She: “I have a great interest in all the beautiful things in the world, but I have never traveled.”
Me: “Why not? “
She: “I don’t know ... I’m just a farm girl ... and I am afraid of new places.”
Besides having a small farm, she worked in the purchasing department at Archer Daniels Midland, in Decatur, Illinois. She had bought me a beer after I stopped at the first bar inside the town limits to ask about motels in the area. It was the end of the third day of my solo bike ride from St. Louis to New Jersey. We had talked about traveling and she picked up on that I have done a bunch, in the US and abroad.
She: “What’s the most beautiful thing you have ever seen?”
“Besides my wife? And besides the most thrilling moment of my life when I held my just-born son in the delivery room ... and when he immediately stopped crying and became still?
“And how he smelled … and how he felt to me when I repeatedly brushed his smooth infant’s cheek with my face when I held him, which I never got enough of?”
She: “Well, I meant art, I guess. Like, how about Michelangelo’s David. Have you seen it?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“To tell you the truth, it was magnificent, but I don’t have a trained eye. I had seen copies and they looked perfect to me. And I had seen so many photos of the statue that actually seeing it “in the flesh” was sort of anticlimactic.”
“So what else would you say is the most beautiful?”
My mind raced. There were so very many works of art, and so very many places. How could I choose?
Besides, for me, there were equally as many vistas and aspects in nature that blew me away. I didn't think she wanted to hear that.
I had a statue-of-David experience with the Mona Lisa too. In fact, it was so inaccessible that it was not even appealing. Between the glass protection and the crowd control, and even how it was displayed, there was no way to appreciate it.
And maybe I have an off-center reaction to things anyhow. For example, I was utterly taken by the seemingly infinite variety of patterns of the parquet floors in the Hermitage (in Leningrad, as it was called when I was there in ‘86, at the beginnings of glasnost) … and the doorframes … and the equally varied tray ceiling treatments … and the parade of urns on both sides of the many stairways (or perhaps, more accurately, the ascending promenades) … and … and …
Visit Catherine’s Palace and the summer environs of (now-called) St. Petersburg, and even without acquiring an understanding of the massive and impossible-to-imagine restoration that was accomplished, you will throw rocks at Versailles.
Try the exquisite mosaics on any number of mosques in the Middle East for evoking involuntary gasps of wonder at the intricacy and beauty. Or the special churches in so many other places, with their carvings or precious marble interiors.
I had one experience that is as vivid now as when it happened. I get chills even now as I write this. The tour guide closed the door behind us after we entered the baptistery at Pisa. He signaled for quiet. He arched his neck upward and sang four consecutive notes, pausing briefly between them. You could almost literally see the notes swirling and circling upward. They melded into a chord, as though four singers simultaneously launched their separate notes. And he repeated that miracle a few times. Such a simple thing, really. Amazing!
As for the beauty in nature, there is no end of it. I have been blessed to see so many things. Where does one start?
The sunrise over the desert in Saudi Arabia. If it were a painting, you would say it could never exist in nature ... it is too surreal ... almost cartoonish. The shafts of darker and lighter orange light are sharply demarcated more by the dust in the air than the clouds (rarely seen in that desert of nothingness): Breathtaking! No wonder the nomads were awed by the heavenly display and had religious experiences.
And its opposite: the sunsets viewed from Jeddah, west across the Red Sea. It is called the Red Sea because of all the dust in the air over it, blowing on the wind from Ethiopia, northern Sudan and Egypt. The light is refracted at sunset and the water’s surface appears a true blood red.
On one occasion, I sat on the beach after hours of snorkeling. The sky was lowering. Looking across towards Africa, I saw a flock of flamingos on the horizon, outlined against a vertically narrowing yellow background. Just above the sea’s surface, they flew arrow-straight to the north. There was just enough light to see their pink/red feathers. It was my only sighting of flamingos in my 15 months there; a fleeting, ethereal goose bump occasion, permanently etched in my mind’s eye. Did I mention that it was Xmas eve?
Look below the surface of the Red Sea … see the reefs … the dazzling variety and beauty of the creatures and the hard and soft corals. I have seen Cousteau’s stunning Red Sea documentary. You would think that it might have truly captured that beauty. But put your head in the water: Not Cousteau – or anyone else – could do it justice!
One very clear night, after the pavement ended on Old Stagecoach Road, I continued driving, on into the deep dirt tracks and up into the Rockies behind the Broadmoor Hotel, in Colorado. The “road” leads right into the maw of an abandoned mine’s entrance. Returning, you have to back up all the way – maybe a half-mile. No fear – the ruts are so deep, the car can’t climb out of them. You can drive it with your hands off the steering wheel.
I was there because it was an especially clear night. Once around the first bend, all trace of light from the resort was gone. The star points were close-set, in a sky resembling pavé jewelry. They looked so low; you felt as though you could simply reach up and grab a handful. Eerily seeming near, yet vast and limitless … and humbling. It was whisper quiet … truly awesome … and I ached not having someone there to share it with.
But you don’t have to go to exotic places or be adventuresome or appreciative. Take the time to ponder the ocean shore most anywhere, but especially when the water is angry. Take in the breadth of the mountain peaks from any vista that includes them.
See a mountain meadow ablaze with wildflowers blooming.
Spot a truly wild creature in its element and think a little about the local ecosystem that supports its existence.
Get far enough away from all hearing of human activity and be still in the woods for a spell.
Or truly contemplate a tall tree.
I am always awestruck by the talent and creativity that bespeaks art and all the artisans' constructs ... maybe because I have so little capability and recognize the vast gulf between my deficiencies and the gift of talent their creators possess.
I could not rank artisanship ahead of nature, nor behind. They’re just different things. Seeing the best examples of either is not nearly as satisfying as sharing the seeing of them.
I told none of this to my Decatur lady. I needed time to reflect, though I knew while we were talking that an essay would be my reaction to her question. It haunted me some during subsequent days of biking. It also bothered me that she was so fearful of getting out of her own comfortable space that she could not have similar experiences of discovering beauty for herself, in person. Would that I could be her agent in the effort.
Sad, really.
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Day Six (6/20, Saturday)
Bright sun, spotty clouds, less heat and humidity, but still energy-draining. Obviously the problem was as much me and my condition, as it was the weather. The route was a lot of zigzags ... all county roads, first east, then north, then east, etc. The paving was more good than not, but few areas had decent shoulders.
I started trying to determine potential motel stops at 3:30 or so, with no luck. By 6pm the nearest place was 20-25 miles away. I was at a bar. A whole pizza was given to the guy next to me (gratis from the management). He offered slices to everyone near him. He looked like Grisly Adams, with a never-trimmed gray beard – not much of a talker. Good pizza though. It went well with the beer. Doh!
I reached a major intersection of 2 wide roads, but still no motels near. There was one maybe 17 miles due north (I had wanted to go east at that point), but there was no choice. I decided to hitch. It seems that half the vehicles on the roads are pickup trucks in middle America and further west, so prospects were good. It was getting dark. Within 3 minutes of sticking out the thumb, I caught a ride with Bob, a young guy, maybe 19 years old. He was towing a trailer and on his way to fetch his other truck that had died in Michigan City, where I was headed. This truck sounded and ran like it might not make it, but he assured me he did all the rebuild work on it and it was in much better shape than it looked (and sounded). He took me straight to a lower cost motel that he used. It was a rather fine place, actually, but there was very poor cell phone coverage, the fridge never got really cold, and I couldn’t find a place for a cold beer anywhere near, though there were lots of establishments. This turned into a junk food dinner, which I thoroughly enjoyed.
I started trying to determine potential motel stops at 3:30 or so, with no luck. By 6pm the nearest place was 20-25 miles away. I was at a bar. A whole pizza was given to the guy next to me (gratis from the management). He offered slices to everyone near him. He looked like Grisly Adams, with a never-trimmed gray beard – not much of a talker. Good pizza though. It went well with the beer. Doh!
I reached a major intersection of 2 wide roads, but still no motels near. There was one maybe 17 miles due north (I had wanted to go east at that point), but there was no choice. I decided to hitch. It seems that half the vehicles on the roads are pickup trucks in middle America and further west, so prospects were good. It was getting dark. Within 3 minutes of sticking out the thumb, I caught a ride with Bob, a young guy, maybe 19 years old. He was towing a trailer and on his way to fetch his other truck that had died in Michigan City, where I was headed. This truck sounded and ran like it might not make it, but he assured me he did all the rebuild work on it and it was in much better shape than it looked (and sounded). He took me straight to a lower cost motel that he used. It was a rather fine place, actually, but there was very poor cell phone coverage, the fridge never got really cold, and I couldn’t find a place for a cold beer anywhere near, though there were lots of establishments. This turned into a junk food dinner, which I thoroughly enjoyed.
