles will be quicker, that's for sure. Because of the steepness of the grades, these three states could be the crux of the tour. The 2,400 ft climb for the day after tomorrow is, at least, spread out over 22 miles, so the grade should not be too bad. Still, New Hampshire and Vermont are known for their mountains. Gotta head out. Sorry no photos this time. The library computers won't allow it. I'll try to update later.

Cheers to all!

Some shots of Red Eagle Pond and Camp Thoreau

Maine Lining

2007-08-13T07:45:00.000-07:00

I've pedaled as far as Norway--Maine, that is. The adjustment to the climate has been a challenge though I find that when I'm out on the bike, I feel fine, even when its in the 80's and humid. OK, "fine" is a relative term here, but I can knock out the miles. Central Maine has provided challenging conditions with countless steep climbs, many times well over 10%. I call them "granny grinders" after the so-called "granny gear" of my smallest front cog. We've become great friends, she and I, playing long, sweaty games together. Gotta love Granny.

The forest here is a fearsome presence, so deep and dark with promises to keep--forever. I camped last night on a ridge above the Androscoggin River. I saw a rotting shed and an abandoned stock tank and took my chances. A breeze knocked the edge off the heat, and I looked out over fields and classic New England barns to a heavy forested ridge in the distance where a huge thunder storm was spreading dark wings across the horizon. To the north, another anvil cloud muscled its way into the heavens. I set my camp and watch the show. I've rarely seen such a fantastic sunset.

After dinner, I crawled into my tent and worked on getting used to feeling damp ALL THE TIME. I lay on top of my pad in the unmoving humidity. As refuge from the bugs, a tent is essential, but even with the fly off, conditions within are challenging for the "dry-heat" types from out West. This is the biggest annoyance, just the chores of camping. I look forward to the other side of the 100th meridian in this regard.

The night before I camped under a cell tower. I have no idea where I'll be tonight. In that uncertainly is much of the challenge and charm of this kind of travel. From the ridiculous to the sublime, this tour has got it all.

Update: Later today...

I've decided to stop early for the day--although I've still done 51 miles and over 2,800 ft. of climbing. It's not the total miles or gain; it's the pitch of these climbs. Sweden Road took it out of me. Sweden, a flat country, yeah? Fugetaboutit. Should've been called Switzerland Road. I was really a damned fool and should have pushed on the first big steep, which had to be well in excess of 15%. I did push on the second. On a fully loaded bike, these hills are murder, much harder than the long grades of the Sierras near home. I can ride 8% all day, but these buggers, no way. My left leg is a bit strained though I don't think it's anything serious. I've resolved to just stifle the ego and walk when the grades are so severe. The distance is never great--just a few minutes of walking for the most part--and my speeds are not that much slower! I don't have to prove anything. You've really got to see these hills to believe them. Besides, I've got a whole continent to cross. Oh, and on top of the climbs, I've been hosed on three times today by passing thunderstorms. The skies have been beyond wonderful. Just been a day of extremes.

I'll probably camp out in the park behind the library where I type these words in Lovell, Maine. I wanted New Hampshire, but my legs said, "Rest, Dude." There's a market across the street, water and an outhouse in the park. What else do I need? You'll note, of course, that I've been able to post some photos. I'll do my best to do this more often.

A shot of today's sky:

First miles...

2007-08-11T10:47:00.000-07:00

Ahoy, from Camden, ME. I'm in love with Maine. Definitely a bit "sticky" compared to southern California, but sooooo beautiful. This library and the last have not allowed photo posting, so you'll have to wait for that. People in Maine are strange. They're nice, considerate, very careful on the road with cyclists--such a flaming contrast to California.

I spent last night on the shores of Penobscot bay at tidewater. The water moved up a bit towards my tent, but no contact. Before setting up camp, I met a real, down-home Mainer, Stuart French, a man who can trace his family back to the Mayflower and veterans of the Revolutionary War. He said that he could lay claim to 2 -- 3,ooo relatives in the state! He carried on in a wonderfully encyclopedic way about local history, how the war ships for our independence were built just down the coast, how some of them were sunk in the harbor just around the corner and how Yankee Mainiacs rowed out under cover of night and sank three of the damn Brit's scows. Go Yankees! He was kind of melancholy character, lamenting is past body building glory (Mr. Maine among other honors). We chatted for some time; then I had to drag Mojo down to the shore for dinner. Contrary to what Stuart had said, the mosquitoes were quite comfortable with the salty shore. I ate my simple meal of rice, kippers, and broccoli seasoned with olive oil, garlic and Parmesan. The cormorants croaked and squawked. Osprey's trolled the waters for their meal. The sun set behind humid skies on this revolutionary coast.

Now I've got to saddle up and do another 20 miles before bed in a little burg called Waldoboro. I've already had a couple of offers for support and places to stay, but it's too early in the day. It's brilliantly sunny, bright, a breeze off the Atlantic--hot and sweaty on the climbs, however. This is my last brush with the eastern shore. If all goes according to plan, my next ocean will be the Pacific. Oy, the miles still to go.

My camp by the bay:

Here's Mojo in the fullest of full fig:

The Maine Event

2007-08-09T08:12:00.000-07:00

The threshold crossing was an epic. My old self has been destroyed, and I've been reborn on the other side of the continent. The flights were all on time, but the lay-over in Boston was, shall we say, HELL? Dallas was fine--a nice airport--and the flight was made very pleasant by an unexpected encounter. I boarded on time, making sure to pass my explosive Teva's through the scanner, and settled into my seat. My row-mate, Phil from Tufts University, had just completed his own trans-continental bike ride. Well, hot diggity damn. What are the odds of both of us sitting on the same plane let alone the same row? Instant brothers, we talked long into the night as we raced towards Boston. Clouds and the inky void meant no views to be had. As we neared the east coast, towns and roads glowed through the fog like new born stars in a distant nebula.

In Boston, I dragged my monster duffel across to the next check-in area at midnight. Some folks were already laid out on cots provided for fools and wayward souls like myself. Obnoxious pop music blared from hidden speakers. Periodically, God's voice cut in to warn travellers about security requirements. Whatever you do, do NOT take that suspicious package from the bearded guy in the turban and flowing white cloak, okay? I slipped in behind an unused stainless steel cart of some sort, set up my pad, wedged plugs into my ears and hoped for the best. No sleep was as good as it got.

5am, I crawled from my burrow, staggered over to Starbucks--LIFE!--and sat in a caffeine twisted stupor to await my flight. Rain and dark clouds did little to lighten my condition as I scrambled for the tiny plane that would take me to Bar Harbor. A 19-seater, it bobbed and twisted and made me quite green. I struggled to hold onto my Starbucks'. On the ground with my stomach load intact, I was confronted by a lack of baggage. Lovely. They'd send it ahead to the hostel. In town, I marched through pouring rain to the bike shop where I was required to assemble my bike outside where no shelter was to be found. Oooooh, having fun, yo? In even heavier rain and with no rain gear (on its way, they said), I stomped to the hostel to be confronted by the all-to-common lock down. I was so tired I was about the vomit. Luckily, I found a strange, partly constructed annex with some shelter form the storm. I crawled in, covered the openings as best I could with some stray plywood, and collapsed onto my pad, getting some sleep at long blessed last.

