You're an anti-tentite!

[This subject heading's for you, little brother.]

What is it with camping in this part of the country? I may look like a vagabond, but I'm no kind of riffraff. Harumph.

Take Winnie, TX, where I slept just a few nights ago. The one RV park in town wouldn't allow tents. "Discrimination!" I spluttered. "How am I penalized for not needing a giant space and sewage hook-up for my gas-guzzling mobile home??" (Okay, that was an interior monologue, I was actually very polite.) Luckily there was a well-traveled, and thus fairly safe, city park, which aside from its lack of showers (or doors on the bathroom stalls) worked out just fine. There were even water spigots and electrical outlets at each site. And it was free. Not bad. Stinky but safe: it could be worse.

[Note: I am not anti-RV. In fact, I have a number of friends who travel by mobile home. Some of them are actually kind of snazzy, like Joel's veg-powered trailer. But come on, if I'm willing to pay too much for an RV spot to pitch my little, no-impact tent, why can't I camp there?]

Then there was Orange, TX. I had hoped to make it over the border to Vinton, LA yesterday, but the stormclouds roiling overhead for hours had me nervous that a major storm was going to break before I covered the final 30 or so miles. (I'd already biked more than 50 and wasn't moving too fast.) So I decided to stay in Orange for the night. Oh my. Again, the one RV park I found online refused to allow tents. Suggestions I received from folks when I stopped in at the Farm Bureau office to ask for help included:

1. Tenting on a boat ramp: on the bad side of town. This was suggested by an older guy who worked for the county and who admitted that *he* wouldn't camp there, but at least it was lit up at night. Thanks, sir.

2. A homeless shelter: they take anyone. Except I'm not technically homeless, and also it was run by a pretty evangelical church group that would probably feed me pentacostal bible teachings along with my boiled collards -- no thanks. Also, we couldn't find a number to call them. And there was the issue of the woman giving me directions there being, well, terrible at giving directions. (She'd insisted it was only 4 miles to Vinton, Louisiana; in fact, I learned when I passed through there earlier today, it was 35. Thanks but no thanks, lady. I'm glad to have dodged that bullet.)

3. The city park: this, in a town known for assaults and shootings. It was another winning suggestion from the gentleman who came up with the boat ramp scheme. Does this guy have it in for me? He seemed nice enough....

4. The hospital: if I stashed my bike somewhere -- where?? -- I could pretend I was waiting on someone to come out of surgery and doze in the waiting room. This was suggested by a not-particularly-helpful, not-quite-local woman.

Seriously, I know I've slept in haylofts and on plastic tables in abandoned gas stations, but these were the worst suggestions I'd ever heard. I didn't mention my research, but maybe they sensed that I was plotting the end of conventional agriculture as we know it....

Luckily, a stop by the local Chamber of Commerce office set things right. Danielle called the other RV park in town and Sallie, who runs things there, said I was welcome to pitch my tent for ten bucks. Not only that, but there was a laundry room *and* a shower that I would be more than welcome to utilize. Ah, it's good to have friends in high places.

There are some challenges I'd foreseen before I started this trip, but I had no idea how challenging finding a place to sleep would be. I mean, nearly all of California's parks had closed due to budget cuts, you may recall, but not allowing tents at campgrounds that are open in other parts of the country? I'm hoping I have better luck avoiding anti-tentites as I make my way through The Deep South in coming weeks....

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Reading, writing, and 'rugula

It all started with a return phone call this morning from Linda. Not a wedding photographer by trade, though she'd agreed to take pictures for Meghan's wedding last weekend, I learned that the artist generally photographs wildlife and, more recently, organic farms and community gardens all around the Houston area. (What luck!) Linda, unperturbed by the babbling of the bridesmaid with the bike glove tan, shared some of her thoughts on community strengthening through gardening in the region. It was she who directed me to Urban Harvest (a local nonprofit that cultivates farmers' markets and community gardens) and encouraged me to get in touch with the folks involved in developing school gardens in the city. It was almost lunchtime on a Friday, but I started making phone calls....

I spoke first with Susan who filled me in a bit on the history of Urban Harvest and its partnerships with local schools. She talked me through the financing, development, and management of the gardens: it seems the work has grown from the inception of the original 3 gardens years ago and quite a few now have transitioned from after school projects (largely funded by 5-year 21st Century Community Learning Center grants) to programs integrated into the school curriculum, some with their own paid, part-time staff. From local community grants (like those from Home Depot, Shell Oil, and Chase Bank, as well as small businesses) to school budget allotments for garden instructors, funding for these programs continues to shift as the outdoor learning spaces thrive beyond their initial start-up phase. At the conclusion of our conversation, Susan recommended a few interesting school garden models right in my neighborhood. Well, within a 30-minute bike ride, anyway.

[Sidenote on biking in this town: I've learned pretty quickly that Houston is not so biker friendly. Automobiles don't seem to acknowledge the faintly marked bike lanes or the clearly posted "Share the road: bicycles are vehicles, too" signs. Probably hard to see them over the giant truck hoods. And why, in a city so dangerous for cyclists, does nobody wear a helmet?? I've been here over a week and I can count the number of bike helmets I've seen on one hand. End of rant... for now.]

