Missouri (Part 2)

  That night I stayed in Salem, Missouri, with a host through Warmshowers, a network of people willing to share their homes with those traveling by bike.  I used the website sparingly on my trip across the country but met some great people through it.

   Sarah and Jordan were among my favorite hosts.  After a recent move from Montana, they were fairly new to the area and still getting their bearings.  Sarah was a full-time mother and did nursing on the side. Jordan was a mining engineer (probably the first and last time I will ever meet one of those—lots of good stories). 

  Most stays are pretty much the same: meet, shower, eat, chat, sleep, wake up, leave. That’s the routine we started in Salem, but somewhere around “eat” or “chat” we deviated a good bit.  

   

  “I’m sorry, maybe it’s none of my business, but is that a bucket of spring coil traps under the table?” I asked with a chuckle as I stuffed my face with another spoonful of dinner.  

  They both let out a sigh and looked at their little boys before they spoke.  

  “Yeah, but don’t think we’re weird, please,” Sarah started.  “We had a bunch of chickens until a few nights ago.  Something has been picking them off, so we were trying to catch it.  Whatever it was, it got our last two last night.”  

  I looked out the sliding glass door and saw a mostly finished chicken coop with an angled roofline.  It was perched about three feet off of the ground and, with a multi-runged ladder, it looked more like a small tree fort for the kids than a chicken coop.

  “Have you been able to track where it’s coming from?” 

  “We have tried.  We feel like we got it right but it slipped through our snares last night.  We haven’t had a chance to remove the dead chickens today because of the boys, but we are thinking we may leave them in hopes that it comes back tonight.  So we wanted to try a different style of trap—that’s why we bought those other onetraps.”  

  Jordan showed me around the backyard after dinner, which inevitably led us to the murder scene.  As he swung the door open I felt my knees grow weak for a brief moment. Blood splatter covered the walls and ceiling, and two chicken carcasses shared the spotlight in the center of the coop.  

  “We were going to clean it out this morning but then thought maybe if we left them it would return.”  He repeated Sarah’s words from dinner.

  He pointed out the two snares he’d set the night before.  One was where they thought it was entering their yard from the woods and the other just under the roofline where there was a small gap in the structure.  Both were sprung as if something had skillfully passed through them.  

  “I’ve never set a snare before but it looks like I did it right, just not good enough.  I ‘spose.” He let out a strained breath.  

  “What do y’all think it is?” I asked.

  “The neighbors think it’s a fox because they’re pretty common around here.”

  “It’s not a fox,” I cut in.  “Foxes don’t kill like this.”  

  “They seem pretty certain.”

  “These chickens still have their heads.  Have all of them been that way?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s not a fox then.  Foxes typically bite off the heads and, more importantly, foxes can’t climb.  Whatever got into your coop had to climb up that corner beam to get in and out.  Also, foxes don’t turn the coop into a blood bath like this. I don’t know what kind of animals y’all have here but this seems like a large cat of some sort.”

  He looked across the yard at his oldest son, who was splashing in the backyard puddles in rain boots and mud-speckled tighty whities.  The boy smiled at his dad and Jordan smiled back before turning to me. “Do you hunt?” 

  “No,” I said.  “But I can.”

  I walked to the woodline.  “Have you found any prints out here?  The ground is so soft from all this rain, surely there’s something.”

  “That’s what we thought but we couldn’t find much.  We’re fairly certain whatever it is, it comes out of the woods there in the tall grass.” 

  By the looks of the sprung snare, they were right.  Jordan and I spent the next hour crawling around the woods, fighting briars and slick mud, looking for prints or anything else.  I can confidently say, the woods in his backyard are a popular spot for animals to poop in. We found every kind of scat you could imagine.  

  It all seemed like a waste of time until he found a small pile of chicken carcasses that had been eaten down to the bones.

  “These were all yours, huh?” 

  He let out a grunt and stood up.  Together, we walked back to the coop, took one last look, and headed to the house.  

  “Once the boys are in bed I will reset the traps along with a few new ones. You really don’t think it’s fox?”

  “Not a chance.  But, I’ve been wrong before and I’ll probably be wrong again.  Just maybe not today,” I winked.

  After dinner, Sarah and he went out to the backyard in the dark to place their traps.  By the time they came back I was showered up and getting into bed. I said good night and went back to my room.

  Early the next morning, I slipped out of bed and started to get my bike ready to hit the road. The pitter-patter of two young boys circled around me and traced my steps.  With an endless supply of questions about me and my bike, they definitely kept me occupied while I packed.  

  Over breakfast, Jordan told me he thought he heard a few of the traps go off early in the morning but wasn’t going to check it until later.  

