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.  

Hugs and Hamburgers

  Oh, the countless people I have met a long the way.  The amount of loving and caring people in this country is remarkable, and when you meet people on the road divisive attributes don’t apply.  People don’t care about your political views, where you came from, or any other frivolous nonsense that we allow to pull us apart from genuine human connection.
   What’s fascinating to me is the role you play in the connection determines what’s appropriate to suggest when you say goodbye.  It’s not uncommon for a host to tell me that I am always welcome to return and for me to reciprocate in kind (you know, when I have a home).  Some hosts have gone as far to imply that I didn’t have to leave, that, as far as they could tell, there is nothing stopping me from starting a life in their small town.   Those are the ones that make my heart grow the most.  In these last few weeks, there have been a few small towns in our massive country that I had to force myself to leave or else I never would complete my ride. But, alas, Zephyr’s gentle wind is always whispering sweet things in my ear about what is just down the road, and the wanderer in me feels compelled to explore her rumors.
   What I love the most is meeting another solo bike tourist.  There have been a few, at least on my end, that I have really hit it off with and, if I am truly honest, didn’t want to leave his or her company so soon.  Whether it be Mike, traveling the country with his dog; the ever beautiful Rosie, a Brit who is pushing herself across America with great tenacity before her visa expires; Ron, a man few years older than me who is a touring legend as far as I’m concerned; Cat, a cheerful French Canadian whose smile could warm the earth if the sun ever went out; or Reed, whose maturity is beyond his age, all of these people are people that I wouldn’t mind one more day with, just one more chance to listen to their stories.  The ironic thing is, is that because all of us came out here alone with our own trip in mind, none of us would ever dream of imposing on the other’s journey.  We each value our own, so we wouldn’t dare ask someone else to change theirs.  We share these wonderful moments of vulnerability and familiarity with one another to let go of it shortly after.
   Albeit brief, it is the most beautiful example of platonic love I have ever experienced in my life, and if it were the only good that came from this trip, which it’s not, that would make every bit of worth it. Fare winds to all of the solo riders out there (even that prickish little German boy, just kidding, head winds and downpours the whole way for him)!  

Front or Back?

    The last few days in Wyoming have required earlier starts to beat the wind.  Once the afternoon comes, my day is either over or becomes ridiculously miserable.  Battling the wind on a fully loaded bike is a physical test but the most insulting pain seeps in between the ears, whirls down the eustachian tubes, and whispers weakening thoughts to the brain.  I find myself looking for a better gear ratio, even though there isn’t one, or constantly checking my computer to see how far I have gone since the last time I checked.  

    1.3 miles.  Good work, Hincapie.  

    It’s a relentless battle, but it’s not enough for me to conclude that I chose a bad route or am “going the wrong way,” which I have heard endlessly and is enough to drive me up a wall.  There is no right way to bike across any country. There are routes and places that require more planning and a little bit of grit to make the day more feasible, but definitely no wrong way.  However, there are always things that you just can’t plan for—storms, mechanical problems with the bike, rude little rich German boys who are far from home and insult your country, and your every day morning bowel movement. Some may argue that those last two are splitting hairs and, to be honest, I would be inclined to agree with them.  The only difference is one you can flush down the toilet and the other you just want to. 

    But, no, you can’t control the first poop of the day.  You can try to coerce it out with coffee or a bran muffin, but, bless its heart, it will do as it pleases.  Which can be a real pain in the ass when you have to start waking up at 4am to knock out some early miles before the winds pick up.  Even worse when you know you’re going to be biking along a highway all day where the trees are as rare as places to refill your water bottles, because the morning poop is coming down the pipe, like it or not.  

    So, no shit, there I was ready to leave Rawlins early in the morning with some stubborn stohl.  I was hesitant to leave that morning because I knew it was going to be forty-five miles before I saw another bathroom, but you can only sit on the toilet for so long after your legs have fallen asleep before you start to question some of your decisions in life, which usually means the next one will be impulsive, and it was: I left my hotel room and started my ride.

    Dawn’s rosy red fingers had yet to break the horizon, but I was headed down the road to the highway that cut through town.  In the early hours of the morning there is a special tint of blue that is painted on to everything. It’s almost as if the cool crisp air emanates it to match its mood.  

