For the Ones Who Didn't Make It

There's many things I miss about bike touring. One thing I don't miss is the roadkill.

As any long-distance cyclist could tell you, there is a lot of death at the side of the road. No critter seems exempt: I've seen everything from dogs and cats to raccoons, skunks, squirrels, possums, deer, antelope, coyotes, foxes, elk and a beaver.

One time, halfway through Kansas, I saw a donkey who had appeared to have exploded in a linear fashion. Parts were scattered along the highway for nearly 20 feet. As I carefully steered Miya through the reeking land mine, I speculated on what could have caused such a gory scene. Coming up with no satisfactory explanation, I brought it up to the cycling couple from New Jersey that I met later that day. They were clearly disgusted, but more with me than with the scene I described. "Ew! Why would you tell us about that?" The woman asked, making a face.
"Well, you're going to go right by it..." I reasoned. But in reality, I honestly thought they'd be interested. After all, the squished snakes and grasshoppers had started to get boring. At that point in my trip, surrounded by hundreds of miles of flat prairie, an interesting roadkill specimen was my idea of entertainment.

At first, I found it horrendous. My eyes watered at the sight of a fawn in a drainage ditch in Oregon. But then, after seeing roadkill countless times a day, I became accustomed to it. The smell stopped bothering me. I actually started thinking of some animals as carcasses instead of living beings. For over a month I thought that armadillos had a pink tint to their gray bodies: I had only seen them crushed at the side of the road, stained by their own blood, and had no live ones to compare them to.

It got to the point where, when I saw a deer crossing a quiet country road in front of me, I couldn't help but think of it as already doomed. The image of it dead and bloated on the roadside would come too easily to my mind. I had been conditioned to think of animals as roadkill, in much the same way as urban kids might be conditioned to think of animals as creatures in cages at the zoo.

People, I've noticed, don't like to talk about roadkill. They don't even like to think about it. Part of it is the grotesque image, but part of it must be guilt, too. Because without people, there would be no roadkill at all. We euphamistically call it "roadkill", as if the road itself is to blame.

I think its time to talk about roadkill. Having seen and smelled my fair share of it, I think we can do things a bit differently, and avoid at least some of the million animal deaths that occur every year at the side of the road. I'm becoming increasingly interested in transportation infrastructure, especially the design of "complete streets" that work for multiple modes of transport, instead of just cars. I'd like to add another component to the "complete streets" idea: that we should have roadways that are more safe for the other members of our biotic community, not just humans.

Confessions of a Touring Cyclist

To the owners of the littl brick house just outside Sisters, Oregon: Yes, I did pee in your front lawn in broad daylight. You had a big, shady tree next to an empty road, and I had a full bladder.

To the young couple on bikes that I passed in Montana: I so wanted to stop and chat with you, but I had just coughed up something and had it in my mouth when I waved and smiled. I didn't want to spit it out in front of you... so I just kept pedalling.

I've become a little bitter about car commercials on TV... there's so many of them, and when have you ever seen a commercial for a brand of bike?

To thae older gentleman in the country store in Mississippi: I probably shouldn't have been so rude towards you, since you didn't see anything wrong with what you said. I have a difficult time hearing such blatant racism without getting angry.

To Idaho: I owe you an apology. When I cussed you out on the side of the road after I got that big gash in my leg from falling off the shoulder, I should have been more specific. I wasn't mad at the entire state, just Highway 12.

To Kansas: I should apologize to you, too. When I dropped some F bombs that night at the lake, I used your name but that was only because I didn't know the name of the creature that I was truly mad at: the sizable black snake that appeared eager to slither into the tent with me.

To the men in the white truck in Arkansas: I probably should have concealed myself a little better, but there wasnt any vegetation to hide behind and I had to GO. All the same, sorry for flashing y'all.

To the clerk in the New Orleans supermarket: I was so disappointed that you didn't have any pumpkins for sale on Halloween that I forgot my manners. Your suggestion to carve spaghetti squash instead worked great, and I should have said thanks.

To my Warmshowers hostess in Alabama: I ate the pink frosted cupcake on your table. It looked really good, you werent home, and I was really hungry. I moved the remaining cupcakes to fill the gap on the plate... and it was just as delicious as it looked.

To all my friends in so many states: I've been telling everyone that I did this trip "self-supported" (meaning I didn't have a sag wagon) when really I felt that I had all of you supporting me. Many, many thanks for all the great messages.

Missing Miya

It's been over two weeks since I rode my bicycle. (Unless you count that brief afternoon ride with my niece, when we sped through every puddle in the neighborhood and came home dripping and cold, but smiling.) I've traded my trusty steed for cars and greyhound buses... and the transition is a little rough.

I've left Florida now for a new kind of adventure. Im heading north to visit family and friends, some of whom I haven't seen in years, and some that I met just months ago. I will be visiting about 15 people in three weeks, and so far it's been a whirlwind of cramped bus rides, good hugs, and friendly faces.

Thanksgiving was spent with Jessica and Joey in their homes in Charlotte, North Carolina. It was good to be there with them, as they navigate the jungle of non-cycling life. It used to be something so familiar, but a lot can change in 3 months. Instead of pitching the tent anywhere flat enough, an apartment and roommates must be found. The full-time job of getting up and pedalling each morning is replaced by the specter of unemployment. The big question seems to be "what now?".

I thought I had a pretty good idea of what to expect at the end of an intensive trip like this one. I anticipated the discomfort in automobiles, the relief of having made it safely to Florida, the glow of accomplishing a dream, the extra energy I feel now that I don't ride 60 miles each day... but what I didn't realize was that I would feel a sense of loss. The trip is over, and it feels like a friend moved away. I made room in my life for this bike tour, and now that it's ended it leaves a big, lonely gap.

But I don't mean to sound so sad. My travels continue, by combustion engine this time, and there are so many wonderful people to visit! There will be many more bike trips in the future, and meanwhile I have a home to return to in Forest Grove, complete with boyfriend, friends, and school to keep me busy. I believe that having this stability waiting for me after the adventure puts me in a better position to handle the post-trip blues.

Panama City Beach

I rolled into Panama City Beach yesterday, managed to get interviewed for the local evening television news channel, hugged my sister for the first time in months and hugged my niece, nephew, and bro-in-law for the first time in 5 years. It was a crazy, disorienting, joyful day.

(Local news clip link: http://youtu.be/73k_fbBiVN0 )

They had a beautiful guest room waiting for me, with a basket full of delicious soaps, lotions, bubble bath, and shampoo. "Do you need another pillow?" they asked, "is two going to be enough?". I stood staring at the double bed, thinking that just 5 days ago I was stealth-camped on the side of the road, using my coat as a pillow and rejoicing in the fact that, although the ground beneath my tent was very hard, it was at least smooth. I managed to laugh, and reply that 2 pillows was luxury...

There are still more miles to bike, but the main event has come to pass. Visiting my sister and her family was my milestone: I knew that once I got here, I would feel like I truly had biked across the country. Ive pedalled 4,600 miles as of yesterday.

I'd still love to bike to the Atlantic side, to make this a proper coast-to-coast tour.We'll see if I get that far. There's something that's happened in my mind since yesterday, and I can feel the trip winding down. I will continue to post here until I return to Oregon in January, since the adventures will undoubtedly continue.

Thank you, thank you, with all sincerity, for the strength you've given me. Your readership, messages, phone calls, and well-wishes were better than any energy bar to keep me going. Never have I felt so loved as I have in the past three months. I look forward to the opportunity to thank each of you personally.

Here's to the future!

Getting Sloppy

It has been my experience that any traveller, upon nearing completion of his or her journey, has a tendency to get a bit careless. The natural cycle of things seems to be that one should be excited and cautious in the beginning, lonely and deflated in the middle, and delighted and sloppy towards the end.

Or maybe it's just me. The pattern described above certainly fits my recent travels, and it fits this bike tour particularly well. And as I cruise gaily along, with the salty Gulf breeze in my hair and Florida on the horizon, I can sense myself getting sloppy.

