Handlebar Confessional

Day 59 - The Final Familiar Frontier

2010-07-05T17:34:00.000-07:00

Donny and I had about 80 miles to travel to our front door on my 59th (and his third – go Donny!) and final day of the journey. My level of excitement and anticipation of having my house and pillows and the cat and laptop and friends and spinach anytime I wanted and Trader Joe’s and running instead of cycling and maybe wearing a different t-shirt and clean socks and not having to smear Asso chamois sludge in the nether regions and imprison my dick and balls in a locked and padded room for many hours daily had exponentially increased in the last 24 hours. I was overly ready to see the familiar coast I’d ridden so many times over the years from north of Malibu to Santa Monica and then on my usual commuter route from the beach (a few blocks from where I work at Common Ground) to La Jolla Avenue. I imagined myself pedaling up the bike lane on Santa Monica Boulevard with a big yellow “DC to LA” banner, yee-hawing to drivers at stoplights and the few pedestrians on the LA streets, beating my chest like I was a dope-free Lance Armstrong winning the freaking Tour. This fantasy, which admittedly I’d indulged in a few times before the Ultimate Day, sometimes included a modest marching band and always ended with my rolling ecstatically on our front lawn, me a dog wanting to smell like something that stinks so good it’s a piece of heaven served up on grass.

Savoring the last moments of my feat, however, would be more internally sensational, I knew, (until I verbalized them on the blog) than flag-waving and drumbeats and Olympian torch-bearing. And, according to Donny, Kelly and Nina would be there to welcome me, which would mark the occasion more than well enough. And maybe Mary Ann and David would stick around as they had been Dinah-sitting for the three nights that Donny had been away. I had also contemplated the possibility of stopping at Common Ground to say hello to my cohorts there – since it was on the way – but dismissed the idea in favor of a quicker reunion with my pillows. I really just wanted to be home.

But I still had 80 miles to go, and anything can happen with the Mancini Curse nipping at the heels of our bike cleats. The Cliff House Inn included breakfast which, to my chagrin, didn’t open until 7:30AM. Hmph. I had been hoping to leave by then so we could experience the return to LA without rush hour traffic. We weren’t the only bumrushers ready to eat that morning, hanging around the continental breakfast table before the food was ready for consumption. An ancient father with his child-bride and their fairy-child offspring were also trying to stay out of the way/getting in the way of the hotel workers. This family gave me a whiff of LA, or Brentwood more specifically, with their overly public attention-seeking parenting style (yes, your 4 year old child is brilliant for knowing the object in question is, in fact, a hard-boiled egg,). I imagined the nearing-30 progeny from the tanned and bottle-blonded dad’s first marriage plotting their young stepmother’s untimely death.

I ate twice as much as Donny for the second morning in a row and pilfered a waxy granny smith and still-too-green banana for later. The banana would be fine. Forget the paper bag in the pantry method; nothing ripens a banana faster than squashing it into my behind-the-saddle bag. I would try make Donny eat it later. I checked out of the hotel and waited for Donny to meet me outside. The morning was the usual less than 60 degrees and beach-style gloom but promised to be warm by the time we got home. Dashie says 78 in Los Angeles, but Los Angeles is vast and Dashie is a liar.

Brave Donny got right back into the saddle after his mishap of yesterday. It was still reasonably early at 8:15 and there wasn’t a ton of traffic on the highway. After 5 miles we came to Dulah. Not much of a town. Just a few houses sprinkled near the beach. From there, we rode partly on Highway 1 and partly on bike paths through several state beaches – Emma Wood, whoever she is, San Buena Ventura, and McGrath State Park. These beaches are very much like the ones I was familiar with near Malibu, Leo Carrillo and the like: plenty of seaweed and rock to go with the sand and surfers, in various stages of wetsuit dress/undress parked along the gravel at the side of the road. As we neared the cities of Oxnard and Ventura, the route brought us onto a seaside boardwalk where we had to avoid mowing down runners, walkers and the ever-irksome, anachronistic roller-bladers. Why is it that roller-bladers are always extra-extra-clueless, hands clasped behind their backs, gliding inches from your front wheel, bopping to the beat of a clue-sucking drummer? After the bike path, we move to the flat swamplands between Ventura and Oxnard which boast vistas of recession-challenged construction projects, concrete mixed with tall grasses, a mini-airport, the county sanitation department (yes, including the dump) and general deadness. We stopped to piss on it.

A few miles later we’re riding through the city of Port Hueneme and headed crosswise through the peninsula. Nothing much to report here. Like Lompoc, this place is military – maybe a little cushier (Navy vs. Air Force?). Everything is a mini-mall. The best part of this stretch is coming up with various ways to pronounce Port Huminah-huminah-huminah. We turn toward the ocean and into the wind for the last time toward Port Hugh-Enemy’s brother base, Pt. Mugu. A giant black cargo plane, loud as megafuck, practically shaves our helmets down and liquidates our eardrums, as it tears overhead and lands in the airfield along side of appropriately named Navalair Rd. Very unsettling. At the Pt. Mugu Naval Base we finally get back onto Highway 1 proper, which, I believe it is now safe to call Pacific Coast Highway. Which is how I know it, intimately.

Every moment feels like a 99.9% milestone now, and within about 42 miles, when we hit Leo Carrillo State Beach and the Los Angeles County line, nothing will be new but I will be seeing it all with the sore eyes of a traveler headed home. Leo Carrillo is where Son of Semele had our annual retreat less than a year ago during which a bunch of theater geeks gathered to do yoga on the beach and debate the future of the company. I had biked from work the 30 or so miles that long ago Friday but I had dumped my gear off at Sarah’s to carry for me. If we go to the same place this year, I will bring my own stuff. Funny that less than a year ago that seemed beyond inconvenient (and wasn’t possible based on the gear I owned).

Donny and I stopped for the requisite overly backlit pictures at the LA County line. I hug the signpost trying to avoid getting tetanus from the rust-crusted staples poking out of the splintery wood. 99.99% there. Truthfully, I feel less excited about the County line than other milestones; actually the angst of returning to work fills my throat. To me, “Los Angeles County” is not just a place; it’s also a meddlesome bureaucracy that provides a considerable amount of Common Ground’s funding. Government dollars mean red tape equivalent to the square mileage of our vast County and drones to monitor the length, quality, function, and general adhesiveness of that tape as well as to ensure that the tape is very, very red. This I have not missed. But I have days before I return to work and have to deal with that aspect of LA County. The angst dissipates as the tailwinds pick up and assist us (slightly!) up and down the hills at the beaches of north Los Angeles County. Zuma Beach comes and goes. As we go further, the beaches become more populated and the surfers seem to welcome me. My joy is tempered by the fear of being bashed by a swinging car door along PCH. We are in Malibu (one municipality away from home) making amazing time. In 30 miles I’ll be home and it will still be mid-afternoon.

I’m running on anticipation and don’t really desire lunch but Donny wants to stop. Of course I oblige. I can certainly eat something besides the bruised banana and apple, cashews, Clif bar, or whatever’s still shoved in Whitey’s orifices. There’s a Subway in a strip mall near Malibu Colony with the unappetizingly named “Coogie’s” Restaurant. It’s lunchtime and busy. I hold a table while Donny goes to get sandwiches. I eat my turkey sub in like two minutes. Donny is munching his more slowly and I’m getting impatient. Instead of hopping to, he then elects to visit Starbuck’s for caffeine and an emergency poo. Come on! I wait with the bikes for what seems like ages, and Yellow Jacket ambles back, heel, heel, clomping on his cleats, slurping on a venti frap no whip. My impatience is beaten back for a moment at the sight of his manly cuteness and his offer of a sip or two, but lurches forward again at his persistent lollygagging. Come on already!

We’re finally off again, and after one or two more steep hills, it is the smoothest of sailing, soft wind at our backs, sun finally out. It’s all beyond gravy now as long as we can avoid being struck by the endless stream of car doors being flung open by gawking tourists and local surfers alike. I’ve been Rushy Rutherford all day but the sight of the City Limits of Los Angeles fills me with emotion. Really, truly, I have arrived. If I get killed between now and the front door, there won’t be any exaggeration if someone at my memorial says I rode my bike from Washington, DC to Los Angeles, California. We take our time here at the City of LA sign. Donny is a better photographer than me. And I am a better subject now than ever; the champion poses look bona fide because it’s not just a pose. I actually believe.

While still at the sign, Donny suggests calling Jinx to announce our arrival in LA. Which I do without hesitation since she has been such an inspiration to me. And I can’t call Jinx without calling my own sister, so Natalie gets a call too. By this time, I’m ready to continue on – we do have about 15 miles yet – but Donny says we have to call Denise, another of several more Mancini sisters, so she won’t feel left out. I leave Denise a message. More? He now thinks I should call our mothers and perhaps my father. No! I’ll call them later, when I’m actually home wearing clean clothes, rather than the sweat-choked lycra outfit I’ve been suited up in for several days. And no more pictures. Let’s go! It’s 2:30 or so and the traffic heading east from the beach will worsen with every second.

As the trip-o-meter clicks 99.999% completion, we enter Santa Monica and after a few more miles where I recognize every centimeter of scenery, ever-so-carefully make our way into the left-turning lane to cycle up the steep-ish (but thankfully short) California Incline and cross Ocean Avenue and Palisades Park. “I got hit back there!” shouts Donny. “What?” I ask. “Are you ok? What do you mean ‘hit’?” Not really hit hit, it is explained to me, but he did bash his shoulder on the side view mirror of an SUV while waiting to turn left up the incline. He says he’s fine, but as we make our way south a few more blocks to Wilshire and then Santa Monica Boulevard, he needs to stop and “stretch” it. “Donny, you don’t stretch something that’s bruised,” I snappily explain looking for evidence of his wound. Secretly, I plan to involve Kelly, who is a nurse and will be seeing us in a matter of a couple hours, about this mistreatment of his hardly visible injury. I know Kelly would say stretching is a stupid idea, or at least misguided. But Donny is on the sidewalk stretching away leaning against a parking meter.

All these madcap interruptions to the final miles of unfettered glory – Subway, Starbucks and pooing, extensive photo shoots and phone calls to every family member he can think of, and now this minor injury – should be comical (and, looking back, they are) but in the moment I was IMPATIENT. Clearly the injury was not mortal, so let’s just ice it in a few minutes WHEN WE’RE HOME PLEASE.

We’re finally on the way again, still on Santa Monica Blvd. We pass the 405 and are now on the actual bike lane I use to commute to work. Less than five miles to go. After Westwood Blvd., there’s a slight incline which seems super-easy now in comparison to the last time I rode it. In Century City, some kids on bikes on the sidewalk try to race us, but they are not beating us. No way, no how. Beverly Hills now and Burton Way, slowly coasting down. Donny says: “I thought we were going down Beverly?” “No, let’s go on Third.” “Too busy,” he says. That’s true – there are a ton of restaurants and shops on Third and the valet parkers tend to make things a bit calamitous on a bike. “Ok, then, how about 1st St?” Donny pauses slightly and says, ridiculously, “I hate 1st St.”

Okay, now I get it. We need to go down Beverly, because we need to get onto La Jolla, our street, from that direction, because it’s not just Kelly and Nina that will be waiting for us. We needed to stop for lunch and get coffee and poo and take pictures and make incessant phone calls and get injured and stupidly stretch the injury and not take 3rd or 1st Streets, because something in addition to Kelly and Nina and maybe Mary Ann and David being around to welcome us will be happening at our house, something which needed to be stalled because we were making such good time. My partner's talent as an actor has been unearthed and played to the heavens.

So, without further questioning or interference, I get onto Beverly and head east for the last half-mile with Donny behind me. Both of us are quiet. The trip is ending now, as I turn right onto our street and as we spin the final two blocks I am starting to see a bunch of people hurrying to get into place in front of our house. Sweat is in my eyes and I’m tearing up at the sight of Robert and someone else (can’t remember who now – Warren?) holding a finish line across and I think “Fuck, what if I can’t break through?” The streamer/finish line stretches, thankfully breaks. My friends cheer and Gattas throws a giant fistful of biodegradable confetti in my face. I inhale a few pieces. Gattas blesses me and sticks a light blue scrap of confetti onto my forehead like a bindi which I wear until it falls off.

About 20 or so folks are there to meet me. (Thanks Nina, Kelly, Val, pregnant Mara, very pregnant Lisa, Gattas, Debbie, Kristin and Erin, David and Liz, Corey, SheilaMaryAnnRobertDavidbutnoTed, Claire and Warren, Barry, Mike and Brian and Mike, Eleanor and Tessa, Tiffany, Jeff, Michelle) I’m shocked and a little overwhelmed, almost shy. Donny has amazingly (and generously) pulled this off via emails to let people know of the early arrival, engaging Nina’s help to get here early and be in charge. People demand to see my abs. Donny admits a fiendish fantasy to beat me to the finish line and break through it first, which would have been funny and out of character. He has ordered an amazing cake from Sweet Lady Jane complete with “Danny Rocks!” and a map of the US, the Capitol Building representing my starting point and an orange the end. There's also a cyclist pictured on there; it weirdly looks like me but it turns out it's a rip-off of a Lance Armstrong image, with an added smirk. I take a shower and change before cutting into it. The first cut is a release of tension between dualities: one the omnipotent center of the universe and the other a tiny, vulnerable visitor.

__________________________________

July 9, 2010. It's the one-year anniversary of the end of my journey and I'm finally posting this installment, maybe not the last. Hopefully it's not too late to thank you for your support. All the facebook posts and comments were extremely motivating (except for those telling me to slow down!) and came from people from the entire landscape of my life. My sister Natalie and brother-in-law Larry (and Allison my niece) deserve huge Friendly's sundaes of gratitude - for their efforts to help me prepare in the days leading up to the start and for posting pictures along the way. And Kristin for being my training and text support, making sure i was eating and stretching, and for being interested in all the fitness-related dirt and stats. And Nina for co-piloting the trips to REI and for revitalizing my interest in human contact while we were together in Utah. And my parents and grandparents for being proud anyway, even though they thought i was crazy. And most of all, as always, to Donny for changing his perspective about this whole thing and letting go a little even though it was painful and scary for both of us. That's it for now.

Day 58 - The Bony Claw of the Mancini Curse

2010-04-05T16:20:00.000-07:00

Donny had strict instructions to arise at 0600 hours so we could pack up, get caffeinated, do our business and eat the made-for-you complimentary Best Western Lompoc morning meal – boastfully “made to order”! The heavy light-eclipsing drapes kept us asleep until my eyes popped open with militaristic expectation at 5:55AM. We slid into our cycling costumes and puce vinyl-covered chairs in the half-buffet/half-made to order breakfast converted conference room. Donny was rather unimpressive in his consumption ordering eggs and an English muffin only, while I scarfed pancakes, a mini-sized treat of Frosted Flakes, and a couple bites of mealy melon and bruised pineapple chunks, in addition to the eggs and toast. Fox news blared. I looked around at our fellow breakfast eaters content to know that this would be the last of breaking the fast with old white conservative guys, at least for a while.

Despite my food-load, I finished before Donny, and instead of drumming my fingers on the table in anticipation, I hopped off to the bathroom to ensure emptiness of viscera. Today, my desire to get going was in part motivated by the fact that this was the “vacation” part of the trip, and we were going to be staying at a hotel on the beach just south of Carpinteria within the bounds of the Ventura County line: the Cliff House Inn, about 75 miles from our current location. The picture on the Cliff House Inn’s website, barely visible on my iPhone, smacked of a coastal Eden. And today was the penultimate day of the trip. It must also be said, in case that hasn’t been obvious from the start, I don't relax well, even when on a non-trek, tropicalized beach holiday. Donny and I have been fortunate to get to Hawaii a few times together, and I’m sure he would make no bones about saying that I superball-bounce off the walls in the hotel room in the morning scratching at the door like a bladder-challenged puppy before I am finally let out to whiz.

Goodbye, Lompoc. We were in the middle of nowhere like five seconds after leaving the Best Western heading onto Highway 1 southbound and sailing downhill for several miles which came to an end at a tunnel and merged with the 101 Freeway which brought us back toward the beach (headwinds, ugh – thought we were done with all that). We rode (in a bike lane, in case that is not obvious) on that freeway for about 20 miles, mostly along the coastline. Strange to be actually on the 101 – which if we continued on would bring us straight to Hollywood. But even with a bike-only lane, cycling on a Southern California freeway is white-knuckle-inducing for sure, with trucks, SUVs and a zillion cars blowing by at 80 compared with the 11 or 12 mph at which we were moving steadily up hill and then down again at 20ish. “I hate this!” Donny yelled about the freeway action. “This is dangerous!” Yes, I can admit that it’s not exactly an invigorating adventuresome feeling one experiences wobbling next to 18-wheelers. In real life, I commute at often as possible to work in Santa Monica which is like nine and a half miles door-to-door. Frequently a chunk of the ride is spent on Olympic Blvd, which does make me grit and bear it. I’m often asked: “Aren’t you afraid of LA drivers? Scared of getting smashed to bits? Of being totally vulnerable?” And my answer is always something to the effect of: “Yes. Yes I am.” But I still do it, and I’ve spent the last almost-two months of being vulnerable every day – not quite as exposed to trucks barreling a few feet away at 80 – but still at-risk of being vehicular manslaughter fodder. So currently I’m a little more inured to it all than Donny, which is expected. I hope I calm him by not making a big deal of it either way, acknowledging that it does suck right now. It does cross my mind several times that if something happened to him, rather than me at this point, I…NEVER MIND. Banish all thoughts like these. (Now that I’m safe at home, I am more willing to share scary freeway cycling paranoia. If I had done that more while actually on the road, some of you - e.g. Ma, Grandma - might have squirmed even more.) I guess if you ever go back within my handlebar confessionals and re-read the entry from Toronto to Larned, Kansas, it’s ok to know now that in those 30mph headwinds on the highway there, with endless semis and pickup trucks veering dangerously close, using their horns unnecessarily, seemingly to fuck with me, visions of my mangled form in a ditch splattered my mind.

But this was not that frightening – how could something bad happen along the cloud-drenched Pacific Coast? Donny managed it well diverted by the beaches of Refugio State Park and El Capitan Beach Park as we neared Santa Barbara. Just a few miles further down the road, while in the SB ‘burb of Goleta, Donny’s back wheel broke a spoke. Oh, for the love of #@*%&! By this time, we were out of the traffic danger zone, actually on a road where we were seeing other cyclists. We pulled off onto the gravel and swore at Delia Darrow’s stupid weak-ass spoke which snapped right near the middle. Of course I had Whitey Jackson’s spare spokes fashioned at I Martin back in LA, but Donny had none. Since Whitey had been such an ideal companion for 58 days with a paucity of issues, I hadn’t progressed too much as a bike mechanical genius. However, one thing I remembered from my overexposure to the cyclo-dudes at I Martin was Matt saying that if a spoke breaks, you can wrap it around its nearest neighbor which will then allow you to ride a short while with some stability, without totally fucking up the wheel alignment. In my memory bubble, whether it’s accurate or not, Matt was saying 10 miles was cool. Luckily, we were already in Goleta which, like all nice beach communities is home to a ton of cyclists and triathletes, and the handy-dandy Adventure Cycling Map boasted two bike shops just in that small town. Donny eyeballed a couple of cyclists up ahead and shot out to catch up with them on Delia’s lame-ass wheel. As my weighed-down Whitey and I approached Donny and the cycling twosome, I could tell by their body language that directions were being given. As it turns out, the spoke breaking was barely an inconvenience as the nearest bike shop was in a strip mall just off the route less than 2 miles ahead.

With most bike shops, you normally can’t just waltz in and ask for something to be fixed right away. Bike mechanics are busy dudes. This phenomenon was proved false at both of the shops I had visited along the way, in Blacksburg VA and Pueblo CO. But these shops weren’t overrun with demanding athletes, at least at the time of my arrival. And without tons of gear and his tan, lean from, Donny appeared to be one of those every-athletes, rather than a traveler in need - so we were afraid we'd have to wait. Before entering the shop, we rehearsed not taking “later” as an answer, and it worked without having to play the dude-come-on-i-just-rode-across-the-country card. The bike-nerd at the front consulted the eye-rolling, expansively-sighing mechanics, and they reluctantly gave us somewhat instantaneous service. Of course we didn’t know the exact size of the spoke, thinking they could just, you know, figure it out themselves. We withstood the barely covert head-shaking emasculation so commonly experienced in these situations (“You mean you don’t know the size of your spoke?” “Aren’t spokes different sizes within the same rim?" I offer, parroting something I thought I heard back at I Martin in April.) Whatever. We slunk next door and ate a sandwich. Gratefully. Whitey, coolly leaning against a post, did not gloat at Delia’s misfortune. Good boy. Almost sympathetic was he, if a bicycle could actually feel.

Thirty-five minutes later, we were on our way hitting 50 miles as we arrived at UC Santa Barbara’s bike path. As seems always the case with bike paths i'm not familiar with, I’m still never quite sure I’m on the correct route. UCSB is nice-ish. It looks like a made-up school where kids on a WB show might attend. The bike path runs through campus and along sandy mini-waterways and marine inlets. It's not a straight ride by any means, curving sharply, and we took care not to run down the coeds though we were vexed by how slow the campus traffic moved. We could see the main road just to the north and wished we were on it. Somewhere past the campus, the route expelled us from the bike path and onto a main road, Arroyo, which took us into Santa Barbara proper. We made a left onto Cabrillo near the marina and the gorgeous and richly named Los Baños del Mar non-chlorinated pubic pool where we swam once when visiting Santa Barbara for a wedding. The July gloom had lifted and it was sunny and warm finally. Tourists were everywhere, including some rubbernecking bicyclists gazing at the scenery. Yo! Snap out of it! We know it’s pretty but we got someplace to be! There’s a golden quality about Santa Barbara, I’ve always felt. Maybe it’s the sun warming the pink, orange and white Spanish buildings, glinting off the golf clubs and (oily) waters. Maybe because it’s wealthy and well-manicured.

Speaking of wealthy and well-manicured, have you ever been to Montecito? Extravagant. And I’m sure too dear to do anything there but quietly pass through. As E. Cabrillo ends, the route breezes over a series of passages that are all the same road, but kind of not. The directions i'm trying to follow on my handlebar map are a little complicated – in 200 ft. merge onto this road, ride straight up the hill for 250 ft, cross over the bridge onto the bike path for 0.8 miles, etc. At this point, we are riding alongside of the 101/Highway 1 (which has lovingly become one), first on the beach side, then the other. The beach town of Summerland is just the comeliest, and we again fantasize about the beach bum lifestyle. But this isn’t exactly an area where anyone can afford to be underemployed.

The wind is easing us along the lightly rolling coast and we glide through Carpinteria, which I have heard of before. It’s the place I think our hotel is located, but it’s actually about 5 miles further. Shattering the relative peace of the last several miles, we are forced once again onto a bicycle lane on the 101 Freeway. At rush hour. Now, when I say “rush hour” I’m not referring to LA’s rush hour, during which a cyclist could cruise through the gridlock, even on the freeway (if you were allowed). This rush hour is better described as a lot of people anxious to get home and able to do so at top speed. Again, I’m pretty used to this and am getting by with a modicum of just putting my head down and jaw-clenching. Donny, however, is as before, more worked up. With probably about 2 miles left before our destination, I hear Donny yell my name. Oh, what now. I’m unfairly impatient, I learn. Donny is about 100 yards back with a flat. The Mancini Curse has struck two times in one day. Perhaps you are not aware of the Mancini Curse? Well, anytime something unforeseen and inconvenient, painful or otherwise negative occurs, e.g. a twisted ankle, a fender bender, a canceled flight, and you are a Mancini – or at least Donny, Jinx, Denise or the other Mancini sisters – this is because you are cursed. I’m not sure who hexed the hapless Mancini clan – but it’s somehow interrelated with the neuroses suffered by having a relentlessly harsh Coach Dad, none other than Sonny Mancini, may he rest in peace. Donny has on some occasions when I have a stroke of bad luck indicated that I too now suffer from the Mancini curse, which of course I eschew. The Getzoff Curse is the name itself.

Well, thankfully, the Mancini Curse didn't break anyone's neck at breakneck speed; it just caused my Mancini to burst his tube and nearly veer into roaring sure-death traffic. At that instant, I don’t realize how close I came to dedicating my cross-country trip to Donny’s memory, and I go into problem-solving mode. I have a little shame peering back into my headspace: again?! , reads my thought bubble. I am robot-caveman now; tunnel-vision chip in brain no feel sympathy. Be that as it may, a bit of luck and no shortage of road skills on Donny’s part have prevented me from recounting this episode without unspeakable grief pouring onto my keyboard, now that I have be reprogrammed to understand human relationships.

Unfortunately, my problem-solving mode does not solve the problem at hand. No one, including the instructor at Bicycle Kitchen in Hollywood where we took a basic bike maintenance class a few months before, can give us a good reason why, even with tire levers, a good grip and a ton of aggravated aggression it is practically impossible to remove a tire from Donny’s rims. Despite my desire to save the day and show how super-self-reliant I am now, Donny hops the beach fence and approaches some surfers to get a ride the 5 or so miles back to the bike store we passed in Carpinteria. For the second time of the day being out of hearing range during Donny’s quest for assistance, I am reading body language which communicates that there is a solution. Of course, at that very moment, I manage to pry the tire off the rim.

But Donny isn’t taking chances with my skills and throws the repeatedly infirm Delia Darrow into the back of a surfer’s truck. The surfer is also a doctor which is just so totally California. There’s no way that my bike with all our shit is fitting in anyone’s truck, so Donny and I part ways. I make my way to the Cliff House Inn to check in and wait for him to call from the bike shop back up the road. The hotel has that mildewy beach motel smell which I like a lot. It’s basic all-around, but the rooms are terraced and face the ocean which is only a few rocky yards away. Donny calls; the bike is fixed but he’s reluctant about getting back on the freeway. I try to reassure him, but it’s hard to argue against the Mancini Curse, especially on a day like today. He survives.

That evening we eat at the Cliff House's own Shoals Restaurant outside on the patio, steps away from the beach. There is wine and good bread, fresh fish, even some vegetables. The bed in our room is small, and we like it that way.

I can’t believe I’m saying this: tomorrow I will be home.

Day 57 - Poking into Lompoc

2010-03-15T20:06:00.000-07:00

I had to pinch Donny in the AM of Day 57 to see if he was real. He was! His skin looked extra brown against the bleached surroundings. (Naturally brown from swimming, mind you - he does not "lay out" as he is sometimes accused; that's just what they look like in Mediterranea). I tried to control my controlling nature by relaxing a bit that morning, not being so pushy-out-the-door. I had been a lone wolf for 56 days, with no one to answer to, so now i had to cater. A little.

Not that Donny wasn't flexible. We had previously compromised (or, rather, i had gotten him to agree) that i was the Boss of Us for the next few days. I'd been doing this for a while, and he was to be Beta. I packed our shit and we moved to the main house for breakfast - again, not as plentiful as i was used to but fresh. We chatted with the other guests, and i was caught up on the political moment of Sarah Palin indulgently quitting her job as Governess. I was very aware for the first time that i had left the Land of Red and was chatting with like-minded lefties. Not that San Luis County is strictly Democratic (and we were headed for Lompoc later on). But it was nice to come out of my blank-faced non-partisan shell during breakfast and not have to worry about offending or being gunned down.

The sky was warm and shining as we left but thickened with the Pacific pall as we headed south and west towards Pismo Beach, me loaded down with our belongings and Donny free to fend off predators in his Yellow Jacket superhero costume. Wikipedia says that pismo is the Chumash word for tar, in case you were wondering. Back in LA, Donny had been been cycling quite a bit but never really more than 40 miles in one day, so his 60-mile cherry was gonna get popped. He is much faster than i am, especially on hills, but because i had the map and i was Alpha Dog, i led the way. After Pismo was Grover Beach and then the over-simply named Oceano (is it Ocean-Oh, or the more hoity-toity O-See-On-Oh?). We're on Highway 1 for a big chunk of this, and will remain so, on and off, for the rest of the trip.
We stop for a brief photo shoot at the Santa Barbara County line (can you fuckin' believe how close?) and rolled through the sleepy town of Guadalupe, location of the first Cecil B. DeMille movie of The Ten Commandments. With its shuttered bars and rundown Deco buildings reminiscent of that bygone era, Guadalupe seems to regret that the Charlton Heston version was not filmed here. Farmland and increased winds greet us on the other side of Guadalupe and we stop to eat our mushy sandwich leftovers from the previous day at mile 38. Donny tells me the wind will knock my bike over the way i've left it. I scoff and roll my eyes: amateur! Ten seconds later Whitey is lying in the dirt, and bless him, Donny is not smug at least outwardly. After all, we've only been reunited for 24 hours.

Only 24 miles to Lompoc from the windy luncheon spot- breeze of a day. According to the Pacific Coast Section 4 map, Harris Grade Road looks like it's going to be a bitch of a hill, the only one between us and Lompoc (which is Lompoke, not Lompock - i found out at some point). As we begin the climb, we agree that if Donny feels the need, he can pass me up, as i am lugging the much heavier Whitey Jackson. (We have now ditched Rupert Stiltskin as Donny's bike's name and have settled upon Delia Darrow who is a way bigger bad-ass anyway). Donny on Delia is a much defter combo - speed and weight. Donny comments on the scenery, "It's so beautiful." My memory chips measure the deserted dry and crunchy California hillocks against some of the unbelievable natural glory I've recently experienced, and I stop myself from saying something to the effect of "this ain't nothin'" (not wanting to be a superior dick). But this area just reminds me of the Santa Monica Mountains and the hills near Glendale which are "beautfiul" when you live in a concrete jungle. Donny needs to get out in nature more, i decide privately.

Harris Grade is not hard for Donny. I don't know if it's hard for me because being able to chat and spend time with your Best Guy while doing this makes it go down much more of a treat. We coast down the other side entering Vandenberg Air Force Base which is what Lompoc is all about. "My dad was in the Air Force," I remind Donny in the rushing wind. "WHAT?" Oh, never mind. It's just the reason why i have such cheap car insurance.

Once in Lompoc, which welcomes us with a ton of chain restaurants and big box stores (LA, i can smell ya now!), we seek the best hotel deal and after visiting a few choices on the cleverly named "N. H St", we call Best Western on the southern end of town. It's the best deal and it turns out to be kinda nice for us two and our steeds. The Parker Poseyesque customer service rep sings the the praises of the hotel's made-to-order complimentary breakfast and slides us a sleeve of free DVDs to choose from in case we wanted to catch a film. We choose "Lakeside Terrace" (or is it "Lakeview Terrace"?) - something with Sam Jackson as a cop as bent and twisted as a paperclip but way more deadly wreaking havoc on a nice mixed race civilian couple that moves in next door. The room seems like luxury to me and Donny is satisfied especially as i indulge him with this shtick i always do when we go to a hotel- sing-song humming as i set up house a la Marge Simpson.

We peel off the superhero costumes, shower and crash on the bed for some getting reacquainted, the details of which don't make sense to share when it isn't fictional. Donny regards my extra-lean form as a "new toy" which, after 10 years of being together, is not something you hear every day. I blush from the way he's looking at me and at my own pride and self-confidence. And i leave it at that.

CUT to dinner at a vinyl-coated diner which could have been in Missouri or Nevada or Kentucky (ok, not Kentucky) for how bland and canned everything is. The trip wouldn't be worth it if Donny didn't get to experience one veggie-less night. Try to bike a mile in my shoes, mister! The hennaed waitress is nicer than our food and we go next door to Foster's Freeze for a high fructose corn syrup sundae and long-spoon it down on the short walk back to the room. "Lakeside/view Terrace" is an anxious treat and pulls us both down down down into slumber.

Day 56 - D-Day

2010-03-14T16:26:00.001-07:00

We've all been waiting for this day. Another milestone in this trip. I'd already ridden my bike through 10 states (ok, I was in Maryland for under an hour but still...) and the District of Columbia; I'd hit the 1, 2, 3, 4,000 mile markers; 25, 50, 75, 90% of the entire trip was under my belt; the 5 or 6 discrete mountain ranges (O, the mountain ranges!); the pelting rain and hail, the wind and humidity; the days with no fresh produce. All without my partner in crime. If i could upload a graph here (and i probably could but i'm not going to) of loneliness, i would have peaked at the end of week one, with semi-crippling exhaustion and paranoia catalyzing that heightened state of solitude. But as the miles wore on, and finishing seemed probable, i plateaued. And the sadness of being without Donny shifted toward ever-growing eagerness and anticipation. The pup in me, the Antennaed One one who hears his master's car two blocks away, woke up in my cottony feather nest - nose in the air, ears erect - on Day 56, the day when the Graph of Loneliness dropped off into irrelevancy.

I was alert but tired. I had only ridden the last 6 days in a row but they had been long days overall (averaging 100 miles per day) and i was glad it worked out that I'd have a full day of rest and fun with Donny before setting off for the final 3 days journey. I wandered into the main house wanting the latter B in B&B. It wasn't quite ready so i skittered back to Towanda to filter my camping gear and rid myself of any excess to make room for Donny's gear. It was an unquestionably beautiful sunny day. The post office was walking distance - what isn't at this point? I ate the modestly-sized yet tasty breakfast cooked by Suzy with the other Sanitarium relief-seekers which included a TV writer and her friend and a half-LA/half-Richmond VA couple. The couple were especially nice, she in med school, and he works as an assistant to a self-involved, semi-abusive therapist who sees child celebrities and rich people's kids. LA felt closer than ever. Another breakfast-mate was The Innkeeper. I can't remember his name; "The Innkeeper" is clearly more memorable.

The post office was a snap. Unlike most of my experiences in Los Angeles with DMV-level-of-caring postal workers who slam down "NEXT WINDOW PLEASE" as you gingerly step up to the plate, my small-town USPS interactions were all pleasant and old-timey. I said goodbye to my tent, mat, sleeping bag, camp pillow, one my my 2 remaining t-shirts and one spare tire. Figured the chance of blowing both tires was unlikely at this point. Not the most cautious thing to do, but i'm a rebel.

Donny and i had been texting since before he got on his bike (inappropriately named Rupert Stiltskin as a movie nerd reference-partner to Whitey Jackson) to Union Station in downtown LA to catch the train to San Luis. He was due in at 12:30 and had been alerting me as he passed each stop, starting with Glendale and Van Nuys, then Oxnard, Santa Barbara, the ghostly town of Guadalupe. And finally San Luis Obispo. It was a 30 second gallop to the station as i heard the whistle. I'm already feeling aware of the possible over-sentimentality of recounting this moment but i suppose it's unavoidable. Most important to note that the high expectations were met. Mary Ann wrote in a facebook post something like: the music swells and the camera circles around them. And it did, i swear it did. But privately (it's only self-aware looking back on it). He saw me first. What a rush. Tears. And comfort. It was hard but it was worth it.
...

I was very excited to show Donny the Sanitarium and our big comfy bed. We took iphone pictures of each other and immediately and shamelessly posted showed them to the world on facebook. He was hungry. We went to get sandwiches (saving half of each for the ride the next day) and took a walk through downtown. Donny, who can be somewhat of a cautious overpacker, had over-heeded my pleas to pack light and had basically brought nothing but his bike, toothbrush and his contact lens deal, the clothes on his back and a pair of cycling shorts. That's all ya need, right? Well...As it turns out, he hadn't taken into account that he might need something a little warm to ride in. Looking back on it now, i don't know why - in San Luis Obispo for godsakes - we didn't think to find a cycling store. I guess we didn't want to spend any time thinking about it, so we ended up super-reluctantly - for both of us the first time in our lives - darkening the doorstep of... Abercrombie and Fitch. We were accosted by life-sized cutouts of white preppy body-geniuses. Donny and i quickly selected something we could cut the telltale tag off of immediately and he self-consciously paid the young shopwoman for the I-Bought-This-Cuz-I'm-Gay Sweatshirt. "No one will know we were here," i reassure him. The shopwoman looks at us like we're very very old.

Bagless (of course) we exit the establishment shaking off the Chinese-child-labor willies and duck into a movie theatre. The cinema! Only my second time in two months - which is still probably twice more than all my friends with young children. But this is something that Donny and I do together. What was the movie? That Johnny Depp gangster film with the French actress who won the Oscar a couple years back where Johnny plays Neither Jesse James Nor Billy the Kid and she plays an American convincingly. It's ok. I impress Donny with my choice of peanut rather than plain M&Ms. Our yellow bags kiss; it's like we're even closer now.

We eat dinner in an outdoor café next to a group of women in their forties who are Letting Loose, ordering more merlot than you can imagine, and they are spilling onto us. The waiter is practically a robot. I like my food more than Donny likes his. Some things haven't changed in 2 months. We nest as early as possible in our white-white room with the vibrant painting of grotesque children swimming above us. Tomorrow we don our lycra and get busy fighting crime down the coast!