    With no wind and heat, I felt strong.  I sang to myself and welcomed a thin layer of sweat under my jacket which swaddled my body in a refreshing cold breeze.  The sun began to crack over the horizon and sent rays of warmth to the mountains in the distance first, then the tall blades of grass beneath them, and then to me.  

    People rave about sunsets but there is something powerfully moving about watching a sunrise, to see its light and feel its warmth after the coldest hours is empowering, so I had to stop and admire the beauty.  Unfortunately, stepping off from my bike was like unkinking a hose—things started to flow again. A deep grumble from the depths of my bowels and I felt death’s icy fingers dance up my spine. I knew it was time, but there was nothing but “not high enough” grass and sage bushes.  Okay, there was one sage bush, and suddenly I regretted wearing my bright red long sleeve.  

    I did the only thing I could do, I got back on the bike and started pedaling.  I know this sounds like a ridiculous idea but it has worked for me before at a time when there were even less great options than I currently had.  

    My body wasn’t fooled.  The mass had already made its journey across the great transverse colon and had a pleasant sojourn down my descending colon, where it probably got jammed up, but found its release during that high left leg dismount and came rushing down with the density of a neutron star to the stoop of the back door.   

I may have made it a mile down the road before I came to grips with the severity of the situation. I rolled down a few more yards to where there were more sage bushes, but it was still the equivalent of walking around naked in your backyard and taking comfort in your widely spaced picket fence.  

That entire morning, maybe five cars passed me.  I had had the entire highway to myself, but now that I am about to drop my knickers and pretend that no one can see me fifteen feet off the highway, there is a steady flow of eighteen wheelers and tourists presumably making their way to Yellowstone.  

Now, I’m not shy.  I have done my share of public defecations in dire situations (remind me to tell you the story of when I was on a ten mile run on Panama City Beach when food poisoning struck five miles from my car), but this current predicament presented a whole new dilemma: Do I face the road or away from it? If I face the road, there is the chance of unwanted eye contact when a curious passerby wants to know why the guy in the bright red long sleeve is “hiding” behind the sage brush that only covers his knees, but if I face away from the road…. ...well, you can figure out the complexities there.  

I decided to face away from the road and enjoy the sunrise.  I felt like given the circumstance I was entitled to be a little selfish and focus on something more beautiful than the act itself.  I lowered my bike shorts and quickly squatted down.

Ouch! What the…!

I squatted too fast and dry grass poked and lanced my tender little arse and bits.  I tried to ignore the sounds of passing cars and trucks as I did my business, but honestly I couldn’t help but laugh at “Wyoming Bob and Brenda’s” bad luck that morning, or the fat RVers who were probably hoping to see an antelope.  

I finished up and used the toilet paper that I was smart enough to take from the hotel (like I said, not my first time in this situation), pulled up my bike shorts and made my way to the bike, but I could tell I had yet to be released from Death’s icy grip and there would indeed be a second act, and just as I put everything away the intermission ended and I entered the stage from the right to another sage bush.  

With a little more care to my unspeakables, I mashed down the dry grass and brush and began my crescendo, but this time, like a true scientist on a pursuit for knowledge, I faced the road.  I still kind of feel sorry for that old lady. The unbroken eye contact with my pale white thighs out is probably going to follow her for the rest of her days.  

In the end, I think I prefer facing away from the road with my hood up.  Then I can at least pretend that they never saw a thing, whereas I know that old woman saw everything.  Bless her heart.  

   

   

Type Two Fun

  (Note to reader: I typically try not to swear in my posts but in this particular piece it’s necessary.  It captures the essence of the moment.)

  Looking back at it, he was too clean for me to trust him.  His bandana looked like it had been pressed and his beard could have been drawn on.  His clothes did look ragged, but I bet he bought them like that.

   Kevin and I met in the hotel lobby while we were getting ready to roll out for the day.  He was doing a short bike tour to some small town in Nebraska, where his family would join him.  He had a pretty slick looking set up and had just come from where I was heading, or so he said.

   I asked him about my route for the day and he told me it was great—great roads, great views, everything was great.  Kevin was a liar.

   For the first ten miles or so, the ride was similar to every other ride out of town: light morning traffic, cool temps, and legs that weren’t sure about today’s ride. When I linked up with Highway 52, I noticed something different from my previous days in Colorado—there wasn’t any shoulder.  I normally don’t care about that but the quality of road was garbage, too.  Because of all the cracks, bumps, and debris, I had to ride further into the road than I like.  

