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.
Friday, October 28, 2011
Sunday, October 23, 2011
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.
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.
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
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. :)
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. :)
Sunday, October 16, 2011
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.
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.
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
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! :)
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! :)
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
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. :)
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. :)
Monday, October 10, 2011
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.
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.
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
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.
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.
Saturday, October 1, 2011
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.
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.
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