Day Five (6/19, Friday)
Decent start time. Wanted breakfast at the Dairy Queen, but closed. Hit the MickeyD, which I normally avoid like the plague. A large group of older men talked with me, and I got good route info … a bridge was out on the route I had planned.
On the way, I called a friend in NJ, who was my back-up for emergency repairs at the building of the Ethical Culture Society, for which I am responsible. All the rain in the east caused flooding in the basement when the water table rose to the surface. Our building was draining the town. We settled on a sump pump to sit in the window well, but it was very shallow and he had to find a switch that would operate in a narrow range and at a low level. It was sure a relief to have a capable guy to fall back on.
Late afternoon coolness set in. I went after a sun block of SPF 100 I’d seen advertised on TV, but it wasn’t out on the shelves yet. Settled for an 85. Not nice stuff – heavy, icky. Kinda late in the game to be worrying about it, but I began the drill anyhow. I had already blistered on the arms and legs. The neck was tender too, and my nose had already peeled. The worst was my head. I always forget about the aero slots in the helmet and the sun burns my scalp in strips. No issue, until I go to scratch my head. Owwww. Somehow I remember to bring the spray sun block when I go skiing, but not on a bike ride. Dumbkopf. Well, it is worse on the mountain, because the UV rays increase intensity 5% for every thousand feet above sea level. Betcha didn’t know that.
I passed a lot of time today by reliving my memorable vacation in 1977, when I left Iran for the first time in 4 years. It was a 5-week trip, 4 of which were sans kids, in Europe. I then thought about various problems or things I was undecided about, and had a few revelations/solutions. I gotta do that more often – think long and hard and repeatedly. Somehow I was able to think outside the box when riding.
I got to Kentland, Illinois, and stopped at the first restaurant, at the edge of town. It looked like a nicer than usual place. As I was talking with the cashier girl, some departing patrons helped out. I got a motel name, she made a phone call, and I got a reservation, then moved to sit down for dinner. Just then a man approached and asked if he could buy me dinner. He said he’d passed me on the road some time earlier and was a huge Tour de France fan, and here I was, a bike rider. I explained that I was not the usual cyclist and barely ride when not on an adventure, but he didn’t care. His French accent was so thick I barely understood him. I joined him and his wife. He himself was a piece of work. He was born in the Pyrenees and came to Canada when he was 19. He worked as a lumberjack in eastern Canada, and also was a tomato picker on a gigantic farm owned by Heinz. He said he picked 2,000 pounds a day. Somehow I cannot visualize the number of tomatoes, by weight, but I am still impressed. Eventually he went way out west and worked with Eskimos (doing what, he never said). He told me he hiked to within 200 miles of the Arctic Circle. Then he became a gold miner and worked 2 miles below ground. I wondered if that was the real depth. He also has been to every country in the western hemisphere and in Europe as well. Frenchie was now 68. His wife was American and apparently they’d only been married a few years. By the way, the dinner portions were massive. The lasagna quality was “strange” – I can’t think of a better word for it, as a food critic. But I got fed well, free! I did have to rush off, as a thunderstorm was very near and I did not want to ride even a mile in lightning, though that’s exactly what happened. Multiple simultaneous strikes, huge, and close together. Only a few drops, but scary.
The motel was inexpensive. Owned by an Indian immigrant, who had lived in Atlantic City for 17 years before buying this place. I gathered he kept going west until he found one he could afford to buy. It was a little downscale and not well maintained, and probably would stay that way, but he was personable.
On the way, I called a friend in NJ, who was my back-up for emergency repairs at the building of the Ethical Culture Society, for which I am responsible. All the rain in the east caused flooding in the basement when the water table rose to the surface. Our building was draining the town. We settled on a sump pump to sit in the window well, but it was very shallow and he had to find a switch that would operate in a narrow range and at a low level. It was sure a relief to have a capable guy to fall back on.
Late afternoon coolness set in. I went after a sun block of SPF 100 I’d seen advertised on TV, but it wasn’t out on the shelves yet. Settled for an 85. Not nice stuff – heavy, icky. Kinda late in the game to be worrying about it, but I began the drill anyhow. I had already blistered on the arms and legs. The neck was tender too, and my nose had already peeled. The worst was my head. I always forget about the aero slots in the helmet and the sun burns my scalp in strips. No issue, until I go to scratch my head. Owwww. Somehow I remember to bring the spray sun block when I go skiing, but not on a bike ride. Dumbkopf. Well, it is worse on the mountain, because the UV rays increase intensity 5% for every thousand feet above sea level. Betcha didn’t know that.
I passed a lot of time today by reliving my memorable vacation in 1977, when I left Iran for the first time in 4 years. It was a 5-week trip, 4 of which were sans kids, in Europe. I then thought about various problems or things I was undecided about, and had a few revelations/solutions. I gotta do that more often – think long and hard and repeatedly. Somehow I was able to think outside the box when riding.
I got to Kentland, Illinois, and stopped at the first restaurant, at the edge of town. It looked like a nicer than usual place. As I was talking with the cashier girl, some departing patrons helped out. I got a motel name, she made a phone call, and I got a reservation, then moved to sit down for dinner. Just then a man approached and asked if he could buy me dinner. He said he’d passed me on the road some time earlier and was a huge Tour de France fan, and here I was, a bike rider. I explained that I was not the usual cyclist and barely ride when not on an adventure, but he didn’t care. His French accent was so thick I barely understood him. I joined him and his wife. He himself was a piece of work. He was born in the Pyrenees and came to Canada when he was 19. He worked as a lumberjack in eastern Canada, and also was a tomato picker on a gigantic farm owned by Heinz. He said he picked 2,000 pounds a day. Somehow I cannot visualize the number of tomatoes, by weight, but I am still impressed. Eventually he went way out west and worked with Eskimos (doing what, he never said). He told me he hiked to within 200 miles of the Arctic Circle. Then he became a gold miner and worked 2 miles below ground. I wondered if that was the real depth. He also has been to every country in the western hemisphere and in Europe as well. Frenchie was now 68. His wife was American and apparently they’d only been married a few years. By the way, the dinner portions were massive. The lasagna quality was “strange” – I can’t think of a better word for it, as a food critic. But I got fed well, free! I did have to rush off, as a thunderstorm was very near and I did not want to ride even a mile in lightning, though that’s exactly what happened. Multiple simultaneous strikes, huge, and close together. Only a few drops, but scary.
The motel was inexpensive. Owned by an Indian immigrant, who had lived in Atlantic City for 17 years before buying this place. I gathered he kept going west until he found one he could afford to buy. It was a little downscale and not well maintained, and probably would stay that way, but he was personable.
Day Four (6/18, Thursday)
Another late start, again, because of an am thunderstorm. I lost some time when I realized, about a mile later, that I did not have my riding gloves and had to back for them. Damn. A 90-degree day and humid. No surprise there. But at least half the day was overcast. A blessing. I even had a breeze at my back, though mostly I couldn’t feel it till I stopped for a sip of water. Translation: faster average speed and less effort.
Another day of back roads and few motels along the way. I got to Gibson City by 7pm. I had been told there were motels there. Right on – got a room for $49. Treated myself to a Dairy Queen, across the street from the motel, then managed to gash my calf when mounting the bike to get back across the street. I had hit the front gear ring.
It takes a few minutes before the red slashes actually start to run with blood. It did leave an interesting pattern. Sort of like a scarface on the leg. Boy, did I feel stupid.
It was a 70-mile day, which wasn’t too bad considering it was a late start. And I had my usual late-in-the-day productivity. I even had a long-ish stop in mid-afternoon to lie in the grass off-road for about 5 minutes, to recoup.
Another day of back roads and few motels along the way. I got to Gibson City by 7pm. I had been told there were motels there. Right on – got a room for $49. Treated myself to a Dairy Queen, across the street from the motel, then managed to gash my calf when mounting the bike to get back across the street. I had hit the front gear ring.
It takes a few minutes before the red slashes actually start to run with blood. It did leave an interesting pattern. Sort of like a scarface on the leg. Boy, did I feel stupid.
It was a 70-mile day, which wasn’t too bad considering it was a late start. And I had my usual late-in-the-day productivity. I even had a long-ish stop in mid-afternoon to lie in the grass off-road for about 5 minutes, to recoup.