Today is as beautiful as yesterday was horrendous. I slept well in my tent as the storm ended late in the afternoon. Now I've got my bike all together and I'm off for a little tour of the island. Tomorrow, I head west. Head west not-so-young-man, head west!

Launch or Hurl?

2007-08-06T14:36:00.000-07:00

My last day before taking off has been somewhat busy--cleaning house, doing stuff, keeping busy. The humming birds swarm around the property, and the day is perfectly sweet, a nice cool spell after weeks of heat. Being August, of course, it won't last, but I'll take this parting gift from the weather gods, a foretaste of autumn. Already I'm beginning to sense a change in the quality of light, even if it's rather faint at this point. When I return, we'll be fully into another season, even closing in on winter. The other morning I stepped out before the sun had risen--an alarm clock gift in the form of two pounds of psychotic kitty--only to see Orion for the first time dominating the eastern horizon. Normally I would be gearing up for classes, reviewing rosters, class notes, plotting tactics and strategies for the coming semester. But little is normal this time.

I'm reminded of my internal state when I faced the vertical face of El Capitan in Yosemite. I was just eighteen, hardly needing to shave, and I camped with new friends in The Valley's infamous Camp 4. El Cap, as we called it, loomed in ways that are hard for the non-climber to imagine. The casual tourist looks up and thinks: Wow, that's big. The climber poised for an ascent staggers about with a gut full of acid roiling and boiling within. He's calm and cool to his mates, but inside he's raging, plotting, striving to anticipate what he'll need to do, how to handle the challenges and fear, doing everything he can to keep the uncertainty under control. You've just got to step up and do it. How did Goethe put it? "Boldness has genius in it?" Something like that. Good words to remember when we challenge ourselves. Plot, plan, train, anticipate, then just take the leap. Although there can be risk in the leap, for me the risk of the leap not taken is the greater.

Preparing, devising, executing an expedition like this is a convoluted undertaking. Somewhere, somehow, the seed germinates in your head, and you decide that, yeah, I've simply GOT to do that. But between thinking and doing there often exists a fearsome chasm. It's one thing to think about having sex with a squadron of super models. It's something else to git 'er done. A full life means seeing these things through. So for me I substitute Maine and New Mexico for Tyra Banks and Heidi Klum...er... you get the idea. (I don't think I'll push this metaphor any further...)

So now, at long last, the game is afoot. Thanks, everyone, for you words of support. My next posting will be from the eastern edge of the frontier. What strange creatures and customs will I find? Will the natives be friendly or hostile? The adventure will tell!

Limbo

2007-08-03T16:09:00.001-07:00

I inhabit a strange waiting room, a place walled in by the past and the future, the force of years of planning and the keen edge of anticipation. I go about my daily activities, moving, for the most part, as if nothing is different, nothing has changed. And nothing has changed. The dishes still need to be cleaned and put away, the animals fed, the floor swept. I do these things as I have always done them. Take out the kibbles, pour them noisily into the stainless steel bowl, Django sitting nearby with sharp-eyed intensity. He knows in every cell of his body what this ritual is about.

But with each action, each moment that slips into the past, I am one moment closer to departure. Briefly, just briefly, I forget what is hanging over me, the long flight and unthinkable return. I know that I have to do this AA style, one day at a time, but still the enormity of it all squats in my consciousness like a grinning water buffalo, 2,000 pounds of dark muscle that will not be denied, the glinting dark eyes and sweep of horn. My father told me once about a story he'd read of one who had hunted this most dangerous kind of animal, the Cape buffalo, in Africa, usually found in deep thickets where it could charge without notice. The hunter, when faced with the on-rushing animal, had no time for fear--if he wanted to live. He simply had to "get busy."

So the antidote to anxiety is action. True enough. I find, at this stage, however, that most of my business in preparing for the tour is over. My bags are packed, the bike shipped. Really, I have too much time on my hands. Let's get this damn freak show on the road, shall we? But the plane leaves when it will, and I cannot hurry it. I hang in the margins between sunrise and sunset, between home and away. Jodi said recently that I have been "gone for months." Maybe. This condition sits in my gut like a poorly digested piece of potato. Please, dear ghost, show me the shadow of bicycle tours yet to come! I can't know, don't want to know. The point is in the discovery, the slow unveiling of the mystery, the epiphanies and revelations. Everett Ruess, an adventurous lad who vanished in the Four Corners region early in the last century, said, "I am always being overwhelmed. I require it to sustain life." That young man knew his religion. You can't be overwhelmed if you know exactly what's coming. The unknown is the voltage of life. Sometimes we must be strapped to that table and lifted up into the storm and lightning above. "It's alive! It's alive!"

What species of monster is this? I am the monster, the gargoyle squatting on the castle wall, waiting, waiting, waiting. Neither in nor out, I hang on the edge.

Gizmos

2007-08-03T10:37:00.000-07:00

I'm going to carry a couple of electronic gadgets with me--though a laptop will not be among them. A small computer would be handy for posting, uploading and editing photos and the like, but the weight, complexity and risk of damage are too great--not to mention the expense. Heck, I'm even going to forgo a cell phone. We've been hemorrhaging money lately. Time to put a tourniquet on that wound right now. Obviously, I'm going to have a digital camera. After much research, I decided on a Canon PowerShot A540 with 4x optical zoom at 6 mega pixels. The reputation of this line of cameras is well established. I like the slightly larger size and the fact that it uses AA batteries, which can be purchased virtually anywhere. I've got a few sets of rechargeable AA's and a light-weight Sony recharger because of the longer life for these types in contrast to alkaline. If I don't use the screen too much, I should get a week or more out of a set before I have to recharge.

My other toy is pictured at the top of the post: a Creative Audio MuVo mp3 player--2GB. This is a fantastic unit, literally just a bit larger than my thumb--as you can see. I've got about 35 CD's on it with room to spare. For a bit of mood music or plowing through endless flats of Kansas and eastern Colorado, this should come in handy. It has a voice recorder and, best of all, gives about 18 hrs. of play for ONE AAA battery. The majority of the time I don't listen to music while riding. It is safer and, to me, more pleasant to just be in the groove, but some stretches have superb visibility and extreme tedium. On these roads I'll use a few tunes to help me through the miles. The unit works just like a thumb drive and plugs into USB ports--sweet.

Motivation?

