Weight, weight, don't tell me

Okay, now, I realize I have a lot of stuff loaded onto Ollie. No, really, I do. People stop and gawk all the time as we roll past. "What the...?" But can you believe my new friend Buddy loaded me up with *another* bag at the campground in Liberty, Mississippi? Yep. After helping me bandage up the bleeding hand wound -- oh, right, I should maybe elaborate on that -- he insisted I take two MRE packets. One with chicken and beans and rice and a second with pasta and marinara and vegetables, and both came with a drink mix and cookie. There's even a little self-heating device for the main course. I guess most folks in hurricane country have a few crates of these around. An interesting twist for the bikeable feast, to be sure. But seriously, Buddy must be the first person I've met in 22 states to actually tell me I could fit *another* bag on here somewhere (and not be saying it sarcastically). That's southern hospitality for you.

So: the bloody hand. Wouldn't you know that I was sitting in my tent making a sandwich this morning when my multi-tool got jammed. I had the feeling I should be careful, so I was. Well, until the blade finally started to close and I jabbed myself right square in the palm with the scissors and started bleeding like a stuck pig. I mean BLOOD EVERYWHERE. My tent looks like the set for a Coen Brothers movie. I stumbled out of the tent, gripping my wrist above my head, and made a beeline for where I'd seen a couple of gentlemen unloading a truck by the shower building. I thought it best to be around other people in case I passed out. Did I mention there was a lot of blood? It was like a dress rehearsal for the Black Knight scene in Monty Python and the Holy Grail. Anyway, Buddy helped me dress and tape the wound once I got it rinsed out. His companion, a younger guy in striped trousers finishing up a two-year sentence for doing coke, offered me a tube of Neosporin -- I'd vouch for this guy as a model citizen any day.

I've given up some of my hypochondriac tendencies, but after the random staph infection this December, I thought it a good idea to get myself checked out. I slowly packed up my gear, wiping off what blood I could so as not to attract undue attention from the police as I continue my journey, and made my way to the nearest health clinic for a tetanus shot. Friendly and just a bit curious, the medical staff squeezed me in to see the doctor around lunchtime. Aside from discomfort for about a week, I don't foresee any serious complications. Of course, it's tender and bruised right where I lean on the handlebar, but I'm tough. (*whimper*)

And, yes, regarding how much weight I'm dragging around, well for my part I've put on roughly two pounds since leaving DC over a year ago. (They weighed me at the clinic.) Ollie, though... wooh! For those of you still wanting to know how much Ollie weighs -- now with two MREs and a jar of mayhaw jelly adding a solid pound -- I'll never tell. Or, rather, if I ever make it onto the Daily Show one day, maybe I'll roll a fully loaded Ollie onto a scale. Actually, Jon and I will probably need to go off site to a truck weigh station....

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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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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]

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WWMD

At the risk of scandalizing my parents, I can't resist relating the tale of officially the strangest (and, in retrospect, funniest) sleeping situation of the trip thus far....

Now, between farms and friends' houses I've camped in sanctioned state campgrounds, mostly. There have also been nights of tents pitched in orchards, on church lawns, and amid the high desert middle-of-nowhere back country. I've slept in exactly one trailer, two haylofts, and the floor of a child's playroom. Two nights ago, I slept on my first plastic table. Well, I didn't sleep much.

After roughly 61.5 miles of riding from Rodeo (yep, it's a real town, right on the border with AZ), Aaron and I found ourselves rolling into Hachita, NM around nightfall. Any of you familiar with southern New Mexico may know that there is a bit of a reputation here along the border for drug runners, coyotes (both the animal and black market people mover varieties), and trucks bearing oversized loads. No back country camping for me here. Shivering as the temperature continued to drop about 5 degrees every 5 minutes, we headed toward the one light in town, hoping that someone there might be able to tell us where there was a campsite in this otherwise abandoned place. The short version: there were no campsites or motels in town, but we were free to pitch our tent in the dirt next to the shop. Actually, the couple who had just acquired the soon-to-be gas station reconsidered as the wind picked up and said we were welcome to roll our bikes in and sleep inside. Sweet. Not exactly a bed and breakfast, but the best option going (the other options being nonexistent). We chatted for a bit longer before Cheyenne and her husband bid us good evening and left.