After a quick stop by the post office, Ollie and I arrived at Travis Elementary, supposedly the oldest documented school garden in all of Texas. Principal Walker (not a Texas Ranger) welcomed me to the campus and introduced me to George (parent of two Travis students, professional photographer, long-time Urban Harvest garden volunteer, and part-time staff gardener at the school) who happily showed me around and explained how the gardens had grown over the course of many years. The parents and PTA have been avid supporters, he told me, and with the principal's blessing George exercises quite a bit of creative oversight of the green space between the teacher parking lot and the classrooms. There are dozens of raised garden beds -- considerably more skillfully designed than my first attempt in Meghan's yard (though I am rather proud of it) -- and the beginnings of an orchard. There is a small outdoor amphitheatre. George shared his plans for a fish pond, an interactive environmental data collection center (with a computer, electronic microscope, and camera linked to classrooms and the internet), and a project to develop a series of mini ecosystems to foster a wide variety of wildlife. The sky's the limit, the plans are drawn... now it's just a matter of patience and garnering funds.

As things stand now, each class has a raised bed to cultivate. So does the maintenance and kitchen staff. George is hoping to involve neighbors, inviting them to start small plots and help manage the garden during summer months when school is out. Truly, it is a place of beauty, learning, and community. While we strolled about, a teacher brought her class of fifth graders out for a ladybug hunt: apparently the auditorium was overcrowded with students showing off their "science super hero" costumes and she wanted to give her kids a little peaceful outside time on this beautiful afternoon. See, these are exactly the kinds of impromptu learning experiences that successful school gardens allow. The students excitedly but respectfully inspected each garden plot for the elusive aphid hunters and at least twice a student shyly approached us with a question about a particular plant in the garden. "Is that crazy looking flowering one a broccoli or a brussels sprout plant?" one girl ventured. It was the latter, though they're closely related. (Seriously? I'd never even seen brussels sprouts growing on the plant until about two years ago. This kid was at least 20 years ahead of my own learning curve. I am humbled, yet again, by a ten-year-old.) A bit later, George showed me one of the butterfly gardens, including a simple wooden trellis he'd constructed after noticing monarchs building their chrysalises on similar beams near the garden shed. The hope is that the butterflies will populate the beams outside the classroom window, where students are learning about monarch butterflies in science. I departed with butterflies (of the excitement variety) in my stomach.

With less than an hour left in the school day, Ollie and I hit the road again, this time for Helms Elementary, where a veteran science teacher had found herself talked into spearheading a school garden and wildlife preserve more than a decade ago. Welcoming me with a big hug -- I love huggers! -- Lindy asked her colleague, Mary (a longtime community volunteer at the school and active member of the gardening team), to show me around while she got the students set up for a review session in the computer lab. (Next week is the big statewide science exam for fifth graders. Let the record show that I am refraining from ranting about the ludicrous nature of high-stakes standardized tests... for now.) Mary showed me around the vegetable garden and guided me around the wetland preserve. An engineer had seen the pond's small wooden bridge a few years back, I learned, and insisted that he design another one that allowed students to see the water and turtles underneath... a sturdy metal walkway now stretches over the waterway. Mary then introduced me to the turtles and explained recent trouble with the overworked water pump... a plumber friend had volunteered to help fix things, but it was going to be a few weeks, she confided. While there have been a series of small grants along the way, it turns out that most of the supplies and expertise have come from friends, neighbors, and local businesses. Now, isn't that how it should be? (Kind of reminds me of the Noyo Food Forest's successful community partnerships.) Much of the garden building had been done by students and volunteers, I later learned from the science teacher, with most of the heavy lifting courtesy of juvenile offenders doing community service hours. Rather than being phased by their prominent tattoos, Lindy was overjoyed by the strength of the young men. (It's all a matter of perspective, she laughed.) There are plans here, too, for expanding the gardens little by little, funding and leadership permitting.

Lindy, Mary, and I chatted for another hour or so as students tutored each other in the humming computer lab. By five o'clock it was time for Ollie and I to head out. I was hungry and also excited to capture some of what I'd learned today in writing. Food education is slowly taking root in Texas, and the kids are clearly thriving on reading, writing, and a little romaine. (Which is good, because history education is taking a nose dive: the board of education just cut Thomas Jefferson out of the textbooks last month. Ah, Texas....)

You've made your bed...

Oh my, has it really been more than a week since my last post? Um. Ummm... I blame an amazingly fun group of people and distractingly delicious food. After the excitement of Meghan and Andrew's wedding, it's taken me a few days of nibbling on chocolate and cheese and sipping a few local brews to help me refocus. In recent days, I've had the chance to visit a number of farmers' markets and garden supply stores here in Houston -- more on those later. Right now I'm cracking open a nice cold St. Arnold's brown ale to celebrate the construction of my first raised bed, completed just this afternoon.





Many weeks ago, I had decided that I was going to build a garden for Meghan and Andrew as my wedding gift to them. (I'd gotten the idea in the middle of a long day of cycling. Was I suffering from sunstroke that day? Was I delirious? I've worked at a number of farms and community gardens by now, many of which have sported raised garden beds. I've seeded them. I've weeded them. But have I built one? Negative. What was I thinking??)