   I am pretty comfortable riding in traffic, but the harvest season is not the time of year to be hogging the lane.  Eighteen wheelers, carrying monstrously oversized farm equipment, dart up and down the highways trying to earn their keep.  Most of the farm equipment doesn’t actually fit on the flatbed so a piece of metal or a tire bigger than most cars hangs off the sides.  Even when I have a shoulder to ride on these beasts can be dangerous, so take that shoulder away and it makes for a stressful day.  

   In hopes of better riding I turned off the main drag and found a road that ran parallel with the highway that had almost no traffic.  For about 7 miles, it was bliss. That’s when things started to go downhill, and I’m not talking about the road that continued its steady climb toward Denver.

   The first transgression towards my Colorado bliss was the smoothly paved road turned into a fine soft sand road.  For those who have been following on instagram and facebook, you know I have spent lots of time on country roads.  I will usually take my helmet off and enjoy the gentle cruise. I took my helmet off but I didn’t enjoy a gentle cruise this morning.  

   Sybil’s narrow tires and heavy load couldn’t handle the silt, so she constantly slid out from underneath me.  I never went down but there were a few close calls.  

   For the most part, this was just a nuisance.  It made it where I had to pay close attention to the sand to find the best route because staying in the car tracks didn’t always work. I would get comfortable for a bit and start to relax and then my back tire would slide out.  

   Like I said, this by itself was a nuisance, nothing more.  The problem was that this drastically slowed me down.  It slowed me down so much that the horseflies had no problem keeping up, landing on me, taking a chunk of flesh, and then flying off!  The miserable little bastards were even able to get me through the bike shorts, which was their preferred region for feasting!

  So, the next seven miles went something like this: Mark is riding with both hands on the handlebars.  Horsefly takes a bite of Mark’s ass.  Mark swats at horsefly. Mark loses control of the bike and nearly lays it down.  Repeat. 

   It’s easy to see why I was ecstatic to be turning on to a paved road.  When that glorious moment came, I stopped, put on my helmet, and thought the worst of it was behind me.  

   It only took about a hundred yards before I started wondering if this was actually an improvement.  The pavement was rough, cracked and every ten feet there was bump that jostled my undercarriage in a way that it shouldn’t be.  

   This sucks. I thought and let out a deep exhale.  I just tried to make the most of it, but it was difficult when every half a second my leather saddle was being rammed up into my nether regions, as if the last two thousand miles hadn’t been enough abuse on my kibble and bits.  

  “ERRAAAKKKK!!!!!” The sound erupted next to my left ear.

  I nearly leapt off my bike.  I shifted my hips and shoulders from the left side of my bike to the right as I looked up and back trying to see its source.

   “ERRAAAKKKK!” It sounded again.  

   A sharp short wind passed by my left shoulder.  I swerved all over the road trying to get a glimpse of what was over top of me.  Then I saw it. 

   A beautiful bird of prey flew fifty feet over me.  Its head was crimson and its flight was effortless.  

   “ERRAAAKKK!” It cried again.

   “It must be hunting.  I love being out here experiencing nature and getting to observe these raw moments that most only see on TV,” I said to myself.

  I relaxed a bit and followed its shadow over me. 

  Wait.  Why is its shadow over...

  A flap of its wing slammed into my helmet and it darted off before I could even see it.

   “ERRAAAKKK!” 

   “Hey!!! Fuck you, bird!!”  I yelled back and swerved all over the road.

   “ERRAAAKKK!!” It yelled back.

   This time it crashed into my helmet with its talons.  I felt my helmet begin to lift a bit as it tried to grip the helmet’s plastic shell.  

  “Leave me alone, god dammit!!” I yelled and shifted my body from side to side trying to get another look at it, but all I saw was an empty sky.  

   “Erraaakkk!” The bird’s response sounded softer and a low hum of a vehicle began to approach. I couldn’t help but wonder if the driver saw the attack or just me swerving all over the road and yelling at the sky.  The car passed and I began to relax again.

   Harder than before, the bird crashed into my helmet again.  

   “ERRAAAKKKK!!” It taunted.  

   About a hundred feet off the ground, it flew in front of me for a few short seconds.

   “Fucking go away, you piece of shit bird!”