Day 55 - The Road That Ended on a Cloud

2009-09-19T15:16:00.000-07:00

Day 55 was the final day of traveling alone. It's fitting, I suppose, that this day's goal of 110-ish miles downdowndown (meaning southsouthsouth, not downhilldownhilldownhill) the Central California coast to San Luis Obipso was definitely in the realm of daunting. I woke up before my watch did, shuddering at the sting of the July morning air. Despite many on-again/off-again cold mountain mornings over the last few weeks, i continued to be affronted by unfamiliar 5th-of-July weather, still grasping at the idea that summer = warm. I visited the shitter/shower, sadly not as sparkling clean as one might want yet not as bad as could be the morning after Independence Day. I nibbled my overly-hard hard-boiled eggs and gnawed through the tough bagel as i rolled up my tent for the last time of the trip, as the plan was to unload the camping gear at the post office in San Luis the next day, happily to make room for Donny's stuff. Everyone else was still sleeping around me.

Pam the campsite manager had said that San Luis was 103 miles from Big Sur. My maps told a slightly longer story - 110 miles. But since i didn't have a plan for the night (figuring San Luis Obispo would have an array of choices at the bitter end of a holiday weekend), the number of miles was an estimate anyway. Couldn't plan the night either as there was no cell service. At least, it wasn't hot and likely wouldn't be since the ride would be coastal until near the end of the day.

The first 35 or so miles of the day was familiar. When Ju, Kersh and the girls and I came to Big Sur back in April, i did a training ride of about 70 miles (35 out from the campsite and 35 back, if that's not clear). That had been a difficult ride, particularly on the way back (into the wind), treacherous and hilly (though magnificent), a ride that had given me some early doubts about my ability to bike 70 miles at all, let alone riding more than that on average nearly every day for two months. It had been during that trip to Big Sur when Ju and Kersh had gently asked me if this journey was something that i was actually wanting to do, since i only spoke of how unprepared and unsure i was about it (I have referenced this conversation elsewhere in these posts). How long ago that 3 months seemed, as i strong-armed Whitey Jackson onto Highway 1 from Riverside Campground and Cabins and began the day's first climb.

Yes, it remained familiarly exhausting those first miles; i was reminded of the April trip as i slowly climbed through the town (if you can say that) of Big Sur, passing Nepenthe where the Kershaw clan and i had eaten after my ride in the spring. (I smirked as i said aloud Ne-pen-the in the tri-syllabic way that Ju and I are wont to do. How do you pronounce that anyway?) I was not quite awake for the first few hours. I think the earplugs had not been a good idea after all. Plugged the sleepiness in my head somehow, made me sluggish. In short, I'm a crab today, feeling the monotony of it all despite the wave-crashingly dramatic scenery. Though the coastal vistas in this area are unparalleled in my experience, i took them in more by osmosis than in the smell-the-flowers kind of way. The view surrounds you on this road; there's nowhere you can't ingest utter majesty - but i didn't stop much at all based on the crabapple factor.

The air was thick with shivery brine; the sun behind the generous cloak of clouds periodically shifted the light from gray to pearl to silver. It was early enough that even though it was the Sunday of a holiday weekend, there weren't many cars, and no one sweated me as i trudged past the minute hamlets of Lucia, Pacific Valley, and Gorda which didn't seem that gorda to me. Luckily the bike doesn't require gas as the price at the Gorda station was almost $4/gallon. The most significant climb of Day 55 confronted me a few miles past Gorda (on the map it looks like it's called Silver Peak), winding to an acrophobia-inducing pinhead before spiralling down to sea level at Ragged Point (i'm "spiralling" in the Queen's as a nod to Keane's 80s throwback tune which i could barely hear through the wind).

Ragged as the point might be, the clouds are lifting and so is my attitude as I hit the day's 50-mile (and nearly-halfway) mark sailing into San Luis Obispo County, which means there are ONLY THREE COUNTIES separating me and Los Angeles County. After Silver Peak, the terrain really flattens. The afternoon has begun and so has the tailwind which is keeping me moving at a satisfying 17 miles per hour. Signs for sea lions and Hearst Castle abound. I pass a few shuttered beachside motels and fantasize about Donny and I taking one over, shaking the sand off the sheets, applying a coat of paint to the shutters, and skipping peacefully at the water's edge for eternity. A minor traffic increase dents the reverie as i approach the Castle. i can barely see it way up in the distance. Who cares? I've gone almost 70 miles and I'm starving. Surprisingly, there isn't anything to eat on Highway 1 near San Simeon. Or if there is, i don't see it. By my calculations (or, rather, the map's), Cambria is only 11.5 miles from San Simeon Non-Village, and i know there's food there.

I've never been a fan of Cam-bria or Came-bria, however you pronounce it. It may be where sea lions go to breed but it's where humans go to break up. I know 3 couples, just off the top of my head, who have ventured to Cambria for a romantic getaway and returned as singletons. I don't know what it is about Cambria. The Cambria Chamber of Commerce makes the place sound like ambrosia-infested Olympus, but it's a trap, a lure for troubled twosomes. It's like couples therapy - you just need help breaking up so you go to counseling together. Never mind all that - just go to Cambria! Until the trip in April with the Kershaws, i had steered clear of Cambria, had driven past it, turned off by the main drag, on the east side of the freeway. The buildings are facades, like a street on the Fox lot. But in April with the Kershaws it had been time for lunch. Repelled by the cutesy-fake movie set on the left, we pulled to the beach side, settling on a restaurant in a very modest beach hotel. It was a gob-smackingly windy day and we sat indoors by the window watching people and plexiglass wind guards bending, almost whip-snapping in two. As i feared about Cambria, the best thing on the menu was the oleaginous grilled cheese Martha ordered and didn't eat.

But this was July, i was on a bike, and it was, again, time for lunch. Big Sur was 80-ish miles ago and the apple and Clif Bar I'd eaten since then had evaporated to salt on my skin. I rode up and down Main Street indecisively before settling on a diner-type place where i could eat on the patio keeping an eye on Whitey. I was a little worried about getting ripped off by an unhappy couple sensing that tomorrow i was to be reunited with my One True Love. I Tasmanian-Deviled through turkeysandwichfriesandasidesaladyesboththefriesandasaladthankswithranch and briefly flirted with dessert which i declined as the clock was ticking, i had no phone service, and hadn't secured a place to stay.

A few miles from Main St. my iphone sprang to life. I decided to check on the B&B that Carrie and Jeremy, San Luis natives, had recommended as the best place for me and Donny to reunite. THE SANITARIUM, it's called. (Cue sinister laughter). Because it was a sanitarium a long time ago. I spoke to Suzy who offered me a room in the rear house and gave me a lower price than Carrie had quoted for a reason i can't quite remember. Something having to do with a shared sitting room space with another guest room. Who cares? i was set for two nights and ready for comfort.

But not for 30 more miles. The rest of Day 55 took me through the coastal communities of Cayucos and Morro Bay where i continued my fantasy of the beach bum lifestyle for me and Donny, wishing away the fact that the water up here is damn cold. At this point, i figured out why the signs to San Luis (which agreed with Pam from the Big Sur campground) kept telling me i had less mileage than my map said: it was because i had to keep getting off Highway 1 proper onto service and side roads which added to the miles. Which i'm ultimately grateful for - the less time spending on the actual highway, the better. I got lost trying to stay on the bike path through Morro Bay State Park and the GPS on my iPhone helped me find the proper road to ride inland toward San Luis. It was actually warm by this point, maybe 5pm, I rolled down my arm warmers for the first time that day and welcomed a bit of sweat appropriate for nearly a hundred miles.

I took Foothill Blvd. into San Luis Obispo proper leaving behind the cows, orchards and the dry golden hillsides for cafes, college students, and California mission-style architecture, rights down to the street signs. Upon first glance, San Luis smacked of a small-town shake-up mix of other familiar joints. Luis is the skateboarding-crazed bro of the 3 beachside Santa sisters: Monica, Barbara and Cruz. What a nice family. I clocked 113 miles as i pushed Whitey to the doorstep of THE SANITARIUM. (Insert sinister laughter otra vez). Ok, there are no ghosts of vacant-eyed rocking-chair Victorianas floating around. The place is a converted private hospital that once cared for people with pneumonia and other early-20th century big killers.

Suzy welcomed me with a no-nonsense implacability that i mistook for warmth because she is the not-quite-doppelganger of Kim Gillingham, the most welcoming person on the planet. She showed me around the main house which is painted consumption-recovery white. The color is oddly soothing and highlights the kaleidoscopic (and some very good/some not) artwork that's displayed throughout. The rooms in the main house all have names containing many Greek and Latin roots, such as Hydrolucinogen, Euphoriasma and Ephipenization. I don't believe - but i can't be sure - that this is meant to be satiric, so i'll just leave it at that. I was shown my digs, a room called Towanda in the "Outpatient Ward" (Donny will love the Gothic-ness of all this), the only one without a gigantic Moroccan soaking tub. There was, however, a grand painting of large-lipped creepy children wading in a pool hovering above the headboard. Suzy committed to cleaning the other outpatient room which had just been vacated so i could use the tub in there. Which i sunk into as soon as you could say "herbithermogenerosteoporific." The bath care selection wasn't what you'd think it'd be, but since i had nothing, anything was hydrocorporeclecticorgasmicalaceous!

After drying myself with towels spun from the golden fleece, I strolled the TWO BLOCKS to the train station where i would picking Donny up the next day. Yes, TWO BLOCKS. This could not have been better planned. I dined at a fancy-schmancy place sitting where i could see the train tracks. Seventeen more hours until Donny.

Gastrosoporifically, I floated back to my cloud and nestled alone for the last time.

Help! I'm Still in Big Sur and Trying to Get Home.

2009-09-19T14:23:00.000-07:00

I wish at this point, more than 2 months after arriving home in LA, as i make a feeble attempt to use my brain on the weekend, i had forced myself to finish back when it was all a little more fresh. And i'm taking a moment to fully disclose that the remaining entries will likely contain some re-visioning.

I'm a different version of the cross-country cyclist i was earlier this summer: i often have moments of sense memory so strong, that Uta's corpse lifts her weary head for a moment or two and bows honor in my direction, until the feeling passes. Random shocks. In preparation for a camping trip last weekend (in real time, September) - the annual Son of Semele Ensemble retreat - i huffed deeply the scent of my tent and sleeping bag, getting a little stoned from the scent of Big Sur and Bryce Canyon, and the place in Colorado where i pitched my tent in the wind and rain and said fuck it and slept indoors, and the stanky hotel rooms where i used the sleeping bag instead of the bedcovers, and all the other places, back to the Catawba Valley General Store in Virginia, if that's what it was called. ... Ok, i'm lying. Sniffing the sleeping bag didn't get me high, nor could i really smell Utah or Kentucky on there. But it does trigger the Completely Changed Me, still bubbling and rumbling underneath the Regular Me, the one who returned to Real Life and mirrors - both the rearview and the one that tells me that i'm not really that different from who i was before May 12, 2009. Or am i?

Day 54 - Happy Birthday, America! (You're Cute and All But I'm Not Ready for the L-Word)

2009-07-14T20:42:00.000-07:00

My bed at Paula and Chris's was comfortable, and i slept very well. No pedaling legs nor anxiety dreams to speak of. Despite my weak protests of not wanting to be a bother, they woke up very early with me and whipped up a spinach frittata for breakfast. Paula, who grinds wheatberries to make her own flour, proffered her hearty homemade bread drizzled with profoundly sweet Turkish honey to accompany the egg concoction. Who was i to refuse?

It was 4th of July. Yip-yip-yippee! ... As you might guess, this particular holiday isn't really in my top 5. I'm not hot for hot dogs, fireworks, or drunk driving, particularly while riding a bike. Besides, I'd already been celebrating independence on a daily basis since the trip began. In truth, i have been feeling more free, more "American" these days, having just visited a humongous chunk of it and consumed loads of American cheese. But i'm not entirely comfortable with the whole patriotism thing, because love of country, which is what i think is meant by "patriotism", is often seen skipping hand-in-hand with nationalism, its ugly step-sibling. I've never unequivocally said "i love America" - we're just not in that stage of our relationship. I mean, we've like

known each other for a long time, and have had sort of this summer romance over the last 2 months, spending positively loads of time together. I know America better than i used to, and she is really, really good-looking, (everybody thinks so!), for sure fuckable. But sometimes when we're hanging out, i don't feel i can totally be myself, y'know? And there are a lot of things about her that i just don't like; I know it's not her fault. She's got a lot of people in her life that are pretty shady. We're just really different. But i can't keep my hands off her. I might use the L-word someday. Maybe even soon. But i'm a little embarrassed about what it could mean for us, and i don't wanna say it unless i'm sure i mean it. ...

Good thing i rode through Aptos as early as i did, because there was a huge parade a-brewin'. Very small-town America-seeming compared with Santa Cruz. It was gray and cold, and i was headed to Carmel to luncheon with Natalie (not my sis, a California via Hawaii Natalie). After the Santa Cruz beach cities, it was all farmland again for a while. I passed a company of Latino farmworkers cutting bunches of celery with big hackers and tossing them onto the back of a truck. It was kind of elegant and rhythmic, and i was mesmerized as i rode past. One guy saw me gawking and broke my stare by throwing me a convivial peace sign. I waved enthusiastically. Overly so, like a Brady kid.

I made my way to Monterey County mostly on backroads, crisscrossing Highway 1 several times. I had just dismounted from a several-mile expanse of bike-path through the seaside town of Marina when i was approached by Dave, a white guy in his 60s out for his Independence Day bicycle ride. I was about to call Natalie with an ETA when Dave offered to escort me most of the way to Carmel (still an hour away) on an alternate (and less traffic-laden, he promised) route. I hesitated but caved to the "yes" manifesto i had promised myself to abide by (and had been keeping to it, more often than not). Yes to help, yes to food, yes to hearing directions even if i don't opt to follow them, yes to making conversation with a strange white guy in his 60s, yes to it all. As we rode, he asked me the string of stock questions about my trip. And then this shoulda-been-banal conversation got interesting.

Bored of talking about myself all the time (can you believe that?), i redirected the conversation to Dave. He reminded me, both in manner and appearance, of Dave the Fireman who had cycled with me for a spell near Vacaville a couple days before. (For a split second, when today's Dave had greeted me, i thought that it was the same guy from the other day.) I knew of course that he was a different person, but wouldn't it have been an amusing coincidence if he was a fireman too? I probed: "So, Dave, what do you do? Are you a fireman?" He chuckled and said that in a sense he did put out fires for a living, emotional ones. "Ah, a therapist." Try again. "Uhh, teacher?" Nope. Dave is a minister who works for a non-profit that promotes communication and understanding among different denominations of the Christian faith. For those who are well-acquainted with me, i'm totally down for dialogic process. He told me about some of the recent minefields that he's navigated - which i can't recount now (can't, not won't - don't remember specifics). I observed that his job must be difficult, considering how common it is for people of faith to maintain a fixed belief that their way is the True Path. Dave agreed with my obvious yet potentially in-someone's-face statement; if that wasn't true, he'd be out of a job.

I told Dave that i worked for a non-profit as well, and he asked me about Common Ground. I blah-blahed about what we do, and he was very inquisitive about how i came into HIV work. I gave him the PG-13 version, not getting too deep into sex and drugs. From there, we talked about a host of issues: needle exchange (of course), gay marriage (of course), gay adoption, the right wing's collapsing of homosexuality with bestiality and pedophilia and other homophobic doozies, gay people talking smack about Christianity, Obama's recent speech on abortion, federal funding for religious organizations, the Mormon Church, teenage sexual abstinence, you name it. Dave told me about a close friend of his in the service, whom he suspected at the time was a homo; when Dave found Jesus at the age of 29, the friend rejected him, cut off all ties. Dave is particularly impacted by how it isn't ok politically for religious people to speak against homosexuality but that it's fine for gay people to be disparaging of the church. I told him that gay people in large part speak out against the church, because of the pain they feel at being rejected by their families and by those who actually share their religious convictions.

We also talked about the elephant in the "room" pedaling up that steep hill alongside of us into Carmel: the fact that we two, just about as far apart on the political spectrum as you can get, were getting down and dirty with each other's perspectives, and what a rare opportunity it was. We listened to each other, openly - me without my usual defensive frustration and eye-rolling (yet not without judgment - i'd be lying if i said my feathers didn't ruffle somewhat as he described himself as a "very, very Conservative Christian" after i likely bent him the wrong way with my "I'm as progressive and left-wing as you can get without being investigated. That i'm aware of.") We stroked the elephant as she balanced herself on her tiny unicycle, climbing in low gear, and did not pillage her ivory.

The most profound aspect of this dialogue for me (aside from experiencing my own openmindedness in the face of someone so different in ways that i normally feel oppressed by) was witnessing Dave's willingness to be influenced. I can't say specifically what it was about the experience for Dave that brought on tears (his, not mine for once), as we rested at the top of the hill, where he had already made it known that he, upon hearing my tale about Jeff in Pittsburg KS, would like to lay his hands upon me in prayer. I don't want to self-bloat, always a fear, but i think i made an impression on Dave. He told me how much he valued my directness and honesty. I know that our conversation struck both a chord and the right note with Dave, and I hope that he will use what i offered him - whatever that was - to bridge the road to tolerance somewhere down the road. For me, i like living in a world where i can co-mingle outside my comfort zone, this newly morphed land of the brave.

Dave and i parted, me with his phone number for the the next time in the area, him with the satisfaction of praying over my heathen ass! As i rode back onto Highway 1, i thought: Now would be a bad time to get killed. I'd have to go to heaven.

But i survived! Born-Again on the 4th of July. I met Natalie a few moments later at a restaurant where we were waited on by the child (now an adult) of a high school teacher of hers. Carmel is a small town. Natalie moved back there from LA early this year to reassess her goals after giving the pursuit of acting in Hollywood a swift curb-kick, preferring to allocate her vast talents elsewhere - dramaturgy, development, marketing, and just plain being gorgeous and awesome. Natalie treated me both to gobs of food, including her side salad and a brownie-sundae contraption, and ebullient conversation. Interacting with people i know and love: i could get used to this again.

My stomach overly full, I had only one more big hill between Carmel and Big Sur, according to the elevation profile, and only 25 miles of astounding California coastline. There was a lot of traffic for being in the middle of nowhere (but semi-friendly it's-a-holiday traffic) - there are no towns to speak of on that stretch, and pretty much just the one road which dips down to sea level and then back up again. The beaches are pristine, and many were unreachable by foot, so there's definitely a teasing look-but-don't-touch aspect to this section. I drank it in and for the first time of the day it was warm enough to roll down the arm warmers. This is July?

Riverside Campground and Cabins, today's destination, is only the second or third establishment as you enter Big Sur from the north. Unfortunately, that meant starting out the next morning at the very bottom of a long climb. But that was tomorrow - today was still going. Since the ride had only been 76 miles that day and i hadn't spent hours and hours with Natalie, it wasn't even 5pm when i arrived. I had been slightly dreading camping on the 4th for several weeks now, fearing that people would be drunk and crazy and setting the forests afire, thereby preventing a good night's sleep before the 100-plus mile ride the next day. And my campsite promised to be nothingsville. A couple weeks before, when i was in Cedar City, UT with Nina during our last evening together, both of us had combed the internet for a place for me to crash in Big Sur. That night I had spoken to the chatty Pam of Riverside Campground and Cabins who at first had nothing to offer but, lo and behold, after bending my ear back for ten minutes with questions about my trip, identified tent site #35 as vacant on the 4th. "We usually rent this one last," she said. So i wasn't expecting much.

As it turns out, #35 is perfectly fine, especially for one person. I mean, come on, it's Big Sur - how bad could it possibly be? Pam herself checked me in and was extremely accommodating to let me charge my iphone in the office (just steps away from #35), and she brought over a stream of my co-campers to show them my bike and crow on my behalf at what i'd accomplished. Riverside is just south of Big Sur Campground and Cabins where Ju and Kersh and the girls and i had stayed when they visited me in April and we drove to Big Sur from LA (a long-ass drive, especially on the way back when everyone's tired). Ju and i had pissed ourselves laughing trying to find the path to the little pub there without walking on the main road. It was pitch black, and Ju is prone to bouts of creeper-infused half-panic/half-hilarity, which are contagious, and stupidly we had only limited light to get us there. It was much easier to find my way a few months down the road in the broad hours of summer daylight.

After walking along the river and dipping my already numb-from-biking toes into the freezing water, I ate next door at the Big Sur River Inn, great food and service (i flirted shamelessly with the waitress, or thought i did) - and then bought some supplies for breakfast at the campsite store (including ear plugs for 79 cents - a brilliant idea!). On my walk back it was amazing to see just how crowded the campgrounds were - multi-generational families mushed into 6-person tents, couples elbow to elbow at the river's edge, beer, charcoal and mini-soccer games on dirt fields practically the size of two ping pong tables. Nice to see fewer RVs dominating the camping landscape for once.

I turned in as early as possible, praying for sleep. The earplugs worked in the sense that they blocked sound out, but not being able to hear launched me into a strange, non-restful dreamland of mythical creatures trapped inside my head. Usually, sleep lets them roam about at night, but the earplugs kept them clattering around my brain all night as the humans reveled in America's glory until quiet-time snuffed them out.

Day 53 - Half-Flat Tire, Half-Hilly Ride, Full Evening

2009-07-13T22:19:00.000-07:00

Carlos's 6:30am spin class was canceled on Day 53 so he was around in the morning to watch me eat all his food - oatmeal with honey, banana and soy milk, peanut butter sandwich and tea. I took a shower again that morning (not a frequent pre-cycling occurrence) - but i was soothed - like how a wild beast reacts to classical music in Bugs Bunny cartoons - by his sparkling shower and bath products. I had announced the previous night after my shower that i hadn't put conditioner in my hair in 52 days. It's nice but the lack of use without any repercussions to my head just proves conditioner's a luxury (in case you thought it wasn't). There's nothing you need - except maybe intimate human contact - that you can survive without for 52 days. So throw away all your conditioners, and q-tips, and facial washes, and fresh veggies! Intimate human contact, however, i was still three days away from. Donny would be arriving Monday at noon on the train from LA to San Luis Obispo. It was Friday morning.

I wasn't in too much of a rush to leave San Francisco. I wished i had planned to stay longer, and i would have bummed around the city for a couple days if i hadn't the time available to ride the final 500 down to LA. I seriously have a hard-on for that city, the Bay Area on the whole, always have. She's like a good friend college friend who i sleep with every couple of years when we see each other. Even though i'm gay. And it's pure NSA fun.

Hendrik woke up a little bit later and helped me figure out the route from their place to pick up the Adventure Cycling Pacific Coast route - no more Western Express - from their apartment. The last section of that map ended at the Golden Gate and was folded and put away in my rear pannier. I needed to get to the 35, aka the Great Highway, a grand name for the road to take me out of the city and on my way toward the it's-all-gravy portion of the journey. As i hauled Whitey from the back stairs of their building, i noticed that his front tire was quite low - and i had just filled it at a bike shop in Placerville two days before. Was i having my first flat of the entire trip? I had been cagey when answering the inevitable question along the route: how many flats have you had? I hadn't met anyone on my trip thus far who hadn't experienced at least one. (At least those riders who brought up the subject themselves, because i never did.) I did not want to jinx my good luck. It's true that Whitey has new, fattish tires, made for touring, so it's not that shocking that they never went flat. The trade-off has certainly been speed. At dinner the night before with Carrie, Jeremy and Carlos, i had confessed, for the first time on the trip, that my tires (and spokes for that matter) had remained totally intact (with pumping of course) for the whole nine yards. I should've been coy. At least i can say that i made it across the country without a single flat.

A tour without flats is not exactly an achievement; it's just durable tires and some luck. But flats are not a big deal anyway, if you have the tools to fix them (and know how to do it). They're more of a pain because they mostly happen at inopportune times - e.g. during a race, on a highway, in the rain, when you're with another rider who you are inconveniencing as you replace or patch your tube while he/she foot-taps and expansively sighs. I guess there's no real convenient time for a tube to blow - but right before or directly after a ride is certainly not the worst. Since the tire was low but not flat, i decided to fill it up and ride it around the block. It was still fine. And I was willing to take the chance and change the tube later if necessary, but Hendrik convinced me otherwise. He's very cautious. So i removed the tube and searched for the hole. Didn't see anything. Hendrik ran inside to get a bucket full of water so we could check for air bubbles and came back with a large salad bowl (good choice since his bucket had residue of cleaning chemicals). When we submerged the tube, there was a barely perceptible bubble every 5 seconds or so. I couldn't even see a hole; Hendrik couldn't either but he didn't have his glasses on. I patched it where i thought the hole might be since we had gone through the trouble of removing the tube in the first place and filled it up. (Note: the tire got low each morning for the remainder of the trip, but i never had to change the tube, just pumped it!)

The ride through San Francisco made my heart ache a little (cuz i just love it so), though i had no intention of leaving my heart there. Hendrik's directions were perfect - I rode through the Haight and then alongside of Golden Gate Park to Ocean Beach. I had never been to the western edge of the city before and hadn't realized that there was an actual beach, with sand, right there. I had my first real sniff of the Pacific right then and the salty brine stung my nasal passages. I could live there, i really could. As it was Friday, the 3rd of July, there were plenty of cars on the Great Highway and i rode due south toward Daly City, where pedaling up an absurdly steep hill in a residential neighborhood, i overshifted my weight toward a parked car and my rear pannier caught on its fender. I didn't fall off exactly, more like stumbled forward, and for the third time in a week, i bloodied my fucking right lower leg, this time on my ankle. At least i knew where the first aid kit was.

From Daly City, the route continues south (obviously, as LA is the final destination) through various seaside surfer towns (up and down, up and down, up and down the hills) where i occasionally got a whiff of weed smoke to mix with the ocean and eucalyptus scents. For a few miles just past Pacifica, Highway 1 (the main coastal drag) narrows considerably and takes you through a eucalyptus forest. This stretch on any day would be a white-knuckler without adding the Friday-of-the-holiday-weekend traffic to the mix. I kept my wits about me as car after car after car whizzed past me practically grooming my leg hairs.

The rest of the day's ride wasn't too eventful. Jeremy had been correct when he told me i'd have a tailwind down the coast. For once, i was traveling the right direction! When i ride my bike on PCH (Pacific Coast Highway - what Highway 1 is called in Southern California, in case you didn't know) during the summer, the ride out (north) is always headwind but the way back is golden - just as i was experiencing it now on Day 53.

I took a photo of the Santa Cruz County line sign and immediately emailed it to Heather. I hadn't been back to SC since well before she moved down to LA over 6 years ago. Several miles into Santa Cruz County i passed the gay beach where i did my first outreach back in college handing out condoms and talking to guys about safer sex. As i remember correctly, my presence there was met with mixed reactions. It's a lot easier doing outreach to injection drug users; you have something they for sure want. I always say: if you hand them a condom, there's a chance they'll use it, but if you give them a syringe, you know they will. Just a little public health wise-saw. Anyway, it was Heather who hooked me up with that first HIV gig at the Santa Cruz AIDS Project - you mean they'll pay me to talk to people about sex and drugs? I'm there!

I stopped just outside the Santa Cruz city limits to call my hosts for the evening - Chris and Paula. They are in the middle of preparing their new place to move into it, so they'd been painting all day. I got directions on where their current home is, and, since they were still forearm-deep in paint, i had a little time to kill before getting to their place. I rode down Mission St. jogging my dim memory. It's been 16 years since i graduated from UCSC, and i was there for less than 2 years. Plus, the occasions i had to visit SC post-graduation were always to spend time with Heather. Memorable times - but foggy due to assorted levels of brain function. Plus, we didn't leave the house much. I snapped a pic of Yogurt Delite, amazingly still there and hoppin'. Susannah worked there for what seems, in my memory, like years. Back in 1993, when i would stop by during her shift, i rarely had cash to buy a full portion bedecked with the mini-malt balls i loved so, but she gave me as many samples as she could. (Within reason, of course - since the establishment was under constant camera surveillance). I thought the peanut butter flavor was disgusting. Suz loved it. She crazy. I rode down the big hill on Laurel St. to the Pacific Garden Mall which was in a constant state of reconstruction when i lived there (the '89 earthquake destroyed it). There's still a ton of homeless kids there, stoney college kids, and hippie street musicians, but it's way more fancy and touristy now - like the 3rd St. Promenade in Santa Monica (minus the homeless people of course; they've relocated to Venice. Hadn't you heard?)

I crossed Water St. and rode up to the end of Pacific where it dead ends at the mobile home coop where Chris and Paula are currently living. Carlos, Carrie and Jeremy had laughed at the possible seedy reading of the title of the touring cyclist hospitality site, warmshowers.org where i posted my need for accommodations for the night of July 3, but they're just dirty-minded sodomite Gomorrahns from San Francisco! Chris had seemed a little reserved on the phone so i wasn't sure what to expect. I was a little wary of staying with complete and total strangers, despite having done it earlier in the trip. At least when i had stayed with Tom and Gail in Missouri, i had heard about them from a fellow cyclist who had crashed there.

In a word, it was a great night. Paula and Chris are extremely nice and hospitable; they made me feel welcome immediately. As it was Santa Cruz, they even had a yoga mat for me to stretch on. Like a lot of people who live in Santa Cruz, Paula and Chris have resided in a bunch of different places and are the sorts who absorb the cultures they visit or live in (also a very Santa Cruz thing). Paula lived for many years in Italy with her second husband, who unfortunately turned out to be loony tunes, and loves all things Italian - including the cuisine, which she is expert at preparing, i am grateful to report. Pasta, salad and swordfish! Bread, olives and organic chocolate! Fizzy water! Conversation never faltered throughout the evening (great for me since i find it insufferable to abide silence with strangers - besides when you're supposed to, like in an elevator) and they were intent listeners as well as expert storytellers. I said to Chris and Paula in the morning that i had been nervous and didn't know what to expect - and they had felt the same. (i was the first cyclist from the warmshowers site that they had hosted). We all verbalized that the experience had exceeded our expectations. I really hope i see them again.

Day 52 - The San Francisco Treat!

2009-07-13T14:10:00.000-07:00

I couldn't sleep that night in my dank and noisome hotel room in West Sacramento. I think i've mentioned the can't-turn-it-off syndrome which occurs always after the longest, most arduous riding days. Brain and body both won't quit. I consistently have anxiety dreams about hills and mileage and directions. I never move forward in these dreams: i still haven't made it over the worst hill of the day, i'm still at 35 miles out of 110, i'm still lost. (Also worth mentioning is i've had many typical actor's nightmares as well: forgetting my lines or blocking, not knowing whether i'm on stage or being filmed, not being able to read the page while auditioning, all of it.) There have been a few occasions on the journey when i've actually pedaled in my sleep. Yes.

My last of sleep in the wee hours of Day 52 can be traced to several reasons: twitchy overworked body, gross room and smelly bed, ate too much too late and retired before digesting, and I WAS GOING TO BE IN SAN FRANCISCO THAT AFTERNOON AND, THEREFORE, WILL HAVE RIDDEN MY BIKE ACROSS THE CONTINENTAL UNITED STATES!

So arising and getting my ass out the door wasn't a problem. I had been texting my SF buddies consistently for a couple days keeping them apprised of my progress and would be doing so throughout the day. My hope was that i'd have a small but mighty band of welcomers at the Golden Gate Bridge. But i was also like: i'm still gonna be there even if no one can make it. I didn't really know how long the day's journey would last since i'd be taking a ferry from Vallejo across the San Pablo, San Rafael and San Francisco Bays and hadn't figured out how often they run and that whole deal. I was out the door at 6:50 into the morning sunshine.

A mile or so down W. Capitol Ave. i picked up the Yolo Causeway Bike Path which runs alongside the 80 (or "Route 80" as we refer to it in NJ) finishing on the east side of Davis, CA which is home to UC Davis (Debbie's alma mater), a town and campus where i'd never visited. Suffice to say that it wasn't exactly teeming with co-eds at 7:45am on a summer morning just before Fourth of July weekend. What Davis is teeming with, however, is bike paths; the ride through town has you off the road and on the paths which are easy to follow. After passing the campus/downtown area, i found myself immediately surrounded by farmland. Not farms like those in Kansas or other states i passed through, but rather farms where they actually grow food for people to eat. The bulk of farmland in this nation is used to grow corn and soybeans which are mostly used to sweeten, grease up and process our food, to grow and process food for livestock, or for the livestock themselves. Again, i'll namedrop Fast Food Nation and The Omnivore's Dilemma as books i've read which spell all this stuff out in hundreds of pages better than i can in several hundred words. I could see with my own peepers how land is used. And it was my craving for fresh fruit and veg that impacted me throughout the trip - not the theses of two books i read. I may have mentioned before that Son of Semele developed a play written by Matt, Fencerow to Fencerow, that was inspired by The Omnivore's Dilemma. It's super-difficult to explain but coincidentally the character i played in most of the "Fencerow" incarnations was a guy who starts out the play looking for the variety of food once grown on the Iowa landscape, obsessed about the perfect apple he once ate (yes, it's quite out-there). By the end of the play, he's addicted to high fructose corn syrup and hydrogenated oil. ... Wait, is that me or the play? Clairvoyant type-casting. (Except, thus far, i have averted transforming into the obese couch potato my character becomes as i was simultaneously riding my bike 8 hours per day during the height of my 8-week addiction to trans fat and corn sweetener).

You've all been hearing me complain about the lack of fresh food from Day 1. I certainly eat my share of animal products, on this trip and otherwise, and i'm not campaigning to end that for myself or anyone else. But isn't it fucked up that we as a country possess millions of acres of land that can be used to grow wholesome food, and barely any of it is used for that purpose? Of course it doesn't pay to use the land for that. And "we" don't own it anyway; Cargill does. There isn't as much money in broccoli as there is in high fructose corn syrup. It's just so crazy to me that i couldn't find barely ANY fresh vegetables in Virginia, Kentucky, Illinois, Missouri and Kansas. And Nevada. Utah and Colorado were better but that's mostly because i rode through more touristy places. Annoyingly, there were farmer's markets throughout the trip but they were never on the day i was riding through. But if produce is sold locally at farmer's markets, shouldn't local restaurants buy the produce to serve to their customers? Well, they don't.

Ugh. I know i get a little preachy on this issue. I just find it interesting to be experiencing personally and directly something i've already learned from a book. And thankfully i'm back in California where i can get the food i want. From Davis through Vacaville i passed orchards of citrus, peaches, plums, apricots, olive trees, broccoli, leafy greens. The availability of this stuff helps me keeps my obsessiveness to a low hum, maintains my sanity.

Although i was experiencing headwinds while pushing mostly westward that morning, the terrain was mostly flat. Near Vacaville, I was approached by Dave, a fireman, with whom i rode for about 10 miles. He shot me the hard questions about the trip: why did i do it? what did i learn about America? what was my favorite part? what was my least favorite part? Even "how many miles per day?" is difficult because i don't know whether to include rest days in the total. Sigh. I've gotten more practiced at answering some of these questions but i almost always feel put on the spot. I'm considering creating a one-sheet that i can hand out to anyone who inquires. I'll include the blog address at the bottom if you want all the details. This part of the ride went quickly; Dave's company was welcome and i focused on the brain power that's required when conversing with a stranger, rather than the brute force of pushing a bicycle through the wind. After going out of his way for almost an hour, Dave took off back toward Vacaville to babysit his granddaughter while i stopped to eat in Rockville. In Rockville, i met a group of cyclists in matching yellow and orange outfits from nearby Benecia who were out for a workout. One guy in particular was overly pushy about providing me with an alternative to the route on the map with less headwinds. As i was taking no chances in getting lost on this day in particular, I politely demurred. But he wasn't paying attention, so i smiled and nodded in all the right places pretending to ingest his better, more wind-resistant directions. This man was also the second person of the day (Dave being the first) to ask me how much weight i lost on the trip. It's probably not surprising that it took 52 days for anyone to ask me this question. It's body-conscious California, I suppose, where ostensibly hetero men are comfortable discussing such issues without fear of being feminized. In case you're wondering, i weighed 143 lb. when i went to the doctor in LA in late April, and i weighed myself in Scott City, Kansas (when i slept in that gym) and was 128. I haven't weighed myself since then but i imagine it's more or less the same. You plateau rather than keep losing. At least that's what i read.

Moving on, i barreled toward the Vallejo ferry station. At lunch i had called for the schedule but forgot it as soon as i heard it.

Except for some reason 2:30pm stuck in my head. I had texted the SF contingent to say i'd be there at 4pm. If i got the ferry at 2:30 (it lasts an hour), i'd just make 4pm with the 6 or 7 mile ride to the Golden Gate from the terminal in SF. The winds from the bay did their best to slow me down but i worked hard, anxious to see friends, a city i love, and the bridge and be done with this leg of the journey.

Ha! I got there at 2:28 with no time to spare. Except that the ferry was not until 3:30. Oops. So i had an hour to kill. I got a giant smoothie and talked the ear off the lady cleaning the floors who didn't believe me at first when i told her where i rode from. I paced around, peed like 3 times, didn't know what to do with myself.