Aaron and I made some dinner on the campstove, heated water in the coffee maker for me to sponge bathe in the bathroom, and got ready to throw our sleeping bags and pads on the floor. Only it was freezing. No. It was *below* freezing. I thought to myself, "WWMD??" (What Would MacGuyver Do??) I was all out of twist ties and chewing gum, but all was not lost. I scanned the room for something I could use to insulate me from the frigid concrete. Aha! A plastic banquet table! I'd just need to fold the legs in and lay it down flat. And a random Mexican blanket (you know the kind: striped with a fringe)! Score!

Picture Aaron and I lying side by side in our respective sleeping bags, sardines with chattering teeth on a 6 1/2 foot long, 2 1/2 foot wide plastic table, with a dusty blanket thrown over the top, trying not to roll onto the floor.

It was darn cold, even sleeping in my wool sweater and flannel pants. And my sorry excuse for a sleeping pad -- I'll be darned if I can find the air leak -- was in rare form, sliding off the plastic table approximately every seven seconds. (Aaron didn't seem to be experiencing the slide off sleeping pad phenomenon, but I did hear him yelp once or twice when he must've tried to roll over and brushed against the ice cold concrete for a split second.) We alternated between shivering and giggling about the absurdity of the situation. I mean, seriously, lying on a plastic table on the floor of a gas station: what would your mother say?

The next morning, we crawled out of our sleeping bags, scarfed some breakfast -- one of my new favorites, invented when the ladies back at Marana Heritage Farm let me into the kitchen: scrambled eggs with garlic sauteed cabbage wrapped in tortillas -- packed up, restored the plastic table to its former upright position, and, stiff and tired, hit the road. We may not have slept all that well, but in the grand scheme of things, at least it's good for the stories, right?

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Things that go clackety-clackety-tok-tok-brrrrr-click in the night

[If Bill Bryson were writing this, it might be entitled "A Walk in the Sands."]

So I think I've mentioned that I didn't grow up camping. It's true. My friend Mike taught me how to pitch the tent I bought from him a few weeks before I left DC. I had a funny conversation with my mom a few months ago during which I explained how to pee in the woods. (Then I changed the subject before things got really personal.) Last night was my first time doing "backcountry camping." I had no choice: there were no campgrounds along the 120 miles I would need to traverse on my way East before the next town. What this means is I registered with the ranger station and told them roughly where I'd be and then, so long as I was a mile from the road, I was free to camp where I liked. Packing in my food and water, packing out my trash. And, yes, peeing in the...sand. Not a decent sized tree in sight to preserve my modesty.

Let me tell you, backcountry camping in Joshua Tree is amazingly peaceful. Nobody around for miles and miles. Which is good, because I could strip down and rinse off a bit with no worry of curious passers-by. It is also terrifying. Take the holes I kept seeing all over the sand as I dragged a fully loaded Ollie uphill (of course it was uphill...) for about half a mile (sorry Mr. Park Ranger, but I about died trying to slog through the sand with Ollie's tires sinking about 3 inches deep the whole trek, I couldn't make it a whole mile) before making camp. What the heck lives in them? From photos I'd glanced over at the visitors' center 40 miles back in civilization, there were many possibilities. Were they inhabited by:

a) kangaroo mice
b) rattlesnakes
c) hairy scorpions
d) tarantulas

Eep. I looked for a clearing without any of these mystery holes, but the best I could do was about a 6-foot radius of clearance. After pitching my tent and cooking up a hearty dinner on the beercan stove -- some artichoke hummus I'd picked up at the morning's Joshua Tree farmers' market mixed in with boiled quinoa, sprouted legumes, and broccoli (much better than tonight's cheese and cracker dinner) -- I crawled into my tent. I read for a bit, wrote a few postcards (including yours, Sean), and decided to hit the hay. I'd sit out and look at the stars, as it was a beautiful night, but you know, I was nervous about whatever was in those holes -- and they were everywhere! -- coming out of them. As I began to fall asleep, I was jerked back into acute alertness when the mystery clackety-clacking started.

