The day was about what I expected: urban, industrial, dirty, difficult, confusing at the beginning and smooth, tree-lined, relaxing at the end. I took the ferry from Manhattan to Weehawken, then rode through Hoboken, Jersey City, Newark, Union, Kenilworth, Westfield, Plainfield, Middlesex, etc. Damn, Northern New Jersey is congested. Basically, I rode 40 miles through one large city until I got to Edison and got on the towpath for the Delaware and Raritan Canal Path, which couldn’t have come sooner. Riding on a shaded, car-free path was so lovely that I almost forgot the post-apocalyptic industrial highways between Jersey City and Newark.
It’s hard to believe that these spaces are not only in the same state, but that you can pass from one to the other in just a few hours on a bike. Not that all of the North Jersey urban spaces were awful; I actually liked what I saw of Newark, and Plainfield seems to have a lot of great Colombian bakeries, but I realized today (I guess I already knew it) that I get on my bike in order to experience some greenery, some peace, some horizon. I didn’t get the horizon today, but the canal was lovely.
I got to Cris and Maggi’s around sunset and had a lovely dinner with them, followed by hard crashing on the pullout.
Day Two: Hamilton Township, NJ to Parkesburg, PA
I reluctantly left Cris and Maggi’s place after a breakfast of arepa and eggs made by Alex’s mom. I tried to ignore the proclamations of impending doom on the Weather Channel and hoped for the best. The weather was nearly perfect all day, except for a bit at the end that I’ll tell you about. Today was another day of contrasts, urban and rural, and all the places I visited seemed to have had better days. I passed empty classic old banks and movie theaters in Trenton and empty factories and a prison in North Philadelphia (that I prefer empty).
Even so, people were out for church, congregating in diners, mowing lawns and gardening. Though most people went about their business, I got a few waves and nods from front porches.
And then, after crossing North Philadelphia, trying to find the entrance to Schuykill River path, I stumbled across a professional bike race, the Philadelphia International Cycling Classic (in fact, I was accidentally on the route!), with only two laps to go, and then a wild finish with no clear leader and least 20 riders in the lead group. I saw the riders go by a few times and heard the finish on the radio. Damn, they go fast. The peloton passing was like a train.
And then onto the next trail. I was trying to get to Fawn Grove, PA and an offer of a place to stay, which would have made for a long day (125 miles) but by 3pm and 65 miles left, it was clear that I wasn’t going to make it. The Keystone Motel was the closest motel on route, 28 miles away.
Then in Coatesville, it started to sprinkle. As I rode through a neighborhood, a guy standing on his front porch with his daughter said, “You need to find some shelter. Really, I think you need to find some shelter.”
But I only had a few miles to go, and I really wanted to take a shower and not be stuck somewhere at dark when it finally stopped raining. So, I put on my raincoat and pushed on. There was no lightning (you hear, mom?) but a TON of rain. Rivers in the streets. I have never been so drenched. But it was kind of fun and it slowed down after about 20 minutes, and all the cars were gone, and it was just me on the road. I climbed a long hill, and got my first look at open farm country. I sang and whooped my way through a long valley into Parkesburg, knowing I would soon be able to take off my wet socks.
When I went in to Owen’s Bar and Grill to get a room, there were four guys drinking separately at the bar and Metallica’s For Whom The Bell Tolls blaring out of the jukebox. As I yelled my request to the bartender, a guy at the bar asked me if I was some kind of athlete or just couldn’t afford a fucking car.
Later, while I ate a dinner of fries and chips (only veggie options), a drunk white guy tried to loudly convince two black guys that Trump was the right choice for president. “He tells the truth!” One of his friends responded with, “Man, that guy is so full of shit. He has no experience. He doesn’t even do his own work.”
Day Three: Parkesburg, PA to Baltimore, MD
The next day, I slept in at the crappy Keystone Motel and didn’t get out the door until 9:30. I estimated 70 miles and much of it on the NCR Trail leading into Baltimore. It seemed like it would be an easy day compared to the last two. I decided to ride until I passed a good place for breakfast. It turned out to be a suspect decision, since it was 11:30 before I found the Quarryville Family Restaurant. In the meantime, I rode on a series of small roads by farms with woodshops in the barns (I could hear generators or car engines running) and black buggies in the driveways. I stopped to take a photo of a clothesline full of clothes run from the top of a silo down to a window in the top floor of a farmhouse, but someone yelled, “NO!”, so I got back on my bike and moved on.
After 10 miles, I followed Google’s directions to the Enola Low Grade Trail. I somehow didn’t read that as low grade, but as Enola Low (whoever that could be), but damn, it was low grade. I lifted my bike over a fence to get on the trail. For the first 4 miles, all was fine. Some loose gravel and rocks, but it was fun being alone with no evidence of other cyclists. Mile 5 was bad, though. It started with a little mud, then turned into serious swamp, with frogs and cattails. I decided to keep going, thinking it couldn’t continue for long. Well. After walking the bike for 45 minutes, I pushed through a dark culvert under a road, but there was no way up except through tangled bramble. I decided against another poison ivy experience and pushed on. Finally, the trail dried up and ran into a road. I bounced the bike up and down and stomped my feet to get the worst of the mud off and continued. And no coffee yet.
Maybe this is why Alex doesn’t want to go bike touring with me anymore…
The rest of the day was uneventful enough, but hard. I forgot how hilly it is as you get close to Baltimore. At the top of one of the endless hills, an Amish man was setting up a small farmstand. I bought some strawberries and he told me a long story about a puppy they sold that went to a couple in Brooklyn, but they accidentally sent the wrong puppy, but the couple decided to keep it. Nice guy. Not a great story. After 10 minutes, there were five kids crowded around us listening. We were just above the Susquehanna. He confirmed my roads for getting down to the river and said that I would climb on the other side. I shared my kind of dopey realization that rivers are like that. You always have to climb on the other side. Otherwise, the water wouldn’t be there.
