6/15: It was raining when I left the hotel, near the airport. Not too heavy, not too light. And heavy solid overcast, so no access to the sun for orientation.
Locals gave me directions to what was called the bike-friendly Mississippi River Trail (MRT).
I found it by a devious route (I coulda been there with less mileage), but signage was so poor that NJ's signs are superlative by comparison (and us locals in NJ know how preposterous that sounds).
I managed to turn the wrong way on the "trail," heading west. Then came torturous curves and route changes. There are NO straight-line roads in StL except Interstates. Every route curves, at some point, and ends somewhere other than where one wants to be.
I re-passed the hotel, eventually, when "Butch" gave me a good steer. Butch, (across the street, in the body shop), was referred to me by the ladies working at a gas station Kwik Stop. Although nicknames are not age-specific, I expected to find someone not out of his 20's. Butch was tall, gray and maybe in his early 60's. He was absolutely not "butch" either. The ladies told me he was a "bikist" and he'd know how to direct me.
That word stuck in my brain like a hair that sticks up the wrong way on one's head, and you feel that it is sticking up. My mind came back to it again and again. (What the hell else is there to think about when on a long-distance bike ride?) Ultimately, I decided I liked it: it is easier to say than "bicyclist" or just "cyclist" and conveys a difference between "biker" and bicycle-rider. Short, snappy, distinctive.
Did I mention that there were at least 3 thunderstorms that day, each of which had me seeking shelter and waiting them out? I had some luck, as I always found myself exactly across from or adjacent to adequate protection. Because of the overcast, each storm was a sudden surprise. Normally you can see them coming well in advance. Cracks of lightning do command one's attention, STAT!
About the MRT: It is not a bike trail - it is a series of car routes that run east-west and happen not to be Interstates. They are secondary routes with lousy road surfaces. Contrarily, the River Bike Trail runs north-south alongside the Mississippi, up from StL a ways. There are entrances every half-mile or so, but I hit it going south from its northern end, and the entrance there is totally hidden when going southbound, so I rode over a mile out of my way before turning back. The entrance off the roadway headed north is almost as hidden (by overgrown bushes) when coming from the south. The path leads immediately to the Old Chain of Rocks Bridge; what a mental image that conjures up! It is strictly for bicycle and foot traffic. Unless some of those people were aliens, traffic included horses too, judging from the droppings. It was once a part of the old Route 66 and is decorated with signs and artwork to convey that. I took a few photos.
Now near dark, I stopped a mile or so after the bridge, but not before going through a marshy area and before that, crossing another bridge over a river side-channel. It was exceedingly steep (I had to walk it), and down to one lane (for repairs), which did not allow any room for me to get out of the way when on-coming traffic appeared. I flinched and squeezed against the pylons. Obviously I made it. My stop was at the first motel I saw, and I got my first of several bargains on the ride. They only had the larger unit available - a suite - and it cost all of $39 for the night. One registers at the adjacent bar (the door marked "office" says there are no rooms available; it is a permanent sign). The bar sold ice-cold beer for $1 a bottle! They had fabulous sandwiches at super low prices. Ditto breakfast (like: $7.35 for two eggs, hash browns, large OJ, English muffin and coffee. Plus bacon!).
I have rain gear that just happened to have worked - surprise! The neoprene booties even kept my feet dry, as advertised! But heavy rain gets me off the road - I simply cannot see when it is really pouring. Unfortunately, the gear encloses me like Saran wrap, so I was alternately cold from the wind and damp, then broiling. It does knock the water out of you, and losing weight is good, even if temporary. Would that it were permanent. As for water replenishment, I had the good fortune to buy 2 steel water bottles (made in Europe) that keep cold drinks ice cold for 3 days or more (!!) - supposedly they keep hot fluids hot as long too. I used the 2 regular plastic bottles to refill the steel ones, because as I drained them of ice water, the ice cubes were only half gone and the remainder would chill the fresh water just as well as when the steel bottle had only ice cubes in it and water was first added. Probably the best equipment purchase I ever made.
So much for Day 1: Very eventful, very interesting (in hindsight), very aggravating, very frustrating, and rather damaging. Why? I haven't mentioned the two spills I took early on, within minutes of each other. They were identical in how I flew over the handlebars, to the left, and hit the ground, but they were triggered differently.
Because the roads were so wet, when I turned to get back on the roadway from the shoulder, the tires did not bite the pavement. The front tire caught in the small crack between the surfaces and I flew. I landed, each time, on my head/helmet (the left front side ... zero injury), my left forearm, held flat and parallel to the ground, and my left upper thigh/hip. I caught some road rash and abrasions on the arm and got a healthy (?) bruise on the leg/hip, that turned a perfect blue-black-purple rather quickly, then swelled to grapefruit size. As I said, both hits were identical. Some blood on the arm, which stopped almost immediately and virtually no pain or imposition on the riding. The second fall came minutes later. This time it was because I rode through a shallow puddle ("shallow" he says?). Actually it was shallow. But the hole it hid was created by a chunk of concrete road that broke off into a larger hole, and that chunk was slice-of-pie shaped and angled. It grabbed the tire and flung it to my right whilst I was heading straight on. (Great word "whilst," no?) Same launch, same head hit, same forearm, same hip hit. Same bruised ego.
I was becoming discouraged, to say the least. Fortunately, I am not a quitter, tempting though it might have been ... at least, not then, having just set out. You'll read more on that later.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Saturday, January 26, 2008
(Cross-America Ride, 2007) ... What Changed?
Well, “change” may not be the appropriate word. Let’s say I was “reminded” of things I once realized a long time ago, but had lost touch with. I refer to the the simultaneous diversity of all who are Americans and the common thread of decency in those same people. There just needs a way to be personally involved to get to that level of decency in interaction. It takes the right set of circumstances for it to be revealed.
