Loose Ends

I have to confess that I have been working on this post in my head for longer than you would guess. I am not a morbid thinker, far from it, but, in this case, no matter how much I tried, I could not help thinking of what the end would be like from time to time. Anyway, these are some of my thoughts about the end of the trip and what it means to me now that it is over. I apologize if these thoughts seems scattered, but perhaps my previous explanation of this blog’s origins will earn me some leniency.


So I am sitting in a hotel room, approximately 5 days from the finish of the trip. This is a surreal feeling, but it does remind me of a poignant fable. Most of you have heard either the statement or perhaps the fable behind the statement. To paraphrase, simply an ancient monarch once asked his wise men to bring him a statement that was an ultimate truth. The wise men deliberated a long time, and when they were called in front of the monarch to produce this undeniable truth, they said simply "This too shall pass." We are never good at accepting this truth. The reality is, that we hope that the good moments will never end, and we believe that the bad ones will never go away. We grip onto our joys like so much sand, squeezing harder, all the while forcing more sand out, and we wear ours scars like badges of honor - scars we think shall never heal. We are wrong though, and the wise men were right, this too shall pass.

It is this thought that has followed me for the last few days, probably since the beginning of the trip, but the specter has loomed ever closer with time. I am not sure what it will be like for the others on the trip to move on beyond this experience. I would be a fool to think that I could imagine what it is like to walk a mile in another's shoes. For my part, I figure life is like following a thin thread through a dark room. You are never really sure where you are going until you have gotten there, and once you have finished there, you move on, grabbing another thread and blindly following it in hopes that it is the "right" way. So I feel like two months ago, I dropped the thread I was following in that dark room, following another for a time, and now, for better and for worse, I will have to search around for that lost thread from two months ago blindly in the dark…this too shall pass.

I am sitting in the airport in San Francisco now, three days from the end of the trip. I am still checking the helmet mirror I am no longer wearing, thinking of getting coffee for Tara when I wake up, of assuring Bridget that today’s ride will not be too bad (even though she knows she could do it regardless), of watching Liza say she’s tired and then watching her fly up the hill in front of me, and countless other moments that are part of the ether of memory now…this too shall pass. And that is the point right? Otherwise we wouldn’t call them moments, but even epochs, eras, ages, and eons end – we just measure time in smaller increments, but fleeting, though a relative term, is still fleeting.

I was somewhat surprised that I haven’t shed tears yet over all of this. I suppose that I had steeled myself against this inevitability. That is not to say that I am not sad that this moment has passed, but I am glad that I had the foresight to know that it would end, to prepare for it by drinking in every moment as if it were the last of the trip, taking the time to look up at every vista, to eat every single calorie I could, to laugh as often as I could, to share with everyone as much as I could, to just be as much as was possible. For those of you in the “outside” world, I imagine time passed much as it always does, second after second, minute after minute, hour after hour, until the two months had passed, just like the two before, and like the two after. For me, I was fortunate enough to be pulled out of that spinning, even if for just a little while, such that minutes, hours, and days fell into a singularity and time was compressed, squeezed down so tightly that it stopped – and for that both brief and agonizingly long moment, I was exactly where I wanted to be, exactly where I should be. It is not often in one’s life that he can say something like that, it’s a shame. This trip has taught me that if you squeeze time down small enough, split the atoms of moments, life will seem so much more full, as if those moments never ended, just merged. This idea does not fly in the face of the fable that I talked about earlier, in fact it distills the most poignant aspect of it – if time is fleeting, then make the most of it while you can…this too shall pass.



Now, as we scatter to the four winds, all fumbling in the dark for the lost or new threads we must follow, I cannot help but think about where we will all be. I don’t lose much sleep over this though. I can hardly tell where I will be in ten minutes, let alone in years, and if I cannot tell where I will be, then how on earth will I ever figure that out for anyone else? Have no fear fellow riders – I have a promise for you: if you exert one iota of the effort that you showed on this trip in your “real” life, you will be wildly successful at all you do. Go forth with eyes open to the beauty around you in everyday objects and scenes, go forth with the belief that you can change the world, even if it’s for just one person, go forth with the knowledge that you were part of something massive, much larger than the sum of its parts, go forth with the strength, both mental and physical, that you have harnessed here in this moment, go forth and never fear a hill, literal or figurative, there is always a lower gear, there is always the time, and there are always the friends to help you tackle it…this too shall pass.

I cannot thank you all enough for making this an amazing, life-changing experience – a moment that I will squirrel away and protect viciously through time. I will miss so many parts of this trip, but what I will miss most are my friends.