So on Monday morning I started researching, poring over a wide range of gardening websites with instructions (but, ahem, very few diagrams) on raised bed construction. Apparently you can make them out of just about anything: wood, stone, brick, concrete blocks. While I walked Olly and Penny around the neighborhood -- I'm dog-sitting this week while the newlyweds are honeymooning -- I took notes on creative garden bed arrangements we passed. Lots of interesting models, but how the heck would I transport enough flat rocks or concrete blocks on my bicycle? Actually, could I even lug one concrete block? Then I got to thinking. Meghan and Andrew are among the most environmentally aware people I know -- these two had things like rain barrels and compost bins on their wedding registry. How cool would it be to use recycled materials? I visited a few nearby antique stores. $175 for a wrought iron panel? I'd need 3 or 4 of them. Eek. And there was the challenge, again, of transport.

Back at the homestead, I came across a few bags of organic topsoil and fertilizer. Small piles of bricks lingered along the driveway and to the side of the deck. Last weekend's open house meant there were some local beer bottles in the recycling bin.... A trip to the shed out back yielded all of the tools I would need: rake, shovel, trowel, measuring tape, saw. Okay... okay... this was looking promising. I laid out my materials as the dogs watched from the bedroom window, casting puzzled looks in my direction. ("Why is she burying bottles? I mean, you can't even chew on those. Oh, and she's only half burying them. What an amateur....") I measured out the space -- 8' x 3' seemed like a reasonable starting size for a small vegetable garden (and also was the maximum size I could reasonably construct with the materials on hand) -- and started digging.




Once the brick-bottle-miscellany frame was built I rummaged around the recycling bin again for some weed-suppressing, soil enriching cardboard. (Hopefully Meghan wasn't planning on returning any mailed wedding presents....)




Then I shoveled a mix of soil, all-natural fertilizer, and mulch on top...

But I didn't have enough soil to fill the whole bed. (Clearly there is a learning curve here.) Also, I didn't have the plants yet. I'd bought a pepper plant from a backyard gardener at Saturday's Urban Harvest market downtown and a lovely tomato seedling at yesterday's Rice University market. Two plants. Not exactly a cornucopia of vegetables. Ollie and I visited no fewer than 4 garden supply shops this afternoon, finally finding the breadth of selection and helpful advice at Buchanan's. Here's a pic of Keith with the basil and an okra seedling he talked me into purchasing. (What? Okay, so okra wasn't on the original list, but it's so very southern. Plus I couldn't resist after the friendly salesperson shared a recipe for a lovely sounding vegetarian okra saute. He promised it doesn't taste slimy.)

I had to bike home and bring the car, as the additional 14 plants and 3 bags of compost were too bulky to haul home on Ollie. (Notice I didn't say "too heavy" -- I'm not altogether unconvinced that the load weighs less than the gear I've been schlepping for over 5700 miles now.) If you're interested, the following plants somehow launched themselves into my cart along with the okra and basil: heirloom Turkish eggplant, crookneck squash, summer zucchini squash, garlic chives, lavender, chocolate mint, cilantro, parsley, marigolds (good pest deterrents to plant near tomatoes), nasturtiums (a beautiful, peppery addition to salads), and a crazy variety of coxcomb (I couldn't resist). It was too late in the season to plant lettuce, I learned. Drat. I'm hoping it can take over parsley's spot when the weather gets cooler....

Anyway, to make a long story short, after a little elbow grease, a lot of compost, and a moderate amount of watering, here you have it: my first raised garden bed!




I'm hoping Meghan gives me regular updates on how things are growing. (And not too many updates on how the raised bed is falling apart. I mean, bricks and beer bottles...?)

The tip of the iceberg

It seems that most non-Texans have the impression that the lonestar state is nothing more than a vast desert filled with oil executives, massive pick-up trucks, cattle, and shotguns. Some have perhaps based their preconceptions largely on the 80s TV drama, Dallas. (English-language television options were limited where I grew up overseas.) Wide open spaces. Ten-gallon hats. As I've made my way from El Paso to Austin, I have come to discover that western and central Texas towns have a lot more going on than the omnipresent guns and trucks might suggest: renewable energy (it's the #1 state for wind power... mostly headwind... in the country and a lot of work is going on harnessing solar as well), small business development, community gardening, and amazingly diverse local food. It is the last item that I'll focus on here, but should any of my loyal readers want to hear more about the others, drop me a line.

During my time through (aptly named) hill country, I had a chance to spend a few days in Fredericksburg. Thanks to my kind hosts -- David, co-president of the town farmers' market, and his lovely wife Cynthia -- I met a number of key players involved in the thriving local market and food scene. We had lunch with Kelly (founder of the farmers' market, going into its third year), chatted with the town sanitarian (the woman in charge of public health matters like temporary health permits for market food vendors... not to be confused with the sanitarium) at city hall, visited a few farmers in the region, and cooked up a storm. My kind of folks, those two.