2007-07-31T16:29:00.000-07:00

These evenings, I've been taking Django out to water the bushes. Mostly he just walks a few yards from the door, knowing that, when we go back in, he gets a snack before we go to bed. Cheeky hound. Still, we play the game and step out into the finally blessed cool of the star-studded night. The moon has been huge and bright, the eye of a quiet god gazing down. I lie on the concrete walk, still warm from the sun, look up to the moon as it climbs through the dark limbs of a scraggly oak to the east and feel the breeze coming down off the mountains. The stars have been pushed back, retreating in deference and inferior candle power--at this distance anyway. I stretch out, look and feel and think.

Why am I doing this? Hassling with great expense, uncertainty, risk? I've discussed this before, but it keeps coming back, a question that will never be put to rest even after the deed is done--if I am so lucky. One question comes up frequently when I tell people what I am doing: What are you raising money for? What's your cause? What is implied in the question intrigues me: Why would anyone do such a thing unless it was for some other cause? The tour in itself is not worth doing? The cyclists' actions must be justified by a cause around which others may rally? I wonder if people are gun shy, always ready for the sales pitch. I've been on the other side of this exchange: "I'm raising awareness for...." "I'm raising funds for..." "The group I'm raising funds for...." More power to them. Most of these seem to be worthy causes though I sometimes wonder how much actual benefit comes from the funds gathered. Whatever, the impulse is morally sound.

So what's the harm? I considered for a while turning my ride into such a vehicle for fund raising, but then I started to think about how that might shade my experience and the way I engage with people as I travel. Once you take this step and commit to a cause, that responsibility hangs over everything, especially your interactions with others. All of your meetings become somewhat conditional. You can be polite and have pleasant exchanges, but the inevitable pitch must be cast: "By the way, I'm raising funds for...." Some might construe this line of thinking as a rationalization, a way not to have to deal with fund raising. Perhaps there is some truth in this, but there is truth in finding problems with conditional encounters, too. My goal is to see, discover, and write about my experiences. There's a book about trans-continental cycling lurking in here somewhere and to that end I'm channeling my energies.

Still, to my handful of readers, should I attach my ride to a cause, pedal to peddle? At this late date, I can't go door-to-door, but I can post some links to worthy causes. Do such sales pitches annoy or inspire? One value of this is that if someone asks, I can direct him to my blog and the link. I can have a few cards printed up for those who ask. Otherwise, I can just let each experience develop naturally. Certainly, if I can help others, why not? On general principle, however, I'd rather not have to chase down people and drag their wallets out for my endeavors.

The moon arcs higher, its light streaming down over--Django's goofy snout hanging above me. The constellation mega-hound! He straddles my head with his fore-legs and reaches down to slobber in my ear. I hear ya, boy. There's a snack in your near future, you betcha. I stand up, stretch, and go in for the night.

Momentous Moment

2007-07-28T14:45:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was my last day on the bike. I got out for a nice ride, about 49 miles of the usual hills and such, which I did with only a couple of breaks. The various and sundry joints, parts and bits felt good. I think I'm ready to start my tour. I might have done another ride or two, but the bike shop that is packing and shipping for me needed a some lead time to get it out by the 31st, which I figured would give me a safe margin of error. FedEx and UPS both estimated about five days. I'll give them a few more to play with.

So I loaded Mojo (yes, the Street Machine has been christened) on to the back of our Subaru wagon and dragged her down to the shop. This was another very concrete act on the path to my journey. Getting on the plane will be the real threshold crossing, for sure, but this has a certain heft to it as well. I talked at length with Ed at Action Sports about packing the bike and my proposed tour. Then I walked out into the afternoon furnace that is Bakersfield in late July. Aloha, my friend!

Now, over the next few days, I have to get my other gear together and packed. I'll post some pictures of the mess as it develops and say a few things about some of the gear. My plan is to ship most of my camping kit out the Maine as well. No point in giving the airlines a chance to lose my stuff. I'm going with only carry-on luggage.

Trifecta: Heat, Hills and Headwinds

2007-07-27T13:29:00.000-07:00

Yesterday's ride was a toughy, and I planned it that way. I wanted to test myself in unpleasant conditions, and that's what I got--though I had more fun than I expected. It turns out I can handle a variety of weather situations pretty well--heat and cold. By many standards, I suppose, the ride was not extreme, but it was still good to get out and sweat hard. I climbed about 2,000 ft. in about 45 miles with lots of wind and temps about 90 deg. F. when I finished. It was actually a beautiful day with some clouds building over Tehachapi Mtn. and blue skies in abundance. My main concern for the big ride is humidity. It's pretty dry out here in the West, and I know humidity magnifies the heat considerably. I figure I'll acclimate to it, but it still worries me. I plan on getting plenty of very early starts while the weather is cookin'. Since I don't have grandiose mileage objectives, I have a good chance of getting most of my riding done by noon with a crack of dawn start. This will give me plenty of time to write and mingle with the natives. Below are a couple of shots from the ride.

Today's training vid and new stove (beer and gear)

2007-07-25T14:55:00.000-07:00

I busted out of town for a few miles and shot this video. I want to post a few of these from the road, too, so this was a chance to practice uploading. I'm getting down to the wire for my departure. I'm taking my bike down to the shop for packing and shipping on the 3oth. Just a few more rides, then off she goes.

(Sorry--some snafu with the video. I'll use Google next time!)

You see below my successful! attempt to make a Pepsi can alcohol stove. Many thanks to Rob over at 14degrees.org for turning me onto this technology. Apparently, long distance hikers have been using these for a while, and a recent survey of Appalachian Trail through-hikers (those who go the whole distance in one push in contrast to those who hike a long tail in sections over more than one season) found that this was the only stove with zero failures. It's made by drilling, cutting and mashing together a couple of aluminum cans. A combination of Pepsi and English ales works best. Great fun. Slam down a brew and set the living room on fire. What's not to like? It burns denatured or methyl alcohol and performs quite well. I was able to boil a liter of water in about 8.5 minutes. Fuel is more expensive than a stove that uses gasoline from the pump, but it has no moving parts, requires no pumping, and burns almost silently. It has to be refilled more often, but that's a pretty minor inconvenience given its strengths. Zen Stoves gives a good overview of this technology. Check here for instructions to build your own.

Orygun Funk

2007-07-18T08:24:00.000-07:00

The tour that almost was is no more. We tried, we really did, but in the end, heavy traffic and equipment failure led to a premature end to this ride. I'll explain in more detail, but the final verdict is that the Oregon coast, for all its beauty and charm, just isn't a very nice place to bike tour. This may come as a shock to some. What? Sacrilege. Blasphemy. How dare you suggest such a thing. Let me explain....

While Jodi and I both agreed that we didn't have a bad time--indeed, we enjoyed much of what we experienced--the fact that most of the Oregon coast ride follows Highway 101 is a deal breaker. There's just too much bloody traffic to make riding enjoyable. I'm sure others have discovered this, but we had plans, and we'd ridden parts of the California coast before, so how bad could it be? Like everyone, we were enticed by images of tall, cool trees, a rugged, wave-battered shoreline, and average highs in the mid to upper 60's for July. Good grief, man, get me a ticket and get me out there! There's the dream, then there's the reality.