Two days ago, I refused to consult my map even though I had a slight suspicion that something was amiss. It ended up costing me 15 miles extra the next day to correct it. And did I care? Not much... it turned a 50 mile day into a 65 mile day. No big deal.

Then, this morning, I left my "Spot" GPS beacon at the campsite where I'd stayed. I've never forgotten it before, not once in three months! "Can you mail it to me in Florida?" I whined into the phone. "I'm already 20 miles away and I don't want to ride all the way back". The campground manager generously agreed.

And I forgot to put my Warmshowers host's address into Google maps BEFORE I got on the road today. If I had done so, I would have noticed that although her city reads "Fairhope, Alabama", she actually lives over 10 miles south of that town. Normally that kind of mileage variable isn't a problem, but on a day when I'd planned on going 80 miles and having just enough daylight to do it... well, the wonderful woman ended up coming to get me in her pickup in the dark. To my credit, I was almost there. And to her credit, she came to save me without even being asked and then treated me to some real fried Alabama seafood.

So even though my blunders thus far have turned out to be just fine, this carelessness makes me nervous. Though Florida is near, it's still a long road to Jacksonville. I've got to make sure I keep my head in the game, or else I've got no business being out here on a bike.

One thing that hasnt gotten sloppy is my actual cycling. (Except for... well, there's always exceptions, right?).With the highways I've been on lately, the drivers have inspired me to pay attention. Tiny or nonexistent shoulders, or nice wide ones that are sprinkled with bits of glass and sharp rusty objects. Sometimes rumble strips will sneak up on me out of nowhere, beginning in the middle of the shoulder and then ending just as abruptly, leaving me gripping the handlebars and gasping like I just survived an earthquake.

But these joys of the open highway aren't anything new. You can find them in any state. What you might not be able to find are backroads that are more quiet or more lovely than what the South has to offer. This past week of cycling along the ACA's Southern Tier Bicycle Route through Louisiana, Mississippi, and Alabama has been blissful, despite all my snide remarks about the quality of the roads.

It looks like I'm in for urban cycling from here to Jacksonville, though! Or at least from here to Panama City. This Gulf is so special, everyone wants to live here... and there sure is a lot of traffic.

A New Chain for Miya, A Fresh Outlook for Me

I rolled into Lep & Perry's place in Jackson, Louisiana two afternoons ago, thinking it would just be a one night stay before continuing on eastward. I was road-weary, having accumulated more than 4,000 miles under my tires... and feeling them starting to drag on me. I was anxious to get a break from the bicycle, and thought the only way I'd get it was to keep cruising, skip New Orleans, and get to my lovely sister's home in Florida.

I was wrong. Perry told me, before I had even removed my helmet, that they loved hosting cyclists and I could stay as long as I needed. I was only too happy to accept her invitation! After a delicious hot shower (outdoors, my favorite) and an even more delicious dinner with some friends of theirs, I completely redesigned my plan for the coming weeks.

I took a rest day yesterday, and Miya had her first visit to the bike doctor. He tightened bolts, inspected the tires, and replaced her old, grungy, stretched-out chain with a sparkly new one. It wasn't cheap, but the mechanic came highly recommended from several sources, and it felt good to give my bicycle some love after all the crap she's been carrying, riding through, dropped in, and put up with.

Today I am heading into New Orleans with Miya on a LASwift bus from Baton Rouge. It allows me to get into the city with my bicycle, hassle-free, for just $5. I'll spend a few days exploring, then head back on the same bus, bypassing the insanity of city-to-city bike travel, which I'm learning is typically a noisy, ugly, unfriendly mess. Hooray for public transportation!

I just put Miya under the bus with other people's luggage. It didn't feel right, seeing her in there sprawling over purses and suitcases. "I'm sorry, baby" I whispered, as I crawled out of the compartment. I felt anxious about leaving her there. For nearly 3 months I've had her right under me on the road or right next to me outside my tent. To stow her out of my sight for an entire bus ride feels... scary. But I'll get out at each stop to make sure no one walks off with her.

Have a great Halloween weekend, everyone.

Mississippi

In the last four days I've picked my first fistful of cotton from a field in Tennessee, drank my first glass of sweet tea in Arkansas, and attended my first Southern Baptist church service. For the girl from Alaska, the South is full of firsts. A tiny gas station sells no fresh fruit or vegetables, but has three different brands of boiled peanuts in a can. Hmm... do I embark on a new culinary experience, or leave empty handed?

Even the "easy" questions seem hard. Would I like my black-eyed peas with or without ketchup? I don't know, I've never had black-eyed peas...

I found a Farmers Market in Memphis, but since then my opportunities for produce have been few. Plenty of fried chicken, though. It's hard for me to understand how folks can live on carbs, dairy, and meat products alone. But there are lots of things in the South that are hard for me to understand.

One is, the way people talk. It's humbling to realize that, although we're from the same country, there's a bit of a language barrier between myself and the folks I meet. Someone will start talking to me, and I'll be one step behind, dredging up whatever meaning I can from the dark depths of their Mississippi drawl.

Folks here are completely puzzled about my trip. "Wah?" A man asked me last night at a country store, "Wah?". I stared at him blankly, pondering the funny noise he was making, and the way it ended with his mouth wide open. "WAH?" He asked again, looking frustrated. My Southern Translation finally kicked into gear.
"Oh, why am I bicycling?"
He nodded.
"Um, well, I like bikes..."

I swear I've tried giving every reason, and the folks in Mississippi still look at me like I've struck them across the face. I say "adventure" and a woman said "don't they have that in Oregon?". I say "to see the states" and a fellow responded "cars have windows, you know". I say "to visit my sister" and a woman said "take a plane!". It's no use, but still they ask me, over and over, "Wah?" as if eventually something I say will make sense to them.

"Lordy, you out here by yo'self?" One woman asked me.
"Yes ma'am" (I'm getting better at remembering to say ma'am and sir, now).
"Now, your parents..." she shook her head. "Tell me, is your mother living?"
"Yes ma'am"
"Well not fuh long girl, you gonna give her a heart attack"

I get to have conversations like that... all day.

Tennessee Rain

The last few days have been the toughest of this trip. The MRT route is proving difficult to follow, for a number of reasons already listed in the previous post. Also, the distances between communities and campgrounds are longer than I'm accustomed to. A couple days ago I suffered a bad headache due to dehydration, since I pedalled 50 miles without finding a little gas station or general store to fill my water bottles. This situation has happened once or twice on the TransAm route, but those maps warn cyclists of the long gaps between services. (In those cases, I fill my 3 liter Camelbak reservoir in addition to the 3 bottles on my bike).

I remarked previously that reading the MRT guide book was like sitting in a bar with the author. It's a good thing that I am not anywhere close to him, and that I don't know where to find him. There are several times a day when I want to punch him in the face. If I ever do meet that man in a bar, I'll be thrown out of it for starting a fight.

Today I ditched the book altogether, and opted instead to ride on the busy, 4-lane highway 51. My decision was influenced by the fact that I didn't sleep well last night due to a lighting storm (and getting up in the wee hours of the morning to relocate my tent, all my belongings, and my bike to drier ground). The rain lasted the rest of the night into the morning, and I knew I didn't want to be camping again, if I could help it.

So, the options were: stick to the MRT route and bike 65 miles to a campsite, OR cruise 70 miles on the highway straight into Memphis and stay in a hostel that someone had recommended. I figured that pedalling all day through the cold wind and rain was going to be miserable either way, and I'd rather end the day with a hot shower and a bed than with a soggy night in the tent.

The ride was downright scary, at times. Most of the way I was on nice wide shoulders, but a few spots had none at all. The trucks and cars kicked up so much water from the road that even when it wasn't raining their windshield wipers were whipping back and forth, and I knew their visibility was compromised. I felt inconspicuous with just my little rear tail-light... I dreamed of a big, flashy dayglo raincoat and a large neon sign over my head: CYCLIST -DO NOT HIT.

