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.  

LBL

 It turns out that I am not good at posting consistently.  I do my share of personal writing, so sometimes I run out of writing juice.  But, as I watched from my campsite in Land Between the Lakes in Tennessee, holy hell, did my neighbors give me plenty to write about.     

 Night 1-Gaitlin Point  

    There was a group of young bucks next to me.  When they pulled up, I knew I picked the wrong spot because one of the women got out and told her boyfriend , in her best inside voice, to “shut the fuck up.”   

  At one point, I watched the birthday boy pull out a hatchet from the back of his lifted Chevy and take down a 15’ tree with green leaves on it.  For desired effect, he needed to remove his shirt for it and show off all of his tattoos—which looked more like a series of badly coordinated stamps that a first grade teacher would use.  The poor tree was green as a tree could get but, bless its heart, its life was over. He spent the next thirty minutes stripping the branches off and separating the leaves from the trunk.  

  Once Prometheus stripped everything down to his liking, he pulled out his flint and started striking it to the light fire.  Now, I will admit I was hard on the boy and doubted his ability to get this to work.  Mostly because I just saw him cut down a live tree for firewood, so my confidence in his ability to gather kindle and tinder were overwhelmingly low, but, after five minutes, he had a small fire going.  

   See you’re just being an ass.  

   And just when I completed that thought he dumped an arm’s full of green leaves on to the fire.  

   No, you were right.  I apologize.   

   I am still trying to sort out which is more shocking: the act of dumping green leaves onto the fire or the fact that he was surprised when the fire went out.  

   His buddy asked if he could give it a shot.  

   For those of you who don’t know, these are the worst words you could hear when trying to build a fire as a man.  I am speaking from experience.  Especially, if you know that person can build it better than you.  I once (read: recently) spent an entire summer practicing building fires because I was so inconsistent at it that I couldn’t stand the “can I try” moment.  

   His buddy moves some stuff around.  Everyone has their own style. He removed the cigarette from his mouth and kissed some kindling with it.  Boom, the fire takes off!  Well done.  Unfortunately, Prometheus came charging over to help his friend out with another wet blanket of green leaves.  Oh, no—it went out, again! Who knew?

  They spent their night next to a smoldering smoke pot.  To get the right effect though, one of the boys placed his headlamp at his feet pointed up.   

  

Night 2-Sugar Bay

   First off, what a great name.  I can just hear a sweet woman with a southern sway suggesting it for a late night swim surrounded by cicaidas and stars.

  Reality sets in and it’s not a sweet southern woman sauntering through the campsite but more young bucks, military type, grunting and telling everyone that they’re “C-I-D, Baby!”

   Thrilling.

   So, to save me the time and effort basically take the story from above but instead of building a fire they’re trying to pick up women.

  After a leisurely swim, I watched the sunset for a bit and decided to set up my tent.  As far as I could tell, my spot wasn’t an actual site but someone built a fire there before and it was surrounded by two converging creeks which were filled with a variety of frogs.  It was also a popular spot for the local skunks, which I found out when I woke up from a terrifying and random dream that I got sprayed by a skunk.  This dream recurred several times throughout the night and every time I would wake up to the indescribable rankness of a lone striped night stalker.  

   In the morning though, the smell was so strong I was convinced that the dream was real and I did get sprayed by a skunk.  I laughed at my bad luck (for the record: getting sprayed by a skunk is beyond “bad luck”) and hoped that I was wrong.  I decided the surefire way to know would be to take another dip in the lake, so I did.  No funk.  No skunk (spray).  

   

   

Asheville, NC

Things I learned from Asheville:

  I don’t think anyone is actually from Asheville.  Now, I realize that someone has to be from Asheville, but I didn’t meet a single local while I was there.  Most people I met had been living in Asheville somewhere between three and five years.   Even more fascinating is that no one seems to come for the same thing.  I met a woman who had been living in the Virgin Islands for the last ten years and came to Asheville for a change of scenery. Another person told me that the mountains have a unique energy about them and he felt drawn to it.  The woman that hosted me recently retired and wanted to escape the frenzy that is Atlanta.  Two different homosexual couples came for the openness.  This likely explains its eclectic population.  

   

   Asheville is an open community.  Year’s ago I met a guy unicycling across the country—yup.  The woman I was dating at the time and I hosted him for an evening.  He was a fascinating soul with a creative intensity about him that I don’t doubt will push him far in life.  Even though it’s been years since Cary and I have spoken he connected me with his friends in Asheville.  They were fun, crazy, and all about showing me the best parts of Asheville.  With knowing so little about me, they invited me into their fold and for a brief moment we were family—even took a picture together!  Thank y’all for that!  Which leads me to the next bullet...

   Bike touring and socializing don’t always mix.  When I ride, I tend to go to the parts of my soul that I’m not afforded the luxury to go on a regular basis.  The extended hours in the saddle make it difficult for today’s luxuries to distract me from a thought or a sinking feeling.  That’s why this trip felt so necessary after closing out my military career—there was so much to explore and heal from.

  When I got off the bike in Asheville, I was in mid thought and was unable to pull myself back to the real world.  I struggled to be social with most folks that I came across, not because they weren’t fascinating but because I was stuck in my head.  That’s something that I will have to continue to work on as I make way cross country: giving myself the time I need and not rushing to get to the next moment.