The boat was comfortable and clean. I parked Whitey where the boat guy said to and went on the observation deck. It was cool and windy, exactly what you'd expect from San Francisco. Not grasping the geography of the

Bay Area well enough to know where Vallejo was, what direction we'd be traveling, and when i'd catch my first glimpse of the city, i snapped some pictures of myself to capture the moment. As in the ferry terminal, i couldn't sit still. I went to the upstairs deck, then down to check on Whitey, then upfront inside the cabin where i took some bad photos of the the Richmond-San Rafael Bridge (thinking it was the Bay Bridge) and of the city way in the distance. I tried to focus on the Transamerica Pyramid (in part for the obvious reason - get it? - but mostly because Donny loves skyscrapers and i've gotten him lots of miniatures of buildings including this one). I was so jittery, i think, because it's hard to stop riding and then start again. I was gonna have to ride to the bridge and then to Carlos and Hendrik's or Carrie and Jeremy's place. Also, this marked the end that wasn't really the end since i still had 500 more miles to bike down the coast - three days of which would be with Donny!

The ferry spat me out and i rode down Embarcadero, around Fort Mason and whatever that park

is called, on Marina and alongside of Crissy Field. There were tons of people on bikes - many rented by tourists riding them to see the Golden Gate and the Presidio. I was a tourist too and proud of it. The day was sunny and beautiful. I had this huge shit-eating grin on my face and tears running down my cheeks when i caught that first sight of the bridge. Coldplay's Viva La Vida played (a perfectly self-aggrandizing song!). Everyone i passed seemed happy and relaxed. People were flying enormous kites in the whipping wind. I was reminded of the last time that I was in London. Since Ju and Kersh live near Manchester, that's my home-base when i go back to England. London is now a separate trip-within-a-trip. Ju and I went down when i was over there two years ago, and we went to the South Bank. Everyone there - walkers, runners, cyclists, loungers, sunbathers, picnickers - seemed joyous in my memory of it, that summer feeling you dream about when the weather's dull. Maybe it's just the feeling of being on vacation? Anyway, the feeling of the people riding along the bike path and lounging on Crissy Field was the exact same - with the added bonus of the fact that i had made it on my bicycle across the country.

I took several minutes and texts to find Carrie and Phoebe and Finn. And then Carlos and Hendrik found us. We were all excited and impressed (Finn is a baby so he was probably less excited about something specific). I forgot a few times we were talking about me and what i had accomplished. It felt like i was referring to someone else; I'm so used to the habit of minimizing my own success that unabashed pride is frequently a foreign and uncomfortable impulse that should be squashed. Is being pleased with oneself socially acceptable? I can hear the voices in my head, usually so clear, saying like: "Oh, such-and-such-accomplishment can't be that big of a deal since i did it." But those voices/impulses are kind of quiet these days. It's not so much that i think i'm the shit - it's more that the journey was so hard throughout. It never stopped being a challenge - the weather, the loneliness, the discomfort, the food, the riding. I can't argue my way out of feeling good about it.

My arrival in San Francisco was only eleven days ago but i remember other stuff more clearly from the days and weeks before. I decided it was best to stay at Carlos's place since he was offering his bed and would shack up with Hendrik for the night. Bike directions to C & H's were discussed and outlined avoiding the evilest of SF hills and we agreed to meet Carrie and Jeremy for dinner in about an hour. Hendrik is studying for the MCAT in August so he was gonna skip dinner. The half-hour i was told it would take to get to the apartment near 16th and Market from the Golden Gate ended up being more like 50 minutes and added 9 miles to the day's journey for a grand total of 94 miles. We dined at Serpentine which i have enjoyed in the past, and it did not disappoint. I ate twice as much as anyone else but still couldn't finish the second or third round of bread i had demanded. Carrie had just completed her second or third sprint triathlon and Carlos is already training for the LA Triathlon (though it isn't for 3 months) which we previously did together a few years ago, so i was in good company (not that i wouldn't have been had they not been tri-bound - i'm just singing their praises!)

I did laundry (actually Hendrik did it - thanks, Hendrik!) and went to bed in Carlos's absurdly comfortable bed. I did it. Almost.

Day 51 - Aren't I Prescient? The Real Longest Day

2009-07-12T15:04:00.000-07:00

It's rather clairvoyant of me that i didn't title Day 38 "The Longest Day" (despite my presumption at the time that it would be) since it's Day 51 that takes the crown. Thirteen days before I left Hope Valley for West Sacramento, Utah Is Three Planets kept running through my head on an endless loop as i explored 127 miles of the multi-faceted terrain between Blanding and Hanksville. Believing myself to me clever, i used the 3-planet mantra as the blog title for the day. Which makes today, Day 51, at 139 miles the undisputed winner of the title. Huzzah!

When i woke up in my tent after a long sleep (i crashed before it was dark, about 8:15 or so the evening before and woke up at about 5:30AM), it was frigid. I had no phone service so i couldn't check my iphone (and for those of us who read the Day 16 & 17 handlebar confessional, we know that Dashie is a pants-aflame liar anyway), but the campsite host told me it went as low as 40. I stuck a leg out of my sleeping bag; it was too cold to do anything except rock back and forth in a fetal position stressing out about the long day ahead of me which would not begin as early planned since it was too fucking cold to do anything. Despite the fervor of my rocking, this activity did little to warm me up.

I know that i've complained a few times about the cold on this trip. And i've also admitted that gear-wise i was unprepared to deal with it. Drinking pre-brewed iced tea from my water bottle, rather than a nice hot cup (like i was able to have when Nina and I camped in Bryce Canyon, thanks to her camp stove) is not an ideal way to get the blood flowing on a near-freezing mountain morning. Nor is gnawing at a clump of arctic-hardened banana-coconut bread and hard-boiled eggs that give you a Slurpee brainfreeze. [Digression: I just Wikipediaed Slurpee to ensure i spelled it correctly and i am stunned to learn that they are carbonated. Also, they are kosher, except the piña colada flavor which totally has crab in it. Slurpees are also suitable for those with celiac disease (a gluten intolerance). Hope Ma and Aunt Paula are reading this.] I donned every article of clothing using my towel as a big gay cravat and ran down the hill to the bathroom to crap. As i ran, my cycling leg warmers repeatedly fell into a fully 1980s leg warmer position hovering at my ankles. O the indignity.

I managed to defrost everything except my hands which had in previous days been challenged by an onset of quasi-paralysis. I guess because i'd been gripping my handlebars for at least 8 hours a day for 50 days, they had been getting quite weak, especially my left hand which is the only useful one anyway. I hadn't been able to open water bottles with manly prowess, and cutting anything with my left hand (even the salmon from the night before) was a joke. I had been hoping this disabling was not permanent damage, and the fact that my hands were now frozen stumps could not be helping any. The shady Sierra campsite i had been so proud of and awed by the night before was mocking me.

Because of the cold and the excessive distance of multiple bathroom trips, i didn't wheel Whitey down the hill and out of the campsite until 8 o'clock. I knew the day would be long but i hadn't calculated exactly so as not to scare myself out of doing what needed to be done. When i was in Pueblo, i had for the first time of the trip actually planned out days in advance. I needed to figure out what day to meet Nina and i'd wanted to alert my SF crew and Donny of approximate arrival days. Somehow I had added up the miles incorrectly for the 3 days from Fallon NV to San Fran, and there were 20-something extra i had to disburse among the 3 days. Also i wanted my ride into San Francisco to not be much more than 80 so i wasn't a total crabapple zombie when i got there. So Day 51 was the day to try what i hadn't tried yet: what if you just keep on going (that is, if the terrain was at worst flat-ish and the weather fair-ish)? Drew and I, and then later Ben and I, had mused about this. Most days, though i was tired and hungry and in need of hygiene alteration, i wasn't at death's door or anything. Nor had i ever ridden until it was even approaching darkness. So, what if i just pushed on until i was at either the threshold of total exhaustion or nightfall? I was going to find out.

The first stretch to deal with was the rest of the climb to the Carson Pass summit (10.5 miles).

Then, i'd be losing the entire 8,500 feet of elevation (with plenty of ups-and-downs within that loss) over the course of the next 90 or so miles until i hit Folsom (yes, that Folsom) and the American River in Sacramento at which time i'd be on flat bicycle paths for approximately 30 miles. I aimed to bike all the way to West Sacramento, over 130 miles away. I had also decided, arbitrarily it turns out, that West Sacramento was the nice bit. But more about that later.

The incline to the summit wasn't too bad for the first several miles - cold yet clear and bright - but then steepened in that Grand Mountain Pass way i'd become all too familiar with. The Sierras are scenic-wise not unlike the Rockies - perfectly misty snow-caps in the distance like a film set backdrop, dark emerald conifers, crystal-placid lakes, deer galore galavanting, and swish lodges. The weather warmed up quickly after the initial ascent and didn't worsen at the top as we know by now mountaintops have a tendency to do. At Kirkwood, a pretty tourist stop for fisherpeople, my iphone came up for breath and i saw that i had a phone message from Chris - one of the warmshowers.org people i'd contacted online about a place to crash in Santa Cruz. Back in Eureka NV, at the Best Western's lone computer, i'd sent about 15 emails to strangers on the site who offer cyclists a free bed or tent space; two had responded that they'd be away for the 4th of July weekend, and Chris's was the third and final response. The Santa Cruz flakiness hasn't dissipated in the 16 years since i lived there - can you believe i sent 15 emails and only 3 people responded?! So Santa Cruz). But Chris and his partner, Paula, clearly not flakes, were responding YES, they'd love to have me. A moment of relief at 8,500 feet as i'd been super-stressed about finding a place to stay on July 3 (i'd called a couple of campsites and hotels but they were booked solid - or in terms of one campsite, it was first-come first-served, and i certainly couldn't assure my place among the first, since i'd be riding from SF that morning and knew i wouldn't get the earliest of starts). From Kirkwood, there was some extra-annoying climbing and downhills until the real downhill deal through a fantasyland forest where there were no cars - just trees and nothing else. Route 88 and then Omo Ranch Road (bumpy and grindy surface yet super-peaceful surroundings) brought me downdowndown through the El Dorado National Forest (complete with that offical U. S. Department of Agriculture tag line I'd seen in every state: Land of Many Uses), down from of the thousands of feet of elevation i'd been living in since Pueblo. I hadn't been lower than 4,500 feet since leaving there - not in Colorado, Utah or Nevada, but California was bringing me down to my normal level. Sea level, that is.

Passing Omo Ranch, a miniscule town whose only public building seemed to be a school with a cute playground, i came to Fair Play, which is all about wineries. The constant shade provided by the El Dorado Forest was now significantly minimized revealing the lack of elevation's true nature: baking heat. I'd only been out of the heat for a day or so, since leaving Fallon and the cold night had obviously erased my memory. In addition to the distance i'd end up traveling that day, life on Day 51 also saw another extreme as well: the greatest range of temperature. It had been about 40 degrees that morning, and as i wound my way through El Dorado County toward Placerville, the temperature expanded to a rather uncomfortable 100. I stopped at a liquor store in Somerset to fill up all 4 water bottles with ice - which turned out to be a huge plus considering the sharp mini-climbs ahead on Mount Aukum Road.

About 80 miles into the day i sought respite, prey and air conditioning at a Starbuck's in Placerville. It was suitably freezing in there - not just the AC apparently but also the salad i opted for (in addition to the curried chicken salad sandwich, iced green tea beverage and chocolate chip cookie) flaunted actual frozen lettuce. I was too hungry to care. Plus, it was refreshing. Mid-bite, while shoving a petrified romaine heart into my maw, i observed my animal nature through the eyes of those around me looking at me in mild disgust. To the chagrin of diners across the western United States, my hoggish ways of consumption have been worsening. I've never been the quietest of eaters. In real-life circumstances, i chew with my mouth reasonably shut. I'm able to take nourishment in mixed company without being scolded but i definitely lean toward the unacceptable end of the mastication continuum. And in the last 50 days i've creeped closer to that boundary. Hell, i've got decent reasons: the need for speed, the need for feed, and just plain dining solo. I must pay closer attention to this development as i am reintroduced into, ahem, polite society. If you find yourself looking at me with displeasure while sharing a meal in the very near future (say, before August 1), feel free to kick me under the table. After that, get used to it. That's just the way i chomp.

Believe it or not, it was a relief to get back out in the heat. I was frozen like the lettuce from the intensity of Starbuck's AC and needed to thaw in the 100-degree heat. The treacherously trafficked Green Valley Road took me almost all the way to Folsom which was in the midst of a 3-day rodeo event. Yeehaw! I found my way to the East Lake Natoma Bike Trail along Folsom Lake and overcame confusion (the map's narrative directions here were somewhat lacking) to access the American River Bike Trail which winds its way through Sacramento for about 25 miles. It was rush hour on the bike path; hundreds of cyclists were either commuting home or getting in their evening workout. I seemed to be the only person not knowing where he was going, and i felt clumsy and in the way of the light-as-a-feather unloaded road bikes that zipped past me in both directions. In addition, the route was not clear to a stranger, and i had to stop several times to ask directions. Most people said: "Just follow the river and that will take you right into Old Town." Which would be sufficient if you could absolutely see the river at all times and if there wasn't a network of other paths crossing the route every couple of miles. Plus, i had clocked over a hundred at this point and the wind was blowing westerly, i.e. directly at my face.

I had a brief confrontation with a man on a dilapidated bike which surprised me. If you've read the blog in its entirety, then you know that my interactions with my fellow Americans have overwhelmingly been positive - supportive, friendly, even comforting at times. So my cityboy defenses had been at an all-time low. But something about this man, who expressed snickering admiration for my set-up and immediate interest in trading bikes with me right-there-right-then, threatened me. I was unsure if i was on the right bike path at that very moment when he approached me - shirtless, dirty, carrying his belongings on his bike. I was hot and tired and had at least 20 or so miles left. I had slipped out of my pedal clip and sliced open my right shin and blood was dripping down my sock. It was getting late. My meth-dar picked up a signal. I ended up circling around this dude, because i was trying to figure out my location - and he seemed to misunderstand my actions as engaging with him, actually showing off my bike to him. I decided not to ask him for directions, because his manner told me that he shouldn't know i was lost/felt vulnerable. I said nothing more than "thanks but no thanks" to his bike-swapping offer and took off (in the wrong direction i figured out later). Now what surprised me in this moment was the rush of intense aggression i felt, the territoriality and my own capacity for violence; I'm a lover, not a fighter. But there was something primal that reared its demoniac head at that moment. My brain played out a scenario in my head where the guy got in my face, and i attacked him. Get the fuck away from my bike or i'll fucking kill you. I thought of my barely used Swiss Army knife, as sharp today as it was out of the packaging. I turned Whitey Jackson around abruptly (unknowingly at that moment that i was headed correctly now) thinking if he turns around and follows me, he's gonna be in trouble.

He didn't follow me. Maybe he sensed my fear/aggression. Maybe i vibed him wrong and he was just joking with me. After a couple miles and some reassurance that yes, the river was there, and i was heading into the wind and setting sun once again, i reflected on my snap. I like to think that my instinct was correct, in a sense, that this man's intentions were ill. On the other side, i was thrown by my quick judgment against someone clearly indigent who i perceived to be a threat. One vivid conclusion to be drawn: nobody, nothing was gonna obstruct me from getting to SF in one piece, no way.

Yikes. Moments later, i was able to laugh at myself again and confirmed the need to get to the evening's destination which was looking more and more to be West Sacramento. I didn't think i'd get any further than that since it was another 10 miles to Davis, and the sun was low. With the couple of added miles i logged on the bike paths, due to my befuddlement, i'd finish just under 140 miles. Not too shabby for the End of the Horizon Experiment. Riding that far would leave only 85-ish miles to get to San Francisco the next day. Not ideal, but better than a hundred for sure. The only problem with my plan was map-generated. The Adventure Cycling detail of the area seemed to collapse West Sacramento with Old Town. I knew from past experience that Old Town was touristy and cute. I thought: "Oh, i deserve a treat for riding 139 miles! i'll spring for a Holiday Inn Express!" I exited the bike path and rode over the cobblestoned Front Street passing lots of restaurants and bars and tourist attractions, and over the golden Tower Bridge onto West Capitol Ave. in West Sac. What a sac of shit! I was affronted by the Nevada-like stream of cheap hotels and fast food restaurants. Wait, this wasn't the evening i had planned. I wanted clean sheets and a true non-smoking room! And a meal with salad! But it was not to be. The sun was down. I was riding at night for the first time on the journey, and it was time to select from the multitude of options. I don't remember the name of the place i selected, but i was tantalized briefly by the neon and the East Indian decor of the lobby. The bleary-eyed man-and-wife team who answered the night bell looked shocked to see me though it wasn't even 9pm. The price sent a chill up my spine. I knew it was gonna be bad. And it was. Stained towels, a carpet that smelled worse than my socks. At least the TV remote wasn't greasy. The bed was large (as the sign had bragged) and although i was afraid of the sheets, i didn't have the energy to dig out my sleeping bag.

Food was another adventure. You snarky people out there will gleefully delight in my ALMOST downfall from the perfect non-fastfood chain score i've maintained for nearly a century. Yes, i eat at Subway, but that doesn't count. I'm talking McDonald's or BK or Wendy's - places i have not patronized since high school. No exaggeration. I've never been to Taco Bell or Carl's Jr. or Jack in the Box. Ever (we don't have those in Jersey when i did eat at such places). But i was so pissed off at the world and hungry, and the only other place besides the McD's i ALMOST walked into was KFC, the smell of which knocks me sick just passing by in the best of circumstances. There was a seedy taco joint. And a non-chain fast food burger joint. And i just thought: at least with McDonald's the food is so processed, so controlled, nothing could actually be wrong with it. (I get my info from books like The Omnivore's Dilemma and Fast Food Nation). Unlike the wild cards dealt by these unfamiliar choices. I needed my stomach to behave since the next day would mark the end of the most significant leg of the journey: DC to SF, aka Across the Country.

But the universe was smiling on me cuz McD's was closed! Who knew they closed at 9:30pm? I thought these places served drunk people. One one block further, slightly hidden, was a Raley's supermarket which had everything i could ever want. And i wanted plenty after 138.68 miles of bike travel.

Day 50 - Going Going Back Back to Cali Cali

2009-07-11T18:09:00.000-07:00

Fifty days. I think i'm nearly ready for this to be over. Not over yet - but my last state crossing occurred on Day 50. California Dreamin'- Land of Opportunity! Land of my home and Donny and friends! Land of Budget Cuts... Still too early to be thinking about that now - two weeks until i have to go back to work.

I was unsure of Day 50's destination. I knew that i was going to cross the state line but it wasn't until over 80 miles into the day's ride. I rolled out of bed at 4:40AM - a new record, i think. Ate up the hard boiled eggs that Dan gave me, plus all the other shit from my Safeway run. I didn't have to deal with much food beyond that since now i'd be in "civilization" (read: gas, food, lodging) more often than not for the rest of the trip. I saw Ben briefly as i left; he was headed to McDonald's and then Carson City that day to rent a car and drive around Lake Tahoe (the Adventure Cycling map tells you not to ride there for road safety reasons) and take a nice rest day. (We parted with a you-never-know-we-could-cross-paths-again dance - but unless something went terribly wrong, i wouldn't be seeing Ben again on the route).

I, however, was rested, even coddled by the friendly folks in Fallon and my probably unreachable goal was the summit of Carson Pass, about 110 miles from Fallon. It was a slow gain of only 1,000 feet until the California border and then a rough nearly 3,800 feet of climbing over 30 miles. More simply put, i was never gonna get all the way up Carson Pass on Day 50. I had 3 days to get almost 320 miles to San Francisco and meet Carlos, Carrie, Hendrik and Phoebe at the Golden Gate Bridge, and the more i could knock out the first 2 days the fresher i'd arrive at the crossed-country destination.

I left just after 6AM hoping to outwit the headwind i knew was going to start taunting my face at some point. I'd noticed that the winds tended to pick up around 10 or 11 in the morning and the earlier i got out, the calmer it was. The ride was pretty smooth for 60 miles, which got me nearly to Carson City. Unfortunately, along with the civilization i had been craving, traffic majorly increased. Carson is big enough for sprawl, and i found myself struggling a little on the inclines trying to stay inside the shoulder (when there was one) and not run over the obstacle course of rusty nails, broken beer bottles and other scraps of metal or glass strewn on Route 50, now the least lonely road in America, thanks to the suburban traffic. The section riding through Carson was slow - due to evil stop-signed intersections and those 3-light mechanisms hanging from poles. They seemed familiar. Somehow i instinctively knew that red meant stop, green meant go, and yellow meant hurry-before-it-turns-red-and-you-get-run-over. I had experienced somewhere around zero traffic lights since Pueblo, Colorado - and about that many between leaving the DC Metro area and Pueblo.

The route abruptly heads uphill at the southern end of Carson City to the very scenic Jacks Valley Road. The sky grayed out the blue, and some drops began falling. Little did i know that this rain would be the last of the trip. About 10 miles further is Genoa which claims to be the first settled town in Nevada. The whole area is impressively smart - smart ranches, smart farms, golf courses, homes away from home, a few shops and saloons. I devoured a huge tuna sandwich (which had the perfect amount of mayo unlike all the tuna between DC and kingdom come), some chips and a chocolate chip cookie as big as your head. From there it was 35 miles to the 8,573 ft. summit of Carson Pass. Thirty-five miles? No problem.

The route from Genoa south to Carson Pass (the area is quite near to Lake Tahoe) continued to impress me with well-to-do poshness (though i did notice that most of the houses i passed sported "for sale" signage). And the Sierra Nevadas rose up quickly in my path. I was hungry to enter California (sounds more sexual than i mean to - but maybe not?) The route at this point had me on gorgeous back roads riding parallel to busy route 89. The disappointing trade-off was not having the WELCOME TO CALIFORNIA sign that i'd been craving for 50 days and nights. I rode on, waiting to see one in the distance, thinking i'd miscalculated the distance to the state line. But no. Eventually, i asked a woman gardening if i was in California, and she said i'd been there already for 5 miles. Old news. I called Donny anyway a little ways down the road and choked back a tear of success and antipication on his voicemail.

By the time i arrived in Woodfords, CA, i knew the summit was a pipe dream. Woodfords was a town. Sort of. Had a store and a B & B and a couple campsites. From there, it was still 10 miles to the top. And it was steep. And i had already gone 93 miles. And i was tired and rained-on. I opted for Hope Valley, even less of a town, 5 miles further up the road. The Hope Valley Campground was $18 compared with the cheapest room in the lodge at $115. Welcome back to California! I arrived at the campground and was relieved to see that the café (with some limited groceries) was still open as i had nothing except an apple and some Clif bars. I smiled hugely at the short-haired woman in her forties that was working at the cafe. I can't believe that i can't remember her name (but it has been 11 days). Let's call her Alex. That was definitely not her name, but it could've been. Alex had just baked about 10 things that looked and smelled delicious. I got some brewed iced tea in advance for the morning's caffeine (since i wanted to be gone before the place opened at 7:30) and some other items for breakfast while telling Alex about some of my travels and how excited i was to be seeing my friends in SF in a couple days and then Donny a few days after that. I can't put my finger on it exactly, but there was something about Alex that was just so California - in the best possible way. It was just who she was upon first glance, her openness (and the organic and fresh ingredients in the café) that really made me smile and feel like i was getting close to home.

With a bag full of goodies, i made my way down the path to check in with the campsite host. My site was a little hike up the hill further and because of the dirt and gravel i had to push Whitey while digging my cleats into the ground. The site was picture-perfect, private, wonderful. It made me wish Nina was with me; she would have really appreciated this place. The one drawback was that the bathroom was a full 5-minute walk down the hill which was going to make the morning interesting, especially as the host warned me that it might drop as low as 40 that night. Made me wish for Nina and her extra blankets even more. The bath house was decent and covered in DON'T FEED THE BEARS literature. Funny, if you had told me ahead of time that this area was Bear Central, i might have freaked a little. Or maybe more than a little being totally alone and still not remembering the difference among bear attack survival approaches. But i wasn't freaked. I just plain old didn't think a bear was going to come sniffing up to my site. They know what coolers look like; I didn't have one. They are drawn to cooking smells; the campsite was pretty empty and no one was cooking (and it was about 6:30pm prime din-din time when i was heading to the showers). I'd bag up my food and hygiene

supplies, anything that smelled, as i had every other time i'd camped, and hang the bag from a tree. If a bear came and ate my food, he could have it. My approach to bears had shifted.

Since the café was now closed and i had no dinner, i was "forced" to eat at the lovely restaurant up the hill a bit at Sorensen's Resort. Yummy - great soup, salmon, veggies and another whole dessert to myself. I also had a Sierra Nevada, toasting the mountain range i was currently conquering.

I don't know why exactly (the beauty of the spot? exhaustion? altitude increase? luck?) but i had the deepest and most comfortable sleep that night that i'd had in weeks and certainly the best of all campings-out. It was freezing when i awoke for a pee (i marked territory outside the tent - hell no, i wasn't walking all the way down to the bathrooms! Inconvenient. And those bears...).

The stars were so prominent it was almost aggressive.

Day 49 (Addendum) - Fallon, The Friendliest Town on the Loneliest Road in America

2009-07-11T16:28:00.000-07:00

I know Eureka proclaimed itself to be the friendliest on Route 50. But eat it, Eureka! It's Fallon that's my BFF of the trip:

Okay, so i've already mentioned the awesome Lindsy, front desk at the Holiday Inn Express in Fallon, NV, who permitted me to use the computer in the "business center" (along with a Harley rider playing some sort of interactive game between the computer and his cell phone. Don't ask me.) I should also mention the lovely waitress at Heidi's Family Restaurant (though fuck if i remember her name now) who was beyond welcoming, enthusiastic and told me what sucked on the menu and what was the most edible.

And in the previous entry i've properly worshipped Dan, the Fallon Lodge manager who 1) gave me a 10% cyclist discount on a cheap room rate, 2) showed me the room to make sure it was ok with me (he'd been having to clean the rooms himself plus manage the place) - the only time that happened at the trip at that point (it happened since, in San Luis Obispo), 3) seemed to really want me to stay another night when i was debating to switch to the Holiday Inn Express so i could have unfettered legal access to their computer, 4) let me do my laundry (not a service for all guests), 5) allowed me to write my blog on his laptop in the sitting room he sleeps in behind the office for FIVE hours (the computer was so boiling hot that the inside of my wrists were slightly burned after all that time - damn, those handlebar confessions are heated!), and 6) gave me 3 hard-boiled eggs so i could have some protein to add to the breakfast i had bought from Safeway for my ride on the upcoming Day 50.

After i almost literally burned-out on writing, i ambled out into the 100-plus degree heat in search of a barber shop or salon, Nevada style. i realized that today being Monday June 29, it was my last rest day until i saw Donny and my final opportunity to get a haircut. I've already mentioned that my shaved head was in full-throttle Mon-Chi-Chi mode, and i wanted to be freshly shorn for the Love Reunion one week ahead. During one of my 2 trips to Safeway, i had seen a mini-strip mall with Creative Cuts. It was a Monday, and i had the dim memory that such places are closed on Mondays. Fingers crossed, i braved the heat and walked the half-mile or so to Creative Cuts. Debbie, the Owner/Operator (according to her business card which i have kept - you never know), was in the middle of styling the comb-over of a middle-aged gent. She could see me in 15 minutes. Score! I went to the convenience store next door and celebrated with a tiny veggie snack tray consisting of a few veiny baby carrots, stringy peapods, a cube of cheese and a micro-vat of gummy ranch dressing. I played slots poker with the 96 cents change i had in my pocket. That would have been a great story: Five-Figure Jackpot for Cyclist Eating Veggies at Fallon Convenience Store. But alas, not meant to be.

Debbie was finished with Mr. Combover when i returned. I asked for a basic buzz cut and referred her to the easily-nicked mole-growth on the back of my neck that i always point out as a hazard for those cutting my hair for the first time (after an incident about 15 years ago when someone sliced it off with a straight razor. Bloody mess it was.) Immediately she pegged me for a non-local and i told her my story. She asked what i learned so far about America, and i gave her a decent version: the one where i'm a lone lefty working on my own issues of tolerance. Debbie confessed (after saying she shouldn't talk politics - now is that an industry-wide practice, or a personal etiquette thang? Must ask Brendan) that although she was a Republican, she really wanted Obama's health care plan to pass. Her story, or rather her husband's, manifests the paragon dire need for "Dear President Obama" letter. Debbie's husband (who i'm assuming is pre-retirement age, she's probably 45 or so) hasn't been able to work in 4 years. He had bone cancer, and the treatment left the bones in his leg so damaged that when he subsequently broke it, his leg would not heal. There is some treatment (don't know what, i'm no doctor) that would help but the insurance company won't pay for it. One clinic thought they were being helpful by offering to accept a check for the procedure: $75,000. I told her she should've just written it, had the procedure, and dealt with that whole fraud issue later. It sucks bad enough that her husband is ill but the fact that it's compounded by his not being able to work to pay for his medical costs is truly mind-blowing. How many thousands and thousands of people are in a similar position?

When the buzzing was done, Debbie offered to wash away the tiny cuttings from my head, and she did so with what felt like such care and warmth. Someone was touching my head, keeping soap out of my eyes, lightly brushing errant hairs from my neck and ears. Again, it's odd being alone for so many days, and how comforting - motherly almost - a stranger's touch can be. Debbie's story about her husband and their plight within the health care system both moved me and made me feel impotent. (I mean, what can you say when you're mouth is hanging open besides "That's awful" and "I hope his health care plan passes too." Or someone's plan that doesn't leave millions of people permanently injured, destitute or both.) I got out my wallet to pay Debbie, and she refused. I was flabbergasted, as i have been 99% of the time people have done nice stuff for me for seemingly no reason at all - or for reasons of their own that i couldn't guess. I begged her to let me pay her - but she said she wanted to contribute to my trip. After some pressure, she caved and let me leave a tip. But that was that. PLEASE, if any of you are ever in Fallon, Nevada, go to Creative Cuts and ask for Debbie. Please.

The charm of Fallon continued into the night when Ben, the fellow cyclist i met in Escalante, Utah and then again the next day in Bryce Canyon when i was with Nina, showed up at my hotel room door. Ben had also sniffed out the bargain that was Fallon Lodge and Dan had told him that i was also staying there. We chatted for about an hour, catching each other up on our respective trips, like old friends who hadn't seen each other, rather than the virtual strangers we really are.

Days 46 - 49: More Nevada, Only Hotter and Drier

2009-06-29T13:33:00.000-07:00

Maybe this post will be short since there isn't much to report in terms of riding. Why did i think Nevada was flat? It's not, but as in the previous Nevada days, with its clearly marked summits that never exceed 7,800 feet and aren't too steep, i'm dealing fine.

Except now it's just hot. Really, really hot. Scorching, they say. No rain in sight. (Likely, dare i say it, no more for the rest of the trip).

Day 46 from Ely to Eureka was a medium-sized trek at just under 80 miles. I spent the day riding on Route 50, which possesses many signs that brag: Route 50, The Loneliest Road in America. I've been on lonelier roads to be sure, as there is some traffic (it's not like i couldn't hold out an empty water bottle as a thirsty plea, should dehydration ever become a truly urgent issue). But Route 50 is still impressively lonely with no towns, water, or wildlife to speak of (dead or alive). Just some creatures scurrying on the road here and there - lizards and big bugs and stuff. Probably poisonous scorpions but let's not think about it. (I am thinking about scorpions, however, while i'm peeing on the side of the road. There's no cover for sun relief so there isn't for urination relief either. And i'm always hoping i'm not peeing standing on a scorpion colony.

Yes, i had assumed Nevada would be flat (NO) and dry (YES) and desolate (DISPROPORTIONATELY). But i had also assumed that the desert would sport folks who, thanks to secret government nuclear testing, would have suffered multiple generations of unspeakable birth defects and who would be lurking behind the desert sage scrub ready to pounce on unsuspecting east-to-west cyclists fantasizing about winning the Hawaii Ironman. Funny that i imagined that the hills would have eyes when i didn't even think there'd be hills in the first place. But i didn't run into any radioactively murderous freaks in Nevada. Nor did i encounter the 21st century version: The Desert Meth Lab. Now this fear had truly crossed my mind at some point: I'd be riding along bopping around in my saddle to Felix Da Housecat when i'd reach for a bottle of water to find it EMPTY. And all my others would be DRY AS DUST. Lips cracking and bleeding and barely able to utter "wa-ter" i'd knock upon the door of a rundown house. Car carcasses decomposing in the yard. A caving shingle-less roof with a homemade "No Trespassing" sign tacked with a tetanus-soaked rusty nail. Spelled with backwards s's. A dirty-diapered babydoll with a cracked plastic skull discarded on the front stair. Grimy chimes jangling ominously in the 104-degree breeze. I'd weakly lift my hand to scratch at the splintered door. But before contact was made, a balding brown-gummed lass in a shreddy teddy would be RIGHT BEHIND ME. I'd turn my head to the click of a loaded gun, the kind that shoots bullets that explode inside you once they pierce your skin. And i'd immediately know: I AM AT THE THRESHOLD OF A METH LAB FULL TO BURSTING WITH PARANOID TWEAKERS WHO ARE 1,000,000% SURE I AM A COP. I'd try to reason with them: "Hey, easy now. I've done needle exchange for 15 years." Or "I don't judge. I coordinate the LA County Westside Crystal Meth Coalition." These are true statements but would provide no pull with my wild-eyed prosecutors. I'd be dead. Unless of course a chemical explosion occurred in the lab's nucleus melting everyone except me and the distracted gun-toting greeter on the porch. I'd disarm her immediately and take off.

I confess. I have, perhaps self-indulgently, described a moment that never happened - at great length. This is what the desert does to ya.

-------------------------

I had four summits to pass over on Day 46 so it was somewhat more difficult than the previous two days. Eureka (not California but Nevada) is located on the downhill from Pinto Summit. The sign upon entry lets you know that Eureka is the Friendliest Town on the Loneliest Road in America. The lady at the Best Western Eureka Inn hadn't read that sign as she barely deigned to give me the biker discount reserved for motorcycles, instead of the Triple A discount since i was unable to produce my AAA card. This was the first time that anyone had asked me to show the card in order to give me the rate - read the friggin' sign, lady! It's your town. Trying to make conversation during the 5-minute transaction, i mentioned that, due to the traffic, Route 50 didn't seem all that lonely. She replied: "It was plenty lonely until they started puttin' up all them signs." This is the hospitality industry in Eureka!

Despite the Best Western's front desk charmlessness, Eureka is quite pleasant and has a really nice food/sundries store where i bought supplies (didn't have to worry about breakfast since the continental version was being served at the Eureka Inn), including neosporin to nurse my lacerated ankle and a sandwich to eat during the next day's ride to Austin, NV. The women at that store were extremely friendly (they obviously read the sign - hell, they probably put it up) and offered to pack the "vegetables" (lettuce and tomato) for the sandwich separately so it wouldn't soak the bread. Right on! Since it was a Best Western, the hotel was better (but not best). I was in a stinky pet-room since it was the only one left on the first floor (and i can't carry my loaded bike up any stairs. The Unfriendly Lady told me that usually cyclists carry their loaded bikes up the stairs, no problem. What has the Unfriendly Lady been smoking?)

Dinner was a big load of Chinese food which in the morning ended up being a mistake. However, the continental breakfast was good and there was a computer in the hotel where i posted a blog entry - and searched warmshowers.org (a website where people can list as hosts for cyclists) for a bed in Santa Cruz, a feat which has proved rather elusive.

The ride to Austin (not Texas but Nevada) on Day 47 wasn't bad at all in terms of distance - 70 miles. But was oven-hot. I've been able (without service to anything else with my stupid iphone) to listen to music for the bulk of the rides these days, and it has helped me not to go insane from boredom. Nevada is just not that interesting. And did i mention it was hot? The Beta Band's "Dry the Rain" is an obviously-titled hit for me at the moment. I love this song. Remember it from the movie "High Fidelity"? John Cusack plays it in his record store, and for a moment everyone in there, including the overly erudite music Nazis, comes together for a moment:

"If there's something inside that you wanna say
Say it out loud it'll be ok
I will be alright
I will be alright
I will be alright
I will be alright."

Download it. And the ridiculously appropriate theme from "Bagdhad Cafe" which begins: "A desert from from Vega$ to nowhere..." You get the picture.

Austin is another nice little Western town on the Loneliest Road in America, even smaller than Eureka - and hidden by the mountain until you get right up to it. I checked into a cheap motel - god, i left there yesterday, and i've already forgotten what it was called! - checked in by the very sweet and helpful Linda. The room was like the other recent unattractive dumps i'm getting super-used to and had an added feature of having to tug the door open with all my might to open or close it. I chose this establishment without enough thought, not realizing that the bar across the street would be hopping until late. (I found this out quite by accident after turning off the loud-ass air conditioning above the bed since it was interfering with sleep, not realizing that the AC's volume was actually masking the noise of Nevada partiers drinking up a storm across the street. Not much else to do in a former mining town built into a mountain on the Loneliest Road in America.