I tried to find some literature to add to the end of this final post, something that would tie together all my scattered thoughts…I failed at finding one thing, but I succeeded at finding more than one. I hope these end up meaning as much to you as they do to me:

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night by Dylan Thomas

Do not go gentle into that good night,

Old age should burn and rave at close of day;

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.



Though wise men at their end know dark is right,

Because their words had forked no lightning they

Do not go gentle into that good night.



Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright

Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.



Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,

And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,

Do not go gentle into that good night.



Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight

Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.



And you, my father, there on that sad height,

Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light


Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening by Robert Frost

Whose woods these are I think I know.

His house is in the village, though;

He will not see me stopping here

To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer

To stop without a farmhouse near

Between the woods and frozen lake

The darkest evening of the year.



He gives his harness bells a shake

To ask if there is some mistake.

The only other sound's the sweep

Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,

But I have promises to keep,

And miles to go before I sleep,

And miles to go before I sleep



I Taught Myself To Live Simply by Anna Akhmatova

I taught myself to live simply and wisely,

to look at the sky and pray to God,

and to wander long before evening

to tire my superfluous worries.

When the burdocks rustle in the ravine

and the yellow-red rowanberry cluster droops

I compose happy verses

about life's decay, decay and beauty.

I come back. The fluffy cat

licks my palm, purrs so sweetly

and the fire flares bright

on the saw-mill turret by the lake.

Only the cry of a stork landing on the roof

occasionally breaks the silence.

If you knock on my door

I may not even hear.

The Company You Keep

How much time do you spend with yourself and no one else?  The typical answer I imagine is not that much.  We are by nature social animals, and we enjoy the company of others most of the time.  Every once and a while (and this measurement differs from person to person), we find ourselves alone, whether by choice or by accident.  On this trip, being alone is often a daily affair.  Sometimes it's because you can't keep up, or the others can't, and sometimes you just feel like being solo.  Either way, there is a great deal of time to yourself out here on the road.  You are probably wondering where I am going with this, and, given my past posts, I don't blame you.

On the way out of the Powell Reservoir (yes, I refuse to refer to this as a lake), I found myself alone in the canyons and desert, and I liked it, I cherished it, and I tried to keep it that way for the entire day. I realized one of the greatest issues with being alone is that many folks are not comfortable with themselves.  Sitting alone with nothing but your own thoughts for hours can be a scary proposition even to the most hardened individualists.  The fact is, all of us have things that we would rather not think about, that rear their heads when we are alone.  Try as you might, sometimes you can't fight the cloud away.  Nor should you really.  We are an amalgamation of all our experiences, good and bad.  You can learn so much about yourself if you take the time to delve into your own thoughts, even the worst of them.  Now I don't spend all of these rides thinking dark thoughts - far from it, but what makes it difficult to be alone are the dark thoughts.  If it weren't that way, no one would have a problem being by themselves, we wouldn't search out friends when we were in a low time.  I think it is unfortunate though that we avoid these moments merely because they are uncomfortable.  Discomfort leads to understanding and to change.  These moments are necessary for all of us to grow mentally and spiritually.

I have spent a great deal of time to myself in my life, so much so that it is no big deal out here on the road. In fact, I search it out from time to time.  Many people embark on journeys like this to find themselves - I applaud these people.  I wonder, however, why it takes such a major move for someone to find his/herself?  No matter though, at least they are trying to do it.  I think it is very important that we know ourselves.  I also think that the desert is a good place to do this.

The desert is a funny place.  It seems like only criminals and people that are a little insane are at home here...think Ed Abbey.  As harsh as all the environments that we have passed through have been, the desert is king.  As with everywhere else, the payoff is equal to the pay in.  I am surrounded by a maze of red and white stone canyons, junipers struggling to sip the few drops of moisture in the soil.  Actually it is funny - I described the beauty of the plains as it's haunting emptiness, and the rockies by its consumption of space - the desert, oddly enough - possesses both of these characteristics.  The colors are stunning - reds, browns, greens, whites - it looks like the face of Mars, but with small, stunted trees on it.

One of the aspects of southern Utah that I really admire is that this is desert living done right.  For millenia, humans have lived in desert environments, but the trick has been living within your means.  The desert teaches you that times of plenty are not guaranteed.  Life in the desert should be thrifty.  With the development of water moving technology we have moved away from this.  We have created massive kingdoms in the arid places of our country.  Southern Utah, however, is sparse - it's desert living as it should be.  Here in this beautiful wasteland, I and many others have looked deeply into themselves, plumbed the depths of our souls.  I suppose it is as likely to be a negative experience as it is to be a positive one, but I think that the overall effect should be positive.  I firmly believe that the better you know yourself, the better your relationships will be.  Maybe I am wrong, but that is what I think.