  I was about to push off when Sarah came outside with a grim weather report.  

  “There’s another wall of thunderstorms heading your way today.  You’re welcome to stay another night if you need to.”

  “I appreciate the offer but I will push on and hope to make it to the next town before it hits.  If I only pedal on the days that the weather is good, I will never make it anywhere.”

  A wise man once told me, “Hope is not a plan,” and on that particular day in Missouri, he was absolutely right.  Halfway into my ride, a dark gray wall was closing in on me from the west. I slid on my rain jacket and pedaled faster.  Even though it overtook me, the rain was slow to start. The temperatures gradually began to drop and the winds started to push in from the west.  Thunder roared and rumbled in the distance but the lightning didn’t crack. After an hour, the extra layer worked against me and I was sweating so much that I took it off, but I still thought that I was going to escape the worst of it.  

   As soon as I got my rhythm back a large crack of lightning stretched its tendrils across the sky.  Then came the rain. There was no chance to get my jacket on, I was already soaked.  

  For the first few minutes I told myself that it wouldn’t last long, but after an hour of the onslaught I gave up on that and started to look for shelter.  The homes I passed all looked empty or not a door to knock on.

  Over the roar of the cars and the pelting rain, I could make out the yapping of a lap dog.  Not a sound I would usually be too excited to hear, but I figured if that little booger was outside someone was probably with it.  I slowed down trying to figure out where it was coming from but the heavy rain made it difficult to see much of anything. I thought I saw a shadow streak across a large front porch and back, so I waited until I saw it a second time.  This time, the little ankle-biter yapped the whole way across the porch.  

  I didn’t hesitate.  I turned off onto the driveway and started my way up to the porch.  I heard a robust laugh and heard, “Come on up!”

  When I first looked up, I couldn’t see who had called to me.  But when I looked again, I saw a giant of a man walking down the steps into the rain with no jacket.  He met me at the gate and opened it to let me pass through. His smile hid behind a gray beard with brown sprinkles. 

  “Let’s get you out of this mess!”  He swept his arm through the air welcoming me to his home and placed it on my back as I pushed my bike through the gate.  

  By the time we were on the porch, we were both soaked.  

  “Looks like a terrible day for a ride!”  He laughed. “Where are you coming from?”

  I told him about where I’d been and where I was heading, and he seemed convinced I was loony. 

  “Well, I can’t let you go back out there in this, so you’re stuck with us until it passes.”  He passed me a stack of towels that his wife, Cyrstal, must have fetched when they spotted me coming down the driveway.  She sat back down in her chair and listened to me ramble on about the weather the last few days.  

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t introduce myself,” I extended my hand to the big man.  “I’m Mark.”

  He snatched my hand up and gave it a hearty shake.  “I’m Paul. Paul Birdsong.”

  “That’s a great name!”

  “That’s good because it’s the only one I got!”  A hint of southern slipped into his voice for the first time.  It was only slight, but it was the kind of southern warmth that can get away with saying things like “finer than a frog hair” and “fixin’.”

  They invited me inside while the storm passed and, to my surprise, I saw a whole spread of chips and picnic snacks surrounding a dish of meatloaf.  Maybe it was the weather or the serendipitous meeting, but that was the best damn meatloaf sandwich I didn’t even know I wanted.  

  I ate at the kitchen island and chatted with the two of them.  No topic was left untouched: ex’s, guitars, how to mow the lawn while holding a dog.  We covered it all.

  In the lull of the conversation, I got a text from Sarah telling me that they caught a raccoon in the chicken coop.  

  “Hopefully, that’s the end of it,” I responded, but didn’t believe that for a second.  If they got new chickens, the predator would be back, and it wouldn’t be a raccoon.  

  Fully fed and warmed up, Paul, Crystal, and I went back to the porch to watch the thunderstorm in silence. 

  And that’s exactly where I want to leave you.  I wouldn’t mind being there myself: sitting on a porch with two kind people, watching a southern summer storm sweep through while eating another meatloaf sandwich.   

Missouri (Part 1)

  Anytime I tell someone I biked through Missouri, without fail they roll their eyes and ask, “You mean misery?”  Minus the heat, humidity, and hills that feel more like mountains, it’s a lovely state and I met some awesome folks there. But I did have some of my worst days of the ride in central Missouri.  In fact, the only two days that I doubted what I was doing were there. 

  It was mid to late June and the summer temperatures were trying to hit their peak, but monstrous thunderstorms from the west kept them, and me, in check.  On this particular day, I woke up in a rented room above the bar where, the night before, I drank the best homemade margaritas I have ever had. (Still the best, hands down.) No mix, no sugar, just a pure unadulterated tequila-based libation that egged me on to have “just one more” even though I had already had enough to sedate a moose.  