A nutty 70-year old on a bike worked for me – especially with the legend on the back of my jersey (“NJ to LA”). It caught people’s attention and provoked their curiosity.
If you’ve read much of my blog, you must have realized how different the nice people were whom I met en route. There were those in extremely poor circumstances, as in Richford, NY, and the very comfortable upper middle class folks who put me up in their homes in Michigan; there was the college president as well, and all the others who opened their homes to me for a night’s sleep or a meal; there were the fellow bike-riders in Canada who outfitted me with the best tires around (they gave them to me - no charge!) and the humanly and humanely concerned Hispanic family in Arizona who followed me and lit the shoulder of the road for me at night with their pickup truck. There were all the others who said they’d pray for me, and wished me well; the bike repair shop pros all over the US who never charged me for the adjustments to my bike; and even the simply curious who wanted to ask me about the trip, and shake my hand ... quite a few even took pictures of me with them.
And the native American in the curio shop out west ... they are reputed to be cold and uncompromising negotiators (at least to us white men) ... but one guy wouldn’t take money for my cold soda and offered me a second one as well.
This is heartwarming stuff. It was far and away the best part of the adventure.
It doesn’t take much to run into kindnesses of this type; better still, they are indelible in the my memory now. Why peoples’ general good nature is not what stays firmly in one’s consciousness is a bit of a mystery. Many of us have had wonderful experiences of this sort. But the memory of them seems to need special evocation. I think we become overwhelmed by the things that make us shake our heads sadly. The calculus seems to be that even one evil event overshadows countless “good’s.”
Maybe that’s the bane of being an optimist. We know it can be better and we seem so undone, repeatedly. But like the dog that only needs a pat on the head now and then but always comes back for more, we persist. Optimists are the goldendoodles of the human kind. Anyhow, that’s how I like to characterize us.
Sometimes I think the optimist is less of a realist than the true cynic. The cynic certainly seems to get more positive reinforcement. Good things don’t last. Evil is ever to be counted upon to appear. That idea goes to that veneer of civilization that strips away so easily, all too often. But it needs countering, so some of us tilt after the windmills and try to make the good fight.
That is part of what underlies my commitment to the Ethical Culture Society and the causes I get a chance to support and advance through and with them.
A nutty 70-year old on a bike worked for me – especially with the legend on the back of my jersey (“NJ to LA”). It caught people’s attention and provoked their curiosity.
If you’ve read much of my blog, you must have realized how different the nice people were whom I met en route. There were those in extremely poor circumstances, as in Richford, NY, and the very comfortable upper middle class folks who put me up in their homes in Michigan; there was the college president as well, and all the others who opened their homes to me for a night’s sleep or a meal; there were the fellow bike-riders in Canada who outfitted me with the best tires around (they gave them to me - no charge!) and the humanly and humanely concerned Hispanic family in Arizona who followed me and lit the shoulder of the road for me at night with their pickup truck. There were all the others who said they’d pray for me, and wished me well; the bike repair shop pros all over the US who never charged me for the adjustments to my bike; and even the simply curious who wanted to ask me about the trip, and shake my hand ... quite a few even took pictures of me with them.
And the native American in the curio shop out west ... they are reputed to be cold and uncompromising negotiators (at least to us white men) ... but one guy wouldn’t take money for my cold soda and offered me a second one as well.
This is heartwarming stuff. It was far and away the best part of the adventure.
It doesn’t take much to run into kindnesses of this type; better still, they are indelible in the my memory now. Why peoples’ general good nature is not what stays firmly in one’s consciousness is a bit of a mystery. Many of us have had wonderful experiences of this sort. But the memory of them seems to need special evocation. I think we become overwhelmed by the things that make us shake our heads sadly. The calculus seems to be that even one evil event overshadows countless “good’s.”
Maybe that’s the bane of being an optimist. We know it can be better and we seem so undone, repeatedly. But like the dog that only needs a pat on the head now and then but always comes back for more, we persist. Optimists are the goldendoodles of the human kind. Anyhow, that’s how I like to characterize us.
Sometimes I think the optimist is less of a realist than the true cynic. The cynic certainly seems to get more positive reinforcement. Good things don’t last. Evil is ever to be counted upon to appear. That idea goes to that veneer of civilization that strips away so easily, all too often. But it needs countering, so some of us tilt after the windmills and try to make the good fight.
That is part of what underlies my commitment to the Ethical Culture Society and the causes I get a chance to support and advance through and with them.
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
1) Recovery ..... 2) Is This Ride My Legacy?
People ask me: “Have you recovered yet?”
“From what?” I think. I had no enduring physical problems during the ride save some hand pain from the constant leaning on the handlebars. This, despite wearing biker’s gloves with gel pads in key spots. Actually, I developed calluses on my palms which have only just faded.
Another reminder: my arms and legs got so very sunburned that there still is a sharp divide between the tanned skin and the whiteness of the covered areas. It has been 8.5 weeks since the ride – I have not been in the sun at all in that time – and I am still heavily contrasted.
Most people view the ride as so far beyond their capabilities (now and at most any time in their lives) as to be an impossible undertaking. My perspective is different because I have been blessed, genetically, with physical stamina and fitness that rewards the measly efforts I exert in training and nutrition. I have become so used to my good physical fortune that I never really doubted that I would finish. The major challenge for me was the mental one. While there are probably a few athletes who could handle the ride physically (in the high school where I substitute teach just about every day), I doubt there are any who could have kept up with me the whole way. Severe headwinds, steep hills and lots of walking up them, rain and thunderstorms, flat tires and bike problems were intensely dispiriting.
I have also been asked: “Do I consider the successful ride as my legacy?”
I haven’t thought of the ride in terms of a legacy. I haven't ever thought about any legacy ... that would admit to finality, and although it is closer and closer, it's still "out there" for me. I don’t see the ride as so dominating in how I may be regarded by my progeny. I see it as just a piece in the whole fabric of my life, which I regard as generally adventurous and more edgy than many.