The climbs and the heat are brutal here, but they are infinitely worth it.  Anything that is worth doing is worth doing well.

Big Country

Slowly, out of the hot haze of the high plains, the Rocky Mountains emerged like foreboding clouds in the west.  We have been in the mountains for a few days now, and I am sitting in a coffee shop in Telluride CO.  Most of the group has fallen in love with one or more of the mountain towns we have been haunting - and to be honest, I don't blame them. I was a bigger fan of Salida and Gunnison than I am of Telluride.  Here's the thing - This town is full of people that are WAY to over-privledged.  Trustafarians.  Anyway, that is just the grumpy me speaking since, if I had the money (which I don't), I would be setting up shop in a place like this.  Aside from the expense and the people whose reality is on another plane than mine, this place is beautiful.  I met an older gentleman in Montrose who worked for Cummins Diesel engines, and he said that he had traveled all over the world, and the two most beautiful places, in his opinion, were Tibet and Telluride.  That seemed like a pretty damn good sales pitch.  I've never seen Tibet, but this guy was not selling me the Brooklyn Bridge about Telluride.  The town is nestled in a narrow valley, and surrounded by massive mountains in almost every direction.

This trip has taught me something about the worth of an object or an experience - it is directly proportional to the cost, whether it is money or, in this case, physical exertion.  I am still amazed that I pedaled myself to the Rocky Mountains.  I woke in the thin air at 10k feet a few days ago, crawled out of my home away from home, and it struck me again.  It happens every day, I realize how fortunate I am to be here, right now, not wanting to be anywhere else but now.  Kansas, Colorado, Kentucky, you name it, just here and now.  I don't do that enough in my life, and I hope that I will take that feeling with me, back to the "real world."  I spend too much time focusing on forward progress, institutional momentum as I like to say.Always moving forward, always up.  Here and now are places to get beyond.  Buying time in the future, paying with the present.  Not out here though.  I can drink in every moment anywhere from 5 - 40 mph.

The Rockies are breathtaking.  Have you ever looked at a scene, and it was so beautiful that it borders on painful?  I know that sounds funny, but the mountains are so massive, like sleeping giants, felled long ago.  It brings tears to my eyes.  The landscape is rugged, unforgiving, but it holds so much for you if you put in the effort, slow down to see it, make the journey the destination.  Anything from the smallest flower to the behemoth mountains erupting out of the valley floors.  It was amazing to see the change in the landscape, as the mountains heaved themselves from the high plains of eastern Colorado.

I mentioned that many places form the patchwork of my "home," the quilt that I have been stitching for 30 years now.  It is no wonder that a place like the Rockies has burrowed in under my skin, or anyone else's for that matter.  Some places, like the plains for example, need explanation, the Rockies are not that type of place.  What explanation is needed for wanting to live so close to heaven, taking flight without leaving the ground, surrounding yourself with vast wilderness, the stuff of life, of the world?  Like the plains, life here is a struggle, to be eked out of the landscape, but the rewards are more tangible, less hidden.  The other day Seth commented that he didn't think anyone could stay angry if they lived here.  They would wake up on the wrong side of the bed, but as soon as you walk outside and are bombarded by the majesty around you - poof - anger gone.  I think Seth is onto something there.  Who needs therapy, slap a snow covered peak in my backyard, you keep the pills.

I am going to leave you with a little Shakespeare this time, something that was flying through my head as I was pedaling closer and closer to heaven.


To all those brave enough to do something amazing, to push the boundaries -




"And gentlemen in England now-a-bed
    Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here,
    And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
    That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day."

Humility

I have a fair bit of familiarity with the Great Plains of the United States.  This is something that I didn’t think would ever be the case for me.  I have spent the last 5 years in southeastern South Dakota on the plover project, and I have seen many young men and women scratch their heads at the idea of someone living in this environment.  Before I go on, I want to make one thing clear – I do not subscribe to the idea that the Plains are impossible to live in – to the contrary, I can clearly see how someone might choose to live here…maybe not me though. 