Day Three (6/17, Wednesday)
Punishing sun, high temps (upper 90s), punishing humidity (high 90s). My energy got totally drained, often. I made a lot of mini-stops. These were very short, often around 75 seconds. A slug of ice water and a few slower breaths, then off again. Any longer and the legs turn into lead weights that burn when you try to make the muscles start again. It is exceedingly uncomfortable, even knowing that within 100 feet, the pain goes away. It is the lactic acid build-up in the muscles.
About that ice water: The two steel water bottles I bought are amazing. I fill them to the top with ice cubes, then top off with water. When the water is drained, I refill them with water from the two plastic bottles (which also had ice cubes in them, but they warm up within 20 minutes). The refills also get ice cold. I can do that up to 4 times! It was the smartest purchase I ever made.
Got to Decatur, Illinois, and stopped at a bar at the edge of town. I promptly met two women (mother and daughter), who were intrigued by my story and bought me a beer. I was after motel info, and got a steer to a Days Inn, at only $49. I think I had a chance to stay with the ladies, who were both employed, but liked to call themselves farm girls. They were more than stout … and strong. I didn’t need to go there and kept my mouth shut.
I have written an essay - a musing on a topic the mother brought up. She asked me, "What was the most beautiful thing in the world (I had seen)?" (That essay is posted elsewhere on this blog.) She asked me many questions upon learning about my travels. She is afraid to travel and has never left Decatur.
As it happened, my wife had called me in the morning about a problem with a credit charge on a new account, of which I was the only signatory. You know how it goes: you’re in a new store and they offer huge discounts if you get their charge card. Not only did I get 33% off everything I bought that day, but I got a $15 credit on the account for later use. It never occurred to me to register her too, and they would not let her deal with the charges and balance when the statement came. And it was wrong! So I got it fixed from beside a farm vehicle repair shop, out in the boonies. But when I spoke with her earlier, I was in the middle of nowhere, and as we talked, I felt a few drops of rain and realized that the sky was about to open up, STAT! I barely made it to a barn, about 100 feet away, exactly across the road from where I’d stopped. The downpour was intense, but exactly 12 minutes long. The farmer was not home. He did look perplexed when he came riding up the driveway later on a giant mower and saw me standing in the space where he parks the mower. He was a taciturn type, but not upset. Just quiet. Interestingly, the road surface was almost bone dry in about 10 more minutes. No mist kicked up on me from passing trucks. Nice.
About that ice water: The two steel water bottles I bought are amazing. I fill them to the top with ice cubes, then top off with water. When the water is drained, I refill them with water from the two plastic bottles (which also had ice cubes in them, but they warm up within 20 minutes). The refills also get ice cold. I can do that up to 4 times! It was the smartest purchase I ever made.
Got to Decatur, Illinois, and stopped at a bar at the edge of town. I promptly met two women (mother and daughter), who were intrigued by my story and bought me a beer. I was after motel info, and got a steer to a Days Inn, at only $49. I think I had a chance to stay with the ladies, who were both employed, but liked to call themselves farm girls. They were more than stout … and strong. I didn’t need to go there and kept my mouth shut.
I have written an essay - a musing on a topic the mother brought up. She asked me, "What was the most beautiful thing in the world (I had seen)?" (That essay is posted elsewhere on this blog.) She asked me many questions upon learning about my travels. She is afraid to travel and has never left Decatur.
As it happened, my wife had called me in the morning about a problem with a credit charge on a new account, of which I was the only signatory. You know how it goes: you’re in a new store and they offer huge discounts if you get their charge card. Not only did I get 33% off everything I bought that day, but I got a $15 credit on the account for later use. It never occurred to me to register her too, and they would not let her deal with the charges and balance when the statement came. And it was wrong! So I got it fixed from beside a farm vehicle repair shop, out in the boonies. But when I spoke with her earlier, I was in the middle of nowhere, and as we talked, I felt a few drops of rain and realized that the sky was about to open up, STAT! I barely made it to a barn, about 100 feet away, exactly across the road from where I’d stopped. The downpour was intense, but exactly 12 minutes long. The farmer was not home. He did look perplexed when he came riding up the driveway later on a giant mower and saw me standing in the space where he parks the mower. He was a taciturn type, but not upset. Just quiet. Interestingly, the road surface was almost bone dry in about 10 more minutes. No mist kicked up on me from passing trucks. Nice.
Day Two (6/16, Tuesday)
Huge thunderstorm overnight and still raining in the am. I couldn’t get under way till 11:40, after that big and cheap breakfast: two eggs, hash browns, bacon, English muffin, OJ and coffee – only $7.45 Damned good bacon too, and a lot of it.
Climbing inclines is still a bit much for me; the legs aren’t quite there yet.
No wrong turns today!
I was on county roads all day. Poor shoulders, if any at all, and not always smooth pavement, but little traffic. I got a few horn beeps (salutes) but no one stopped me to talk. Sometimes they beeped me from behind. Scared the shit out of me.
Despite the late start, I made 71 miles today. As usual, I got my best mileage after 4pm … don’t know why. A sustainable energy boost comes on and I can crank out several hours of a good and high pace. Still walking up inclines. If I stood on the pedals I could ride them, but it does draw down more energy. I’d rather conserve. I forgot to mention that yesterday afternoon I caught a leg cramp and what felt like a groin pull. I rode through them, with discomfort, and damned if they didn’t pass. Nothing of that sort today, thankfully.
When the size of the dot on the map is small, you can’t tell if it is so small that there’s not a chance of a motel, or maybe it does have one or more. I had hoped this one town would work. Nada. Decided to have a chocolate ice cream and chat up the locals. A Best Western was 6 to 8 miles the wrong way (they always are). I could get there but it means losing time the next day too. So a local with a pick-up truck offered to take me there. Right on! Glen Edge made a decent pun about his name. Not well educated. Dead beer cans in the cab and pick-up bed. But good-hearted.
The Best Western was not all that inexpensive, but there was a coupon for a free second drink, and breakfast was included. When I went to the lounge area for a beer, after showering, there was a group of about 8 guys finishing theirs. They’d had a gang of pizzas and there were leftovers (a whole pie), which they offered to me. Free dinner, and my favorite food! I enjoyed the free beer too, and only $3 for the first one.
Climbing inclines is still a bit much for me; the legs aren’t quite there yet.
No wrong turns today!
I was on county roads all day. Poor shoulders, if any at all, and not always smooth pavement, but little traffic. I got a few horn beeps (salutes) but no one stopped me to talk. Sometimes they beeped me from behind. Scared the shit out of me.
Despite the late start, I made 71 miles today. As usual, I got my best mileage after 4pm … don’t know why. A sustainable energy boost comes on and I can crank out several hours of a good and high pace. Still walking up inclines. If I stood on the pedals I could ride them, but it does draw down more energy. I’d rather conserve. I forgot to mention that yesterday afternoon I caught a leg cramp and what felt like a groin pull. I rode through them, with discomfort, and damned if they didn’t pass. Nothing of that sort today, thankfully.
When the size of the dot on the map is small, you can’t tell if it is so small that there’s not a chance of a motel, or maybe it does have one or more. I had hoped this one town would work. Nada. Decided to have a chocolate ice cream and chat up the locals. A Best Western was 6 to 8 miles the wrong way (they always are). I could get there but it means losing time the next day too. So a local with a pick-up truck offered to take me there. Right on! Glen Edge made a decent pun about his name. Not well educated. Dead beer cans in the cab and pick-up bed. But good-hearted.
The Best Western was not all that inexpensive, but there was a coupon for a free second drink, and breakfast was included. When I went to the lounge area for a beer, after showering, there was a group of about 8 guys finishing theirs. They’d had a gang of pizzas and there were leftovers (a whole pie), which they offered to me. Free dinner, and my favorite food! I enjoyed the free beer too, and only $3 for the first one.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Day 1: St. Louis Did Me Wrong, Weatherwise
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.
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.
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.
Monday, September 10, 2007
Was it a "he" or a "she" ?
I met “Pat” in a small café in the small town of Julesburg, just west of the border from Nebraska into Colorado. I had to wait out the morning rain in that small café before setting out. It took till near noon. And so I had a chance to meet many locals who came and went in those morning hours.
“Pat” is a name I ascribed to one local, after the androgenous character on Saturday Night Live. Was “Pat” a he or a she? Many skits over many shows attempted to put Pat into situations where gender would be revealed. All failed.
But I was successful with my Pat … it wasn’t really my doing … it just took quite a while for the fact to “out” itself.
Very tall, very large frame, blonde hair down to the shoulders, and the killer confusions: a hot pink long-sleeved tee shirt plus enough extra poundage to exhibit what might be a woman’s chest. (Boobs!)