I went to sleep extra early on the evening of Day 47, combatting noise, because Day 48 was a long one - my first 100-miler (113 to be exact) in a while. I left as early as possible (rose: 5:15, outta there: 6:30) to avoid at least some of the heat. The grab-the-worm departure time only partially worked, and i flirted again with dehydration a little. I brought tons of water, but this part of Nevada is way hotter. There's a section of the route, not too far outside of Fallon (about 80 miles into the 113-mile trip) that is pure white sand and brittle nothingness. Nothing grows in the Salt Wells Basin. It's what i imagine the Sahara to be (except it's flatter).

A convenience store 5 miles from Fallon quenched my thirst. I pretended i was in a powerade commercial. Not really - but i did pwer it down. That and a big bottle of water.

Fallon is the biggest place i've been to since Cedar City (though it's much smaller than Cedar City). The thirst-quenching bought me some time to look around for the best hotel option. I phoned one on the Adventure Cycling map: Fallon Lodge. Dan, the friendly voice of Fallon Lodge, offered me a 10% discount on the already-inexpensive rate. Yes! But first i stopped in a the Holiday Inn Express, the Four Seasons of roadside motels. At the front desk, Lindsy informed me that the rate, with Triple A, would be $95. Yikes! She saw my eyes bulge and said, without pride, that they were the most expensive game in town. I fretted. I had stopped by the library just before and saw a sign saying that you need a library card to use the internet. The whole point of resting in Fallon was to catch up on the blog - i was still over a week behind and quite stressed about it. I had seen a "business center" cubicle with two computers at the Holiday Inn Express and was considering paying the exorbitant amount, just so i could blog my heart out and catch the fuck up. However, Lindsy must have an anti-authoritarian streak and told me: "You can use the computer here." And i was like "HUH? You mean i can check into a cheap motel, take a shower, and walk back here to use the computer??" She said, yeah no problem she's there til 11. Wow. I like Fallon. So i did just that.

Dan, the manager at the Fallon Lodge, is extremely hospitable - and is also a south paw who shares my name. These are great qualities. The room is, well, not unlike the others in Nevada, but is commensurate with the price. I showered and slunk into the Holiday Inn Express hiding from Lindsy in case she had changed her mind.

After finishing on the computer - not finishing but making some headway - I patronized the local Safeway and immediately felt at home. We don't have Safeway in Southern California - but we have Von's which is the exact same thing. Walking in there it was like a space warp. The design an layout of the store was precisely the same as the Von's on Lincoln in Santa Monica. I even knew where the items were i was looking for.

Today is Day 49, and i'm caught up (except for my Mormon entry which i don't have to energy to finish at the moment). Dan has been so extremely unprecedentedly accommodating to let me use the computer in the office here at the Fallon Lodge where i've been sitting for 5 hours. And he's gonna let me do my laundry! I'm on my way out now to buy him a six-pack of Corona for just being awesome.

Done for now, dear readers. I know i've left a lot out so hopefully it will trickle in and i'll edit in the days to come.

Days 44 and 45: Entering Nevada - Cheap Motels, Predictable Terrain, and a Bloody Mess!

2009-06-29T11:04:00.000-07:00

One positive aspect about a lame place is that it's easy to get up and going in the morning; you just want out. I awoke at 4:40am, didn't stay in bed, ate and drank, pooed, did my morning pre-workout warm-up routine, and cycled immediately outta Milford. Plus, it was a state-line day. By the end of the Day 44 ride, i'd be in Nevada. Baker, Nevada to be exact.

I'm lumping the next two days together, because the routine, terrain, etc have been so similar, with some details specific to each which, do not worry, i'll outline below. I've given up camping, it seems, until i get to the California coast. All the campsites within the towns are those dusty RV parking lots that i said i'd be avoiding from the get-go. The scenery for these several days has been consistent (desert, deserted, mountainous, mostly tree-/shade-less, lovely-scented by desert sage, not much evidence of fauna- unless you count cows, which i don't anymore). The brush is accented by spasms of color offered by wildflowers blooming here and there. Wildflowers, schmildflowers. I was ready to move through this section of the trip, anxious to get to California, the coastal breezes, San Francisco to see Carlos, Carrie and Jeremy, Kaibrina, whoever would come to meet me, and most importantly Donny who would be meeting me in San Luis Obispo with his bike, Rupert Stiltskin, to ride back with me the final 225 miles to 108 South La Jolla Avenue. Nothing against Nevada, but the barren desert vistas can't match Utah or Colorado.

Terrain-wise these days have been very consistent. Long, straight mountain passes, not too steep, that you can see 10 or more miles in the distance. Up and down. Up and down. The climbs marked the day's progress, breaking up the monotony, and though it hasn't been easy exactly, Utah's and Colorado's mountains were way harder. One great thing about Nevada is that all the passes/summits have nifty names (as in Pancake Summit, Wah Wah Summit, Sand Springs Pass, and Bob Scott Summit. "Who Is Bob Scott?" - prize for anyone who gets the cultural reference i'm winking at). And they're all marked clearly, so you know when you're at the top. I started photographing each sign - like the water towers in Kansas. Got bored of it before long but obsessively didn't miss a single one.

Day 44 to Baker, Nevada was my first flirtation with dehydration on the trip. Don't know if i mentioned this earlier, but i bought a book online in April before i left called something like "The Cyclist's Food Guide." Much of the info in there wasn't too useful because of the lack of availablility of the array of foods suggested. But i did get some stuff out of it, including the idea of V-8 juice as a source for replenishing vitamins and, more specfically, the salt content in your body when you're sweating all day long. I taught this to Drew back in Illinois; he loved this idea, since V-8 was a favorite of his. I like it too, got my taste for tomato-based juice from my dad, so i've been happy to utilize V-8 as a resource here and there along the journey.

But i did something kinda dumb, which was two-fold: 1) i bought hot'n spicy V-8 which might be nice with vodka but not in 90-degree bone-dry heat, and 2) instead of just carrying the container, i put the contents in one of my water bottles (topping it off with tap water), therefore reducing my liquid capacity by 20 ounces. Now this might not sound like a big deal, but there is NO WATER between Milford, Utah and Baker, Nevada. No rivers, creeks or streams. No towns where you can buy it. Nada. And i needed those 20 extra ounces that day (BTW one of the items that Nina had brought me from home was a fourth water bottle that i requested since the next leg of the trip would be through the baking desert heat - so i was semi-prepared but didn't take advantage of it. Can you say "Duh"?)

Also on hot and/or long days, i've been making it a practice to drink a few gulps every mile or so to avoid being dehydrated. I drink a lot of water in the morning before i leave and daily when i'm done riding for the day, even though it makes me have to arise to piss twice every night. So i know what i'm doing. I just didn't do it on Day 44.

Don't flip out. I wasn't dying when i got to Baker. I had just sucked the juice out of an apple only 8 miles before arrival there. I wasn't seeing white light (like i did one year right after mile 18 of the 2004 LA Marathon and had to quit. My only unfinished race. Poor Erin waiting to cheer me on at Mile 19. I think Nick and Christie and Carlos and Hendrik were also posted along the route that day. All after Mile 18, godammit! Because of this heat exhaustion moment, all those years ago, i never ask people to cheer me on at a race. Don't want to leave them hanging in case i bonk). But i was fantasizing about various beverages.

The first place you come to in Baker after a limited-hours gas station without drinks for purchase is the Silver Jack Inn/Campground/Cafe/Art Studio/Gallery/Bookstore/Food Mart (clearly one of the only businesses in town). A couple of bikers (of the motor variety) asked me my story as i tried to enter the establishment in my state of nearing dehydration. Instead of excusing myself for a moment so i could drink something i dutifully answered their inquiries telling them i started in DC to which they asked suspiciously: "Do you work for the government?" By their tone, i knew they were referring to our newly elected Socialist Government. As i've mentioned in previous posts, i've avoided political conversations with those who differ from me, wanting to avoid conflict. But in my weakened state i was powerless and irked by the suspicious tone. My answer was: "So what if i do work for the government?" One of the guys said: "Well, then i''d have to tell you..." and trailed off. Exactly, fella. I tried to explain that i did not live in DC, Socialist/Invasive Government Central, so the the question wasn't really relevant, but one of them couldn't grasp that. Needing a fucking drink of water, i settled the matter for the moment with a little mystery: "I don't work for the government but the government pays my salary." Which is true, as most of my salary is paid by County or City contracts.

The Silver Jack Inn, cafe, etc. reminded me of home with its overpriced gourmet faire, pretty dreadlocked guy as the barista (can you believe the third person i saw in Nevada was African American? Five days later he remains the one and only) and orange walls. I asked for a glass of water and bought a large bottle of Santa Cruz sparkling lemonade. Heaven. Getting my wits about me, i realized that this was the place that Mitch and Steven, west-to-east cyclists i met in Colorado, had mentioned as a desert oasis. I got a room with dinner and breakfast included, and mourned the continued lack of cell phone coverage. The owner, Terry, allowed me to use the phone, so i quickly called Donny and via message asked him to let Heather (whose birthday was a couple days back and i was supposed to call her) and Ma (who was also overdue for a check-in) know my plight.

Since i hightailed it so early out of Milford, it wasn't yet time to eat dinner. And neither the TV nor the air conditioning in my room was working (AC fixed later, thank god, or what was the point of getting a room?). And i finished the Elmore Leonard novel i was reading back in Colorado - and left it at a library somewhere in Utah on the exchange rack where there were only romance novels, so i took nothing to replace it. No internet. The town was 80 people so there wasn't much to explore (though for 80 people, i will say that Baker possesses a thriving artist community). I was bored for the first time in ages. Thankfully, the silver Jack Inn was also a bookstore so i sat and read from cover-to-cover a pictorial history of the American West. Such an odd feeling not to have anything to do...

Dinner was a sorrowful affair. I could order from a few things on the menu as part of the package, and what i chose was a mistake: some kind of "Thai curry" with chicken that had roasted red peppers, artichoke hearts and a million tiny hard-to-pick-out minces of red onion. It tasted like coconut milk-based salad dressing over rice. And a little like vomit. Unsuccessfully i tried not to pout about the first meal since the pork tenderloin debacle of Houston, MO that i did not finish and lick the plate.

Worth mentioning for sure is the west-to-east cycling group of frat guys who had raised $5,000 each for their national philanthropic organization - Push Something -that helps out people with disabilities. They were all stationed in the cafe (which had wireless - but Nina had my laptop!) buzzing on the internet. I conversed with some of them, soaking in the props they gave me for being motivated enough to do this ride solo. Yes, fraternity brothers, i am awesome. One of them, in possession of an iPhone, gave me the rundown of which cities in my immediate future would have reception for me. BTW, from what i can tell on this route, Verizon kicks AT&T's ass. So much for the omnipotent power of a near-monopoly.

Because of the time change to my beloved Pacific Standard Time, i sprung up extra early again and headed toward Ely, Nevada - 63 miles hence. For the first time in a record 3 days, it looked like the rain was a-comin'. I did not want this to be the case. I was liking the weather that morning - cool, breezy (headwind mostly of course, but what can you do?). But the sky became increasingly (and familiarly) angry, and i knew there was no avoiding it. Now, in my verbal descriptions of the next event that occurred, which i have relayed since to Nat, Donny and Ma, i commented on my previous weather descriptions where i have insisted that - for example - such-and-such day was the worst wind or possessed the most drenching rainstorm. Maybe it has gotten progressively worse. Or maybe the most recent experience just seems like the worst. BUT, hear me, my friends, on Day 45 (and i speak to you from the future on Day 49) i experienced the absolute STRONGEST, FIERCEST WIND OF THE ENTIRE TRIP. Not the coldest or the wettest but the STRONGEST, FIERCEST WIND OF THE ENTIRE TRIP. I had to get off the bicycle and try (operative word) to push Whitey in the desired direction. Which i could not do. I had trouble keeping him from being blown off the road while standing on the ground - NOT riding. There was no place to take cover, and for the first time i thought that a something tornado-ish might this way come.

Now i wish that i remembered that all these storms have passed rather quickly. So i should have just waited, you know? Just held the bike still for 20 or 30 minutes and waited it out. But i'm so focused on moving forward every second that i couldn't (more like "wouldn't") do that. I made the not-fatal-but-dangerous decision to get back on the bike and pedal forward. Fighting the headwind to end all headwinds, i managed to mount Whitey and clip into my pedals. For about 10 seconds. What happened next is exactly what has been threatening me since my first exerience with high winds back in Kansas (or Illinois, if you count the time near the Mississippi levees): I got blown into that ever-present ditch at the side of the road.

Amazingly, i did not fall off. The force of the plummet unclipped my pedals for me. I felt the back of my ankle get cut by the large front gear. I didn't hurt too bad so i was surprised when i saw my blood cascading into my sock. Fuck! For a moment of camaraderie, all of you reading try to examine the back of your ankle - above the ankle bones, below the calf, Achilles area. Right? It's hard to see, isn't it? I couldn't tell how bad the cut was, and for a moment remained inactively stunned to see the amount of blood. Was this the end of my trip? Yes, i went there for a second.

The rain started (when else but at this opportune moment?) as soon as i began to dig out a rag and the simpleton first aid kit in my rear pannier. I pressed the rag (i was 75% sure it was clean) to the wound to see if the bleeding would stop with one hand and pried open the first aid kit with the other (hadn't been in there yet the entire trip - a good thing for sure, but i was ignorant of its contents). Eventually i could make out that the ct was actually 3 sub-gashes, not too deep but deeper than you'd want it to be for riding a bike, and there was plenty of black chain-grease on the wounds themselves. Great. Awesome. For those of you who don't ride a bike, let me educate you about bicycle grease - it does not come out of clothing and to get it off your skin completely you need to really use some elbow-grease.

Besides stopping the bleeding if i could, i didn't really have a plan. Ely, the town in front, is a bigger town than Baker (well, anything is, except maybe Alexander, Kansas), so there was no reason to go back, wind or no wind. Plus, i was exactly 31.5 miles from either town - right in the middle. Cars, trucks, RVs zoomed by me as i mopped my bleeding stump. Rain beat down (i won't exaggerate - it was maybe a 4 out of 10 in terms of the worst rain i've encountered - 10 being the worst). No one stopped.

Now this area of my personality is a struggle (my therapist would be interested in this moment of mine, for sure). I didn't ask anyone for help. I was visibly in trouble (or was it visible? - me bent over with my hurt leg cradled at my other knee). I was, in a sense, showing the passers-by that i was bleeding, just in case they wanted to stop. Part of me wanted someone to stop and ask if i was ok (i wasn't sure what i'd say - because i wasn't sure if i was ok to ride). Yet i didn't want anyone to stop because then i'd have to make a decision of what to do and possibly put someone out. BUT, at the same time, i was annoyed and took it (slightly) personally that no one stopped. I chuckled at the passive-aggressiveness of it all. And at how this represents a common stuggle i experience over decision-making and relationships.

I paused therapizing the moment, and tackled the issue. My lay-person medical assessment was as follows - get the bleeding to stop and cover it; if i can ride 30 miles without it continuing to bleed profusely, then i don't need stitches. As it turns out, i was right (it helps having a sister who's a doctor i can run shit by). The bleeding did stop. I cleaned it as much as i could stand, smeared the available packet of anti-bacterial ointment on the 3 wounds and covered it with sterile gauze and taped it. It didn't really hurt that much, and the wind was dying down, so i mounted Whitey and rode on (up a hill immediately to add to the fun).

I was ok. I got to Ely and checked into the $28.99 El Rancho Motel, which was as nasty as the one in Milford, but the price mitigated that fact. And i called my sister who laid out the plans for the healing process. I did exactly what she said - clean with soap and water, don't rub the bike grease too hard but try to remove it, use the disinfectant wipe from the first aid kit, let dry completely, apply steri-strips (i had two so i used them on the two deeper cuts at Nat's suggestion - though i couldn't see any of it that well!), and cover with gauze. Just so ya know if it happens to you. And four days later it's healing nicely. As per Dr. Natalie's orders, i am leaving uncovered as i sit and type all day on this rest day - to let the wounds dry, like paint.

I spoke to my grandparents that evening but omitted the laceration story figuring it's best to tell later, after we know for sure that not being able to remove bike grease from a cut won't result in gangrene.

Ely is an old mining town (like all these towns are) and doesn't have much to offer in terms of food but there were something like 30 hotels to choose from (I chose the El Rancho since it was listed on my Adventure Cycling map - but none of the others looked any better). I spent a short stint in the library before getting kicked off the computer for being too long. I had a bad meal (again) for dinner (sucks not to be able to treat myself on an injurious day!

Again, my sleeping bag shielded me from the bedding at the motel. I fell asleep to "Friends." Not my friends, but the show "Friends." Actually, those guys are my friends. They're all i got, out here in the desert.

Day 43 - To Milford: Utah's Zombie Town

2009-06-29T09:32:00.001-07:00

"Continental Breakfast" at the Stratford Court was vast and filling, and i ate more than i needed, including the requisite oatmeal and hard boiled eggs plus a make-your-own Belgian waffle (the syrup bottle boasted "no high-fructose corn syrup" but the primary ingredient was still corn syrup -no maple for me) for the brief 56-mile ride to Milford from Cedar City. Nina and i packed up, and i skimmed as much as i could from my bike-load, managing to cut out a few mere ounces - but at least it was something. (Wish i would have remembered to unload the solar power charger - sorry Nat!) I kissed my laptop goodbye. And Nina too, the only physical human contact (besides a few handshakes and the hands-on prayer i'd received in Kansas) that i'd had in about 40 days (besides our affectionate greeting of course, three days before). Ironically, in Cedar City i was closer to Los Angeles (about 400 miles) than i'd be until i was riding down the coast of Calfornia. It felt counterproductive for Nina to be heading down Interstate 15 on a direct route and for me to ride directly north and away from my final destination. But that's where the Adventure Cycling maps take you!

Besides one small town (Minersville - empty, dusty, the presence shells of deserted cars and school buses strewn on lawns illustrating the town's discarded state of being) and one not-too-difficult hill, there was nothing to the day's ride. Leaving Cedar City (impressively sparkling clean even along the intersection of my route and the interstate), there was nothing. Dry, flat nothingness. A few unpleasant smelling and looking farms near Minersville, but nothing else. Not the Utahn splendor of the previous days to be sure.
With a lot of the small Western towns i've stopped in, I vibed a first impression that seemed to match the entire experience. And trust me, i'm open to every place being a gem in its own way. I don't want to NOT like a place; i really don't. But my first impression of Milford was, well, a little spooky. Clearly a mining/railroad town of yesteryear, i didn't see any people at all. i rode around for a bit locating the library (the only positive aspect of the town as far as i could tell), a place to stay, a convenience store for supplies. Didn't like what i saw, but there's no going "Eh, don't like Milford, i'll move on" as the next town on the map isn't for 84 miles, the whole next day's ride. Actually, that's what it's been like since leaving Cedar City; you can't really get creative with where you stop, as the daily distance is dictated by how far the next town is.
The Milford Station Hotel was a new low for accommodations. The advertized price was "starting at $34.99" which seemed high for how it looked from the outside but certainly within the range. The sun cast a shadow over the slatted wooden awning spanning the length of the building covering the rundown edifice with what seemed like a jailhouse bar mural. Unwelcoming to say the least. Inside the office, where an electric fan tied together with greasy rags blew hot air over me and the two women working there. I mentioned the need for a room and the $34.99 special. The women's eyes widened. The younger of the two said that i'd need to speak to the owner. She placed a call and handed me the phone. Unfortunately for me, the gravelly voice told me that the special price was the weekly rate divided by 7 and the rate for me would be the exorbitant amount of $52-something. Only game in town. No place to camp. (As it turns out, there was a nicer-looking motel i espied as i left town the next day). Deep breath in. And out.

I eased open the door to my digs for the night. It was (like several others before and since) sinister as if on purpose, as if someone said: "How can we make this room as inhospitable as possible? Oh, i know, let's smear the bedspread with an oily substance! Let's paint the cinderblock walls a putrid shade of mustard! Let's get all 32 people left in town to smoke 2 packs of cigarettes each and blow tar-infused smoke on all the towels! Yes, let's!" The blanket under the bedspread always is cut from the same swath of material: it's meant to either retard fire, or ensure that it explodes if a match is held to it. This night was definitely one to unpack the sleeping bag and sleep on top of, rather than under, the covers.

Feeling taken advantage of, i sulked over to the library, a one-room affair with an available computer station, and cranked out another post. Since i had given Nina the map section that ended with Cedar City, i was hoping to look at an atlas of Utah to jog the juices (and get the correct names of places i had seen) but the worker couldn't find one. No phone service in Milford so i emailed Donny. Not satisfying. (It's always extra lonely, by the way, staying in a hotel in the middle of nowhere without phone service.)

The library closed at 6pm and i walked to the town's grocery store. On the way, i was charged by a scary looking brown dog who clearly didn't want me on his property. The hair on my neck stood up as i calmly (outwardly) crossed the street. Almost no one was outside. No lawns were being mowed. No children playing. It occurred to me that this town might be THE ONE i'd been fearing all along: the one where zombies live. The one where when the sun sets, they will emerge. And only the flesh of a live human, no matter how tough and stringy from weeks of bicycling, will satisfy. Or maybe they'd transform me into one of them, and i'd roam the street(s) of Milford, Utah forever. [If Donny came to rescue me i'd either bite him and make him one of us, or in my animal-instinct-only zombie state i'd sense that i knew him, somewhere buried in my erased memory, and set him free.] Or maybe Milford wasn't an actual town. Maybe Milford was destroyed in 1980 by a nuclear experiment gone wronge out there in the desert, and it all was a mirage: the hotel, the bedspread, the rags blowing in the fan-wind, everything. A broken-down, unfriendly, ugly mirage. Each of these scenarios was a distinct possibility. I was toast.

Strangers eyed me in the grocery store which didn't have much on the shelves to purchase, though i managed to cobble together enough for breakfast and for the 84 mile ride to Baker, Nevada (Nevada!) the next day. I've given up on tea so Red Bull has become the morning ritual. Did you know they make a cola version? Much easier to stomach.

My experience at the Station Motel Restaurant also ranks as one of the all-time lows. American AND Chinese cuisine. I knew to avoid the Chinese offerings noting the steaming pile of viscous red dye #2-infused vittles in front of some zombie about to consume it. I sat at the bar (mistake) in an attempt to hang with the locals and make conversation, since i'm supposed to be learning shit on this trip. Maybe i would uncover the spooky secret of Milford!

The teenage waitress (dark-haired) bumbled about referring to herself as blond due to the array of mistakes she allegedly was consistently making. Under normal circumstances i would feel anti-sexism-based sympathy for her as in "Poor girl, people always telling her she's blond to put her down, and now she's absorbed that criticism, laughing painfully at herself, buying into the whole 'i'm a dumb blond even though i'm not even a blond' culture. What could i possibly say to empower this young woman? Offer her something as pat as 'Maybe waitressing is not your calling. Something totally awesome awaits your discovery!'" As it turns out, she was just stupid. I tried to engage her in conversation but to no avail. Her answers to my simple questions were so painfully banal that the meal soured into a worse glop than it had been at its late delivery to my face.

The sun sunk. And as i expected, the Milford zombies tried to get into my hotel room to attack me. Luckily, i've been on the road for a while and have developed some handy skills that kept them at bay.

Day 42 - Quick and Dirty to Cedar City and More Nina

2009-06-28T18:25:00.000-07:00

I managed to thaw in time to climb onto Whitey Jackson and leave Nina, for the moment, until we met up again in Ceday City, a not-too-long ride of about 80 miles. Since Nina had time to burn before she continued to explore the parks and monuments, she selflessly offered to pack up my camping gear (tent, bag, pillow, pad) and carry those items along with my clothes pack - probably about two-thirds of the weight i am burdened with on a daily basis.

I loved lugging a lighter load on Day 42. I don't know why but i had thought i might not perceive the difference. But did i ever! I had been debating since before Nina arrived about whether to keep my laptop with me, and i was bargaining in my head what i could leave behind. The laptop is light for a computer but would certainly add a significant amount of weight. But then i'd be able to blog-as-i-go instead of making notes and racking my brain to remember relevant details (and the minutiae as well with which i burden you all). Practically every two-bit hotel i had stayed in up to that point offered wireless connection. So i was considering it...

The route to Cedar City was downhill at first and on a bonafide bike path, the first i'd been on since Virginia, i think. I coasted through Red Canyon National Park(?? Can't remember what that was called - obviously i didn't keep the computer with me) for about 12 miles until the path dumped me back on Highway 12. The climb to Day 42's summit was long - and since i accidentally gave Nina the section of the map which ended with that day's journey, i don't remember how long. But what i do remember was the ride down the other side into Cedar City. The grades coming up the other side were really steep (definitely well over 10%) even though the west-to-east climb was only 16 miles (compared with the much longer and quite steep though more gradual one i endured). As i approached nearly 40 mph WITH a headwind, i acknowledged that this mountain had certainly been an easier climb for me than for the poor saps who started in San Francisco. Suckahs! (...though i'm the one with the contant headwind).

Nina happened to be picnicking in a Cedar City park as i sped down the hill and she managed to spot me. Moment of luck. I was earlier than expected and we called around to find the cheapest hotel option on the route. The Straford Court Motel was the winner, and was quite nice. Cedar City is actually quite nice as well. It is home not only to the Utah Shakespeare Festival but also a huge renaissance faire, so the hotel was expertly named. Nina and I practically bowed to one another and immediately donned hyper-posh British accents for about two seconds. Aren't we just the cleverest?

The high-speed wireless internet access at the Stratford Court, or lack thereof, was the ulitmate decider: sniff, sniff, my computer would be going back with Nina. The last thing i needed was the extra weight without the benefit (and i'm glad i did considering the shite-holes i've been staying in since!) We ate at a fancy but reasonably-priced restaurant for dinner, a house that had been transformed into a neatly-gardened food joint. I consumed everything in sight but dessert which was procured from a convenience store (her: low-rent verion of King Cone despite her soy allergy, me: movie-sized bag of peanut-butter M&Ms, something i would eat at home). If there wasn't so much high-fructose corn syrup in our respective post-meal snacks, i'd say they tasted bittersweet as Nina was taking off for LA tomorrow and leaving me to it.

Day 41 - Me and Nina Rocking the Rock Formations At Bryce

2009-06-28T17:19:00.000-07:00

It was a good thing that Nina was on California time and that i get up insanely early these days as our multi-reasoned time difference provided the opportunity for me to make tea and do some blogging while Nina slumbered. I was feeling particularly uninspired, and humorless, in my writing that morning and decided to blame it on the altitude (Tropic is up there - about 7,000 feet, i think).

Our little log cabin was a nice place to lounge and ease into the day. We were going to be camping that night more towards the actual park (Bryce Canyon, i'm talking about), and i was going to have to ride 11 or 12 miles (up a big ol' hill, of course), even though it was my "rest" day. Nina woke and we ate breakfast - a combo of the motel's "continental" breakfast following me everywhere (i suppose it's me following the breakfast from place to place) and the goods in Nina's well-stocked igloo. i ate everything, and Nina, being less of a huge breakfast eater, did manage to save something for herself. We packed up; both of our gear had kind of exploded in our comfy setting the evening before (you know how it is - we made it like home). Out at 11 on the dot.

The ride from Bryce Canyon Inn to Bryce Canyon Pines Campground and Lodge (or something like that - you get the point: the names are all basically the same, as i said in the last post) wasn't too bad. It was short, at least. The hill wasn't so bad, but as soon as the ascent ended, i was at the wide open intersection of my route (highway 12, at that point) and Route 63 where the cross-wind was bent on bending me toward the oncoming parade of RVs and motorcycles. I made it to our campsite a short while later (it took Nina all of 15 minutes to get there compared with my hour-forty) to find Nina all set up and buzzing with activity. The plan was to go for a hike later in Bryce Canyon after i had unloaded the weight of getting a few more blog posts in the can and my stank-ass laundry seen to. The washer and dryer were inside the gas station grocery store. The slightly standoffish elderly proprietors had popcorn, freshly popped, and i bought some, opened my computer and clickity-clacked away waiting for my laundry to get done. Eventually, Nina got bored lying around in her hammock and came to investigate where i was in the process (no pressure, of course - Nina is a non-pressure type of friend). I was still feeling eh about what i was writing but my clothing was dry and seemed to sparkle and dance, lightweight and free of the crusty mess.

We went to an early dinner (it was like 4pm at this point) at the Bryce Canyon Pines Restaurant - soup and pies! soup and pies! I had the soup (cream of broccoli - something i'd never order in real life; i'd just taste Donny's) and salad and rainbow trout again cuz it looks like salmon and pie (cherry - it may have been baked on the premises but the filling wasn't homemade. still, with ice cream, i polished it all off). Nina attempted to keep up and did pretty well. But i'm a Hungry Man now, and i bet i could beat any of y'all in an eating contest. Especially where kale and chard are involved. And sushi. Rembmer sushi? I don't.

I was flatlining at this point, having the Sunday blues knowing i had to get up tomorrow and bike a regular day (and it was actually Sunday!), and Nina could tell. She generously offered to drive me back to the campsite since she had all day to poke around the canyon while i was riding (i still had to set up all my shit) and abandon the walk, but i couldn't. You can't (or I can't) bike up to (or, rather, near) this amazingly beautiful place and not actually see it (depsite what the website seemed to suggest, Bryce Canyon Pines was not inside the park, nor was it within walking distance).

So we drove over to the park. As luck would have it the $25 fee to get in was waived - it was a "free Sunday"! At the Visitor Center where we stopped to get a map and figure out what hike (brief, i was praying, based on my exhaustion), we ran into Ben the dude i had met eating breakfast at Escalante the day before! We chatted with him for a while, and he showed us all the hiking he had done on his rest day (????) and suggested one for my fading ass. Ben asked us what we were doing later, for dinner, and we hemmed and hawed a little, we think, giving Ben the impression that we blowing him off. Unfortunately awkward exchange. But we had just eaten, the hike was nigh, and by the time that was over, i'd need to be diving into my tent to avoid being flash-frozen.

The hike was worth it. The sun was low and the light in the canyon, or rather amphitheatre, as it's called, was suitably dramatic to the naked eye (though it was hard to photograph as you'll see from the pics at some point). The Indians believed that the hoodoos (the pointy red, pink and white geological stuctures formed by wind and ice erosion) were people (baddies, i think) that the Coyote trickster had turned to stone. Sounds reasonable; i'm sure they deserved it. We were smart to have waited until later in the day as there weren't too many people hovering around, and Nina and I were able to take pictures and movies of each other without too much rude interruption by mere tourists. I'm a townie now - of everywhere. Because of the altitude (YES, folks, EVERYTHING even slightly off-kilter is blamed on the altitude - Nina got really into it too!), we were both winded coming back up from the amphitheatre to the parking lot.

Back at camp, the temperature was plummeting (it was supposed to go below 40!). Nina of course made a roaring fire in three seconds and was prepared with extra blankets for both of us. I retired into my tent having sufficiently obsessed over the next day's ride and the incessant climb to Cedar City where Nina would be meeting me.

I slept ok, with my bag pulled up over my head, delicately balancing the need to guard my face from the frigid air with the Mexican blanket Nina had lent me and the need to not suffocate. The night was indeed cold (if Dashie had been receiving a signal, even he would admit to lower than 40 degrees), but the stars made up for it. I debated for too long in the middle of the night whether to piss inside the tent (into my empty water bottle) or brave the cold. I discarded the former idea and peed on the fence (and a little on my shoe) mesmerized by the constellations that never look like what they're supposed to, except the Big Dipper. Stupid Ancient Greeks.

Day 40 - Finally, It's Nina Day!

2009-06-27T06:06:00.000-07:00

Despite my being hugely exhausted from the previous treks of the last two days (and dealing with some stomach issues since my pig-at-the-trough organic feed of the night before), i sprung out of the bed which i had luckily scored. No, not a state line this time. Today i was going to clap eyes on someone that I know and love for the first time in 40 days and 40 nights (not all stormy but a considerable number were), my awesomely wonderful friend, Nina!

I didn't mention the weather on Day 39 because it was beautiful - crisp and clear, with only friendly clouds in the sky. Odd not to mention it, since it was an anomaly (unfortunately). So without the Weather Channel to guide me (some places don't report locally - it's random and i can't figure it out), i just assumed it was going to be another peachy day. Wrong. I stepped outside to a thick low-laying layer of dark clouds. La la la, i sung a little cheerful ditty to myself. Not seeing you, clouds, not gonna bother me on Nina Day. I ate breakfast from my trappings (the place had a little kitchen - with a mug, so i could make tea!) - oatmeal, a banana, not much. Didn't need much on Nina Day! I walked over to the Johnson home, where i'd swiped that golden key of restful opportunity, and knocked, cash in hand. A tired guy with morning breath answered the door and i handed over the fair price, thanked him profusely, and slinked out noticing a scantily clad young blonde female nesting on the couch. None of my business, Mr. Johnson.

After the last couple of days of arduous riding, i just assumed - invented, really - that Day 40's ride wouldn't be so bad. There was Nina at the other end as a prize, and it was a shorter ride to Tropic - about 70 miles - where we were meeting at the Bryce Canyon Inn (everything in the area is similarly and confusingly named). So i wasn't worried. But i was tired. And the steep climb out of Boulder - which was staggeringly scenic, in part due to the angry cloud formations - was unwelcome (and surprising - you'd think i'd learn to study those elevation profiles more closely by now, wouldn't you?)

Leaving BOulder, my mood became raw and angry, and that sense of entitlement i've been struggling with started to creep in when the weather changed from merely a threat to aggressive wind and rain (and freezing cold as well, mind you) - "Why is this happening to ME?! It's not fair! I'm tired!" Waah waah waah. (Easy to make fun of myself for something that happened a week ago - but i was furious and crabby then for sure!)

I made it out of town and finished that first climb out. THe next section was downhill. "Good," i thought. Even though it was raining, i'd have a nice downhill stretch. just proceed and be cautious, right? Wrong. The next few-mile section labeled Hog-Something-or-Other (don't have the map on me - a great name i'll include later), was the most treacherous (and insanely gorgeous, weather permitting) i'd encountered thus far. i know everything i write is so hyperbolic in terms of weather and scenery and danger and friendliness and all, but THIS was so extreme that i kinda blocked it out (i guess so i could focus on not crashing and burning) and only remembered the experience more clearly when talking about it later with Ben, a NYC-based cyclist traveling in my direction. The reason for the danger was that the stretch was 6-10% grade downhill with CLIFF ON EITHER SIDE, WITH NO GUARDRAILS. Add 20-30 mph winds and pouring rain and you've got a recipe for disaster. Which i escaped.

Ok, the truth is i must not have been that scared if i didn't actually fully regard the experience as pure danger until speaking about it later and basically appropriating another cyclist's "that was fucking crazy" experience as my own. It was exhilarating. The views were spectacular. i was focusing on being safe. And i was almost too tired and angry to care. All this attention on other stuff probably was a good thing. Or else i'm a totally-awesome cycling Evel Knievel now. Or whatever the contemporary NASCAR reference would be. I wouldn't know. And probably never will.

The climb out of there was murderous, like dragging myself out of primordial existence into modern times. Well, it looked worse than it actually was. SOmetimes seeingh tiny cars winding their way up the side of the mountain way above you is more daunting than the hill itself. It looks steeper until it's in front of your face. It sucked but not like the previous day's million-mile uphill slug. THe rain was also not letting up, and it was depressing me. Nina seemed too far away. Remember, also that this was the eighth day in a row of dragging myself up and down mountains in elevated altitude; i hadn't rested since leaving Pueblo and beginning the Rockies. Tomorrow was to be the rest day.

Wiping the incessant rain off my chin (for some reason that always annoys me - has something to do with how the water rolls off my sunglasses which you have to wear in the rain so you can keep your eyes open), I wanted to throw Whitey and all my shit off a cliff (sorry, WHitey), call Nina and say, "i'm done. take me home." Deciding against that, i figured i'd stop at Escalante, the town i found myself rolling into, and eat another breakfast. Also, i knew that among Nina's many qualities is her ability to roll with crabbiness. I wouldn't have to be a Cheery Charlie upon arriving in Tropic; i could just be whatever i was. Crabby Crabbington.

At breakfast in escalante, i met Ben, who i mentioned above. Ben has been on the road since early April, leaving from New York City and has experienced an array of and misfortune to mix with all the good stuff (snow the day he left NYC, bike problems in Baltimore which he wasn't supposed to even be in, illness in Kansas - but his mom had come out to be with him for a bit at that moment so it was perfect timing). We shot back and forth the trials and successes of our respective journeys thus far and complained about the current weather. Having that outlet with someone who was going through the same thing at the same exact moment really cheered me up. Plus, his struggles far outmatched mine, so i certainly had a lot to be grateful for.

I left the diner in Escalante with renewed fervor to face the rain and rode the next multi-mile hill with less attitude. Whitey had survived my fury.