I climbed a long hill on the other side, went up and down a few times, and looked forward to Jolly Acres, a 5 mile stretch of road that couldn’t help but be pleasant. It turned out to be a steep gravel downhill through woods to a shaded creek and then, yes, a steep gravel climb to get back on to pavement on the other side.
I reached the NCR trail around 5pm and rode as quickly as I could, while safely dodging walkers, runners, tubers, trying to get to my sister and brother-in-law’s place before the kids’ bedtime. When I got there, Andrea and Emil were outside, him on his bike. “Hi, Uncle. Look what I can do.” “And now you and me can ride up [to the end of the block] and back, and up and back, many times. Okay, Uncle?”
(Here’s a turnsheet for the 3-day ride. You might want to skip the Enola Low Grade Trail.)
So, I got on the road again almost exactly a year after Nancy and I left on our cross-country trip. This time, I was only out for eight days, but it felt just as good as the big trip (maybe even a little better since there was very little dread of what was coming). There was the simple relief of not going to work (and experiencing vicariously the anger, frustration, pain of other people’s chaos — I have been working as a community conference facilitator for a conflict resolution center in Baltimore County for the last six months, guiding groups of people to talk about incidents of harm, fights, assaults, etc. and the emotions at the root) and the excitement of traveling to new places under my own volition, mixed of course with anxiety about the thing I probably forgot, the flats I would get, getting lost, tired or discouraged.
One thing (among many) that I will miss about Baltimore is how easy it is to get out of town. Even between here and DC, it is possible to find peaceful country roads. I passed marshes with cattails and red winged blackbirds, farms with horses and goats, and saw a deer 20 feet from the bike trail in College Park. Actually, that’s not surprising at all. There are deer in the park behind our apartment building in North Baltimore. A neighbor of ours is sure that the pine cone shaped poop he found in the same park was bear scat. This area is a strange mix of plantless, grey city desolation, untended urban forests and country farms.
I rode to DC following the front half of the Monument-To-Monument route (Washington Monument in Baltimore to the monument in DC and back) from Bob at Rando Ramble, a great blog about monthly rides leaving from Baltimore each month (I return last Saturday from my biggest one day ride on a fully loaded bike, thrilled that I made it home from Harrisburg in one day, feeling pretty good about myself and then I hear that Bob rode the C&O and the GAP in three days, a total of 325 miles, on trails where it is hard to average more than 13 mph. Huh?!? My only consolation is that he wasn’t carrying a sleeping bag, tent, etc.). From DC, I rode for two days on the C&O (Bob probably passed me while I slept in that second morning), camping along the river. At Williamsport, I turned east and rode through Hagerstown and up to Pine Grove Furnace State Park, which intersects with the midpoint of the Appalachian Trail and where hikers celebrate by eating a 1/2 gallon of ice cream. I met a couple of computer programmers from the East Village who had just finished the ice cream challenge at the general store. They started walking April 1st. 1,000 miles in 2 months! From there, I rode to Harrisburg, attended a research conference on adult education (not near as fun as riding in the woods) for 2 1/2 days and then rode home by way of the Heritage Rail Trail and the NCR Trail.
Saturday: Left at the crack of noon today after saying goodbye to Nancy, who just got home from LA last night at 11. Immediately felt wonderful to be riding a packed bike. Things I saw: dead snakes and turtles. I want see live ones. A girls’ softball game with the bases loaded and then 6 more walks. I was rooting for the girl who was pitching, but she was really struggling. A deer in velvet 10 feet off the bike path in College Park. Leaving now to try to see the Old 97s. Sold out show. I’ll beg someone outside. (And it worked! Damn loud show. I’m not sure if I got the full experience with toilet paper stuffed in my ears.)
Sunday: At a campsite on the Potomac, stuffing rice and lentils into my face, twilight, frogs croaking, mosquitoes would be destroying me, but I’m surrounded by cintronella candles and coils left by my campsite neighbors, and I’m protected by bug repellent given to me this afternoon by a Methodist pastor from Oklahoma City (we rode together for 10 miles and he had an extra bottle). When I got to the trail, it was full of Sunday bikers and walkers and kayakers and tourists for Great Falls. Lots of dodging kids, fishing poles and snakes! I moved two copperheads on the trail with my front wheel. They were sluggish in the sun and not really scared of me. The trail is green and lush and beautiful. Honeysuckle! Like drifting away on Oz poppies. I really miss my travel companion though. I tried to channel Nancy’s bulldog determination in those last ten miles at 7:30pm. She’s also much better at setting up the tent. Oh well. She told me all I have to do is 9 weeks of yoga teacher training and she will do another bike trip with me. Kinda considering it.
Sunday: Washed up at the pump in the dark. It’s a crazy way to shower, with cups of water and lathering in the middle of the bike trail. Then in the tent, 9:30pm, and things are rustling around in the woods. Squirrels? Bears? Nancy! I’m very alone at this campsite. One bicyclist rode by three hours ago and I haven’t seen anyone since. And I’m a long ways from the railroad tracks. Last night, each of my 40 winks was separated by screeching train wheels and horns. Tonight, besides the rustling, I have crickets, frogs and a persistent owl.
