The HSP is a phenomenon of being more deeply and keenly in tune with your surroundings. It requires enough physical exertion to produce an endorphin rise, coupled with a slow enough speed to allow the senses time to absorb. A reasonably high speed may assist in creating a sense of excitement. Not having to focus too much on the activity at hand helps, however, HSP may be heightened by a reasonable fear for your safety, as this increases consciousness of surrounding activity. Road biking may be the prime avenue for experiencing HSP, no matter the distance nor the place.
With HSP, there is no such thing as a desolate landscape. The same route that may depress a car driver is energized and enlivening through HSP. Skies are bluer, sagebrush are greener, autumn aspen are yellower, desert sandstone redder. You are more likely to see the insects, animals and small roadside plants that may otherwise escape your attention. The ripple in the stream is more resonant and the wind in the grass is more hypnotic.
Life is more delicious.
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Saturday, October 4, 2008
Thursday, October 2, 2008
The Yampa River Valley
2 October 2008
The scape widened into a lush valley before narrowing around steep rocky walls. Narrowleaf cottonwoods burnt the river corridor orange, joined by box elder and dogwood. Willow and other shrubs shaded the banks purple. Aspen exploded like bright yellow nova against a dark green conifer sky. A train track held a steady line along the meandering stream. The ride drifted counter current before easing upward into Steamboat, where the aspen nova coalesce to brilliant the mountaintops in deep autumn gold.
.
The scape widened into a lush valley before narrowing around steep rocky walls. Narrowleaf cottonwoods burnt the river corridor orange, joined by box elder and dogwood. Willow and other shrubs shaded the banks purple. Aspen exploded like bright yellow nova against a dark green conifer sky. A train track held a steady line along the meandering stream. The ride drifted counter current before easing upward into Steamboat, where the aspen nova coalesce to brilliant the mountaintops in deep autumn gold.
.
The City Creek Canyon
23 September 2008
So I'm journaling out of order. The chronology of experience is less important to me than the sequence of reflection and incorporation.
I hadn't planned on riding the few days before I left. On Monday, Shalece persuaded me to ride City Creek the next morning (it didn't take much convincing). She made me work to keep pace with her and as we reached the top, the sun had yet to warm the chill away or dabble the creek and canyon road. In the dawn quietness, we walked the trail at the road's end, in awe that Salt Lake offers so much so close to the city, and talking a little of her new religious responsibilities. It's daunting, feeling engaged into others' spiritual well being. Of course, people are ultimately responsible for themselves. We are responsible for how we treat them, for how we love. And that's a difficult and constant thing.
We rode down past the limestone fins in the canyon's upper reaches and into the warm sunlight that awakened the autumn palette, the breeze tumbling leaves across the narrow road.
Shalece was one of the main supports for the garden that Julie and I planted at their place. The soil needed more than we gave it. Did we amend it enough for a healthy fruiting? The tomatoes were were thriving, maybe with too much foliage and not enough fruit, but we were beginning to reap a wide variety of heirlooms. Were the melons getting enough water to ripen? The true lemon cucumbers and the high bush eggplant were delicious. The peppers managed, but maybe needed more water and a little more time on the bush, as we tended to be a little antsy in picking them. I suppose at some point you've done what you know how to do, but you always want to do more.
I was a little sad, not being able to enjoy the full harvest. A lot of work went into digging and double digging, planting and tending and trellising. But I enjoyed a fair portion, and there's an odd appeal to working hard and letting others reap. (Not that Julie and Shalece haven't worked. They have, a lot). Something enjoyable about planting, then leaving.
.
So I'm journaling out of order. The chronology of experience is less important to me than the sequence of reflection and incorporation.
I hadn't planned on riding the few days before I left. On Monday, Shalece persuaded me to ride City Creek the next morning (it didn't take much convincing). She made me work to keep pace with her and as we reached the top, the sun had yet to warm the chill away or dabble the creek and canyon road. In the dawn quietness, we walked the trail at the road's end, in awe that Salt Lake offers so much so close to the city, and talking a little of her new religious responsibilities. It's daunting, feeling engaged into others' spiritual well being. Of course, people are ultimately responsible for themselves. We are responsible for how we treat them, for how we love. And that's a difficult and constant thing.