I was facing the rear of the café so only saw Pat from the side and back, until Pat took a booth in front of mine and faced me. No help there. It seemed like a lot of time for me to wonder about this, but then Pat ordered breakfast … in a deep voice. No mistaking that.
In a metropolitan area, nowadays, you see all sorts. In a tiny town in the West, given his age (he looked to be in his mid-forties) Pat had to be quite the character.
I decided that Pat liked the notoriety and the recognition of being the only one of his type around.
Pat was literate, getting many chuckles out of the typos in the local weekly newspaper, pointing them out to me. (I did learn a new word, however: “chemigation” refers to the mixing of crop treatments with the irrigation water.)
But was Pat a farmer? A silo worker? A railroader? A trucker? A merchant of I-don’t-know-what? A professional? My conclusion was that he was financially independent and a man of leisure; I decided that he owned most of the town, or the land thereabouts. He was probably the provincial lord of the manor. Who knows? Right or wrong, that’s the way I will remember it.
But it was fun guessing about Pat and his place in the scheme of things.
I had met someone like that in rural Georgia, in 1964. It was a one-factory town, and she owned the factory. Everyone in town worked for her, one way or another. She also owned the retail shops, thus getting back a lot of the wages she dispensed. It was right out of a cliched movie about a closed Southern community.
It had been raining steadily … for days, in fact. I was driving the dinky American Motors used car I’d bought a few days earlier in New Orleans, to replace my very dead Jaguar XK120M, may it rest in peace (I dearly loved that car!). The dink was the model that had the shift lever sticking out of the dashboard. Oy. It was going to take me all the way back to NY. How was a dumb Northerner to know that Detroit would sell cars in the South without heaters in them? No heat means no effective defrosters and permanent fogginess when it rains. I holed up in a café for days, nursing coffee after coffee. The short-order cook/counterman/owner befriended me and after many conversations, he offered me a job as a short-order cook. “I’ll teach you. Don’t make nuthin fancy anyhow.”
He allowed as how I was a breath of fresh air, being college educated and smarter than most anyone in town. “This town needs someone like you … and someone she don’t own! We could really liven things up around here.”
He introduced me to “her” when she came in with an entourage of toadies. She was quite civil, but acted every bit the Queen of her realm. She even asked me to come by the factory and make a job application so she could see where I might fit. I politely refused.
Cookie also took me a private club, just across the border, where we had some of the finest liquor I ever tasted. Moonshine! And on the house, to boot. In two days, I had met all the important locals!
Well, I was broke and out of a job, so I couldn’t say “no” straight off. But with my big mouth and not a small measure of arrogance, who knows how long I’d have lasted? Who knows how they would (and could) dispense with the wise-ass when the time came?
And, of course, there was no future in it. It might have been fun … for a while.
When the rain cleared, I cleared out too.
And that’s how I first got to NJ for home and career.
“Pat” is a name I ascribed to one local, after the androgenous character on Saturday Night Live. Was “Pat” a he or a she? Many skits over many shows attempted to put Pat into situations where gender would be revealed. All failed.
But I was successful with my Pat … it wasn’t really my doing … it just took quite a while for the fact to “out” itself.
Very tall, very large frame, blonde hair down to the shoulders, and the killer confusions: a hot pink long-sleeved tee shirt plus enough extra poundage to exhibit what might be a woman’s chest. (Boobs!)
I was facing the rear of the café so only saw Pat from the side and back, until Pat took a booth in front of mine and faced me. No help there. It seemed like a lot of time for me to wonder about this, but then Pat ordered breakfast … in a deep voice. No mistaking that.
In a metropolitan area, nowadays, you see all sorts. In a tiny town in the West, given his age (he looked to be in his mid-forties) Pat had to be quite the character.
I decided that Pat liked the notoriety and the recognition of being the only one of his type around.
Pat was literate, getting many chuckles out of the typos in the local weekly newspaper, pointing them out to me. (I did learn a new word, however: “chemigation” refers to the mixing of crop treatments with the irrigation water.)
But was Pat a farmer? A silo worker? A railroader? A trucker? A merchant of I-don’t-know-what? A professional? My conclusion was that he was financially independent and a man of leisure; I decided that he owned most of the town, or the land thereabouts. He was probably the provincial lord of the manor. Who knows? Right or wrong, that’s the way I will remember it.
But it was fun guessing about Pat and his place in the scheme of things.
I had met someone like that in rural Georgia, in 1964. It was a one-factory town, and she owned the factory. Everyone in town worked for her, one way or another. She also owned the retail shops, thus getting back a lot of the wages she dispensed. It was right out of a cliched movie about a closed Southern community.
It had been raining steadily … for days, in fact. I was driving the dinky American Motors used car I’d bought a few days earlier in New Orleans, to replace my very dead Jaguar XK120M, may it rest in peace (I dearly loved that car!). The dink was the model that had the shift lever sticking out of the dashboard. Oy. It was going to take me all the way back to NY. How was a dumb Northerner to know that Detroit would sell cars in the South without heaters in them? No heat means no effective defrosters and permanent fogginess when it rains. I holed up in a café for days, nursing coffee after coffee. The short-order cook/counterman/owner befriended me and after many conversations, he offered me a job as a short-order cook. “I’ll teach you. Don’t make nuthin fancy anyhow.”
He allowed as how I was a breath of fresh air, being college educated and smarter than most anyone in town. “This town needs someone like you … and someone she don’t own! We could really liven things up around here.”
He introduced me to “her” when she came in with an entourage of toadies. She was quite civil, but acted every bit the Queen of her realm. She even asked me to come by the factory and make a job application so she could see where I might fit. I politely refused.
Cookie also took me a private club, just across the border, where we had some of the finest liquor I ever tasted. Moonshine! And on the house, to boot. In two days, I had met all the important locals!
Well, I was broke and out of a job, so I couldn’t say “no” straight off. But with my big mouth and not a small measure of arrogance, who knows how long I’d have lasted? Who knows how they would (and could) dispense with the wise-ass when the time came?
And, of course, there was no future in it. It might have been fun … for a while.
When the rain cleared, I cleared out too.
And that’s how I first got to NJ for home and career.
Friday, September 7, 2007
Friendliness: Second Installment
Not “No room at the inn” – No inn at all! But she was pregnant!
I got to a town called Whitney Point, NY, expecting to find a motel there ... after all, the name was writ large on the map. Wrong. Some older teens at an A&W stand or the like concurred that there was a motel about 8 miles further, but forgot to tell me to turn right at the corner. I went about 8 miles, straight ahead, on my planned route, and thought maybe I misread my gauge or the kids were a little off. It was getting rather dark, and rather cold too. A small VW stopped, on the other side of the road. They’d passed me and circled back. It seems the driver’s brother (and the brother’s girlfriend) had ridden cross-country the year before and recounted all the helpful people they met, so he thought he’d return the favor. He did not use the term “pay it forward” but that’s what he was doing.
He knew the area some and said there was no motel the way I was going. It was back the other way, contradicting what I understood.
He turned the car around and went ahead, returning within 20 minutes, while I had resumed riding. He had spoken with the woman who runs the gas station/Qwik Stop ahead, in Richford, who confirmed that there was no motel anywhere close. Then he threw me a Gatorade. He told the woman ahead to look for an old man cyclist coming in and asked for a drink to take back to me. She gave it, no charge.
By now it was quite dark, I was quite tired (but, fortunately, going downhill for a few miles), my toes were truly numb from the cold, and I needed to “be there” in a hurry.
The woman acknowledged there were no places to stay. I got a hot chocolate, but I was shivering so much and my hands were shaking so much that she had to carry it to the booth where I would sit. I had to have 2 hot chocolates to warm up. At this booth was a 19-yar old woman, pregnant – maybe 8 months. She was the niece of the station manager lady, or about to be, if the manager married her uncle.
I also ate a sandwich and then had an ice cream bar. The manager would not take money for anything but the ice cream bar.
After much discussion, it was agreed that the best course for me was to set up my camping gear in the gazebo at the nearby town park, but I waited a while and asked everyone who came in if they could, or knew someone else who could put me up for the night. (The nearest police station was 5 or 6 miles away, and I was not about to ride in the dark, and up and down hills too.) Finally, the pregnant one said she had a spare bed, but she needed to ask her boyfriend, 47 years old, if he minded, and he wasn’t coming to pick her up until near 11pm. (It seemed clear to me that he was not the father.) I waited. He was OK with it. We put the bike in a storage shed at the gas station and piled into his car, arriving well into the boonies at a small wooden structure. Mom-to-be cleared off a space under which was a mattress, and gave me a sheet and a lovely comforter. Her pretty cat and its kitten joined me for a while. The place had electricity and running water, but no working tub or shower. The floors were bare. It was clearly home-built and was nowhere near done.