Monday: Much fewer people today on the trail. This morning I chatted with the couple who camped next to me. When I introduced myself, the guy said, “I’m Cavemen,” and she said, “I’m Highwire.” Huh? Trail names. Caveman has done the Appalachian Trail and they are planning on doing the Colorado Trail this summer. I rode a stretch of trail along the part of the river that’s called the Big Slackwater, where the water is slowed down by a dam downstream. The towpath hugs the granite cliffs. My god, they put a lot of work into this canal that was barely used. On one of the curves, four kids were jumping out of a tree and a rope swing into the water. As you all may have guessed, I seriously considered joining them, but the thought of riding in wet bike shorts kept me moving. Then I ran into a crazy patch of washed-out trail. I had to walk across boulders and then ride through mud for a few miles, but at least I didn’t have to backtrack. While I was riding along the shore, I saw a crazy bird down by the water. I thought it was a vulture because it was big and black and had a bald red head. It didn’t move when I walked up, and then I noticed it had a duck bill and webbed feet. A vulture duck?
Tuesday: Camping tonight at Pine Grove Furnace State Park in the Michaux Forest, in southern Pennsylvania. I had a spectacular day of biking today. I rode the last 5 miles on the towpath to Williamsport and had breakfast at the Desert Rose Cafe (could it have a more inappropriate name?), where Nancy and I stopped last year. The same friendly man served me and made conversation with every customer/old friend who came in. I rode east to Hagerstown and then quickly into rolling farm country at the state line. The roads were mostly empty, with cars coming mostly towards me. Cows, goats, silos. So quiet I could hear a cow chewing grass as I climbed a hill. Rain started falling around noon, but it never was more than a mist. The clouds were a welcome continued protection from the sun. Today’s highlight was when I turned into the Michaux forest after Shady Grove. I had seen the ridge of mountains (east coast style) across the valley when I rode out of Hagerstown and knew that I would have to climb at some point. When I made the turn north into the park, suddenly there was no traffic at all. I slowly climbed into dense, wet and green forest. The ground was covered with ferns. I climbed for 10 miles and descended for 5 and was passed by less than 10 cars. It was silent and misty and glorious. On the back side of the hill down into Pine Grove Furnace, I passed cabin after cabin, many of them stone or log and mud. At the campground, I showered (first time in three days, yay!) and swam in a beautiful clear lake watching fingerling fish nipping at my legs. There were a couple boys the same age as my nephew, Emil (2) who were entranced. One came up to me as I sat in the water, leaned in a foot from my face and yelled, “Fish! Fish!”
Wednesday: Took a swim in the lake before breakfast, packed up and had another beautiful day of riding (long descents on empty roads by cabins and then farms) until I hit Mechanicsburg, which wasn’t awful, but certainly not pretty. I was lucky to be routed one of PA’s highway bike routes, so the shoulders were wide all the way into Harrisburg. In Mechanicsburg, I met a Somali guy named Muhammad outside the Sahara Restaurant and Grocery, which wasn’t a restaurant (I was disappointed) and wasn’t open (Muhammad was disappointed). When I told him I camp in the woods, he asked why I’m not afraid that someone will kill me. It’s seemed like a crazy question, but maybe not so crazy if you’re from a country in middle of civil war. Camping tonight at Harrisburg East Campground and Self Storage, five miles from the campus of Penn State (between a house and the alley, 20 yards from the road). My host for this evening didn’t work out, but I do have a place to stay tomorrow night. It’s on top of a hill (sigh) in Hummellsville, south of Hershey.
Thursday and Friday: Camping in the backyard of a friendly host family (who live at the top of a series of steep hills). Reina is 10 and played the viola for me yesterday (James Bond theme, Pink Panther and the Harry Potter theme). Barb is her grandmother and rode across the country in 2012. We played the Forbidden Island board game and ate ice cream with homemade fudge sauce. It felt very Pennsylvania Dutch to me.
Saturday: I’m home a day early. I was too homesick to camp another night, so I decided to ride all the way home from Harrisburg. 92 miles! About 40 were on the NCR rail trail from York, PA. The trail was lovely, especially the last 20 miles that crossed and recrossed a creek, but I was on a mission to be home, so I didn’t linger.
Hello,
It has been a while since we wrote last. We needed time to settle in and adjust to our new lives in a different city.
Eric just got a job he loves. He works at an organization that sets up meetings for conflict resolution among individuals or small groups. They are usually community members, families, school kids. He’s very excited to be learning and growing in this new way.
I’ve been teaching Bikram yoga and got a schedule that I’m content with. I did try to get a separate artist’s space for illustration but was unsuccessful in finding one that I could share with other artists. So instead I moved into a private space but working alone again in what seems like a void was not satisfying or motivating so I’m giving it up and re-evaluating my career or contemplating a switch to something else entirely. If anyone has career advice, let me know. I’m all ears and am too lazy to read that parachute book.
We have both been enjoying Baltimore immensely. Our neighborhood has all the luxuries we’d want in Brooklyn. Within blocks there is a great park, yoga, good coffee, fancy wine and food. The only thing lacking is a good grocery store. In Brooklyn we did not have organic goods within reach but we were in Chinatown so there was plenty of produce to be had. It’s not the case here, but that’s okay.
Since getting off the bikes Eric has been giddy to learn more about fixing, building and maintaining bikes and has been volunteering at a bike shop to learn first-hand from experienced mechanics. He rides just about everywhere here. I have the car to myself. I, on the other hand, have no desire to ride my bike at all. I did make an exception for an organized Halloween ride that was supported by the local police and ended at a local brewery and that was great fun. But no, I won’t get on the bike to get around. There are so few bike lanes and such narrow streets that I’d be more terrified riding here than in some industrial, truck-heavy parts of Brooklyn.
Thanksgiving is this week and this is my favorite season we’re in. Life is good. This year I’m thankful to have survived our bike trip with my limbs and skull intact. Also, our marriage survived the trip without any damage. I think it just edified what we already knew. Me and Eric are great friends and with every year we know each other better and find more compassion, patience and love for one another. What a gift!