We ate locally to a degree I hadn't previously experienced. Nearly every meal's ingredients came from a day's bike ride away: strawberries we'd picked at Marburger Orchards, brussels sprouts from Engel Farms harvested barely an hour before my arrival, burgers from Thunder Heart Bison, a finger of Texas bourbon (the first licensed outside of Kentucky) sipped while watching the NCAA men's final. I was eating locally, and remarkably well, but this was only the tip of the iceberg in terms of Texas' food culture.

The breadth of local ingredients got me thinking about the wide variety of food and drink that Texas, nearly a country in itself (it has its own national beer), produces. It seems odd that in a state with so much to offer, Texas ranks last among the 50 states in terms of food stamp programs (according to an article published a few months ago in Austin's local paper). At the other end of the spectrum, I recently read a Men's Fitness article from 2008 that claimed 6 of America's 10 most obese cities were in Texas. This expansive land of plenty has its work cut out for it. It's going to take more folks like David and Cynthia in Fredericksburg working to build a strong local foodshed, and innovative farmers like the ones I met at Sunday's urban farm tour here in Austin growing healthy food and teaching their neighbors how to grow their own, to reroute the Titanic that is Texas onto a path to avoid the twin icebergs of malnutrition and obesity. Otherwise, I fear, this gloriously large and diverse state will be a sinking ship. (What? Was the metaphor too forced?)

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(Incr)edible Austin

I've been hearing about the sheer awesomeness of Austin -- described by locals as being "so great you forget you're in Texas" (ouch!) -- for the better part of the past ten years. Many point to the live music scene as the city's prime attraction, but I would argue that the food around here is a comparable selling point. Seriously. It's something of a foodie paradise, and considerably more affordable than, say, San Francisco. (Incidentally, I understand there is quite a bit of cross-pollination between Texas' state capital and the Bay Area. That explains the food. And the thriving hipster culture.)

It's the birthplace of Whole Foods (or "Whole Paycheck," as my former partner, Kelly, likes to call it), but still, there's so much more here than I'd expected in terms of local, sustainable producers. Whole Foods has started climbing onto the locavore bandwagon in recent years, but the majority of products are still sourced much further afield. Around town, however, I have been regularly surprised. I mean, really: urban pasture-raised chicken eggs? local rum? goat milk feta? olive oil? Check, check, check, and check. All produced within Texas' borders. Apples, wine, grapefruits, sourdough. Some I purchased at the Wheatsville Co-op when Laith and I biked over on Friday, others I sampled at the Saturday and Sunday farmers' markets, and quite a few of the local delicacies were offered at this Sunday's farm tour. All have earned the bikeable feast "deliciousness seal of approval." Yum.

I was fortunate enough to be invited by Marla, publisher of Edible Austin magazine, to join her and her husband at yesterday's East Austin Urban Farm Tour. The event allowed me an opportunity to visit a handful of successful urban farms, meet the farmers, and sample farm-fresh goodies prepared by some of the city's most talented local chefs. (Yeah, I love my life.)

Ollie and I started out yesterday afternoon's activities at Boggy Creek Farm, nursing a pepperita (a rum and jalapeno-based cocktail) and nibbling on a broccoli and goat cheese tartlet as Carol Ann gave an inspired tour of her farm. Knowledgeable, unpretentious, and eminently personable, the farmer pointed out unusual varieties of heirloom fava beans and tomatoes, shared recipes for parboiled broccoli leaves, and apologized for the chicken-pecked brassica row ends. Since she and Larry started farming nearly two decades ago, they have grown food for themselves, then also neighbors, then even Whole Paycheck. They have mentored neighbors, including farmers at the next three stops, who continue to approach them with questions about composting or choosing crops or raising chickens.

[Speaking of chickens, Carol Ann wrote a hysterical one-page piece in the most recent issue of Edible Austin on the joys and challenges of having backyard layers. It ends with her urging readers to "take your favorite hen with you when you go hiking in the wilderness--if you become lost, she will demonstrate what is edible in your surroundings. In addition, while stranded on a mountain, she will lay an egg for you almost every day." I think even MacGuyver would do well to bring a chicken with him after this sound advice. He'd probably figure out a way to cook the egg using only toothpicks and a stick of gum.]

With chickens on the brain, Ollie and I next biked over to Springdale Farm to meet up with Marla and admire rows of veggies and flocks of chortling poultry as we sampled Dai Due sausage and sipped on cups of Live Oak brew. Next, we hiked over to HausBar Farm (the third stop on the four-farm tour) where Eastside Cafe chef/gardener Dorsey kindly gave me a personal tour of the farm. The property, I learned, was converted less than a year ago by Dorsey and her partner Susan. You'd never guess that the fabulous chicken coop was formerly one of three crack houses on the property, or that there were once weeds ten feet high where chickens now placidly wander near rows of lush, leafy kale. That these two managed such an impressive transformation so rapidly and successfully is an inspiration for novice food growing city dwellers like me. (I have complained about the rats in the alley behind my little studio apartment in DC: at least the ground wasn't littered with crack pipes and used needles when I moved in!) I was impressed by Dorsey's intensity and her infectious enthusiasm. I've visited the farm, but if I'm truly going to understand the full spectrum of this food expert's, er, expertise, I might need to make my way over to her popular organic garden-sourced eatery before I hit the road for Houston....