I finally arrived in midtown Memphis just at the start of rush hour. Unsure of how to get to the hostel, I pulled into a wine shop and took refuge under their awning, fumbling my phone with icy hands to take a look at Google maps. "Hey, do you want to come in?" I turned to see a woman holding the door to the shop open. "You must be frozen!" I tried to refuse on account of being filthy and wet, but she was insistent.

She held the door open while I maneuvered Miya (that's my bike) inside. My hands were so cold that I dropped Miya sideways a little, and we almost took out a shelf of wine bottles. Close one, I thought. "Sorry, she's never been in a liquor store before," I said to the woman, who didn't look alarmed that I referred to my bicycle as "she".

The woman's coworker turned out to know all about the hostel and how to get there. While he wrote up the directions on the back of a receipt, I stood in the warm, well-lit little shop as soft jazz music filled the air and customers mosied along the aisles. I was painfully aware of my muddy face, matted hair, and the pool of water collecting at my feet. Everyone just kept smiling at me and being kind... it was more refreshing than any snack or drink could be. Fueled by their kindness, the 6 miles to the hostel flew by. It turns out that the fellow in the wine shop gave great directions, and I found myself wishing that someone like him could have written the MRT guide book. Or at least edited it.

I highly recommend this hostel, to all who seek lodging in Graceland! It's called the Pilgrim House, and is located in a funky, hip neighborhood in midtown Memphis. They keep lodging cheap ($15 per night!) by asking each person to do one chore daily. And the place is cozy, quiet, and spotless. AND there's a free "make-your-own" pancake breakfast in the morning. Totally worth the 70 mile slog.

Thank you, Tennessee. :)

Not All Cycling Maps Are Created Equal

Okay, so maybe calling it "chicken scratch" is a bit extreme, but this guide book for the Mississippi River Trail (MRT) is minimalist, for certain. The directions don't reference any landmarks along the road, and the map is just a simple line down the middle of the page, labelled "hwy 61" or some such thing. It's useful to a point, but then I find myself wondering what all the other roads are, and if there isn't a route perhaps a little shorter or less windy or wider than this one. While using this book for the past three days, I've doubted myself many times.

The MRT maps are so basic, it's something that someone could draw for you on a bar napkin. In fact, since the MRT guide book was written by just one cyclist, when im reading it I sometimes feel like I'm sitting at a bar with the author, while he doodles on napkins and mutters directions to me. The whole time I just nod and say "yeah, yeah, sure". Then I actually close the book and hit the road, where I quickly become confused and wished I'd paid more attention. Over and over.

It's not my fault: the ACA (Adventure Cycling Association) maps spoiled me. Their maps are so thorough, and include everything from train track crossings to tiny creeks to city limits and connecter roads. I could tell where I was, and mark my progress by which landmarks I passed. There were even elevation profiles! Ah, those were the days.

I met a fellow cyclist a few days ago, and asked him which route he was following. "The MRT," he replied, "what else would I be on? ".
"The ACA has a route called the Great Rivers Tour, I thought you might be using that one".
"Nope, I don't like ACA. Their maps are too darn expensive".

Hah. Funny he should say that. 3 months ago I would have completely agreed. But after sweating across deserts and straining up mountain passes, I can say the ACA maps were worth every penny. No map is perfect, but the ACA has come close. At the very least, the maps are a collaborative effort: a whole group of people sat in a bar and scribbled, instead of just one.

BUT, I've got the MRT book, and I'll put it to good use. The only reason I haven't given up and ordered the Great Rivers mapset is because that route swings way out into Kentucky before sliding back west into Baton Rouge. I want to just truck it, straight down the Mississippi with no nonsense. People keep telling me it can snow in October in this great state of Tennessee, and I'd like to steer clear. So far, so good: it still creeps up above 80 degrees during the day, and only down to 40 at night. Lucky me, to ride on the tailcoat of a late summer, all the way across the continent.

Loneliness

I get asked a lot of the same questions as I move across this country. One of the most popular is "You're doing this alone?", which is inevitably followed by "Don't you get lonely/scared/homesick?".

Since the question is always the same, I make it easy on myself and give the same answer each time: You're only as lonely as you want to be. And that's the truth, at least for myself.

In preparation for this trip I read (part of) a book called "Hurt City", which was an autobiographical chronicle of Bob Voiland's bicycle touring experiences. The book covered 30 years of his biking career, as he achieved his goal of riding from his home in Colorado into each one of the lower 48 states. He also biked every paved mountain pass in Colorado, and had some days in his touring career that exceeded 115 miles in distance. Yeah, pretty much a badass.

But i distinctly remember something he wrote about biking solo. I don't have the book with me now, to quote it directly, but it was something along the lines of: if you want to be social and make lots of friends, get into a different sport. He said that people aren't just lined up along the side of the road, excited to talk to you and shake your hand.

Well... maybe strangers don't make it THAT easy, but I've had experiences where people are very excited about what I'm doing, and not only want to shake my hand but also want to make me homemade lasagna, drive a sag wagon, escort me to the next town by bicycle, give me money, host me in their home, stay with their relatives in Arkansas, etc. The generosity of human beings is stunning, should you give them the chance.

After being on the road for over 2 months, I strongly disagree with Bob. Biking can be social: it's as social as you make it. Sometimes you feel like chatting with new folks, and sometimes you just want to sit on a picnic bench and have a good think, all to yourself. Either way has its merits, but in the end, it's your own decision to seek friends or solitude. Sometimes I get a little down, and have to be sure that I'm not blaming my loneliness on the place I'm in, or on the people. Chances are, if I'm not making friends, that's my own fault.

There are good people everywhere, just waiting to meet new folks from out of town. They may not be lined up along the side of the road, but they're just down the street or in the next aisle of the grocery store, or working retail at the gas station.

Bob Voiland's lack of social interaction wasn't entirely his own doing. When you bike 130 miles in one day, I doubt there's much daylight or energy left for chit-chatting with new friends... Makes me feel better that I only average 55 miles per day! :)

First Flat Tire

There's a first time for everything. For my rear tire, the first time for getting flat was today... after rolling from the Oregon coast to Missouri, covering over 3200 miles. Even after carrying myself and all my gear such an incredible distance, it was not the rubber itself that failed: upon inspection of the flat, the culprit was revealed to be a 2inch long nail ... something that not even a brand new tire could survive without puncture.

I've been blessed to meet 5 other fabulous cyclists on the road over the past 2 weeks, and we've formed a happy, motley crew of 6 riders, all headed east. We'll have to split in just a few days, as I'm heading south along the Mississippi River, and the rest of them are eastbound through Kentucky. I've had such fun belonging to a group, after my time solo riding... I know that I'll miss them when we part ways.
There's Joey and Jessica, mentioned in a previous blog, and Marie & Cindy, two amazing women riding from Colorado, and then a great guy from South Korea, whom we call "O". :)

The flat happened just a mile from our destination, on an overpass. Everyone else was cycling on ahead, without knowledge that I'd gotten a flat. O and Marie stayed back with me. Just when I'd gotten the wheel off, the clouds decided to dump the rain that they'd been holding over our heads all day. "You guys can go on", I kept saying. "I'll catch up". But they just smiled and got out their rain gear. They remained throughout the patching process, helping me get the tire back on and pump up the new one. How nice, to have a pair of friends there to cheer me on through the downpour.

Now we're staying in a WONDERFUL hostel, specific for cyclists, called "Al's Place Bicycle Hostel" in Farmington, Missouri. It's pretty posh, especially for a raggedy crew of cyclists who've been sweating up these 8% grades for 2 days without showers... and laundry was badly needed for all of us, as well. :)

October in the Ozarks

I don't have a favorite season anymore. Instead, I have a favorite time in a certain place. At the top of my list is "Sunny July in Ketchikan". Next is "Fireweed Season in the Matanuska Valley". It's now followed by "October in Missouri".