   Yup.  Experiencing nature.  Soak it in, bub.  Soak. It. In.  

  As abruptly as the onslaught began, it ended with no clear sign.  Which is good because I began to run out of nasty adjectives to describe the bird and found myself relying on words like  “despicable” and “vindictive.”  In the end, the bird flew away with a stronger and more colorful vocabulary and I rode off with a new perspective.   

For the next thirty miles, I only had to deal with my saddle ramming into my manhood every few seconds and the oppressive hundred and three degree heat.  All things considered, not a bad morning.  

   

Homeless

   Kansans all warn me about the same things: hills, bad drivers, heat, and wind.  However, the only one that seems real to me is the heat.  The “bad drivers” are the most courteous I have come across on my trip, and all of them wave to me as if we have known each other all our lives instead of the flickering moment that we can barely make out each other’s facial features.  The wind, well, yeah it sucks but that’s a part of bike touring, and it certainly isn’t insurmountable.  The hills, I refuse to call them hills, they are long gradual inclines that pale in comparison to what I have already ridden.  They are more like sweeping undulations of wheat and corn that expose the beauty of nothingness, and are the perfect canvas for the insanity that ensues after long days on the bike. 

   Without a doubt, Kansas has been good to me.  Even with this scorching heat, she’s been good to me.  The small towns here are fascinating, an oasis of civilization in a very harsh climate and unforgiving land.  On my route, they are about fifteen to twenty-five miles apart, but not all of them have services, so it requires some planning for replenishment. 

   A few days ago, I pulled into the town of Oberlin.  As I came into town, I saw a small park and knew that if I asked the city officials this is where they would tell me to camp for the night, so before I even reached Main Street, I knew I wasn’t going to be asking anyone where to camp.  I have camped next to the highway too many times at this point and know that it doesn’t make for a restful night. Highway 36 seems to be the preferred route for eighteen wheelers and RVs, and they don’t stop driving just because I’m trying to sleep.  Shit, even when they do stop driving it doesn’t necessarily mean they are going to turn their engine off for the night. (YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE!!)

   Every time I pull into these islands of country folk, I feel like an outlaw cowboy entering an unknown town.  The wide streets welcome a leisurely roll to the heart of the wind trodden downtown.    I took a lap or two to get more familiar with Oberlin and decide where I would eat.  

   Once I knew the lay of the land, I picked the Re-load Bar and Grill.  I would take the time to describe it, but I feel like with that name you know exactly what it looks like, and I’d rather let your imagination get carried away than type another word about it.  The bartender was short, squatty, and had a face that betrayed her sweet nature.  The food, unfortunately, tasted just how it looked, but I didn’t care. 

   After an hour I was joined by a man named Dane.  He was much taller than me (it doesn’t take much) and had brown curls that you usually only see on a toddler.  The conversation started out pretty tame as we gave our introductions and backstories, but after a while Dane got comfortable and as he got more comfortable his language grew more colorful.  Now, I fucking swear all the time but out here it’s not that common so I have curtailed my natural instincts in order to be well received in these communities.  Dane, however, had not, and every time he swore the sweet old bartender’s shoulders tightened as she turned away. 

   To break my association with sunburnt Dane, I decided it was time to leave. 

   “I’ll take my check please,” I said

   “You’re all settled,” the bartender responded. 

   “But I haven’t paid yet.”

   “Don’t know what to tell you,” she winked.  “Have a safe ride, hun.”

   “Thank you, ma’am,” I smiled and put down a few dollars on the bar that she didn’t acknowledge. 

   It was getting late in the day and I needed to scout out a few places to camp.  I found another park attached to the local school and figured I would lay my blanket down and read for a bit.  About fifteen minutes into my new book, I was interrupted by a young voice. 

   “Hello,” the young boy said.

   I don’t want to do this right now.

   “Hello,” my voice fell flat on the ground between us.  I didn’t want to invite a lengthy conversation with the young boy.  I look like the vagrant that I am and conversing with a lone child in the park isn’t going to help me out any. 

   “What are you doing?” He asked.

   “I’m laying here reading my book.”

   “But you’re all by yourself.  You must be pretty lonely.”

   He’s a good kid, but still not doing this.

   “I’m not.  I’m pretty happy with where I am.”