We knuckled down to the serious business of driving from south-central California to the Oregon/Washington border at Astoria. This involved driving our own vehicle with a disassembled tandem trike packed into the rear of our Subaru up to Sonoma county to visit friends and relatives then up to Crescent City where we would rent a one-way car for the second leg to Astoria. From the cool coast, we cut inland to Grant's Pass and the Willamette Valley. This part of the drive was beautiful and we camped a bit north of Eugene. It was warm, however, and getting warmer. After hundreds and hundreds of miles of driving, we at last pulled into Astoria under a startlingly clear blue sky--and hot. A mini heatwave was settling over the region. Astoria climbed into the low 90's as we assembled the trike and tooled around town, getting food for dinner and riding back to our motel. For cryin' out loud, we'd left the Bakersfield area to beat this heat. Don't worry friends: If you cannot make it to Bakersfield, Bakersfield will come to you. In a town devoid of air conditioning, we lived old school sweaty. Hang low, keep on the shady side, and wait for the flames to pass.

Just as we finished putting our trike together, we crossed the street to talk to some folks at a local cafe and bakery. This fine young couple were, like most, interested in our rig. They'd been in business for a few years and were totally velo-centric. They make all deliveries on a bike especially constructed to carry big, bulky loads.

We bid them farewell and went about our chores. We'd meet the rest of our team the next morning at the Astoria Coffee Shop. Our main job between now and then was to simmer in the record-breaking heat. Portland, we heard, broke 100 deg. F. Now that's Bakersfield.

Some time during the night, our prayers were answered and the fog rolled in. We would be spared. We gathered at the cafe for pre-tour java and conviviality.

Left to right: Perry, Eddie, Neil, Peggy, Jodi, Moi, Dana. Django is the furry one at Jodi's feet.

We headed out at about 8 am under cloudy skies and sunny spirits. We were on our way at last. Fun riding through Astoria and across some bridges took us to some very fine rural cycling on the way to Seaside--quiet roads, wild flowers, and some sun as the morning progressed.

We made a couple of wrong turns but finally found ourselves dropping quickly to Hwy 101 and the curse of the automobile and prime July holiday season. Seaside was a tacky tourist trap having great success. The place was packed, countless people milling about, lots of "Shoppes" and such. We punched through town down to a coastal path and enjoyed a couple of miles of ocean views and relative quiet. After that, Hell 101, a course for those addicted to the constant roar of automobiles. The only thing that makes this road possible for cyclists is a generally wide paved shoulder. This, however, vanishes on many of the bridges, and, most fun of all, in the tunnels to the south. You haven't had real fun until you've plowed through a tunnel, uphill, on a fully loaded tandem trike with dog, traffic bearing down, microencephalitic camper drivers honking angrily. Hooo boy, let's do that again.

In general, the drivers were considerate enough. It was the sheer volume that overwhelmed us. Even at half the number of vehicles, which actually occurs mid-winter, this would be some unpleasant riding. We discussed the differences between Oregon and our California experiences. With some notable exceptions, the key difference is that much of the California coast follows Hwy 1, which carries very little commercial traffic, especially along Big Sur, and those drivers wanting to make good time have a fairly close, parallel alternative, Hwy 101, and, further east Hwy 5. On the Oregon coast, drivers have one choice--OUR bike route! Also of concern for the future is the pace of development here. Every single town on the coast showed signs of new building, custom homes and their ilk. It was relentless. This, of course, will only add to the traffic woes.

We pushed on, though, and hoped for the best. Whenever we left the highway, we had a blast. Perhaps the best way to cycle in this area would be to drive from place to place that offered these escapes. My favorite tourist comment from a woman who saw us ride by on a fully loaded tandem trike--two sets of panniers, extra gear bags on frame AND a trailer with doggie and extra gear: "Are you touring?"

If only all the roads were like this:

What follows is a selection of shots from the road up until we finally gave up. After three days, we knew that, with doggie in tow, there was no way we were going to keep up with our more lightly loaded companions, so we started out on our own pace. Quickly, however, we realized that this was not good enough. We needed to ditch the traffic. At Newport, we camped just south of town and pedaled inland the next morning through old town along Yaquina Bay, enjoying the classic murals and about 13 miles of idyllic riding in the cool, misty morning. The U Haul dealer was in Toledo. From there, we would drive to near the end of the coast and ride the last day--or so we thought...

Jodi gives up:

Old town Newport, the murals, Yaquina Bay:

After renting the truck, we headed south, happy to be free of the traffic and sad to be throwing in the towel. However, the further south we got, the better the traffic situation. Hey, maybe we could get back in the game. In Bandon we abandoned the U Haul. Our original destination was to be Brookings, about thirty miles north of Crescent City. We forked out for a motel--ah, the Lamplighter--got some pizza, salad and brews, and contacted our touring buddies. We'd reunite for the last two days of the tour. Hoorah. We were hemorrhaging money like a wounded oil tanker, but this was a vacation, damn it.

The next morning, we unloaded the trike as the traffic started to pick up. Uh oh. Hmmm... could the fact that traffic was so light the day before have anything to do with the fact that it was late Sunday afternoon? To hell with it. We were committed now. No way were we going to rent another truck to carry us south. No way in hell. We cut over to a quiet parallel route for a few miles and then back onto 101. Traffic was heavy but not as bad as further north. And the riding was fast, gently rolling terrain--even with bark-brain in the trailer. Lay down the hammer, crew, we've got some miles to burn. About fifteen miles south of Bandon, Jodi heard a strange rubbing sound from the back: "What is that sound?!" We pulled over. A flat. No biggie. Off with the panniers, prop up the tail, off with the wheel. We'd be back in the saddle in no time.

Uh, no, not this time. There was something odd, very odd about the rim. Why was it bulging out like that? Why was there a crack--nay!--a splitting of the outside edge? What the hell was going on? I pulled off the tire and tube only to see the worst case scenario: a complete rim failure. At two places and spreading, the rim was splitting down the middle, a savage rent of the aluminum that drove the final nail into the coffin of this tour. There was no repairing it, no getting a new rim this late in the game, especially on the southern Oregon coast. Game over. Oh curse you, the seven mad gods who rule the touring seas! The good ship Greenspeed was lost, all hands cast into the flotsam of the interstate highway system. There was nothing to it but stick my thumb into the wind, hitch a ride, and re-rent the U Haul at a considerable expense to carry us all the way to Crescent City. On the upside, it was a fine day to hitchhike, sunny, warm but not hot, puffy clouds overhead. We called our friends to inform them of this latest development and got the business done of finally burying this tour. In a few hours, it was all over, the sun setting on our adventure for the last time.

