The End

I've begun the next thing: graduate school. My life will certainly include some of the above activities. (I've kind of got a dream fomenting about riding in one day to Missoula from here, Pullman. 240mi. Next Fall?) But mostly my life will be composed of studying, etc. And that's much less interesting to write about, so I'll not be posting on here any more. I really enjoyed everyone commenting and keeping in touch. Thanks so much. Cheers.

Where Did You Stay?

When I headed out on May 15, I was nervous about a lot of things. But one of my greatest concerns was, where on earth was I going to stay? I'd read somewhere, and a few other touring cyclists had confirmed it, that I would be able to find secret hideaway campsites on private and public land everywhere. "Just look for a little patch of trees or a ditch that you can conceal your tent in." "If it's not fenced or posted, it's called 'unimproved land' and most states have laws that protect travelers who camp on unimproved land." I wanted to be tight on spending, so this sounded good to me. But I was a little nervous about trespassing. I've had some sour experience with that.

Turned out I only had to do this stealth camping twice, both within the first 10 days of riding (see that last two pictures). In the end, I found it it rather nerve racking and somewhat presumptuous. I was on edge all night. I worried both about getting busted and about giving private landowners or public land protectors a bad taste about cyclists. Some riders primarily stealth camp. But there are many other ways to camp, the first of which is to ask, "may I camp here?" And this question usually leads to a nice adventure.

So here's my answer to the question that I was most frequently asked as I rode my 3000mi. Even up to the end, I felt like every night was a new experience. I didn't exactly know how to find a campsite or who to ask. I was a perpetual novice at this. Which landed me in some pretty interesting places:

in private campgrounds

on baseball diamonds

in little cozy cabins


beside Christmas lights
outside churches


inside churches



outside firehouses

inside firehouses

outside strangers' houses


inside strangers' houses
at friends' houses




in the city park




underneath mountains


beside RVs


beside playgrounds

in the water

in the wilderness

in a Winnebago

in state parks


and twice, stealthily hidden away on unimproved land

Conclusion

Dan and I (and Brooke, Dan's girlfriend) arrived at Windmill Point just East of Kilmarnock yesterday at 4:30pm. The end of my ride this summer.

I swam out about 100 ft into the Chesapeake just to make sure I'd really arrived at the coastline. Then Dan started yelling at me to not get the water in my eyes or ears. Or nose. Or mouth.

We'd ridden through two hard downpours that day, but we'd stayed warm.

Dan and I had a great last three days. The riding was frankly unsavory. Traffic all day, and the smells of traffic. But we enjoyed eachother's company. We stayed in Fredericksburg at a canoe rental shop on the Rappahannock River. The fellow that owned the place told us we could shower there if we wanted. It was a hose hooked up to a shower head hung over a few pieces of plywood nailed up at nearly the right height. A tree limb had fallen over the shower shed and looked like it had been there a little while.

The next night we stayed in Westmoreland State Park. There was a pool, which had aroused our suspicions, the park being on the coastline. But when we got down to the pool (100yds from the surf) it all made sense. There were signs all along the beach warning against swimming in the toxic stuff. The pool was a sight. I've never seen so many black kids crammed into a pool. Or white kids for that matter. Dan did a bunch of heroics on the diving board and a group of kids started yelling at him: "Hey, man. Do that again!" Then I got up on the diving board and did a cannon ball, and they lost interest. That night we cooked a huge meal and played cribbage while we smoked our new pipes (new for me). We both got a little sick. Neither of us are very stout smokers. But we made a lot of smoke rings.

After arriving at the coast, Dan's mom and my parents met us and took us out for a classic seafood dinner. Softshell crabs, tuna steak, crab cakes, fresh steamed veggies. It was great.

Pulling out onto Windmill Point didn't feel particularly significant. It was just the end of another day of riding. I was tired. Pedal weary. Ready to be done. But not in a, "man, I'm glad that's over," kind of way. More like graduation from college. A feeling of sadness that it's behind me. A great many wonderful memories. A bigger sense of life. And yet a readiness for what's next.

I hope I can post some pictures in the next week.

Nearing Completion

I arrived at my growing up homestead near Staunton, VA and thereby finished out my third-to-last leg two Sundays ago (July 19). The week before that had included so many moments that are crowding for space in my memory I can hardly believe it. Was there a couple in Richlands that invited me to sleep in their son's old bedroom, the walls pasted to the ceiling with Duke Basketball memorabilia? Did my Mom bring me a slice of peach pie in a tupperware container on my first night upon entering VA? Did Tom Graham and his two lovely daughters take me out to their farm to pick blackberries and feed their goats? Did I pass a fighting rooster farm, with a thousand blue plastic roosts perfectly aligned? Did I pedal across Annie Dillard's Tinker Creek? Did my dad join me on a ride through the hills south of Lexington? Did we gorge ourselves on wild raspberries?