  I stumbled out of bed and gripped the jacket I’d hung up to dry the night before.  It was still pretty damp. There is nothing worse than putting on wet clothes. Scratch that, there is one thing: after you put on your wet clothes, you find out the weather is unseasonably cold and overcast.  I set out that morning with the understanding that it would be another day of shivering with no hopes of sunshine or warmth.  

  I had been on the road for a little over a month and the weather hadn’t completely broken me in.  By the end of the trip,I rode in whatever the meteorological gods could muster, but I hadn’t reached that level of apathy yet.  My stomach, on the other hand, had broken me in, or was well in the process.  

  My gut was tossing and turning throughout the day and no matter how fast my little chicken legs pedaled, there was no escaping it.  Every meal was a battle. I knew I needed food to make it through the day’s long climbs but my stomach just wasn’t up to it. Just the smell of food made my stomach cower behind my liver.  

  Between the weather and my gut, I was a beaten man that morning, and it lasted most of the day, but not all.   

  When I pulled up to the all-inclusive diner/gas station, I received my share of side-eye and whispers from the locals and the not-so-out-of-towners that were there for a float on the Black River.  Towns like this don’t trust a man in spandex on a loaded down bike. Throw in a scraggly beard and a flamboyantly colored bandana and they will likely escort you out as soon as you arrive.  

  I ordered my food with my head down and took the only seat available outside.  About two bites into my breakfast sandwich, I noticed two people hanging out around my bike but I couldn’t see around the ice box that it was leaning on.  In the same moment, the rain started to pick up, so I used this as an excuse to get up and move my bike next to me under the awning. 

  “What? You think someone is going to steal your bike?” A gruff voice behind me barked.  

  I looked back and saw a man who looked like he loved Sam Elliot as much as he loved cheap beer and cigarettes.  

  “No sir, the rain is picking up and I am just trying to keep her dry.”  I smiled back. 

  “Nobody wants your god damn bike.” 

  “That’s good for me then, sir, because I like it just fine.” Again, I smiled.  

  The older men at the table with him chuckled and smiled back at me, which just made him resent me more. 

  Like a bull warning the farmhand who has gotten too close, he let out a puff of air and cocked his head to the other side.  I took a few more bites of my breakfast and could feel him staring at me. He wasn’t done.  

  Now, I should tell you this.  I don’t discriminate. No sir!  It’s not appropriate to treat someone differently because of their race, age, or anything else.  So it goes without saying, I will slap any mouthy son of a bitch that is running his suck. But this man was surrounded by six other locals and that’s enough for me to resort to my favorite small town mantra: Shut up and mind your business.

  “Aren’t you cold in those itty bitty shorts?” He started up again. “It sure looks it from here.”  He laughed at his own joke and clapped once or twice as he wiggled in the plastic white lawn chair.

  Cool.  A small penis joke before 7:30am.  This day is starting off just the way I wanted it to.

  “No, sir.  I will warm up once I start riding.” 

  “Well, shit! Which is it? No, you aren’t, or you are and you will warm up? Don’t make no sense to me!”

  “I guess you have me there,” I said with a playful capitulating chuckle.  

  I wanted to put this old fart on his ass.  I imagine getting whooped up by a man in bike shorts would be a story that haunted him for the rest of his miserable years. I knew this wasn’t personal though. I have met men like him before, men who just want to fight. And this salty fella decided that I was worthy of his wrath.  I know myself well enough to know that I needed to leave. If not, I would fight, and I would fight hard.  

  I wrapped up my half eaten sandwich and put it in my rear bag.

  “Aww, you’re leaving so soon, huh?” The corner of his mouth peeked out from his speckled black and gray mustache.  “I was hoping you would stay a bit longer, boy.”

  “No, sir.  I have a long ride today and listening to you isn’t getting me anywhere good.” 

  He leaned back and watched me tighten the straps on my bags and smiled.  

  I threw my leg over my seat, clipped my helmet, and was about to push off when I heard the sound of a cheap plastic chair slide begrudgingly against the concrete patio.  Soon after, a hand squeezed my shoulder. My whole spine went straight. I looked back with all the fury in my heart to a kind, round face with gentle eyes. Another man who had been sitting with the curmudgeon stood next to me. 

  “Please be safe.  The weather has been lousy these last few days and a lot of folks around here start their day a bit too early after a long night of drinking.”  He said with a soft apologetic smile.  

  I looked down. “Thank you, sir. I will.” 