A little vid action

2007-07-05T14:12:00.000-07:00

Here's a little video that I shot while Jodi, Django and I were climbing Nine Mile Canyon in the southern Sierras. This was uploaded using a new, trial blogger function, which I hope becomes a standard feature. It's so great to have everything in one place. No deep thoughts today. Just a fun clip.

Inspiration

2007-07-04T14:57:00.001-07:00

I've been thinking some about what keeps me motivated, what inspires all of us to get out there and live life intensely. I was blessed by a father who took me into the woods when I was young, hunting and hiking. While most of the other hunters who used the ranch would storm off in their 4X4's, Dad and I would rise at 4am, quietly pack our light day packs--he used to love those chewy, layered raisin cookies--shoulder our rifles, and slip off into the fog shrouded forest. The early, groggy feelings, the growing sense of excitement at the possibility of finding a deer or wild boar, the long, quiet walks through the oaks and tall grasses all filled me with a sense of wonder and connection with the outdoors that has never left me. We almost never got anything, though there were some exceptions, of course. The greater point was in the ritual, in spending time together, in blending into those grand and rugged hills.

Like an addict, I kept upping the dosage of my outdoor activities, and by the age of fifteen, I was hooked on rock climbing and mountaineering, but before that I had sampled some cycling in my local area. Once, at about the age of twelve or thirteen, a handful of us strapped sleeping bags to our bikes and pedaled many miles away, spent the night camped in the dunes by the Pacific, and pedaled home. That freedom and sense of power was an important lesson for me. Before we could drive, we could ride, and look how far we could go! Now, I'd rather ride than drive if I can help it. I've entered my second childhood, it seems, and none too soon. H. G. Wells said, "Every time I see an adult on a bicycle, I no longer despair for the future of the human race." Damn straight, old man. When gas is $40 a gallon, many more of us should rediscover the joys of the bicycle.

I did a couple of other overnight bicycle tours in my twenties, and once rode part of the Oregon and California coast but failed at my tour due to knee problems. I liked the idea of human power. I hiked and climbed all over the western US and Canada, and on one long drive up Hwy 395 just north of Susanville and headed for Canada, we passed a lone cyclist. There in the vast basin of sage and juniper was this single, solitary young man, a lean figure of muscle and sinew, baggy shirt and shorts flapping in the wind, his bike fully loaded with panniers front and rear. I found something so pure and fantastic about this unknown cyclist. He was up out of the saddle and pulling for glory, no motor, no sag wagon, just the dry wind and scent of sage to fuel his dream.

That image never left me, and I have since had the joys and pains of riding that same country and other wild, remote parts of the western states. The promise of his example has held true for me time and again. I am so grateful to have a spirit and body that allows me the privilege of such travel. To the sedentary public, our struggles often seem foolish, crazy, like, dude, why bother? Because, dude, it's a totally, thoroughly, brilliantly transcendent experience. The Mahayana of the bicycle takes the spirit where it would not otherwise go, from painful depths of exhaustion to sublime peaks, often, of course, at the same moment. That's it, that moment when effort and awareness and the flow of life combine in a timeless, electric current. This is not mediated, modulated, pixelated, virtual experience. This is life, straight up in a dirty glass, three fingers deep and burning down your throat.

Recently, while strapped into one of my smog-belching boxes, I caught a glimpse of another touring cyclist, in our town of all places. Again, a solitary male, bike fully loaded, cut a sharp turn and cranked for the big valley to the west. A lucky bloke, that one. We were in an unusually cool spell for June. I knew what he was going through, the great expectation of the big descent, the satisfaction at having broken another pass. Ride well, brother.

I wondered who else on the road that day really got what he was doing. Not many. Perhaps that is part of the appeal. Cycle tourists travel on the fringes, the edges of a thoroughly motorized society. Still, many, many people are interested and inspired, even if they themselves will never attempt a long, human powered journey. And this is good. It gives me hope.

The Love of Maps

2007-07-02T20:38:00.000-07:00

The road-smitten, the hikers and cyclists, the world wanderers and compulsive wayfarers know the condition, this addiction to maps, the unquenchable thirst for topographical knowledge. We spread out these magical sheets of paper and gaze into their meandering lines, the town sites and rail lines, rivers, canyons, that steep ridge clearly indicated by closely packed contour lines. At points familiar we can point our fingers and say, "Ah, yes, I know just that turn!" Perhaps it was a corner in Winslow, Arizona, where a fine young thing in a flat bed gave us a good once over--Don't leave!--as we stood with a dusty pack and three weeks of beard hanging in the breeze.

In grade school a teacher whose name I cannot recall but whose lesson rings on showed me how to read maps, especially the topographical variety. These were special, the Holy Grails of the cartographer's craft. With the right imagination you could see where the land went up or down and get a sense for its steepness. With a compass and a little trigonometry you could find your location--all without a satellite or battery powered gizmo. Traveling often in the mountains of western North America, I have rarely needed a compass--maps, yes--but not often a compass. By simply identifying the significant landmarks, usually an easy task with land forms like major peaks and rivers, I could always orient myself. Once, however, I would have been truly lost without that little magnetic device.

Jodi and I arrived at road's end, achieved, of course, with a map, somewhere in the vicinity of Mt. Adams in Washington State. This is a heavily glaciated peak and third highest in the Cascade range at over 12,000 ft. , but there, standing in the thick fog, we could have been anywhere. Dark, dank conifers vanished in silent ranks into the snow and mist. Visibility was less than fifty yards. Where was the north face of this grand peak we hoped to scale? The map says it's there, right over...there? Out with the compass, set the map in the proper direction, set a heading from the map to the base of the Adams Glacier, start hiking. We took turns leading up through the snow and fog, always focused on the needle, instrument flying on faith and physics. We broke from the trees, and suddenly we could see even less--whiteout, a pale, fuzzy realm without corners, horizons or depth. Shortly after entering this world, we set up camp in a light drizzle and hoped for the best. The next morning, the clouds lifted just enough for us to see the icy toe of the glacier, right where it was supposed to be. A day later we would stand on the summit, alone on an ice cap above the clouds, first climbers up that season. The day after getting down, the clouds locked in again and it rained for over a week.

As a cyclist, I am no less fascinated by what maps can tell me, the dreams they inspire. This is a very old impulse shared by the great names of history. What must it have been like to have those old maps, the ones marked "Terra Incognita"? In one sense, thankfully, until we ourselves have been there, each map represents a sense of the unknown because the maps cannot tell us everything. Korzybski said that the "map is not the territory," and he was right. As a thoroughly modern person with some knowledge of the sciences, history, geography and such, I know that there be not dragons yonder, well, not real dragons, anyway. Now, dragons as metaphor, that's another story altogether.