I stayed with my parents in Harrisonburg for 4 days and then picked my friends up in Washington, DC to start our Shenandoah National Park traverse. Mel & Jess flew in from CO Springs. And Dan drove; he was moving to Manassas, VA anyway.

Dan brought his BOB trailer for gear, and I threw on the rear set of panniers that I'd jettisoned somewhere back in CO. Mel & Jess, with their racing bikes which couldn't take standard racks or trailers, nevertheless loaded as much gear as they could into their backpacks and onto Mel's seatpost rack. We were a motley crew.

We started with a classic loop through Albemarle County along the Tye River. Some very steep climbs. I kind of wanted to say, "welcome to VA; it's steep here," with that ride, but all it seemed to say to them was, "very pretty." We stayed in a cabin some family friends have rebuilt and baked pizzas on their grill. Then we rode North along the Skyline Drive, and stayed in another cabin near the halfway point. There we cooked some standard backpacking meal of instant rice and canned beans and freezer-whilted sliced peppers and canned chicken. The next day we descended from the ridgeline into Front Royal and rode Northwest to Middletown where a mutual friend of ours grew up. Greg's parents still live on the farm there and hosted us for the third evening. They turned on the water pump to their pool slide and fed us a garden-fresh meal and showed us around the farm. Ray even fired up his 20yr old Cat track loader and let each of us push a little bit of brush down the hill. Made us feel like real farmers. Marlene set us out on the porch as the evening closed and fed us pound cake and fresh fruit. Fireflies blinked on and off. It was very pleasant. The last day we rode the final bit into Manassas, where Dan's parents live. We had to sprint down a couple illegal miles of interstate 66 to connect our route, but got in safely. Mel & Jess flew out the next evening, which gave us enough time on Wednesday to explore a used bookstore and a tobacconist where they bought me an old-man pipe as a graduate school present.

Tomorrow Dan and I will start out toward the coast. He's riding with me for the last little bit. There are only 130mi to go. We'll divide that into 3 easy days. We'll arrive in Kilmarnock, VA, or more specifically the Easternmost tip of Windmill Point Road, sometime toward afternoon on Sunday, August 2. And then it'll be over.

From Coal Country

Over the last two days I definitively entered the big hills. Instead of the rollers of MO, IL and Western KY, whose amplitude rarely exceeded 100ft, these hills climb and descend 500-1000ft. And they're as steep as anything I've ascended on this trip yet. Yesterday I even began to read a very real rhythm into my riding. Went something like this: climb in my lowest gear at 5mph for 20min, stop and eat a snack near some big machinery parked at the top of the hill, descend at breakneck speed in 3min, roll through the holler and past the 5-6 houses planted there, swerve out of the way of a few dogs, wave at a toothless gentleman, begin climbing again. I repeated this 6 or 7 times.

I stayed last night in Hindman, KY (HIEND-man). I rolled into town a little after 4pm and began my usual search for a place to pitch my tent. I didn't see any churches as I pulled into town, so I stopped in at the local gas station and asked to borrow the yellow pages. She said she didn't carry those. I asked for a phone book, she handed me one. The listing of churches stretched on for several pages; it included all the churches in the whole county. Almost everyone here, it seems, goes to church, and I guess that most churches have an attendance under 20 people. I gave up trying to figure out if such-and-such church was in Hindman, or Emmalena, or Darfork, or Bulan, or Garner, or Mallie, or Rowdy, or Dice, or Dwarf, and I gave her back the yellow pages and asked if there were any churches in town. She told me she reckoned so. She pointed the way through downtown and told me I'd run across a couple. I biked that way, and stopped in at a big catholic-looking edifice. I peeped inside and heard the clinking of billiard balls in the basement. I walked into the frigid air conditioning and moved downstairs where I saw a big fellow with a huge head of hair playing a solitary game of pool. His hair was continuous from the crown of his head to the tip of his chin, long and shaggy. One might even think "hippie" at first glance, something certainly shocking for Eastern KY. I greeted him. He introduced himself as Seth. We talked a little while, and he invited me to stay in the church building. (It was actually an old Methodist building converted to a Baptist youth center.) In fact, he explained, he'd been sleeping there in the basement for the last week. He did that sometimes. He wasn't going to be there tonight, though, he said, because his mom was picking him up to take him back home. "Help yourself to whatever's in the fridge," he said. He had a gentle way of suggesting things that made it seem perfectly natural to bed down in the basement and help myself to whatever was in the fridge.

I took off to look for some groceries for dinner. Found a fruit and vegetable stand and went a little crazy. Picked up two sweet potatoes, two tomatoes, two peaches, three peppers, an onion, two squash, one zuchini. I don't know what I was thinking. Real whole plants are gold when you're mostly eating cheap processed foods, which I am.