   The boy shifted around my blanket but never stepped on it.  His bright yellow shirt with a batman insignia was probably too big for him last year but he hasn’t quit on it just yet.  He walked around to the side of the blanket that I was closest to and leaned over with his arm extended.  

   “My name is Clayton.  Clayton Redding.”

   His hand was barely big enough to wrap around mine but he did his best to give it a proper grip and shake.  

   “My name is Mark.”  

   Clayton leaned in to catch my last name.  When he realized that he was only gettin my first, he continued.

   “Look. I’m not trying to be mean, because, well you know me, I’m a nice guy.” 

   I couldn’t help but wonder who he was emulating.  His hands danced around like a pair of charmed snakes while he delivered his speech.

   “So, don’t think I’m mean, okay?” he asked.  

   “I won’t think you’re mean.” I said with a wry smile.

   “Okay, good! Are you homeless?” As soon as the words darted from his mouth he turned away like weight of the question was more than he could handle.  

   I laughed.

   His serpents began their dance again and he started to speak again but then changed his mind.

   “In a way, Clayton, I am very homeless right now.”

    “I thought so.”

   “You are very confident young man.  How old are you?” I asked

   “I’m twelve, sir.”

   He started to ask another question about my vagrancy but I interrupted. 

   “So you’re going into seventh grade then?”

   Clayton looked over his shoulder as if he was looking for help, but there was no one there.  His eyes didn’t meet mine.

   “I’m in the fifth grade.” He put down the plastic bag of food that he was carrying and ran his hand through his buzz cut.  He studied the grass then my red blanket.

   “Did you just get out of the pool?”  I asked hoping to shift the mood.

   “Yeah,” he said.  “So, you’re really homeless.  Why are you here then?”  

   “This is a choice that I made.  I’m biking across the country.  I’m doing this because I want to.” My voice grew softer.

   “Oh! This is a choice! I thought maybe this was because you had problems with the bank.”

   I couldn’t help but chuckle a bit.  

   “Nope, this is by choice,” I said.

   “Every morning I go to the city hall and they give me food.  Maybe tomorrow you could go there and they would give you some or, you know what, I will ask for a little bit more, so I can give it to you.  They know me.”  

   “That’s really kind of you, Clayton, but I’m going to be leaving early in the morning.”  

   “Oh, you don’t want to stay in our town?  That makes sense.”  

   The wind rattled the plastic bag at his feet.  He looked down at it and got an idea.

   “Here.  Have this then.”  He went to pick it up and pass it to me.

   “That is incredibly kind of you but I don’t need any food—I have plenty, but thank you so much.”  

  “I feel like I should help you.  You look like you need help.”  Clayton found his lost confidence and looked me in the face when he spoke.  

   “That means a lot but I don’t need any help,” I said.  

   He looked at me, my bike, the bags, my scraggly beard and must have seen enough to think otherwise.

  “Are you sure?” He asked.

  “Yeah, I’m sure,” I said through a loving laugh.

   “Alright, well I tried!”  Exasperated Clayton started to walk away and then thought of something.  “Do me a favor, okay?  Try to get a house one day.  This isn’t good for you!”  

   “I will do my best.”  

The Night Stalker

Alright, alright, alright.  I learned my lesson. I won’t tell you half a story on instagram and then tell you I will give you the full one ever again.  I received too many messages about this post and now I feel like it will be a let down—kind of like the Matrix sequels.

  Three days ago, I left from Rolla, MO and made my way northwest to Iberia.  I was taking my time so a forty mile day didn’t seem like such a bad idea.  When I biked into the outskirts of Iberia, which looked just like its downtown, I passed a VFW (V-F-Dubya) with a man locking the front door.  Since I was looking for a place to bed down for the night it seemed like a good place to start.

  I pulled up as he was turning around to get in his truck.  Despite the heat, he was wearing a pair of light blue jeans and a button up long sleeve about the same color.  From the distance, the outfit looked like a tracksuit that someone would have worked out in in the 80s. From up close, it reminded me of an uncle I never had that smoked a pack a day and ate the same shitty canned food for every meal.  He flashed me a look thatI have become familiar with at this point.  It’s the same look everyone gives me—a blend of confusion and offense in one short gaze.

   My bike rattled to a stop just short of his truck and I introduced myself.