• I took jet pilot training in the Air Force and have a bunch of hours at the controls under my belt.
• I have sky-dived (and would continue, if I could afford it).
• I lived and worked in two foreign countries, staying in one throughout an armed revolution, after most foreigners evacuated.
• I spent about 500 hours, snorkeling mostly, in the Red Sea, amidst poisonous mollusks, poisonous fish and snakes, poisonous plants, jellyfish, sharks … whatever. I have never experienced anything so beautiful or fascinating, with some rare exceptions. There were nights on snow-covered dirt roads in the Rockies when the stars were staggeringly numerous; sunrises and sunsets in the desert countries are surreal, because of the dust in the air that refracts the light in ethereal ways; in Kenya last year, I saw both a baby rhino and a 5-day-old baby elephant nursing. It sounds banal in the telling of it, whereas the feelings it engendered, in real time, are literally indescribable.
• I am an intrepid skier, self-taught (part of the problems with my technique). It means I will go anywhere on the mountain, but I don’t cliff-jump. I don’t do all of the mountain that well, but I manage to get down, even if side-stepping through a chute is all I can manage. If I could afford it, I would ski 100+ days a year! I have skied in 5 countries at maybe 25 resorts, and some at over 11,000 feet.
• I married a foreign woman from a totally different culture. But we share basic values and beliefs. We are still married, and still passionate about each other, after 41 years, despite the usual squabbles couples have.
• I worked in Information Technology for 40 years, as a coder, analyst, instructor, designer, project and contract manager. I rarely repeated an assignment. For half that time I worked as contractor-consultant. I was always learning new computer languages, new applications, and new businesses (and new countries!). There were many times when I thought I may have bitten off more than I could chew, but mostly, I succeeded. It required being creative and flexible, and a quick learner, especially when working overseas, where the rules can be unknowable.
• I learned to read, write and speak the Farsi language (it was extremely challenging for me). It is also fading away from disuse.
• I became the President of The Ethical Culture Society of Bergen County, a humanist organization. It is a volunteer position. It has been very challenging, to put it mildly. One aspect: I preside at public and Board meetings. It is a role I have been especially uncomfortable with, but it has forced me to stretch and grow.
Another question I was asked: “What did you say when people told you that you were crazy?” Actually, no one called me crazy … maybe "suicidal."
The ones who came close to “crazy” were all women, who tried to influence my wife ("Don't let him go" or "Talk him out of it"), as if she had the ultimate authority. Some said they'd never let their husbands go.
Although she did try to discourage me, at first, she eventually realized that my mind was made up. She saw that I was training seriously, and had put so much effort into it, so she encouraged me. Example: When I worried about not making it on time to get to the wedding in August, she suggested: A) I skip the wedding, or B) I park the bike somewhere, go to the wedding, then go back and resume the trip. It was extremely important, maybe even more to her than me, that I finish the trip.
Several men told me, afterwards, that they never thought I'd make it, but didn't say it to me beforehand. That surprised me, but it made sense when I thought about it. I would not have told another guy he'd never make it.
To keep things in perspective, it was not a death-defying venture, like climbing Mt. Everest or bungee-jumping, or rowing across the Atlantic, or scuba diving with sharks. It was just exciting, and a challenge; besides, I like to push things a little.
I suspect that most people don’t know that I am continuing to add to this blog, but I am now writing essays with a longer perspective on the trip. It may surprise you readers to know that I am more prideful of my writing, or maybe I should say that I appreciate praise of it more than congratulations on the bike ride. As it is, I get no feedback on these later posts, much as I would love to get such comments. Anyone?
“From what?” I think. I had no enduring physical problems during the ride save some hand pain from the constant leaning on the handlebars. This, despite wearing biker’s gloves with gel pads in key spots. Actually, I developed calluses on my palms which have only just faded.
Another reminder: my arms and legs got so very sunburned that there still is a sharp divide between the tanned skin and the whiteness of the covered areas. It has been 8.5 weeks since the ride – I have not been in the sun at all in that time – and I am still heavily contrasted.
Most people view the ride as so far beyond their capabilities (now and at most any time in their lives) as to be an impossible undertaking. My perspective is different because I have been blessed, genetically, with physical stamina and fitness that rewards the measly efforts I exert in training and nutrition. I have become so used to my good physical fortune that I never really doubted that I would finish. The major challenge for me was the mental one. While there are probably a few athletes who could handle the ride physically (in the high school where I substitute teach just about every day), I doubt there are any who could have kept up with me the whole way. Severe headwinds, steep hills and lots of walking up them, rain and thunderstorms, flat tires and bike problems were intensely dispiriting.
I have also been asked: “Do I consider the successful ride as my legacy?”
I haven’t thought of the ride in terms of a legacy. I haven't ever thought about any legacy ... that would admit to finality, and although it is closer and closer, it's still "out there" for me. I don’t see the ride as so dominating in how I may be regarded by my progeny. I see it as just a piece in the whole fabric of my life, which I regard as generally adventurous and more edgy than many.
• I took jet pilot training in the Air Force and have a bunch of hours at the controls under my belt.
• I have sky-dived (and would continue, if I could afford it).
• I lived and worked in two foreign countries, staying in one throughout an armed revolution, after most foreigners evacuated.
• I spent about 500 hours, snorkeling mostly, in the Red Sea, amidst poisonous mollusks, poisonous fish and snakes, poisonous plants, jellyfish, sharks … whatever. I have never experienced anything so beautiful or fascinating, with some rare exceptions. There were nights on snow-covered dirt roads in the Rockies when the stars were staggeringly numerous; sunrises and sunsets in the desert countries are surreal, because of the dust in the air that refracts the light in ethereal ways; in Kenya last year, I saw both a baby rhino and a 5-day-old baby elephant nursing. It sounds banal in the telling of it, whereas the feelings it engendered, in real time, are literally indescribable.