I got back to the church and instead of cooking immediately, Seth and I sat down and began to talk literature. And I began to ask myself where did this very literate, very sensitive Kentuckian come from? I guess that was the wrong question really. The better question would have been where did I ever get the idea that Kentuckians are just hillbillies, and that hillbillies don't care about fine things? I sat there and put glue on the soles of my shoes and taped them up to repair some serious heel separation, and talked with Seth about the novel he's currently writing, which to me sounds like an incredibly subtle portrait of a Kentucky coal miner and his family falling into depression and corruption. We talked about poets we like and why. We got really animated about novelists, him about Cormac McCarthy and Gabriel Garcia Marquez, me about Melville and Dostoevsky. We talked about Kierkegaard and his impact on our faiths. He told me about a failed attempt not too long ago of walking across the United States. I enjoyed his company immensely.

Later, they had a Bible study in the room above while I chopped and cooked my quarts of vegetables. I ate them all, with a very little help from Seth, and even ate two chilidogs which I scrapped together from their fridge.

After their church service that night, two others came down to say hello and to invite me out for ice cream, a married couple, Cory and Jessica, and a bright-faced baby on Jessica's hip. They drove me to DQ where several others, including Seth, were sitting already eating various treats. Cory and Jessica are a young couple, 30 yrs old. They already have 4 children, the oldest 3 of which were at home with Grandma, or someone else responsible. Even though they're from this area of KY, they explained to me that they are really gypsies. They've lived all across the country in their few years together, from North Carolina to San Diego. Jessica had a concerned, motherly way of paying attention to my interests and needs, like so many of the women I know married to my good friends. She asked me lots of questions about myself and my trip thusfar. She whispered to me several times later that night that they could take me back to the church whenever I was ready, just let them know when. Cory had an easy and smart sense of humor, making fun of Seth and his passion for Kierkegaard in such a way that you weren't quite certain he wasn't actually making fun of himself. He talked about his own travels and his experience of fatherhood (he singlehandedly midwifed for his wife's 4th child, the bright-faced one on her hip) with self-effacing good-humor. And there was another fellow there on the other side of the table eating his ice cream and telling funny stories about his year living in Poland.

Kentucky? Kentucky of the rottweillers and surreptitious marijuana farmers and the no trespassing signs and the blank stares, where are you? I'm finding Kentucky looks different the closer I get up to its breathing, laughing face.

Tonight I'll be staying in Elkhorn City, on the KY side of the state line. Then I'll bike into VA, my last state of all, on Tuesday. Mom is planning to meet me that evening and take me out for dinner. Not too long after that I'll be pulling into Staunton, VA, sleeping in my childhood bed for a few days, then heading off with 3 good friends into the Shenandoah National Park, to ride north along the Skyline Drive. And then on to the coast.

Midway Through Kentucky

John Henry and I have made our way through Missouri and Illinois and a bit of Western Kentucky and we're now winding our way upward and ever deeper into Appalachia. And I'm getting nervous.

At the tail end of my Missouri ride two weeks ago, I was invited into the home of Jim and Cheryl Shollenberger. It was a really hot night, the night before I arrived in St. Louis to stay with my Aunt and Uncle, and I had knocked on a church door in Union to see about sleeping inside. After a few minutes of talking, Jim and I felt we'd each met a kindred spirit (separated by some 35 years). He's a quiet thoughtful sort of fellow. A teacher of music at a local college. A passionate student of Native American history and music. He invited me to his house that evening. Among many other things, he and Cheryl took me out for a great big pasta meal. Jim had 3 of his retired friends over for their regular Wednesday night game of Bridge. I remembered a little bit of Bridge from my time in Holland some years ago, but not much. Jim patiently explained a few hands to me, but I didn't ever risk actually playing with these fellows. They were good. I took some snacks and a cold beer downstairs and wrote in my journal and listened to a cd of tenor arias that Jim had wanted me to hear. He especially wanted me to hear Nessun Dorma, which was beautiful. I slept like a child in their guest bedroom. Early the next morning Cheryl and Jim cooked me a great big breakfast and sent me on my way.

The next day I got to Aunt Margaret's and Uncle Randy's (and Cousin Alex's) house before they had arrived home from a family reunion. They'd left a reclining chair and a fan plugged in out on their porch for me. I read for a few pleasant hours and napped for a few more.

I flew out the next morning for Kim & Jacob's 2nd wedding reception in VA. It was great to see family and friends again, and to get a little rest.

I flew back to St. Louis the following Tuesday, a week ago. The morning after, Alex drove me 100 miles around St. Louis, and dropped me off at a ferry along the Mississippi River. There was something very thrilling about crossing the mighty Mississippi on a creaking clanking ferry.