In southern Illinois, just north of the Cave-In-Rock ferry, after climbing out of the Ohio River bottom and expecting corn or soy bean fields at the end of every turn and hill crest, having promised flat ground to Nancy for weeks, we rode across a small bridge, turned a corner in the woods and found ourselves at the bottom of a hill uglier than anything since West Virginia. Not ugly, really, but deceptive. Sneaky. The kind that turns and grows beyond sight lines.
While crossing the bridge, looking over the rails to see a small trickle among rocks, I was wistful for a moment, because there is something romantic about crossing water, however small. I look for fish, hear a plop, see expanding ribbons from a turtle’s escape and think about the local kids who congregate first to catch frogs and crawdads, then are dared to grab muskrats, which bite like hell and aren’t incapacitated like snakes with a grip around the neck, and finally as these kids grow up in the echo chambers of small towns, they return to the creek to smoke cigarettes, chew tobacco, and drink their first beers. As I ride across bridges, with metal grates, treacherous expansion joints or wooden slats, half my mind on the road, half drifting with the stream, a soft distraction settles with the rolling of the wheels. Then we passed around a slow corner and the road rose straight up. God, I wasn’t ready for this. I watched a double yellow line coming, preparation for a curve hidden by trees 100 feet above.
Months into the trip, we have learned to release all pressure on the chain when shifting down to the smallest front ring. We have both had mishaps from lack of understanding and preparation for hills. Nancy broke a chain attacking a hill in West Virginia. We have both thrown chains trying to shift and quickly pedal before losing momentum. So the technique that works is to, hopefully, have a moment to coast, stutter step in the pedal stroke, throw the left lever all the way forward, wait a moment to feel the derailleur move over and engage, then slowly increase pressure with each stroke. This happens in a brief moment, ideally, unless the hill has already arrived and coasting isn’t possible, then it may not happen at all and I will be stuck in the middle chainring. Let’s say all goes well, and it did on this day in southern Illinois, and I was in the bottom 9 gears in the back cassette, or quickly moving from 4 to 3 to 2 to 1 as the hill tipped up. We climbed for 15 minutes and found a gravel turnoff to rest for a moment.
Climbing hills hasn’t come easy for me. It takes an engaged disengagement that has been hard to find. It may be different on a racing bike, but I’m moving 103 pounds (we weighed our bikes and loads in Missoula), not including 185-200 pounds of myself. There is no rushing up 500 foot of elevation, not for me anyway. I’m thinking about keeping my hands loose on the handlebars, moving my butt forward on the seat to protect my knees and finding a rhythm that I can hold indefinitely.
It’s here that I think yoga has helped me most as a cyclist. I’m more flexible than I used to be, for sure, but what is more helpful is that I have experience of holding panic at bay for 90 minutes in a hot yoga class. When we were climbing the four miles to Hoosier Pass (11,500) from Alma, Colorado (9,500), or riding up and down in the windy Palous Hills in southeastern Washington, my body hurt, but the biggest struggle was that I wanted to escape, stop, walk to the side of the road, flag a cab, enter a subway station, quit.
After resting in that turnoff, we pushed and jumped on our bikes, pedaling quickly to move forward before rolling backward, in our lowest gear now, inch, inch, inch and the road turned and was even steeper. For the last 10 minutes, I had to stand and take each step one at a time.
It is in this context that the next thought seems strange to me now. On flat ground on the bluffs, after stopping at Mamaw and Papaw’s shady rest area to drink water and sign a guest book, I thought about the bike with panniers hanging off the front and back wheels, graceful as a grocery cart, and it occurred to me that this weight equals freedom. All this extra weight meant that we could go down almost any road, stop, go, camp, change plans and stay on the road for a year. A light bike means you are dependent on others.
It’s an illusion, of course. In reality, we have been incredibly dependent on the kindness of strangers and opportune help from whoever passed by. More dependent, in visible ways, than we are in our regular lives. And we are limited by roads that are much nicer when paved, with a wide shoulder or without too much traffic. There were many situations when our choices were very limited. So, maybe the ease of that first realization, weight=freedom, was deceptive. So, if freedom isn’t the joy that weight gives, why am I so happy riding such a behemoth?
The Youghiogheny River on the Great Allegheny Passage rail trail
The Wind River above Lander, WY
The Columbia River, near Hood River, OR
The Columbia River at dawn, near Crow Butte Park, WA
Rest area near Cave-In-Rock, IL
Palous Hills in southeastern WA
Near Clark Fork River, MT
The Beaverhead River, on the Lewis and Clark Trail, MT
We arrived to PDX two days ago. I feel like I’m in a dream. I don’t have to pedal anymore! What we have accomplished hasn’t sunk in yet. I’m just happy not to be on the bike 70 miles a day anymore. I no longer have to remind myself to take deep breaths when a loud truck flies past just a couple feet away from me. I don’t have to fight to find my happy place when shooting down hills. My hand muscles can heal from all the braking downhill when the happy place was not coming.
Again, thanks to all who shared their similarly scary bike experiences with me and survived to tell it. It really did help.
At Lost Trails Hot Springs, MT
I don’t have to wear padded shorts anymore! By the way, padded shorts for guys might be a benefit as it also pads the front area making for enhanced, um, manliness. Ladies don’t need or want enhancement in their down there. Very awkward.