• I am an intrepid skier, self-taught (part of the problems with my technique). It means I will go anywhere on the mountain, but I don’t cliff-jump. I don’t do all of the mountain that well, but I manage to get down, even if side-stepping through a chute is all I can manage. If I could afford it, I would ski 100+ days a year! I have skied in 5 countries at maybe 25 resorts, and some at over 11,000 feet.
• I married a foreign woman from a totally different culture. But we share basic values and beliefs. We are still married, and still passionate about each other, after 41 years, despite the usual squabbles couples have.
• I worked in Information Technology for 40 years, as a coder, analyst, instructor, designer, project and contract manager. I rarely repeated an assignment. For half that time I worked as contractor-consultant. I was always learning new computer languages, new applications, and new businesses (and new countries!). There were many times when I thought I may have bitten off more than I could chew, but mostly, I succeeded. It required being creative and flexible, and a quick learner, especially when working overseas, where the rules can be unknowable.
• I learned to read, write and speak the Farsi language (it was extremely challenging for me). It is also fading away from disuse.
• I became the President of The Ethical Culture Society of Bergen County, a humanist organization. It is a volunteer position. It has been very challenging, to put it mildly. One aspect: I preside at public and Board meetings. It is a role I have been especially uncomfortable with, but it has forced me to stretch and grow.
Another question I was asked: “What did you say when people told you that you were crazy?” Actually, no one called me crazy … maybe "suicidal."
The ones who came close to “crazy” were all women, who tried to influence my wife ("Don't let him go" or "Talk him out of it"), as if she had the ultimate authority. Some said they'd never let their husbands go.
Although she did try to discourage me, at first, she eventually realized that my mind was made up. She saw that I was training seriously, and had put so much effort into it, so she encouraged me. Example: When I worried about not making it on time to get to the wedding in August, she suggested: A) I skip the wedding, or B) I park the bike somewhere, go to the wedding, then go back and resume the trip. It was extremely important, maybe even more to her than me, that I finish the trip.
Several men told me, afterwards, that they never thought I'd make it, but didn't say it to me beforehand. That surprised me, but it made sense when I thought about it. I would not have told another guy he'd never make it.
To keep things in perspective, it was not a death-defying venture, like climbing Mt. Everest or bungee-jumping, or rowing across the Atlantic, or scuba diving with sharks. It was just exciting, and a challenge; besides, I like to push things a little.
I suspect that most people don’t know that I am continuing to add to this blog, but I am now writing essays with a longer perspective on the trip. It may surprise you readers to know that I am more prideful of my writing, or maybe I should say that I appreciate praise of it more than congratulations on the bike ride. As it is, I get no feedback on these later posts, much as I would love to get such comments. Anyone?
Tuesday, October 2, 2007
Loneliness
One question I am often asked: “Weren’t you lonely?”
Quick answer: “No.”
But upon reflection, I guess I was. Let me explain. I was not aware of feeling lonely. Between intense concentration on the road surface and my position relative to traffic, there was little time to think of almost anything but those physical things.
There were other high priority subjects: Am I thirsty? How much time before darkness? How much time before I’d better nail down a place to stay, or rather, a destination known to have places to stay? Also: Was that a rhythmic sound I heard? (Geez, another flat?) Where the hell do I find a tree to pee behind? (Sounds simple, but there are no trees in the desert, though there are scorpions and poisonous snakes. So, there was no venturing off-road, ergo, how do I position myself so as to be hidden … mostly … from sight, cause I’m gonna do it right here on the shoulder? And by the way, how do I do it so as not to pee on my own legs/shoes? I was not always successful; not only did that damned wind undermine my progress, it made me embarrass myself too.
But I digress. While I was not aware of feelings of loneliness, I realize that I seized every opportunity to stop and chat with ANYONE. I figured 5 minutes here and there, in the scheme of things, wouldn’t cost me much. Except that I now realize that I coveted those interchanges. So, I was lonely, or at least hungry for interaction with other people. Same thing, no?
I also got to feed my ego, because virtually everyone asked my age. After the first time, when I gave a straight answer, I made everyone guess. I suppose a few may have suspected a higher number (the face gave one clue and the body gave a contradictory one), but they did a good job of looking surprised when I told them. Not a one came within 5 years, and many were off by 10 or more years.
The best part of ego food: it adds no weight to the bike.
Quick answer: “No.”
But upon reflection, I guess I was. Let me explain. I was not aware of feeling lonely. Between intense concentration on the road surface and my position relative to traffic, there was little time to think of almost anything but those physical things.
There were other high priority subjects: Am I thirsty? How much time before darkness? How much time before I’d better nail down a place to stay, or rather, a destination known to have places to stay? Also: Was that a rhythmic sound I heard? (Geez, another flat?) Where the hell do I find a tree to pee behind? (Sounds simple, but there are no trees in the desert, though there are scorpions and poisonous snakes. So, there was no venturing off-road, ergo, how do I position myself so as to be hidden … mostly … from sight, cause I’m gonna do it right here on the shoulder? And by the way, how do I do it so as not to pee on my own legs/shoes? I was not always successful; not only did that damned wind undermine my progress, it made me embarrass myself too.
But I digress. While I was not aware of feelings of loneliness, I realize that I seized every opportunity to stop and chat with ANYONE. I figured 5 minutes here and there, in the scheme of things, wouldn’t cost me much. Except that I now realize that I coveted those interchanges. So, I was lonely, or at least hungry for interaction with other people. Same thing, no?
I also got to feed my ego, because virtually everyone asked my age. After the first time, when I gave a straight answer, I made everyone guess. I suppose a few may have suspected a higher number (the face gave one clue and the body gave a contradictory one), but they did a good job of looking surprised when I told them. Not a one came within 5 years, and many were off by 10 or more years.