I biked that night to my Aunt Di's and Uncle Brent's in Carbondale, IL. There Uncle Brent and I sat for a while in his studio and talked about metalsmithing history and techniques. Raising, annealing, folding Damascus steel. He's an artist in the medium, a very fine artist. The pictures I found online don't compare to the experience of standing in front of one of his rustic figures. His recent sculptures are abstract, and they explore themes of spirituality, especially primitive spirituality, with simple, beautiful lines and gestures, spires, crescents, mounds. We walked around his backyard smithy which is entirely open to the air, the border between inside and outside is pretty undefined. I stumbled across a large piece of tapered, bent steel there on the ground, concealed by leafy detritus. I asked him if it was some tool of his he'd misplaced. No, he told me. It was his next piece. It was rusting and looked like it belonged there amidst the organic matter. In fact, this is what I like most about his sculptures. They're anything but modern. Their themes are very ancient. And he's made them in a very ancient way. Even the bases that he mounts his recent pieces on are handmade wooden structures fashioned by an adze he also made by hand.

Tod, their son, my cousin, who I've not seen in a decade or so, came for dinner. He is a world-traveler and a very good dog-trainer. I pressed him for some advice about mean dogs in Kentucky. He said be mean back. Get off you bike and be mean as hell. Most dogs, he said, if they've not been aggressively trained to the point of psychological breakdown, will back down, preferring their free foodbowls, to your costly calfs. I've been using that advice for the 3 or 4 mean dog encounters I've had in KY so far. It's working, but it leaves me shaking and pumped with adrenaline. I hope I don't run into multiple mean dogs at once. I've been looking for a bottle of pepper spray to replace the one that got stolen back in OR.

Aunt Di showed me the yard that was devastated by an "inland hurricane" almost 2 months ago. 100mph gusts of wind destroyed trees in a huge swath through that county. Their yard was hit bad. They've lived in that yard for over 30 years and many of the trees they planted themselves. It's a loss they're still grieving. Then we had dinner. My Aunt Di is no less of an artist than my Uncle Brent. She's practiced and perfected the art of hospitality. I ate a wonderful meal and immediately made myself at home without even thinking about it or having to be told to do so.

The next morning I pedaled out. In the following days across IL and the Western part of KY, I did a lot: I slept at the edge of the Ohio, hearing tugboats push whole continents of metal down the river all night long. I was offered and I gladly accepted a free breakfast at a bed-and-breakfast in whose lawn I pitched my tent. I was shown around a museum I stumbled across in Marion, KY by a big old lady who really didn't know much about the exhibits, but read the placcards just fine. She was very kind and gave me some cold water and talked for a while. I stayed for two nights at the famous biker's hostel in the tiny town of Sebree, KY, receiving warmth and grandparently kindness from Bob & Violet, the Baptist Preacher and his wife. I mused about all the signs I passed for "General" Baptist churches. (Somewhere else, I'm sure, there must be a bunch of "Particular" Baptist churches who split with them and who even now are bemoaning their brothers' and sisters' general gospel and general church van policies and way of singing generally on tune.) I jammed my calf unwittingly onto the teeth of my largest chainring while pretending to be mean as hell towards a very intimidating rottweiller. I didn't notice myself bleeding until the episode was over, so pumped full of adrenaline had I been. I stayed alone in a quiet little firehouse in Utica, KY. I stayed behind a convenience store near Madrid, KY, and was invited to dinner by the owners, then at dinner, they suggested driving me in to Leitchfield in the morning to see some murals at her workplace and to grab some things at Walmart.

And most of all, I've begun to get a little unnerved. Just like some of those desolate sections I pedaled through in Idaho, the countryside of Kentucky is beginning to take on an indifferent, even hostile character in my mind. This is odd, because of all of the hospitality I've received in this state. Very friendly people everywhere. But there are little symbols of hostility that I keep running across, little things that say, "you're not welcome here." The rare instance of an exceptionally mean off-leash dog. A house with several "No Trespassing" Signs on the front door of all places. An old fellow that passed me in his old car with his middle finger up and his teeth bared. A lot of stares.

A lot of this is in my head, perhaps could fall into the category of self-fulfilling prophecies. I hope to get over it.

I'll be on my way now. Need to find a place to stay.

Ryan Gosciejew

Many people knew Ryan better than I did, but I want to remember what sticks in my mind.

Sometime in the early summer of 2007, Ryan and I speed hiked up to Barr Camp on the lower slopes of Pikes Peak. I was thinking of it as training for the REI race up the Peak later that summer, but I got the sense that Ryan was more interested in just getting out into the pines and up on the mountain slopes. And in hanging out. Ryan couldn't get enough of hanging out. He'd hang out with anyone; he wasn't snooty.

We hiked hard, both of us at our limit. When we got up to the camp, we sat down on the main cabin porch and Ryan patched up his blistered heel with duct tape or something. He was trying to break in a new pair of shoes. I hadn't heard him mention any pain as we were going up, so I was surprised to see that his heel was actually bleeding. While we sat there Ryan talked with Neal and Teresa, the caretakers of the camp, like he had known them all his life. He had this gift of talking. It was also a curse. On the way down, I just wanted to get some peace and quiet, so I tried to speed ahead. But Ryan kept up. He was sort of limping, but he didn't once mention his heel. We talked about everything from religion to music to mountain biking. The day was really perfect. Not too hot. Beautiful early summer foliage. Birds. By the time we had reached the bottom, I realized Ryan wasn't just babbling, he had a lot to say. I was learning something.