It went on for quite some time and there were definitely multiple clackers. Were they plotting my imminent demise? Or were they simply trying to figure out a way into my tent to get to the food bag? Maybe they were discussing my masterful tent pitching skills. I hoped it was the latter. And I hoped it was option "a" on the multiple choice. I'd seen a few kangaroo mice at the Black Rock Canyon campground the previous night. They were actually pretty cute. But I don't recall any clackety-clacking then.

My only run-in to date with a scorpion was a couple years back when I was hiking through Nicaragua and decided to spring for a night at an Ecolodge. (For those unfamiliar, an "Ecolodge" in Latin America means "a place where hippie tourists pay more for a room" and the only difference I could discern, in retrospect, between this and a regular hostel was the lack of cutting the grass to a reasonable height, which led to more critters being around.) When I went into my little bathroom to use the loo, a giant grey scorpion as long as my forearm was scuttling about in the sink. I yelped and bolted back to the front desk, at which point the owner nonchalantly strolled back to my room (with me scurrying behind at a safe distance), picked the writhing monster up by the tail with a pair of scissors, and tossed it into the (tall) grass not 20 feet from my door. I don't think I slept that night.

Later on during the same backpacking trip, I had my first encounter with a tarantula. I was on a night hike through the Amazon jungle in Ecuador and my guide pointed it out, perched on a banana tree not 50 feet from my cabin. I should mention the door to the cabin had a good 2-inch gap at the bottom. I didn't sleep that night, either.

Last night, like an old school Sicilian grandmother, I slept with the chef's knife close at hand. By the time I awoke -- or, rather, emerged from my tent at sunrise, as I'm not sure I slept all that much -- there was no trace of the nocturnal marauders, whomever they were. All that remained were the mystery holes.

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Could be worse...

As I sat by a roaring campfire roasting marshmallows with my new friends Adam and Dave last night -- finally, other touring cyclists! -- one of them turned to me and asked if I was capable of negativity. Oh my, yes. Not often, but yes. Today, for example....

This morning I'd turned down the guys' offer to join them for omelets. I'd woken up early and had packed my stuff and scarfed the better part of a pot of 7-grain cereal (aka gruel thinly disguised as food by the addition of dried cranberries, some walnuts, and half a banana) by the time they emerged from their respective tents. I wanted to get a jump on today's biking and try for a 60-miler. As it turns out, I made it exactly 34 miles to one of the lamest campsites ever. But I'm getting ahead of myself....

So: Big Sur. Beautiful, but I'm fairly certain it means "Biker Purgatory" in another language. The hills! Not even a mile into today's ride, I found my legs tired. Half a mile up the first hill I had to hop off and start pushing. After a mile of dragging Ollie, I stopped -- still on the same [censored] hill -- to get a cup of coffee and a carrot muffin (with cream cheese frosting). I downed the coffee in about two gulps, deciding to save the muffin as a reward for reaching the Miller Library, which was only about another mile and a half ahead (the first half of which was, you guessed it, straight uphill). Arriving at the museum, I was surprised at the proliferation of posters sporting negligee. Odd, I thought. I started chatting with the lovely archivist who politely pointed out that I'd stopped at the Henry (not Arthur) Miller Museum. That explains it. I ate my muffin and contemplated. Not quite the literary stop I'd imagined. I'd never really cared for Death of a Salesman anyway. The day was not lost. Yet.

I biked all day. There were some breaks in the headwind but the hills never stopped. What did stop was the appearance of open campsites and/or places to refill my water bottles. By 20 miles I'd gone through most of my water; by 25 miles I was ready to pitch a tent on the next scrap of grass near a fountain; by 27 miles I came to the 3rd closed campground of the day; by 29 miles I almost cried reading a "water at next campground: 5 miles" posting. At 34 miles, well short of my usual average, I wobbled into a campsite proffering potable water. But no showers. Or handsoap. Or electricity in the restroom. (Raise your hand if you can guess whose headlamp battery just died this evening.) And those stupid sinks that won't stay on so you have to freeze one hand at a time (because, of course, they only run cold water). Seriously? People pay to camp here? It was not one of my finer moments. I think I may have even dropped the f-bomb once or twice under my breath. (Sorry, mom.)