The best part of ego food: it adds no weight to the bike.
Friday, September 28, 2007
I've Changed
I’ve changed. I am not the same person. Or so I have been told. I don’t feel any different, physically or consciously. It takes some inward-looking reflection to see it, as opposed to the reflection in the mirror and on the bathroom scale noting the slimmer me ... unfortunately, that won’t last.
True, my interest in story-telling and writing is renewed. And the stories are mostly new, except where they stir up an earlier memory worth the telling.
But I always wrote.
Well, the Bike Across America ride tested me in a new way. It calibrated my resolve to push on. I had to repeat the old marine mantra a number of times: “When the going gets tough, the tough get going.” But I didn’t feel so tough at times. It would have been much easier to sit down and cry, which I considered doing more than once, such as when, for example, I made bare progress after hours of facing severe headwinds, or had to walk up so many impossible hills (even in the desert, which I expected to be flat!) or when I had three flats within seven miles.
The mantra worked. I kept on ... and the body held up.
But I always fancied myself as physically capable.
So what exactly has changed?
I proved I can keep going when the physical challenge starts to turn into an attitudinal one. The depth of my resolve was plumbed. I’d say it is a matter of knowing something more of my limits, or rather the reverse: knowing that my apparent limits can be stretched.
Is there some way to put that to my advantage elsewhere in my life?
I hope I can make a habit of pushing harder when it is needed, despite the difficulty of the struggle.
So I have changed … not in kind (I was always adventurous) … but in outlook; call it self knowledge.
Not a bad lesson, at that. And not a bad habit either, if I can still muster the resolve when challenged again.
Now, about beginning a new training program to replace the weight I lost on the trip with some muscles: yeah, I'll start, one of these days soon … real soon. I am put in mind of a bumper sticker I saw: "Procrastinate Now!"
Bob
True, my interest in story-telling and writing is renewed. And the stories are mostly new, except where they stir up an earlier memory worth the telling.
But I always wrote.
Well, the Bike Across America ride tested me in a new way. It calibrated my resolve to push on. I had to repeat the old marine mantra a number of times: “When the going gets tough, the tough get going.” But I didn’t feel so tough at times. It would have been much easier to sit down and cry, which I considered doing more than once, such as when, for example, I made bare progress after hours of facing severe headwinds, or had to walk up so many impossible hills (even in the desert, which I expected to be flat!) or when I had three flats within seven miles.
The mantra worked. I kept on ... and the body held up.
But I always fancied myself as physically capable.
So what exactly has changed?
I proved I can keep going when the physical challenge starts to turn into an attitudinal one. The depth of my resolve was plumbed. I’d say it is a matter of knowing something more of my limits, or rather the reverse: knowing that my apparent limits can be stretched.
Is there some way to put that to my advantage elsewhere in my life?
I hope I can make a habit of pushing harder when it is needed, despite the difficulty of the struggle.
So I have changed … not in kind (I was always adventurous) … but in outlook; call it self knowledge.
Not a bad lesson, at that. And not a bad habit either, if I can still muster the resolve when challenged again.
Now, about beginning a new training program to replace the weight I lost on the trip with some muscles: yeah, I'll start, one of these days soon … real soon. I am put in mind of a bumper sticker I saw: "Procrastinate Now!"
Bob
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
My Angel
I got into Norfolk, Nebraska, at 8:20pm. The first motel I came upon was very run-down, though likely very inexpensive. The unpleasant woman on the porch of the office said there were no vacancies. I was rather relieved. Others told me there were many more motels, not much further on. But not one had a vacancy. The first chain place said there were no rooms available in town anywhere, except maybe one place. She knew because she had earlier called around when someone else stopped by. But that place too was full. Next door was a Super 8, and also full. I was beginning to get the message.
Why no vacancies? It seems there was an annual car show event that weekend, and coupled with that, many family reunions. The family reunion circumstance grew because there was such a major attraction for them with the car show. Cars were being shown from a lot of surrounding states: hot rods, antiques, classics, customs, street rods, T-buckets, oddballs, whatever.
The Super 8's desk clerk’s name was Mandy. Mandy was maybe 6 months pregnant. (This was beginning to become a pattern – my getting help from mothers-to-be. See the “Friendliness: Second Installment” blog entry.) Mandy first called all the motels in town, then all the not-nearby places (over 25 in all), and eventually reached out to places 25 miles away. Still nothing. I asked her about churches, and she couldn’t help there. I asked if I could sleep on a chair in the lobby. And then I asked about a storeroom. She did not react visibly, but a light went on. She made a hushed call to someone, outside of my earshot, then told me there was a possibility. It seems the management had taken a room out of the computer “inventory.” They had stored 5 humongous rolls of rug padding in that room. If I was able and willing to move the rolls, I could have that room. It was a temporary “storeroom,” hence the trigger for Mandy, and she had called her supervisor.
Bingo! Not only did I get that room for only $35, but it included a hot breakfast! It was as fine a room as any other. The 8-foot rolls of padding (maybe 20 inches in diameter each) all fit, piled on the double bed nearest the wall, where I could stack them. Although rather heavy, they were easy to roll into place and then tipped over and onto the bed.
The whole exchange took maybe 45 minutes for telephone call after telephone call and flipping yellow pages. I was preparing myself mentally for crashing on the walkways around the motel and now I had a plush setup … and dirt-cheap to boot.
My heroine! My angel!!
Why no vacancies? It seems there was an annual car show event that weekend, and coupled with that, many family reunions. The family reunion circumstance grew because there was such a major attraction for them with the car show. Cars were being shown from a lot of surrounding states: hot rods, antiques, classics, customs, street rods, T-buckets, oddballs, whatever.