What I have learned is that the plains teach one humility.  Jokingly, I told someone yesterday that many have fought with the plains, none have won.  The landscape here is so massive, fields of wheat, corn, pasture, and sometimes, if you are lucky, native prairie.  As far as the eye can see, nearly unbroken expanses dotted intermittently with barns and homes.  Life here is hard-scrabble, a tooth and nail fight against overwhelming odds.  Drought, wind, ice, heat, all conspire against you.  Ask any of my technicians from years past how I feel about the wind.  Few would be short of an answer I suspect. 

Here I have gone and started out so negatively when I said that I wouldn’t do it.  The point is, if you stand long enough somewhere, you will begin to sprout roots, whether you like it or not.  And when you have rooted yourself in the soil of some region, it’s hard to remove to somewhere else.  For example, the first full day in Kansas we met a very nice man on the side of the road that proceeded to tell us about how his great-great-etc. grandfather had homesteaded the land behind us.  For those of you that do not know what that means – look up the Homestead Act (or ask your child that just finished American History).  Here is the secret, when you and your fore-fathers have poured your heart and soul into the land, it is hard to divest yourself of it.  Those of us from other parts of the country have a similar story, but the human cost per acre is just greater here, thus how someone could stay in the face of what we may perceive as insurmountable odds. 

So many of us speed our way through here, as if this were a place to be avoided, not a destination.  Indiana’s welcome signs say “The Crossroads of America.”  Someone should tell them that announcing that all roads go through here, none of them stop is not the best advertisement.  These are the states that the rest of us roll up our windows, turn on the cruise control at 80 mph, and crank through them to our destinations.  A friend of mine has this as her email signature "Anyone can love a mountain, but it takes a soul to love the prairie."  In some ways I think this is true, but perhaps it is just a matter of settling down and seeing the beauty.  You have to search for it out here.  There is no massive mountain, forever sea, these are not the accoutrements of the prairie.  Stand in the middle of a vast field (preferably of native prairie grasses but, as I said before, that is a tall order) where the vegetation is not above eye level, and look around.  Be swallowed whole by the intensity of space.  The prairie is awesome for other reasons than we are used to.  Usually we love things that consume space.  For my money, I find a naked prairie much more impressive than Times Square, but it takes all kinds. 

Now I am sitting in a town park, hiding from gusts of wind that are reaching 45 mph, watching trees bend under the intolerable weight of that wind, snapping back into place as it relents if only for a second.  We have fought with Kansas, the wind of the prairie, and we have lost, like so many others have done before us, and so many will do after us.  This is the way of the prairie and it is not for the weak of heart and constitution. 

I am listening to some on the team asking that same question that I myself once asked, that my technicians have asked, that many of us ask when we pass through this part of the country – why would anyone live here.  The answer is easy if you take the slow route through here, take the time to explore, to notice the clouds (best I have ever seen), the silence before a massive summer storm rolls through, the nicest people I have ever encountered, the history of struggle, the oceans of wheat blowing in the wind, the silence of the night, like no other silence – not just quiet, but the absence of sound, the side of ranch dressing with EVERYTHING, the family roots in this soil, so thick that they are emerging from underneath, pushing through here and there.  And these are just some of the reasons that people stay here, some of them I will keep to myself, my own private prairie poetry.

As we pass through this landscape that miraculously has become a part of my patchwork home, I will be content to know that at least part of me is home – the humble part.

A Day in the Life

As with any large group, ours has many different types of personalities, so a description of what my typical day is like may not suffice for the others, but since the others are more diligent bloggers than I am, you probably know all about their days.

I usually get up between 4 and 530, depending on how crazy I feel like getting and how long the mileage is for the day.  Breakfast and breaking down the campsite are the first things on the docket.  My tent is pretty easy to take down, but for those of you who know me well, you know that I am a slow mover in the morning.  I have to plan a little extra time into each morning so that I can make sure that I can screw around and stare blankly into space for a little while before I have to start pedaling. 

First breakfast (yes, I think like a Hobbit now) is usually something fairly small.  I have trouble eating anything substantial right at the beginning.  Once that business is out of the way, I usually group up with my compatriots and start out on the road.

When you are beating your body up day after day, and sleeping on the ground as well, it is not easy to start your day eating up the pavement.  The pace is just a little slower than walking for a little while, but who cares, you have all day long to pedal anywhere from 50 – 100 miles, depending on the day.  The best is when there is a massive hill right outside of the town where we slept, so your real alarm clock is the 10% grade waiting outside of your tent.  I have discovered, thus far on the trip, that all towns where we end wither have a hill into them, out of them, or better yet, both.  Who needs coffee with a 10 min ass-busting climb at 6 am.  Well, I do, but I rarely get it since I am a camp-stove idiot and one of the laziest people that you ever met. 