This suggested, implied world of the maps is what keeps us coming back. They can hint, tease, lift a veil to reveal a hint of another world. What is that really like? Is she all insinuation or the fulfillment of my desires? The maps lead us to places both outward and inward. When we seek to cross continents, then this map business takes on ever deeper shades of meaning. Once, while walking down a hallway on my campus, I came across a rather large map of the United States, perhaps five or six feet across. This shape, with its odd bulges, dangling appendages, and disembodied lumps, has been so thoroughly burned into my brain that I practically cease to notice it while, paradoxically, it has taken on a sort of concrete life of its own. My country, my people. What? How could this be? What are these strange lines? How does California become Nevada? Iowa become Missouri? We come to see the cartographer's product in a strange light once it has been hammered over by the forces of politics, wars, disease and migrations. Occasionally, in human time, geology plays a noticeable role, obliterating an island or blocking a river. So I stared in wonder and disbelief at this construct of consciousness, generations of brooding and striving, taking and building that carried it at last to this sprawling map and my befuddled eyes tracing a line I hoped to cycle, mile upon mile--Maine, New Hampshire, Vermont, New York, Pennsylvania, Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, Iowa, Missouri, Kansas, Colorado, New Mexico, Arizona, and home, my Ithaca, Tehachapi, California.

To make this journey possible, I need maps, lots of maps. The most important of these have been produced by Adventure Cycling Association, an organization out of Missoula, Montana, dedicated to promoting bicycle travel. I'll be following a goodly slice of their "Northern Tier" route as far as Muscatine, Iowa. Then I'll take the "Great Rivers Route" until I can connect with the famed "Katy Trail" of Missouri, over two hundred miles of car-free bliss cutting across the center of the state. From the end of the Katy Trail, I patch my own route to get to Manhattan, Kansas, to visit my nephew who is attending vet school there. I'll then connect with the "TransAmerica" route, which I'll follow using AAA road maps as the route is a simple, straight shot into Colorado. Then it's my own route finding again through New Mexico and Arizona. At the Arizona border I'll pick up Adventure Cycling's "Southern Tier" route to carry me to the Pacific at San Diego. The last leg, if I've got the legs for it, will take me north up the "Pacific Coast Route" (by ACA) to Ventura and east over the mountains and back to home.

Every day I pull out one of my maps and study it, try to imagine what I will find there, the people I will meet. Will the natives be friendly? Will I be able to handle their strange customs? What happens when one of them insists I marry his daughter, whom I have never seen before, or face a slow death? Will he understand that I'm already married and can only handle one wife at a time? Will I have to eat the raw organs of some unknown beast? Will the chief take MasterCard? I stare at the maps and wonder.

My Big Commute

2007-06-29T20:20:00.002-07:00

Here's a panorama shot of my big commute from Tehachapi down into the Great Central Valley. This was taken this spring before the grasses had a chance to turn golden brown, their most common color. We get only a few weeks of truly green grass around here, especially in dry years. Keep clicking on photo until it fills the screen! Also, for best view, select "full screen" on your menu bar then scroll across the width of the photo.

Thor's Dyspepsia

2007-06-28T06:29:00.000-07:00

I had a fine, if challenging, ride yesterday. I did a pleasant ten miles in the morning and a draining thirty in the afternoon. It was that second session that spanked me good. In Tehachapi, the winds come in generally two flavors: heavy from the east and heavy from the west. Westerlies are the most common. Anyone driving over the pass will notice the hundreds of wind turbines lining the mountain ridge to the east on the edge of the Mojave desert. We have some of the steadiest winds in the country and the mega-watt production to prove it. This, of course, has special meaning for cyclists.

It is my opinion that if you can ride regularly in Tehachapi and enjoy it, you can ride anywhere. With altitudes between 4,000 and 6,000 ft. and nearly constant winds, riders get toughened up pretty quickly. My most common rides take me to the west over hills and passes, and, because of the prevailing winds, I get a tailwind for much of the return trip. Psychologically this works well for me: battle the frustrating winds on the way out and reap the rewards on the return--nice. This area has pine and oak covered roads, open agricultural zones, views of soaring Cummings Mtn, almost 8,000ft. high. Another loop that I ride to the east involves dipping into the Mojave, creosote, tamarisk, Joshua trees spicing up the views. Usually I reserve this ride for times when the winds shift and blow out of the east so I can enjoy the turbocharger effect on my return. Yesterday, I didn't wait for these conditions.

Part of preparing for this TransAm means I ride regardless of the weather, give or take. Out on the Big One, I won't be able to pick and choose: Ooooh, the winds are out of the west so I'll just ride east today. A big part of the challenge is taking the world and its weather on its terms. Granted, some weather will just be too dangerous, and I'll just hole up somewhere and ride it out, but for the most part, we saddle up and move 'em out. Git 'er done. It was in this spirit that I jumped on Mojo, my trusty Street Machine, and headed east, the winds pushing pleasantly along into my waiting punishment for the return.

The sun, now just past the apex of the Solstice, glared out of the sky with acute intensity, but some reasonably cool air had been working down the state so temperatures were only in the low 80's. Cycling at 4,000 ft. has its advantages. To the south, a big fire still smoldered. For days, helicopters and fire bombers had been buzzing the skies, a fierce battle raging just over a distant ridge. Now, finally, the level of smoke appeared to me diminishing. I was deeply grateful for the brave souls out there in the desert heat, working for all of us.

The miles slipped quickly and quietly under my wheels. I have just recently put on some wider, tougher touring tires. They didn't seem to be much slower, but the wider footprint is reassuring. At the top of the major climb on Tehachapi/Willow Springs road, I caught the full force of the funneled wind and zipped down the other side. In no time, I was ripping at over 40 mph and braking to control my speed, wind turbulence smacking me about. As I descended, I got a clear view of the scorched valley and the bombing runs.

At the bottom, I turned north on Cameron Rd., and so ended the easy fun of my ride. Headwinds and hills, brothers and sisters, headwinds and hills. Still, I was happy to be out. A fire fighter sitting in his truck yelled out: "I'm glad that's you and not me!" What could I say? "I'm glad it's me, too!" I cranked up through dry, grassy hills and a forest of wind turbines, real monsters over 100 ft. high, spinning regally in the sharp summer sun.

After a quick descent, I joined Hwy 58, a major truck route, and began working for a 6 to 7 mph pace. Gear down and have patience, grasshopper. I was beginning to feel a bit blasted after a few miles of this and took refuge under an overpass after leaving the highway. Out of the wind and sun, I stretched and listened to the traffic groaning above me, vibrating the stout gray pillars, the resonant gastric distress of some Norse god--strangely soothing in its own way. But I couldn't stay here forever, so back into the wind tunnel it was--a miles long straight shot, no shade, no shelter from the winds.

Near the end, once back in town, I celebrated with an icy coffee drink at Starbucks and then finished the ride, which, as always, ended in that half mile stinger to our house--into the sun, into the wind.