Wyoming
On our last few days I’d been trying to savor each moment that was actually fun. The changing scenery, scents and animals. We marveled at how quickly the foliage and weather can change. One moment we’re in sagebrush under clear skies and a piercing sun, the next we get to a narrow road with tall trees covered in moss and there’s a dewy chill. Other moments to savor, eating mostly guilt-free every day, a feeling of accomplishment at the end of each ride, huddling together every morning just before dawn, drinking our big mugs of coffee, sometimes with cocoa mixed in. Yum.
After three months on the road, I can happily report I’ve mostly conquered my phobias around the outdoors. Eating, sleeping and toilet business outside (with what may be a dude in a hockey mask lurking behind the bushes) does not faze me anymore. I think only my sister would appreciate this.
Sleeping outside, when it wasn’t 85 degrees at 9pm, was refreshing, actually “restorative” especially when camping in the woods. Crisp air, the smell of pines and maybe an owl to lull you to sleep.
Last camp meal Eric makes pasta with sautéed garlic, anchovies, clams, braised kale and salmon caught and cut just hours before. Yes, it was good!
Eric’s camp cooking was mostly successful, always ambitious and impressive. In our everyday lives in Brooklyn, we didn’t eat many meals together since he’d get home from work at a different, late hour every weeknight. On the road our differences in taste had to be considered with every meal. It breaks down very easily to, I like my food dry and separate, he likes his wet and together. So, I love sandwiches, he loves stews and mushy things. But we worked it out. Do other couples have this issue?
Getting to Missoula, MT and to our map makers, Adventure Cycling Association, was a nice moment. We got our photo taken and our bikes weighed. It helped fuel our motivation to keep going. This says a lot since the planned road we would have taken through Lolo Pass on highway 12 was shut down due to wildfires. We had to go 100 miles out of the way to get back on track. But the ride included 70 miles of one of the loveliest rail trails in the states. The Couer d’Alene in Idaho. Rivers, wetlands, lakes. We got to see moose! Along with kingfisher birds, blue herons and other cuties.
Wheatland
Eastern Washington was a shock. Miles…and miles…and miles of hills in wheat fields or wheat mounds. We had no idea all our bread comes from here. No homes, no barns, no animals, no gas stations, just wheat fields. After a while it got really spooky. There was no discernible beginning or end to this landscape. When we got to Walla Walla, I wanted to kiss the ground. Civilization! It turned out to be a preview of Portland with cute coffee shops, fine pastries, an artisanal bread bakery, an authentic Italian delicatessen and many wineries nearby. It’s got a funny name but WallaX2 is no joke.
Portland public art with Chris Johansen
We’ll be in Portland for a full week, taking in all the sights and edibles. Yoga everyday to repair all the wrong from repetitive stress madness. We’ll be taking leisurely bike rides to get around with the bazillion bike lanes they have in this city. No car necessary.
I might post a list of suggestions for anyone who is considering cycling a very long distance. There would be lots of lady-centric advice on there so if you have questions, please ask!
We were just five miles to our destination, towards the end of a gorgeous 50 mile ride.
I gotta say, on that day it was arguably the best ride on the trip so far. We got 16 miles of a 6% downgrade through red rock canyons. Just gorgeous.
But then going downhill, I changed gears and my front tire picked up this wobble. I tried to stop it but it got worse instead. In seconds, I screamed, my bike turned sideways and I went down, landing on my back and cracking my helmet.
Eric immediately whisked me off the road. People stopped and tried to help. I wiggled fingers, toes, legs and figured I was fine besides being sore on my head and back. An ambulance came and confirmed I had no concussion. I was okay.
We convinced a state trooper to give both ourselves and our bikes and packs to drive us into town to a motel.
Lander, WY is just about the best place to get laid up. There was a lovely hostel run by NOLS (National Outdoor Leadership School) in an old hotel across the street from a bonafide hipster coffee shop. A few blocks away were the best two restaurants in town serving local beer.
We stayed three nights. In that time I had a new helmet delivered next-day, got my expensive wool jersey patched up by a local seamstress, got more mobility with less pain in my lower back and tried to get my head straight about the rest of the trip.
Getting back on the road was difficult. Not physically so much but mentally. There was and is a bit of stiffness and pinching in my lower back that I feel when getting on or off the bike and when I’m pedaling hard, like uphill. But mentally it’s been worse. Every bump or tremble of the bike has been making me paranoid of a second crash.
Eric figured that I had been carrying too much weight in my (rear wheel) panniers and that it caused the uncontrollable wobble. A bike mechanic in Lander seconded this opinion. Now Eric carries all the food (instead of splitting the grocery load) except for what I keep in my handlebar bag.
But there’s still a fear. Especially going fast downhill. I can’t do it right now. That’s okay. I’m actively working my triceps muscles by braking most of the way down these long, windy passes in WY and MT.
It gets a little bitty bit better day after day.
On that day, as soon as Eric got me off the road I declared that I wasn’t quitting. After that I apologized to Eric. He was behind me and saw the whole thing happening. I could hear him saying, “No, no, no”, as I wobbled and went down. It must have been horrible to watch. For some reason, I thought it important to declare that I wasn’t going to end this trip in the middle of Wyoming as soon as I could. I need to live out the fantasy of riding into the bike-friendliest city in the whole country and have some Portlandian hand me an expertly-brewed Americano in one hand and a locally-made beer or wine in the other.
It’s been a rough 10 days since we took off again but better with each ride. Missoula is coming up in a couple days and from there it will be another two weeks to Portland. I’m tired, in every way. But I’m eager to finish this ride the way we planned.
If you have similar stories of bike crashes I’d like to hear them. Particularly the ones where you persevered post-crash and got comfortable with cycling.
You may have noticed that we never wrote anything about Kansas. I don’t want to confirm any stereotypes about Kansas by that omission. It was beautiful in its own way, even when we found ourselves in the middle of a vast table top of plowed dirt and mowed hay, fighting wind and looking for a place to hide from the sun.