Our days are defined by the water support stops that happen every 20 – 30 miles on the route.  One must be relatively fast to catch the van to get water, but if you are lagging behind, there is usually always a way to find water.  For example, Tara and I were climbing  in the Ozarks the other day, and Tara was resourceful enough to find a spigot in back of a fine dining establishment (I mean it too, the place even had a tiger cage associated with it.  What it was doing in the middle of nowhere in Missouri, I will never know, but there it was.  The tiger was probably asking itself the same question I suppose.)

If we are lucky, the first stop will be at a place where we can find a greasy breakfast (second breakfast to you Tolkien fans).  Even if you aren’t lucky enough to have one at the stop, there is usually one on the route, and all it takes is the will to skip one of the stops, or to be hopelessly behind the lead group (which I almost always am). 

The other stops are usually timed for lunch and second lunch, but the afternoon ones are key for water in these humid and hot days.  Along the way, you are free to take whatever pace you see fit, so if you are feeling like taking 1000 pictures, so be it.  If you feel like taking a nap under a tree (a resource that is dwindling as we approach the prairie), so be it.  Today, we stopped at a river to swim and cool off, take a little nap, and attack the second half of the day with vim and vigor. 

Sometimes we ride alone, and often in loose groups.  The times alone are pensive and introspective for me.  I try and look up and around me as much as possible.  I want to drink in every mile, see the places that we ride through for what they are.  Often it isn’t hard to find the beauty, other times you have to dig a little deep to see it. 

Sometimes, when I’m feeling frisky, I will really go after the mileage between rest stops.  This is called “crushing it,” or so I am told by the kids on the tour.  Kids these days.  Well, in relation to the others on the trip, I have decided that even when I feel like I am crushing it, I am really just squishing it.  Whatever, I am having fun, riding standing up and feeling like I am flying. 

Eventually, I will pull into camp, usually much later than at least half of the group, but it isn’t a race, and that really isn’t my style anyway.  I will be late to my own funeral – though THAT will not be my fault. 

The search for more food begins.  I have totally given up on the pretense that I would cook most of my own food.  I have to admit, although I like to cook, I can think of nothing I would like to do less than cook after a long ride.  Local diners, restaurants, and gas station food have done me well, and have fed my laziness as well. 

Then I will move on to setting up my home – my tent that is.  After a little socializing, and avoiding blogging (as I am sure you can tell), I find my way to the tent by 11.  Because I am both an early riser and a later bedder, I seem to be under the radar in terms of annoying either of these groups.  It’s amazing how much less sleep I need on this trip as compared to at home.  I am running on a max of 7 hours of sleep nowadays, whereas at home I am running on 9 or 10.  I suppose you can tell which of these I would rather be doing.  Well, the sun is down, and that means that it’s bed time.  I love living by natural light – it just seems right. 

Going for it

Do you remember when you were a kid, out on your bike, or out running around - you would be going for the entire day, and on and off, you would pedal or run as hard as you could.  I'm not even sure why I would do it, maybe just because the hill was there, or because I wanted to feel the wind in my hair, or maybe just because I wanted to.  Whatever the reason, it was a way of life, attacking physical feats with tenacity, only to slow down and enjoy the small victories.

A few of the more hardcore cyclists on the trip have talked about going after a hill, and I hate to confess that I was mystified by the idea at first.  Over the days that we have been riding, we have all been getting stronger, and with that, we have developed the attitude of going after it, whether it's a big hill, a little hill, a long straight away, you name it.  It came with our development and of our comfort on our bikes.

I love rediscovering things that I knew so well when I was a kid.  I knew how awesome it was to fly as hard as I could go, spend myself, and collapse into a reasonable pace as I recuperate.  I think they call it interval training now, but, as with many things, adults have just renamed something that kids have always known.  In fact, we have just come up with a fancy name for playing.

And that is what it has been.  Many of you have asked me how I could possible do this.  It's easy, I try to remember what it was like when we were kids, riding our bikes all day long, stopping now and then to take in the scenery.  I try to remember what it was like to play.  Children are so much better at life than we are, and they know so much more than they even know they do.  This isn't a job, it's an adventure, and I get to play every day.

Don't get me wrong, there is a very serious aspect to what we do.  There is an inherent danger to riding on the road, a gravity to our cause, and responsibility to those wonderful enough to support our trip, but in some way, we have the responsibility to have fun and to rediscover ourselves, the world, and inevitably, a love for play and exhaustion.