Yup. Missouri. That under-appreciated state that goes largely unmentioned in daily conversation. When was the last time you met someone from Missouri, or heard of someone going on vacation there? Yeah... me neither.

I've been warned about Missouri by other TransAm cyclists since I started this trip. Steep hills, large bloodthirsty dogs, and unbearable heat were often mentioned. I'd be sweating and straining up a mountain pass in Wyoming or Colorado, and a cyclist headed the opposite directions would say, as kindly as they could, "yeah, this is steep... but just wait until you get into the Ozark".

Well, I'm here. And they are certainly the steepest hills I've ever attempted to bike. And yes, there are many large, salivating, barking dogs that like to run after you. But in this season the air is warm and mild, reaching 80 degrees at midday and dropping into the 50s at night. Mmmm, perfect.

The route through Missouri is gorgeous, by the way. This state wears October in all the best colors. The deciduous forest appears to stretch from one state line to the next, interrupted only by hilly little two lane roads and the occasional small town. The trees glow orange, yellow, and red against the brilliant blue sky. Even the low shrubs on the roadsides are beginning to smolder with purple. There are elusive, exotic things to be glimpsed between the trees, if you look carefully. Wild horses supposedly frequent these mountains. I spotted some Amish folk driving a horse-drawn buggy. There are alot of armadillo carcasses on the road, though I've yet to see a live one.

Dark rivers wind their way through deep, narrow valleys. Hawks soar in wide arcs over October-stained forests. Treetops glow crimson in the setting sun. Leaves flutter down in the breeze, swirling over the road before coming to rest beneath the trees.

It's beautiful here. I feel so blessed to be doing this trip later than most TransAm tourists. I've only been in this state for 5 days, but from my experience and what I've heard locals say, there's no better time to cycle Missouri than autumn.

A More Beautiful America

One of my main reasons for embarking on this trip was, in the words of a good friend, "to get out there and see what's going on". I wanted to pop the bubbles of university academia, of progressive Portland, and of bike-friendly Oregon. I wanted to get out there and see what the other parts of the country are really like.

So did I succeed in my bubble-popping endeavor? In some respects, yes. No one on this trip has given me essay assignments, nor scolded me for presenting a "fact" without citing scholarly sources. The liberal, progressive vibes of Portland have long faded into the Kansas horizon, and bike paths have become nearly extinct. Things sure are different. The phrase "You're not in Kansas anymore" comes to mind, but is inaccurate given the circumstances. :)

But in reality, I've only popped one bubble and stepped into another. The TransAm route itself is a bubble indeed, with folks who wouldn't otherwise know anything about cycling becoming experts in cross-country culture. On more than one occasion, I've been informed in the grocery store by a fellow shopper, "cyclists don't usually eat that". (I have to restrain myself from replying "oh yeah? Watch me"). What gives a Kansas soybean farmer the confidence to tell me I'm touring wrong? Contact with over a thousand cyclists every summer. A bubble, indeed.

So while I may not feel like I'm getting the "real" picture of life in the USA, I'm realizing that the picture is different no matter where you go. Every inch of this country is claimed by a different bubble, a distinct subculture. The ghetto in Omaha, Nebraska, the retirement communities of Colorado, the international club at Bethel University in Kansas. Who's to say one's more American than the other?

All I can say with certainty is, Im glad to be in the midst of the TransAm subculture. This is a narrow path carved across the country, where a bicycle gives you instant purpose. People you meet know what you're up to, and respect you for it. Folks of all different ages, income levels, and backgrounds help cyclists achieve their goals. They may not be a fan of bikes themselves, but see the need and admire the ambition. Churches open doors, offer showers, and cook meals for non-beleiving strangers like me, just because I showed up on two wheels. Little towns offer free camping, free internet at local libraries, and special discounts. Most importantly, folks invite cyclists into their homes, trusting them with their belongings and loved ones, and always eager to share however much they have.
It's like a more beautiful America, stretched thin on the backroads from Oregon to Virginia. I'm proud to be a patriot of it.

Kansas: What Flat Really Means

I'd like to debunk the popular myth: Kansas isn't actually flat. At least, not flat like paper, or a linoleum floor, or the surface of a pond. It only seems flat compared to the more lumpy states like Colorado, Montana, and Wyoming.

Instead of having jaw-dropping vistas that demand attention, Kansas has a subtler beauty that you can only see if you're actively looking for it. And when I'm looking I see tiny birds on telephone wires, fields glowing gold in the afternoon sun, and a sky with more shades of blue than a hardware store's paint chip selection.

It is hot and dry, though, and I'm looking forward to a landscape change in a week or so.

Happy Moving Planet Day!

Hey everyone, I almost forgot to mention: today is a global day of action to get folks moving towards a future free of fossil fuels. Today we celebrate "alternative" forms of transportation, and take to the streets with our favorite fuelless mode of travel.

Like the song by Queen says... "Get on your bikes and ride!"

For more info, visit WWW.350.org

Congratulations to the folks at Pacific University for organizing a bike ride for today! I'm with ya in spirit!

The Colorado Hipocracy

Alright, beautiful state of mountains, red rocks, and ski bums. I've been going easy on ya because you're gorgeous, but it's time to assess the claim that you're a bike-friendly state.

It's true, of all the states I've been to, I've had the warmest reception by Colorado folks, and I've seen more people on bikes here than in all the other states combined. The bike path infrastructure in both Boulder and Denver puts Portland's to shame. But if you think that these kind of attributes make life easier for a touring cyclist, you'd only be partly right.

Theres a reason why the Adventure Cycling Association's Trans-America route comes nowhere near the metropolitan areas of Boulder and Denver, and that's because it's a total jungle for out-of-towners like me. So here's some constructive criticism (for a state that's become near and dear) on how they could make life a little easier for bike tourers.

1. Neighborhood bike paths are cute, but some of us cyclists actually want to get somewhere. The meandering, whimsical route of some of these recreational paths is downright frustrating. To add insult to injury, the designers of the paths have actually worked in extra hills... supposedly to make the ride more interesting for the "after-work" local cyclists.
And when I tire of wandering in scenic loops and hop on an actual road, the traffic is terrifying and the shoulders (frequently) non-existent. So, just know that bike paths are not necessarily a substitute for bike lanes.

2. Boulder is bike-friendly, Denver is bike-friendly, but the 30-40mile stretch between them is anything but. After quizzing each local cyclist I met for a whole week, I still didn't have a clear idea of which route was safe. Thanks to some diligent last -minute research by my friend Pam, we managed to decipher a route the morning that I was leaving. I looked down at the 4pages of maps and directions she handed me, and saw that she'd written "CRUCIAL TURN"on one of the maps, pointing to a vague section of street. "What's the turn called?" I asked.

Pam just shook her head. "I have no idea. I don't even know if that underpass exists". Luckily for me, the underpass did exist, and I found it on the second try: at the edge of a parking lot in a business ark, unsigned and gloomy. Getting out of Denver was a similar, sketchy, urban cycling nightmare.

It's not enough (at least, for those of us on tour) to have bubbles of bike infrastructure. We've got to have a safe, reliable way to go between those bubbles. Not everyone who cycles owns a car to haul their bike from city to city.

More later! I've got to go have breakfast with my Warmshowers hosts.

Bob's Farm

There's nothing quite like fresh vegetables. The satisfying crunch, the taste of all those vitamins in your mouth, the wonderful, energetic feeling you get afterwards from natural sugars... But half the fun (at least) has to be harvesting them from the garden.

Much to my dismay, the opportunities for fresh-harvested fruits & veggies on this trip have been few and far between. I managed to stop at several farm stands in Oregon, and was fortunate enough to catch a tiny farmer's market in Twin Bridges, Montana... but aside from those two states, it's been grocery store fare. Or, worse, gas station food options (Sometimes they'll have a stack of browning bananas at the check out counter, but that's if your lucky).