When we entered Kansas, the temperature immediately starting climbing. It had been hot in Missouri for sure, but we spent most of our time in the state riding on the Katy Trail, which follows the Missouri River and is at least intermittently shaded. It was exhilarating when we rode out into the prairie before Clinton, MO, since we could suddenly see the horizon for the first time since Illinois, but we were also exposed to the sun and the wind.
We met my dad, John, and my stepmom, Tina, at Prairie State Park on the border of Missouri and Kansas. There is a herd of about 120 wild bison there. We went for a walk in the prairie and saw two huge bulls, one through the picture window of the visitor center. Through binoculars you could see thousands of flies on his back. Every time he twitched, a cloud of flies flew up. I felt bad for him, but he seemed peaceful enough. We camped that night in a grove of trees, bathed in the creek and ate kebabs and couscous for supper. It was a lovely improvement on our minimalist camping dinners. In the morning after breakfast and French press coffee (!), we said goodbye and rode into Kansas.
I think Nancy and I were both a little terrified of the great expanse of the plains. Kansas quickly felt much different than Missouri and Illinois. It didn’t start out flat, but there were suddenly long distances between small empty towns. We were starting to see evacuation of rural America that I’ve heard about. We passed abandoned farmhouses and went through towns where every storefront on the main street was empty. In a pleasant, tree-shaded intersection near the Missouri border, there was a large nightclub with an outside stage and an Italian restaurant next door. Weeds and bushes had grown up around the stained glass windows and entrances. We peed behind the buildings (sorry).
The land in eastern Kansas is laid out in square sections of 640 acres, a mile wide on each side, divided by paved or gravel roads, so we were suddenly able to see our progress tick by visually as we rode west. Unfortunately, it wasn’t exactly helpful to see how long it takes to ride a mile, when you have 60 to go. The Kansans we met in gas stations along the way were as friendly as promised, keeping us in conversation when we should have been on the road.
On our second day in Kansas, after weeks of seeing dead snakes in the road, we passed a huge bull snake stretched out across the right lane of traffic. He didn’t move when we passed, so I rode back to scare him off the road. When I rolled the front wheel near his head, he turned around and slithered off into the grass. Ten minutes later, we rode around a bend and there was a baby killdeer in the road under a tree. I tried the same trick to see if it would run into the weeds, but it just squawked at me with its mouth agape. As the mother screeched above my head, I tried to grab it quickly and move it onto the roadside. Luckily, it waddled and flapped to the edge of the road before I could touch it. In Eureka, at the end of the day, we camped in the town park after swimming in their pool. We felt great after the swim, but it hadn’t cooled down much. After fighting the wind to make noodle soup (not really appropriate) for dinner, we tried to go to sleep at 9pm, determined to beat the heat by waking up at 4am, but kids were still running around the park, climbing on the jungle gym, riding bikes and screaming at each other. Annoyed, we stared at the tent ceiling, but realized it was ridiculous to be upset with kids for playing in the park. We catnapped through the night, sweating spread-eagled on our plastic pads. Even so, we were on the road by dawn.
As we were leaving Eureka, we looked out at a field to our right and saw a flock of prairie chickens near the edge of the woods, then a coyote in the roadside ditch tugging at a deer carcass, with a red tailed hawk and a murder of crows looking on. We rode west in the morning with a strong cross wind from the south and suddenly there were thousands of locusts on the road, crunching under our tires, pinging off the spokes and jumping into our faces. A large green grasshopper sat on Nancy’s right saddle bag for miles. We turned north and felt like superheroes, but also were suddenly burning up as we rode 20 mph without feeling a breath of air. Two riders coming the other way barely acknowledged us, heads bent and consumed with fighting the wind. In the afternoon, we turned west again and fought the crosswind from the south as the mercury climbed.
We started hearing a tick-tack-tick which we realized was sound of the asphalt sticking to our tires. Then we made the mistake of passing the only farmhouse with signs of life and were 15 miles outside of Newton when we started to run out of water. We didn’t know how hot it was, but I had started to panic when we saw the water tower that must be Newton. This brought a sense of relief, but the damn town was still at least eight miles away. I was sure we would pass something before we got there, but there was nothing but long empty fields.
We stopped in a tiny patch of shade and finished our water. My head pounded and I was starting to feel desperate. We rode the last miles in silence, with a hot wind howling in our ears. The water tower was directly ahead the whole way, slowly growing in size. We passed the airport road intersection, but no businesses. Every group of trees looked like it should hold a farmhouse, but there would be an empty creek or irrigation ditch when we got there. Finally, we could see a highway overpass and signs sticking up above the trees. I counted each pedal stroke in the last mile. A car lot, a real estate office, finally a gas station convenience store. Once inside, I drank a 32 ounce Gatorade, refilled it three times with water and slowly the panic started to subside. One of the guys in the station told us that the temperature had just reached 105 degrees. I resolved to never be caught without water again. We now carry two and 1/2 gallons of water when we know there will be a long distance between towns.
It seemed appropriate that we would be hosted at the fire station in town. We ate beans and brats with firemen and EMS workers and listened to updates on a prairie fire burning in the southwest corner of the county. They put us up in the training room downstairs with the AC blasting and we thanked our stars that we weren’t camping. Our friend Garry from the road texted to say that he was riding south from Salina (into a strong headwind). A few weeks later, in Colorado, he told us that he had ridden for almost 9 hours that day and had run out of water. When he walked up to a farmhouse to ask for water, he couldn’t form words and the residents were suspicious of the delirious stranger on their porch. When they understood his story, they gave him water and were welcoming. Garry camped under a pavilion in a town near Newton and was rewarded with a dramatic rainstorm that cooled things off.