[I am reminded of a scene in Young Frankenstein when Dr. Frankenstein and Igor are shoveling the frozen ground and then laboriously dragging a corpse out of a grave in the dead of night. "Could be worse," Igor mutters. "Worse?? How could it POSSIBLY get any worse?" Doctor F hysterically shrieks. (I love Gene Wilder.) "It could be raining," Igor suggests. Cue thunder. And rain.]

I can't help wondering if this might be some kind of karmic payback for ordering codfish tacos last night. For some reason I'd thought cod were in the "good" category of the Seafood Watch guide I'd picked up earlier this week at the Monterey Bay Aquarium. Turns out they're in the "avoid" column. I should've gotten the salmon. And more detailed information on campgrounds. I called them "death tacos" once I realized my error, but I ate them. Sending them back would just be wasteful.

On the bright side, at least the tunes on the mental mp3 player were good ones today: a mix of CAKE hits. And I dipped into the emergency goodie reserve tonight to comfort my (stinky and grumpy) self with a dinner of sauteed zucchini and shallots with basil olive oil (thanks Alessandra) and garlic salt (thanks Mark) to go with my macaroni and cheese. (I'd no butter or milk, but I'd picked up a cup of plain organic yoghurt yesterday by chance and I think Brown Cow's "cream top" variety might be my new favorite macaroni addition. Try it. You'll never go back.) What I wouldn't give for a hot bath and a nice glass of Pinot Noir right about now. And, oh look, it's starting to rain. Dammit.

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Where *not* to have a broken bike lock

So it's been just over 7 months, 17 states, and 2850 miles since Ollie and I hit the road. We're about half way in our round-the country loop. I've learned quite a bit about farming, cycling, and camping. I also have learned quite a bit about what is and is not "waterproof," "indestructible," or "functional." Prepare yourself for a long overdue series of rants....

Item 1: Waterproof, eh? Hardly.

Back in Pittsburgh, I bought a pair of "waterproof" cycling shoe covers at REI. It'd rained the better part of the first two weeks of my trip, so the investment seemed a wise (if pricey) one. But they were a bear to use. I swear I pulled a few muscles trying to shimmy them on every time, and then to zip them closed required the invocation of a contortionist with the patience of a monk and the strength of Samson (pre-haircut). I found that unless it was torrentially raining, I'd rather just have wet feet. This was all well and good until I began biking through SW Wisconsin at the end of September and the temperature started to drop just as the wind and rain -- that I'd been deprived of for whole days at a time during the stint in Madison -- picked up. I recall more than one occasion in Iowa and later in Washington State (aka the horizontal rain capital of the country) asking veritable strangers at campsites and folks I was staying with to help me get those blasted rain covers on. Oh, and also: once I finally had them on, they were only rain resistant, so once they were soaked through I had cold, wet feet that didn't let the moisture back out. By Eugene, I'd had enough and marched into REI. I returned them and bought neoprene socks. Like for scuba diving, yes. I've heard the material doesn't breathe, but it's waterproof and at this point, after months of biking with wet, frozen toes, I'm actually kind of looking forward to warm, sweaty feet. (Oooh, stinky. Probably doesn't make me such an appealing house guest, but I'm hoping my cooking and lively conversation outweigh the anticipated foot odor.)

Item 2: Indestructible? Ha!

Wouldn't you know it, less than a year after purchasing a brand new bike lock, the heaviest single item I've been dragging around the country, it crumbles in my hands in front of a Kinko's nowhere else but the bike stealing capital of the country: Eugene, OR. (It's true, ask any cyclist.) Luckily the nice folks at Kinko's let me store Ollie inside behind a display while I made some photocopies. The bike shop I'd bought the hefty lock from is across the country in DC, so I couldn't simply exchange it. You'd better believe I meant for the lock company to replace its faulty product, so I called them and told them as much. I don't want to get into the whole sordid tale, but I will say that I would have expected more from a "lifetime warranty." I bought a new one at REI, where words like "warranty" and "customer satisfaction" actually mean something. At least if this one breaks they will give me a new one on the spot.

Item 3: Functional? Only if today is opposite day.

I've about given up on the Verizon Navigator feature on the blackberry. Let's just call it the Windows Vista of the GPS world: it works occasionally and doesn't play well with other programs. Grrr. Good thing I picked up a book on cycling the Pacific Coast so I have a route pretty well mapped out. (Supplemented by the AAA maps you sent, dad -- thanks again!)

