The Why

Occasionally, after bike commuting in harsh conditions or at great length, others have asked, earnestly, “Do you enjoy biking?” Lest you think that I’ve been overwhelmed by masochism or cognitive dissonance, I will answer.

Yes.

Especially for transportation.

Cycling, I...

...feel engaged into my surroundings and more highly perceptive.
...feel stronger, mentally, physically and spiritually, disciplined and focused.
...save money, build energy, avoid stress and often save time.
...feel healthy in my relationship with the Earth.
...feel the rush of effort and speed, of work and reward, stress and recovery.

And it’s fun.

Do it.

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That Old Story

21 October 2008

Evening rode quickly across the Buffalo River to the Little Buffalo River, at the foot of the Ozark plateau. Vic stopped me to rattle off a few questions about the ride, snagged Johnny as he was walking by, and Johnny said I could camp out in front of his trailer. Johnny was selling everything he had to go bicycle around Hawaii. After grabbing a bite, I returned to Johnny’s place, rooting around vainly for a comfortable arrangement. Vic must not have felt at ease with me at Johnny’s, as he shuffled over to open up his place to me in case I wanted a shower or to camp in his patio.

Vic had a kind of jittery and prolific energy, bouncing from leg to leg as he spoke like a young child and talking for hours in a sort of stream of consciousness…

“You see we retired here years ago I knew I wouldn’t be able to get Linda any further west and this place gets all sorts of folks there are a bunch of Buddhists north of here and then you got the folks out on Mt. Judea they’re a little bit what you might call angry and crazy you know I mean you know what I mean they don’t much like people coming round over there so we mostly let them alone you know that old story” (umm, I guess so) “and then in the 70s Willie Nelson said the best weed he ever smoked was from here from Murray Valley and so all these hippies moved into Murray Valley and started growing their stuff and it’s so far back up in there that the law don’t try and do much about it and even when I moved in everybody thought I must have been a narc and then they realized that I wasn’t and they figured I must be a grower and now they’re not too suspicious anymore but these hippies they keep growing over there but they didn’t much count on the elk you see the elk they’re rather fond of pot you know that old story” (umm, not really) “and so they had to keep the elk out of their crops and even in some places it was made legal to take an elk on your property but a lot of the hippies started growing organic blueberries along with their pot” (at this moment, Linda was making divine muffins with these blueberries) “and you see we got the river here too that brings a lot of people around it was one of the first protected rivers in the country which is good but sometimes the Park Service goes a little overboard and they want to throw away the key I mean you know what I mean so we kind of have a running battle with the park service you know that old story” (actually, yes) “and we’ll run the river when they don’t want us to but they can’t ever quite seem to catch us you know they want to lock up some of these roads but we need these to get down to run the river and so you know we’re kind of in a running battle and sometimes they want to take a piece of land for the river and eminent domain it and they tried to do that with old Fawn Cash but he’s an angry old ball of lead and everyone told them that he would literally kill them if they tried to get anywhere near his land and the Park Service kinda didn’t pay them any mind but they got run off the property and had themselves a little scare you know that old story” (eh) “and so you know it’s kind of lawless out here and they don’t try and do much about all the weed oh they’ll sacrifice a gringo every year or so you know that old story” (huh?) “oh you know they won’t turn over a local but you got these flatlanders coming in and they’ll sacrifice one of them every year or so to keep the law happy and then you got the folks that Y2ked themselves up here and they got these extreme homes like fortresses in all these limestone caves they’ve got around here and don’t you know they keep finding these new caves and I tell them don’t tell the Park Service about it they will lock those caves up and keep you out and so they finally learned and stopped telling the rangers about the caves you see we have this kind of running battle with the Park and anyway this one guy built himself a fortress down in one of these caves and I mean a fortress but then you know Y2K never amounted much to anything and now this guy wants to bring in white rhinoceros to live on his estate and what are you going to do with a rhinoceros in a cave you know and you gotta have some of Linda’s hot chocolate it is unbelievable and sometimes people get lost down there by the river and in these caves you probably heard a few years ago that little girl that got lost yea she got angry cause her grandpa wouldn’t let her go in a cave and they were hiking and so she kind of wandered off she was so angry and they spent four days looking for her and the Park Service is out there looking of course they’re all fools and they couldn’t get anything done but they wouldn’t let the locals go in certain places even though everyone’s out there wanting to help look and finally a couple locals said hey this girl is gonna die and so they went and found her near a cave and she was still angry she was an ornery little cuss she didn’t even seem to care she had been lost all full of hellfire and that river gets high in the spring especially all this water we had last year and we decided to run it of course the park wanted to lock us up for it but we ran it anyway and all these little rapids had turned into class six holes that would fold your canoe in half and the water was so high we were up in the trees and this one guy got snagged up in a branch and ripped right out the boat just hanging up in the branch by his clothes and the one thing we didn’t count on was the water moccasins, they got flooded right out and you know that old story…”