We had coffee in the morning, then drove back to the Qwik-Stop. After heating a burrito or something like it in a microwave, I set out. I learned later that Richford was the birthplace of John D. Rockefeller, who clearly never looked back.
Here were people with little more than subsistence level income, making do on what few of us could deal with, who opened their hearts to someone in need. It doesn’t get any better than that!
I got to a town called Whitney Point, NY, expecting to find a motel there ... after all, the name was writ large on the map. Wrong. Some older teens at an A&W stand or the like concurred that there was a motel about 8 miles further, but forgot to tell me to turn right at the corner. I went about 8 miles, straight ahead, on my planned route, and thought maybe I misread my gauge or the kids were a little off. It was getting rather dark, and rather cold too. A small VW stopped, on the other side of the road. They’d passed me and circled back. It seems the driver’s brother (and the brother’s girlfriend) had ridden cross-country the year before and recounted all the helpful people they met, so he thought he’d return the favor. He did not use the term “pay it forward” but that’s what he was doing.
He knew the area some and said there was no motel the way I was going. It was back the other way, contradicting what I understood.
He turned the car around and went ahead, returning within 20 minutes, while I had resumed riding. He had spoken with the woman who runs the gas station/Qwik Stop ahead, in Richford, who confirmed that there was no motel anywhere close. Then he threw me a Gatorade. He told the woman ahead to look for an old man cyclist coming in and asked for a drink to take back to me. She gave it, no charge.
By now it was quite dark, I was quite tired (but, fortunately, going downhill for a few miles), my toes were truly numb from the cold, and I needed to “be there” in a hurry.
The woman acknowledged there were no places to stay. I got a hot chocolate, but I was shivering so much and my hands were shaking so much that she had to carry it to the booth where I would sit. I had to have 2 hot chocolates to warm up. At this booth was a 19-yar old woman, pregnant – maybe 8 months. She was the niece of the station manager lady, or about to be, if the manager married her uncle.
I also ate a sandwich and then had an ice cream bar. The manager would not take money for anything but the ice cream bar.
After much discussion, it was agreed that the best course for me was to set up my camping gear in the gazebo at the nearby town park, but I waited a while and asked everyone who came in if they could, or knew someone else who could put me up for the night. (The nearest police station was 5 or 6 miles away, and I was not about to ride in the dark, and up and down hills too.) Finally, the pregnant one said she had a spare bed, but she needed to ask her boyfriend, 47 years old, if he minded, and he wasn’t coming to pick her up until near 11pm. (It seemed clear to me that he was not the father.) I waited. He was OK with it. We put the bike in a storage shed at the gas station and piled into his car, arriving well into the boonies at a small wooden structure. Mom-to-be cleared off a space under which was a mattress, and gave me a sheet and a lovely comforter. Her pretty cat and its kitten joined me for a while. The place had electricity and running water, but no working tub or shower. The floors were bare. It was clearly home-built and was nowhere near done.
We had coffee in the morning, then drove back to the Qwik-Stop. After heating a burrito or something like it in a microwave, I set out. I learned later that Richford was the birthplace of John D. Rockefeller, who clearly never looked back.
Here were people with little more than subsistence level income, making do on what few of us could deal with, who opened their hearts to someone in need. It doesn’t get any better than that!
Freebies
“You’re the biker!” she said. “Come on in. Have dinner on us.”
She had passed me in her car earlier on her way to the last bowling night of her bowling league. The fun league, not the one with the really serious (ultra-competitive) bowlers. They had a large pot-luck buffet; everyone brought a dish to it, and all had finished eating, with much left over. Shrimp cocktails, cocktail frankfurters and sausages, chicken, barbecue, the usual array of salads, Mexican dipping things, and a great variety of cookies and cakes, and more.
She recognized my orange shirt, and I was still in the biker pants and shoes. I had walked through one of the two doors to what I thought was a bar-lounge only, after checking in at a small motel a hundred feet away.
Not much of a town (but it had a bowling alley with 12 lanes). Two tracks of the railroad ran through town, parallel to the highway … or was the highway parallel to the railroad? Well, it wasn’t really a highway, but the road surface was pretty good, the road straight and the terrain wonderfully flat.
I thought I was lucky just to find a motel. Now I found a welcoming crowd anxious to talk to me about the trip, and offering me a full free dinner. I could feature this every night. Even the men were curious, but not as much as the women.
That makes me think of a question a friend asked me after my ride: "Did anyone hit on you during the trip?" None of these women did; in fact, I began to wonder why no women did! Then I remembered one, in retrospect, who probably did.
I wound up climbing 2,700 feet in all shortly after entering the Mojave Desert from western Arizona, where it is also desert-like, but doesn’t carry that fearsome name. I was thus introduced to the "high desert" just into California, at the town of Needles. I don’t do well on hills, but this very gradual stretch turned into a 6-mile long rise, then a short straightaway, then an 8-mile long rise. In neither case did I see the road as a hill because the terrain to either side rises with it, but oh so gradually. The only clue, at first, was that I was struggling to achieve a not very fast pace.
I had to walk the last quarter or half mile to the top of those two upgrades, and over the top, the Interstate descended only slightly. An ancient motor home was parked off the roadway. It had a trailer-with-car in tow. I stopped beside it but it was curtained all around, inside, and I had to go to the far side to find the door, which was midships between the front and back (they don’t make them that way any more).
When I knocked, to see if everything was okay, after a little shuffling, a woman pulled back the curtain to my right and motioned for me to open the door. There was a stairwell and she wasn’t getting down into it. She was wearing a nightgown and leaning over to talk to me, unavoidably exhibiting her attractions. "The motor home overheated on the long climbs, and I decided to park it till the cool of the evening." I asked for cold water and she readily gave me a bottle. I was distracted by her dress (or rather, her undress) and moved to beside the front of her motor home to drink the water, which went down in maybe two gulps. When I walked back to return the empty (I’m a good boy and don’t litter, most of the time), she asked if I wanted something to eat. When I declined, she then described her wonderful muffins (!). The thought did fleetingly pass my mind that I was being invited in and maybe it wasn’t entirely about food … but I had miles to go and places to see … yadda, yadda, yadda.
Yeah, she was hitting on me. And she was not in bad shape either for a woman in her late forties. But that was a precedent best left unset.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I often ate breakfast at Denny’s. They have two features hard to duplicate, it seems. First, everything they serve looks exactly the way it is pictured on the menu. Second, the portions are copious, and, away from the big cities, inexpensive. (That makes 3 features.) They even allowed substitutions! What’s not to like? And some of the restaurants were next door to Motel 6 and earned me a 10% discount.
Even the dinners were good. (Remember, I was into eating everything full-fat and highly caloric.)
The waitress said “You can have anything you want for dinner. A customer paid for your dinner. He just left. He said he was a biker too, from Arizona.” I ran to the register and the guy truly had gone. No one to thank. The whole dinner was paid for, except for the outlandish ice cream concoction I ordered for dessert. Nice!
On another occasion, I stopped for a cold soda at an Indian handicrafts place. I was the only one there, except for the owner and an employee. They asked about my ride, by now a common occurrence, which I always looked forward to, and the owner did not charge for my soda. Those “types” have a reputation for being hard bargainers and cool to customers. Not this one!
Another time: the town was 2 miles off the Interstate, but there was a truck stop/eatery at the highway exit, and I eagerly ordered my usual late afternoon root beer float. I hadn’t had a root beer float since maybe my teens, having turned off root beer and preferring almost any other flavor ice cream than vanilla, but on this trip, I quickly made an afternoon buy mandatory. It is surprising how much variation there can be in those things, mostly having to do with the quality of the ice cream. I came to prefer frozen custard (or was it soft ice cream?) best of all.
The woman at this truck stop had a stern visage as she went about closing up the place and was all business-like in serving me, so I was startled when she said: “No charge” as I prepared to leave. There had been conversation about my ride with another customer which she clearly overheard. Then she asked me where I was staying and I asked which of the motels in town was the least expensive (but clean, etc.). She endorsed what the gas pump guy said, and there I went, and was pleased. The owner was in his 30’s and had bought the place 6 months before, fixing it over as he got the cash flow. It had very interesting features. Example: the bathroom included a bar of Dove soap fully half the size of a regular bar, vs the almost useless mini-soaps you get in even the best hotels. (Has anyone mastered getting the paper wrapping off those wee things?)