Once we got down, Ryan invited me up to his and Carrie's house for some juice. Driving back to his place, we must have passed 10 people that Ryan knew and waved at. The morning stretched into the afternoon. Hanging out with Ryan had a tendency to do that. He made some fresh juice in his juicer with carrots and apples. Honestly, it was the best juice I've had. He told me what it meant for him to practice veganism. He explained bits of the Grateful Dead poster hanging on his wall; it had something on it, some character, or some image from almost every one of their songs. He showed me some of his strange paintings. And some of our mutual friend Jason's strange photographs. He showed me pictures from a recent cave surveying trip. And his new recording equipment. He was getting pretty heavily into recording techniques right then, and was also a sometime drummer for West Side Bus Project, which was an impressive Manitou Springs band that unfortunately lasted less than a year.

Coming away from my first day of hanging out with Ryan, it struck me that he was terribly interested in me. I've never known someone who talked so much, but of whose interest in me I was so certain. He wanted to connect and he had his fingers in a million different things to connect about. Hanging out with him was a full experience.

When we finally had the race up the Peak (in late July?) Ryan talked all kinds of smack to me and the other competitors. He was one of the few that had run the official race in the previous year and he knew what he was doing. But Ryan had this way of mouthing off that instead of making you feel trod upon, just made you feel like he liked you. He had not trained very hard, and so I beat him up the mountain. At the top, all I could feel coming from Ryan was good cheer. He asked me all kinds of questions about how the race went. He was genuinely curious about my experience. Everything about his face and eyes said, "Man, that was a fun race." He'd brought several bottles of Guinness up to the top and he shared them around with several of us.

He was an official cave surveyor and rescuer. He was a jazz drummer. He was a lover of the old stuff, the Stones, the Dead, Dylan. He didn't get caught up in complaints like the rest of us at REI, he just worked hard. He smiled in such a broad way that his eyes went all squinty. He was frank. Everything about him, his strengths and his flaws, were endearing. He was an avid mountain biker, a one-time owner of the infamous Rick Merril Instigator. He loved being with people.

Ryan died two Saturdays ago. He was 28.

Iberia, MO

Yesterday I was banking on resting for a while midday in the library in Iberia. Unfortunately, the library was closed on Mondays. There was nothing else in town. I biked despondently East on 42, figuring I'd just pedal through the heat. But then, a mile outside of Iberia there was a gas station, that also looked like a bit of a country store. I stopped in, thinking I'd at least fill up my water, but hoping in the back of my brain that I could rest in there. A handwritten sign on the door said, "We are no longer taking credit. Absolutely no exceptions. If you have a balance with us, please pay it immediately." I didn't know any country stores still offered credit. There was wall full of shelved liquor. And a sign that priced different quantities of hay. To get to the bathroom I passed a couple tables in the back, set up like a dirty diner. I filled up one of my bottles in the bathroom. Then as I was going outside to put it back in my bottle cage, the lady at the counter, previously engaged with a customer, said, "You don't want any ice, son?" I said no, it usually melted so fast it didn't matter. She said, "And you don't want nothin to eat, either?" I said, well, what did she have. She pointed at a menu abover her head painted by hand on a big piece of plywood. There were hamburgers, different kinds of sandwiches, lots of fried things. I asked if this was a restaurant. She said, "It is. I'm the cook." She explained that she'd have to go in the back and cook whatever it was I wanted. "Takes about 20 minutes." I think she could tell I was hungry, which was why she was offering. But I could tell that cooking stuff kind of bothered her. I said, oh, I thought I'd pass. I'd have a look around at the snacks she had. I walked a loop around the store. Nothing really interesting. I was thinking about a hamburger, or two. I think she sensed this. She asked me one more time, "You sure you don't want nothin to eat, son?" I said, well, really, if she didn't mind. She looked at me. I could tell she did. But there was something else there too. She said, "You're the one paying me, son." She looked at me real sternly. It was like she was trying to teach me a lesson about life. And I didn't mind it somehow. "It's hot as hell back in that kitchen. No air whatsoever. I believe I lose a pound every time I go back there to cook a burger. But I did offer it to you didn't I?" I felt kind of awkward. I asked if I could have two burgers and a plate of french fries. She cooked it and brought it to me. Best burgers I've had in some time. I tried to pay her immediately when she brought everything out, but she said, "You eat that first, then you come pay me." She wouldn't even let me give her a tip later. I stayed for almost two hours, reading, and talking with a few local people that stopped in and stared at me. Talked with her for a while too. Once, after a long silence, she leaned her head around the snack rack to ask me if I'd gone to sleep on her. I told her no ma'am, just enjoying myself.