  We shook hands.  The power of his grip and stocky build betrayed his compassion. And, given his confidence to approach a stranger with such kindness and warmth I assumed he must have been a pastor at a local church.  

  I pushed off into the rain and started my long ride through Missouri’s hilly countryside.  As the day went on, it started to warm up and get more humid. My stomach was still in knots and I was fighting to get the water I needed in between my bathroom stops.  At the top of every climb and at the end of every downpour, I prayed that it would be the last, and it never was. It didn’t help that I couldn’t get that old bastard out of my head.  His cocky retorts followed me throughout the afternoon until I had enough.  

  It snuck into my head quietly at first, unnoticed, but then spread like an infectious disease that has no cure.  

  What am I doing out here? Maybe I made a mistake.  Grown men don’t take bike rides. They get jobs. Start families. And raise kids.  You’re an idiot.  

  Doubt and negativity grabbed the reins.  It took every ounce of unconscious strength to keep my legs turning around the crank.  

  Seriously, just stop.  This is stupid. You’re riding a bike across the country.  Oh, wait! You’re not just going across the country. You’re going all over the damn country because 4200 miles isn’t enough for you! When are you going to grow up? 

  “Shut up! Just shut up!” I yelled at the white line that marked the side of the road.  I closed my eyes and continued to pedal harder up a long, undulating climb. “I don’t want to hear this crap! My stomach feels like shit and you’re worse than the old dried up turd at breakfast.”

 I spotted something purple in the long grass along the side of the road and began to chuckle.  Surely, that’s not what I think it is. But, to my surprise, it was.  There on the side of the road in the middle of Nowhere, MO, was a huge fat purple dildo.  I stared at it in utter amazement. With the mixture of rain and a retreating sun, it almost glowed.

  Before I could even come up with a plausible story of how it got there, I passed another one. This one was long and narrow with an egg-like shape at the end of its extended reach.  I chuckled some more and told myself to grow up and keep going, but no amount of forced maturity could help me when I passed two more and a small can of lube. I stopped my bike and climbed off.  

  I stood over the sleazy lot and had so many questions that I knew would never get answered.  I got a stick and mustered them together for a family photo and felt bad for the dejected dildos.  All alone on the side of the road with no warm place to call home.

  We bonded.  

  For the next thirty-seven miles, I narrated short stories about how the cluster of cocks found its final resting point.  My favorite involved a jealous insecure boyfriend who couldn’t compete with his girl’s toys, so he tossed them out of his small rusting pick-up truck before returning back to the trailer park. 

  Then I wondered if someone else would find them, and if they did, what would they do with them?  Would they take them home and use them? Or would the Dildo family make an appearance on craigslist?  Whatever happened, I just hoped that they would get to stay together. No doubt, they had already seen so much. 

  By the end of the ride, I had forgotten all about the old man at the gas station diner and couldn’t stop laughing to myself about a big purple rubber phallus reflecting the sun’s splendor. 

  (More to come from Missouri next week.)

Where I initially spotted it while riding by on Sybil.

Transition

  It’s been a few weeks since I returned from Chile.  With the help of a very small storage unit, I have completely moved into my van, but I am still in the process of adjusting to it.  There are some things that are quite similar to being on the bike versus living in the van, but then there are other aspects that are so different it’s kind of a slap in the face.  

  Both demand a minimalist lifestyle—there’s no room for the frivolous.  When I started my bike ride I had way too many clothes, along with extra tools and a lot of crap that I didn’t need.  As miles became memories, so did that extra weight. During the six months of my ride, my bike slimmed down as much as I did.  One of my friends commented that the evolution of my bike was fascinating. By the end of the ride, I consolidated five bags worth of stuff into three and didn’t miss a thing.  

  I have started that process all over again with the van.  On the bike it was based off of “what am I willing to carry,” but in the van it’s “what is in my way.” I constantly shift stuff around to pop the top, make my bed, or cook on the stove.  Anything that is getting moved more than getting used needs to go, but some things have to be in there. And some of those things take up a lot of damn space. For instance, the list of tools (and spare parts) I need to resuscitate the van is much more extensive than the list needed to keep Sybil going.  I have a few ideas on how I will go about this but it will just take time.  

   Without a doubt, though, the hardest adjustment has been what to do with myself during the day.  Prepare to roll your eyes (if you didn’t already).  I have such a large amount of free time during the day that it actually feels like I have more time to think than I did when I was pedaling.  I have rediscovered old hobbies and started some new ones to occupy my mind but I do get a bit restless. One can only do so much reading, writing, and doodling throughout the day before he goes a wee bit mad, or becomes overly “chatty.”   

