Bum flipper meditations

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.

Damn--I done it...

Well, I've taken a huge step in my quest. Today I made my airline reservations--gulp. This makes the whole thing a lot more concrete. A couple of months ago, I purchased the maps from Adventure Cycling that I'll be using, but this is an order of magnitude more intense. I looked at various cheap ticket places, compared prices and schedules. When I finally got up the nerve, entered the information, and pressed "purchase," the computer would not bring up the next screen. Was the universe trying to tell me something? Scott, dude, DON'T do it! Or was it just a test, a measure of my resolve? I logged on later, however, and got the business done. At $367 and change, I've got myself a non-refundable ticket to Bar Harbor, ME. I'll leave Burbank, CA, at 1:05 pm on Tues. 7th of August and arrive in Bar Harbor at about 9 am on August the 8th. I decided to push back the date a little to give me plenty of time to get myself and my gear together after returning from the Oregon coast. Jodi and I should be home from that adventure about the 25th of July, give or take. Also, I want to err on the side of cooler temperatures generally. I'll still have plenty of heat, but with this date, I'll be crossing the Mid-West well into September, maybe early Oct. I'll hit freezing temperatures in the Rockies for sure, but I found that Oct. is one of the driest months for the regions I'll be cycling through. My other concern was the low desert. Oct. is still pretty hot in places like Quartzsite and Yuma. The later the better for that part of the world, for sure.

So the knowledge of my impending journey sits in my stomach like a molten lump of oatmeal or a greasy burger and super-sized fries. Throw in one of those nasty petro-"shakes" and you know how I'm feeling. Perhaps the toughest aspect of this anticipation is the emotional turmoil--worry at leaving Jodi, fear of failure, trepidation at the months on my own. This is a big meal I'm gearing up for, and that, of course, is the point, but knowing that doesn't make it easier. I suppose facing these emotional challenges is one of the biggest reasons to do it. The journey has its physical and financial components, but the emotions are the point--well, and the knowledge such travel conveys.

Before each journey or big mountain climb, I've found myself in a similar place. When El Capitan loomed above me, I drank deep of the uncertainty that now courses through me. Of course, once I get into the flow, climb the first pitch, pedal those first miles, I'll have a better time of it. I've got to take this 12 step style, one day at a time. Admit to myself, my God and one other person that I've got a problem--adventure addiction--and move to deal with it. The only solution here is to tackle the illness head-on and do the deeds, chug the liquor life and ride the high from east to west.

My most recent touring experience was a bust. We started from home, but two days in, Django bruised his paw again. We rented a U-Hual in Lake Isabella and drove home. Besides missing out on a great tour, I was looking forward to using this as a training base. I'm not worried, however. I'll have plenty of riding when I get home, and Jodi and I have the big Oregon tour in the middle of July, which should put a fine edge on my condition. Django is fine, but we did purchase a set of booties for him that we will be using all the time for road touring. We can't risk blow-outs in the remote places we travel, and we don't want to hurt the poor doggie, either!

Something unexpected came of this aborted tour: I've recommitted myself to becoming a climber again. I haven't climbed much at all over the last couple of years, and I thought I had made peace with not having it in my life. I'd pulled a finger, torn a shoulder muscle, felt annoyed at the driving required to get to the crags. After Jodi and I got back to Tehachapi, we retooled our trip, loaded up the VW camper, and headed out for the East Side. Jodi has done some day rides over the last week or so, and both of us have done some hiking. One hike in particular shifted my perspective.

The three of us headed out for Kearsarge Pass, about 11,700 ft. Late spring snow clung to the peaks, but the trail was mostly clear. Jodi was still dealing with the cold I'd given her, so she bailed out after a couple of miles. Django and I continued on. Soaring granite walls, steep snow fields, crags, walls and spires filled our vision. The day was cool, perfect for hiking. The more I looked at the rock, felt myself move through the mountains, the more I knew something was missing in my life. I just had to get back to the vertical world. I was a grinning, happy fool as we topped the pass and looked over the west side drainages and peaks--rank upon rank of Sierra perfection. Yes, I needed to be up here, in places like this, more often.

Cycle touring is still very important to me, but as John Muir said, "I am forever and hopelessly, a mountaineer." What this means for my TransAm is that I will be treating it as an opportunity to start getting back in shape for the rock. I've already purchased a set of elastics with handles that I'll use as a protable gym. Most days, early or late, I'll start my reconditioning. I've lost a lot of muscle over the last couple of years. I'm just a skinny punk at this point--175 lbs. Sounds like a lot to some of you, I'm sure, but I'm 6'4" tall and fine boned, so you might get a sense for my build. The attached photos should help, too. Anyway, I've got to re-gain ten to fifteen pounds of muscle to be where I want to on the rock. During my "burley" peak of my early twenties, I was up to 205 lbs. I don't expect or really want to be that big again, but I'm going to have to lose some of this stick-man thing I've got going now. I guess I'm looking at balancing these twin passions, which shouldn't be too hard. I may take fewer long bike, tours, however, to make room for climbing, which takes a steady application in order to be done properly. More than cycling, it requires a mental/spiritual "edge" that requires some regular attention.

Photos of the new GTT--Greenspeed Tandem Trike

Here she is fully loaded and ready to roll. Our usual Jandd Expedition panniers won't fit because of the attachment for the trailer. Fortunately, we happen to have two sets of Radical panniers--one medium, one large--that can do the job. I'm considering getting a small, new set for the front seat, but this seems to work so far.