Vienna, MO

In Vienna, I biked into the park to have a look around, see if I could camp there that night. There was a little league baseball game winding up, lots of families all around. I stepped into the bathrooms to see if there were any showers. No, but someone had told me they'd be open all night, so they'd do. As I was coming out of the bathroom, a little boy, surely no more than 6 years old, was going in. He took a long serious look at me and then followed me directly out. I swung my leg over my bicycle and stared back at him. "You riding your bike?" he asked me. I said yep. Across the country. He stared at me, very business-like. "To see things?" I nodded. "Do you like it?" I somehow felt like I was getting interviewed. I said I liked it. Sometimes it was hard. But overall I liked it a lot. "Where do you sleep?" I said I stayed in city parks, like this one. And sometimes in cemeteries, I told him, which was a lie. I've been wanting to stay in a quiet little cemetery, but haven't yet. I just wanted to see if this little interviewer was actually a kid. "Cemeteries?" he said and raised both of his eyebrows for a second. Then he walked into the bathroom like he was done with me. Transaction over.

Reverend Kelley

It is hot. It is so hot that if I park my bike in the sun, my computer LCD goes completely black for a few minutes after I start riding again. It is so hot that my sleeping bag is always wet in the mornings, and I'm wearing nothing but boxers and sleeping on top of it. It is so hot that the first thing everyone who stops to chat with me says is, "You sure you're alright, son?" I'm beginning to shape everything I do around the heat and the humidity: when I sleep, how long, when I eat, how I put my sunscreen on, where I camp. Two weeks ago, my Dad told me, "Brett, there's going to come the day when you'll wish for this cold, rainy Colorado weather." I thought, sure. That day has come to pass.

Regardless, this third leg has brought whole new wonders. In Chanute, KS, I stepped onto the Transam Trail, which is just the name for the established route that most cross-country cyclists take. There's a lot of oral history and tips that get passed around every night in city parks (which is where I've largely been staying.) The things most commonly talked about are 1) the Rollers: these are the supposedly soul-crushing, endless hills of Missouri. They're not so bad. 2) Sending stuff home: everyone, every single cross-country cyclist I've met or talked to has mailed extra weight home after the first few weeks. (I've karate chopped my load down to two front panniers and 4 little sacks on my rear rack: sleeping bag, tent, pad, bag of clothes.) 3) Camping: how to do it, where to go, who to ask. 4) The next town: eastbounders talk to westbounders for advice and vice-versa. There's quite a community amongst the Transam riders. And there's a confidence and warmth between the riders and the local towns. It's very nice to experience. However, I've peeled off of the Transam for the last four days, in order to get to St. Louis to catch a flight.

Yesterday was particularly difficult due to the heat. I decided to eat out, instead of cook dinner, so I could get to bed early and get the majority of my miles in today before the heat got to heavy. After dinner at Margies Kafe, I stepped outside to get on my bike and pedal over to the park to set up camp. The heat hit me hard, and I decided to make a leap and call some churches in town, to see if I could camp inside. I'd heard this was acceptable, and that was all the impetus I needed. I got some phone numbers from a gas station attendant. I called a Methodist secretary who suggested I call Reverend Kelley. He wasn't even from her church, some church across the way. But she said, "You're gonna want to talk to him," as if he was THE guy to talk to in town. I told her it was not problem, I had the number of a Baptist church I could call too. She said, "No, call Reverend Kelley." She gave me his number. I called him and told him to please feel free to turn me down, it was an odd request. I was riding across the country and staying mostly in city parks and on public land, but I was wondering if I might be able to get in somewhere out of the heat for the evening. When he said, in a grandfatherly voice, "Aw, bless your heart," I felt a sudden relief. He told me to meet him over at his place. Gave me directions. He said, "Good timing, son. I've got just the thing for you."

When I got there, he'd fired up his old Winnebago LeSharo. He'd been working on it that day, repairing something in the engine. He showed me how to turn on the air conditioning, and told me to leave that on high all night. I said, "you bet!" He opened up the basement of his church too so I could use the bathroom. I slept in bliss for 6 hrs, got up and began today's riding just as the sun was coming up. God bless you, Reverend.

East from Kansas

I've had a great 10 days of riding with my parents. We arrived in CO Springs on Tuesday night. It was something coming over Wilkerson Pass and seeing the backside of Pikes Peak for the first time in over a month, felt a little like home. We were met by on friend, Melanie a few miles on the downside of Ute Pass, the last CO Pass I'll be climbing on this tour. Then two other friends, Ken and Sarah, up in Woodland Park to descend the 20mi into the city. That evening and the next morning I got to be with a number of other good friends. Also got to rebuild my creaking pedals in my old shop and catch up with a few friends there. Now, my parents have driven me to Eastern Kansas, from where I'll start my next leg alone. In a week I'll be in St. Louis, MO, staying with my Aunt and Uncle and then flying back to VA for the final summer event, my sister and Jacob's wedding reception.

Mom and Dad are about to take me out for a huge breakfast. In Kansas or Missouri I'm hoping I'll see tornadoes. In the distance.

