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.