The owner had an automatic pistol on his hip. I asked if he was auxiliary police or some such and he said it is legal to carry a weapon in Arizona, as long as it is not concealed. To carry concealed, you need a permit. He liked giving the message that a stranger was not to mess with him.
The next morning I went to stern-face to have breakfast. No, it wasn’t free. But you should have seen her face melt when I told her it was the best bacon I’d had anywhere, and the coffee was outstanding. I think I made her whole week.
Many other places gave me a drink or a sandwich on the house. One notable place was a Mexican Restaurant I stopped at, where I was changing highways. It was later in the day and I was parched. I had to have a Dos Equis. I had two! An older couple sat across from me having drinks and was waiting for another to join them. We talked and I got recommendations regarding local routes. I always asked locals if there were alternative roads that were flatter or more direct than what I had planned. (And I always got good advice, with one exception. I covered that in another essay, where I describe staying at a young pregnant girl’s place after failing to be informed that the motel that was only 8 miles further required me to turn right onto another route. The mother-to-be lived in Richford, NY, the birthplace of John D. Rockefeller. He clearly never looked back. It is an extremely depressed ((poor)) area.)
The waitress in the Mexican restaurant told me that the owner would give me a dinner on the house, if I liked. I had to decline or I would never have made the planned distance that day.
Almost every café and restaurant I stopped at was run by or owned by a woman. And they all wanted to nurture me, as is woman’s nature, no? One even offered me a ham sandwich to take with me, to eat on the road. God bless them.
She had passed me in her car earlier on her way to the last bowling night of her bowling league. The fun league, not the one with the really serious (ultra-competitive) bowlers. They had a large pot-luck buffet; everyone brought a dish to it, and all had finished eating, with much left over. Shrimp cocktails, cocktail frankfurters and sausages, chicken, barbecue, the usual array of salads, Mexican dipping things, and a great variety of cookies and cakes, and more.
She recognized my orange shirt, and I was still in the biker pants and shoes. I had walked through one of the two doors to what I thought was a bar-lounge only, after checking in at a small motel a hundred feet away.
Not much of a town (but it had a bowling alley with 12 lanes). Two tracks of the railroad ran through town, parallel to the highway … or was the highway parallel to the railroad? Well, it wasn’t really a highway, but the road surface was pretty good, the road straight and the terrain wonderfully flat.
I thought I was lucky just to find a motel. Now I found a welcoming crowd anxious to talk to me about the trip, and offering me a full free dinner. I could feature this every night. Even the men were curious, but not as much as the women.
That makes me think of a question a friend asked me after my ride: "Did anyone hit on you during the trip?" None of these women did; in fact, I began to wonder why no women did! Then I remembered one, in retrospect, who probably did.
I wound up climbing 2,700 feet in all shortly after entering the Mojave Desert from western Arizona, where it is also desert-like, but doesn’t carry that fearsome name. I was thus introduced to the "high desert" just into California, at the town of Needles. I don’t do well on hills, but this very gradual stretch turned into a 6-mile long rise, then a short straightaway, then an 8-mile long rise. In neither case did I see the road as a hill because the terrain to either side rises with it, but oh so gradually. The only clue, at first, was that I was struggling to achieve a not very fast pace.
I had to walk the last quarter or half mile to the top of those two upgrades, and over the top, the Interstate descended only slightly. An ancient motor home was parked off the roadway. It had a trailer-with-car in tow. I stopped beside it but it was curtained all around, inside, and I had to go to the far side to find the door, which was midships between the front and back (they don’t make them that way any more).
When I knocked, to see if everything was okay, after a little shuffling, a woman pulled back the curtain to my right and motioned for me to open the door. There was a stairwell and she wasn’t getting down into it. She was wearing a nightgown and leaning over to talk to me, unavoidably exhibiting her attractions. "The motor home overheated on the long climbs, and I decided to park it till the cool of the evening." I asked for cold water and she readily gave me a bottle. I was distracted by her dress (or rather, her undress) and moved to beside the front of her motor home to drink the water, which went down in maybe two gulps. When I walked back to return the empty (I’m a good boy and don’t litter, most of the time), she asked if I wanted something to eat. When I declined, she then described her wonderful muffins (!). The thought did fleetingly pass my mind that I was being invited in and maybe it wasn’t entirely about food … but I had miles to go and places to see … yadda, yadda, yadda.
Yeah, she was hitting on me. And she was not in bad shape either for a woman in her late forties. But that was a precedent best left unset.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I often ate breakfast at Denny’s. They have two features hard to duplicate, it seems. First, everything they serve looks exactly the way it is pictured on the menu. Second, the portions are copious, and, away from the big cities, inexpensive. (That makes 3 features.) They even allowed substitutions! What’s not to like? And some of the restaurants were next door to Motel 6 and earned me a 10% discount.
Even the dinners were good. (Remember, I was into eating everything full-fat and highly caloric.)
The waitress said “You can have anything you want for dinner. A customer paid for your dinner. He just left. He said he was a biker too, from Arizona.” I ran to the register and the guy truly had gone. No one to thank. The whole dinner was paid for, except for the outlandish ice cream concoction I ordered for dessert. Nice!
On another occasion, I stopped for a cold soda at an Indian handicrafts place. I was the only one there, except for the owner and an employee. They asked about my ride, by now a common occurrence, which I always looked forward to, and the owner did not charge for my soda. Those “types” have a reputation for being hard bargainers and cool to customers. Not this one!
Another time: the town was 2 miles off the Interstate, but there was a truck stop/eatery at the highway exit, and I eagerly ordered my usual late afternoon root beer float. I hadn’t had a root beer float since maybe my teens, having turned off root beer and preferring almost any other flavor ice cream than vanilla, but on this trip, I quickly made an afternoon buy mandatory. It is surprising how much variation there can be in those things, mostly having to do with the quality of the ice cream. I came to prefer frozen custard (or was it soft ice cream?) best of all.
The woman at this truck stop had a stern visage as she went about closing up the place and was all business-like in serving me, so I was startled when she said: “No charge” as I prepared to leave. There had been conversation about my ride with another customer which she clearly overheard. Then she asked me where I was staying and I asked which of the motels in town was the least expensive (but clean, etc.). She endorsed what the gas pump guy said, and there I went, and was pleased. The owner was in his 30’s and had bought the place 6 months before, fixing it over as he got the cash flow. It had very interesting features. Example: the bathroom included a bar of Dove soap fully half the size of a regular bar, vs the almost useless mini-soaps you get in even the best hotels. (Has anyone mastered getting the paper wrapping off those wee things?)
The owner had an automatic pistol on his hip. I asked if he was auxiliary police or some such and he said it is legal to carry a weapon in Arizona, as long as it is not concealed. To carry concealed, you need a permit. He liked giving the message that a stranger was not to mess with him.
The next morning I went to stern-face to have breakfast. No, it wasn’t free. But you should have seen her face melt when I told her it was the best bacon I’d had anywhere, and the coffee was outstanding. I think I made her whole week.
Many other places gave me a drink or a sandwich on the house. One notable place was a Mexican Restaurant I stopped at, where I was changing highways. It was later in the day and I was parched. I had to have a Dos Equis. I had two! An older couple sat across from me having drinks and was waiting for another to join them. We talked and I got recommendations regarding local routes. I always asked locals if there were alternative roads that were flatter or more direct than what I had planned. (And I always got good advice, with one exception. I covered that in another essay, where I describe staying at a young pregnant girl’s place after failing to be informed that the motel that was only 8 miles further required me to turn right onto another route. The mother-to-be lived in Richford, NY, the birthplace of John D. Rockefeller. He clearly never looked back. It is an extremely depressed ((poor)) area.)
The waitress in the Mexican restaurant told me that the owner would give me a dinner on the house, if I liked. I had to decline or I would never have made the planned distance that day.
Almost every café and restaurant I stopped at was run by or owned by a woman. And they all wanted to nurture me, as is woman’s nature, no? One even offered me a ham sandwich to take with me, to eat on the road. God bless them.
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
Friendliness [First Installment of a Series]
Day One of the bike trip. Late start because of partying the day before, but it still got me a jump over leaving the next morning. I got to an area near Kinnelon, NJ, on Route 23, and had a late afternoon flat. A staple had punctured tire and tube with both prongs, but the tire was salvageable. It is the first flat I would be changing by myself. Disconnected the trailer. (This and most others to come were on the rear tire, which bore so much weight. Also, because it was too easy to have them on the front where the tire comes off in no time. Bikes are definitely evil.)