  My favorite adjustment is how strangers view me now.  When I was on the bike, I danced between homelessness and drifter so well that people were enchanted by the idea of my journey, except that kid in Kansas.  However, living in the van I lean more towards homelessness, which people don’t find enchanting or endearing of any sort. Most people actually find it concerning. Especially when I am parked in front of their million dollar homes along the water, cooking a meal with the top popped.  In fact, they are so concerned (for my well being, of course) they send out local representatives from the Coronado Police Department to find out who I am and why I haven’t left yet.  You haven’t lived until you chatted with three police officers while cooking breakfast in your pajamas in front of hundreds of curious beach goers.  

  The lifestyle takes some getting used to but there is more to it than the highlight reels you see on Instagram and Facebook.  Some of my most frustrating moments stem from everyday things like finding a restroom or a place to charge my phone.    

   This stress doubles when the van starts to misbehave, which has already happened once when I was out in the desert.  Fortunately, it was a small vacuum leak that was easily fixed but that may not always be the case. I was just lucky this time.

What’s Next?

  This question has been following me for several months now and it’s finally caught up.  For the short term, I am going to spend my effort and time restoring the van and improving my writing.  I will do a better job of keeping my blog active to ensure I am writing more consistently. The next few weeks will be dedicated to sharing stories from my bike trip that I didn’t write while pedaling.  I really look forward to sharing faces and names from the road with you.  

  There’s also a firm plan that extends all the way out to late summer but I am not ready to share that just yet.  You will have to stay tuned, but I promise that good things are on the way.  

At The Edge of the World

   Like any good traveler, I began packing for my next trip before I had even finished unpacking from my six month ride across the country.  My long time friend, Steve, signed up for an “extreme triathlon” in Chile and needed someone to handle the support logistics while he raced.  It sounded like a good time and a good excuse to practice my Spanish. (Even though I grew up in a house with a strong Colombian influence, I don’t speak Spanish fluently.)

   With only two days between the trips, I set the odds against myself but managed to get a lot done and rest a bit before our flight out, which was early (wake up before you even go to bed early). 

  I slept through most of the first flight to Mexico City. Where we met up with Stacie, Steve’s wife, and Logan, a seventh month year old who has shit his pants in more places around the world than you have visited.  We explored the airport, enjoyed a few mojitos before we caught our next flight to Santiago.

   The layover between Santiago and Balmaceda was short, but with an unspoken plan to divide and conquer, we thought we had a chance.  Steve and Stacie were further back on the plane, so I decided to rush ahead to pick up all of our luggage and be ready for them when they caught up with me.  As I was stacking their last bag onto the luggage cart, they walked out and we were off to catch our flight, or so we thought. 

   Because we booked with multiple airlines, we had to return to the check-in counter to get our tickets and recheck our bags.  The logjam that greeted us when we walked into the terminal should have been our first clue that we weren’t going to make the flight. A thousand blindfolded ten year olds swimming in a cheap hotel pool were more organized than that shitshow. To save space and time, I will skip this mess and tell you that we missed our flight but eventually we made it to Balmaceda in our cozy cabin for the night.  

   With no problems, Steve checked into the race the next day. His travelers’ stomach was a different story.  I have two friends that won’t ever complain about a damn thing. Ian, who I damn near killed in the Oregon outback, is one of them and Steve is the other.   If it wasn’t for the bathroom’s thin walls and his unusually low food intake, it would have been hard to figure out the dude was suffering. It got to a point that I wasn’t even sure if he should be doing the race and gently pointed that out at 2am while I drove him to the starting line, where he would swim over two miles in sub-fifty degree water, cycle 112 miles of rough roads, high winds, and over 6000 feet of climbing, then run a marathon.  In short, not the kind of race you want to start feeling sleep deprived and dehydrated, which he was. Severely. With him being one of the first ones out of the water, it clearly didn’t affect him too much at the start.

   The bike had to have been my favorite and least favorite part of the day.  As the support team, Stacie and I drove ahead to meet up with Steve on different parts of the course to get him food and water when he needed it.  It was a blast to be a part of the race in this capacity, and with good company, Stacie and Logan, and amazing scenery, the seven hours went by quick.  

   What made it stressful were the other drivers running support for their riders.  Many of them were respectful to the racers, but there was a handful that either blocked traffic so they could stay with their rider or got dangerously close to other riders when passing or following.  It was terrifying to watch. And, as someone who just spent close to seven months on a bike across the United States, I couldn’t help but take it personally!