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The mystical world of plants

There are people who believe that Nature, if left to her own devices, can heal the land; the best we humans can do, according to these folks, is get out of the way (or, barring that, try to mimic the natural cycle of things as much as possible). There are some who embrace practices from an earlier time or faraway places that seek to transform the land through a series of somehwat pagan rituals. There are some pretty out-there ideas, theories of farming, accepted by a decent segment of the population, that rely on lunar calendars and mineral preparations and buried cow horns. There are some who garden barefoot, believing that this way the soil comes to know them and provide for their specific nutritional needs. I don't know what to make of some of these ideas, so different from my previous views of the human-earth-plant relationship. But while I tend to seek out logical explanations for why and how things flourish, modern science doesn't account for everything. At least not yet.

I got to thinking about more mystical explanations of the interactions between people and plants while working with Deborah at her homestead in Uvalde, TX last week. Deborah's interest in eastern philosophy informs her book choices as well as her organic farming practices, and while I was there I leafed through a number of unconventional, back-to-the-land paperbacks with titles like "The Secret Life of Plants" and "Gaia's Garden." Among these cursory book skimmings, I came across a chapter in "Secrets of the Soil" that my hostess had mentioned during one of our morning chats over goat milk lattes. It discussed a soil purification ceremony originated in India that involves burning cow dung, rice, and butter in a copper pyramid while chanting. I was intrigued.

Stay with me here, I haven't gone off the deep end. (Do insane people know that they're going insane? Hmmm.)

Scientists cited in the book, admittedly written in the 1970s, confirmed significantly reduced levels of radioactive activity in areas where these soil purification ceremonies -- known as Agnihotra -- were performed. This was true in a variety of formerly infertile locations around the world. I mean places as improbable as Chernobyl. Claims of a boost in the nutrient content that the burnt offerings contribute to the soil (carbon, nitrogen, and all kinds of minerals) don't seem so far-fetched, considering the nutrient-rich things being burned. There's a bit more of a leap of logic required to accept proponents' claims that scattering the resulting ashes cuts down on pests and weeds, but it's somewhat plausible, maybe similar to mulching. But then there's the chanting of a mantra at sunrise, sunset, and other important moments during plants' circadian rhythms. This is the most hard to swallow element of the whole shebang for those of us schooled in western science. And yet...

Most scientists may not concede that singing to your plants will help them grow, but many of us still do it. Does it actually affect the plants? (I swear I saw my basil plant wincing on the windowsill once or twice when I would hum while watering, perhaps slightly off key. "The Beatles again??" it lamented, shrugging its foliage.) Why not? Maybe the extra carbon dioxide we're exhaling in close proximity to the plants gives them a boost. Maybe it's our pointed attention focused on the plants, rather than the singing/breathing specifically, that actually helps them grow. I'm not getting all "Celestine Prophesy" on you: many well-respected people, from professional athletes to surgeons to particle physicists, put great stock in the power of intention, one's ability to influence the outcome of an event through positive thought. It works in sports and in medicine -- why not farming?

And how about the sound vibrations themselves? Maybe it's the pitch that's the key. (Har, har.) The vibrations from the chanting, as I imagine it, seem strikingly similar to the group chant with which many of my yoga instructors would open and close class. The "Ohm" supposedly is the sound the universe makes, and by joining in we are aligning ourselves with the collective energy around us -- energy that can, some believe, heal us. (It's no wonder that the places I've read about where agnihotra is practiced tend to be ashrams.) There might be a scientific explanation for the effects of the sound as well: maybe it somehow stimulates a reaction on a molecular level that we don't yet know how to recognize. Frankly, I don't know quite what to make of it. But I'm curious.

I'd love to spend a few days working at a place that practices agnihotra. This purification-by-fire ritual that I read about taps into a realm of possibility that is pretty improbable. But what if...?

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In tandem

Last weekend I encountered an irresistible fleet of bicycles -- Dawn, Denise, Mike, Russ, Susan, and Bob -- who invited me to ride with them from Sanderson to Del Rio, TX. The group roughly doubled the total number of touring cyclists I have come across on the road so far. I was glad for the pleasant company, especially as we passed through a part of Texas known for illicit activity in recent years. (Have you seen No Country for Old Men? The feel of the film, supposedly set around here, was eerily accurate.) For two glorious days we cycled together, ate together, laughed together. And, yes, they offered to tote my obscene amount of gear in their RV. Unburdened, Ollie and I practically flew up some of those West Texas hills. Woo hoo! A girl could get used to this.