I butchered the new tube trying to mount it, due to inexperience and the use of a less forgiving tool used to pry tires off and on rims, later replaced with a virtually foolproof tool. It got too dark to bother trying a new tube. I expected to camp out a ways into the woods.
However, while I was sitting off the shoulder and on the grassy upslope, a car pulled over just past me, and then a police car stopped just short of me, flashing lights blazing. I first thought the cop had pulled over a speeder and I just happened to be between where they stopped. No, the car stopped because Nicolas Ortiz thought I might need help. The cop stopped because there had been a telephone report of someone in trouble. They both told me I dare not camp there because of the bears. Nicolas offered to drive me further, to where there is a bike repair shop, in Essex. There also was a motel within a hundred feet of the shop. I was not inclined to do this, but had no choice. En route, we chatted. Nicolas hails from Colombia, originally, and we had a touchpoint because my youngest son’s ex was her Colombian parents’ first-born in the US. By and by Nicolas offered to put me up for the night. “Why spend the money on a motel?” He lived in Essex and would drop me off in the morning on his way to work, in Newark. He had nearly a quarter million miles on his Ford Echo with such a healthy commute, but it looked pristine inside and out! That little car swallowed my bike, inside (front wheel off), and my bags and the trailer, although we had to lash the trunk down.
His wife, Angela, and their teenage son, Michael, were welcoming. It was hot and muggy, so the Corona beer was mightily appreciated, and so were the chicken slices and dinner they provided.
I slept on the couch and we had an early start. Loaded the car, drove to the repair shop (not open yet) and unloaded everything, and then discovered that the shop is closed on Tuesdays! There was not another repair shop within 25 miles (we learned later). Nicolas took me to a gas station opposite a Wal-Mart, where he had bought a bike for his son. The young sales guy now worked at the gas station, and I (obviously) needed help mounting a replacement tube.
I waited for the guy to come to work. The gas station owner would not let the young man help me: “We work on cars, not bikes,” he said, very gruffly.
Wal-Mart does no service work on bicycles.
I grabbed the wheel and a replacement tube, holding them out prominently, and hitched for a ride to what I had remembered seeing, maybe 13 miles back on Route 23. I was picked up quickly by a man who asked what the problem was. He biked some. He then said he could help me and had the use of all sorts of equipment in a shop his landlord let him use. And so he did, and returned me to the gas station where I reassembled everything and set off. It was now 9am. I got only a few miles and the same tire went flat. I was at an intersection that had a gas station on it, where I checked the yellow pages and found 3 bike shops listed. None were open and all were far, but the gas station manager said one was not so far. Except the listing only gave a highway route number as an address, not a town. And they were not going to be open till 10am.
A young man, Jason, and his wife, Lindsay (married 2 years, but they looked so young!) overheard all the telephone calls and conversations and, of course, I was in biking gear. They could see from the sign on my back ("NJ to LA") where I was headed. They offered to drive me. En route, she called his mother at work who checked Mapquest and got specific driving directions. Yes, it was on the route given, only 8 miles to that route’s intersection, but it was 15 miles south from there! They still drove me! This fellow had returned from Iraq recently … he was in a tanker truck battalion. He knew his wife in high school, but they did not date then. She wasn’t interested, until he graduated and showed some spark when he enlisted.
I thanked them profusely, but they had other places to go, so I hitched back, getting 3 rides in quick succession. Two were from bikers. An older man was named Perry and he rode extensively with a group called the Free-Wheelers (this is a great fraternity!) and one rode recumbent bikes. The third was a cop, who could only take me to the other border of his town, maybe 3 miles. Meanwhile, because I got into his patrol car, he had to card me.
Why did that tube go flat? It may have been because the valve wasn’t fully tightened. As it lost air, it got to a critical point. The tube was slit in a circle around the valve base, which can happen when a lot of weight combines with insufficient inflation, I was told.
The bike shop had found an anomaly in the rim which could cause future problems and fixed that. Then they sold me much stronger inner tubes. And while they were at it, I had them adjust the shifter cables, which had stretched, as new ones always do.
I set out for Port Jervis, hoping to get a little beyond there before stopping for the night.
Jason had been going to Oakland for a job interview and was to return to Port Jervis, to his in-laws' home, and lo and behold, he overtook me on the long and very steep climb up High Mountain towards the lookout point. So he stopped and we talked some more. He said he’d have a beer waiting if I rode past where he was staying, and told me about the long downhill I was going to enjoy. Which I did.
I stopped at a very small grassy park, at the foot of another very steep but shorter hill, at the far end of town, and lay on the grass for 10 minutes or so. Jason showed up (again!). He remembered the long hill I was now facing and suggested I take the shore road, beside the Delaware River, which rejoins the route later on and avoids the climb. Wow, what a nice guy! He was dead on. But I never did see him on the porch of any homes I passed and lost out on the cold beer.
I did stay at a motel where the roads rejoined. A dump, but clean and reasonable. It had a shower, and the A/C worked. That’s enough for me.
Not only was Jason pleasant and outgoing and generous with his time, but both he and Lindsay were a very handsome couple indeed. I hope his future works out well for him.
PS: This was Day 2 of 95 degree heat, 95% humidity, bright sun, zero clouds, zero wind. I remember thinking that if my heart could take this kind of punishment, I WAS in good shape and the rest of the trip was not going to be a problem.
PPS: I spoke to Nicolas after the ride, when I got back to NJ. What a sweet man. Michael says his Dad often helps people he comes across on the highway. That's a lucky boy, who has a wonderful role model!!
I butchered the new tube trying to mount it, due to inexperience and the use of a less forgiving tool used to pry tires off and on rims, later replaced with a virtually foolproof tool. It got too dark to bother trying a new tube. I expected to camp out a ways into the woods.
However, while I was sitting off the shoulder and on the grassy upslope, a car pulled over just past me, and then a police car stopped just short of me, flashing lights blazing. I first thought the cop had pulled over a speeder and I just happened to be between where they stopped. No, the car stopped because Nicolas Ortiz thought I might need help. The cop stopped because there had been a telephone report of someone in trouble. They both told me I dare not camp there because of the bears. Nicolas offered to drive me further, to where there is a bike repair shop, in Essex. There also was a motel within a hundred feet of the shop. I was not inclined to do this, but had no choice. En route, we chatted. Nicolas hails from Colombia, originally, and we had a touchpoint because my youngest son’s ex was her Colombian parents’ first-born in the US. By and by Nicolas offered to put me up for the night. “Why spend the money on a motel?” He lived in Essex and would drop me off in the morning on his way to work, in Newark. He had nearly a quarter million miles on his Ford Echo with such a healthy commute, but it looked pristine inside and out! That little car swallowed my bike, inside (front wheel off), and my bags and the trailer, although we had to lash the trunk down.
His wife, Angela, and their teenage son, Michael, were welcoming. It was hot and muggy, so the Corona beer was mightily appreciated, and so were the chicken slices and dinner they provided.
I slept on the couch and we had an early start. Loaded the car, drove to the repair shop (not open yet) and unloaded everything, and then discovered that the shop is closed on Tuesdays! There was not another repair shop within 25 miles (we learned later). Nicolas took me to a gas station opposite a Wal-Mart, where he had bought a bike for his son. The young sales guy now worked at the gas station, and I (obviously) needed help mounting a replacement tube.
I waited for the guy to come to work. The gas station owner would not let the young man help me: “We work on cars, not bikes,” he said, very gruffly.
Wal-Mart does no service work on bicycles.
I grabbed the wheel and a replacement tube, holding them out prominently, and hitched for a ride to what I had remembered seeing, maybe 13 miles back on Route 23. I was picked up quickly by a man who asked what the problem was. He biked some. He then said he could help me and had the use of all sorts of equipment in a shop his landlord let him use. And so he did, and returned me to the gas station where I reassembled everything and set off. It was now 9am. I got only a few miles and the same tire went flat. I was at an intersection that had a gas station on it, where I checked the yellow pages and found 3 bike shops listed. None were open and all were far, but the gas station manager said one was not so far. Except the listing only gave a highway route number as an address, not a town. And they were not going to be open till 10am.
A young man, Jason, and his wife, Lindsay (married 2 years, but they looked so young!) overheard all the telephone calls and conversations and, of course, I was in biking gear. They could see from the sign on my back ("NJ to LA") where I was headed. They offered to drive me. En route, she called his mother at work who checked Mapquest and got specific driving directions. Yes, it was on the route given, only 8 miles to that route’s intersection, but it was 15 miles south from there! They still drove me! This fellow had returned from Iraq recently … he was in a tanker truck battalion. He knew his wife in high school, but they did not date then. She wasn’t interested, until he graduated and showed some spark when he enlisted.