I'm feeling pretty good about things in general, in spite of the aforementioned product failures, and am really looking forward to exploring coastal Oregon and California in coming weeks. And if you're curious about how the neoprene socks are working out, rest assured that there will be an update (on the waterproof effectiveness as well as the stink factor -- all the better to keep curious marauding animals away from my tent at night, I say.)

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Not rain, nor cold, nor mud, but maybe a long, spooky tunnel...

I think my brain has a leg up on the iPod shuffle. Talk about random. Like today: my mental playlist ran from Cindi Lauper to Nirvana to the soundtrack from The Wizard of Oz to CCR (in that order). I may have to rethink my decision to leave the mp3 player at home. Especially on days like yesterday when I could not get Whitney Houston out of my head. (I don't even think I SAW "The Bodyguard" -- why is that song in my head??) Not sure the Blind Melon currently on repeat is much better, but at least it's a change. I'm hoping for a little Paul Simon tomorrow.

So, yes, day 4. Things have been going well so far. I'm seeing all kinds of flora and fauna and just today I was noticing that it smells distinctly of wild onions when it rains. I've had plenty of time to confirm this as it's been raining since last night. Good thing Ollie and I kicked it into high gear and logged 55 miles yesterday when it was clear and sunny (not bad, eh?). Today was much less ambitious -- only about 30 miles -- partly because the muddy paths made for slower progress, partly because the colder temperature made me feel a bit stiff (really, I am too young for this body creaking nonsense). And there was the Paw Paw Tunnel.

Any of you who have hiked or biked the C&O know what I'm talking about. It's a tunnel a bit under 4,000 feet long that you could IN THEORY bike through. You know, if it weren't narrow and damp and bumpy and of course PITCH DARK. And there's nothing creepy about it if you haven't seen the movie "It" or that scene with the giant spider in "Lord of the Rings." Anyway, Ollie and I opted to test our mental strength and also wanted to get out of the rain for a spell, so we tried it.

Holy heck, anyone who makes it more than 20 feet in there on a bike (with or without a headlamp) must have icewater in their veins. Ollie and I walked the whole thing. We set up camp a few miles later, pitching the tent during an opportune lull in the precipitation and also whipped up some macaroni on the beer can stove (aren't you proud of me, Jim?). The rain's picking up again now as I'm snuggled up inside a wool sweater and sleeping bag typing away under the rain fly.

My battery's getting low so I need to sign off. But I realize that I have yet to thank all of you guys who came to Sunday's "Mile Marker Zero to Great Falls" ride and picnic. Thank you!!! I can't wait to see the pictures once I get to Cumberland (and a regular computer)!

Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

A tentative plan

I've been in a pretty intense research mode these days. So when Friday night rolled around this week, my friend Mike and I decided I could take a little break and we headed out for a beer at Wonderland (pretty sweet happy hour, btw). Mike had been kind enough to bring over a few of his extra tents for me to test out, so after a pint we headed back to my place to set things up. Or, rather, Mike mostly set things up and I cooked and called out sarcastic comments. I did manage to make it into a few pictures, in any case....



As you may notice, the pictures became progressively sillier as the night wore on. I blame the Amarula. You know, speaking of silly, I never went camping as a kid. Was I deprived?

You must think I have horrific parents -- didn't teach me how to ride a bike, never took me camping, tricked me into liking brussels sprouts -- but that is far from the truth. However, the fact remains that as a child whenever I would ask my dad to take me camping, his response was always, "I would, but your mother hates camping"; and of course when I would ask my mom, she would respond in kind, "I would, but you know your father, he doesn't like camping." As such, I never went. Not until after college, when my first AmeriCorps team project landed us in the Florida Keys doing beach clean-up. Put up a tent? Er, yeah. I would just kind of dawdle around the campfire and tend to the cooking end of things. Cooking, I can do that.

So anyway, camping. I'm hoping to not have to do too much of it. But when I do, I have acquired a pretty snazzy tent. (Mike suggested that I try sleeping in it to test it out. I think I will sleep in my bed for as long as I possibly can. Or at least lay awake in my bed comfortably as I worry about my impending date with clipless pedals....)