I've been contemplating something that Mike said while I was pedaling alongside him and his wife of 43 years the other day. "Riding a tandem is a lot like maintaining a healthy marriage," he sagely pronounced as he and Dawn rode their bicycle built for two. "Not everyone can do it. The key is good communication." No kidding: if one partner isn't paying attention and loses his or her balance, the other needs to act quickly or both eat pavement

By now you probably know that I love a good metaphor. I've been kicking Mike's words around for a few days. (What? Yes, I recognize that it's a simile rather than a metaphor. Good grief.) Riding a [literal or figurative] tandem without crashing requires each rider know his or her own boundaries and, to a degree, those of their partner; trust their partner implicitly; diligently and calmly predict and avert trouble spots that may arise; and promptly address crises when they come up. A pothole, a shard of glass in the tire, an aggressive truck driver invariably make appearances on the scene, but calm and clear communication can save the day. It did during an earlier bike trip when a front tire burst on the tandem as Mike and Dawn were flying down one of the narrow, shoulderless passes along Highway 1, hemmed in by railroad tracks on one side and careening trucks on the other. Dawn admitted she thought it was the end -- she couldn't get unclipped from her pedals and had said a quick prayer under her breath. But she followed Mike's instructions, the two managed to regain control of the bike, and lived to tell the tale.

Now, I am pretty used to being on my own these days. In fact, I recall the struggles I faced when Aaron joined me for nearly a month on the way through eastern Arizona and New Mexico: I suddenly had to learn how to bike and camp with another person. This meant adjusting my pace (usually speeding up), curbing my natural tendency toward reflective silence on the road, not making all of the decisions myself. (Aaron knew enough to leave all food-related matters to me. Smart man.) I am quite comfortable being on my own again, but I wonder if the solitude might be indefinite. Hmmm.

I've had lots of time alone with Ollie and open stretches of asphalt (and the occasional, cursed loose gravel country road). I sing a lot and take pretty regular snack breaks, and visits with friends and farmers provide regular social interaction. Even so, I'm left with a lot of time on my own to think. I'm starting to wonder how on earth I am going to be able to sit still one day. More to the point, I wonder if I will be able to handle being around a particular person for any length of time after this. There have been only two partners in my life with whom I would've considered [figuratively] riding a tandem. Obviously neither worked out. I finally overcame my fear of riding a regular [literal] bicycle...I wonder if the figurative equivalent will follow some day. Will I ever feel at ease when I'm clipped into the pedals? I wonder.

Helping your neighbors

These days I often stumble across kindness in unexpected places. (A woman in a trailer at the campsite in Sanderson, TX walked over with a still-warm plate of pork chops and sweet potatoes for me as I started drafting this very blog post.) So, too, I am regularly astonished to discover people I would not have suspected quietly working away to make the world a better place, starting with their own community.

After an exhausting, uphill grind in the freezing headwinds last Saturday, I rolled into Sierra Blanca, TX. With nose and toes still frozen from the previous night's camping in Fort Hancock -- a town perhaps only notable for a passing mention at the end of the (brilliant) Shawshank Redemption -- I vowed that no matter what I would sleep indoors that night. The only open motel in town had rooms for $20 and a odd assortment of characters in the front office. I decided I would shower in my swimsuit, sleep in my sleeping bag on top of the bed, and pile my gear against the door. Yeah, sketchy. But indoors.

Before getting settled, I rode around the corner to pick up some milk for the next morning's breakfast at a quickie mart/used gun shop. (It's Texas.) After a brief chat at the checkout, Darlene suggested I retrieve my stuff from the motel and stay in her extra apartment, featuring a clean bed and one of the hottest showers I have ever had. I thought she was just a kind person. Well, she is, BUT there's more. It turns out Darlene is an avid organic gardener. As she showed me around the yard on Sunday morning, proudly pointing out blossoming fruit trees and fresh herbs, she also told me about her plans to develop 300 new green jobs in her area in about two years through the construction of a wind farm and a second project that will harness methane gas as an energy source from the nearby sewage treatment plant. This is not at all what I had expected to encounter in this sleepy little West Texas town, certainly not from someone I had met about 20 yards from the used handgun display.

Three days later, as Ollie and I rolled into Alpine, we poked our heads into the office of the West Texas Food Bank. (My plans to work with a local rancher had fallen through at the last minute so I was inquiring into other sustainable food goings on in the area.) Lulu, it turned out, was not only the food bank's outreach coordinator but also the driving force behind the town's first community garden. What luck!

As Ollie hung out at the food bank, Lulu kindly drove me around town to try and find me a place I might work and stay for a night or two with local organic gardeners. First we visited Sharon, a park ranger who was letting the local Boys & Girls Club use part of her property to form the inaugural community garden. There was work to be done, but the ranger was done working for the day, so Sharon joined us as we next drove to Beverly's place. Here, we learned of the outspoken activist's innovative use of shade cloth and how to repurpose drip irrigation line to build row covers. Fruit trees abounded, I marveled, and not a shred of black plastic in sight at this year-round organic garden. (Yes, I'm still harping on the rampant use of black plastic involved in most organic production farms. No plastic here: Beverly's hardcore.) After a brief stop to meet The Bikeman, Lulu and I visited Tom, the local expert on organic food production, a successful farmer with weekly orders from local families and businesses, and author of a guide to organic gardening. (The Bikeman had showed me his copy of Tom's guide -- it was well known around town -- as well as his own little tomato and pepper patch behind the bike shop.) Tom gave us a tour of his large garden and explained some of the techniques: he is also a proponent of shade cloth and recycled materials to protect plants from the region's extreme wind, drought, and pests. Lulu secured offers of help with the nascent community garden from both Beverly and Tom. Alpine? Home to a bevy of organic gardeners? Who knew?