I thanked them profusely, but they had other places to go, so I hitched back, getting 3 rides in quick succession. Two were from bikers. An older man was named Perry and he rode extensively with a group called the Free-Wheelers (this is a great fraternity!) and one rode recumbent bikes. The third was a cop, who could only take me to the other border of his town, maybe 3 miles. Meanwhile, because I got into his patrol car, he had to card me.
Why did that tube go flat? It may have been because the valve wasn’t fully tightened. As it lost air, it got to a critical point. The tube was slit in a circle around the valve base, which can happen when a lot of weight combines with insufficient inflation, I was told.
The bike shop had found an anomaly in the rim which could cause future problems and fixed that. Then they sold me much stronger inner tubes. And while they were at it, I had them adjust the shifter cables, which had stretched, as new ones always do.
I set out for Port Jervis, hoping to get a little beyond there before stopping for the night.
Jason had been going to Oakland for a job interview and was to return to Port Jervis, to his in-laws' home, and lo and behold, he overtook me on the long and very steep climb up High Mountain towards the lookout point. So he stopped and we talked some more. He said he’d have a beer waiting if I rode past where he was staying, and told me about the long downhill I was going to enjoy. Which I did.
I stopped at a very small grassy park, at the foot of another very steep but shorter hill, at the far end of town, and lay on the grass for 10 minutes or so. Jason showed up (again!). He remembered the long hill I was now facing and suggested I take the shore road, beside the Delaware River, which rejoins the route later on and avoids the climb. Wow, what a nice guy! He was dead on. But I never did see him on the porch of any homes I passed and lost out on the cold beer.
I did stay at a motel where the roads rejoined. A dump, but clean and reasonable. It had a shower, and the A/C worked. That’s enough for me.
Not only was Jason pleasant and outgoing and generous with his time, but both he and Lindsay were a very handsome couple indeed. I hope his future works out well for him.
PS: This was Day 2 of 95 degree heat, 95% humidity, bright sun, zero clouds, zero wind. I remember thinking that if my heart could take this kind of punishment, I WAS in good shape and the rest of the trip was not going to be a problem.
PPS: I spoke to Nicolas after the ride, when I got back to NJ. What a sweet man. Michael says his Dad often helps people he comes across on the highway. That's a lucky boy, who has a wonderful role model!!
Obese, Obeser & Obeserer
You may recall a movie title: Dumb and Dumber, and its sequel: Dumber & Dumberer.
After impossible-not-to-realize observances, I title this:
Obese, Obeser & Obeserer.
I had thought that the national obesity plague was more of an urban/suburban thing. We have fast food 24/7, spend long hours sitting … at work, on public transportation, in front of the tube (being too tired and getting home too late to do more), and eating take-out or order-in.
I also thought it was mostly a US thing.
Then I rode into the hinterlands and across Ontario … hence this essay. I could not believe my eyes. I am not coming from: “Well, I lost a lot of weight so how come these people haven’t/don’t?” Since I grew up “chunky” and managed to exceed the more pleasant euphemisms more than a few times, I look out from these eyes with the internal mindset of a fat person, even though I have not been all that heavy for many years.
As a kid, my parents would take me to the old Barney’s, where they sold suit pants and jackets separately so they could find a set that would fit me. There are family album photos of the 4-year old me, bundled up and standing outside our home in winter. My arms were as close to my sides as they could get and were at a 45 degree angle to my body.
I remember an Air Force sergeant telling me (at ROTC summer camp) that I was so fat that if they told me to shag ass, it would take me two trips.
At my biggest, and in my mid-twenties, I weighed 225 pounds. Though I yo-yo’ed, I got to maybe 212 when my son Gregg was born, in '71. I came down steadily and consistently after that through diet modification ... I found healthier substitutes for all the things I loved and wound up finding things I loved as much (but it wasn’t easy and took a lot of searching around).
My oldest son had a revelatory comment: "So many people buy SUV’s because they don’t fit into smaller vehicles."
I would have thought work was harder ... more physical ... in the hinterland. That there was more leisure to get into other activities (time not spent commuting).
So wherefore this grossness? Why is it rampant in the non-urban set? We can all guess. I haven’t spent much time trying to analyze this, but aside from the other most significant observations on the trip (laughter, friendliness and generosity), this was so painfully obvious that I had to register it with the telling.
North American people are dreadfully obese, obeser and obeserer!
After impossible-not-to-realize observances, I title this:
Obese, Obeser & Obeserer.
I had thought that the national obesity plague was more of an urban/suburban thing. We have fast food 24/7, spend long hours sitting … at work, on public transportation, in front of the tube (being too tired and getting home too late to do more), and eating take-out or order-in.
I also thought it was mostly a US thing.
Then I rode into the hinterlands and across Ontario … hence this essay. I could not believe my eyes. I am not coming from: “Well, I lost a lot of weight so how come these people haven’t/don’t?” Since I grew up “chunky” and managed to exceed the more pleasant euphemisms more than a few times, I look out from these eyes with the internal mindset of a fat person, even though I have not been all that heavy for many years.
As a kid, my parents would take me to the old Barney’s, where they sold suit pants and jackets separately so they could find a set that would fit me. There are family album photos of the 4-year old me, bundled up and standing outside our home in winter. My arms were as close to my sides as they could get and were at a 45 degree angle to my body.
I remember an Air Force sergeant telling me (at ROTC summer camp) that I was so fat that if they told me to shag ass, it would take me two trips.
At my biggest, and in my mid-twenties, I weighed 225 pounds. Though I yo-yo’ed, I got to maybe 212 when my son Gregg was born, in '71. I came down steadily and consistently after that through diet modification ... I found healthier substitutes for all the things I loved and wound up finding things I loved as much (but it wasn’t easy and took a lot of searching around).
My oldest son had a revelatory comment: "So many people buy SUV’s because they don’t fit into smaller vehicles."
I would have thought work was harder ... more physical ... in the hinterland. That there was more leisure to get into other activities (time not spent commuting).
So wherefore this grossness? Why is it rampant in the non-urban set? We can all guess. I haven’t spent much time trying to analyze this, but aside from the other most significant observations on the trip (laughter, friendliness and generosity), this was so painfully obvious that I had to register it with the telling.
North American people are dreadfully obese, obeser and obeserer!
Laughter
Among the several overpowering impressions that marked my soul on the bike ride was that of laughter. It was more plentiful in the East, Mid-West, and West than New Mexico, Arizona and eastern California, where the population was sparse. It hits you when in sit-in eateries of all sorts: little cafes in tiny farming towns, some chain places, and places that qualify as cities by the locals (we congested Easterners would quibble with that categorization). Some towns had populations of 774 or 432 (I remember those two specifically).
There was a lot of laughter. Families, working people having lunch together, knitting circles, church-based men-who-lunch-together once a week, even truckers swapping stories and advice … whatever. They seemed to find many things to say to generate laughter throughout their dining experience. I never did overhear anything specific, except for one group that good-naturedly poked fun at first one, then another of their group, with everyone enjoying the banter.
What a pleasant thing to become conscious of after it has insinuated itself into your awareness!
It was clear that, often, these were people of very modest means. Homes were simple, or ramshackle, or often trailers. Cultural amenities seemed to be severely limited or non-existent. But folks were happy – if such easy, frequent laughter is a guide.
Maybe I am imputing a false relationship, opposing the non-urban with the push-push of densely populated areas with their preponderance of non-farming related professions, and the rush-rush atmosphere that resists relaxation. But it seems an almost inescapable conclusion that leisure has something to do with it.
Does anyone care to reflect on this and contribute their thoughts to a discussion?
There was a lot of laughter. Families, working people having lunch together, knitting circles, church-based men-who-lunch-together once a week, even truckers swapping stories and advice … whatever. They seemed to find many things to say to generate laughter throughout their dining experience. I never did overhear anything specific, except for one group that good-naturedly poked fun at first one, then another of their group, with everyone enjoying the banter.
What a pleasant thing to become conscious of after it has insinuated itself into your awareness!
It was clear that, often, these were people of very modest means. Homes were simple, or ramshackle, or often trailers. Cultural amenities seemed to be severely limited or non-existent. But folks were happy – if such easy, frequent laughter is a guide.
Maybe I am imputing a false relationship, opposing the non-urban with the push-push of densely populated areas with their preponderance of non-farming related professions, and the rush-rush atmosphere that resists relaxation. But it seems an almost inescapable conclusion that leisure has something to do with it.
Does anyone care to reflect on this and contribute their thoughts to a discussion?
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
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