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.