The Super 8's desk clerk’s name was Mandy. Mandy was maybe 6 months pregnant. (This was beginning to become a pattern – my getting help from mothers-to-be. See the “Friendliness: Second Installment” blog entry.) Mandy first called all the motels in town, then all the not-nearby places (over 25 in all), and eventually reached out to places 25 miles away. Still nothing. I asked her about churches, and she couldn’t help there. I asked if I could sleep on a chair in the lobby. And then I asked about a storeroom. She did not react visibly, but a light went on. She made a hushed call to someone, outside of my earshot, then told me there was a possibility. It seems the management had taken a room out of the computer “inventory.” They had stored 5 humongous rolls of rug padding in that room. If I was able and willing to move the rolls, I could have that room. It was a temporary “storeroom,” hence the trigger for Mandy, and she had called her supervisor.
Bingo! Not only did I get that room for only $35, but it included a hot breakfast! It was as fine a room as any other. The 8-foot rolls of padding (maybe 20 inches in diameter each) all fit, piled on the double bed nearest the wall, where I could stack them. Although rather heavy, they were easy to roll into place and then tipped over and onto the bed.
The whole exchange took maybe 45 minutes for telephone call after telephone call and flipping yellow pages. I was preparing myself mentally for crashing on the walkways around the motel and now I had a plush setup … and dirt-cheap to boot.
My heroine! My angel!!
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
ALWAYS OPEN … NOT! And more ...
The plan for the entire trip was to not eat breakfast until I had ridden about an hour, so as to have achieved something before taking time off. It was a good strategy, until other criteria overrode the plan.
The first to seize supremacy was the stomach. There were times when it just plain ruled. Just as with stopping for a sip of water or a mini-rest, not by the clock (as in once an hour or some such), but when the body ordered it. Listening to the body sounds like a mystery when you’ve never done it before. It doesn’t just out and talk to you in some obvious way. You simply get urges that you eventually learn not to ignore. Thirsty? Drink. Tired? Stop. Hungry? Eat.
Next criterion: out west, along with watering holes and motels, eateries could be 40 or more miles apart, so I learned to have breakfast at the first opportunity, else stop number one would be lunch.
And that’s why I got off Interstate 25 just 2 miles south of the town of Trinidad, Colorado, where I’d spent the night. The sign across the highway, maybe 100 feet tall, so it could be seen from the Interstate by cars going 80mph, said "Always Open." It was below another that said "Earl’s Country Breakfast" … or something like that. But it wasn’t. And there was no "Earl’s Country Breakfast" either. However, there was a restaurant called "Tequila."
I took the overpass and rode over to the restaurant, only to discover that it didn’t open till 10am. I didn’t want to waste an hour waiting, but by then my rear tire was flat. (I got way too many flats on highway exits and overpasses. Debris seems to gather there, dammit!) This turned out to be a tiny pinhole which, I later learned, was caused by a local plentiful burr that has a slender very sharp spike which easily penetrates tires and tubes. This flat happened to my rear tire, necessitating unloading the saddle bags, which, by now, were intricately lashed on to prevent being dislodged by bumps. I was proud of the Rube Goldberg solution for its effectiveness, but it took a while to undo it all.
When I got the tube out of the tire, I discovered that my two spare tubes were missing. A quick memory search: that odd noise I heard a few days ago was the sound of the bundle of two of them hitting the road after a bump. I had not stopped to investigate the noise. Damn.
The yellow pages in the phone book in the restaurant yielded no bike shops in Trinidad, but on chance, the white pages showed one in town. I called and they had my tubes, but they don’t, won’t and can’t deliver, so I had to catch a ride. The address was on E. Main Street, so I thought I’d have an easy time of it.
By now, the restaurant was almost open. A middle-aged couple came out and they agreed to take me to E. Main Street. The couple’s names were Manuel and Nelly Garcia, and they owned the restaurant. I must admit I was disconcerted by their constant reference to me as “gringo,” but it sounded benign.
Problem: There was no bike shop on Main Street, east or west of the midtown area. In fact, there was no official East on Main Street. Manuel recalled a suburb, north of town, that had its own Main Street, and so it did, and there it was. They showed incredible patience while they waited .. it took extra long because the bike shop’s computer was down and they seemed not to be able to conclude my business without it. Then they asked if I minded them making some stops on the way back to the restaurant! Indeed, it was why they left the restaurant in the first place. Talk about politeness, civility and generosity of spirit!
It took awhile. By the time I got back and had the bike ready to go, it was nearing noon, so breakfast became lunch. I don’t recommend a mega-meal of Mexican food, as good-tasting as it may be (and this was), as the way to begin a serious biking effort. Enough said.
This was the day I got three flats within seven miles, and destroyed a tire on one of them. My resolve was severely tested. It was also one of four occasions when (sorry, ladies) if I were a woman, I’d have sat down and cried ... which was my first inclination.
This last flat was on a steep uphill to Raton Pass, and the flat made itself known to me as I got off the bike to walk the last eighth of a mile to the top. A guy hailed me from the other side of the divided highway. He’d passed me going my way then circled back. “Do you need any help?” Answer: “Do you have any spare tubes with you?” I was speaking self-mockingly. I had one tube left. He circled back and made space to haul me to the next truck stop. I was dead tired and dispirited. Making space was no small feat. Ian Dolly was returning from a month’s graduate program of field studies in North Dakota. He camped while doing research on burrowing owls. All his camping gear and whatever was in the back of that little Toyota, plus his mountain bike on the back rack, where there was room for my bike too. The dog he’d acquired was in the front seat ... a wonderfully friendly and handsome long-haired Corgi. I still can’t figure out how my stuff got in there, but the Corgi wound up on top of everything else in the back, perched where she could continually lick my neck. I am not normally fond of licking, and I did have to inhibit her a little, but I needed a dose of friendliness of the touching kind, and I must say I mostly relished it.
Ian was heading south, way past Albuquerque and wanted to take me that far, but I got out at the next truck stop, maybe a total of 7 miles down the road, and more significantly, over the Raton Pass.