After a night of pleasant conversation and tasty food (and a warm bed!) at Lulu's, I took Sharon up on her offer for a lift to nearby Marathon, TX, where she'd been meaning to revisit for some time. I spoke with a few folks around town -- including Sharon's friend Kate, who manages the lush gardens at the local B&B -- and discovered that here, too, there are folks quietly going about improving their local community. In particular, I was impressed by Danielle, a bartender at a friendly, local watering hole, who poured me a cold pint of beer while she expounded on the town's need for more small-scale businesses.

In a little town like Marathon that primarily supports itself on a sporadic tourist economy, there isn't much of a middle class, she insisted. The key, she explained, is to empower individuals to produce "value-added" products (dried fruit, preserves, cheeses, handmade goods) that can put a little money in their pockets and cultivate a local economy, then later perhaps look to expand to the region or even across Texas. Danielle has been involved in securing a shared workspace for entrepreneurs interested in starting one of these microbusinesses. Meanwhile, she is also trying to garner support to start a patchwork of community gardens around town as a first step toward getting more fresh, affordable produce into the hands of locals while cultivating the beginnings of a greenbelt. (Does your local bartender do this kind of stuff? I think I've been frequenting the wrong pubs until now... and not just because Billy Tom bought me a second pint.)

The small towns of West Texas may soon be greener than any of us might have imagined, all thanks to these dedicated women who are trying to help their neighbors help themselves.

Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

When Ibti met Ollie

Today is a momentous one. Not, not because of a particularly long or grueling ride. Not a mileage milestone, nor an exceptionally poor-weathered day....

One year ago today I first laid eyes on my beloved Ollie and brought her home. She was as beautiful in the catalog as she was in the... steel. (A mail order partner, what can I say?) And she's only grown more lovely as I've gotten to know her, each ding and rust spot steeped in memories.

With no champagne in sight -- it is West Texas, so I could perhaps rustle up a bottle of the Champagne of Beers -- we have decided to collaborate on a poem to commemorate the occasion. Narrated by my fearless ride, and in the style of our all-time favorite poet (who I hope is not rolling over in his grave), I give you:

The Love Song of J. Olympia Surly

Let us ride then, you and I,
Toward where the road just meets the sky
Off to find the true America and food;

Let us go, traversing half-deserted streets, Sometimes needing to retreat
Share restless nights in one-night cheap campsites
And beercan stove dinners filled, at least, with lots of spice:
Facing winds that blow like an obstinate argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question. . .

Oh, do not ask, "Are we there YET?" We've come so far, and still you parrot.

The long haul truckers pause to say
Did you see that loony on a bicycle on the highway?

The cursing from inside your tent I hear
When the morning frost encrusts the rain fly on mornings clear,
Pricks its tongue into the corners of the sleeping bag, Lingers upon your fingers and your toes.
I discern you falling back onto the sleeping pad for just a few moments more,
Then, determined, you emerge fully dressed, make a sudden leap,
  And seeing that it is a bright March morn
Start loading up, lest you be tempted to lollygag and crawl back to sleep.

And indeed we change our view of time
For the unflagging headwind that hits us in the face,
Slows us down again;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the farmers that you meet;
There will be time to weed and cook and learn,
Yes, time for all the works and days of hands
And hope that when they let you into their kitchens, the rice you will not burn;

Time for us to slowly make our way,
Not quite time yet for a hundred miles--
I suggest just 40 or 50 for the rain today is wild--
Before the taking of yet another pb&j.

The long haul truckers pause to say
Did you see that loony on a bicycle on the highway?

And indeed there will be time To wonder, "Uphill again?" and, "No, seriously, AGAIN???"
Time to push onward and descend,
While the odd rash on your thigh is one more thing with which you must contend.

[They will say: "How her boobs are growing small!"] Your shorts too tight, fitting snugly to your legs and all,
With shirtsleeves grey with grease, no longer white, and a few specks of gravel from when you fall—
[They will say: "But check out that bike glove tan!"]

Do I dare
Disturb the traffic flow?
At a stoplight there is time
For us to topple, clipped in, as we have done many times when we accidentally crash instead of go.
For we have eaten dust on roads, even in ditches, many times;
And always, though sometimes through gritted teeth, you smile,
I have measured out my life in miles;
I know the sound of tire tubes bursting, pinch flats, and the maddening, leak of air
As a thorn or shard of twisted metal scratched.
So how many have you patched?
Oh, I have known the flats already, known them all—
The tubes you fix as darkness starts to fall,
And when I am wheels-up, sprawling on my handlebars, On the roadside as it starts to rain,
Then I count them. As I recall each, a dozen now, dare I complain?

And shall I reminisce?
For I have known the hills already, known them all— Like elephants the ones in Pennsylvania were [But paling in comparison, we noted, once we conquered the mountainous Big Sur!]
Is it the subtle sound of hissing air
That makes me thus despair? I think it may be number thirteen. And are you swearing now?   This time in French?  .     .     .     .     .
Shall I say, we have journeyed 'cross the country's narrow lanes
And milked the sheep and bottle-fed the kids
Of hungry ewes who tried to eat your pants? . . . I should have been a pair of dull handclippers left out in the rain.        .     .     .     .     .
And the afternoon, laundry blows so lovely in the breeze! Hung by weathered farmers' fingers, Freshly washed . . . sundried . . . yet the sweaty odor lingers, Stretched on the line, up above you and me. Should I, after five thousand miles traveled,
Have the nerve to point out that your favorite smartwool socks have unraveled?