Water is one of those things you think about on a trip like this. There are the practical considerations: How much water should we carry? How much will it weigh and how can I keep the bags balanced? How much should we drink? Is there water at the campsite? Is it potable? Can we get a shower? In the east and midwest, water was never really an issue. We never rode more than 10 miles or so without an opportunity to fill up water at a business or a house. If we found a spigot, shower or water pump, we didn’t worry about how much water we used. The Midwest had just been in flood conditions when we rode through. The Mississippi was just a few weeks below its crest, closing roads in southern Illinois. On the Katy Trail along the Missouri River, we saw horsetails along the trail and trees with mud stains climbing the trunks, evidence of recent flooding. Water seemed plentiful.
I heard that we would feel a dramatic change in humidity in the middle of Kansas. Of course, I also knew about the drought in the west and the numerous fires burning in the mountains of Colorado’s Front Range. I still wasn’t ready for the rapid transition from flood to drought as we crossed Kansas. In Bazine, six days into Kansas, we stayed in the home of a hay farmer and his wife. They told us that they had less than three inches of rain since January. A town 12 miles east of them had received nearly 10 inches of rain in the same time period. Before we arrived in town, I had seen immature corn with brown leaves in the fields. Dan told me that his hay harvest was currently less than a quarter of what it had been four years ago. He knew that he wouldn’t make enough to even cover his expenses for the year, much less make a profit. Dan asked Nancy to shake his rain stick, which he got on a missionary trip to Ecuador. He got up every hour during the night to check the radio in his tractor to get detailed reports of the current conditions. He was waiting for the humidity to climb a bit during the night so that he could bail the hay he had cut in his fields. If he bailed it when it was too dry, he would lose too much to powder. Dan ended up getting up at 4am and left before us.
As bad as it was in Bazine, eastern Colorado was worse. (By the way, we didn’t see the mountains until we had ridden for more than two days past the state line. Eastern Colorado is flat and desolate.) When I was a kid, Rocky Ford cantaloupes were famous for being the sweetest anywhere. In the summer, you would find trucks loaded with melons in empty parking lots. The area was once famous for growing sugar beets as well. The farms used water from snow runoff that came down from the mountains above Pueblo through irrigation canals across into the plains. The canals were dug by hand in the 1800’s. Each farmer maintained a stretch of canal, used a portion of the water and let the rest go. We were riding just north of Rocky Ford and I was excited to see the agriculture, but when we got to the area (Eads, Sugar City, Ordway, Olney Springs), the fields were bare. The irrigation ditches were empty and there were miles of broken pipes along the edge of the fields. You could still see the ridges and furrows in the fields.
Locals in the area told us the story: People from Denver and Colorado Springs approached elderly farmers and offered them a lot of money for their water. Slowly, the older folks sold their rights because they didn’t have children taking over the farms. As people sold their rights, the flood irrigation system used in the area broke down and everyone lost their water. The canals filled with sediment or were covered with driveways. Suddenly, it didn’t matter who had water rights and who didn’t. No one gets the water anymore. Those who try to farm are dependent on rainfall, which had been less than two inches when we came through in July.
It’s an old story by now, but the main employers in the county are two prisons: one public and one private. The woman we stayed with in Ordway has a small farm, but has worked at both prisons. (Gillian generously put us up, introduced us to her animals and told us about life on the plains.) A woman in City Hall in Olney Springs told me that they are very thankful for the prisons because it gives some employment to the people in the area who have hung on. Because of falling incarceration rates, there is talk of closing one of the prisons. She said that would be devastating to the area. We met her because City Hall was the only place in town to use the bathroom and fill up our water bottles. All the other businesses were closed.
We spent many days and nights in Kansas, but they are mostly a blur. It took us more than 10 days to cross the state. When we got to Pueblo, chased by a strong tailwind, we were excited to be in Colorado, but also dried out by the sun and wind and depressed about the prospects for this part of the country. The next day, clouds rolled over the mountains and it rained heavily. I was hoping that some of that water made it onto the plains.
We stayed a night in Fort Collins for a short La Veta reunion. La Veta is a small, small town in Southern CO where Eric grew up. Thanks, Tawa, for hosting and feeding us. And thanks to Jay and Debi for meeting with us and bringing the yummy food and drink.
The next day we entered Denver. Jim has been hosting us at just about every trip we’ve made to Denver. He’s the mostest.
On Jim’s fridge, it’s nice to have a fan of your work. An old bookmark and holiday card I made. Aww.
Jim’s new toys provide hours of fun for anyone passing through.
Denver is lousy with good eats, good drinks and yoga to make you feel virtuous afterwards. The healthiest of boozy drinks, I got this top-notch Bloody Mama at vege-eatery, City O’ City. Yes, that is pickled brussel sprout in my drink.
I guess I was giddy enough in COC’s potty after my boozy tomato drink to snap this foto.
I got giddy again when Kelton offered us a lift in his sweet ride. Shortly after this photo we decide to stay another day.
Me and Eric tried to take in as many sights and sounds as we could squeeze in a few days. Then I found the mother lode in Ironwood. Beautiful, sweet, stylish Jacqueline agrees to have her photo taken.
Every inch of this shop on Broadway is curated carefully, consistently with a style that’s contemporary but also includes a cool southwest feel.
Jim introduces us to another gem in Denver. Domo is a restaurant serving country-style Japanese food. It’s also a Aikido dojo, has an outdoor Asian garden and a museum of Japanese country life. Why?!?!
The incredibly ambitious fella who opened this restaurant is also an Aikido master and author of at least five books.
Straw, wood and iron.