The next time you have the chance, whatever it is that you are doing, go for it.  Push it as hard as you can, and then push it a little more.  Feel the blood pumping through your veins, the air heaving in your chest, the purifying aspect of exhaustion.  Return to your childhood, even if just for a minute, and spend some exhausting moments there.  Remember how to play.

Appalachia

Today we left the Appalachian mountains behind.  In total, Eastern Kentucky may not have been the prettiest or most welcoming of places, I was reminded of an important point - one must live in the moment. Yesterday, was a very hard ride through the heat and rolling hills of Eastern Kentucky.  I won't pull any punches - the day was pretty miserable, a little bit of rain, but not enough to cool the day off.  Lots of mileage over fairly steep hills with traffic and crappy pavement throughout it all.  The trick is to not let such things ruin an otherwise perfect experience.  I was lucky enough to be reminded of this point part of the way through the day.  I was riding with Pepper, our friend from Damascus, ailing after a hill climb, when he says that he needs to stop to change out his tube.  He said that I could go on if I like, but I was in  no hurry to keep on moving after the hill.  We stopped on a small road off the highway, in front of a one-room church, a "Regular Baptist" church.  As near as I can tell, a regular baptist eats fiber frequently.

While sitting there in front of this tiny church in the sweltering afternoon heat of Eastern Kentucky something wonderful happened.  A song floated out the open doors of the church through the thick air.  It was "Amazing Grace", and how sweet the sound.  There we were alone in the wilds of Kentucky, and in a perfect "Appalachian" voice (think oh brother where art thou) one of the more powerful songs written was our treat for a difficult day and even more difficult conditions.  I am trying to figure out how to post the video of this, but I have been unsuccessful thus far - apparently, my camera is  too advanced for the blog. Go figure.  If I do not get this video up, ask me to show it to you the next time I see you.

I feel very blessed for having had the chance to be witness to this scene.  We came into Kentucky with a cloud hanging over our heads, but even though it was not as nice as Virginia, if I had hurried through, kept my head down, kept my heart and mind closed, then I would never have heard that song, on this day, in the most impossible of places.  Miracles happen all over the place every day - you just aren't looking close enough, or you ask too much or your miracles.  I like to say that I learn something new every day, but I often forget those thoughts with time.  This trip has been great for reminding me that this world can always amaze you, just keep your eyes peeled for it.

So, it is with irony, that I leave the Appalachians with a certain amount of nostalgia, despite the snarling dogs, coal trucks, and decrepit pavement.



"Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound,
That saved a wretch like me....
I once was lost but now am found,
Was blind, but now, I see.

T'was Grace that taught...
my heart to fear.
And Grace, my fears relieved.
How precious did that Grace appear...
the hour I first believed.

Through many dangers, toils and snares...
we have already come.
T'was Grace that brought us safe thus far...
and Grace will lead us home.

The Lord has promised good to me...
His word my hope secures.
He will my shield and portion be...
as long as life endures.
Yea, when this flesh and heart shall fail,
and mortal life shall cease,
I shall possess within the veil,
a life of joy and peace.

When we've been here ten thousand years...
bright shining as the sun.
We've no less days to sing God's praise...
then when we've first begun.

"Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound,   
That saved a wretch like me....
I once was lost but now am found,
Was blind, but now, I see

Eastern Kentucky

We left Breaks Interstate Park on the border of Virginia and Kentucky today.  Actually, if you ask me - and you did just by reading this blog - Kentucky got the short end of the stick with this park deal.  About 99% of the splendor is in Virginia.  The irony was not lost on me as the horror stories about Kentucky rolled off the tongues of the cyclists that have been here before.  A dark cloud loomed over our descent into the true Appalachia - a place unfriendly and unwelcoming to cyclists, or so it was said.

I have to admit that it wasn't as bad as it was painted for me - that isn't saying much though given how negative the portraits of this state were from last years' riders.

Dogs, and coal trucks, and no shoulders - oh my.  Well, they were all there, the chasing dogs, the barreling coal trucks, and the shoulders were non-existent, or worse yet, buttressed by rumble strips.  All that aside, however, this place is damn hilly!  It's amazing how the fear of all of these other sources of despair overshadow the day's work.

I think I took the smart road by staying in the middle of the pack - all of the dogs were tired by the time we came by, and it's a good thing too since I did not have the energy to run for it.

The coal truckers were crazy, but they were more respectful to riders than I thought would be the case.