   So, when Stacie and I couldn’t find Steve at the eighty-five mile mark, we were deeply concerned.  Did his body finally give out on him or did one of these Mario Andretti wannabe’s clip him as they passed?  We had no way to know for sure so when he finally showed up after along climb, beleaguered by headwinds and his body’s revolts, we were elated to see him.  With slumped shoulders and an out of rhythm pedal cadence, Steve didn’t look well, but he still smiled when we spoke.  

   When we saw him again at the transition, every sign of weakness left him.  The beaten man who passed us a few miles ago was nowhere to be found, but he still had twenty-six miles ahead of him.  The way the course was setup, he would be on his own for the first eighteen miles. We wouldn’t be able to offer him any support once he left the transition area, so there was concern in making sure that he had everything he needed to get to the final bit where I would be able to run with him into the finish line, which I was dreading.  

   It’s hard to bitch when Steve had done so much that day but I really didn’t want to run those last eight miles but knew I had to.  As ridiculous as it sounds, I didn’t know how my body would handle it. I was still recovering from my ride. My legs were sore and my back was very displeased from being upright after months of being hunched over my handlebars.  All that being said, I came out to be support so I was going to do it.  

   When Steve made his appearance at the final checkpoint, he didn’t really stop.  I just joined in and started switching out bottles and passing him whatever food he needed.  His bowels had him in rough shape but the man refused to quit. We chipped away at the last eight miles together through beautiful mountain scenery that reminded me of the barren mountain scapes that I rode through in Wyoming and Montana.  We talked about the geological conditions that created the scenery and did our best not to acknowledge the remaining distance that never seemed to shrink, no matter how fast or long we jogged that loose gravel road.  

   In the final thousand meters, you could make out the finish line.  Well, that’s a lie. You could see the lake on the horizon and understood that the finish line had to be before that.  Right before the line, Steve stole Logan from Stacie and crossed the line with him, which made him the youngest male participant to cross the line.  

   I ducked off to the left and got a strong helping of french fries, ketchup, and mayo with a gatorade on the side.  

   The rest of the trip would require a book’s worth of notes instead of a blog entry—something I am not willing to commit to just yet.  I will say this though: I will go back, and hopefully, with my bike.   

Come with me

This last month down the coast has served me well.  Unfortunately, my laziness as a writer has not served me or my readers, which puts me in a terrible position: what do I tell you about?  Another snowy mountain pass as I wrestled with my ego; the beauty around the Olympic Peninsula; or an evening spent with an Inupiat medicine man and his music by the fire?

   Really, I should have told you all of these, and maybe one day I still will.  I would like to do something different, though, something I said I would never do on here: a true travel blog entry.  I would like to take you into The Avenue of the Giants, a fifteen mile ghost of Highway 101 that winds through coastal redwoods and dances along the Eel River. So, knock the dust off that old Raleigh, fix those flat tires, grease that rusted chain, and go unpack that goofy looking camelback that probably tastes like plastic and whatever sport powder you thought was a good idea to put in there the last time you used it. And don’t forget your jacket!

  As we approach the turnout for the Avenue of the Giants, we pass by Stafford.  When we left Eureka I promised you we would stop here for the night, but the sun’s warmth and tailwinds are urging us on.  Don’t worry about the extra miles and rolling hills, I will lend you some leg power to get you to camp. But don’t expect me to share my Scotch, too.  

   After a short climb, we descend into the giants’ protection, and while it is a spiritual moment to be in the presence of so much wisdom and age, the chill you feel is because the sun doesn’t often make it to the forest floor here, so you can put your sunglasses away.  

   The coastal redwoods, towering trees that can exceed three hundred feet in height and almost thirty feet in diameter, surround us now.  Let’s not just talk about it though. Pull over at this first turnout to experience the feeling of smallness that comes with standing next to one, let alone a whole grove, of these peaceful giants.  

   Place your hand on the bark here, like mine.  This rust colored shell can be as thick as one foot on larger trees and can protect them from wildfires.  Close your eyes and feel the stillness. We are lucky to be riding here, but even more so lucky to be doing it at a time when there isn’t any traffic on the road—a silver lining to the black out that consumes the northern California coast right now.  When you’re ready, we will get back in the saddle and slowly make our way through the forest to our campsite. There will be a few rolling hills and minimal shoulder to bike on, but our night by the campfire will be worth it. Speaking of which, it’s getting dark, and judging by the sun we only have an hour before it sets. We’ll need half of that to get to our campsite, so let’s admire while we roll through, knowing tomorrow will be our big day with a tree that was a sapling when the Roman Empire was still young.