And, who wore the clogs first, the Dutch or Japanese?
When I looked up and spotted these I thought of Brent, the woodworker, and his saw envy.
I got noodles with mountain vegetables, dumplings and salmon on the side.
Then I got schooled on how to eat the noodles properly. Slurping is encouraged, y’all. And don’t scrape the chopsticks. It’s rude.
On our last day in Denver, Jim grills and friends come to his place with food to make a fuss over our trip. We politely act modest about it.
Abby knows what’s up.
Denver doesn’t look dry to me.
Sarah, Kelton and Ilene
Harper, Owen, Eric, the back of Kurt’s head.
Kari in front. Her and Kurt’s son Otto behind her.
Eric and I have not seen Robin (right) in 12 years. Not since she took our first and only cat as her own. I still feel bad we gave her up but my allergies were too much and she developed a habit of puking loudly in our bedroom every night. But she laughs last. Robin told us the kitty wound up with Kelsey Grammer’s daughter!
My favorite t-shirt of the day, Kurt’s Millenium Falcon.
The girliest girl prize goes to Kurt and Kari’s daughter Lucia. She also had on silver slingbacks.
My favorite outfit of the day goes to Kurt’s son Otto. His personality seems to match the outfit well.
Another view. Please note the bandana scarf and you can’t see them but there were also two-toned flipdown Chucks on this kid.
It was a beautiful way to end our visit. Kids and adults equally engaged by games, food, conversation, pinball, music and spirits.
Moving on, the second stop on our East CO tour was in Boulder. We packed our bikes in the ginormous Ford truck and headed north. First order of business was a yoga class.
We practiced then stayed with a friend and yoga teacher of mine. Esak lives yoga in all its facets. He is a true example of using the physical aspects of hatha yoga to be an all-around better person. I’ve “lived” with Esak twice before when taking his 10-day backbending workshops but it was nice to see him working a smidge less while hanging out with him and his son Osiris.
Osiris is four. He is sociable, smart, inquisitive. Kinda like Johnny Carson, who he reminded me of while we were at a restaurant. Esak lost track when O wandered off then found him at the bar chatting up the adults there.
Esak and Osiris in some partner yoga. Or just playing airplane.
We also got to stay with Lisa, Tommy and Emmasayge. This is one of the most harmonious homes I’ve ever been in. I’ve only known Lisa through about five visits in 14 years but to me she is the kind of person that radiates love like the sun and it grows around her in response.
Tommy is expert in nutrition and health. We got to share our love of high speed blenders and green smoothies. Here he shows off the delicious sauerkraut he made and shared with us.
Emmasayge is precocious and not afraid to ask questions. She is sharp.
I took an immediate liking to Annie the pitbull. But it’s not hard with someone as sweet and tail-waggy as she.
Boulder is a neo-hippie wonderland. We wandered around for hours through the city on our bikes barely touching car traffic. Here is a gorgeous view from a bike path in Boulder.
As a treat I wandered Boulder’s largest Whole Foods for a few hours. I chuckled to myself many times over how wonderfully crunchy the place was. Like a health food store amusement park. Here, bulk oils and vinegars get backlit.
Before Boulder I’d never seen a trail mix bar.
There were shopping carts that were yarn-bombed, a pet relief area, a bulk sprouted seeds and nuts section and a juice bar that served green smoothies. I might book my next vacation across from here. Eric might stay home.
We’re in Wyoming now, thinking back fondly to our 10-day “vacation” in CO with our wonderful friends. Thanks for cheering us on and making this mission of ours seem like a big deal.
The first stop on our layover is in Pueblo. We roll up to Gwyn and Brent’s home and come upon Gwyn first. The first sentence out of her mouth is, “You guys are maniacs”. Has she been in cahoots with my mom? Thanks to this beautiful couple for being so nice nice.
The photos I took of Brent and Gwyn’s home did not sufficiently illustrate how pretty and thoughtfully put together the place is. Truly a labor of love. Their house is a combination of Brent’s skills as a woodworker and Gwyn’s gifts with ceramics and color. Her family runs a large ceramics and pottery business. The result is woodsy, craftsy with mid-century modern pieces fitting right in.
Below, Williams family planters A lush corner of their backyard where we spent many an afternoon and evening eating, drinking, funnin’. I kinda felt like we were VIP’s staying with mini-celebrities in Pueblo. Most, if not all, the public ceramics work you’ll see in Pueblo were done by Gwyn and her family. Below an example of Brent’s woodwork, a lazy Susan being admired by all including Gwyn’s mom.
We got to visit Gwyn’s childhood home where her parent still live and have even expanded over the years. This picture of their lush collection of plants is a reminder for me to stop killing my own.
The day after we arrive in Pueblo, a big fat omen that we are right to stay put. Me and Eric are also more favorably regarded for bringing much needed rain to the area. I did shake a rain stick in Kansas so I feel good.
Garry and Joe join us at B&G’s backyard for many good beers. After some of the dry counties in the past few states, we revel in the bounty of good brew in CO.
The side of a Pueblo bicycle shop. Actually the one where Eric purchased his very first bike. This was taken on our way out of town in a motorized vehicle. Oooh… We wanted to visit friends in Denver, Boulder and Fort Collins up north but also ride the TransAm trail across the mountains from Pueblo. We also want to ride our bikes around these cities, experiencing them the way we have with all the places we’ve rolled through.
Brent offers us his huge Ford pick-up. It’s about as wide as a hummer with a gas tank (or two) to match. It’s a manual so I can’t drive it unfortunately. Eric is cranky and serious during the long drive up to Boulder, Denver and back to Pueblo.
Next stop, Boulder.
Bird Fruit 