I had no idea when I met Pam last week that she was a Master Gardner. I didn't know she had incredible organic yeilds coming out of her backyard, didn't know she used to bicycle tour (alone!), and had no clue that she started a school in a small village in the mountains of Ecuador. All I know was that she was road-biking down the same mountain pass that I was, and she had a brightly-colored "Alaska" cycling jersey on. "Hey, that's my homestate!" I exclaimed.

As it turns out, she invited me over for sourdough pancakes on Saturday morning, and I ended up spending most of the day with her, her boyfriend Rich, and her friends Diane and Karly. In her own words, it was a "fab, FAB day". :) Here are just a few photos from our exploits to a nearby organic farm, run by Bob.



He had some of the most delicious corn I've EVER tasted, a variety called "Peaches and Cream"... for good reason. It tasted like the cob was bursting with Half 'n Half! Which may sound disgusting, but it was definitely not. :D



It's always great to make new friends on the road! Thank you to Pam for her wonderful hospitality and friendship. It was great to get my hands dirty again, and my belly full of fresh beets, corn, and apples.

Enjoy the bounty of September, everyone!

Olivia's Tips for Solo Travel

Over a delicious dinner of sushi in downtown Boulder, a new friend asked me for my thoughts on travelling alone. I'm no expert (yet) but I have had a lot of "road" time to think about such things. When I told her some of the things I've learned in the past 3 years, she asked if I'd write them down for her.

Well, heck... if I write them down for one person, I may as well write 'em for everyone! So read ahead if you've ever wanted to venture out by yourself, but were afraid to do so. One caveat: if you really want to get some good advice on solo travel, read the tips from people who've done it longer than I have. Taking a self-defense class is also highly recommended, although I've never been to one myself.

Okay, here's some personal travel philosophies...

Definitions: When I'm travelling, there are only 3 kinds of people in the world: Good people, Goobers, and Creepers. Goobers are people who are annoying, but wish you no harm. Creepers are predators, who wish you ill, and are the ones that we want to avoid. Good people is the largest category, thankfully, and encompasses everyone else.

1. When it comes to lodging, you pay not for amenities, but for security. For example, some people "stealth camp" in public parks, corn fields, and on the side of the road. Stealth camping is free, and is a great option if you feel comfortable. If the idea makes you uncomfortable, however, you'll need to upgrade your security and pay more... for a campsite, let's say. If camping alone makes you nervous, you'll need increased security like a shared dorm in a hostel. If sharing a room with a stranger weirds you out, you can sleep in a hotel, which is even more expensive but more secure, and so on. You get the idea. Basically, it's a good idea to have extra cash on hand so that if you need increased security, you'll be able to afford it.

2. As a solo traveller, your main job is to gather and interpret information. Use your resources well, and try not to rely on just one source (a guide book, or the person you meet on the bus) for reliable information. Whenever you're able, get a 2nd. 3rd, and 4th opinion. If one of them is dead-wrong, you'll be glad you did.

3. Protect your information. People ask travellers lots of questions, and you need to be careful how you answer them. Part of your personal safety comes from poeple not knowing your full story (your age, name, route, solo status, etc). If a stranger gathers enough information about you, and they're a Creeper, than can use it to harm you. SO, when asked a question like "what's your last name?" you can respond "I'm sure you understand: I don't give out that information". Be vague when talking about plans for travel, use words like "maybe" and "sometime". Don't give specifics. Good people will totally get it, and the Goobers and Creepers will be frustrated. Too bad for them.

4. You can't be everyone's friend, and you don't want to be. If someone is behaving in a way that makes you nervous or unsure, they're a Goober (or worse still, a Creeper). Whenever you identify someone as a Goober, get away from them. They may not be doing any harm, but they're not doing you any favors either. You've got a job to do (gathering and interpreting information) and the Goober is just getting in the way. If you don't like 'em (for ANY reason), get rid of 'em. There will be better folks to meet down the road.

5. Be aware that there are times when you will be more dependent on others than you'd like. When travelling, situations come up that you cannot always handle/survive by yourself. You will need the help of others, and you must be very picky about who it is that helps you. Remember that Creepers are very good at detecting desperation in others, and that any panic on your part will impair your judgement and make you vulnerable. The best thing is stay calm, and confidently refuse help if you get weird vibes from anyone. Wait until a better offer comes along, even if you're scared.

6. On that same note, if you're ever in a situation that is bewildering, scary, or confusing, STOP. And think. Take some time out, and get some space. If another person is rushing you, be confident and demand space (no need to ask politely). Good people will understand that you need to make clear-headed, safe decisions. Creepers, on the other hand, will continue to try and rush you/not give you space, since part of their trap is to keep you desperate and off-balance. If someone ever rushes you through a decision ("Get in the car, quick, I'm in a big hurry!"), uses physical force or guilt-trips you towards an action/movement, immediately assume they're a Creeper and get away fast. Remember: if you're wrong, and they're actually not a Creeper, it doesn't matter. When you're alone, all that matters is that you act on your instincts, since there is no one else's to go on. Assume that you are absolutely correct, and act on that until you get more perspective from someone you trust.

7. Strive for balance with strangers. If they ask you a question, ask one back. Be aware if someone is starting to be in a position of more power/information than you, and work to correct it. Creepers will be the ones who are super-curious about you and withholding about themselves. If anyone acts this way, it's a red flag and you should ditch 'em.


So, all of the above are things that lots of solo travel experts could probably tell you. This next piece of advice, though, is the most important one to me. It's the one that I couldn't find in any literature so far, and I had to learn it the hard way. Overcoming this next obstacle is the first step to even dreaming about a solo adventure.


8. Build yourself up mentally. Positive thinking is essential to solo travel. Taking control of your thoughts needs to be worked at and practiced, or the fears and worries that you naturally have can ruin your trip. Long before you ever leave home for an adventure, you can prepare yourself for solo travel by channeling your thoughts and staying positive. Allowing your fears to haunt you can turn you into a nervous wreck, or make you abandon the trip altogether.

I think there is a popular myth that worrying about something will better prepare you for it happening. This is absolutely untrue, especially when it comes to solo travel. Worrying and imagining worst-case scenarios just gets in the way of your job (gathering and interpreting information) and causes undue stress, anxiety, and can lead to impaired judgement. Finding ways to channel your thoughts is difficult but important, and I've outlined a way below:

i) When you begin to worry or imagine a worst-case scenario, recognize it.

ii) Make a conscious effort to curb the route of the story you're inventing, and bring it to a swift conclusion with yourself coming out alright. For example, if the idea that someone might attack you enters your head, quickly envision yourself hurting the assailant, escaping, calling the police, and getting rescued. Keep the ending as positive as you can.

iii) It is best not to linger on these thoughts (don't get hung up on details or specifics) as they can start to break down your self-confidence and impair your judgement. Finish your day-dream quickly by making yourself the hero, and then move your thoughts along to something new. Take inventory of your body and gear, or get distracted by something on the road. Rejoice in the moment, and derive happiness from the realization that the present is very good (yes, this is a little bit of Buddhism at work, here). Think "yeah, that terrible thing could happen to me, but right now I am safe, healthy, happy, well-fed, loved, excited..."

iv) Always picture yourself strong, safe, and unharmed at the end of a worry. It will get easier with practice.



I hope these tips prove useful to someone! Please remember that every person has their own style for traveling, dealing with strangers, and handling stress. These ideas won't work for everyone, but it'll get you thinking, at least. :D

Boulder Loves Bikes

On the Peak to Peak Highway yesterday, I met two local cyclists riding recumbents. When I asked them about the best route to Boulder, they told me to take the Riverside Driv,and then get on highway 36. "Really, the big highway?" I asked.

"Yep," the man replied. "There's almost more cyclists than cars out there. Enjoy it: you're in bicycle country, now!"