  “I’m Lee.” He said as we shook hands.  His eyes told a story that led me to believe that he had seen more and done more at age 30 than most do their whole damn lives, and he is probably in his 80s now.

   “Do you know a good place where I can camp in town?” I asked.

   “There ain’t much here, son.  What are you looking for?”

   “I don’t need much, just a place to set up a tent really.”

   He stared back at the front door he just locked.  This was my hope.

   “You want to camp in the backyard here?” Lee asked.

   Dammit!

   “Sure, that sounds perfect,” I said.

   He showed me around back.  Without saying a word, he made it clear he wasn’t a chatty man.

   “The yard is yours,” he said.  “If anyone bothers you just tell ‘em Lee gave you permission.”

   “Thank you, sir.”

   “Yup.  It’s time for me to go home.”  Lee walked back to his truck with his head down and an arm swing that seems unique to old men and drove off.

   I propped my bike up and pulled out my blanket.,  I wasn’t set on the spot just yet but would enjoy a nap before I made my decision, or so I thought.  Just as I began to doze off, a mosquito got me good.  And then another.  And then a-fucking-nother! I was under attack by some of the biggest damn mosquitos I have seen and they were feasting on my flesh faster than I could swat at them.  The onslaught was more than enough for me to cram my blanket back in the bag and ride out.

  I knew I didn’t want to ride far but didn’t know how lucky I would get.  There was a hostel on the map but, by the looks of the town, I didn’t take it seriously, and after riding by a house that looked like a brothel and meth lab combined, I decided to keep pedaling.

   I ate some food at a local convenience store and checked out my map.  I saw a few churches in town and figured I would check out their lots to see if I could camp at one.  The first didn’t have a lot,  the second was a solid, “absolutely not,” and the third was going to have to do.  It was located on a plot of land that had a neighboring apartment building or house from almost every angle.  I found one small nook behind a waist high wall and a back door that I was sure no one could see me from and laid out my blanket.  I wasn’t going to set up my air mattress until the sun went down that way if someone came by I could just tell them I was taking a break.  Until then, I laid there and read until it was dark enough.

   Over a hundred pages later, then sun was fully set and I moved my stuff out of the church’s security lights to a flat grassy spot behind a metal shed.  I decided that I wouldn’t set up my tent because I didn’t want to bring too much attention and if I was asked to leave I didn’t want to have to pack it up.  The stars were out but I knew it was going to be an uncomfortable night with the humidity and lack of privacy, but it was the best I found and maybe the stargazing would make up for it.  

   After an hour or two of struggling to fall asleep, I rolled towards the church’s parking lot and heard a scurry of paws grinding across the gravel and asphalt.  A fifty pound streak of shadow and grunting ran passed me on all fours before I could even get a look at it.  

   Greeaat.  Whatever that was, it’s coming back.  

   I assumed that it would probably circle around me and come up from the other side of the building. I sat up and hoped that the security lights would cast a shadow of The Nightstalker but I wasn’t so lucky.  I had unknowingly entered a game of wits and patience with it, two things I didn’t have much of at the time.  I wanted to go to sleep and had just added a new item on the list of reasons of why I couldn’t.  I sat up for what felt like an eternity waiting for The Nightstalker.  My eyes lost interest in the stars and my neck grew fatigued from carrying my big old dome around all day.  A long battle of touch-and-goes commenced and eventually a sweet sleep became too enticing.  I laid back down and started to doze off.  

   In my dreams, my point of view shifted between predator and prey until I could no longer remember which was which.  Was I stalking my kill or quietly evading my end? The dream’s cycle continued over and over until I woke up with a jolt.  My whole body contracted from my deep breaths, I stared off into the wood line as I tried to catch my breath when I became incredibly aware that I was being watched.  

   Without turning my head, I could see a dark spot next to my bags and bike five feet from me to the right.    I lost the first battle of patience but a new one just began—neither of us moved.  From the corner of my eye I tired to make out as much as I could but all I could see was two pointed ears pulled back.  The rest was a mass of curved lines hunched low to the ground.  I stop breathing and hoped that my heartbeat wasn’t as loud to The Nightstalker as it was to me.  

   Its ear flinched.

   “Git!” I roared, in a voice that came out uncomfortably southern, and bounced to my feet.  

   Legs, shoulders, and ass tripped over itself as it scurried back to the woods. It never came back but I never slept either.