The Relationship

2007-06-24T20:11:00.000-07:00

The evolution of this trip has been a long affair, hatched first in the primordial soup of our touring-addled brains several years ago. From the beginning, this was to be a tandem sojourn, Jodi and I and the faithful hound, Django, riding across the country, having a great big old epic adventure. But the direction of evolution cannot usually be predicted, and so it was with my trans-continental dreams.

Unlike many long distance cyclists, I am married, with a home, a job, settled in some very conventional ways. I am not a student between colleges or fresh off the stage with a newly minted degree. I'm not hanging in the abyss between jobs or careers. What the hell am I doing taking off for three to four months by myself? How does such a thing happen? Have I been served with divorce papers, or is that my desire upon my return? Fortunately, none of these apply, but the path has not been without its obstacles, pot holes, flat tires and headwinds. It seems important to me to address this more personal aspect of how a long journey comes to be.

Jodi's career as a holistic nutritional consultant has been growing like a summer squash on steroids. Besides advancing her education beyond a basic master's, she has been doing a lot of writing for Bauman College and working closely with its founder and her mentor, Ed Bauman. And she loves it. She's good at what she does and wants to develop her knowledge and connections. She simply does not want to leave while everything is developing so wonderfully. Who can blame her? But what about the tour, our journey? She said that I should go alone. Hmmm.... Well, okay, I could do that, I guess.

But simple sounding resolutions are rarely so. When I began obsessing a bit more about the trip, planning, posting questions on line, starting this blog, I could really feel Jodi getting upset as the reality of our separation began to set in. Her natural resentment at my departure, envy at my impending adventure, home duties she would have to face mostly on her own while I was out having "fun"--all these came boiling to the surface on more than one occasion. She would be in tears, I in mute anxiety, wondering, in my typical, klutzy male fashion, how to deal with this overflow of emotions.

At one point, I decided that I would not do the TransAm. I'd do something shorter, plan a couple of trips, one solo, one with Jodi. That would be great, of course. I could live with that. Compromise, right? A good thing. But a splinter was lodged in my brain, festering. I'd dumped a dream. Something in me, deep inside, needed to try this, no matter the risk of failure. I walked with Django on the steep mountainside above our home and stared out over the valley. Could I let this go? Would my life be complete? Can Jodi and I work through this? After all the planning, time invested so I could take a leave of absence from work, I just couldn't let go.

Ever since becoming a mountaineer and rock climber in my mid-teens, I've been drawn to big dreams and plans, adventures that pushed me in deep, meaningful ways. El Capitan, Half Dome, peaks in the USA and Canada, I found the best moments of my life, times of such burning intensity and joy that I cannot imagine a life without them. And many of these times were with Jodi. But I never did take that really big expedition to the Himalayas or the Andes. I never felt what it was like to push over 20,000 ft. In a way, that particular kind of dream has morphed into this continental crossing, a ride of ridiculous length and scope. As Werner Herzog, author of Annapurna, said, "There are other Annapurnas in the lives of men." I will never climb an 8,000 meter peak, but this ride is my Annapurana. I can only hope that I have the good luck, physical attributes and determination to see it through--although I would like to keep my fingers and toes, which were lost to Herzog after he achieved the summit of his desires.

So I went back to Jodi and said, "I don't think I can give this up. I need to ride across the country." She understood, but the understanding comes with pain, the knowledge of a separation longer than we've ever known--and this pain and worry is mine, too. I don't shrug off her concerns easily and delight in my own "escape." Besides some physical breakdown that would nullify my dream, my greatest worry is leaving her, the woman of my life, the only one I've got or will ever need. I imagine some moments, stopped in the middle of an Iowa cornfield, really needing her by my side, wanting her input, intelligence and good sense of humor. I suspect that such moments will provide some genuine challenges, maybe the toughest. I try to rationalize my feelings and wonder if such contortions work for Jodi: It's ONLY a few months--not the rest of our lives. We can both work through this...blah, blah, blah.

But still the emotions sit there, staring back at us, creatures often deaf to the prattle of our rational selves. As Jodi has taught me, however, we have to let the feelings run their course. We will be okay, of course. We just have to let our emotional selves get used to the idea.

Train of Thought

2007-06-18T14:31:00.000-07:00

I recently helped my mother move into her new home in western Sonoma County, California. Because my wife, Jodi, had to leave early to attend to responsibilities in the southern part of the state where we live, I remained behind to help unload boxes and get my mom settled. Dozens and dozens of boxes, mountains of wrapping paper, sore muscles from lifting, pushing, dragging the acquisitions of a life into a semblance of order left me plenty tired. I found myself looking forward to the train ride back south, only the third time I would ride the rails, a sad but probably common statement in this, the land conquered by the automobile.

The morning of my departure, I heaved my duffel up into the bus that would carry me to the bay-side town of Martinez where I would connect with my train. A cool breeze cut across the bay and through the terminal as I boarded at last for the five hour ride down to Bakersfield, end of the line. In a sane world, rail lines would be everywhere as they are in Europe. Here we have to make due with the little that is left, the financially tenuous Amtrak line. With Mussolini in management, they run on time--or close enough.

This pleasant tour down the Central Valley, no worries about traffic, no stress from driving, was fantastic. The I 5 corridor has become a gauntlet of horrors, levels of traffic unimaginable just ten years ago. Rail transport combined with bicycle use provides a paradise of mobility. I wish more people had a feel for its benefits. I had time to eat, doze, contemplate my small place in all of this. Part of my musings took me to the power of motorized travel generally, how it has changed the way we live and who we are. One friend some time ago talked about how this has all been good for the gene pool: people travel far afield and sow their seeds in more diverse environments, the dissemination of insemination, so to speak. Perhaps. But like so much in life, our cleverness rewards us with all manner of unintended consequences. We are curious, inventive. Our agile minds and prehensile appendages give us great power, but what do we release when we open that box?

The carnage on our highways, the increase in crime, the environmental destruction are clearly evident to anyone who bothers to think about them. Evident, too, especially from a cyclist's perspective, is the toll on the human body and spirit. Because physical labor is hard, sometimes very unpleasant, we seek ways around it, and we have grown rich and diseased as a result. Everything must be safe and comfortable, fast and easy. We are now as flaccid and feeble as the Kings of old, hobbled by gout and fattened off the labor of serfs. We build the machines and import the labor so that we may ride in the sedan, a chair once powered by slaves and servants.
The irony, of course, is that now we are slaves to that which would serve us. Even the most vegan, peace loving, bike riding, dread lock-sporting environmentalist eats food that travels, on average, about 1,200 miles from where it was produced. Good God, what madness! We are chained to our machines, "petro-man," as one friend put it. Combine the power of our machines with the laziness of body and spirit and we have modern humans, homo siticus, "he who sits"--and grows ill and weak as a result. Obesity is now an "epidemic," and for the first time in many decades, the young people today are unlikely to live longer than their parents. The average American walks less than two miles a day. And that is an average. Many walk considerably less than that.