   With our tents set up and the fire dying down, look up one last time tonight, but this time, beyond the trees.  Tonight is a new moon so the Milky Way pours its light directly over us. If you look over there between those two trees you can make out a distorted “w” with those bright stars.  That’s Queen Cassiopiea. As punishment for her vanity and arrogance, Artemis and Apollo, armed with bow and arrow, struck down Cassiopiea’s seven sons and seven daughters. Beneath her, and not nearly as clear, is Perseus, a Greek hero who, with the aid of Athena, slayed the gorgon Medusa. But I can tell you about that later.  Let’s climb in our tents and get some rest.  

   After a full night’s sleep, we wake up to a half inch of ice on our tent, which makes repacking the bags a nuisance.  Let me show you how to rig your tent to the outside of your gear so it will dry as we ride. If we’re lucky, the sun will be out at lunch and we can dry the rest then.  

    Let’s hit the road!

   The mornings can be rough in the forest on a bike.  The windchill really cuts to the core, but if you put too many layers on, your body will be blanketed in sweat underneath your clothing that leaves you wet and cold anyway.  Either way you’re going to be slightly uncomfortable until it warms up, so it’s better to pick one and embrace it.  

   I want to take you to one spot in particular today before we go our separate ways.  We will head south for a few miles and turn off the main drag to the Bull Creek Flat area, which has the tallest forest canopy on the planet, but that’s not why we’re here.  We are here to visit the giant that hides in this forest, but even among her peers, she still stands out. The Bull Creek Giant isn’t the tallest nor the oldest tree, but at 1,930 years old it has my respect.

   I can’t really tell you why I brought you here other than I like this spot. We are far enough away from the road that we have disconnected from traffic and all of the other excess noise from the modern world.  

   Stop.  Put your phone away.  Come and sit beside me for a second breakfast. It may seem silly, but before we sit down, we should ask the tree for permission to join her in the grove.  We tend to assume we are welcome everywhere we go, but a little humility in the heart serves us well, and I can’t think of a better place to practice humility than here with the giants.  

   Like yesterday, place your hand on the bark, close your eyes, and let her feel you, and she will undoubtedly let us lay beside her for a while.     

   I don’t like to talk and eat in moments like this so I am going to sign off from here, but before I submit to the forest’s calmness, here is one last piece of advice: realize that we are somewhere extraordinary.  Allow your inner kid to come out and embrace this special place on Earth. Take your shoes off, roll around on the pine needles and feel them crunch under you, or, quite simply, take a nap in the fresh morning air and let the forest recharge you for our slow ride to a campsite along the Pacific Ocean.  But, whatever you do, leave your phone out of it. Just be.  

Rejection

   I stood in my friend’s flat watching the Berliners revolt against the sky.  They were merciless to her with a barrage of fireworks that lasted until three or four in the morning.  It was New Year’s day now and the changes that 2019 would bring inched closer with every pop, bang, and fizzle.
   A twelve year career in the Navy Explosive Ordnance Disposal community for the Navy was coming to an end, and I had no clue what I was going to do next.  As things often do with me, the idea struck me with certainty.  I was going to go to business school, but not just any business school. I was going to study my ass off and get into the best Business Schools in the world.
   The next day I reached out to my friend Sam to tell him my plan.  He and I went through Dive and EOD School together and he has always been a great mentor to me.  He was excited for me but encouraged me to look at options that would get me outside.  I listened to him but didn’t waver, and once it was clear that I was set on my decision, he set me up with what I needed to know.
   When I came back from my trip to Europe, I had a new temporary passion—study for the GMAT.  I took a few practice tests and did horribly.  I expected to do poorly on the math section but when I got low marks on the verbal section I was deeply offended.  Over the next few months I studied for four hours a day, hired a tutor, took weekly practice tests, and even quit drinking Scotch in the evenings.  My practice tests showed minimal improvements at first but I knew I would get the scores I needed, which, looking back, may have been pure foolishness.
  As my test date got closer my life became a bit more hectic.  I was preparing for the bike trip I am on now while trying to study, but I didn’t relent on either. They were both going to happen the way I envisioned them.
   For my first real attempt at the GMAT, I took a full on test for practice a few months prior, and crushed it.  My scores were high enough that even Harvard and Stanford would consider me as a competitive applicant, and, while I wasn’t interested in their cutthroat reputations, I felt good about that.
   Months and miles went by and what proved to be more difficult were the application essays.  Well, one essay in particular: “Why an MBA and why Dartmouth?” I was stumped.  I read Sam’s essays and so many others to get solid ideas but none of it helped.
   Eventually, I was forced to reconcile with the fact that there may be a reason that I struggled with this question but wasn’t ready to swallow that pill yet.  I continued to put off this one essay and work on others while I pedaled my way across America.  Every day spent on the road flew in the face of my plan to go to business school. I met folks that I connected with in the trades, police departments, and fire houses, but I continued to lean towards business school for all the wrong reasons.  One of the big ones was that I didn’t grow up in a house where going to an Ivy League school was even an option, so I felt like I needed to walk through that door, but, more shamefully, I was chasing the big bucks that would come after it.  I wrestled with it with every down stroke through the Rockies.  Sandpoint, Idaho was the tipping point.  Before then, Montanans showed me how happy you can be with a median income and not giving your life to your job, but to your friends and family. I found something similar in Sandpoint—a group of hardworking folks that chose a lifestyle over their base salary.
   Shortly after, I withdrew my applications, and, this week, I watched the deadlines pass by with a smile and great company.  I don’t know what’s next for me.  I may keep pedaling after a break in San Diego or I may find a spot to settle down in, but what I do know is I feel good about what is on the way.  