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The Arkansas Beginnings

19 October 2008

At Bull Shoals, on the White River, morning saw fog tumbling across the surface. The high water allowed only a glimpse of the limestone bluffs. An artist had sculpted a huge sundial near the campgrounds and was out refurbishing his work. Learning of my planned route, he suggested I just roll straight through Harrison and don't look back. "Nothing to offer", "full of racists and hate." A white supremacist group is headquartered nearby. En route to Harrison, I stopped to ask directions of an older couple, out doing yard work. They echoed the same warning, in bitter tones of resignation, suggesting no hope for that place.

I continued, but the landscape seemed somehow bloodier, tainted. The otherwise beautiful array of sunlit oaks were drenched in hateful suspicion. I considered their advice, but kept course for Harrison. Rolling into town, I eyed bystanders with a condemning doubt. I found lodging, and set about exploring town and taking care of some odds and ends. Harrison is a sleepy, but tidy town. Nearly everyone i interacted with, from Monty at the bike shop, to the librarian, to the convenience store clerk, to the innkeeper, to a couple of random strangers, was abundantly generous and sympathetic, in the sense that you can tell that this is how they are, and not because they had to be. And, far from having nothing to offer, Harrison houses Homey Hearth, the heavenliest harbor a bicyclist has ever dreamt. Hmmm.

To top it off, on Sunday, Fred invited me for dinner and arranged for me to stay at his in-law's place south of town. In perfect Sunday fashion, Fred, Sarah, Doreen, Norm, Janie and I had a blissfully placid afternoon, together making dinner, playing cards, enjoying easy and genuine company and watching the sun set over the horse pastures and woods near Snowball Creek, consuming with it the last dismal residues of the previous morning's negativity.

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The Bones of Missouri

17 October 2008

Hill country. Hill upon hill upon hill. Kind of like the steep ones better, as the work feels shorter and the reward greater. Pleasant countryside, just experiencing the first tinges of autumn. More quantity and variety of roadkill than all other states combined. Not sure what this means for bikers. I try just to keep my eyes peeled and not think of the implications. Cities like Warsaw and Lebanon that seem to compare aptly to their old world namesakes. Osage-Orange trees with their distinctive and impenetrable fruits. Black walnuts scattered along the shoulder. The Katy Trail, an endless arcade of sycamore, oak, telegraph poles and more. Gusty scatterings of rain while camping on Pomme de Terre, the Osage River. Amish country, with horse and buggy, and fresh pommes d'amour. A day of heavy and interminable rain. Luckily warm enough to embrace it, of course after fighting it at first. The rain cleared into a brisk autumn blue. A bald eagle joined me briefly. Going further south, the farms seemed better kept. This is as rural land ought to be. No reason that any place shouldn't be well maintained. Took back roads, on to gravel roads for a piece. Past a quaint junkyard. Who knows how many antiques hidden there. Fourteen junkyard dogs gave chase. I don't know what they'd do if they caught me. More dogs gave chase. One old and fat. Imagine the body of a limousine steer, scaled down to a large black lab. I slowed down to give him a little hope. Applaud the effort. Mark Twain National Forest. Perhaps he ambled here. Went through Mansfield, land of Laura Ingalls Wilder and the Little House. Didn't visit the historic home, as I figured Mary wouldn't be there, at least not how I remembered her. Camped in some woods near Mount Zion, Missouri. Woken by a murder of crows, cawing in unison. Ferried across the White River.

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The Southwest Chief

10 October 2008

After leaving Currant Creek valley, cruising past the Royal Gorge, I spent the night camping in Florence. This is the upper Arkansas River valley, and I climbed steadily south, taking the long way, until I descended back toward Pueblo. After Pueblo, it was a long flat 60 mile ride into La Junta. Against a headwind. In Pueblo I called Amtrak to reserve a spot on the Southwest Chief into Kansas City. (I was taking a train because if I got the job, I needed to get to North Carolina sooner than I could ride there. If I didn't get the job, I needed to get to Austin and get things in order. As my aunt put it, I'm only half a free spirit.) After six hours of near-constant pedaling, I made it with eight minutes to spare, and the Amtrak staff were probably the most accomodating I have ever worked with in any realm of transportation.