I almost cried at seeing Nina. Ok, i teared up a little. (I've cried more in the last 40 days than i have in the last 4 years, or more even). The fact that she drove 10 hours to see me, bearing a carload of snacks, camping gear, and a list of stuff that Donny had compiled at my request, including my laptop (!), open to do doing whatever i wanted (whether it be relaxing or adventuring) obliterated any tension i was feeling, and i bounced off the walls of the little log cabin Nina had procured for us (after MUCH searching - as it was the weekend in a major tourist destination: Bryce Canyon), blathering non-stop. We had a beer (my first of the trip, excluding the obligatory 3 sips out of the can that Larry of Council, Virginia had insisted on opening for me) and sat watching the weather worsen as the thunderstorms began in earnest and soaked Tropic but good.

We spent the remainder of the afternoon catching up, doing laptop business (i wrote a couple blog entries), planning our (short) weekend, and strategizing about where i might find a campsite or motel on 4th of July weekend, when i would be riding down particularly touristy section of the california coast, as luck would have it. We ate at a decent restaurant (though the BBQ half-chicken i ate was dry as the bones it cme on and had to be swallowed with much water-as-lubricant). (Don't know if i mentioned this but Utah is surprisingly expensive - even in the crappy towns. Except for the Telluride area, it's more expensive than COlorado. Weird, huh?) Nina marveled (and rankled) at the plethora of in-yer-face religious Mormon literature placed everywhere you looked and other LDS Church-produced literature including a pamphlet on Women of the West, which ended up being a bland story about a woman whose father wouldn't let her marry the man she wanted cuz he was a dentist, but then the father decided it was ok after all - i.e. not really a story about the woman herself. (I have a post in the works about my impressions of Utah's Mormon community and my utter naivete about it in the works, so i'll talk about that at some point, don't know when.)

The next day was to be my rest day, albeit with my riding 11 or 12 miles to our campsite. No cheating!

Day 39 - The Endless Climb, The Golden Key and The Locally Grown Feast

2009-06-25T15:31:00.000-07:00

Day 39 was an odyssey in its own right, despite having followed The Longest Day.

I didn't really eat all of Hanksville. If i had, it still wouldn't have filled me up following that near 130 mile interplanetary expedition; it brely would have been a medium-sized three-course meal, which is what i did eat. I survived the longest day with its extreme mileage, extreme weather and extreme vistas. Crashing in room 25 at the spooky Hanksville Inn (don't be fooled by the use of "Inn" if that makes it sound nice in your book. The lobby reeked of 10-year-old eggs and nicotine. A computer from the mid-90s invited one to "serf the net" for a mere $2 per night - did that mean i could serf all night long?).

I hadn't counted on the next day being its own hyperbolic journey. I'd been so caught up in the drama of The Longest Day and my surviving it that i hadn't looked closely at the map for what was in store - an 85 mile trek (not too high comparatively) from Hanksville to Boulder (Utah, we're in, please remember, not Colorado. I wish i could have gone to BOulder CO!). Before i set off in the morning i finally looked closely at the elevation profile for the day and realized that from Hanksville to the day's summit was a 72 MILE CLIMB. Yes, that's seventy-two. No rest for the altitude-impacted weary. A few days before i had spoken to DOnny in Montrose CO gushing/complaining about the climb to Dallas Divide and how it was so darn long! and how long was that one? It was about 30 miles.

Of course there were a few shelter options before Boulder: three campsites near the summit but not quite at the summit. But i'm just not the type of person to leave a mountain unfinished. NOT because i'm some super-athlete - it's more that i couldn't imagine sleeping (in the freezing cold), packing up my tent and getting right on a hill that's a 10% grade at 7am. Plus, the over-achiever in me is wide awake on this trip, with No. 2 pencils sharpened and ready to go (in this case, maybe the comparable readiness item is a carefully lubed chain, every link icy-waxed?). I had to make it to Boulder (or Boulder Town, as the locals say. ... Ok, i've been saying it too) Town. But seriously, i just wanted to get the whole thing over and done with. It was Friday and I was meeting Nina in Tropic, UT on Saturday at some point and the further I got on Friday, the fresher i'd be for meeting the first familiar face i'd see in well over a month.

So it was to be a 72 mile climb. I must say the first 25 or 30 miles were a breeze, literally. I was lucky to have a gentle boost from the wind 9for a change!) from Hanksville into Capitol Reef National Park which, like all of the previous Utah protected areas was a visual extravaganza. The park's vistas illustrate Mother Earth's capacity to molt and transform through zillions of years of erosion. The rosy rock formations, deep canyon grooves, peculiar (yet now familiar) and thirsty-looking plant life, and the smarty-pants sign-reading (as in "No Hunting") wildlife, such as the Utah prairie dog (a not-too-cute busy rodent) and deer which bounded away from my oncoming bicycle. A few times in the last couple weeks, deer, in making their escape to safety (even though i'm calling out to them: "Don't worry! I'm nice!"), would be bounding alongside of me for a spell giving me the opportunity to feeling as though i was running with them (rather than them running away from me).

Capitol Reef (unimaginatively named so because of certain rocks looking like our nation's Capitol Building) was absolutely stunning. I think it's my fave of the parks i rode through/visited (except Bryce of course but that is in the future). I took many photos on the ascent which brought me out of the park trying desperately to recreate the perspective of "Look what i climbed" - not sure if that worked. From the park the route takes you to Torrey, a smart tourist town (with a subway i ate lunch at - predictable, i know. but the spinach!) with new-looking cedar lodges inviting you to take a dip in their indoor pool and consume "continental breakfast" in the AM. I was tired already but the worst was yet to come.

On a day like this one, i m constantly bargaining with myself when i can listen to my ipod on my phone, since it drains the batteries and won't last during a full 85 mile day. On the steepest part of the day's climb, i was in the zone listening to a break-up mix i made for Jeff about 4 years ago that still holds up nicely. I met two charming fellow cyclists, Shelly and Charles, a young couple (i think a couple) from Reno who were on their second day having started somewhere in Utah i never heard of and were on their way to Sedona, Arizona. They were really sweet and offered me carrots and strawberries. We chatted for a while, my first real conversation in days. As i was headed for BOulder Town, they alerted me to a restaurant there that used locally grown and organic produce that was supposedly great. Thinking about eating at that restaurant was motivation to get to the summit, which was very satisfying in terms of being able to see the whole day's climb (not really but it was a huge valley i was able to look down upon and click pics of).

Unfortunately my phone wsn't receiving a signal so i wasn't able to call ahead to any of the 3 places to stay listed on my Adventure Cycling map. It was getting late and cold so i put on my jacket for the descent which brought me to the edge of BOulder Town. No one was around. The first of the 3 places had a No Vacany sign. Fair enough. I called the second and got a machine (it was a hotel as well as the Johnson residence). I called the third, a "lodge" - and you know by now what that means: $$$. A German-accented woman said no rooms there: "I think all of BOulder TOwn is booked." Fuck. No camping unless i went 15 miles back up the hill (hell to the no) or another 15 miles further. Again, not happening. Sun setting. I'm wrecked and starving. What do i do now? Stealth camping was something i said i wouldn't do. I wouldnt sleep anyway for fear of a gun being thrust into my tent dangling the "no trespassing" sign i ignored.

I found myself in front of the second hotel on the list, the Johnson Family one. The front door said "Office" and "Closed" but i saw another sign. I approached. The sign said basically if we're not here take a key to a room and pay us later or in the morning. What?? And there was one magic motherfucking golden key left in the basket: Room 1. i danced a goddamn jig partnering with Whitey. I just couldn't believe my luck hadn't run out, and i wasn't going to end up bunking in a field of cow shit praying all night not to be discovered.

I showered and googled the restaurant that Charles and shelly mentioned and found it - a mere five minutes walk further down the road! MOre luck! Now when i tell you that this is the best meal i've had on this trip, please know that it wasn't just the hunger talking. It was amazing. So amazing that i can't remember the name right now. I won't list the various troughs t which i fed (kale was involved as was rhubarb and trout) - but let it suffice to say that i was nearly sick with how much i ate. This place was a pot gold at the tip of a very long rainbow that, for a while, i thought was just never going to end.

Day 38 - Utah Is At Least Three Planets

2009-06-23T15:31:00.000-07:00

I had been dreading Day 38 for some time, and as i said in the previous entry, been obesessing over it somewhat. When i met Sean in Missouri somewhere (the buffed-out athlete riding San Fran to DC), in addition to the snake and bear warnings and sharing the digits of Tom and Gail in Fair Grove MO, he told me of his longest day (i asked: "what was your highest mileage day?" Competitive Danny). Sean and the map's narrative warn of the limited services in the 125-to-130-ish miles between Blanding and Hanksville, UT. Not just the lack of services (meaning food, gas, lodging, ranger station, you name it) but the lack of anything besides jaw-droppingly stupendous scenery suitable for extra-terrestrials to be lumbering around in. But i'll get to that.

When i say there are zero services between Blanding and Hanksville, i really mean there is zero-plus-one service: the Hite Campground. Every Western Express experienced cyclist who i chatted with coming the opposite direction spoke of Hite, mostly shaking off bad memories (one exception was a guy i met while freezing to death on the top of Monarch Pass who said it was fine; you just deal with it). The primitive Hite Campground is 50 miles from Blanding and 74 miles from Hanskville, apparently has very limited water (with different accounts of that water's potability), no bathrooms or other amenities, and has a store open very limited hours (different accounts describe the Hite store open until 2pm, others until 5 - but all say there isn't much to buy foodwise).

Sean's longest day was that ride going west to east, skipping the campsite and making it all the way to Blanding. He has been the only person i met that rode it in one day, and i intended to add myself to that list. (Before my head gets too big to fit out the library door, it must be said that the east-to-west version is easier as there is less climbing heading to Hanksville).

I'd already had long riding days of 117, 119 and 121 - so what's a few more miles, especially in that unbeatable scenery?

When the small town of Blanding ends, like many of the towns in Utah, there's no trailing off of people or houses or farms or businesses. Civilization is over for the moment, and nothing but wilderness awaits. I stopped a few miles outside of Blanding at the edge of Fry Canyon just to marvel at how quiet it was, at just after 7am, there in the middle of otherwordliness. I didn't even hear any creatures in the midst. It's really hard to describe what i saw and the experience of it, that beginning part in the brown and gray rock formations and plants that thrive with seemingly little water as the creeks on the map (in blue) were bone dry. I was a character in a sci-fi book on my tiny human-propelled craft seeking others like me, perhaps searching for peace. It was peaceful, and i absorbed it. Again, some tears at the vast chasm between "real" life and that incredulity at it being me experiencing that moment.

Moving on, passing Natural Bridges Monument into the Glen Canyon/Lake Powell area i came into the second wonderland-planet of the day, where red, orange and purplish-green replace the brown and gray. The buttes and mesas as well as certain rock formations, according to the map, have some puzzling names: Cheesebox, Cheese and Raisins (apparently some hungry people think the erosion of these massive rocks look like cheese), Jacob's Chair (Jacob who?). I rode through a giant birth canal, the rocks forming a bloody V on either side of the road. Rebirth! The weather was very cool still, and now and again the sun would duck behind heavenly cloud combinations. The sky was bluer than a friggin' postcard.

There was minimal traffic as it was only Thursday. The roads were fair to good, though the shoulders sported a bit too much gravel to ride on with abandon. But the drivers shared the road for the most part. The terrain was hilly - a longish climb for about 18 miles and then downhill for a while toward the Colorado River. I hadn't studied the maps so i didn't know that the Colorado was approaching. As i neared the river, the sky darkened somewhat and the air thickened with the possibility of storm. The bridge over the river was gorgeous and masterful, mixing the alien landscape with the cunning of man's capability to conquer it. I took a zillion pictures of the bridge - peering over the edge, then stepping back cuz i got that feeling like you wanna throw yourself in, a mix of vertigo and wanting to fly or die ( that used to happen to me on the 7th floor terrace of my grandparents' apartment).

It had been about 80 miles of the day at that point, slightly more, and it was nearing time to eat my soggy subway leftovers, "luncheon" as it's commonly known. As with all water sources you have to go uphill at least slightly after the downhill approach. The skies got angrier and it began to rain as i pulled myself past the bridge and back into the something/nothingness of the brutal landscape. Just a few drops, though. I unwrapped my sandwich and found a little rock-shelf of shelter that didn't look like it was going to erode (i.e. fall on my head). The rain increased as did my feelings of vulnerability. It can't get that bad, not on the longest day of the trip. But it did. As i rode up the steepest hill of the day the wind was blowing so hard that a couple of times my front wheel (with 10-15 pounds of weight!) lifted slightly and i had much trouble staying on the road. Bone-crunching thunder. I thought of Donny, my mother as i do in situations like this - fearing the worst. "At least he died doing what he loved." On some level, getting struck by lightning's kind of a hot way to go, right? Right? Can't help what crosses one's mind. After about a 1/4 mile, the incline increased as did the sheets of rain soaking me. Please don't hail, i couldn't help thinking, worrying now that i'd jinx myself like i did going up Monarch. It didn't but i was completely soaked. Cars passed me. I began to think about whether i'd take a ride if someone offered. I kind of hoped someone would stop and ask if i was ok - but i also hoped they wouldn't so i could just push on. It rained like that for only 3 miles. However, with the wind directly in my face and the daunting hill, that 3 miles was about 45 minutes. I had already passed the stupid Hite Campground 20 miles ago, and even if i wanted to stop, how would my measly tent provide shelter in this? No choice but to go on and think about the experience as a future war story. In those situations, in the middle of nowhere-to-run-nowhere-to-hide-land, you just hope and pray it's not going to last too long.

And it doesn't. The rain stopped and several hours later i rolled into Hanksville, a dot of a town that made Blanding look like New York. I ate that town. I ate the whole thing.

Day 37 – Leaving Colorful Colorado for the Even More Colorful U-Know-Who-Tah

2009-06-23T08:09:00.000-07:00

I was a bit sad to leave Dolores, CO – only because of that store and its offerings. And because of the ever-increasing angst due to tomorrow, Day 38, being the longest planned daily ride of the trip. Get away! I pushed the angst away and consumed the breakfast I bought from the Shopper’s Corner-esque store. Also I focused on the day’s stateline-crossing. Utah. I’d been to Utah before, two times actually. The first was during my and Ju’s two-month cross-country (car) trip during the summer of 1990. I was kind of living in LA at the time but was subletting my place there and canvassing door-to-door up in the Bay Area for the California League of Conservation Voters, really getting in people’s faces about environmental issues and frequently using self-righteously aggressive tactics that, looking back, I still, almost 20 years on, can muster a few pangs of shame aimed at the 21 year-old version of Daniel Getzoff. Ju and I left in my beat-up Toyota Tercel from LA and headed straight for Bryce Canyon, Utah, passing through Las Vegas but not stopping. The 21 year-old version of Daniel Getzoff would never take part in the capitalistic bacchanal that is Las Vegas! The other time I went to Utah it was a couple years later: a straight-up drive through on my way from waiting tables for the summer in P-Town to my stint in Santa Cruz. I marveled at Salt Lake City’s hidden quality. As you’re driving West on the interstate, you only really see the city retreating in your rear-view mirror. At least that’s my memory’s reflection.

Back to modern times: the early half of the day spent riding through Western CO was uneventful. Some wind, some hills – but the Rockies were behind me now. The mountains of Southern Utah now awaited me. I passed through towns with descriptive names, such as Dove Creek (where there was a homemade rendition of an anti-meth poster. A stickish-figured girl, seemingly naked, hugging her knees to her. Meth affects everyone. Don’t it, though.) and Yellow Jacket (which I blinked and missed. Luckily the town’s namesake missed me as well

Despite being at the comparatively low altitude of 7,000 feet above sea level, my new-found dark attitude, cloudy as day, was still skimming the gutter. Maybe not quite the gutter with all its muck (remember: state line approaching!) but certainly in a ditch on the side of the road following those rolling hills Southeastern Utah, which I entered, with even less fanfare than usual. I recognized the true but now trite “Welcome to Colorful Colorado” sign approaching from behind, but WhereTF was the Utah entry sign? Oh, there it was – in a ditch on the side of the road with my alititude-inflicted mood. The sign was a fancy one illustrating the Salt Lake City Winter Olympics – when was that? 2002? I stood on top of it trying to get a good picture to post on Facebook. I called Donny to celebrate being one step closer to California and him. Was this discarded sign some indication of what was to come my way in Utah? Nah, not really. Just like the weather, which was hard not to take personally (Why is it raining on me?? Why is the wind in my face?), the sign in the ditch was not about me.

The scenery soon changed from rambling ranches to stark stoney cliffs, gray and stern to match the weather. After passing through Monticello, Utah (the third and least appealing of the Monticellos I’d ridden through thus far. Could there be others in NV or CA?), I ended up in Blanding, Utah (suitably bland – the tiny town with its somewhat stranger-guarded and dentally challenged residents reminded me of Kentucky) for the night and continued to mentally and physically prepare for the next day which would be the longest of the trip. Did I mention that the next day would be the longest ride? Did I mention that I was obsessing about it? Did I? Well, in case you didn’t get the message, I was focused on the next day’s uncertain fate. Or my uncertain fate. I gathered scant supplies, including my signature 6-inch subway sub to stuff in my rear rack for lunch tomorrow. But without spinach. There’s no spinach in Blanding.

Day 36 – Lizard Head Pass? It’s All About the Grocery Store in Dolores

2009-06-22T22:09:00.000-07:00

I probably should talk about the bloody red cliffs and rambunctious crystalline San Miguel River lining the route up to Lizard Head Pass (again, this one looked easier on the elevation profile than it actually was – why must this happen? BUT I was zonked from the 117 mile previous day, and, as per usual after extra-arduous rides, I don’t sleep well. My body can’t turn itself off.). Or about the two West to East cyclo-travelers I met (Mitch and Steven – two sweet guys from Indiana who were so friendly and chatty that it lifted my exhausted mood. Within a half-hour chat, we exchanged about 50 stories/warnings/triumphs/mutual-admirings about our respective trips with laser speed and accuracy). Or about the wind. Or about the rain. Or about the overabundant yet odd accommodations I stayed at in Dolores, CO – the last stop in Colorado – checked in by Lars, a Swede who lived in Mar Vista when he first came to the US. (Recognizing his accent I almost said: “My [Volvo] mechanic is Swedish!” but decided: not cool).

What was the high point of Day 36, a relatively short one at 71 miles, was the grocery store where I assembled an evening meal, the next morning’s breakfast, and snacks for the next few days. This store (I can’t remember the name – but if you’re ever in Dolores, CO, it’ll be obvious) reminded me of a mini-Shopper’s Corner, a reference for those of you who lived in Santa Cruz. For the rest of you: Shopper’s Corner is (was?) a supermarket in Santa Cruz (not surprisingly based on the above sentence) where you could get locally grown organic produce and Fruity Pebbles. Although cold cereal is something I do miss from regular life, it’s not a practical travel companion, so I didn’t indulge. But I did buy a bag of locally grown organic spinach, and a homemade banana bread, and hard boiled eggs for the morning, and a bag of my and Jami’s favorite chips ever (Sesame Blues, oh how I miss you now you’re gone again!), a cooked piece of tilapia AND a chicken breast, some bottled green tea, and other stuff possibly too boring to mention.

As time ticks by and much of the food is getting better, I am truly becoming more and more obsessed with what I’m eating. Hungrier and hungrier. When mountainous climbs are multiplying daily, the weather is trying to freeze, pummel and drown me, it’s hard to care about anything else.

Day 35 - Gunning It from Gunnison to Placerville: 117 Miles of Colorado Rock

2009-06-22T21:52:00.000-07:00

In Gunnison on the morning of Day 35, I totally super-sized my Super 8 “continental breakfast” knowing that I had 117 miles to Placerville where, unbeknownst to me early that morning, I would treating myself to a rather fancy “lodge” experience. I was in the breakfast room as soon as the attendant opened at 6am. Here’s what I downed: 3 hard boiled eggs (sans the yolks, not so much for cholesterol reasons as because I’m not a big fan of the hard green-yellows), 2 packets of oatmeal (sweet as can be! I still can’t believe how much I love oatmeal now, have a yen for it), a blueberry bagel (my first ever – always has been something to avoid, not a “real” kind of bagel) with peanut butter and honey, a banana, a cup of OJ and a mug (I asked for one – no styrofoam for me on Day 35!) of tea. And I grabbed another bagel, a banana and an apple for laters.

Time to face the shortcomings of yesterday. I was resolved to make the several climbs the day required, the worst of which would have me at the summit of Dallas Divide at 102 miles. My strategy was not to stop for any reason (except a pee need which was certain) until I reached the point where I was supposed to end yesterday. I rode west of Gunnison toward Curecanti National Recreation Area. I tried not to pout as I passed the several campgrounds I could have chosen from had I been able to continue the day before. Much as I tried to avoid stopping until the 23 mile mark, the scenery was so unbelievable that picture-taking was a necessity (and I peed twice). The Blue Mesa Reservoir was so placid and the early morning light so right-on that the water mirrored the landscape perfectly.

From Curecanti I ascended what looked to be not such a major climb from the elevation profile but was actually quite steep. The ride down into the town of Cimarron from Cerro Summit was one of the most satisfying downhills of the entire trip, upwards of 35 mph, long enough for a good rest as well as a thrill. Look, Donny, no hands!

In Montrose, I stopped at my ol’ standby, Subway for a double meat turkey on wheat with extraextraextra spinach – actually could I have a little more, please? – after chatting for a while with Chris, a local cyclist. I called the Blue Jay Lodge, the only place to stay between Ridgway (not long enough) and Telluride (too far away). I balked when I was quoted the price having paid really low rates for motels thus far in Colorado. Because I was a cyclist traveling alone, the lady gave me a deal and told me to eat a banana cuz I’d need it for the uphills to come.

From Montrose to the top of Dallas Divide was 37 miles, most of which was traveling south, which, unfortunately was the direction the wind was coming from. It was a slow and steady climb (worsened by the troubling wind) to Ridgway and from there 10 miles to the top. The scenery and the weather were beautiful or else I don’t know if I could have hacked the ascent plus the wind which worsened toward the top. The horses looked at me like I was nuts – they were, I tell ya! A gaggle of old-timey cars passed me by kind of like a motorcycle gang. But not. In addition to all the other sporty and outdoorsy vehicles and ATVs in Colorado, there’s also this subculture of people who drive cars from the 20s and 30s, even earlier (I can’t tell). Do they own heir own? Or rent for a jaunt? (Later I saw many more in Utah – always seems to be during weekdays. Is there a special rule about that?) I guess I’m part of my own sporty-vehicular subculture these days.

During the hellish Dallas Divide climb, I fantasized about the Blue Jay Lodge hoping that there was a good reason for the elevated room price. I imagined different scenarios of reuniting with Donny. I mused about whether I’d do some kind of victory lap on South La Jolla Ave. when I finally got home. Anything to get me through it. It worked and I sailed down with the wind mostly at my back from the rocky mountain pastures into a cool and lush pine forest. It was getting late at this point, almost 7pm, and I was yawning again from the altitude. I suffered a moment of paranoia and terror when I mistook a wayward cow grazing on the side of the road for a bear. Don’t laugh – I could sense the bears in that neighborhood. They were hiding behind trees deciding whether or not I’d make a good meal. Luckily they opted for deer meat instead. Or a more meaty cyclist.

When I made the turn on the road toward Placerville (which must be said has a lovely, piney town park that expressly forbids camping per signage), I realized why the hotel I was staying at was so expensive: I had arrived in fancy tourist Colorado. Not just fancy for tourists but for the locals and vacation-homers. The houses were of immaculate cedar, large and set back from the road on smart pieces of property. Placerville is right down the mountain from Telluride, and that apparently is the real-deal of Rocky Mountain posh for that area. Telluride isn’t directly on the route; you have to veer up another few miles to get there, and it wouldn’t be in the cards for me.

I ate like it was my last meal at the Blue Jay Restaurant hording crackers from the soup for later. (The lodge, by the way, is really nice as are the women I met that work there. Way out of the normal price range but nice. It was a place which I wish Donny was enjoying with me. Potentially romantic.) Speaking of crackers, that’s another new eating habit I’ve developed on this trip: actually putting crackers in soup. Again, that’s a Donny thing. He is disappointed when served soup without crackers. But I’m a carbo-convert now. I’ll take it all, especially on a day when i've added on 23 miles i should have done the day before. Or wished i had...

Day 34 - Monarch Pass and High-Altitude Crab-Appleness

2009-06-21T07:12:00.000-07:00

At breakfast in the Broken Arrow cafe, Glenna tooted my horn: "He's going over Monarch today." Then there'd be a chorus of: Did y' hear that, Roy? Young man's going over Monarch. Monarch, you say? Yes, going over it this morning. On a bicycle? Yes, Monarch. He's headed over Monarch? Buzz buzz buzz. I was a minor celebrity in Howard, Colorado that Sunday morning.

Yes, Monarch Pass, at 11,312 feet is the highest elevation of the entire route. Howard is at about 6500 feet so it's not like i was starting at sea level but from Howard it was 36.5 miles to the summit. Looking back on this experience now, as i write about it one week later, having done several other difficult morale-severing/boosting ascents, Monarch Pass sticks out for one reason only (besides endless traffic - motorcycles, cars, RVs pulling SUVs, semis - and it was Sunday morning! Why wasn't everyone in church? Cuz they were tourists like me...). As i neared the summit and the incline became steeper, the skies darkened and it began to rain. I had to pull over to the skinny-mini shoulder and put on my jacket and remove my phone from its mount on the handlebars. That meant no music for the remaining grueling 4 miles up. Ugh. As i clumsily hopped back on in the middle of a steep pass and cranked onward, the sky became even darker, and ugly, and the air and rain turned frigid. As soon as the glimmer of the thought of hail entered my mind, hail began rap-tapping on my helmet. Not the big marbles i witnessed from the safety of Motel 6 in Pueblo - smaller pebbles - but this time i was in it and cycling up an 8% grade in the freezing cold, not wearing enough clothing.

I know i can be a little shortsighted when it comes to weather. We just don't have much in LA. Nina had warned me about having enough warm stuff, and i thought: "Eh, how cold could it get during the day?" Well, at 11,312 feet, even in mid-June, it gets fucking cold. I hit the summit and luckily there was a souvenir shop/cafe up there. I dug out my leggings and another top layer from my panniers and dove inside. It took several minutes before i could figure out what was next. Did i want to eat something? Wait out the storm? What would it be like going downhill in hail? Would i kill myself? The cafe inside wasn't much of a food source, but i did have hot chocolate which helped in every way possible: made me warm, was a tasty treat, allowed me a moment to settle, and ever so slightly lifted my crashed spirits.

As i ventured back out, the storm oddly seemed limited to the east side of the mountain, so i was fine to leave, now that i was slightly warmer. The ride downhill was annoyingly similar to the previous day's, except with the added chill factor of the powerful wind at such a high alititude. By the time i got to the bottom, i was zonked and based on my intended mileage for the day, i was only slightly more than a third done. The campsite i had chosen in the Curecanti National Recreation Area was still 60 miles away, and the headwinds were fierce. Among the cold, the altitude, the winds, the hail, and then more rain, my attitude was dropping into crabbapple jelly mode. With high fructose corn syrup as the first ingredient.

For only the second time of the journey, i knew that mentally i would not be able to complete the intended mileage (99) for the day. Whether or not i could do it physically was irrelevant. An egg doesn't come without the yolk inside. Unless it's one freaky egg. Again, maybe the altitude was affecting me more emotionally than anything. It was 2pm and i was yawning.

In Pueblo, i had mapped out the remainder of the journey, as i needed to alert friends in San Francisco to my arrival there and, sooner than that, Nina was going to meet me somewhere in Utah. And with the spectre looming of returning to Common Ground on a fixed date - with the added impending responsibility resulting from the staggering layoffs (thanks, Mr. Governor) - flexiblity was not an option anymore. I pedalled to Gunnison, a snappy town with a lot of lodging and food options. It was only 76 miles; in order to meet Nina in 6 days, i'd have to make up the 23 miles some other day. Super 8 was the best deal, and i rolled Whitey into room 103.

Turning my frown upside down was not an option on Day 34. My crabbiness was compunded by the feeling that i ought to be waxing triumphant after climbing Monarch (Monarch, you say? The "young" man has climbed Monarch! BFD.)

Day 33 - The Sangre de Cristo Mountains: Where Do I Drink?

2009-06-21T06:03:00.000-07:00

When Pueblo ends, it just ends and nature takes over. The pre-Rockies part of Day 33 was a cycling romp through Lake Pueblo State Park, a slow climb out of civilization (i guess i'm referring to innumerable gas stations, chain restaurants and stores, truck stops, and a massive hailstorm as "civilization") into wilder Colorado with its spiky brush and rock formations dotted with vegetation that was so perfect it looked illustrated. I was trying not to stop too often to take pictures (so i could get the day going, knowing i had my first major climb in the Rockies coming right up), but i couldn't help myself. Whitey Jackson posed for a few with the scenery as a backdrop.

Soon enough the ascent became steeper, but what i'd heard from other cyclists was true: the mountain pass, though long, wrapped around the mountain, rather than going straight over at the steepest grade which is how it felt in Kentucly and Virginia. Or maybe it was the excitement of a new challenge; it just didn't seem too bad. The day was cloudy and cool, so that helped too, and after a while i found myself at the day's highest elevation (and the highest of the trip thus far) of approximately 9,100 feet. I didn't know what to expect with the whole high-alititude thing. Was i going to get short of breath? A headache? Would my lips turn blue? How the hell would i know if my lips were turning blue anyway? I kept a sharp eye on the base of my fingernails to ensure that a bluish tint did not creep upon them. A couple of times I thought that they just might, but i maintained an appropriate level of oxgen in my blood, i supposed.

However, at the summit, or actually a little bit after, i saw a snow-capped mountain peering through the purple mountains that had been looming closer and closer since leaving Pueblo. Just the white-tip brightly reflected by the glare of the sun (behind the clouds). I rode a little further, maybe about a half-mile, as the road curved, and i was presented with the most awe-inspiring and majestic vista of the entire trip. I wept. Seriously, you know i'm a sensitive person and all that, but i've never witnessed scenery that made me cry. It was stunning. I was stunned. The tears were perhaps a feeling of pride at making the climb. It was one of the moments of the trip when i felt so alone and small in the shadow of such enormity, yet powerful, a conqueror. But it also occurred to me that maybe the alititude was causing a little loopiness. I ate some cashews, drank some electrolyteenhancedbeverage, and breathed deeply just to ensure that enough air was getting to my lungs and my lips were not turning blue.

The trip down, however, was the first disappointment of the Colorado Rockies. I'd heard and read about for months leading up to my departure all about the wind in Kansas. "Oh, you'll fly through Kansas as long as you don't have a headwind" etc etc. And as we all know, i experienced both the benefits and the frustrations of winds in Kansas. But why didn't anyone mention the wind in the mountains?! (And as i write from the future, i can tell you it's a challenge in Utah as well). I though i was going to sail down the mountain at top speed, deservedly after making the climb up. Entitlement issues can sometimes muck up an afternoon, as in: "it's not fair! i rode up that friggin' mountain, had a life-affirming emotional experience, and now i have to fight to get down?!" As it turns out, again, Mother Nature isn't concerned about my needs; she does her own thing. So after an initial mile or two of speed, i rode into a wind that seemed to want to push me back up the hill. Donwhill at 11 miles per hour, pedaling, is a disappointment.

And it made me hungry. I stopped in a little storybook Western town called Westcliffe. Or was it Silver Cliff? They kind of run into each other. Really pretty places. With oddly pretty people. I ate a huge turkey sandwich at a pizza place (with avocado, by the way, my first sliver of that delicacy since leaving California) and marveled at the fit outdoorsy people. It was almost like i was a guest-starring stranger in Fox's new series "Westcliffe" (or "Silver Cliff" - you decide). I felt closer to California than mid-America - and i liked it!

The remainder of that day's ride was along the lively Arkansas river (in Kansas i also crossed this river several times, i think - and they call it Ar-Kansas rather than Ar-kansaw - i bet they do in Colorado as well). I actually take that back: "lively" isn't the right word. The Arkansas was rafting- and canoeing-ready, so it was certainly more than merely lively. Most of the water i'd seen in previous states (except for the Ozarks) was very muddy and stagnant, so the Arkansas was refreshing for sure.

I stopped for the night - a 94-mile day - in Howard which wasn't much of a town. The Broken Arrow Campground-RV Park-Hotel-Restaurant was the chosen destination. I paid my 10 bucks to Glenna, the owner, for the campsite and began the task of pitching the tent in 25 mph winds. But I was determined to camp and rustic Colorado, weather be fooled; i climbed a mountain, godammit! Someone shouted something to me from the doorway of his RV. He was smiling, so i assumed it was supportive. But i realized he was pointing to the darkening sky and having a good laugh at me in my cycling get-up and my flimsy tent i was trying to control in the whipping wind. After i smirked a "thanks a lot, buddy," he went back inside. I waited a perfunctory 10 seconds or so and went back into the office to ask Glenna for a room (only $22 bucks more). Good thing too, since about five minutes after i rolled Whitey into the oddly furnished but suitable room, the thunder started and the sky puked buckets of rain for several hours. Not sleeping outside in that. No how.

Days 31 and 32 - Angry Weather and Chain Restaurants

2009-06-16T15:45:00.000-07:00

On the eve of Day 30 after a long day of viewing storms at an uncomfortable distance, I arrived in Ordway, a neat little town in Eastern Colorado with no discernible place to camp. With thunder brewing, i yet again bagged the notion of foul-weather camping and opted for a gem: Hotel Ordway. I had heard about this place from Don and Marilyn from Denver (riding on a recumbent tandem from West to East) whom i had met on one of the windiest Kansas days. They promised it was sweet, and the Hotel Ordway delivered. Despite this being the first place that denied me bringing Whitey Jackson inside, they did give me a room with a back door where i could park Whitey and have access to my stuff without dismantling everything.

I headed for a restaurant down the street where Carol, the owner of the hotel, had promised homemade cooking. This little cafe, like so many of the small businesses i've patronized during the journey (campgrounds, restaurants, motels, etc) are family-run. The waitress, a young woman studying something related to sports in community college (the major had a nifty name which had future gym teacher written all over it, but i can't remember now), was clearly (culled from conversational context - that is, conversations she was having with other people) the daughter of the owner. She recommended the special, which i can't remember now but is something on the no-no list for sure. However, i bravely opted for a steak so i could have the veggie of the day (peas) and my new BFF, the baked potato. The steak, which i ordered medium rare as i normally do, was akin to beef jerky - tough as new leather, with a peppery-vinegar aftertaste. I added some A-1, at my brother-in-law's recommendation, which increased the peppery-vinegar aftertaste, but softened it somewhat making it more edible. Actually, the whole cutting, chewing and swallowing of the steak was quite a challenge, one that, in this era of eating like a regular American, i was up for. I cleaned my plate, except for the fat and a couple orts which i could not, for the life of me, chew into a swallowable condition; those landed in my napkin.

I obsessed over the Weather Channel, and the continuing threat of severe thunderstorms - and slept in a rather comfortable bed without the usual malodorous spread ubiquitous at chain hotels.

In the morning i managed to create a cup of tea from the coffee maker, my PG Tip and a little sachet of - gag! i can barely recognize myself - powdered creamer. I used the rest of the coffee-tinted hot water to make some oatmeal from my dwindling collection. And i was off to Pueblo, the end of the Transamerica Route and the beginning of Western Express and mountains and more mountains.

I had foolishly been planning to take two short days instead of a full rest day, having made it through Kansas quickly and feeling reasonably good for averaging over a hundred miles in the last week. However, leaving the Hotel Ordway, i was sluggish and arrived a mere 50-ish miles into Pueblo still not quite awake. I made a beeline to Bob's Bikes, where the awesomely helpful and gifted Scott helped me out with a new chain and wax-based lube.

From there, i headed to the Chain Store-Hotel-Restaurant Capitol of the West (leaving out anywhere in California) - the intersection of Route 50 and Interstate 25. Motel 6 had the cheapest rate, and the odor of my room (and the bedspread) and its proximity to roaring traffic are some of the myriad reasons why. I had errands: laundry (at the hotel - Brandie, the girl who checked me in, let me know it was ok to use, even though there was water all over the floor in the laundry facilities), K-mart (to purchase a body-grooming device as it was time to get rid of the extra manliness here and there for maxi-comfort), and the post office (goodbye extra pair of underwear i never wore, tri shorts i wore like 4 weeks ago, the maps i'd already completed, and the shaver i'd bought and used and wasn't about to carry around for a month). I also took a brief nap while watching "Sense and Sensibility" on TV!

As i was contemplating an early dinner, there was a knock at the door. I froze. Who could that be? I was practically on the freeway, so anything sleazy was possible. I was not receiving visitors, as Emma Thompson's "S & S" character might utter. But the knocks increased until i realized that these were no knocks, THIS WAS THE SEVERE HAILSTORM THAT HAD BEEN LOOMING AS A POSSIBILITY FOR DAYS! i'm not going to capitalize this next sentence, but let it suffice to say, that my jaw remained on the floor as i watched this storm. It was like the sky was Las Vegas and somebody who one a billion on the penny slots dumped that vat of pennies on Pueblo, Colorado (later, this storm was even mentioned on the Weather Channel!) The individual hail were marble- and mothball-sized and smaller than that, and the beads of frozen whatever-the-hell-hail-is filled the parking lot. Instead of videoing it and sending it to the Weather Channel, i just stood there for 20 minutes and snapped a few lame pictures on my iphone. I thank my lucky stars that i was not out cycling in that. That would have been fucked.