It's a bit disorienting. Here in Boulder, as in Portland, bikes are not only a primary means of transport, but also of self-expression. All kinds of people, with or without helmets, and with or without concern for traffic, flit in and out of traffic and crowd the streets. This was the first time that I've arrived in a town (Pearl Street, where a friend works at the Boulder Cafe) and was unable to find parking: every bike rack, every sign post was already a tangled mess of tires and handle bars. I'd never seen anything like it.

It also meant that my rig attracted a lot of attention. Sometimes it was good. "Hey, sweet ride!" yelled a girl from the sidewalk as I rolled past. And the rest of the attention was.. not what I wished. It was hard to tell if the boys who were cat-calling after me were more interested in me or my bike.

So it's refreshing, I guess. But after so many days alone on the road, it feels like too many people sometimes. I think ill be looking forward to getting back on the road again in a week or so.

At the Saratoga Post Office

I was sitting on the ground outside the post office in Saratoga, Wyoming, writing post cards to friends, when a lovely woman approached. "You guys staying the night here?" She asked.

"Ain't no 'guys' with me," I replied stubbornly, "I'm traveling alone."

Thankfully my cheeky response didn't bother her, and she informed me that her name was Sheila, and that she and her boyfriend were hosts on Warmshowers, and invited me to stay the night at their place. I was happy to accept.

I continued to write post cards until someone pulled up in a pickup. "Hey!" Shouted the driver, "you traveling alone?"

"You bet!" I shouted back. I looked up to see a woman sitting in the driver's seat, beckoning me to the truck. She invited me to stay at her aunt's place that night. When I told her I already had plans she nodded. "Okay, just thought id check. See, there was an article published in the paper not too long ago, about catering to cyclists in the community, and now my aunt's all fired up to have someone camp on her lawn."

Alarms were going off in my head. "An article!" I cried, "is the newspaper office here in town?"

She directed me to the Saratoga Sun just a block away, and within five minutes I was standing in their office, asking for a copy of last week's paper. "Uh... yeah, sure. Let me grab Tom for you, since he's the one who wrote it. "

He returned in a minute, accompanied by none other than Tom... Sheila's boyfriend, my other host for the night.

(Don't you love small towns?!)

The article turned out to be a great one, entitled "Time to Welcome Two-Wheeled Tourists", and it cited the economic benefits to small communities who catered to Transam cyclists. "Saratoga has all the amenities cyclists need," wrote Tom, "and the most popular coast-to-coast route in the world is delivering tourists right to our doorstep. It is time to start taking advantage. "

Sheila and Tom were incredible hosts, and managed to get a glass of wine in my hand AND keep me up past 11. It was a memorable night... I haven't laughed so hard in a long time.

Thank you, Saratoga, for everything. :)

One of Many Great Conversations with a Stranger

It was a short (40 miles) ride from Rawlins to Saratoga yesterday. I arrived in the early afternoon, following the signs saying "Hot Springs" without having any am ambition to actually soak during the warmest part of the day. Many other folks thought this was a great idea, however, and I was entertained by the festive parade of suits and towels that sauntered by me as I ate my lunch in the shade. People chattered happily to each other as they made their way down to the river, in search of just the right blend of hot spring water and cool river water.

One man postponed his dip in the river to talk to me. We discussed possible routes to Boulder, CO ( not as simple as it may sound), his family, and the state of the world today. "Dang," he said, lighting up his second cigarette, "I'm amazed by what you're doing. When I was your age, I hitchhiked around and stuff, but I was too messed up most of the time to plan something like this. You kids are amazing."

"Yeah," I said, "Only it seems like your generation had more fun than us. I've been talking to lots of people your age,including my parents, and it seems like folks were excited to strike out and do something new, even if it was stupid. People my age tend to be nervous, and worried about debt and jobs and getting through school ... you hardly ever see hitchhikers now."

"Yeah," he agreed, nodding thoughtfully. "The sixties were good for us that way. I believe you're right about kids being different these days. I see it my own kids too: wound up tight, and already thinking about being secure. Hell, we never thought about shit like that! And you know," he said, looking at me through his glasses, "I don't know what kind of poison the media and the government fed you guys, but it does seem like a lot of people have a dark cloud over 'em these days."

Food for thought, as I pedalled against the wind and crossed the border into Colorado today.

Caught in the Crosswind

Today, I cheated.

I knew that this day would come, when the Forces that Be would look down on me and say "Girl, you stupid or something? Get off the bike". It's a lucky thing I heard this advice at all, over the howling wind.

I'd been hearing about the infamous Wyoming wind for almost a week now, without understanding what folks meant. I figured it's either a tail-wind or a head-wind: the former being awesome, and the latter being annoying, but neither one being deadly.

Well, today I encountered a cross -wind for the first time, and I believe I'm lucky to be alive. The 40mph winds were pushing me off into the loose gravel, and it took all my strength to keep the handle bars pointed in the right direction. There was incredibly heavy truck traffic, and when they whizzed by I'd get caught in the slip steam and thrown towards the side of the truck with terrifying force. I careened back and forth across the crumbling shoulder, buffeted by the wind and the slip streams to the point where I felt like a windsock out there on the highway, with no ability to direct myself.

There was a point when I couldn't take it anymore, and, shaking, I dismounted. It was hard even to walk the bike, as the wind shoved the frame back and forth. I walked over a mile, sure that if I just kept moving I'd escape the wind eventually. I knew it was only 18 more miles to Rawlins, but when I looked ahead and saw the long, unrelenting stretch of exposed highway, I turned to face the oncoming traffic and stuck out my thumb.

I was picked up within minutes by a sweet man from Montana, and the chat we had in the car helped to calm my frazzled nerves.

Dubois' Mysteries

What a beautiful ride yesterday, from Hatchet Campground over Togwotee Pass to Dubois. There was some horrendous road construction, with copious loose gravel and some really jarring "washboard" stretches. But it couldn't detract from the view. Fortunately,the road work was all on the uphill ... so the 20 mile downhill was one long stretch of perfectly smooth, asphalt-flavored freedom. I was going over 30mph, and it was only a 4% grade!

The road into Dubois had a beautiful surprise for me. Huge painted hills towered over the highway,striped in red and white so that they looked like giant strawberry shortcakes. (Or maybe I was just hungry). As I was sitting at the side of the road enjoying the spectacle, three women sauntered by on horses. When they started muttering to each other about whether or not I was crazy, I took that as my cue to leave.

One sad thing: the most expensive camping I've encountered this trip. I tried to explain to the girl at the counter that I came on a bicycle, and my little tent takes up less space than a park bench. She smiled, charged me the $24, and had me sign a liability waiver. So here I am, nestled among 80-person tents and giant RVs that would put a cruise ship to shame. I feel like a little kid trying to blend in to a crowd of adults. Except they have more toys than I do. Hint : when you need a separate 10 x 10 tent just for your state-of-the-art barbeque, and there's only 4 of you to feed... that's not camping anymore. Same goes for the folks who bring the RV, the pickup, and the 4-wheeler to the campsite, and enough dogs to win the Iditarod.

hould have stealth camped, I guess, but there's not much to hide behind out here: I'm in sage brush country again.

Wyoming Birthday

I arrived in Jackson, Wyoming at 5pm on my 22nd birthday. My musician relatives greeted me with the Happy Birthday song, sung in 4part harmony, and a big chocolate cake garnished with home grown raspberries. I'm so glad I decided to celebrate my birthday with them!

I haven't seen this crew in 5 years, and all of them turned out to be too awesome to leave... so I've decided to stay an extra day. I'll be back on the road soon, though, and will be battling the infamous wind of central Wyoming. But I'm sure it builds character. :)

Huzzah Missoula!

I'm in Montana already! When I left Forest Grove over 3 weeks ago, Missoula seemed worlds away. It's satisfying to know that if you wake up every day and pedal, you really do get somewhere.