After a fitful but resting night on the train, I awoke just before sunrise. Fog and steam wafted over the Kansas River in damp and purple hues of morning. The arid eastern Colorado plains had given way to stately oaks and kudzu's aggressive greenness. The city was still quiet as I biked away from the Kansas City, Missouri station to my aunt's home in Kansas, just across the border.

My aunt Elaine and uncle Arne hosted me for the next two days. We alternated making dinner for each other and I recovered from the two previous heavy biking days. We debated the pros and cons of secular society and organized religion and talked politics. These are topics one might normally shy away from. It requires a great deal of mutual respect and individual confidence to discuss them freely, and I appreciated that we could converse easily about sensitive subjects. And we traded stories of bike treks. One of my sister's first memories was of Elaine and Arne biking from New Jersey to Vermont en route to Maine, and they've also trekked in California, North Carolina and Scandinavia. Kindred spirits, as it were, who know the power of experiencing the world on a bicycle. As I join Leah, Lincoln and Peter for a while, I hope to similarly bring up young minds in the way of the bike.

Leaving the security of family, I biked back through Kansas City, had some fantastic barbecue at Jack Stack, and drifted through 18th and Vine. On my way to Liberty, a commuter cycled up behind me and struck up a conversation. Scott biked out of his way for several miles to guide my path and put me on a better route to Liberty. Much appreciated. By sunset I made it out to a campground on the Missouri. This is the land of cicadas and crickets and mosquitoes, of dense green woods with thick underbrush and humid air. If you haven't heard cicadas, it only takes a few to surround you in an overwhelming and undulating vibration, like didgeridoos in stereo. Lulls me to sleep, each wave of sound like a deep breath from the earth.

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The Turn

North Carolina didn't work out. This is disappointing, but not tragic. Like any job, it had its pros and cons, and in this case they were fairly evenly matched. What's more, this job application process in particular has helped me to understand and articulate what I want to do with my career, so there's gain there.

The classically scripted ending to the bike ride doesn't appear imminent. The limbo is still intact. And the ride so far has taught me something about loving the uncertain, unknown and unexpected.

So at Warrensburg, Missouri I decidedly turn south to Austin. While Austin has many cool offerings, three advantages make it stand out far and above North Carolina. They are named Leah, Lincoln and Peter. Lincoln called me, and in his 3-year old voice, asked if I would come stay with them and told me to "work a little harder so I get there faster." Leah told me she would ride fifty miles with me, on her tricycle.

As for the route, I'll be trading the Smokies and waterfalls for the Ozarks and hot springs. Not bad. Either way, I get unintelligible accents and toothless ruralness, so no loss there. I'll trade the Carolina farm country and bluegrass for Austin's hills and endless music. Kayaking for rock climbing. With the wonder of nieces and nephews, together with with my loving sister Michele and brother-in-law Andrew, the balance is stoutly in Austin's favor. I guess I am getting a little more certainty than I let on. There's some beauty in that as well.

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The Hoosier Passing

6 October 2008

Having a whole lodge to myself, I felt like Goldilocks as I perused the kid's room with bunkbeds, a room with a full-sized bed, and the master suite with king-sized bed and spa. Being a little shy, especially since I wasn't sure if I was "supposed" to be there, I opted for the middle option, taking a warm shower (no jacuzzi, mostly because of impatience) and the full-sized bed. Roughing it, I know. 

As I launched out on the highway, where clouds swirled and the occasional patch of sun lit the snow-flocked trees, I realized that there were only three or four miles left to climb. After a series of hairpin turns in the light rain and snow, and a final reach of neck-arching horizon, I was at the summit. Howling wind and frigid fingers, I took a few pictures, remembered the Pacific watershed for one last time, and headed down into the South Platte Headwaters. As soon as I began to descend, the clouds vanished, the roads dried and it was nearly pure downhill, with the exception of a brief climb over Currant Creek Pass, down the correspondingly named valley, until it joined with the Arkansas River. 

I almost didn't have to pedal. But of course I did, to see if I could add a little more speed and thrill to the descent. Ironically, I strained my legs more on the descent than I had during the previous weeks of climbing, as I pulled harder to get energy off the upstroke. Double irony, I was quickening my exit from the gorgeous Currant Creek Valley and my subsequent entrance into the somewhat less gorgeous plains east of the Rocky Mountain front.  

Between the Hoosier descent and the Currant Creek Pass and Valley was a section of high desert shrubbiness. Somehow, this section of land, just as high as many of the forests around it, was mostly windswept plain. Occasionally, a stand of aspen would oddly plunk down like a wandering traveler that decided to go no further.