Eventually it stopped, and i chose from all the hundreds of chain restaurants, one that i've never eaten at but have fantasized about from the time i was a child from all the tasty-looking commercials: Red Lobster. It did not disappoint. The waitress was extremely nice and didn't bat an eyelash at the huge amount of food i demolished - and the food was soooooo good. I. Had. Broccoli. And salmon. And a dessert meant for two. I almost cried.

In the morning i did my whole getting-out-the-door routine but stopped at the moment of donning my freshly washed costume. My back felt a little twingey. And i started to stress out: i hadn't taken a full day off. What was i thinking? Whenever i get injured from something sports-related, it's always after training too many days in a row. Yes, i had done two shorter days but it had been 9 days since the last full-stop. I texted Kristin, and bascially told her to tell me i was an idiot if i went out today. And whaddaya know, even though it was only 5:30am PST, she responded in full meany-trainer form, practically shaming me out of getting on the bike. And telling me to soak in epsom salts which i didn't end up doing.

So it was a rest day. I was immediately excited, unlike the other rest days. This one seemed almost like a bonus. And there was a movie theatre across the street. I saw the "Star Trek" movie a few hours later, feeling especially at home when i saw the bit where the baby-Kirk is racing along a farm road in "Iowa" which looked an awful lot like Kansas to me!

I had pretty much caught up on the blog at that point and it was so nice not to have to do anything. I opted for Ruby Tuesday's for my main meal - clearly a chain restaurant but one i'd never heard of (and i had salmon and broccoli AGAIN!). Sorry Applebee's and Chili's and all the rest i've never sampled you will have to wait for my patronage. After Pueblo, the next city i hit, i believe, will be Sacramento, so we'll see.

That night I went to bed feeling rested for a change and tried not to freak out about the major climbs of the Rockies which would begin the next morning.

Days 29 and 30 - Western Kansas = Eastern Colorado

2009-06-10T18:43:00.000-07:00

I just might

Don't read the following with the impression that Kansas failed me in the end. It did not. But the scenery during the last couple days there, and for the most part, here in Eastern Colorado hasn't exactly been breathtaking. Riders i've met do go on about how boring it is. It's a little hard not to be defensive about some comments that get made on here or facebook about me making sure i smell the roses. Sometimes there are no fucking roses, or anything else to smell for that matter (insert joke about stanky feedlots here _______. Actually do not.)

The scenery ended a couple of days ago. I'm still amazed a couple times per day at how flat it is, how sparse the population is (i mean, today there was a solid 38-mile stretch where i didn't even see a cow), how far the horizon is, how vast and varied the clouds are. The last several days i really have needed my music playing (Speaker, NOT headphones, don't worry) as i've barreled through the plain plains. Funny how the Arctic Monkeys, Kaiser Chiefs, MGMT, Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings, and Lily Allen's "Fuck You" mix with the scenery. Or not.

Also I've sung my heart out as well. You know how you can get caught singing in the car? Volume cranked up, you lose yourself in the moment and really belt it out until a carful of cooler people roll their eyes at you at the next red light. And then you continue as if nothing had happened if you're feeling particularly bold. Or you... just...trail off... But in WesternKansasEasternColorado no one can hear you scream. I can't listen to my iphone the whole day cuz it saps the battery. So i have to compensate by recalling just a few simple standards that really make use of the rest of my lung capacity that cycling isn't already taking up. I'm amazed at how much I can recall of "Hair" and "A Chorus Line." My thriving musical theatre career died from overdose at high school graduation where i sang our high school's alma mater to a crowd of one thousand or so disinterested parties (save of course my parents and both sets of grandparents. I think Aunt Paula was there too?): "Where Patriots once roamed! And free men tilled the soil! We cherish now our heritage and to it will be loyal! The freedom which they sought! From each and every man! This is our creed at Wayne Hills High and for the entire land!" etc etc. But here on the Great Plains my chops have been reborn! I'm no Adam Lambert. But i'm somebody, god dammit!

Last night i stayed in the cheapest and saddest of hotels: The Trail End Inn, right on Highway 96 in Tribune KS across from the truck stop where this morning i bought a breakfast of an Egg McMuffin-type of thing (NOT an actual McDonald's - i still haven't eaten at one, and they don't have them in the small towns unless they're on the interstate) that Donny would be envious of. Wayne and Anastasia bought The Trail End Inn from pictures on a website (which Anastasia did not show her husband) and moved here from Oregon to run the place. Anastasia told me the this morning that the place has good bones, just needs plastic surgery. It is really ugly (except for the outside which they've painted with a western charm), but i liked it anyway especially since it rained hard and i wasn't out in it.

Today i rode 119 miles leaving Kansas early, crossing into the big CO (i must be getting close to home, since now there are Spanish names of places scattered about) and cycling madly away from storms i could see (and hear) to the north of me. i made great time in part out of fear. Whatever works. The scenery in Eastern CO is much as it was, or was not, in Western Kansas. ... though i must say that not 30 miles over the state line, some of the grasses changed to a greener, bushier type. Again, if i had a way to upload all my pictures, you'd all be able to see what i'm talking about. I'll do that when i get home in July, and if anybody's still interested...

Note the color of the skies

So tomorrow i have a short day to Pueblo CO (the base of the mountains, i guess you could say) where i will switch routes to the Western Express over the Rockies and through Utah and Nevada, leaving the Transamerica Trail which heads north to Wyoming. Grandma said on the phone yesterday that she can't wait until i get to California. Not that she's there to greet me. She'll just be able to stop worrying all the way from New Jersey.

A Word About My Appearance

2009-06-10T18:24:00.000-07:00

I keep getting surprised at my reflection in the mirror. Sometimes a few days go by before i see myself again. It's not like i spend a ton of time in the mirror at home getting ready for my fancy job at Common Ground. In fact, even for auditions and stuff i'm generally more relaxed than, say, even two or three years ago. Oh, sorry did i forget to shave? The casting person will ask you on camera: "Will you shave your beard?" (I didn't realize a week's worth of growth constitutes a "beard"). i will of course answer like all the other dutiful actors: "Yes! I'll shave anything!" But on the road there's an awful lot less grooming. Actually there's no grooming. And no one is paying attention, including me.

These tan lines i have are ever so fetching. i already have a whiter-than-white ass because of swimming laps all year long at a variety of LA's public pools (actually not LA's but Santa Monica's, West Hollywood's and Culver City's). But now there's another layer of white, a different shade, starting from the ass-shaped speedo lines to where my bike shorts end. My knees and thighs are absurdly tan as are my forearms. Remove my watch and i'm wearing an ivory bracelet. My ankles have another severe cut-off from where my socks end (begin?). I have major farmer's tan and my nose is redder than the rest of my ruddy face. My forehead is freckled (skin cancer already?!) and a bit zitty due to the constant grease of sunscreen. In fact, i'm overall zittier than normal My sunglasses leave masked-stranger markings. And my eyes are red and irritated from the wind. And they're swollen to a dimmer and beadier version of themselves cuz of being tired, and the exposure to elements. They're greyer than usual as well. They do often change but i don't know what to make of the stormy color. I've had to wear sunglasses no matter if the sun is behind an armored-car thick layer of cloud My lips are dry. And my tennis-ball short haircut has now grown out to an awkward Mon Chi Chi length. I can many small cuts, abrasions and bruises on my lower legs and perma-black on my calves from the chain which is too difficult to scrub off after a long riding day. My hands look like an old man's...or at least a 40 year old's.

But my little gut is gone.

So i'm a mixed bag in the mirror when I get a chance to investigate.

A Word About Race

2009-06-09T14:00:00.000-07:00

Riding this route has thus far been a trip through "white America." I mentioned in an earlier post that I saw no people of color in Kentucky until I got to Berea. It still puzzles/interests me that three whole states later I have seen almost no black faces, and only since I've been in western Kansas have I started to see some brown ones. I'm the stranger in these here parts so maybe African Americans and Latinos just don't live in the rural areas I've biked through. I wouldn't assume either that the creators of the Transamerican route purposefully skip neighborhoods where people of color live. (Rather, I assume, for instance, that on the Southern Tier and River routes cyclists would naturally traverse areas where rural blacks reside). It's not as if LA is some Mecca of totally integrated multicultural harmony. But it's just odd to encounter only white people.

I'm not just talking of course about the people whose turf we cyclists cycle through but the cyclists themselves. I have seen about 50 cyclists so far and all of them have appeared to be Caucasian. No Asians, Latinos or African Americans.or anybody without white skin. It reminds me of how privileged having white skin is in this country. I may have other identities that could compromise my accepted status here in the Great Plains. But even though I'm not, let's just say, featured like an Aryan, neither am I walking around in the Old World garb of the insular Hasidic Jews in the fairfax neighborhood. Nor am I decked out in Folsom Street Fair attire or present unequivocally as the gayest of the gay (in fact, urban gay men very often costume themselves like the men I've seen in the last month appropriating a variety of subcultures including skinheads, rednecks, truckers and that whole Country Western thang. I've said to myself many times out here: "that guy looks so gay!"). What I'm getting at is that yes, I'm riding my bike across the country because I saved up enough money to do it, I don't have responsibilities I can't leave for a bit (like hungry kids), and I have enough negotiating power at my job (hopefully massive budget cuts won't end up proving me wrong). All that is privilege. But it's really the color of my skin that allows me access to every town, campsite, restaurant, church basement, and kind person's home. I know we have an African American president and all, which is obviously huge progress for this country. But Confederate flags have been proudly waving in every state so far (except Kansas) - and yes it means what i thought it meant before i started the journey (I've asked people) and I've heard both in passing and straight in my face a lot about immigrants and what happens in black neighborhoods and why such and such hotel was better before the Indians took it over. So I'm lucky I get to do this. But this country is not safe for everyone. Yet.

Day 25-28 - I Fucking Love Kansas (Except When the Wind Is Against Me)! (Updated)

2009-06-09T11:57:00.000-07:00

I knew i would love Kansas. Not just because all the other riders were dreading it. first of all, i already mentioned the people (well, one person, but Jeff was significant). All the riders agree, whether they like the scenery or whatever, that the people in Kansas are the nicest. You'd expect that, right? It's true, but there's also a relaxed quality as well as the kindness. Kansans seem to really like Kansas; they're not trying to get the hell outta here cuz it sucks. Like all you urbanites think.

Prairie grasses waving me thru Kansas

Besides the people, the scenery is beautiful. Wild. The eastern part of the state has a ton of rivers where trees congregate. The prairie grasses are of many varieties and they carpet the landscape in squares of many colors: green, golden wheat, yellow, lavender and white. There are many storm-damaged trees. Scary to contemplate what type of weather was capable of such damage (and prayers to avoid it). Dead trees in Kansas look like alien creatures trying to stealth away from predators, frozen mid-crawl forever. Cows abound. Most of the cows i've come across are grazing in groups in fields, cooling off in ponds, and seem quite happy (and friendly too in true Kansas style! i pet a few here and there. i've actually conversed with many as i pass by since there are looooong stretches where there's no one else to talk to. i sopke with another rider, Doug, who also talks to the cows, so don't think i'm the only crazy one. And yes they do talk back. they are very interested in my journey.)

Day 25 to Toronto was another 100-plus day. Gorgeous weather. Amazingly beautiful scenery. Toronto is home to Cross Timbers State park where i camped, next site over from Jeremy, a speedy guy aiming to get to San Francisco from Yorktown VA in a month flat. It's also home to the simply named "The Cafe" (yes, it's the only one) where i had the best meal that i've had in a long time, like 5 courses for 10 bucks. And gravy is brown again, i'm happy to report - no more of that light-colored yuckslop for now. The campsite is on a huge reservoir and though beautiful is home to a zillion bugs who don't understand the meaning of bug repellant. It's supposed to repel you, bugs. Now get the fuck away!

Sleep was sparse that night. It was friday and weekend campers are there to have a different kind of fun which involves birthday celebrations and groups of youngsters drunk dialing their friends. And the wind was not my friend, flap-flappety-flapping every flappable thread of material. i got up and prayed like a good Kansan that the wind would be my friend.

On Day 26 the wind was my enemy. Much of the early part of the day the route was atypically on a busy highway. and the wind! it was coming from the southwest at 20-25 mph with gusts upwards of 30. Now it was not directly in my face, but it was so strong that it was difficult to keep the bike upright and on the road. Since i was headed west the wind was on my left so luckily it was forcing me off the road and down into a ditch instead of into truck traffic speeding by at 65 mph. When a truck passed me from either direction, i had to brace myself from the added impact. It sucked really bad, the worst riding of the entire trip - slow and treacherous. I had a few moments of respite chatting with two couples traveling separately. Don (!) and Mary are from Wichita and are on their honeymoon. They have to ride to Kansas City where they're get the train to Seattle at which point their trip really begins. Don (!!) and Marilyn are from Denver, traveling on a recumbent tandem (2nd of the trip). They started in San Francisco so they gave me a lot of good dirt on Utah and Nevada. I'm a little nervous. It's gonna be crowded in Utah through all those state parks (RV central). And hot as hell there and in nevada.

Someone needs to tell President Obama about all this wind in Kansas. Many of the fields out here sport a single oil derrick seemingly digging for black gold. Don't know how much any of them produce, if that's indeed what i'm looking at, but wind is where it's at.

glad I didn't encounter weather that wreaked this havoc!

The wind got somewhat better later but that only allowed me to feel how freakin' hot it was. Really really hot and humid. the only good thing about the wind is that it dries your sweat immediately and is somewhat cooling, though you need to drink and drink and drink. I drank about 2 gallons of water that day. I creeped into Newton, Kansas at 97 miles and skipped family/partier camping for a Best Western.

I got obsessed with taking pics of all the water towers.

Steeling myself for wind on Day 27 i had to make it 108 miles. The last 58 miles of that ride there are no places to stop, so once you get past Nickerson, it's a done deal. The wind, however, was gentler and actually helped me along toward the end of the day. I took a lot of pictures through this stretch of central Kansas. I visited the Quivira Wildlife Reserve (signs warn: No Antler Collecting! - oh come on, just one pair...please...?). This area was named by Coronado, a Spanish explorer who traveled to Kansas from Mexico cuz some local Indians there told him he'd find cities made of gold. Sucker! He probably saw a lot of cool animals that i saw, though - turkey vultures (munching dead things in the middle of the road and others hanging around waiting for me to perish so they can suck out my entrails), long-tailed deer, snakes, the whitest-of-white swans (you've never seen anything so white, i tell ya), etc. And lots of bugs. The further i get through Kansas, the more endless amounts of tiny black, yellow, or green bugs stick to me, coating my arms and lower legs, my neck, my nostrils (i've stopped breathing through my mouth as much as possible).

I was curious about the name Larned (for Larned KS, destination of Day 27). I was secretly (secretly! ha! as if there's someone to tell!) hoping that Larned was just a Kansan way of saying "learned" as in learned scholar or Michael Learned. But it's the name of some fort. Larned, like a lot of Western Kansas, seems to be a place where cows come to be slaughtered. I'm still seeing some of the "happy" roaming ones, but in this part of the state there are larger feedlots where there is no grass and cows are fed slop probably mixed with their own feces and brains. Out here, having read Fast Food Nation and The Omnivore's Dilemma (shout-out to SOSE~~!!) is both instructive and gross.

I left Larned for my longest (fingers-crossed and a prayer for good winds) day yet. I rode 121 miles to Scott City, Kansas yesterday. I can't say that it was a cinch or anything, but the winds were gently pushing from the northeast for most of the way, so except for a 25-mile jog north in the morning (a cold one - wore the jacket even though it wasn't raining!) the rest was west. And west is best when the wind is coming from the other way, even at an angle.

I arrived in Scott City looking for the Athletic Club, an (you guessed it!) athletic club (with a pool!) that cyclists can stay in for $10. Unfortunately Krista was not able to give me suitable directions (though i was 4 blocks away). I saw a gaggle of girls in sporty gear exiting the back of the high so i figured one of them would know. Now before i get into this, you must know that i will do my absolute best to describe this experience - but i fear it may end of being a had-to-have-been-there one to really appreciate it. So i approached this group of about 30 girls at the height of puberty and asked "Does anyone know the way to---" AND I AM WRITING THE REST OF THIS IN CAPS BECAUSE THERE IS NO OTHER WAY TO DESCRIBE IT THE GIRLS' ENERGY WAS AT ELEVEN AND THEY OVERWHELMED ME WITH QUESTIONS BARELY LETTING ME ANSWER ANY OHMYGOD I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU'RE FROM LA THAT'S SO COOL MY UNCLE WENT THERE I CAN'T BELEIVE YOU'RE RIDING YOUR BIKE ACROSS THE COUNTRY YOU'RE SO AMAZING THE ATHLETIC CLUB IS OVER THERE I TOOK GYMNASITCS THERE OHMYGOD EMILY TELL HIM WHAT YOUR BROTHER DID EMILY'S BROTHER IS SUCH A... So i asked them "Can i take your picture?" expecting that they'd reluctantly agree (don't know why) AND THEY SCREAMED BLOODY MURDER AND SURROUNDED ME AND IMMEDIATELY FORMED THEMSELVES INTO A FORMATION AS IF THEY'D HAD THEIR PICTURE TAKEN AS A GROUP EVERY FUCKING DAY OF THEIR LIVES!

For a moment i thought they might tear off my clothes and carry me away and seriously molest me. O granddaughters of Semele!

I was laughing so hard i could barely hold the camera steady. God i love this fucking state!

Day 24 - Entering Kansas, Prayer Center of the American Universe (Updated)

2009-06-09T10:35:00.000-07:00

Although most of Day 24, which was Thursday June 4th for a little extra perspective, was spent riding the gentle rolling hills of western Missouri, the end of the day in Kansas was the most significant.

Breakfast at Tom and Gail's was brief. Gail has to be at the library at 8. Tom, who is semi-retired, i believe, works for the water company, so he gets to ease into the day a little more. i made tea and some oatmeal which i had bought the night before. i have realized the key to a satisfied oatmeal customer. i eat oatmeal at home, sometimes almost daily, and i never finish it. why do you eat it then?, you might ask. well, i guess it's because it's healthly. at home i make it pretty plain, 2 minutes in the microwave, with a speck of maple syrup, 7 raisins (i'm not kidding - it's turned out to be a little mini-OCD habit i've developed), and a splash of plain rice milk. Slightly appetizing. The key to a satisfied oatmeal customer, me as the customer, is instant Quaker - i'll eat any and all of the kinds kids will eat. Have you tried "cinnamon roll"? Deeelicious! i'm sure by the time i get back and i'm healthly again, i'll be scraping 35% of it into the trash.

So i ate the oatmeal and a banana i scored from the store as well and bid goodbye. Paul was headed to Golden City MO, 20 miles short of my destination, so we also parted. And i was headed to Pittsburg, Kansas, about 105 miles away from Fair Grove. I've been excited to cross every state line but there was something meaningful about Kansas that i hadn't felt since leaving Virginia and getting to Kentucky. But different. i was excited about kentucky because it was the first "real" crossing i'd made (Maryland into DC and DC into Virginia all happened within an hour or so after leaving Nat/Larry/Allison's), because it was a state that i'd never been to, not even to drive through, and because i knew it would be somewhat of a culture shock.

Kansas i was excited about because everybody else was dreading it. All the other riders: "Oh, kansas is gonna suck," "At least it's flat, "Just endless cornfields," "i'm gonna blow through it or blow my head off, one of the two." And by and large the Kansas comments i received on facebook were about the Wizard of Oz, cow shit and generally don't-wanna-be-in-your-shoes.

I was resigned to like Kansas, where creationism thrives. Unless you're a late-term abortion doctor, how bad of a place could it be? (btw i was confronted almost immediately upon crossing the state line by one in a series of homemade-seeming signs which express one of several pleas, including "pray to end abortion" and "let this baby meet its mother"). Well, let me tell you that kansas does not disappoint. i arrived at the end of a good-weather riding day (coolish and cloudy). it was difficult to get a decent picture of the "welcome" sign because the sun, blindingly bright behind the clouds, was backlighting it. The iphone camera is of no particular help, and the good camera, which is turning me, a very bad photographer, into a reasonable documentarian of my trip, ran out of batteries at that moment.

After a few miles into Kansas, i arrived at Pittsburg. It was Thursday evening, as i said, and the town was alive. I don't know if i can properly explain it but, despite a lot of empty storefronts on the main drag, this community is that stereotype of the decent, pleasant, family-oriented, American town. I'm sure a lot of bad things happen in Pittsburg, but i didn't witness any.

A lot of the Kansas towns on the route allow cyclists to camp in their city parks for free. You just check in with park staff or the police if it's after hours. Pittsburg also has a city pool, and they let you take a shower there, which i did. It was cold but necessary. After donning my gray shorts, which have morphed into a raggy loincloth at this point, and one of my two clean but wrinkled t-shirts , i asked the Erin Meek teenage doppelganger where i could eat. i was sent to Jim's steak house. i know i was supposed to be praying to end abortion, but what i was praying for is that jim had the sense to have a salad bar, or to serve some sort of vegetable. Unfortunately this was not the case. Mallorree, my cute waitress, knew the question was coming as soon as i started to ask. i'm glad i'm not the only person that thinks that Jim should start serving something green (even canned beans) in addition to many varieties of potatoes, cottage cheese, and applesauce to accompany your meat. i had grilled chicken breast (we're out of the automatic fried chicken part of the country), a baked potato (which is almost a daily occurrence now) and a "garden" salad where the only vegetable grown in that garden is iceberg lettuce (also a daily occurrence). Still, anything with ranch dresing is edible.

I went back to the park to set up camp and as i was doing so i was approached by the first of many affable, relaxed Kansans, a man named Jeff who was from Pittsburg but currently lives just over the border in Arkansas, up in Pittburg to care for his ailing mom. Jeff, also an avid cyclist, has been taking a break from over-working due to some health conditions which he described as a wake-up call. He was very interested in what made me choose to ride across the country. I told him that my original idea was to do it last year to celebrate turning 40 in October and that at the time i was excited to do it during the heat of the election. i realize now, and i shared this with Jeff, how utterly relieved i am that i didn't do the the trek during election year. i imagine that i might have gotten into some awkward, perhaps confrontational, conversations, me bringing up politics with total strangers in the middle of Republicanland. i think i really dodged a divisive bullet. Before he left me to my site-setting, Jeff queried: "Can i ask you a personal question?" Of course he could. i couldn't imagine what it would be. "Can i pray for you?" For a split second, i wanted to protest, to say "no, that wouldn't work on me, because i'm a heathen" or whatever. Or just "no, that's foreign territory." But of course i said "sure." Jeff put his hand on me and began a prayer asking God for my safety from errant drivers and bad weather, asking Him to protect me and bring me home to LA, asking that i postively impact the people i encounter and vice-versa.

I have to say it was one of the most comforting and supportive moments i've had on this trip, to have this complete stranger put his hand on my shoulder and pray that i'm safe. Like you all know, i'm not a believer for many reasons. i was not raised in a religious household where god was ever mentioned, so there's that. i believe that often our country is held hostage by invective-spouting zealots who preach intolerance against those who are not like them. i know historically that religion is the number one reason why wars have been fought, more people have been brutally murdered in the name of god than we can even fathom. But this moment, this intimate moment between me and this man, really affected me, and i feel lucky to have experienced it.

Day 23 - From Soaked Crabapple to Cheery Houseguest

2009-06-07T18:45:00.000-07:00

I was in a funk on Day 23. Dashie and the Weather Channel both predicting rain in the area. I had a shorter day planned, a little over 80 miles from Houston to Fair Grove, Missouri. The plan was to pick up a care package that Donny had sent (non-guaranteed overnight, aka two-night but at overnight price. He's a champ by the way for dealing with the office supply- and charm-challenged Beverly Blvd. post office. They didn't have a pen for him to use. He had to go back out to the car to get one. AND the lady balked at having to look up the zip code for Houston, MO. When did the USPS turn into the DMV?) and then stay with Tom and Gail.

Who are Tom and Gail? I didn't know either. I got their number from Sean, the west-to-easter i crossed paths with a few days before, the one who warned me about rattlesnakes in Western Kansas. I have definitely changed on this trip. Donny or Sharon or Danny J or my therapist or any agent i've ever had, any of them will tell you i hate cold-calling of any kind. So for me to call up a complete stranger and say something like: "Uh, um, hi, Tom. I'm Danny, I'm a cyclist traveling east to west. I got your number from Sean (please note: another complete stranger) and he said it was cool for me to call. Can i fucking stay at your house please?"

Of course, i didn't use profanity, but i probably did my usual over-compensating don't-worry-if-you-can't-help-me-out-it's-no-problem-i-never-should-have-called-i'm-truly-sorry... But actually, no. I didn't. I just asked. Now that's progress! Tom said yes of course, call after i'm done at the post office, gave me directions. I hung up and relaxed my clenched anus.

So at least i knew i had a bed to sleep in that night as it began to pour about 2 miles outside of Houston. Now based on the constant rain and wind in my face for 82 miles, the state of California falling apart, the issues at home, i was not a happy bicycling-camper. I actually shouted at the rain at some point during the day, a real gut-wrenching RRRRRRRRROAR! Twas a hard day.

I got to Tom and Gail's and everything changed. Well, not everything - just my spirits. They are kind of old hippies (at least that's how Sean described them), with some Grateful Dead paraphernalia accenting their comfortable and clean cedar house. A good sign (not a fan of that music having attended a couple concerts high as a psychedelic kite 20 years ago - but i am a fan of old hippies). Another cyclist, Paul, a retired guy from Newport News, VA via Philly on his way to Portland to see his son, was also staying. I volunteered to go with Gail to buy some food (ulterior motive was to control salad ingredients which i happily contributed to go with the pasta Gail was making). Gail and Tom are also cyclists and do a ton of other outdoor stuff, regaling Paul and me with stories of Missouri natural dangers including tornados, softball-sized hail, and rapidly rising rivers. I had a great time that night talking politics with like-minded people. They live in Roy Blunt's district, so they aren't having a ton of such conversations. Gail once received a community service award from Mr. Blunt: "He thinks i'm his friend, but i'm not." She also described some super-patriotic event where he was giving a speech, sometime after 9-11. There was a sheet cake in the shape of the Grand Ol' Flag with it's ruby-red stripes and hyper-blue sparkly icing of which Mr. Blunt partook dyeing his mouth blue for his fiery speech. Ha ha, your mouth is blue! Abolutely one of the best nights i've had so far, in the home of complete yet welcoming strangers.

I did laundry, including washing the new cycling bib that Donny had posted to me, and slept like a baby in a baby's room (i mean that literally; they have grandkids).

Day 22 - A "Rest" In Houston, Texas County, Missouri

2009-06-07T18:15:00.000-07:00

This whole rest day thing is not that restful. It's like a weekend shoved into a few hours where you don't sleep late, have to get on a computer to blog for five hours (not complaining about that - but it is time consuming), do yer stink laundry, wish you were on the road, eat bad food, etc. Of everyone i've met i think i'm taking the most breaks at one day per week (at least for the first three). And none have been in a place i've particularly enjoyed. Blacksburg VA was ok - but i was a little bit of a wreck: both emotionally and under the weather. And Blacksburg was eerily empty since Virginia Tech had emptied out the town the week before. Week 2 rest day was Bardstown with the evil librarians who were absolutely out to get me, don't care what you say. Week 3 rest day was Houston, Missouri. (In Texas County, the largest County in MO, in case you were wondering.

Now the librarians in Houston were awesome, in that they left me alone to blog for several hours. I saw Drew there in the morning and we had an awkward shoulda-been-a-hug-but-went-for-the-handshake goodbye. He was wearing his red sweat-encrusted t-shirt that i'd seen as proof of his existence on the horizon in front of me (or the occasional time in back when i was ahead) for the last few days of riding together. I sat down at a computer next to a jolly woman (whose name i did not get) who gave me a rundown of the town and why it was notable (the circus performer Emmett Kelly was born there, and the park is named after him). I stepped outside for a few minutes to speak to Sharon about Common Ground happenings, and when i came back, the nice woman had written down where i should be eating.

Unfortunately, i took her advice and went to a place on her list and ordered the special. It was pork tenderloin. Now, i've never had pork tenderloin before, and it was the only item on the menu that was not a burger of some sort and, being a special, it came with some other stuff, including peas, not really the vegetable i had in mind but... So anyway, pork tenderloin is basically chicken-fried pork - why didn't i guess this?? - with that same baby-diarrhea gravy that's been slathered on a lot of meals i've witnessed and experienced. I picked at the peas and bravely gnawed at the meat underneath the several layer coating. It was pouring in Houston, and more was predicted for the next day. Schwarzenegger's proposed major cuts which are going to massively affect Common Ground and our clients. Donny's TV deal and our health insurance in jeopardy. And chicken-fried pork. Tenderloin sounds like something, well, nice. Doesn't it? Those ten years i spent as a vegetarian still have left gaps in my culinary knowledge.

So Day 22 wasn't particularly restful. (I keep thinking: Next time i take a rest day, it'll be somewhere nice. Let's hope...) I ambled to Wal-Mart in search of a treat, too hot to wear my raingerar but too rainy not to. I bought a bag of Sam's Recipe (not realizing that "Sam" is Sam Walton, who started it all. Way to jump in headfirst, Getzoff!) and ate it in my hotel room watching the lightning strike.

Days 20 and 21- The Ozarks: Vistas and Drivers That Take Your Breath Away (Updated)

2009-06-02T12:14:00.000-07:00

Again, i awoke with motivation that comes from an upcoming state line - Chester (which is the birthplace of Popeye, or whoever it was that he was based on) is right on the Mississippi. I ran into Drew as i was pedaling out of town. Funny, we didn't plan to spend so much time together, but we both went with it. We took pictures on the bridge into Missouri and headed through the farms toward the Ozarks which we'd reach later in the afternoon. Hills again. The roads in Missouri were no better than Illinois, and the drivers are the biggest dicks on the trip yet. Drew and I met a west-to-east cyclist, Nick, who minutes before, as he was innocently riding up a hill squeezed to the side of the shoulder, was shouted at by a woman: "You're gonna get someone killed, you fuckin' piece of shit!" Nice.

The Ozarks are gentler than the Appalachians or the Blue Ridge Mountains, not as tall or steep. Thank god. And i'm in better shape than i was two weeks ago. The hills are plateaued at the top so there are often fields of farmland before the next climb. Sparkling rivers, ponds and creeks. As the Blue Ridge Mountains were azure-hued because of the clouds, there is a mossy greenness about the Ozarks. The trees alternately densely populate and dot the landscape.

Ozark Loveliness

Eighty-four miles brought us to a campground on our map in a town with no name, right over the Reynolds County line. The County Line Bar partially hid Kyle's Campground from the road. Drew and I checked in there, cleaned up in the cold outdoor shower, and followed the "good food" sign into the smoke- and biker-filled bar. My veg of the day was fried okra. Again, i'm pleased at my flexibility. Danny J has called me a delicate flower at times (for a variety of reasons including doughnuts give me acid reflux, i can't drink coffee, and i can't consume any caffeine after 10am at the absolute latest cuz i'll be up all night) but i'm a robustly flexible eater now. I even had a burger and fries. Other choice was pizza (and too much dairy...well, you know.) The campground certainly wasn't much to look at but it was only $4 for the night, balancing out the overspend in Chester at the Best Western. I didn't sleep that well, realizing first-hand why they call it the whippoorwill. What a freak that bird is.

Add armadillos to the list of creatures seen shuffling away and splattered on the side of the road.

In the morning, Drew and I got ready quickly. There was minimal breakfast. Drew was out of peanut butter so i gave him one of my bars. It was to be another 100-miler, but this time through the mountains. The trip to Chester was 105 miles to be sure but much of that was flat. To be honest, i wasn't sure i could do it. But the choices of places to stay in MON (Middle of Nowhere), MO (seriously, a t-shirt up on the wall in the County Line Bar boasted this fact) were few and far between, so we were headed to Houston.

Jinx recently shared with me a mind-game she plays with herself when training - using the idea of having a certain amount of energy pellets to spend per day. I do a different version of positive affirmation in my head during some of the rougher days, like Day 21 from MON to Houston, MO. If the day is to be 100 miles, for instance, after 10 miles i'll say to myself: "Can you do what you just did 9 more times?" And I'll answer "Yes, i can." It's simple, but it works, especially in the early part of the day.

It was murder out there on Day 21. The sun was beating down hard from the moment the day began. Yes, the hills are gentler in the Ozarks, but they're still hills and it was midday at 85 degrees. I drank so much fluid. I stopped twice to refill all 3 bottles plus had a ton of water at lunch and a V-8 to replenish salt. Drew was ahead of me the whole way, and honestly my competitive edge helped me get through the day. Knowing the next day would be my rest day also was a kind thought. The map says that the hills in Missouri are like roller coasters and it's true. The downhills (at least initially) made the struggles uphill worth it. The roads were better through the mountains and did not curve sharply so i was less afraid of just letting go and enjoyed speeds up to 40 miles per hour.

We met a few other cyclists: Barb and Dan, a married couple with gloriously flat Milwaukee accents you couldn't overdo in your imitation if you tried. They were on this amazing tandem recumbent bike with something like 40 or 50 gears. Very slow on the uphills for sure. We also ran into Sean, coincidentally doing the same route as me but backwards. He had some good info about snakes for the upcoming areas in Western Kansas and Easter Colorado, and a camping story somewhere out west reminded me that bear country is coming up and i might want to reconsider the pepper spray thing again. The ranger told Sean to spray the black bear in the face and run. When it's dark, how do you tell if a bear is brown or black? Eek.

I made it to Houston and a crap cheap motel. Drew was way ahead of me and was not resting the next day, so that was likely our last day of traveling together. It's fine. There are definite pros about being with someone else, but there are pros to being alone, which i am now again.

Days 18 and 19 - Southern Illinois, A Variety of Lovely Landscapes and All-You-Can-Eat Buffets

2009-06-02T10:09:00.000-07:00

I got up quickly and painlessly on Day 18 with the added enticement that i'd be crossing a state line that morning, from Kentucky to the tip of Southern Illinois, the borders created by the Ohio and Mississippi Rivers. It's not that i was anxious to leave Kentucky, but i was ready to continue moving forward, closer to Donny - who, we'd determined, would meet me in Colorado somewhere in a few weeks.

As i approached the ferry on the Ohio River, i passed through Kentucky's Amish country, witnessing the old-timey dress and horse-drawn carriages of those folk in person for the first time in my life, i believe. Many unanswered questions about the impending ferry trip were bandied about by the voices in my head: how long is the trip across? How will i get my bike on the boat? Will it be touristy? (i.e. will there be a snack bar on board?)

I had imagined a big ferry boat like in New York, but it was just a tiny dock manned by a single guy. There was enough room for me, a truck and several cars. The Ohio is muddy like the Mississippi and the ride only took a few minutes. Again, no state-line fanfare. No Welcome to Southern Illinois, Home of the Barnes/Dittlinger Clan. Nothing like that. Mary Ann, David and Sheila always refer to their home turf as Southern Illinois, rather than just plain Illinois. This is at least in part because, at first glance, Southern Illinois is no different than Kentucky. Actually, the roads were worse, more like LA roads, bumpy, gravely, and pot-holed.

The ferry deposits you in Cave in Rock, IL and i found a place for lunch immediately. Can't remember the name but they were having a fired catfish special. Though eating fried food and then riding another 45 miles didn't seem wise, I do like me some fish, and the other menu choices were less appetizing. As i started to eat, a man came in and introduced himself, Keith Shaw of the Shawnee (he liked to say - i later found out that the area sports the majestically gorgeous Shawnee National Forest, so i got the joke after - though of course i nodded to this stranger as if i understood). Keith was out on a ride himself, had seen my bike outside and plopped down to find out my story. He is a rather interesting guy who asked me who the most interesting person i met so far was (just so you know, i have real difficulty answering questions like that - i just spoke to Sharon about some Common Ground issues and she asked me what my favorite part of the trip has been, something which i could not easily respond to...). He's from Iowa's Quad Cities (don't know where those are, but i think Davenport might be one of them) and has ridden across Iowa several times. There's a cross-the-state bike trip that hundreds (maybe thousands?) attempt annually which sounds like fun - a lot of revelry. I like the sound of Iowa a lot these days, wish i was headed there. Anyway, I'm still giddy at the idea of that stranger just coming into my life so briefly, with such openness and curiosity, and willingness to share his own story - and then he paid for my lunch! He had ordered an iced tea (a "tea", don't forget) and i was planning to pay for that since he sat with me while i ate - but then he turned around and paid for my lunch. Most people who i come across, naturally, are not curious about me, or my loaded bicycle, or where i'm going or coming from - but many people are. I recount some details of my journey to at least 5 people per day. And it's not because i'm walking up to people and tapping them on the shoulder: "Hey, stranger, you'll never guess what i'm up to!"