Once there, I proceeded to change the tube. A fellow pumping his own gas asked if I needed money. It sounded like a dumb question, but I explained that I was donating my ride to raise money for charity. Joseph and Eileen Edwards insisted on giving me $10.00! As with the unexpected donations handed to me in Fremont, Wisconsin, I reasoned that he would not be much inclined to support my humanist religion, nor my college, nor my home town, but undoubtedly would have preferred the high school club (Interact) that helps third world children with medical problems.
I made great time after that, but was extremely nervous about riding without spare tubes.
I came upon two young women in a small Honda beside the road. The car was wearing a totally shredded tire. When I stopped to check on them, they said an AAA truck was coming for them and they had requested he bring a tire. The truck arrived momentarily. No spare tire. But the ladies had a donut spare. They didn’t know you can drive on them up to 60mph and thought they’d be limited to maybe 30mph. I got some cool water from them and left, but they did invite me to ride with them if I wanted to. It was an empty gesture ... there really was no room in the little car (and no, they were being nice, not coming on to me). They were headed for a wedding in Albuquerque (or was it Santa Fe?). Eventually they passed me, without even a horn toot.
I stopped at a rest area, maybe 12 miles down the road. “Next rest area: 60 miles away.” At 80 mph, that’s only 45 minutes. No big deal in a car; on a bike, it can be the whole day.
Rest areas are different out west. Attractively architected, but consisting only of toilets, nice sheltered bench areas, and water fountains that run cool, if you wait long enough. (And warnings not to venture off-path because of poisonous insects and snakes. Don't gotta tell me that twice!) No other services, although one place had a soda vending machine. Huge areas for trucks to park. I had conversations with two truckdrivers. Both offered to give me a ride, and one was going all the way to L.A. That was the older one. He said he'd won a $172 million lottery. His wife stole the ticket and took off. He got not one cent of it. Meanwhile, he was raising their kids and two nephews. He said other things, and was so earnest, but I really didn’t believe him. I guess I'd like to think it wasn’t true.
The younger one, maybe 23 years old, had a completely different tale. He had gone on a church walk with five other youths, at the age of 15. They carried a cross and walked from Oklahoma to Missouri, to spread the faith by their so doing. They were not allowed to ask for food or shelter, but could accept it when offered. They’d camped out a lot and eventually scored a ride all the way back to Tulsa. He wanted to do it again, and walk further, as much for the spiritualism of it as the wanderlust and experience. Guess I wasn't the only odd duck on the road. Everyone, it seems, has a story.
At a truck stop later on, I asked how far to the next motel and the countergirl said there was one in Springer, 5 miles further. Then she called it and made a reservation for me ... the last room available. They said they’d hold it for me for 30 minutes, till they heard I was on a bike, and bumped that to 1 hour, at my request. I must have been prescient. The countergirl suggested that I take the newly paved frontage road beside I25, to avoid the traffic. Mistake! Newly paved, yes. But it was the worst kind of macadem, overmixed with stones and bumpy/vibrationy as hell. Worse, I forgot, for the time, that frontage roads have more ups and downs than the highways they parallel. Worse, the headwinds picked up. I needed most of the one hour hold time to make it to the motel. The town was Springer, famous locally for its correctional institution. Road signs warn against picking up hitchhikers in the area!
There was a small Mexican restaurant next door to the motel, closing soon after I checked in, where I had the tastiest sauteed chicken strips/caesar salad I’ve ever had. The salad dressing was a package of Newman’s Own Italian, 180 calories of which 170 were fat ... something I’d normally avoid like the plague, but relished on the road.
Sometimes you win.
The first to seize supremacy was the stomach. There were times when it just plain ruled. Just as with stopping for a sip of water or a mini-rest, not by the clock (as in once an hour or some such), but when the body ordered it. Listening to the body sounds like a mystery when you’ve never done it before. It doesn’t just out and talk to you in some obvious way. You simply get urges that you eventually learn not to ignore. Thirsty? Drink. Tired? Stop. Hungry? Eat.
Next criterion: out west, along with watering holes and motels, eateries could be 40 or more miles apart, so I learned to have breakfast at the first opportunity, else stop number one would be lunch.
And that’s why I got off Interstate 25 just 2 miles south of the town of Trinidad, Colorado, where I’d spent the night. The sign across the highway, maybe 100 feet tall, so it could be seen from the Interstate by cars going 80mph, said "Always Open." It was below another that said "Earl’s Country Breakfast" … or something like that. But it wasn’t. And there was no "Earl’s Country Breakfast" either. However, there was a restaurant called "Tequila."
I took the overpass and rode over to the restaurant, only to discover that it didn’t open till 10am. I didn’t want to waste an hour waiting, but by then my rear tire was flat. (I got way too many flats on highway exits and overpasses. Debris seems to gather there, dammit!) This turned out to be a tiny pinhole which, I later learned, was caused by a local plentiful burr that has a slender very sharp spike which easily penetrates tires and tubes. This flat happened to my rear tire, necessitating unloading the saddle bags, which, by now, were intricately lashed on to prevent being dislodged by bumps. I was proud of the Rube Goldberg solution for its effectiveness, but it took a while to undo it all.
When I got the tube out of the tire, I discovered that my two spare tubes were missing. A quick memory search: that odd noise I heard a few days ago was the sound of the bundle of two of them hitting the road after a bump. I had not stopped to investigate the noise. Damn.
The yellow pages in the phone book in the restaurant yielded no bike shops in Trinidad, but on chance, the white pages showed one in town. I called and they had my tubes, but they don’t, won’t and can’t deliver, so I had to catch a ride. The address was on E. Main Street, so I thought I’d have an easy time of it.