My host here in Missoula is Nick Engelfried, a good friend and Pacific alum who's now a grad student at the university here, studying Environmental Writing. He's an inspiration to me: he doesn't own a car,and has even found a way to get from his apartment in Missoula to the surrounding wilderness areas for backpacking trips. By bike, of course! He wears his camping backpack, and pedals the distance in 40 minutes. Once there, he embarks on a 1-3 night backpacking trip and returns to the parking lot to pedal home. Now that's what I call awesome!

This city has proven refreshingly hospitable to cyclists, with well-marked bike lanes, racks, and routes. (It's also home to the organization that created the Transam Bicycle Route that I've been following. If you're riding one of their routes and stop into their office, they give you free icecream and take your picture to add to the wall. I stopped in today, along with Joey & Jess, and discovered there are at least 12 other women who have toured solo this year. Woot!

Luckily enough, I managed to get a last-minute interview with the ACA marketing director. It's the first thing I've done so far to truly work on the academic side of my Senior Presentation, and it felt great! She was incredibly helpful, interested, and directed me to some good resources. Thank goodness for knowledgeable people who have the time to chat with folks like me.

Heading back on the road tomorrow, and wishing you all the best!

The Rattlesnake Grade

So far the most common cultural traits of the Americans I've met are: we ask lots of direct questions and love to scare eachother. Shitless.

In other words, I should have known better when people were warning me about the Rattlesnake Grade. This infamous stretch of highway, connecting Flora, Oregon with Anatone, Washington, twists its way down one side of the Grande Ronde Canyon before snaking its way back up the other side. The locals would have you believe that it's also edged with venomous reptiles, fraught with heartless logging trucks, and extends for at least 50 miles.

Having rode through it this morning, I'm alive to tell you: it's not that bad. I didn't see any snakes, the truck drivers were courteous, and it was probably only 10 miles of uphill. I could have saved myself some stress by getting accurate information, so here's some truth for the next person who attempts bicycling the Grade :

1. No doubt, it's an unsettling ride down. Go slow (less than 30 MPH) and watch for loose gravel. There's lots of rough pavement to maneuver as well, but it will be no problem at a cautious speed.

2. Go early. Motorcycle riders love the Rattlesnake Grade, and they'll roar through there in huge numbers, especially on weekends. Fortunately for us bicyclists, the Hell's Angels aren't an "early-to-rise" crew. If you start your descent by 8am, you should be fine. By 10am,expect more motorbike traffic.

3. Be thoughtful. If you hear a big truck coming,pull over and dismount. There are no shoulders, and that means you need to share the road. The drivers don't want to endanger you, so don't endanger them by forcing them into the other lane to pass. I got a big smile and thumbs-up from a logging truck driver when I pulled off the road to let him pass. It's slow-going that way, but sure beats getting run over.

4. And above all... don't psyche yourself out! You totally got this, and you're in good company : Cycle Oregon did this stretch one time. If the roadies made it, so can the rest of us.

Falling in Love with Eastern Oregon

Today marks the end of the second week of my journey by bicycle. I celebrated by taking a rest day with 2 new friends I've met through a mutual friend. They have a beautiful homestead here in Halfway, Oregon.

"Halfway to where?" my Mom asked on the telephone. I'm still not sure, even after spending 24 hours here. But I do know that Halfway is more than just a town to pass through on the way to somewhere else: it's got a life of it's own, and from what I saw, it's a beautiful tribute to Smalltown-America.

After a lovely morning with my hosts, I had the pleasure of attending a Benefit Auction event today in the Halfway City Park, to benefit the Halfway School District's music program. For dinner entertainment, children sawed at their fiddles, adults sang and played guitars and banjos, and one group stole the show with incredible tunes on the marimba.

As the jovial music of 6 marimbas and other percussive instruments filled the afternoon air, a little girl began to dance off to the side of the band. She jumped up and down, pointing her feet inside little tennis shoes and tossing her long golden hair over her shoulders. After the third song she became more comfortable, swinging her arms to and fro and twirling. She began to experiment, throwing her limbs around and leaping with the joyful movements that only youth can teach us.

By the end, people were beaming and applauding for her, as well as for the band. The band director stood up and thanked the girl for dancing, and she smiled shyly.

I used to be a little girl who danced next to the band, too. In my hometown they still remember me as the youngster who'd get up on stage (where i wasn't supposed to be) and jump around, showing my appreciation for the live music. And just as they did for the little girl in the park today, they always made me feel welcomed.

Thank you, Halfway, for a wonderful afternoon. Congratulations on being the kind of town that comes together to celebrate music, youth, and art. You made me feel right at home. :)

Baker City!

I've met some wonderful folks biking the same route as me. They're two new friends from North Carolina, Joey and Jessica. :) It's been fun to have cycling buddies and campground neighbors for the past couple days! Tomorrow they're staying here in Baker City, Oregon to do some bike repair. I'll be pushing on to Halfway, but I'm sure we'll see each other again soon.

The longest ride so far happened yesterday: 68 miles, from Mt. Vernon to Sumpter, OR. It included 3 (albeit small) mountain passes! I felt empowered by the presence of my new friends, and the three of us chugged along, gulping water and whooping to keep our spirits up. We rolled into an RV campground in Sumpter just as the sun was setting, feeling accomplished and sore.

Baker City is a lovely town! After arriving here this morning (via a gentle, 30-mile ride along the Powder River) we spent a few hours slumped outside of a hip general store called "Bella Market", which happens to be a hub of the progressive, cyclist culture in Baker City. A fellow Trans-Am cyclist from London walked by, noticed our bicycles, and pulled up a chair to chat. It was a pleasant, easy afternoon to make up for our grueling ride yesterday.

Warmshowers.org has been a wonderful resource. For those who don't know, take heed: www.warmshowers.org is a website that allows touring cyclists and their supporters to connect, providing cheap (or often free!) places to sleep while journeying long distance. Here in Baker City I am staying with one such host. They've graciously given me access to their laundry facilites, shower, guest bed (!), and computer... in exchange for nothing more than my gratitude. It's shocking and inspiring to meet so many great people in this way! This is my third warmshowers.org host this trip, and they've all been wonderful so far.

Blessings to you and yours, may August continue to be a lucky, relaxing, beautiful, and productive month for us all.

Evangelist Campground Managers, and other great folks

It took me three days to bike from Eugene to Sisters, over the McKenzie Pass. It takes most veteran cyclists only one day, but I feel that I'm the fortunate one: as the miles of asphault slowly slip beneath my tires, I have time to smile at the blue skies overhead, observe wildflowers quaking in the roadside breeze, and of course... meet people.

The first night just outside of Blue River, I balked at the $14 campsite fee (there was no discount for cyclists). After delivering the bad news of the cost, the campground managers took pity on me and invited me to stay in their private site for free. I set up my tent and was invited to dinner in their luxurious RV: chef's salad with ham and boiled eggs. Ahhh, protein.

They were sweet, retired, and talked easily over dessert. "The hippies who come up to use the hotsprings... oh my", said my hostess, wide-eyed at the memory, "Those girls all want to go in there naked, and I've seen some of everything. I tell you what, I've really had my eyes opened this summer". She looked meaningfully at her husband, who shook his head.

"Yep," he replied, "they had some kinda... uh... I don't know. A 'hippie fest' I guess you'd call it. 'Bout three weeks ago. And the hotsprings was just crawlin' with them".

I was about to say "You mean the Country Fair?" but then decided to pretend I was as innocent about naked hippies as they were. It seemed prudent at the time. :)

The breakfast they insisted on feeding me the next morning was only slightly dampened by their parting gift: a leaflet emblazoned with "The Bible: You Have God's Word on It". I guess my vibrant tie-dyed T shirt had given me away, and they knew I'd been naked in a hotspring at one time or another. I smiled, thanked them, and agreed to read the leaflet. (Which I did... and it put me to sleep very quickly the next night).