After Keith and lunch, the route took me into the middle of nowhere and continued to remind me of Kentucky, dogs and all. Sigh. Getting closer to my destination of a campground in Eddyville, I passed a lovely town on the Ohio called Elizabethtown, one of those places it seems like it would have been nice to spend the night - if it had been further away from the day's set-off point. Eddyville is a tiny community with a convenience store and some campgrounds (i didn't see anything else). I pulled into the wild western-themed Bear Branch Campground, hoping the "bear" part was just a name, not a common occurrence. There are a lot of riding trails up there, and most people camping had their horses with them. I rolled Whitey Jackson through the mud seeking a place to pitch camp which didn't smell too much like horseshit. But to no avail... As far as shit goes, though, horseshit is the least offensive. Drew arrived a bit later and we ate dinner at the log cabin restaurant shoving our faces after the 90-mile ride with a buffet and salad bar (the only thing you can order), the first of many for the upcoming few days.

A word about buffets: they are awesome for cyclists. And they always seem to have raw broccoli at the salad bar. Not my fave way to consume broccoli - but, hey, it's broccoli. Didn't seem appropriate to say: "Can i get some of this steamed?" They were real nice there, probably would have done it, or, rather, overdone it. There was also (more) catfish, mashed potatoes, meatloaf, cantaloupe (again, not something i eat much of - but it's fruit!). And the ubiquitous chocolate pudding. I've seen chocolate pudding at every salad bar (not the buffet part, but the salad bar). I always want some, but haven't yet dived in. I'm working on being more flexible with my menus as i travel across, yet i can't bring myself to have chocolate pudding and salad on the same plate. What is chocolate pudding anyway? When i was five, my eyes were operated on to stop them wandering. When i came home, i was allowed apple jacks and chocolate pudding for dinner (not mixed together) This memory is a fond one, which is why i bring it up, though Nat was not invited to share - at least i think that's how she remembers it. I think i'll have some chocolate pudding next time i encounter it. For both of us, Nat.

I slept well in my tent that night. The next day was to be my first 100-miler, based totally on the fact that there was no place to stay between Murphysboro and Chester, Illinos (and M-boro was only 60 miles from Eddyville, not a long enough day) - but also initiated by Drew who was helping motivate me to increase my daily mileage. Drew, who i had been traveling with but not with-with for a few days, recently quit his just-out-of-college corporate job to go on this trip ("Tomorrow" was his response to his boss's question "When is your last day?"). He's a nice young guy from outside Philly who went to school in DC where he is currently subletting his apartment for the summer. As we traveled together, it was fun to be lumped in with him when guys - probably my own age - asked: "So, did you just finish school?"Drew's TransAmerica story is more common than mine, as he falls into one of the two largest groups of cyclist travelers: just-outta-college and retired, so i usually let him answer. ... By the way, i'm not trying to sound like "Oh, my story's so unique and complex." It's just easier sometimes to let someone else answer. When i have given my story, many people have exclaimed: "What kind of job do you have that you can take off for two months?" Sharon is probably asking herself that question right now. Out here, i am somewhat choosy when telling people what i "do." Working in HIV potentially calls too much attention. And being an actor from LA opens me up for a whole other set of booby-trapped follow-up questions.

So 105 miles to Chester it was. There were a lot of rolling hills that day and the flat parts had tons of head wind. At times i was going half my normal speed on a flat or downhill bit than i would have had there been no wind. But the scenery that day was gorgeous. A very varied landscape, Southern IL reminded me of Southern CA. We have mountains, desert and the beach. Southern Illinoisians have mountains, dense dark (and rainy, as i was experiencing on Day 19) forests, and the levees and sloughs of the Mississippi. The whole day i witnessed tons of damage from the storms of earlier in the month. David and Mary Ann's house in Marion, IL (where i ended up not going, after all) suffered roof damage. I think Donny told me that the roof had blown off, but that might be a little exaggerated. Someone correct me if i'm wrong.

For about 25 miles, before getting to the last stretch to Chester, i rode through an area of levees that was humid, haunting, completely still except for birds and frogs. And free of any traffic. I celebrated my 105-mile trek across Southern Illinois by checking into a Best Western - very fancy, at the high end of the daily budget for sure! Washed my stinky outfit and ate at a buffet down the highway a half-mile. Still ignored the chocolate pudding - but they had serve-yourself soft-serve ice cream. And tilapia which was really good. And brussels sprouts!

Day 16 & 17 - The App That Cried "Scattered Thunderstorms!"

2009-06-02T08:29:00.000-07:00

As many of you are acutely aware, i have a history of anthropomorphization: live animals, stuffed ones, inanimate objects of many varieties, from skyscrapers to dish towels. As kids, Nat and I created an insulated world of play with our own language and a very intricate community of stuffed animals and other toys who had their own planet (obviously way better than this one), school system, and ocean liner prone to upset due to rogue tidal waves that can really just ruin a fine cruise. But there were always survivors!

I found a match made in heaven (for lots of reasons) in Donny who entertained his sisters with a similar mixture of sentimentality and natural disaster. Many of our "characters" have a similar palette of qualities: unstable, jaded, vaguely British-accented, often officious and utterly profane (except when kids are involved, of course). One such character can hardly be described as an actual creature or inanimate object - this is how deep it runs - but is a computer application. An "app". An Apple app. For those of you who are Apple users, you will know the Dashboard App. Among the particular sub-apps of the dashboard is one that tells you the weather.

We call him "Dashie." And he is a liar. For several years, since the changeover from the Panther to the Tiger operating system when Dashie was "born," we have consulted Dashie, often daily, about the weather. And he lies and lies. Oh, how he lies! He will tell you it's raining right now when it most certainly is not. He will tell you the high is 88 for today when it is already a hundred. Big lies, you see. Not just a few degrees. We ask him over and over: Dashie, why do you lie so?

As my iphone has been more or less my only connection to my familiar world of friends and family and facebook, as well as the outside one (GPS, the news, etc), i have consulted it constantly for weather updates. Often the Weather Channel in hotels would vary greatly from the weather reported on the iphone - and be way more accurate.

That's when it hit me. Dashie is the same app on my phone as on my laptop at home. And this version is as mendacious as his predecessor. Oh, Dashie, why do you lie so, especially now, when it's extra important, when i am so very vulnerable?!

Dashie doesn't care. He predicted scattered thunderstorms for 5 days and nothing ever happened. Sure, they're scattered - and i just may have lucked out. But for 5 days? So i got soft. Didn't believe in "scattered thunderstorms." Sure, sure, they exist. But not for me. Not on this trip. That window shut on Day 16, or rather it opened and let the storm in. I had been dripped on in previous days, but had not experienced thunder and lightning and torrential downpours.

I was in the middle of nowhere when the worst of it hit. I had to ride for several miles until i saw a meeting lodge (elks or something) with a tiny awning. There had been deserted looking barns but they were too far from the road (and over a big ditch on either side), making it impossible to wheel my bike with me. I managed to changed out of my wet jersey but couldn't fully strip out in public. I also managed to facebook about it as it was happening. Funny that there were no houses but there was phone service. Thank you, Kentucky. My plan that day was to camp out at the Rough River Dam State Resort Park (sounds nice, eh?) But i opted for the lodge instead cuz everything was totally drenched since the rain showed no signs of stopping completely, though it had lessened, and i had to just buckle down and ride the last 15-20 miles. It stopped raining as i approached Rough River which would have been a nice place to crash for a rest day - lots of stuff to do (i did manage a dip in the pool when i arrived - cold from the recent rain but nice after riding 95 miles).

On the morning of Day 17, it was pouring (though Dashie said it was cloudy in Falls of Rough, KY my exact location - liar!) My cycling cleats were still wet. I couldn't face starting out with wet feet while it was still raining. I ate a big breakfast in the restaurant waiting for the rain to subside. It reduced to a drizzle and i was off toward Sebree, KY to crash at the First Baptist Church there which houses cyclists.

It rained on and off on Day 17, but the countryside was nice. Rolling hills and pleasant tiny towns to ride through. I stopped to find a sandwich at a gas station and a guy jumped out of his truck and raced over to me saying i should continue up the road another half mile where there was a country store that made sandwiches and had a nicer vibe (my choice of word) than the gas station. Aren't people nicer in Western KY?

I arrived in Sebree early (about 2pm) as it was a shorter day (about 73 miles). I had phoned ahead the day before, and Violet, Pastor Bob's wife, who would be approaching sainthood if this was a Catholic church, rather than Baptist, based on the praise she received in the guest book from hungry and tired cyclists, told me that she would be sorry to miss me (she and Pastor Bob would be away that day) but there were numbers of other people to call taped up on the door.

Stephanie arrived in 90 seconds after i got off the phone with her. She showed me around the place: totally 5-star free cyclist accommodations. Definitely one of the best places i've stayed in so far. Wednesday nights (the night before) they have a prayer meeting and a cookout, so there was a lot of food left over with "For Cyclists" written all over the careful packaging. I showered, did laundry, found an apple and some carrots in the fridge (!!) and dragged a mattress into one of the Sunday school rooms where we were allowed to stay.

Drew arrived next. I had met him a week before, the morning i left Council VA (Larry and Rosetta's Big Bacon Breakfast), and we had ridden together for several miles before Drew dropped off. (I had assumed he didn't really want to ride with a partner or stopped for some food or something. As it turned out, he had a wheel problem which plagued him the rest of that day and had to take a cab from Elkhorn City something like 60 miles for the nearest bike shop in Lexington KY. Yikes.) And then Dolly, who i met in Berea (remember, her mom was one of the original '76 touring cyclists) and seen the night before, arrived. We spent the rest of the evening raiding the snacks and talking about the trip. Unfortunately for Drew, he was still awake when the toilet began to overflow and flooded the main room - which he tried unsuccessfully to mop up until 1am. I experienced the wet floor at 5am when i got up to pee.

In the morning, Dashie was signing a sunny day. I decided to believe him, because i wanted it to be true. He's still a liar though.

Days 13 - 15: My Old Kentucky Home Away From Home

2009-05-30T19:25:00.000-07:00

Berea KY is a college town. In fact, Berea College was the first racially integrated and coed college in the south, and today focuses on ensuring that ethnic minorities and low-income Appalachians are strongly represented among its student body. All this is great to know, but what i wanted from this college town was a health food store. Unfortunately for me, I arrived in Berea on Day 13 which was Sunday of Memorial Day weekend (Happy Meadows is closed on Sundays and was closed again for Memorial Day. So no fruit, veg or clif bars for me.)

Upon arrival in Berea, I did run into a woman, Peggy, who approached me with the common "East to West? Or West to East?" - guessing what i was up to from the fully loaded bike and the Adventure Cycling map on my handlebars. I was too sweaty to think straight, but Peggy understood and instead of bombarding me with questions, she revealed herself to be the first woman to approach June Curry's (who became "The Cookie Lady") home in Afton VA asking for water. Oh my god - I had just heard this story from Sherry at the campsite in Catawba! Peggy clarified that it was her and her dog - not 2 women as The Cookie Lady had recounted the story to Sherry a few days before. (Peggy's dog was female - of course i asked! Maybe this explains the error?) So Peggy turned out to be a cross-country cycling celebrity, more or less - and you know how we Los Angelenos love our famosas! Peggy took her cross-country tour in 1976 with a group of friends to celebrate the Bicentennial. And she brought her dog. I'm guessing the group probably veered more toward hippie than what we, in the early 21st century, would regard as typically patriotic. Peggy wasn't doing the trip again in its entirety but was supporting her daughter, Dolly (whom I've now encountered a few times in the last week).

As i said in the last post, there isn't much to report on about Berea, except that it was graduation day from the college, and lots of partiers were reveling in the Super 8. I did manage to find a few veggies after all at a Chinese buffet. The other great thing about Berea besides the Chinese buffet and the college (i'm sure there's more, but...) is that it marks the end of Eastern Kentucky and Appalachia. Finally, according to the elevation profile on the map, the hills were going to get shorter and be more rolling until the Ozarks in Missouri.

I had my longest ride to date on Day 14 (Berea to Bardstown) clocking in at 98.5 miles. Sadly for me, 8 of those were the result of a wrong turn. The day was mostly cloudy and I endured a few raindrops but nothing major enough for me to get out the jacket (aka "rain gear" - which makes the jacket sound more significant than it is. It's just a jacket for chrissakes, not a suit and boots and a rainhat!) Definitely this weather i could get used to. The part of Kentucky I was now in was decidedly more middle class. Farms were operational. The towns i passed were tidier, and the drivers more friendly.

Bardstown: at least it looks welcoming.

What surprised me about Bardstown, a perfectly coiffed little town with a majestic Catholic church, an old jail tranformed into a B & B, and some history (Civil War stuff), culture (the Stephen "My Old Kentucky Home" Foster musical) and tourist attractions (visit the bourbon distillery!), is that i found the people there to be more polite but, for the most part, not anymore friendly than they were in Appalachia. Now, i've checked myself on this (and spoken to other cyclists who have had a similar experience). I have been quite, er, edgy on this trip. And exhausted. Maybe not totally at my best. But i'm always super-polite, don't-want-to-be-a-bother, grateful, appreciative, the lot. And in Bardstown most people were curt, unhelpful, not accommodating. I stayed at a motel for my rest day that looked so nice as I grunted up the driveway after those 98.5 miles. But it was no better than the Super 8 - just wasn't alongside of the Interstate and had better landscaping due to the fact that there was a park across the street. I said to the stern lady who checked me in: "Oh this looks really nice!" and she actually said: "It's because of the golf course across the street." Oh. My mistake. Maybe I had been spoiled by Linda and David?

Fuck it. I'm here. I ain't going anywhere else (I didn't know about the jail B & B at that point; it's not on our map). I'll just stay in Bardstown and catch up on my blog at the Nelson County PUBLIC Library. I arrived there just after 9 the next morning (after consuming the worst free motel breakfast on the planet - white bread, margarine, grape jelly, stale cheerios and OJ to be poured from a container you couldn't shake to even out the pulp. I made the mistake of asking if there was any cup on the premises that i could use to heat up hot water in the microwave for tea and the front desk lady pinched out "No, just use a styrofoam cup. That's what they all do." I guess the message about putting plastic and styrofoam in the zapper hasn't made it this far into the center of the country. My 90-something year old grandfather emailed the whole family about the dangers of such practices back in the early oughts. Yikes, i sound so California oh-i'm-so-very-green. But seriously, styrofoam in the microwave??).

Ok, the library. So i go in and the 20 or so computers are all taken at 9:10am. I;m told that i have to wait 50 minutes or until someone is finished. Fine. Absolutely fine. I didn't get there at 9 on the dot and that's what happens. No problemo. I'll go look at a road atlas to see how i might go off-route to find David and Mary Ann's house in Marion, Illinois, where I might be staying on the way through there. So someone did finish, but the time limit is an hour - which goes by so quickly when you're trying to catch up on a week of Kentucky adventures. So i had to keep asking to re-sign in with my "guest" (read: outsider sucking up Nelson County resources) log-in. Now, again, i was apoplectically apologetic, each time saying thankyoutyhankyouthankyou for letting me use your stupid computer like everybody else. At some point, the shift changed, and short-sightedly i was relieved that i wouldn't have to bother the same stern overly made-up matron as before. However, the Assistant Director of the Nelson County PUBLIC Library would not give me another moment on the computer, a REFERENCE TOOL at a PUBLIC LIBRARY that NO ONE WAS WAITING FOR, because i had exceeded 2 hours (this rule was newly inserted at that moment). I offered (although no one was waiting at that particular moment): "Well, maybe i can come back later? When it's a little less busy? You're open til 8pm, right?" NO. This was not possible. I know this incident and the hotel breakfast aren't egregious enough for me to write off central Kentucky. But let's put it this way: no one's losing any sleep about whether I'm coming back or not for another visit.

I had a really good meal in Bardstown, at the restaurant connected to the hotel which boasted Kentucky recipes. Not only was there a decent amount of green (though cooked to the daylights) but they also served these deee-licious discs of goodness. "What are these?" I asked tentatively wincing for a possible upbraiding. The waitress smirked, told me "Well, that's fried cornbread." Mmmm, fried cornbread. Then she asked me: "Are you with the drama?" Not sure precisely what the question meant, my instinct was to come back with"Yes. But no."

BTW, Bardstown with your Stephen Foster greatAmericancomposer obsession i looked up the stupid song on Wikipedia and the lyrics of the first verse are truly as follows:

The sun shines bright in the old Kentucky home,
'Tis summer, the darkies are gay;
The corn-top's ripe and the meadow's in the bloom,
While the birds make music all the day.

You can run but you can't hide, Bardstown, from your shameful racist past by changing "darkies" to "people" in the local phone book. But ha ha you still got "gay" in there. I'd love to get a load of Kentuckian fathers squirm as their little boys chant this treasured song at school assembly.

Days 11 - 13: Kentucky Mixed Plate - The Ups and Downs of Appalachia

2009-05-26T09:39:00.000-07:00

As it turns out Rosetta and Larry made me too much breakfast. "You like biscuits and gravy?" I'd never had that delicacy before. The gravy was homemade and honestly i did my best with it. It was wise that i took a no-thank-you portion, as Ma would call it, and didn't put the gravy directly on the biscuits like you're supposed to. I delicately dipped a few bites of biscuit in. But what really curtailed my gravy consumption was learning that it was made of bacon fat. From that moment on, I looked at the gravy differently and thought, "I can't do it." I can live without green veggies every day and organic everything and the multi-cultural food haven that is Los Angeles, but the gravy just didn't seem like a good-day's-cycling recipe. I had already eaten a rasher of bacon, it seemed (however much a rasher is), and eggs and toast and oatmeal and OJ. Larry and Rosetta thought i was just too funny, not being able to eat more. Rosetta prepared me two biscuits with the rest of the bacon for the road (but no gravy, thankfully). I can't say for sure, but i strongly believe that Day 11 of this trip marks the most bacon i have ever eaten in a single day in my life, by three-fold at least.

How awesome are these people? Experiences like this one - actually going into a stranger's home and eating breakfast with them and saying thank you and goodbye - are ones that i knew i'd have on this trip but couldn't imagining myself doing it. And asking if i could use their shower!

I left Council knowing that after crossing the state line into Kentucky (28 miles from that point), I'd have FIVE big hills to climb, a couple well over 3,000 feet. It was over 90 miles to Hindman KY where I was going to camp on the grounds of the Knott County Historical Society. I called ahead and spoke to a David there when i was just over the Kentucky state line, saying i probably wouldn't get there until evening, considering the amount of climbs ahead of me. David's pitch about what the campsite offered i replayed over and over in my head that day in order to get me through it: a shower, laundry service, internet access, and a big ice cream sundae. This is a campsite? Sold!

Somehow i expected more fanfare as i crossed my first state line since entering Virginia over a week before. Not a marching band or anything, but something. I took a few pictures of the signs, including one announcing entry into VA since there wasn't one when I crossed the Potomac. A couple differences between VA and KY were readily apparent. First, a great thing about both the trans am route (which I picked up on day four after Jinx's) and the earlier Adventure Cycling Assoc route I started on, the Atlantic coast route (which I began in DC and stayed on for 2.5 days before getting off-route to Jinx) is that while in the state of VA they mirror the routes of state-sponsored bike routes 76 and 1, and these are extremely well-signed. In Kentucky you're on your own. Fair enough. It doesn't all have to be spoon-fed. But I missed those signs reassuring me that I was on the right track. Second, I may have mentioned earlier about Kentucky being THE state on cross-country cyclists' blogs where dogs chase your ads. I hadn't been in KY for more than 8 miles before it started. One after another in certain neighborhoods. Relentless. Not just big scary German Shepherds but smaller Scrappy Doo types as well. Sometimes in pairs, sometimes one on each side of the street. You look at their faces and they're loving it. They get right in front of the bike. A woman I met the other day told me that one vicious cur bit off the pom pom from the heel of her sock. Luckily so far I have managed to escape unscathed due to a car coming, outrunning them or the invisible fence affect which is for territorial dogs who stop when you reach the boundary of their property.

Something else too. It may have just been the route but what seemed apparent to me immediately in KY vs VA was poverty. Farms looked about as crop-yielding as an empty Little House on the Prairie set. Way more abandoned trailers and houses. Convenience stores had less food available, if they were open at all. More confederate flags waving. A few neo-Nazi banners. People are less friendly, outwardly - I mean at stores and public places, on the road (definitely more random unneccessary honking and yelling stupid shit out of the windows of extra loud and noxious pickups), worse food service (and worse food!). (I'm in a "nicer" part of KY as I write this and I still think Virginians to be plain old nicer.) Dentistry seemed worse. There, I said it! But I don't mean it to come out with city-folk arch prejudice, laughing at people I assume to be less educated or fortunate than I am. As an outside observer, I see the effects of the difference of how much one state might spend on education, health care and other services for low-income people. Another difference is that in VA is saw a lot of racial integration, black and white people working together, out together, at the gas station together. In KY I've seen barely any people of color at all.

I don't mean to denigrate Kentucky and elevate Virginia to the hilt. It's all subjective, all my piddly observations. I'm just reinforcing that I don't have an agenda.

Many road signs are riddled with bullet holes in Appalachia. Yippie! And most people, particularly in the poorer Appalchian areas, hang signs on their property saying "Posted: No Tresspassing". Now many of the properties adorned with these inviting signs are places you'd never find yourself wanting to be visiting. But what I've concluded is that what the signs are actually indicating is: there is a gun on that property. Probably several. And the person who put up that sign is not afraid to use it. The signs and the angry dogs mean the same business. "I own this, this is mine, this is all that is mine, and I will defend what's mine. That is my right." Got it. I won't visit. But in looking at this up close, in its own cultural context, I feel I can comprehend why people "cling" to their guns.

Unexpectedly, however, in KY my iPhone works better. Go figure.

Back to the road. One major annoyance is that the flies buzzing around the hills don't seem to have enough to snack on with all the road pizza delivery. As I am pedaling up a hill, sometimes for as much as 45 minutes a shot, what seems like a single fly will swarm my face for a long distance, circling and circling, alternately landing on my nose and neck, humming in my ears, crashing into my lip, as if to say: "You're as good as dead, bud." Or: "This one's moving so slowly I can start eating him now!"

But I'm alive. Alive! The last hill before it's more or less rolling hills to Hindman is just past Pippa Passes. The hottest part of the day is over and it's particularly peaceful there. I call David as soon as I cross into Hindman and be gives me directions. Now I gotta come clean here. The Knott County Historical Society is located up the graveliest, steepest hill ever. For the first time since I started the ride I got off and pushed Whitey up the hill - which after 96 miles was incredibly difficult. It's a bike, I know, but it's laden with weight and I'm wearing cycling cleats, not eastctp walk in under normal circumstances. David, who greeted me with a glass of sweet tea (with lemon and a sprig of something - mint?), informed me that a Swiss guy rode his up the hill so I wasn't the most athletic. But at 96 miles I got props as 3rd most athletic. I'll take it!

This place is cyclist heaven. Shower (though the water naturally smelled like sulfur), tent's already there, I ordered food which got delivered (green beans again!), he took my dirty clothes and washed them immediately, literally waited on me hand and foot, and gabbed my ear off, since I was unable to be an equal participant. And the sundae became the second item I couldn't finish of the day after those biscuits and gravy. Yes, that was the same day, unbelieveably. David's an interesting fellow. He's had a million jobs, including being onstage in his youth. He was kind enough to point out that the KKK was around and they hated blacks first, then Jews, then gays. Oh great. I feel so well-represented. Later on, without thinking and unapologetically (just to let you know the cultural norms down here) David mentioned someone trying to "Jew him down." Ick.

I retired to my tent fending off the many cats on the property who were having an ongoing alpha battle and, while on the phone with Nat, was accosted by a spooky flittering sound from outside the tent. It was a 2-3 inch winged roach of some sort who, David informed me in the mañana, is having its mating season. Thanks, Roachie, for trying but I'm celibate on this trip. *sound of Danny furiously zipping out the intruder from the tent*

More hills and more dogs the next day. I decided it was time to get pepper spray. I had tried briefly and lamely the day before at a few places along the way. I saw a sign for Wal-Mart and thought: now here's a cultural experience I've yet to have. Yes it's true. I am no longer a Wal-Mart virgin. Figured if they got guns, they got pepper spray. I approached the lady at the front of the store with the unfortunate name of Haggie Mae. After some misunderstanding about what I was after, due to my mispronunciation (down in Hazard KY it's called "paper spry"), I was sent to the sporting goods section which nearly a mile walk down the aisles. I felt like a sweaty alien in my tight-fitting superhero costume with helmet tuck under my arm. I stopped at the gun counter. No paper spry. But since I'm here...maybe ah maht be innerested in purchasing mah first firearm? ...

I moved on toward Booneville as vulnerable as a declawed cat. The route on Day 12 was meant to be easier and it was in that it was only going to be 65 miles. The climbs on Day 12 were not as high or long; they just happened to be steep and very close together. One after another. And most occurred on more major highways than on previous days. The roads themselves are in decent shape and have wide shoulders. But the shoulders all have rumble strips which make for teeth-clatteringly unpleasant riding. The outer part of the shoulders are land mines of coal chunks, broken beer bottles and rotten creature corpses. So I had to ride within the narrow bike tire-sized space between the white line of the shoulder and the rumble strips. Oh, and it was a-blazin' at 91 degrees.

David had kindly called ahead for me to Linda's Victorian Rose B and B. The last 2 nights of camping were great and all but I needed a bed tonight. For some reason, maybe it's because it bears Daniel Boone's name and because there was a b and b, I thought that Booneville was a "real place". But the main drag was empty and not under construction like ive seen some other places. I called Linda for directions as soon as I got into town. Her place was one more hill (fuck$&@&"!!) away and she offered to pick me up. I admit I was tempted but declined. Now Linda is one of the absolutely awesomest people I've met so far. Her b and b is on a bit of land, and the whole place - both garden and the house - is chock full of "Victorian" themed knick-knacks. You'll see the pictures eventually. Linda is my mom's age but is stuck cutting the grass herself because no one wants to work, she says. The room was dark and cool. Linda took me into town to grab some food. Green beans and some other gray food items. Great night sleep. In the morning Linda made me a great brekky including 3 different homemade preserves. I took a couple pics of her and she took one of me with the mannequin in her garden. "She can be your date. She's good cuz she won't talk much." I also talked about guns with Linda. She has a 380 with hollow points among others. People don't fuck with Linda. On the way out she told me to tell my mom that I'm a good kid.

In the interest of catching up, I'm not going to get into Day 13. Assume it was somewhat uneventful. Short. From Booneville to Berea to a crappy Super 8 by the side of the 75 Interstate.

Day Ten - The Weapons of Southwestern VA: Killer Hills and Guns

2009-05-26T08:23:00.000-07:00

I ate at the Sugar Grove Diner in the morning. After some confusion about tea, I filled up on eggs and oatmeal and ordered a sandwich to go. I paid Peggy for the room (Peggy who's like Flo from Alice but not a hussy - or assuming not, based on the piety factor) and wrote Ali's name (with "bicycle accident" in parentheses) on the prayer list. Couldn't hurt.

This day was the first of three evil Appalachian climbing days. So. Fucking. Tiring. I rode 83 miles that day through towns blurred by sweat and the similarity of their names (e.g. Meadowview/Max Meadows, Honaker/Konnarock, Hayter's Gap/Haysi) ending in Council VA. I read on my map that cyclists were allowed to camp for free in the park there, and I figured i could break my No No-Shower rule by stripping in the bathroom (i had been informed they'd be unlocked all night) and birdy-style washing my dark places in the sink. As i pedaled toward what seemed to be where the bathrooms were, an older gentleman called out: "That's where they all camp" and asked if there was a bulb above the picnic table. There wasn't, so he brought me one.

Larry and his wife, Rosetta, both retired educators, live right above the park and have kept company with cyclists who have camped there for years. He offered me a cold beer, but what i really wanted was a shower. So i suppressed my usual urban don't-ask-a-stranger-for-anything-cuz-if-they-give-it-to-you-then-you'll-owe-them-something-and-what-kind-of-position-is-that-to-be-in position and asked "Hey, is there any way you'd possibly let me take a quick shower in your house?" He said "No problem" and set me up with a towel and showed me where stuff was. I probably over-waxed apologetic and grateful - but i certainly was both.

I hung out with Larry for a couple hours shooting the breeze, telling him about my trip and my lack of exposure to strangers who are kind and do things for you, like let you take a shower in their house and bake you frozen pizza when you're hungry and prepare you breakfast in the morning. Country people, he said, are just like that. Leave doors unlocked when they leave the house, aren't afraid of break-ins. The fact that everyone owns multiple firearms certainly helps.

My conversation with Larry about guns was the second i had that day. I met two jolly junk-haulers earlier that day at a gas station who showed interest in my trip and incredulity that i was camping on my own but wasn't carrying a firearm. Some of that self-preserving hyper-awareness crept up my neck again - but only after i had divulged the location i'd be camping that night and the fact that i wasn't packing and, hell, didn't even know how to use a gun. So i had been a bit paranoid for the rest of the ride that day, worried by the story these guys told me of drug addicts who slit the throats of 2 local people. Be careful, they said. Thanks a lot for giving me something else to think about. In the movies, these guys would then try to kill me in my tent, or send someone else to do it, or sneak up on me pretending to kill me and then subsequently get murdered by the actual murderer who would then pursue me for the rest of the film.

But the fact that Larry had guns made me feel safe as was the fact that he knew how to use them from years of reasonably hunting deer and other creatures. No one was going to get me in my tent that night. We eased into a conversation about gun control, i think, feeling each other out politically. It turns out that Larry is a "strong Democrat" (i suspect a Hillary Democrat) but living where he lives, he has a lot of friends who are Republicans and respects them though he enjoys teasing them. I told him that i thought i knew 2, maybe 3 Republicans at the most, and both had a good laugh about it.

I said goodnight to Larry, 90% believing him that he and Rosetta would cook me up a huge breakfast in the morning and set up my tent, alone and unwatched. I could hear kids playing on the basketball court below, but otherwise it was quiet. And a little lonely. Decided to be cagier about telling people of my gun-toting status in the coming weeks, should it come up again (and should i survive the night).

Day Nine - What A Difference A Rest Day Makes: Blacksburg to Sugar Grove VA

2009-05-25T17:01:00.000-07:00

Day 9 was a reawakening. I actually felt for the first time in days that I might accomplish this feat of riding cross-country. Though tempting with a new outlook, the way one might slightly regret a drunken spillage of under-the-surface tremblings, of course I don't recant any of the fears or the loneliness I expressed in previous entries. But on Day 9, as I gingerly eased into the chilly mountain air from the comfort of faux-posh Holiday Inn, after spending 36-ish hours "hydrating my tissues" (thanks, Nat) I was a lot less frightened. And a lot less raw. With the temperature being cool and the wind at my back, the ten or eleven miles back to the actual route at Christiansburg was an easy warmup. I stopped at the CVS to buy advil, which I'm slightly (and appropriately) addicted to, and noxema, which Jinx and all her Ironman mates swear by as a protective shield for the undercarriage. I gobbled some advil immediately but avoided the noxema for now, preferring it as a backside backup.

The other rejuvenating aspect of the morning was moving to the next section of the Trans America Trail map - section 11 (Christiansburg VA to Berea KY). I know it's a little confusing that it's section 11 ; the trail starts on the West Coast and goes east. My destination was to be Sugar Grove VA. I had called ahead and spoke to Peggy to reserve a bed at Sugar Grove Dining and Lodging, and my rest enabled me to skid into the parking lot of the diner 91 or so miles later, with some energy to spare.

The most significant happening of the actual ride earlier that day was finding out that a cyclist had been struck on the route. After about 55 miles, I had stopped just outside of Wytheville to grab something substantial to eat. Hmmm, a convenience/fish market/live bait/liquor store - why not? A few minutes later I was peeling and eating a half-pound of non-smelly (yes, i sniffed them out first) peel 'n eat shrimp with cocktail sauce along with pretzels and V-8 juice (good for replenishing salt after sweating) on the bench outside the store. I was approached by a man, one of about 20 or so that went into the store and came out with a case of Busch, who told me that earlier a cyclist had just been injured up the road a bit. I figured by "just" he meant within the last few days or even weeks. But as i rode up Route 11, i caught up with Leigh and Margaret, the couple from Alaska who were among the people i'd camped with at Catawba a few nights ago. They told me that the crash had been that afternoon and the person injured was Ali, another guy at our campsite. A truck had clipped Ali's pannier (luckily not his body) and dragged him for a distance before he crashed. Leigh and Margaret had been riding with them (didn't see it happen) and found Ali's handlebar bag which the police had not been able to recover - and were waiting for Mike (his travel buddy whom i spoke to at length that freezing morning in Catawba) to pick the rescued bag.

I almost didn't write about this, because of the concern that you might have. But Ali's ok. No broken bones, just major road rash/lacerations, we heard, on his butt. Ugh. Their trip is over, though. In some fatalistic way, i think, ok that's happened now to someone i met, it's a reality not a concept, so the likelihood of it happening again (and to me!) reduces. Right? Like plane crashes? I don't mean to sound cold about it; there wasn't anything i could do, except proceed safely. Leigh and I exchanged numbers, in case he and Margaret made it to Sugar Grove that night.

Two-point-five hours later, red-haired Felicia, Peggy's daughter, hooked me up with the "room" which turned out to be a 2 bedroom apartment. Oddly affordable. Since there was no phone service, I went back to the road several times to find Leigh and Margaret, since there was more than enough room to share but to no avail. [In full confession mode, i would have felt embarrassed to turn on the TV to watch the American Idol finale, so i was a sliver relieved. They just didn't seem like AI types.] This place was decked out in holy-roller decor to the on-highest degree. There were a zillion religious figurines, cards, books, puzzles, daily prayer wall-hangings of all sizes, fridge magnets - even toilet reading. There was a 2-foot tall macabre Jesus clock - TICK TOCK! TICK TOCK! TICK TOCK!!!!!! - that needed to be relocated to the other bedroom later on because the TICK TOCK TICK TOCK sound kept me up. I ate downstairs at the diner waited on by a girl who reminded me of Laura B. It's quite actory of me to say this BUT i'm constantly casting the people from my life on this trip - I consider actors I know like Laura B., movie stars, and non-actors alike, such as Efrain for the Polish Yorick who i met in C-ville.

The diner was full. Everyone was older than me and whiter than me. The multiple bible quotes on the menu and walls reinforced the Baptist leanings of the establishment as did the snippets of conversation i overheard, peppered with blessings and talk of the revival. I asked Felicia, since she seemed to be in charge, if i could make the quickest long-distance call as my cell had no reception. She looked almost frightened and told me no, only Peggy could make those decisions and Peggy wasn't there.

I felt deflated. And a little bit of horror movie-watching-induced paranoia lifted some of the hairs on my neck. In movies, small-town religious fanatics kill atheists for sport, especially Jewish ones. What if they murder me in my sleep? No one will no where i am. Ok, that was just the 90-plus miles talking so i ordered chicken and green beans (yes, those same green beans are everywhere) and greens - "with vinegar?" asks Laura B as the waitress. "Yes" I reply. Yes to everything. I'm not a stranger here. I'm just like y'all are! Of course I eat my greens with vinegar! The food was really good actually. I don't know what i was expecting with the chicken i ordered, but i realized then that "chicken" in this part of the country means "fried chicken" just like "green beans" result in overcooked/canned olive-colored watery green beans and "tea" is "iced tea". I ate homemade blackberry cobbler for desert and snuck upstairs for Idol. Poor Adam. He was robbed.

Shhh, It's Sleeping! - A Quick Word About Fauna (Updated)

2009-05-24T15:01:00.000-07:00

When Donny and I see an animal dead on the road, we always assume it's slumbering. Guts splayed, spine flattened, black pecked-out holes where eyes once were, doesn't matter. "Aw, look at him sleeping!" With all that's wrong with the world, especially in these rough economic times, do we really need to be facing the reality of grisly deaths of cute animals?

Unfortunately, on the bike I have had to face reality. Thus far, I have seen squirrels, skunks, turtles, snakes and birds of many species, possums, chipmunks, gophers, wild turkey, cats, raccoons, black-and-blue butterflies and the caterpillars they were previously, rabbits, OURs (other unidentified rodents), one dog, and two deer at all stages of suppurating, festering decomposition. Hideous masks of horror. Death is not cute on the open road, yet I can't tear my eyes away. I've mostly been upwind of the carrion, meaning that I experience the putrid smell of Dead Bambi and Friends only after I pedal by. It's very challenging not to breathe as I pass, so unless the roadkill is on a downhill, I always end up inhaling just a little.

I will never be the same again.

Can't you see, I'm trying to sleep?

That being said, I've espied all of the woodland fauna in the live-flesh as well. It's a thrill to see a fluffy-tailed deer bound away as I approach her. If only the dogs were that timid...

Also lots of livestock, including hens and roosters (who have woken my ass up on more than one occasion), horses, cows, goats, and a donkey. All of these species, thankfully, have been alive. Except when they are on plates ready for consumption.