One area where the reports were particularly accurate was the crushing poverty.  That was no joke and may even be worse than what I was told - perhaps hyperbole would have been appropriate here.  TO add insult to injury, they are raping the landscape to extract coal.  I suppose I don't have an answer to that question though.

I just wanted to give you all an update before we plumb the depths of eastern Kentucky.

Out of Doors

So, I have quite a bit of free time to think when I am on the bike.  This is particularly true since I have a hell of a time keeping up with the rest of the riders when we are riding in a group.  

There is an unbelievable sense of freedom you have when you are taking something like this ride on.  I am sitting there on this bike, seeing, smelling, tasting, and living fully.  Sometimes it’s exciting, sometimes it’s not as exciting, but it’s always an adventure, always just a little out of my control; it’s life, out loud and in full color.  It’s not dimmed by glare resistant glass, screens, or other false faces.

Go outside soon and often.  Seriously, if you can, go outside right now if you can.  I would rather you do that than read this post.  Honestly, there isn’t anything in the next lines that you can’t read on the face of a mountain, in a river, or just in your backyard. 

Breathe deeply of the fresh air, turn your face to the sun, whatever.  The point is to be out of doors.  Rediscover wilderness, pastoral landscapes, and sinuous country lanes.  And, when you feel that you are ready, climb something high – not ridiculously high or dangerous, just high enough to put the world in the proper perspective.  Climb it with your own power though, by foot or pedal, but definitely on your own steam.  When you look down on the world, notice how small it is, how insignificant.  Now you have perspective, now you see your link in the chain. 

Get out there and be a part of the world.  Let it permeate you, rejuvenate you.  I think you will find that you will like it.  You may even love it.  I know I do.  

Community

I did warn you that I wouldn't be all that good at this right?  So, we are now in Blacksburg on our rest day after climbing over the Blue Ridge and coming down the valley to the burg.  I realize that there are several blogs out there, and I suggest that if you are interested, you should read the others...after you have read mine of course.

When we left from Charlottesville the other day, the mood was somber to say the least.  The elevation profile for the day's ride was very scary, beyond scary.  Afton Mountain, and it haunted our dreams and our ride through the beautiful countryside of Charlottesville.  I am sure that others have done a much better job of describing the trials and tribulations of climbing the mountain, perhaps the majestic beauty of the Blue Ridge Mountains (by the way, if you have never seen them, you should.  Let me say that you will never ask why they are called what they are called when you see them, particularly from the parkway).  I will not pull any punches - it was one hell of a day of climbing.  It was a hard-fought view to say the least and the most meaningful view I've ever had, particularly when you consider that I rode all the way from the coast to see it!

We descended the mountains on a hair-raising road that would have been fun had I been invincible or crazy, but as it was, it was a white-knuckled ~40 mph roller-coaster ride from hell.

We all slowly pulled into Vesuvius VA behind a restaurant named "Gertie's."  If you happen to fall off the end of the map and end up in Vesuvius VA, go to Gertie's - if you like greasy food, you will NOT be disappointed.

Ok - so this was a long way round to tell you the story that I really wanted to tell you.  As the riders trickled into the backyard of Gertie's from their hours long struggle with Afton Mountain, exhausted and sweat-drenched, I noticed something amazing.  The 25 strangers that peered up the eastern slope of the mountain with fear and woe had become a team of individuals that flaunted the west slope with disregard and confidence.  I have been fortunate enough to see this type of miracle before in my life, where the impossible suddenly becomes possible, doors fly open in front of you and a whole wide world that you never dared dream of is layed out in front of you like a red carpet.  Unity and a healthy dose of hubris were our gifts to ourselves as we rocketed down the mountain.  The strangers had become a team.

In my years in Academia, I have heard talk of community throughout, something that we must build, forge, or you pick the verb, but the point is that community is hard-fought like all the best things in the world.  Our community was built on the blood, sweat, and tears (literally this time) of these amazing people that have decided to use their vacations to do something miraculous - to destroy their bodies day after day in the service of others.

I am having the time of my life!  A friend asked me why I looked so different, and I told her that this is my face without stress - something no one, not even I have seen in the last ten or so years.  The worst issues that I worry about each day are getting enough calories and what that noise my bike is making is.  Amen.

Oh - I almost forgot, I made a friend on the trip over the Blur Ridge Parkway - apparently this Fritillery (a type of butterfly) had a thing for my helmet, stayed there for like 10 min!

Misdirection

So, apparently I am competing for the most neglected blog.  I think I am just the man to do this.