We rode down past the limestone fins in the canyon's upper reaches and into the warm sunlight that awakened the autumn palette, the breeze tumbling leaves across the narrow road.
Shalece was one of the main supports for the garden that Julie and I planted at their place. The soil needed more than we gave it. Did we amend it enough for a healthy fruiting? The tomatoes were were thriving, maybe with too much foliage and not enough fruit, but we were beginning to reap a wide variety of heirlooms. Were the melons getting enough water to ripen? The true lemon cucumbers and the high bush eggplant were delicious. The peppers managed, but maybe needed more water and a little more time on the bush, as we tended to be a little antsy in picking them. I suppose at some point you've done what you know how to do, but you always want to do more.
I was a little sad, not being able to enjoy the full harvest. A lot of work went into digging and double digging, planting and tending and trellising. But I enjoyed a fair portion, and there's an odd appeal to working hard and letting others reap. (Not that Julie and Shalece haven't worked. They have, a lot). Something enjoyable about planting, then leaving.
.
The Details
They can be mundane. Apparently the story is also in them. I hear the following things are sometimes of interest to those following bike trips. I don't find them too exciting, so I'm only posting the links here. If you are interested, you'll have to refer back to this post, as I'll only update the links occasionally, and not re-post the items.
Itinerary and Mileage
Packing List
Stuck Songs
Road Finds
Suggestions?
.
Itinerary and Mileage
Packing List
Stuck Songs
Road Finds
Suggestions?
.
The True Crazy
1 October 2008
As sun rose, an hopefully-abandoned prairie dog hole and some fresh sage made for a glorious morning. I continued east, where I first ran into Roger, Kathleen and Todd, the support team for Marshall Ulrich.
If you think I'm nuts, Marshall is trying to break the 28 year old record for running across America. According to Roger, he runs from 6 am to 2 am the next morning, maybe taking an hour nap, sleeps for four hours, and then starts running again, averaging 60-70 miles a day. He's running from San Francisco to New York, in the shortest line he can find, eating a few bites every mile, trying to get there in less than 46 days. His team members are all fantastically nice, thanks to Kathleen for passing along some therapeutic gels from one of their sponsors.
I finally ran into Marshall (it took a lot longer than I thought), as we were heading up and down some rolling hills west of Maybell. He's super friendly and down-to-earth as well. He stopped and we chatted for a moment, as a trucker named Ranger One, a kind of highway vigilante, stopped to give us aid. He wore a fluorescent green first aid jersey, wielded a gallon of water, and after declaring to us that it was ambient temperature, insisted on pouring it on us. I hope I don't sound like I'm digging on Ranger One. I appreciate his helpfulness, especially compared to truckers who don't even get over much to pass. It does all bring a smile to my face, though.
The hills became tighter and the slopes grassier, passing antelope herds and elk range on the way into Maybell. I made it into Craig and spent a chilly night playing homeless in the city park. Marshall made it into Craig as well, probably around 2 in the morning, and was off before me the next day.
.
As sun rose, an hopefully-abandoned prairie dog hole and some fresh sage made for a glorious morning. I continued east, where I first ran into Roger, Kathleen and Todd, the support team for Marshall Ulrich.
If you think I'm nuts, Marshall is trying to break the 28 year old record for running across America. According to Roger, he runs from 6 am to 2 am the next morning, maybe taking an hour nap, sleeps for four hours, and then starts running again, averaging 60-70 miles a day. He's running from San Francisco to New York, in the shortest line he can find, eating a few bites every mile, trying to get there in less than 46 days. His team members are all fantastically nice, thanks to Kathleen for passing along some therapeutic gels from one of their sponsors.