But though I have creaked and wobbled, borne such gear, Though I have seen screws lost (and some grown slightly rusted) 'long the way, I am no road bike–-nor mountain bike as you know from tires busted;
I have known the glory of the mountain's acme, And I have shared the misery of fallen trees which, for us to cross, you needed to unpack me,
And in short, I was overladen.
And would it have been worth it, after all, After the salsa shoes, the saffron, the other frills,
Among the bags of gear, among some talk of your packing skills, Would it have been more wise,
To have left some things behind and perhaps downsized,
To have squeezed a few less things into panniers?

We roll toward some overwhelming question, To say: "I am Ibti, come from DC, Come to hear you all, I shall tell your tale on my blog" If one farmer, setting a coffee cup aside in response to a posting, Should say, "That is not what I meant at all.   That is not it, at all."

And would it have been worth it, after all, Would it have been worth while,
After the church lawns and haylofts and gas stations where we have slept, After the fear of snakes, of lightning strikes, and death by tree limb falling and crushing us in our sleep— And this, and so much more?— It is impossible to say just what I mean! But as if a magic word would change the way we eat: Would it have been worth it
If your hero, Mr. Pollan, sitting up from writing at his desk or reading fan letters,
And turning to his e mail, should write to you: "That is not it at all,   That is not what I meant, at all."
.     .     .     .     .Yes! You are not Ms. Waters, nor were you meant to be;
But a committed lover of her work, one that has hoped to be heard,
To join the movement, start a seed or two,
Advise the District; no doubt, an easy hope,
Excitable, glad to be of use, Intrepid, joyful, and meticulous; Full of 80s pop culture references, but a bit obtuse; At times, indeed, almost ridiculous— Almost, at times, a nerd.

We grow old . . . We grow old . . . And you still wear the bottom of your right trouser rolled.

Have we left five thousand miles behind? Do you notice when I squeak? I hope in Austin I shall finally get a tune-up, and move without such creaks. I have heard the rain tapping on the inside of your tent. (It leaks.)
I do not think the rain will bother me.
I have been left out in many storms (ahem),
Endured the deluge without fear
When the wind blows so strongly in your ear.

We have made our way so far from our first ride
From the bike shop now two-thirds around
Till we make our way back home, to share what we have found.

[21 March 2010]

Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

5,000 miles!

We broke 5,000 miles today! Ollie, sensing that I may have been getting a bit too big for my britches -- she may have a point, the shorts have been feeling snug lately around the noticeably larger quad muscles -- put me back in my place with flat #12 just shy of mile 5,001. Yep. Merely 19 miles on loose gravel and sand roads, headwind, and aggressive Texan drivers would be too easy. (Maybe they would be. I'll never know.) But we made it the 54 miles to El Paso just before dark.

Really, though, it should not have taken over 9 hours. This, after logging 40 miles in 2 1/2 hours on the way to Las Cruces. Embarrassing. As I gritted my teeth amid no less than 8 near wipe outs on the sandy terrain, I finally got past the pathetic rate at which I was pedaling and channeled the spirit of my marathon training buddies: "It doesn't matter. Just keep going." Even so, I did yell a few times. Nobody but the yapping chihuahuas seemed to notice. (I'm so glad the New Mexican choice for unleashed canines is the chihuahua. Much better than the Ohio shepherds or the California rottweilers. They try their best to sound tough, but since they can't reach my calf I find them significantly less menacing. I was chased by exactly 3 today.)

Today's mental mp3 player -- an actual working one never materialized -- alternated between Slip Slidin' Away and the theme song from Hawaii 5-0. And for good reason. Have you ever tried to steer a loaded bike on sand? It's kind of like a cross between hydroplaning and surfing (based on my memory of the single, highly comical surf lesson I took a few years back in Costa Rica). Why on god's green earth Google sent me on 19 miles -- okay, 15, actually, if I hadn't taken a few wrong turns due to the complete lack of signage -- of unpaved roads is beyond me. Oh, I've got feedback for them alright. In retrospect, perhaps it would be wise to check out the street view before blindly accepting Google directions. (I can almost hear you thinking it, Aaron.) Still, I'm willing to give the new bike route mapping program a few more tries. (No, I'm not a masochist. I just really, really want it to work.)

Before I forget, I've a few state license plate rewrites to add:

Arizona: Not as flat as you might think

New Mexico: Paved roads are for sissies

Well, I'm sure Texas will weigh in with a colorful entry once we make our way over 1,000 miles across the Lonestar State. Which reminds me: Meghan, I may need to serenade you at a karaoke bar when I make it to Houston for your wedding. Because you know "I would bike five hundred miles, and I would bike five hundred more just to BE the girl who biked a thousand MILES to fall down at your door...." (Maybe after we've all had a little champagne.)

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