Notes and Pictures After Day Fifteen

Notes and photographs relating to the five previous days of bicycle touring. (These are not in strict chronological order.):

Logistics -- Dad has ridden most of the miles with me, but Mom has joined me for 10mi here and there. Last minute, we decided on a more interesting route (and less snowy) than what I had originally planned. This means we're covering more miles than I think I can handle in 10 days. So we've loaded all three bicycles onto the back of my parent's Trailblazer and have driven one big segment in WY at the end of Monday, another short one in UT at the end of Wednesday, and we'll drive one last big one in CO tomorrow.

Dad loading the bikes on Monday.


The Weather Report -- Sunday: rainy and cold, mid to upper 40s. We wore plastic bags over our hands to break the wind. I wrapped my feet in grocery bags before I stuffed them into my cycling shoes. 3hrs and 30mi into our climb, Dad and I summited the pass. We blasted ourselves with the hand dryers at the visitor's center. Then we put on every article of clothing we could and descended 8 frigid miles to the edge of Bear Lake, stopping once to make sure our hands worked on the brake levers. Monday: beautiful morning sun, then scattered rain, temps rising to the high 50s. Dad and I chased a booming thunderhead for half of the day with a gracious patch of sunlight spotlighting our way along the wet roads. A little hail. Tuesday: very little rain, low 50s. Headwind. Dad and I traded drafts, with me mostly in the rear. Slanting rain at the end of the day. Wednesday: cool and sunshiny for first 2hrs of continuous climbing on the steepest grades yet. Then a sudden storm for over an hour. Temps dropped into the low 40s, mixed sleet and rain. Then more sun and spotty rain.

Sunday: Dad and me keeping our hands semi-warm.


Sunday: summiting the pass.


Sunday: Dad assuming compromising positions with a hand dryer.

Monday: A rare segment that we three cycled together. Happy sunshine.


Wednesday: Dad climbing in the sun up switchbacks of 9% incline.


Wednesday: Mom and me descending in the sudden storm. Very cold.


Riding Companions -- I can think of two things that make miserable riding conditions bearable: losing your mind (which I experienced in small doses on my first 10days) and having riding companions. The last four days of riding would have been my most difficult (even though they've been my shortest) had I been alone. But riding with either Mom or Dad has made a huge difference. Dad was worried about being able to keep up, considering the altitude and the fact that his son is in such awe-inspiring physical condition. He has definitely kept up. In fact, I've been ready to quit on a few days when Dad was gritting his teeth and ready to finish the last 10mi. And Mom has been cheerful and excited like a little girl to see the sights. I thought she'd have trouble biking at my speed, so on the first day I started slow. After a few minutes she told me, "I'm used to going a little faster than this, Brett." And on Wednesday, when she and I were getting lashed by sleet and I was in one of my most grouchy moods yet, I could hear her in the distance behind me singing, "Yippee, one more mile to go."



Wednesday: Dad and me summiting the big climb of the day.


Wednesday: Mom and me riding before the sleet hit us.


Food -- High luxury. We've eaten out a good bit. And Mom has cooked some great meals: chili, minestrone soup, fruit & nut pancakes. Mom even makes side-dishes for our camp dinners. We've had sandwiches with deli meat for lunch, and fresh chicken salad. And after our first day of riding, Dusty and Lisa even drove all the way up to Bear Lake to take us out for the famous raspberry milkshakes of Bear Lake. I can feel myself getting soft. Some mornings I even think, "We could just drive to the next campsite and start cooking dinner."

Sunday: Dusty and Lisa showing us the delights of the Bear Lake Raspberry Milkshakes. This is how good they are: we had just been riding for more than 4hrs in the cold rain. And we're eating milkshakes. And we're happy about it.



Sunday: Minestrone prepared by my mom in the fine KOA cooking arena.


Tuesday: Mom and Dad making chili.


Achilles -- Immediately into our first day of riding, after my 2wks of rest, I began to feel my right achilles aching again. After 3 more days of testing it, I decided to call Jessica, a friend who knows these things. She said something along the following lines: "Ibuprofen is not a long-term solution, Brett. Listening to your body is a long-term solution." The next day I offloaded all of my panniers except my right front one for tools and extra clothing. Until my parents head back East, I am going to take advantage of the car and ride light. Already it feels better.