I finally ran into Marshall (it took a lot longer than I thought), as we were heading up and down some rolling hills west of Maybell. He's super friendly and down-to-earth as well. He stopped and we chatted for a moment, as a trucker named Ranger One, a kind of highway vigilante, stopped to give us aid. He wore a fluorescent green first aid jersey, wielded a gallon of water, and after declaring to us that it was ambient temperature, insisted on pouring it on us. I hope I don't sound like I'm digging on Ranger One. I appreciate his helpfulness, especially compared to truckers who don't even get over much to pass. It does all bring a smile to my face, though.
The hills became tighter and the slopes grassier, passing antelope herds and elk range on the way into Maybell. I made it into Craig and spent a chilly night playing homeless in the city park. Marshall made it into Craig as well, probably around 2 in the morning, and was off before me the next day.
.
The Open Range
30 September 2008
Riding east from Vernal, to your left is Dinosaur National Monument, rising over stretches of irrigated pasture. The formation sweeps gently up from the west, in scrubby and rocky slope, and the arc follows back down to the east. In the middle is a bowl-shaped swath, as if cut by a giant jagged pendulum, that opens a view to the successive ridge. Further east, the ridge tapers off into Blue Mountain and across the Colorado border.
This time of year, at about 5 o'clock begins the sweet hour of riding. Not too cold like the morning, nor too hot like about 3 o'clock. Your body is warmed and rhythmic from a days worth of riding, and enthused at the coming prospect of rest. The light becomes deeper and more saturated, from golden to pink to purple as the evening wears on. I rode this euphoria, past a grassy ridge with dozens of red sandstone fins directly on the dorsal spine, like a gargantuan loch ness monster submerging in a juniper sea.
As Colorado deepens, the high desert opens up into waves of grassier range, lined by the occasional red sandstone cliff. This is the land sung about in cowboy songs and Woody Guthrie anthems. As I looked for a place to camp, for the first time I felt a loathing for barbed wire and private ownership of public domain. But, as Woody says, them private property signs don't say nuthin' on the backside, and I eventually found a place to bed down.
.
Riding east from Vernal, to your left is Dinosaur National Monument, rising over stretches of irrigated pasture. The formation sweeps gently up from the west, in scrubby and rocky slope, and the arc follows back down to the east. In the middle is a bowl-shaped swath, as if cut by a giant jagged pendulum, that opens a view to the successive ridge. Further east, the ridge tapers off into Blue Mountain and across the Colorado border.
This time of year, at about 5 o'clock begins the sweet hour of riding. Not too cold like the morning, nor too hot like about 3 o'clock. Your body is warmed and rhythmic from a days worth of riding, and enthused at the coming prospect of rest. The light becomes deeper and more saturated, from golden to pink to purple as the evening wears on. I rode this euphoria, past a grassy ridge with dozens of red sandstone fins directly on the dorsal spine, like a gargantuan loch ness monster submerging in a juniper sea.
As Colorado deepens, the high desert opens up into waves of grassier range, lined by the occasional red sandstone cliff. This is the land sung about in cowboy songs and Woody Guthrie anthems. As I looked for a place to camp, for the first time I felt a loathing for barbed wire and private ownership of public domain. But, as Woody says, them private property signs don't say nuthin' on the backside, and I eventually found a place to bed down.
.
The Uinta Basin
29 September 2008
The climb into Vernal proved taxing. Mostly because I let myself think I was close when I wasn't. On the way into town, KP and the fine folks at Red Rock Cycle trued my wheel for free, and gave me a pair of riding gloves to replace the pair I left on a gas station bathroom shelf, somewhere east of Duchesne.
In the past few years, Vernal has morphed from a sleepy town at the base of the Uintas to a booming oil and natural gas epicenter. It felt perhaps like Texas in the 1800's. Workers migrate in to supply labor, filling up the hotels during the week, and then flow back out of town on the weekend, as the supply of housing hasn't yet met the employment boom. Roughnecked and grizzled men fill the fields and the restaurants and ride the wave of money to its unclear destination. I was told that I could get hired on the spot as a roustabout on a drilling rig, by a fellow who was amply baffled that I was traveling across the country to work for a non-profit. Yet he also mentioned that there was no joy in the oil life, only money, and I have to suspect that the wave could crest at any moment and leave a trail of empty hotels and workers splayed out on the shore.