Days 6 - 8: C + Hill = Chill - Lexington to Catawba to Blacksburg

2009-05-19T13:39:00.000-07:00

I woke up depressed on Sunday. Ate two breakfasts at the diner i ordered dinner from the night before (2 breakfasts = under $10, whatta bargain!) I felt like a ponce ordering hot tea - but i can't drink coffee. I stalled, ratting my cage and tinkering with the cycle computer (still down). Bike shop in Lexington was closed until Monday, and i didn't want to take an early day off at that ratty motel. It was still raining and i texted Natalie about a rash on my inner thigh. Was going to take a picture and send but thought otherwise.

Day 6 was going to be a nebulous day, cloudy in both sky and brain. It was too far to Christiansburg after the hellish climbs the previous day, so i just took off before it got too late and the hotel staff would charge me $10 for a late checkout. After about 20 miles, I took a break at a turnoff in the route and munched a cliff bar. A cyclist without much gear approached me. Jim, a guy who must be in his late sixties is also on the TransAmerica but his lovely wife, Sherry, is carrying his gear in their car with Sandy the dog and pottering around the towns, driving the route and catching up with Jim at various points during the day. Jim is raising money for Habitat for Humanity, an organization he's involved with through his church. He's doing most of the same route as me and traveling a similar number of daily miles. So i figure i'll run into him along the way even though the lucky devil doesn't have to carry a big load - and gets to see his wife and dog every morning and night. Maybe Donny and Dinah will hit the road...? Jim was going to camp that night in Catawba behind a store that allows cyclists to camp there for free. "Do you think they have a shower?" I ventured. Uh, no. It's free camping behind a store, what would your guess be?

The day was about 66 miles according to the map when i pulled into the Catawba Valley General Store's parking lot. Jim was there as were four other cyclists and an odd, slightly hills-have-eyes type who was hiking the Appalachian Trail (which our bike route crosses several times).

I confess! I have never camped before where i was setting up shop solo. When i have camped with Nina, she's the alpha and i'm her faithful assistant. The sun was low and it was getting cold. I decided to pitch my tent near a fence, not too close to anyone else but not so far away so i'd be on a slope, the blood flooding my head or feet all night. I was intent on setting up without looking at the instructions; i had practiced in the back yard and Donny and I had dived in for a moment in this "2-man" tent. (Small for one). It took several minutes of nonchalant la-la-la i-know-what-i'm-doing before i peeped at the paper just to make sure i was doing it correctly. i kind of wasn't and had to re-route the poles, laughing at my city-boy incompetence. Eventually my temporary nest was built and i dove in to clean my dark areas with tea-tree oiled wipes.

Sherry, Jim's wife, approached me to say hello, and we chatted for a while. Really lovely woman, retired special ed teacher, lives in northeast Georgia which, she says, looks a lot like where we are right now. One thing i've been struggling with a bit came up with Sherry. It's that tension i might have mentioned earlier between stopping to smell the roses and the need to get to the end result. Sherry told me how she visited with The Cookie Lady, an elderly woman named June who lives in Afton and who has been aiding cyclists with cookies, water and a place to crash for over 30 years. I had stopped by the Cookie Lady's place as i came up the Afton hill the day before. I knocked lightly and said hello? but no one answered and i moved on. Sherry caught me up with the Cookie Lady, including how she earns $300 monthly in social security but her insurance is $500 so when she was sick in the hospital last year (a stroke, she's 88, mind you) and couldn't leave leave the hospital cuz she didn't have enough to cover home care, cyclist groups raised the money for her, she came home, recovered from the stroke, and welcomes cyclists into her home every day. Because I'm so raw, i blubbered a little bit, really moved by the story (and regretful that i didn't get to meet her myself). I really wish i had knocked louder. But at the same time, if i had stopped, i would have stayed too long and would have been caught in the thunderstorm the night before, maybe stranded. So there's something to be said for pushing through. Get the tension i'm talking about?

All the cyclists i've met so far doing this trip are all taking longer to do it, are camping more that hotelling it, and all seem, you know, relaxed. Nothing like relaxed people to highlight one's own sense of being. Wound. Pretty. Tight. As i was climbing a random hill at some point during the day, in a low moment of self-doubt, i passed a house with C. Hill on the mailbox. Get it?

The sunset was beautiful and i was feeling really outdoorsy and confident shoving the other half of a subway sandwich i'd started on earlier. I shot some film, mini-interviewed myself inside my tent. Read. And fell fast asleep. For 3 hours. The rest of the night I couldn't sleep. What's ironic is that i wasn't uncomfortable; it wasn't too windy or anything. I just couldn't sleep.

Did i forget to mention that it went down to 35 degrees that night? That just doesn't happen where i live.

In the morning, i went into the store we were camping behind and got some hot water for my PG Tip sachet (and milk! - the lady inside said it was her special stash and she gulped a bit out of the bottle to make sure it was still good before she handed it over free of charge. We outdoorsy camping cyclist types aren't picky, you see). A dollar-twenty bought me an egg on a biscuit with American cheese (i've had American cheese now more times in the last week than i have had in my entire adult life), and the lady offered to put lettuce and tomato on it which i gratefully accepted. I think Donny will be pleased if i continue to eat American cheese when i get home.

Everybody moved slowly yesterday morning. I think we were all waiting for it to get a little bit warmer. I felt connected to the people i met: Jim and Sherry and Sandy the Dog, Leigh (who tried to help me fix my bike computer) and Margaret from Alaska, Mike and his friend from Tampa. And me.

I took off for Blacksburg, trying to be as clean in the crotch area as possible (how do these people do it without showering? i seriously don't understand it. it's not about being hyper-hygienic. but how can you sweat for 8 hours on a bike and not need to wash your crotch in order to prevent the sensitive areas from breaking out/down. I really must get chummy enough with someone to ask. Cuz it ain't pretty down there.

I was going for a short day, about 25 miles, and crash in a hotel in Blacksburg after taking Whitey to urgent care for the computer and a couple of issues. It was relatively easy in the cool air until i went off-route to Blacksburg which was a long 3-mile climb. 468 miles so far.

Blacksburg is where Virginia Tech is. Pete, a friend from high school, went here, so i felt a minor connection to the place. If you love sports bars, this is the place to be. I do not love sports bars. I've been hiding out at the Holiday Inn since yesterday, washing all my stinky clothes, visiting the health food store (spinach!!), nursing various wounds and banishing the chill from my bones, catching up on sleep. The Bike Barn is where i took Whitey. Jim (another Jim) helped heal the wounds and gave me some tips as well, something which my own neighborhood bike mechanic will not do without heaving ponderous sighs, as i mentioned earlier.

Onward tomorrow...

Another Chunk - i'm beyond this now...

2009-05-19T08:52:00.000-07:00

&amp;lt;a href="http://www.mapmyride.com/ride/united-states/va/-powhatan/871124066970473349"&amp;gt;Jinx to Buchanan&amp;lt;/a&amp;gt;&amp;lt;br/&amp;gt;&amp;lt;a href="http://www.mapmyride.com/find-ride/united-states/va/-powhatan"&amp;gt;Find more Bike Rides in Powhatan, Virginia&amp;lt;/a&amp;gt;

Day 5 - Monstrous, O Monstrous! The Hills and Storms of Central Virginia!

2009-05-19T08:51:00.000-07:00

It was muggy and warm when i bid goodbye to all at Alexander House on Saturday. I didn't know where i was going to end up. All i knew was there was this evil hill coming up in Afton before i would get to the famously gorgeously vistaed Blue Ridge Parkway. After the hill, i would assess and decided from there. The hill was difficult but years of riding up Coldwater have prepared me for a long climb, so it sucked but didn't kill me. Earlier on, i ran into a guy who was on a bicycle (not a traveler, a regular cyclist) who told me that the hill at Afton was only part-way up if i was to continue on to the Parkway. But say what?? Dan, Jinx's mate and major Ironman/runner/cyclist/racing guy and physical therapist, who has, along with Jinx, ridden Afton mountain many times, assured me, more or less, that the major climb that i saw on the map after Afton was not what it seemed to be: huge. HUGE. I believed him about 75% since he's the Virginia cyclist, and i wanted it to be true - but the map told a different story: Afton was a momentary climb compared to what lay ahead. [When i get home, i will scan the image of the map so you will know what i mean].

Yes, it turns out Dan was wrong, and the map was right. The Blue Ridge Parkway was miles and miles of climbing. How many miles, you ask? I can't tell you, because somewhere in there, my cycle computer decided to stop working. So for hours, in the baking, crotch-rotting heat, i had no idea how far i'd gone or how much longer it was. My plan was to make it to Lexington, making the day about 88 miles or so. What i didn't know is that at least 20 miles (probably more) of that would be a constant uphill battle. Jesus! I hope it sounds hard to you because it was. I know i deserve kudos for Day 5, even though it was poorly planned (only 25% my fault).

The Blue Ridge Parkway is truly spectacular. The Blude Ridge strip of Appalachia are, not surprisingly, blue-hued - cloudy, yet glaringly bright. Cool-looking but hot hot hot out there that day. I took the first pictures and video here with my new fab camera (thank you, Donny, for the present). I drank a ton of fluids for fear of running out of steam. I met a young guy named James, fellow TransAmerican (not trans-trans - you know what i mean) during the climbs. Weirdly, his computer wasn't registering either. Were we in some kind of void?

The best thing about climbing up a hill is knowing that at some point, sometime, you will be going downhill for reprieve. (The opposite is true for downhill riding: all easy things must come to an end). Downhill took me to a town called Vesuvius. I'm dating myself with these 80s song references - but first it was "Let me love you, Occoquan", then "Palmyra. Palmyra. My heart's on fire, for Palmyra" and here it was "Ve-Ve-Vesuvius" (Let me know if you don't get the reference). From Vesuvius, it was still 20 miles to Lexington, and with my computer busted, i had only some idea of how long it would take me from that point.

Several miles past Vesuvius, i found a convenience store and guzzled a bottle of gatorade and bought some salty nuts and pretzels to keep myself going. The amiable guy at the register asked if i was fixin' to have a picnic on the porch. I thought, yes, yes, i will have a picnic on the porch. What else did they offer? Sandwiches, said his counterpart, a stout, chinless lady. And barbeque. When i hear barbeque in LA, i think of a type of food, rather than an item: ribs, wings, etc. But barbeque in this part of VA, or at least in this shop, meant shredded mystery meat in a tomato sauce on a bun. Sold. Slaw on it? asked the lady. Of course. It was both gross and delicious, like many foods i have been consuming in the last week.

As i was cleaning up my picnic, the sky was darkening. It was still daylight (only 6:30pm or so) but clouding over. A young guy in a pickup shouted to me: hope you're not going far! Thunderstorm is coming! Maybe because of exhuastion, disorientation, loneliness, Danny-ness, whatever, i don't know, but that pushed my panic button. Hopping on Whitey, I rode as fast as i could (which was not very fast at all, considering the miles i'd done and the fact that between where i was and Lexington was hilly). I checked into the Red Roof Inn (i called ahead this time) after riding through Lexington, another pretty town. Unfortunately, the cheaper motels are always located after the town's landscape ceases to be charming, and this room was the most sinister one of the trip thus far. Very dark. As soon as i shut the door, Zeus started to bowl a 300-game upstairs and the sky came apart in zig-zagged light and dark. I have never seen anything like it. No wonder Southerners believe in god. And the fan in the bathroom molested me, whirring a rhythmic loop making me feel like i was losing it a little as i soaked my sore ass in icy water, trying not to touch the base of the tub with my most vulnerables.

I put on my raingear for the first time and raced across to the Lexington Restaurant next door. They were empty, clearly closed. I asked, please can i get something to eat? A worker took pity on me and asked an unseen boss if it was okay. The stern proprietess peered around the corner and okayed me. i could have a sandwich, and homemade vegetable soup. Can i have any vegetables? Yes, there's green beans. Anything green. I raced back to my room through the storm and started on the soup. Ooh, look! A shitake mushroom, i thought, feeling comforted by California-ized foodie-ness. But sadly, the mushroom turned out to be a grey piece of beef floating in there. Oh. I didn't pick around the macaroni and potatoes (stuff i don't normally like in soup); i ate them, like a good boy, getting in my nourishment. (I did pick off the fat from the beef and ate that too). The green beans, alas were not green but brownish, having lived in a large can before being my vegetable-of-the-day. They were like green beans from Theunis Dey Elementary School circa 1977. I ate them too. I'll probably end up eating McDonald's for the first time in over 20 years before this trip is out.

Before crashing, i tried to scrub the stench out of my cycling shorts. They smelled like someone else. I don't know who, but definitely someone more disgusting than me. Will i stay so stinky once the trip is done, a la making a face so often it freezes that way?

The storm raged on, and I thought THANK GOD: 1) i didn't camp that night as i had planned to, for the first time and 2) i made it into my sinister little hovel of a room before it started.

Day Four - There goes the C'ville town drunk again (updated)

2009-05-19T07:44:00.000-07:00

...Oh, wait! The Charlottesville town drunk is me! Except i haven't had a drop to drink, except water and electrolyte/fart-enhancing beverages. The end of Day Four saw me ambling about the center of Charlottesville, outwardly well-to-do and touristy and college-towny (UVA graduation weekend was upon us, and the town was swarming with partiers and partying parents).

Earlier that day, Donny had walked me up to the end of Jinx's driveway. He was sniffing a bit, and i thought it was something sinus-related. But when i realized he was crying, that's when i let it in for the first time, really: the awful horrible lonely fact that we would be without each other for several weeks. The Fear i spoke of in my last post hit me like a wave, as Donny often serves as buffer between me and Fear Itself. I don't want to get too too personal, even to air clean laundry, but let it suffice to say that parting was a sweet yet bashing baseball bat of sorrow.

Compared to Day Three, this day was to be shorter, only 70 miles. I won't blab about the sights that day; I don't remember them. The most significant travel-related occurrence of that day was running into my first fellow-travelers. Fabian (whose blog crazyguyonabike i had been reading during planning) had run into Ted and Lisa from Hawaii and were traveling as a threesome. I came up behind them, not exactly trying to be cool but at least modulating my excitement at seeing them.

We immediately spoke about the dog-danger written about on several people's blogs. Despite Lisa's animal-rights leanings (she's actually raising money for the Humane Society on her trip, i think - or some animal rights group), she carried pepper spray, as did the others. As if by example, a barking dog charged over to us followed by his owner, a sweet-looking tow-headed girl of about 8. Fabian asked the dog holding up the spray: "Do you know what this is?" It obviously didn't since it kept barking. Luckily for the dog, he didn't come out to the road. It would have been awful to witness Fabian spray the dog in front of the little girl. It's to teach the dog not to charge cyclists, Fabian said. I believe him, and i'm hoping the rest of the dogs i encounter will have learned the lesson already.

The group of them were staying in Charlottesville that night and a budget motel. Call ahead, they warned, as it's graduation weekend. Eh, I'll deal with it when i get there.

That was a mistake. Almost a very bad one. After a steep and long and trafficky climb to C'ville past Monticello, Jefferson's self-designed sweeping residence, i stopped to call ahead for a room. Everything was booked. Yikes. It was almost 7pm, no time to get anywhere else. LUCKILY, the Alexander House, which was on the map listed as a B&B/hostel had one empty bed in a four-person dorm room.

Hmm. Ok. No other options, so fine. The A-house caters to travelers. Brad, the likeable and chatty-Cathy manager(immediately offered me ice water and an apple), has a soft spot for "you guys" (meaning cross-country cyclists doing the Transamerican route). Brad actually had a lot to say about C'ville and his own neighborhood's gentrification, the University, restaurants, rednecks, and a myriad of topics - however, i really needed a shower, and a little less conversation, a little more hygiene action.

I got cleaned up and wandered downtown, not knowing where i was going. "Fridays After Five" was happening - a big tent with live music and hundreds of people streaming along the downtown mall (kind of like 3rd St. Promenade but even more vast. Take that, Santa Monica!) Here's where the town drunk comes in - the ride had exhausted me and i was extra-disoriented and emotional about leaving Donny. I weaved and bobbed, needing to look at the curb before i put my foot on it. I looked like another partying grad. Ok, not really, but somewhere between the grad and his parents. Or nowhere in between which led to feeling like a stranger in a strange land. Which I was. I am.

I scarfed down salmon and broccoli and some other stuff and found my way back to Alexander House stopping by a liquor store where i bought, uncharacteristically, peanut M&M's - because they're Donny's favorite. They tasted like the glossy bag they came in - but they brought me comfort and a little extra protein.

Back at the house, my roommates rolled in. Yorick (or what sounds like Yorick in a Polish accent) from Warsaw reminded me of Efrain. And Kate and Sean, who just finished a tour of the southeast playing Kate's music. [Kate Elliott is her name and she's on iTunes. I haven't checked her out, but she could be awesome. Let me know if you are curious and listen to any of her tracks.] It was definitely out of my comfort zone, sharing a room with strangers. I slept on a bunk-bed for the first time in many years.

I Confess! I Confess!

2009-05-19T05:56:00.000-07:00

Before I get into the chatter of what i did and saw, who i met and the types of animals i've seen squashed in the road, I need to unload something, really get it off my chest. A month ago (can it only be a month?) when Ju and Kersh were visiting, I only spoke of my impending journey (I definitely said "journey" then - cuz they're Brits) with anxiety, fear of not being ready, a sort of, well, non-positive anticipation. They called me out: it doesn't sound like you're looking forward to it so why are you doing this? ... Oops.

What an opportunity to work on not being defensive that was. It was an obvious question to ask, hanging in the weighty air of my own stress; and thanks, Ju and Kersh, I'm glad you did. It's not like I hadn't thought of why i wanted to bike across America before. Isn't it obvious? I like to ride my bike, I'm into physical challenges like marathons and triathlons, I want to explore/have new and adventurous experiences, I want to confront my superstitions and prejudices that i have about my country, I want perhaps to create something out of it (e.g. a slide show to bore people with), I want two months off from work/life to get perspective - all those things.

I rattled off those reasons to plenty of people over the months leading up to the start of the trip. I got really good at focusing on all the positive stuff while absorbing concerned family members' fears (and not disagreeing with them, really, on most concerns). People's responses to my attempting this trek (now it's a trek - just trying to vary it, keep you guessing) have been overwhelmingly positive (with a good amount of "you're crazy" mixed in).

Ju and Kersh's question helped me to realize that my anxiety and fear around the trip, my lack of positive "yay!" excitement, are about my fear of not being able to complete it and being so public about it. When i decided to run a marathon for the first time, i knew that i could. Don't know why as i'd probably never run much more than 5 miles at that moment of decision; i just knew.

I know, I know. Whatever i accomplish will be a success and blah blah blah. I'll learn something.

Really, it's deeper than that, because this journey addresses so much of what I'm scared of in life. Strangers, churches, right-wingers, getting beat up cuz I'm gay, dehydration, humidity, gravel and wetness on the road, my own footing, fitness, fortitude or lack thereof, self-reliance, bears and rabid dogs, rotting animals on the side of the road, sudden noises in the bushes, loneliness and rejection, the dark, the unknown, failure, death.

I've spent a great deal of my life second-guessing myself, trying to put forth a game and skilled attitude in the face of sometimes crippling self-doubt. I'm not special for feeling this way, but it's my confession for today. When i thought of the title Handlebar Confessional for my blog, i didn't think i'd actually be confessing, because i'd spent months trying to convince everyone that i was super-daring and fearless - partially to allay your fears but also to shush the voices in my own head.

Let it suffice to say, as it sit here in a chilly, random hotel lobby in the South, it won't be fear that ends the journey for me - it will be my sore ass, i swear to the Universe.

From Natalie to Jinx - the first three days

2009-05-18T12:50:00.000-07:00

&amp;lt;a href="http://www.mapmyride.com/ride/united-states/md/bethesda/973123856675285927"&amp;gt;05/15/09 - Bethesda MD to Powhatan VA&amp;lt;/a&amp;gt;&amp;lt;br/&amp;gt;&amp;lt;a href="http://www.mapmyride.com/find-ride/united-states/md/bethesda"&amp;gt;Find more Bike Rides in Bethesda, Maryland&amp;lt;/a&amp;gt;

Day 3 - The carrot dangled at the end of the road is Donny

2009-05-18T12:49:00.000-07:00

As I'm writing on Day 7, Day 3 is misty. When was that anyway? It seems like hundreds of miles...Oh. It was.

I left Fredericksburg bright and early. It was already warm and muggy though overcast. Let me put this out there: I've fantasized here and there about grabbing my boyfriend and all our shit and moving somewhere "with seasons" as people in LA refer to other places. "Oh, I miss the cold." "I miss pretty leaves changing color." And the like. Sure, sure, I love that stuff in doses. What I do not miss and have early in this journey been slapped in my dry-weather face with is frickin' humidity. If I lived on the east coast, I would never ride my bike, let alone for 90-plus miles like I did on Day 3.

The route between F-burg and Powhatan (outside Richmond) where Jinx lives was humid as hell. Pretty, yes. Mostly back country roads. It's hard to explain why but I did make a wrong turn which ended up adding 7 or 8 miles to an already long day. The mishap happened as soon as I got "off-route" as we say out here on the trail. ("Off-route" takes you away from the play-by-play directions on the maps from the Adventure Cycling Association that everybody who's doing this uses. So Jinx's place took me off route - which is immediately when I fucked up. It wasn't a big deal, and I'm getting better at asking for directions.

I had to cross a river! You hear? A river! The only river in LA is not a real river, and I'm still getting excited by stuff everybody else in the country is used to. My mother, for instance, lives on the Passaic River. I crossed the river on a bridge, by the way - not the wild way you just thought for a second: pushing Whitey Jackson through rapids. The reason it's interesting is because bridge goes right through on of the State of VA's corrections facilities. I found this route on mapmyride.com a while back. Not only are those premises a prison, they're also a farm for the prisoners to work on. Everyobdy wins!

After many texts and phone calls (for some reason, Jinx's newly developed neighborhood is not on google maps though it's been in existence for a couple years), I finally made it - 93 miles from when I started that morning. It was a 10 hour journey (with plenty of breaks) and I was met by Jinx and Donny screaming and banging instruments, shaking maracas (was Anita doing it too or just holding the baby?) - which drove Izzy from the porch in terror. The reception felt slightly undeserved since it was only my third day, and I limply posed for pictures.

I was really happy to see the Mancini clan including newst addition, Tilly. (Super cute, must be said). Jinx is amazingly holding it all together, having already gone back to work with a 2-month old (too bad she doesn't work at Common Ground) and a broken ankle. To be sure, she doesn't look like she gave birth 2 seconds ago. It's all that bike-ridin' she does!

Every dangled carrot must come to an end; mine and Donny's reunion was like a baby carrot - very short and sweet. I took off the next morning for the "real" journey, without the promise of comfort from family or friends for weeks to come.

More in a bit...I have to get my shit out of the dryer and eat something before I die.

Pardon me fer droppin' off fer a bit!

2009-05-18T12:43:00.001-07:00

As it turns out, I won't be able to write as often as I'd hoped. There is limited time, for one thing, though I am blogging in my head non-stop and taking notes at the end of each day. The plan will be to write on my off or half-days - like today. Read on puleaze.

Day Two: Ah Jist Cain't Hay-ulp Mah Say-Ulf!

2009-05-13T13:22:00.000-07:00

I love accents, always have: love to listen to and identify them, attempt them, master them. However, I do not limit my use of them to the stage or funnying about with friends. I am powerless to resist them - nay, I am often unaware that i am slipping into your accent as we speak to each other. When I am with Ju, or talking to her on the phone, I always indulge in a weird mid-Atlantic Jersey/California meets Lancashire. She does it too - might say trunk instead of boot (Kersh, you too) - but I actually change the way I speak. I just can't help it, especially when you happen to be from the north of England. When i used to wait on tables I would imitate customers, unintentionally. On one such occasion, a Greek family proclaimed me one of their own countrymen. I guess my very, very, VERY slight Athenian utterances, plus my big nose and unshaven face, gave me away. Donny has on occasion gently pointed out that, for example, when i speak to Sugar on the phone, i get a teensy bit Black. It sucks when you do the things you judge other people for.

Why is this relevant? Cuz I can't stop THINKING IN A SOUTHERN ACCENT. The diah-lect ah am currently employing is rahtha genteel, as ah am in Fuhredericksveel. I'm sure when i get down to Kentucky, I'll really hick out. I mean no disrespect by any of this; I just fucking love it! AH JIST CAIN'T HAY-ULP MAH-SAY-ULF! Even when I was plotting my journey for the first several days, on my swish Mac laptop back at my desk in LA, as soon as my route crossed from Maryland into Virginia, I started to think Southern. I'm resisting my instincts to actually verbalize my adopted accent, as I actually have a story to tell if anyone's interested (they're not)- though Donny and I did just have some Southern fun on the phone a few moments ago. [Note: If you haven't begun to read this in a Southern accent yet, you aren't channeling me properly].

Day Two saw my first doggie incident! Some of you know that I have been fixated on this likelihood ever since i started to read about touring cross-country on a bicycle. At some point, my fear of bears (and which type you're supposed to be perfectly still for and which you're supposed to "become very large" (?) and scream and shout and dance about waving your arms - grizzly, brown, black, polar, teddy? so many freakin' rules) has been eclipsed by the very very likely occurrence (Kentucky will be the most rabid on the route I'm taking apparently) of being chased by a territorial Rover. Let it be knowm that my dog-attack hymen was first bumped against, then busted through. The initial attempt was curtailed way before the dog got to me. "Berry!" ("Cherry!" "Ellery!") a woman shouted. Berry/Cherry/Ellery, the Shepherd mix, didn't dare get into my situation. About an hour later, however, a big black and brown some-other-guy's-best-friend ran into the road and right into my bike, and then ran away. Even if i had decided to purchase pepper spray having concluded that it was humane to spray a dog in the face, there just isn't time to react. My instinct to cajole animals into engaging with me took over. Before the dog bashed into my bike, I managed to bark (in my own accent though a nanosecond before, in my head, I probably was all Virginian): "It's okay, puppy!" Luckily I did not lose control of the bike and fall into the three-foot ditch that's at the side of every road in Virginia.

Otherwise, it was another pretty flat and short day in preparation for my first standard-long ride (85 miles) tomorrow to my sister-in-law's in Powhatan, near Richmond (Happy Birthday, Jinx!). Not sure of today's exact miles (forgot to look at my cycle computer before i came inside the Wallace Public Lah-brair-ee to post today's edition) but it's about 55. Mostly quiet, ex-urban/rural, farms, cown, fields of yellow flowers, brooks and muddy ponds, countless people mowing countless acres of lawn (why bother?), a brialliantly-colored squashed (or was he sleeping?) red bird on the side of the road, two closed gas station/convenience stores (NOT convenient) that were supposed to be on my map. I only asked for directions twice: first from a couple of Jinxes (ponytailed athletic women in their 30s or 40s who were out for a ride - termed by Donny and me after his sister, Jinx, an avid iron-woman) and once from a friendly mechanic on the side of the road.

For those of you interested in TMI: I used a totally spotless port-a-potty at an abandoned construction site.

And finally stopped for the night in Fredericksburg. For those of you who have been to Fredericksburg, you know that every building looks as though it houses a kindly granny prone to tatting, baking and ingesting spiked lemonade in the summah. These grannies are also patriotic as evidenced by the flags waving in the breeze at every address, sometimes an extra for the garage. I'm poking around a bit today, perusing the ubiquitous civil war placques and statues. I'm no American Hisotry buff but aren't they the ones that lost? I'm pointedly not going to point that out, even with my most skeeled of Southern drawuhls.

Day one is done: Let Me Rock You Occoquan

2009-05-12T16:17:00.000-07:00

In case you were not aware, I carry a lot of baggage. Unlike usual, I'm speaking of the physical kind. I spent much brain power today planning to squeeze out half of the little bottles of sunscreen, laundry soap, lotion, etc. that Nina and I so carefully filled. Plotting to relinquish as many ounces as possible to Donny when I see him at Jinx's in 2 days. But more importantly, I left! I'm already practicing self-reliance as I had to stop less than 1 mile into the trip since there was an annoying noise of something rubbing on my back wheel. Cuz I'm now an ace cyclodude, I assessed the vexing rub immediately and took care of it. Then I asked for directions for the first of 10 times today. The ride thru DC's Rock Creek Park was lovely and flat as a pancake as was the bike path all the way to Mt Vernon. I stopped at a picnic area near there to gaze at the Potomac and munch the PB and banana sandwich I made yesterday before I decided to wait to leave. The day was frought with excitement for banality: look, a train!! My first pee break!! There's a river - do people swim in there?! And trying to find meaning in everything, e.g. a unseen car passing somewhere above me spouting the Beatles' Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds- omg I'm on a TRIP! So here I am, day one done, a fairly easy 60 miles to the outskirts of Occoquan VA. Occoquan is very quaint. Some guys fishing off a bridge as I passed. Cobblestone, fancy luncheon joints, very tiny and touristy. Unfortunately no place to crash there. So here I am at a greasily carprted Econo-Lodge right off 95 across the street from one of the zillion malls built during the development boom of the last 10 years but pretty empty. I am strangely comforted by a Prius parked in the hotel lot. I grabbed some basic groceries for food now and breakfast tomorrow from a superstore called Bottom Dollar and an order of mixed veggies from a Chinese restaurant. I'm lonely for brown rice (yes, i asked and no, they didn't have it or seem to know what I was talking about) but very soon I'll be visited by my pals Adam, Kris and Danny, as they serenade me to sleep.

All geared up and didn't go...yet (updated)

2009-05-11T10:24:00.000-07:00

I was almost almost almost out the door. So almost out the door that i had suited up in my skintights and, at the suggestion of my sister who felt strongly that the setting-off moment needed capture (but no one was going to be here to see it), actually pretended to leave with my brother-in-law filming me riding down the street, shooting pics with his camera and my iphone, bike all loaded up, around the corner and out of sight. The plan was for me to shower and get going for real, without fanfare - real or manufactured.

My plan was to publish those pictures and to alert you people of the falsehood. Not out of fairness or anything like that. Just felt you should be part of the experience. Nat and Larry felt differently, preferring a reality-tv reality (definitely has its merits). (side note: the pics that Larry "took" on my iphone didn't come out - do you think the universe was trying to tell me something?)

But it was a multi-layered fake-out - i was faked out too. I thought i was leaving today. Even though i was up until 2:30am, even though i have spent most of the last 3 days on a plane, on a long-ass car ride, eating shit food at Friendly's, seeing a full 40% of my family members all over Jersey, videotaping my grandparents recounting stories from their childhood, visiting my 96 year old Great Aunt Gert in the home, and being my niece's personal performance artist. And not sleeping. And commiserating Donny about Dinah's vomiting blood for two days which he's having to deal with without me and him leaving tomorrow to meet me in Powhatan at Jinx's. And the weather was indecisive at best. (What is all this i keep reading online about? - er, how do you say? - Thun. Der. Storms? These are...?) I locked and loaded Whitey Jackson (who looks awesomely tricked out as you'll see with his hi-fly-hi-flash fenders, new this season). I came in from the amazing-raceification photo-shoot and took a shower, even warmed up - did my Kristin-designed warm-up oh-so-carefully as if Kristin herself had alighted upon my shoulder like a bluebird sweetly chirping out orders, made a peanut butter and banana sam-wich with an apple and some baby carrots, came downstairs and shot a blank.

At least i didn't shovel a pawful of the chamois cream on my crotch. There would have been no turning back if i'd gotten to that final crucial moment. That shit needs to soak in before it gets washed off. And i don't like walking around feeling like i got a poopy diaper all day. It's nice 'n squishy on a bike though.

So tomorrow then. The judges used their save on me today.

Larry the BiL, pictured here with "Stubby" and other tools, means business

The Tyranny of Two-Wheel Transport Mechanicism

2009-05-08T19:33:00.000-07:00

I said to Nina recently that some of the assistance I've sought recently (specfically, bike fixin') would have come more readily if i had been a pretty girl. Yeah, she said, but there's a tarnished side to that coin as well - having super-cyclodudes (or super-skate/boardshop dudes and so on) think that yer a dim bulb who will buy their wares hook, cable, and bearing. And Nina's a girl who is selective about eyelash battery.

Super-cyclodudes (generally, so don't go crying if you're different) are an oxymoronic bunch: 1) they are the only ones who know bike repair AND/OR/BUT-MOSTLY-AND 2) they think you're a total idiot if you don't know shit about bike repair.

I know. I am also confused.

R**n, the head mechanic (at least in attitude, if not actual hierarchy) at my home bike shop, I M*rt*n in L** A*gel*s CA, is not a bad guy. He is hyper- knowledgeable yet hyper -stressed. If you ask an innocent question meant to deepen your self-sufficiency, such as: What might cause a spoke to break?, he will sigh expansively and seemingly think of a more bliss-making pill he could be swallowing than the bitter one you've just shoved in his angry maw. But then he'll see your eyes widen in surprise, then narrow to match your mouth's ego-busted sneer, or alternately just deaden. The compromise is he makes you 2 each of the 3 spokes your bike tires need, and he won't charge you cuz he's being a dick and he really doesn't wanna be. He's just a genius who's stressed and wishes you just weren't that fuckin' stupid but ultimately he's alright with it since if you didn't exist - we weren't born with bike maintenance tattooed to our brains - he would have to find an alternate line of work. And, crimey, in this economy! So i got free spokes after a straight dude clawed my eyes.

I didn't get face-time, however, with B*n, the "head mechanic" of Capit*l H*ll B*kes in DC where i shipped Whitey J to get reassembled. Larry, my brother-in-law had volunteered to pick up Whitey there where he had referred me, since he knows the owner, does business with her. B*n claimed my saddle was all loose and didn't know what was up with it and reported that the rear rack had been "damaged" in the shipping and, therefore, was too bent to be mounted. Larry asked why he wasn't called to let us know before he went to pick up the bike to which B*n replied he didn't have our number (except, i guess, when the shop had called the previous day to tell us it would be ready later than expected, though the bike had arrived 2 full days ahead of schedule.) I practically begged B*n's mercy via telephone: if i can find an REI and get a new rack and get back there before 7, can you please slap it on there?? Please? ... *expansive sigh* No, there's a lot of people waiting in line here. Basically, no, you can do it yourself, do the job my establishment promised you we'd do that you're obviously unfit to do on your own. I'm a bike mechanic, see, and all y'all wanna piece of me.

So Larry returned with Whitey, nearly fainting from embarrassment at being naked (the bike, not Larry), save for his shiny new fenders (neither rack, front or back, had been installed).

But, folks at home, there's a silver lining: REI! My sister, her family and I went to the DC version of the place where, 3,000 miles away in Santa Monica, i bought those racks. As it turned out, the rear rack wasn't too bent. Capit*l Hell B*kes is just lazy-ass and doesn't care whether I'm able to begin my Journey. And i cajoled REI's Mart*n into finishing the job within a few hours. During that time, we went out for decent Italian. Turned out not to be particularly easy for Mart*n but he did it, he saved the day! And i don't think i batted my eyelashes; I was more outwardly desperate than coy... But the silver lining isn't quite made of silver. It's more like a nickel-plated lining...the mounted front rack looks somewhat different than how it was back in LA. Mart*n made me feel that there was perhaps a 17.5% chance that it wouldn't quite make it all the way with "heavy children" in the front panniers. Good thing i gave that hobby up when i picked up adventure cycling instead.

Butt with two T's

2009-05-07T22:46:00.000-07:00

Fuck, I'm tired. I have to be at the airport at 4:30. Donny is taking me, the poor beautiful soul. I'm packed, I guess. Nina came over tonight to help me squeeze chain lube, shaving lube, and ass lube (not for sex, duh - for protection against a perspriring, sore ass,day in, day out) from tiny bottles into tinier ones.

BTW, if you're TMI-concerned, be warned. My butt is already sore from all the cycling I've been doing already, just to train. I'll try not to be obsessed about it. But it's, um, injurious.

And BTW.2: I changed my mind about the use of the word "journey." I decided it's not pretentious after all. Since the Englishies embrace it, substituting for our boring "trip", let's all give it a squeeze: journey.

2009-05-05T22:50:00.001-07:00

Although this is my first formal entry, i've been self-confessing for months now, narrating the preamble as i slowly amble up to the start of this journey. Usually "journey" is a word for describing what other people are doing, not yourself. Or it's something people have emotionally, with other people, in private(?) "I'm going on a journey." Kind of self-aggrandizing, like "I'm considered beautiful by most people" - but obviously not quite as lame.

I shipped Whitey Jackson via FedEx. What an awesome experience. M****a of the West LA FedEx/Kinko's on Wilshi*e Boulevard generously offered her employee discount. 47 bucks x-country in 3 business days. Not too shabby. Don't tel M****a i sent you. Whitey Jackson didn't want to go. I asked him: you're not having second thoughts are you? He replied: no, are you? I didn't answer. Why should I? He's a bicycle, and boxed up as well.
What are second thoughts anyway?

Are people with limited map skills supposed to ride bicycles long-distance? Jumping into freezing water. My iphone has a compass.