That afternoon I rolled into a campground about 11 miles below McKenzie Pass, with shaking, sweaty legs and a concerned look, as it appeared the campround was full and there were no more to be found this side of the Pass. A tiny woman with curly red hair bounded over to greet me (I'm sure she'd enjoy this description) with a wide smile and even wider eyes. "You can share this campsite with us if you'd like! There's plenty of room for two tents here".

They were fresh from a three day vacation at Breitenbush Hot Springs, where they were fed delicious organic, vegetarian meals and soaked to their hearts' content. They shared dinner with me: sweet potato stir fry with organic coconut oil (Wow, and that's camping food?!) The affection that this couple of 17 years showed to eachother (and to me) was inspiring. I'll miss them dearly, even after knowing them for only 1 day.

(Much thanks to Amy and Ivan, for a wonderful evening among newfound friends and great food. I'll be visiting you in Seattle sometime soon!)


Thank goodness for hippies who'll go naked in hotsprings... and for the kindness of the campground managers who reprimand them. I guess it takes all kinds to get a novice cyclist up a mountain pass. :D

First day on tour

Thirty miles later I'm sitting on a shady sidewalk in McMinnville, sticking my feet into the path of a stray sprinkler and feeling accomplished. It wasn't the mileage, certainly, or my luck at avoiding several logging trucks: it was the fact that I got out at all.
As I wrote the goodbye note for my housemates and dear friends,I felt increasingly doubtful about this entire expedition. It's hard to convince yourself that the world is worth exploring when it seems like the best people in it are the ones you're leaving behind

But after buying blueberries from a roadside stand and scoring a couch from some wonderful folks on Couchsurfing.org, things are looking up. Thank you for all your support,and happy August.

The Bike!

This was the Craigslist find I'd been waiting for: a 1981 Miyata 1000. It's a beautful 53cm all-steel bike, built for touring. It was in a great price range, too, at $650!

Two weeks ago, I took public transit into Portland for a test ride, and was head over heels. The Miyata seemed to fly over the pavement, weaving around potholes and storm drains effortlessly. It was hard to believe that this machine was older than I was. I bought it on the spot, having done some research on Miyatas previously and realizing that for the price and quality, this was a deal that I'd be stupid to pass up.

Later, I questioned the price for a such a seasoned ride. After all, it's nearly 30 years old. Just a few weeks ago I was a nonbeliever, and talked trash about touring bikes from the 80's. I thought that the Miyatas' faithful followers were just a cult of folks who missed Reagan and parachute pants. Now that I've ridden one, though, I can see the appeal. These are solid bikes, with a lean design and smooth ride... but are they worth $650?

My doubts subsided yesterday when I went into Portland to buy panniers. I watched as a bike enthusiast gaped at the story of my Miyata. "Six hundred fifty bucks?" he asked, shaking his head. "You know, you can get $1000 for those things, and not even in the best condition".

While his estimate seems high, it's nice to know at least I wasn't swindled. :)

The Route!

This is my cross-country route! :) Pieced together from Adventure Cycling Association maps and the Mississippi River Trail guide.

Robert's Homemade Tube Patch Kit

I met Robert at a bus stop yesterday. I discovered him looking at me as I was admiring his blue Cannondale with the yellow bar tape. "Nice bike!" I said.

"Thanks!" he replied, "Where's yours?"

We spent the bus ride back to Forest Grove sitting next to each other, with Robert sharing all kinds of great advice with me. It turns out he'd spent over a year riding his bike all across the country, until the diagnosis of a brain tumor finally stopped him in Louisiana. "Forced retirement" he said, and his smile looked sad.

He still tours in Oregon, though his sister's made him promise that he'll never go cross-country again. "I'm over 50 years old!" he declared, "Who is she to tell me 'no'?" It sounds like his next big adventure will be a ride to Crater Lake after the snow melts. I wished him luck.

I'm sure I'll see Robert again soon. I still have so much to learn from him!

Here's Robert's recipe for Homemade Bike Tube Patches:

Materials:

1. sandpaper

2. old bike tube

3. rubber cement

4. aluminum foil

Directions:

Cut the old bike tube down the center, and lay flat. Scratch one side with the sandpaper to give texture. Apply a coat of contact cement, and let dry. Cut into patch-sized pieces, and stick onto aluminum foil. Fold up foil and carry in your bike repair kit.

When you get a flat, just sand the area around the leak, apply layer of contact cement, and allow to dry. Then peel off one of the homemade patches from the tin foil, and press over the leak area. Voila!

The Evils of Choice

Ah, indecision.

Buying my first bike was no issue. I just needed something with wheels for getting around town. It could be a mountain bike, a roadie, or a laid-back cruiser - I didn't care so long as it had a basket on it somewhere. And it could be made out of anything: steel, aluminum, I didn't know the difference at that point. I just wanted something that wouldn't be too rickety. (I failed in the last department, but my bike does have rear baskets).

Now that I need a bike that I can depend on, though, I feel an unprecedented pressure to "get it right". Bikes can be as complicated as you make them, I'm learning, and if you want to care about your bike right down to the spokes-and-nipples, you can. This is a new and confusing world for me, the craigslist shopper. I paid $100 for my first bike (way too much). For my second bike, my spending is going to go up exponentially: I'm looking at $1000 bikes, now. I can only hope there will not be a third bike... what does $10,000 look like, anyway?

It's not just the components that are making me stall and ponder. I'm one of those indecisive folks, often mislabeled as "picky". Actually, last week I realized that my type of cyclist has already been categorized: I'm the "Righteous Cyclist", described in the sassy pages of the book "Bike Snob". Riders like me believe that cycling not only makes us more healthy, beautiful, and sexually voracious, but that it also changes the world. Unlike cyclists who focus on components and mileage and fitness, we worry about impact.

If I buy a bike made in China, does that mean I support slave-labor, or a developing country's industry?

If I get a new bike, am I supporting cycling or consumerism?

If I get a "vintage" used bike, am I sticking to my morals about Reuse & Reduce, or am I setting myself up for disappointment and disaster on the road ahead?

After 4 months of wringing my hands over questions like these, I think I'm going to have to bite the bullet and accept some simple truths:

1. I need a bike - pronto!

2. I need a bike that I can trust.

3. Every purchase has an impact... both good and bad. At the very least, my $1000 will say "yes to biking!"

In light of this, I'm considering dropping some serious (in my mind) money on a brand new bike, rather than a used craigslister. My requirements? All steel, designed for touring, and made in the USA. The Surly LHT and Trek 520 are neck-and-neck right now, and the indecision continues...

Red Horse Day

I didn't grow up around horses. The only ones in my hometown were giant Clydesdales that pulled tourists around in a big red cart all summer, dropping their shit in the streets and holding up traffic on the one main road. I didn't like those horses much.

The one today was different. My partner and I found her when we topped Blooming Hill on our bikes. The moon was copper-colored, rising into the dusky blue sky over the vineyards and farm houses. Forest Grove looked different from atop the hill, more like the well-groomed country town that so many people want it to be.

It felt good to escape from finals week, even if just for an hour or two. It had been a rough Monday, with meetings and last-minute projects piling up, and the general specter of finals hanging over the campus. One more week, I kept thinking today, and then we can get our lives back...

The horse was special. She was red like a red velvet cake, and just as sweet. When I reached through the gate and stroked her soft red shoulder, she didn't shy away. Her eye was enormous, with long copper-colored lashes. She felt real under my hands, more alive than anything I had encountered today. She was different than the flat pieces of white paper that I spent so much time writing, printing, shuffling, and losing. Her ribs moved when she breathed, her jaw worked the grass in her mouth, yellow teeth sliding against her lips. She was beautiful.

We said goodbye and road home in the gathering dark, with headlamps tied around our necks to light the way. I thought about the students who were locked away in the university library tonight, falling asleep on their chemistry textbooks and biology notes.

It's hard to get excited about flat, white paper. We could use more red horses and moon-lit bike rides in this place called "university".

Especially during finals week.