I rested in Vernal on Sunday, and Bob and Anne invited me for dinner. They live in a safe and gregarious neighborhood past some farmland south of town, which also brought to mind, in a very positive way, a nostalgia for some type of friendlier past. I played a little chess with their son Collin, and we shared a delicious dinner, largely harvested from Bob's garden. Bob and Anne seemed to balance each other perfectly in demeanor and the family seamlessly blended striving for excellence and being genuinely down-to-earth. I'd be greatly pleased to have such a family one day. After dinner, we went out to look at the bike and talk shop. We tried to get their son Christian to join me for the first 25 miles or so of the ride to Dinosaur. He politely declined. The neighbors walked by, parents, teenagers and toddlers, and we chatted for a while, including about how to get rid of the basketball-sized hornet's nest that was up 35 feet in Bob and Anne's tree. Bob grabbed his Schwinn and we strolled the neighborhood for a few minutes, saying hi to some neighbors, before I headed back past the farmlands to the north side of town, where Kyle and Derrick graciously put me up for the night.
The next morning, after breakfast at Betty's Cafe (a must visit), and recouping my strength a little more in Vernal, I met Gail, a rancher from Duchesne who supported his ranching by working in the oil fields. Which either means that Duchesne isn't really the place to run cattle, or that we have a long ways to grow in reprioritizing the economy to make farm practice viable. Probably both. At any rate, I then set off toward Colorado.
.
The climb into Vernal proved taxing. Mostly because I let myself think I was close when I wasn't. On the way into town, KP and the fine folks at Red Rock Cycle trued my wheel for free, and gave me a pair of riding gloves to replace the pair I left on a gas station bathroom shelf, somewhere east of Duchesne.
In the past few years, Vernal has morphed from a sleepy town at the base of the Uintas to a booming oil and natural gas epicenter. It felt perhaps like Texas in the 1800's. Workers migrate in to supply labor, filling up the hotels during the week, and then flow back out of town on the weekend, as the supply of housing hasn't yet met the employment boom. Roughnecked and grizzled men fill the fields and the restaurants and ride the wave of money to its unclear destination. I was told that I could get hired on the spot as a roustabout on a drilling rig, by a fellow who was amply baffled that I was traveling across the country to work for a non-profit. Yet he also mentioned that there was no joy in the oil life, only money, and I have to suspect that the wave could crest at any moment and leave a trail of empty hotels and workers splayed out on the shore.
I rested in Vernal on Sunday, and Bob and Anne invited me for dinner. They live in a safe and gregarious neighborhood past some farmland south of town, which also brought to mind, in a very positive way, a nostalgia for some type of friendlier past. I played a little chess with their son Collin, and we shared a delicious dinner, largely harvested from Bob's garden. Bob and Anne seemed to balance each other perfectly in demeanor and the family seamlessly blended striving for excellence and being genuinely down-to-earth. I'd be greatly pleased to have such a family one day. After dinner, we went out to look at the bike and talk shop. We tried to get their son Christian to join me for the first 25 miles or so of the ride to Dinosaur. He politely declined. The neighbors walked by, parents, teenagers and toddlers, and we chatted for a while, including about how to get rid of the basketball-sized hornet's nest that was up 35 feet in Bob and Anne's tree. Bob grabbed his Schwinn and we strolled the neighborhood for a few minutes, saying hi to some neighbors, before I headed back past the farmlands to the north side of town, where Kyle and Derrick graciously put me up for the night.
The next morning, after breakfast at Betty's Cafe (a must visit), and recouping my strength a little more in Vernal, I met Gail, a rancher from Duchesne who supported his ranching by working in the oil fields. Which either means that Duchesne isn't really the place to run cattle, or that we have a long ways to grow in reprioritizing the economy to make farm practice viable. Probably both. At any rate, I then set off toward Colorado.
.
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