Bob's Rock Shop -- In Kemmerer, WY at the end of Monday's riding, my mom stepped into a local rock shop. (Rock shops are about as common in Wyoming as 'coffee' shops are in Amsterdam. And their owners are equally religious about their respective products.) Dad and I joined her a few minutes later. Bob, the sole proprietor, was sitting in the corner holding a smoldering cigarette. I didn't see him put the thing to his mouth for the full 30min that we were in his shop. Bob is a short-answers, foul-mouthed, old man. (Normally for men his age I use the word, "gentleman", but in Bob's particular case, this descriptor doesn't apply.) Bob's single passion is rocks. And 99% of the rocks and petrified tree limbs and fossils in his shop he dug up, chiseled out, and polished by himself. He has no training, but he knows his stuff. "I read books about rocks. I got a lot of books in the back. You wouldn't believe how many books I got." In one display case he has a full fossilized skeleton of a prehistoric crocodile that he found and scraped out of the surrounding rocks over the course of one winter. We didn't ask where he found it. We sensed we weren't supposed to ask that sort of thing. My mom, being curious, asked if she could poke around in his back room. "Sure thing. It's my workshop. It's where I cut the rocks and polish them." We all joined her. Bob showed us his diamond blades and polishing belts and shelves stacked to the ceiling with rocks in various stages of preparation. He showed us one fist-sized rock that he said he'd been working on for 2yrs. "It's got fiery opal in it, you see. If I cut it just right and bring out that fire, you know what I mean? If I cut it in just the right place, this rock would be worth, oh, $2000." It looked like a plain old rock to me. I asked him what he'd done on it over the last 2yrs, if he'd chipped at the side or something. "Oh no." He looked at me sternly. "Oh no. I come back here, and I pick it up like this, and I think about it. I've got to find the right frame of mind to work on this rock. You can't just go in and start cutting the damn thing." He showed us a piece of flint that looked like a paleolithic knife. We asked if it was some Indian artifact. "No. I use this to scare away those kids with body piercings, those left-hand smokers." I don't know what left-hand smoking is, but I don't ever want to do it around Bob. After a thorough tour, Mom and Dad let me pick out my favorite piece of petrified wood and Bob sold it to us for $30.



Monday: Bob showing us around his beloved workshop in the back of his rock shop.


Flat Tires -- For those of you taking bets, I've now had 6 flat tires. You may want to readjust your betting structure. My 5th flat was a slow leak on Tuesday. I pulled out about 8 tiny pieces of sharp flint embedded in my front and rear tires before replacing the rear tube. My dad had no pieces of sharp flint embedded in his tires. (Maybe this disparity arises from the fact that he rides out in the middle of the lane, while I ride conservatively on the shoulder.) My 6th flat, occuring 45min later on the tube I had just replaced, was a sudden puncture and outrush of air. I had run over something very sharp, leaving a tire gash even bigger than the one that stopped me 30mi short of Logan two weeks before. Again, my tire boot did not provide enough structure to support my tube pressure. Luckily, I've learned some patching techniques since my first blowout. I layered 6 pieces of gorilla tape on the inside of my tire and inflated my tube to full pressure. Worked great. I've ridden over 50mi on it so far, and plan to ride until it blows, or until I get to CO Springs, whichever comes first.




Tuesday: flat #5.



Tuesday: flat #6.


Accommodations -- My parents and I started this 10day segment planning to camp primitively every night. On the first evening, after riding all day through cold rain, we stopped in at a little KOA, "just to see about the prices." (KOA means super-tourist cop-out in my family.) Shivering there in the KOA office we discovered that they had cabins with space heaters available pretty cheap. "They're called Primitive Cabins," we said to eachother. "They don't even have linens." We hemmed and hawed and then decided we'd take one, "just this first night." Then, as we unpacked in our cabin and cranked up the heater and sat down on our padded beds, we each had the very same two thoughts in quick succession. The first was, "Really, if we didn't have gear to dry out, we'd be primitive camping tonight." The second was, "This is nice." Writing this note five days later, I count 3 nights in KOA cabins and 2 nights in motels. We haven't unpacked our tents once. We're becoming KOA Primitive Cabin connoisseurs. "Oh, this one has the double bunks and the porch swing. And it's the same price as the ones in Garden City."


Sunday: primitive survival techniques.



Thursday: organizing gear for our day off.




A Day Off is Reviving -- Today, the fifth day of our leg together, I had scheduled for my parents and me to explore Dinosaur National Monument and to rest. We did a little of the former and a lot more of the latter. In more specific terms, we spent almost 5hrs this morning and afternoon camped out in a corner of a coffee shop in Vernal, UT. My dad and I read and uploaded pictures from our cameras. My mom touched up a few watercolors she's sketched out over the last week. All of us got online and caught up with the real world. In the late afternoon we roused ourselves to finally explore DNM. It's a bastard child of a park. Nobody seems to know about it. This is a misfortune. (To everyone who was not us: we had the park very nearly to ourselves.) The geology there is jaw-dropping. We drove 30mi along a canyon rim, passing pronghorns and mule deer and plain old cows. We hiked out to a promontory from which we could look straight down 2000ft to the confluence of the Yampa and the Green Rivers. The canyon floor was tilted in crazy directions. We could see layers of rock representing hundreds of millions of years arched like so many decks of cards being shuffled. Made us dizzy.




It's now in the am hours, and my parents have long been asleep in our little motel room. So I better wrap it up. Tomorrow we'll start riding again from a 3-house town called Lay, CO.