Yesterday we passed from Glendale to Mineral, VA.  Thankfully the state of VA is pretty good at marking it's bike routes - maybe not perfect, but good nonetheless.  As we left Glendale, one large peloton (yes, I learned a word) left early, I left solo a little later, and then a peloton left after me.  It was a great day to solo ride with a thin fog settled over the VA countryside.  We wove through the battlefields outside of Richmond, the 7 days battle I think.  It's a little hard to read interpretive signs on a bike, well, and stay upright that is.

So I was pedaling at a reasonable pace, enjoying a solo tour of the countryside and unbeknowst to me, I passed the first water station and kept on trucking.  I arrived in Ashland, VA (very cute town by the way) and I found one of the support vehicles but no one in it and no other cyclists.  I stayed around for about 20 minutes, waiting for someone to show since I was 40 miles in to an 82 mile ride, and I was fresh out of water.  The second support vehicle pulled in a few seconds later, and I was informed that I was ahead of everyone!  What!?!?

Apparently, the other groups got a little lost (read very lost).   They ended up on the interstate!  For any of you that have never cycled long distance, the interstate is the scariest idea ever.  Everyone made it out ok thankfully.

I miraculously did not get lost the entire day, which is funnier when you hear about the next day...

So, I pulled up a little lame on the first day, which put me at a severe disadvantage for the day.  That is a long way of describing that I was alone on my way into Charlottesville - the most confusingly signed city I have ever been to, and I have been to cities where the signs were in another language, one I didn't speak.  I now have a much greater knowledge of Charlottesville than I ever will need probably.

Now we are absorbing the hospitality of The King family in Charlottesville, preparing for an epic climb up Afton Mountain.  Let's hope that my knee holds out.

Glendale, VA

We finished the first leg of the trip from Yorktown to Glendale.  The route was flat and the day was beautiful for riding - not too hot and just a slight headwind.  I am so glad that this experience has begun.  It's not as if I think this is easy, far from it, but the waiting had become excruciating.

We traveled through the historic triangle (Yorktown, Williamsburg, Jamestown).  With the exception of a few wrong turns, mostly my own fault, the trip was smooth.  We have settled down for the night in Glendale in a church yard.  The folks at the church have been nice enough to open up the church for our use and to sleep inside.  Although it is a little early for me to be coveting AC and an indoor sleeping arrangement, I know that these chances may be few and far between.

The camp stoves are lit, and the crew is cooking the first nite's dinner.  I am sure I will say this many times, but I wish I were a better writer so I could let you all know how wonderful this trip is.

Preparation

So, as much as is possible, I have been training on the bike in prep for the big journey.  I say as much as is possible since I have recently become quite the jet-setter, flying to and from the mid-West with a frequency that might earn me one of those cards from "Up in the Air."  That, however, is beside the point.  What IS on point are my various road rash injuries.  I recently purchased clip-in pedals for the Sojourn, and am having a hell of a time staying upright : ).  I was never much of a biker, and I certainly never had a pair of clip in pedals before.  What I have realized is that unclipping should be one of my first "thoughts" as I slow down...unfortunately it is one of my last...just before "oh sh*t" and "ouch."

A few days ago, I came to a four-way stop in downtown Blacksburg.  As I was descending the hill (for those of you unfamiliar with Blacksburg, absolutely everything here is a hill), I realized that the rain made my brakes less than perfectly effective.  Now the best course of action here would have been to unclip and then solve the brake problem, but that is theoretical and easy to say a few days out.  My biggest concern at that point was not blowing through the stop sign.  The good news is that I was able to stop in time; the bad news is that in my adrenaline pumping state, I was not able to unclip.  The funny thing about falling over when you are clipped in is that it looks like a tree that has just been felled.  You teeter slowly on the last fibers of wood, and then with a creak and a loud crash, you are on the ground.

Luckily, there was an audience for this event.  She rolled down the window of her SUV and yelled "Are you ok!"  I convinced her that other than a cut on my elbow and a severe gash in my pride, I was indeed ok.  Her response was priceless - she said "You looked like you just passed out!"  Well, not that it wouldn't be possible to see me pass out at the end of a bike ride, because it is entirely possible, but what a great description of the events that had just unfolded there at the four-way stop.  I wish I could say that is the only time when a motorist rolled down their window to make sure that I was ok after tipping over on my bike...but alas, I cannot.

I remain determined though!  I am starting to get the hang of unclipping in an emergency, or, better yet, prior to an emergency.  Perhaps I will wrap myself in bubble wrap for the first few hundred miles!