Sherman Pass

  Since Denver, I have been telling folks that I wanted to make it as far north as Whitefish, MT.  The reactions have always been the same, some terribly vague warning about cold weather and snow.  It’s a fair concern but my rebuttal never changed, “You can’t be on the road for six months and not run into bad weather.”

   There were whisperings about snow before I rode into Sandpoint.  The rumors made me reticent to take an extra day there but I had a cool place to stay and met some fun people there, so when I left Sandpoint I knew That I was likely going to have some wet and cold days ahead of me.  

   With wavering weather forecasts, my confidence grew that I wouldn’t actually snowed on.  I did pretty well for a couple of days but my luck eventually ran out outside of Colville (Caw-ville, they will correct you) on my way up Sherman Pass, a gradual twenty-four mile climb with minimal traffic.  It certainly wasn’t the hardest mountain pass, but it has to be the longest.  A small wintery mix of hail, sleet and rain greeted me for most of the climb.  I felt pretty sure that I wasn’t going to get hammered by the snowstorm that every news outlet was talking about, and then I got to the summit.  

  The wintery mix found its identity and a barrage of snow flakes and greeted me at the summit, as did a Sheriff who found Sybil and my presence baffling.  He warned me that the snow got worse on the other side, and that at about two thousand feet of elevation it turned into rain—“a complete deluge,” he said.  That warning was enough for me.  I pulled over turned on every damn light I had and changed into my rain slickers, which, unfortunately, meant that I had to drop clothes for a brief moment.  

   One very frigid minute later, I was suited up and ready to go, or so I thought.  As soon as I crossed the summit, I entered white out conditions. I couldn’t see a damn thing except the snow that so eagerly greeted me.  Within the first half mile, I could barely make out the white line that was supposed to separate me from the cars.  It was this same moment that I discovered my brand new pair of gloves, despite rocking a tough exterior, were not waterproof.  My hands were instantly wet and freezing and I decided then and there that if a car offered me a ride I would take it in an instant.  

  As if on cue, a blue Volkwagen station wagon pulled up next to me and rolled down its window.

  “Are you the Navy vet riding into Republic today?” The shadowed woman asked.

  “That’s me,” I answered as I eyed her trunk space.

   “I can’t believe you’re riding in this,” she said as she continued to drive next to me on the slick snow-covered roads.  “You’re so brave!  Good luck!” And she drove away and took all her car’s warmth and space with her.  

  I watched her tail lights go around the bend and hoped that I would see brake lights but I never did.  (Dierks Bentley anyone?) She expertly drove the switchbacks in the snow without ever tapping them, crushing my hopes a little more every time she pressed the gas pedal.   

   My hands were freezing, water started to leak through the zipper of my “impermeable” jacket, and I couldn’t look up any longer than a few seconds because of the frostbit wind. I had to look up occasionally to clear the shoulder for obstacles but for the most part I followed the white line without riding on it (they can be slick in wet conditions).  Because my hands were going numb, I occasionally tapped both brakes just to make sure I didn’t leave them at the top of the mountain. 

   After riding through an inch and a half of snow on skinny slick tires for a few miles, the snow turned to rain, but that just chilled me to the bone more.  I passed by a controlled forest fire and for a second thought about walking out to it to warm up.  It’s absolutely amazing what stupidity I will dream up when I am that cold.    I eventually convinced myself that that probably wasn’t the best of ideas and finished up the ten mile descent down the mountain followed by a short ride to Republic, where a very nice motel room with a hot shower was waiting for me.  

  The next two days I hitched rides over the passes to avoid a similar situation but did so with a pang of guilt each time we reached the summit and the conditions “weren’t that bad,” but I know it probably was the safer thing to do.