By now, the restaurant was almost open. A middle-aged couple came out and they agreed to take me to E. Main Street. The couple’s names were Manuel and Nelly Garcia, and they owned the restaurant. I must admit I was disconcerted by their constant reference to me as “gringo,” but it sounded benign.
Problem: There was no bike shop on Main Street, east or west of the midtown area. In fact, there was no official East on Main Street. Manuel recalled a suburb, north of town, that had its own Main Street, and so it did, and there it was. They showed incredible patience while they waited .. it took extra long because the bike shop’s computer was down and they seemed not to be able to conclude my business without it. Then they asked if I minded them making some stops on the way back to the restaurant! Indeed, it was why they left the restaurant in the first place. Talk about politeness, civility and generosity of spirit!
It took awhile. By the time I got back and had the bike ready to go, it was nearing noon, so breakfast became lunch. I don’t recommend a mega-meal of Mexican food, as good-tasting as it may be (and this was), as the way to begin a serious biking effort. Enough said.
This was the day I got three flats within seven miles, and destroyed a tire on one of them. My resolve was severely tested. It was also one of four occasions when (sorry, ladies) if I were a woman, I’d have sat down and cried ... which was my first inclination.
This last flat was on a steep uphill to Raton Pass, and the flat made itself known to me as I got off the bike to walk the last eighth of a mile to the top. A guy hailed me from the other side of the divided highway. He’d passed me going my way then circled back. “Do you need any help?” Answer: “Do you have any spare tubes with you?” I was speaking self-mockingly. I had one tube left. He circled back and made space to haul me to the next truck stop. I was dead tired and dispirited. Making space was no small feat. Ian Dolly was returning from a month’s graduate program of field studies in North Dakota. He camped while doing research on burrowing owls. All his camping gear and whatever was in the back of that little Toyota, plus his mountain bike on the back rack, where there was room for my bike too. The dog he’d acquired was in the front seat ... a wonderfully friendly and handsome long-haired Corgi. I still can’t figure out how my stuff got in there, but the Corgi wound up on top of everything else in the back, perched where she could continually lick my neck. I am not normally fond of licking, and I did have to inhibit her a little, but I needed a dose of friendliness of the touching kind, and I must say I mostly relished it.
Ian was heading south, way past Albuquerque and wanted to take me that far, but I got out at the next truck stop, maybe a total of 7 miles down the road, and more significantly, over the Raton Pass.
Once there, I proceeded to change the tube. A fellow pumping his own gas asked if I needed money. It sounded like a dumb question, but I explained that I was donating my ride to raise money for charity. Joseph and Eileen Edwards insisted on giving me $10.00! As with the unexpected donations handed to me in Fremont, Wisconsin, I reasoned that he would not be much inclined to support my humanist religion, nor my college, nor my home town, but undoubtedly would have preferred the high school club (Interact) that helps third world children with medical problems.
I made great time after that, but was extremely nervous about riding without spare tubes.
I came upon two young women in a small Honda beside the road. The car was wearing a totally shredded tire. When I stopped to check on them, they said an AAA truck was coming for them and they had requested he bring a tire. The truck arrived momentarily. No spare tire. But the ladies had a donut spare. They didn’t know you can drive on them up to 60mph and thought they’d be limited to maybe 30mph. I got some cool water from them and left, but they did invite me to ride with them if I wanted to. It was an empty gesture ... there really was no room in the little car (and no, they were being nice, not coming on to me). They were headed for a wedding in Albuquerque (or was it Santa Fe?). Eventually they passed me, without even a horn toot.
I stopped at a rest area, maybe 12 miles down the road. “Next rest area: 60 miles away.” At 80 mph, that’s only 45 minutes. No big deal in a car; on a bike, it can be the whole day.
Rest areas are different out west. Attractively architected, but consisting only of toilets, nice sheltered bench areas, and water fountains that run cool, if you wait long enough. (And warnings not to venture off-path because of poisonous insects and snakes. Don't gotta tell me that twice!) No other services, although one place had a soda vending machine. Huge areas for trucks to park. I had conversations with two truckdrivers. Both offered to give me a ride, and one was going all the way to L.A. That was the older one. He said he'd won a $172 million lottery. His wife stole the ticket and took off. He got not one cent of it. Meanwhile, he was raising their kids and two nephews. He said other things, and was so earnest, but I really didn’t believe him. I guess I'd like to think it wasn’t true.
The younger one, maybe 23 years old, had a completely different tale. He had gone on a church walk with five other youths, at the age of 15. They carried a cross and walked from Oklahoma to Missouri, to spread the faith by their so doing. They were not allowed to ask for food or shelter, but could accept it when offered. They’d camped out a lot and eventually scored a ride all the way back to Tulsa. He wanted to do it again, and walk further, as much for the spiritualism of it as the wanderlust and experience. Guess I wasn't the only odd duck on the road. Everyone, it seems, has a story.
At a truck stop later on, I asked how far to the next motel and the countergirl said there was one in Springer, 5 miles further. Then she called it and made a reservation for me ... the last room available. They said they’d hold it for me for 30 minutes, till they heard I was on a bike, and bumped that to 1 hour, at my request. I must have been prescient. The countergirl suggested that I take the newly paved frontage road beside I25, to avoid the traffic. Mistake! Newly paved, yes. But it was the worst kind of macadem, overmixed with stones and bumpy/vibrationy as hell. Worse, I forgot, for the time, that frontage roads have more ups and downs than the highways they parallel. Worse, the headwinds picked up. I needed most of the one hour hold time to make it to the motel. The town was Springer, famous locally for its correctional institution. Road signs warn against picking up hitchhikers in the area!
There was a small Mexican restaurant next door to the motel, closing soon after I checked in, where I had the tastiest sauteed chicken strips/caesar salad I’ve ever had. The salad dressing was a package of Newman’s Own Italian, 180 calories of which 170 were fat ... something I’d normally avoid like the plague, but relished on the road.
Sometimes you win.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)