This obsession with ease and comfort has some interesting consequences for our perspectives. On the long bus ride to the school where I teach (yes, I sit in the bus like everyone else), I am a freak, usually the ONLY one who has ridden a bike to get to this public transport--even though many who ride it with me live within reasonable biking distance. All of the rest--with the exception of a schizophrenic cycling nut--drive cars to the bus stop. So there's a certified mental patient...and me. Perhaps I am unstable, too? Maybe that 2.5 mile hilly ride from my home to the bus stop really is very extreme, and I have just developed a warped sense of what is considered acceptable. Like the grinning lunatic in the original Dracula film who cackles on about eating flies and spiders, I crawl from the cave of my garage every morning and spin my personal torture device, flagellating my benumbed mind and body for some sin only I can understand.

Once, while loading up for the ride home, one fellow, who had also been on the bus, looked at me as I readied to leave and said, "Bummer. Now you have to ride home." I replied, in my own demented fashion: "Hey, this is sometimes the best part of my day." I'm not sure he understood, but he smiled to humor me, being nice to the village idiot. Later that same semester, as I paused to get the mail at the bottom of the hill where I live, a woman in a car, stopped for the same purpose, saw my bike and said: "You're so brave to ride this hill!" It's about a half mile climb with a bit of 10% grade near the top, something I ride almost everyday. Punishment for one, a courageous deed for another, such are the points of view of people who don't know or understand the possibilities of their own bodies. What should be a common place event, no more unusual than brushing one's teeth or taking out the garbage, becomes pedal powered purgatory or raising the flag on Mt. Sarabachi.

When I tell them I ride the 45 miles into and, occasionally, out of the valley 4,000 ft below, they know I'm fit to be locked up.

Such were my thoughts as I rode the train into the Great Central Valley.

Bum flipper meditations

2007-06-03T15:05:00.000-07:00

Went--tried to go--for a hike today with everyone up here in Sonoma county and managed to sprain my ankle. It's not a terrible injury, but it sure is a drag. A mile or so into our ascent of Hood Mt. and crunch! over she went. I haven't done something like this in at least 15 years, so I guess I was about due. Still, I'm feeling pretty defective right now. Django bruised his paw, Jodi fought my cold, now this. Maybe this is a cursed trip as Jodi suggested. I'm feeling marooned and useless--no bike, can't hike. I'm going to get to some reading, but the weather is fine and I need to be active. I should get over the sprain in a few days--at least enough to ride, which is the most crucial thing at this point. The injury shouldn't endanger any plans for the big rides--Oregon in July and the TransAm.

I spend a lot of time imagining how things will go for the TransAm. It's still fully two months away, so I've got lots of living to do between now and then, but still, I keep jumping ahead to the day when I board the plane. I've been thinking about a joke I made in an earlier post--at The Bard's expense--about "sticking my courage to the screwing place." The line, from Macbeth, reads: "Screw your courage to the sticking place." The good lady was inspiring her husband to go to bat and kill all the nobles and guards in the castle so that he might take the throne. The inversion of the expression has some interesting implications, ones that climbers, military personnel, and various others can appreciate.

We can, if we dream ourselves into the right frame of mind, attempt some very impressive deeds. But if our luck is bad or our preparation inadequate, this mustering of courage can put us into desperate circumstances, screwing places, i.e., places where we get screwed, whacked, hammered, shown who the REAL daddy is. Arctic explorers (wasn't one of them named Scott?!), Everest climbers, skate boarders jamming some rad flips down concrete steps--all of us can find ourselves in "Oh, shit" moments when our reaches have exceeded our grasps, when nerve alone was not enough or too much. This, of course, was Macbeth's problem, too. Once the spot is in, there's no getting it out, even with Spray 'n' Wash.

Any seasoned adventurer can provide a litany of such experiences, and these tales form the spice of life, the narratives for late nights around the campfire. Since I am here to write these words, I have always been able to escape the ultimate price. I have a number of nerve-shredding tales from my years climbing and some from cycling, too. Like the time, when I was twelve, and I left a friend's house high on a hill above my home. The rain was pouring down, the streets slick, treacherous, but home was close, just a wee bit down this steep hill--I'll be home in no time. No worries. I jumped onto my trusty three speed--a cool lime green number my father had cobbled together with a Sturmy-Archer hub, drop bars, hand brakes, and nice, shiny, smooth, plated rims. I loved that bike. So with the cavalier courage of youth, I pushed off. Faster, faster, and faster still into the stinging rain I plunged, a fine rooster tail of water flinging off my rear tire, splashing my back. Well, it's time to slow down now. Let's just ease on these brakes, shall we? Nothing. Nada. Where there should have been a satisfying resistance, a rubbing or squeaking sound, there was just the increasing rush of the air across my unhelmeted head and the more painful sting of the rain. The grade only got steeper....

My mind, a rat on crack and cornered by a cobra, scrambled about for solutions. Okay, okay, you can stop this thing, right? Drag a foot? Run it out to the bottom? Crap, not that, too much cross traffic down there, not much chance there. Those bushes? Just ram this rig into a hedge? Drag my foot? Too fast, too fast. I'll just try to make my turn. When the road levels out, I'll drag a foot.

There was the turn. My eyes flooded, my heart pounding, slippery fingers still bearing down on the levers, I leaned into the corner...and right into a station wagon that had just pulled up to the intersection. Thump, crunch of steel, snapping spokes, a scream--I was airborne, free from earthly restraint and somersaulting over the wagon. Then, in an unplanned move that would have done Buster Keaton or Jackie Chan proud, I landed on my feet on the opposite side of the car. A 10! Eat your heart out, Nadia. Too shaken to truly stick the landing, I sagged to my knees, a quaking, terrified kid too lucky for words.

The driver, an equally terrified woman, burst from the car to see how I was doing. "Oh, my God! Oh, my God! Are you all right?" I stood up on uncertain legs and surveyed my frame. I was fine. Everything bent in the proper direction. No colorful fluids issued from fresh openings. I walked gingerly around the front of the wagon to survey the damage. I had come in at a sharp angle and hit the side just ahead of the front door. There was a dent in the door, and a strip of plated window trim was bent back. The front wheel of my bike was "potato-chipped," one of the pedals was bent terribly--but I wasn't. The woman followed me home the couple of hundred yards to my door as I dragged my bike through the rain.

I never made that mistake again.

So we experiment, take risks, fail, and get back on to try again. When I get off that plane in Bar Harbor, will I be pushing off a hill, limp brakes and polished rims to stop my fall? Over thirty years of experience between then and now tell me no, but there's always that thread of doubt. Sometimes I tug at this thread, worry the suture of uncertainty. Pull too hard, and the wounds can open up, the garment unravel. Sometimes it's best to ignore it. Or take a razor to cut it free.