Tell me why...

Why is it that bike shops in The South pay no attention to the actual tire tube size one needs? I was pontificating on this very point after Aaron had a string of flat tires on our way through Mississippi and Alabama. Something like 6 flats in less than 2 weeks: that's even putting *my* record to shame. (I'm at 17 flats since leaving DC.) Well, we looked at the tubes that he'd bought at various shops and only a couple were the correct size for his bike! What?? Yes. They were actually selling -- or sometimes giving -- him the wrong size tube.

People, I know I only worked in a bike shop for 6 weeks before leaving on my trip, but even I know you need the correct size tube. Too small and it is prone to exploding from overinflation by the time it fills the tire; too large and the resulting explosive flat blows the tire right off the rim (as I learned from flats #1 and #2 on Day 1.)

I don't mean to look a gift horse in the mouth -- where does that expression come from, anyway? -- but when someone gives me spare tire tubes that are the wrong size, they're actually putting me in danger. It's like a gift horse kicking me in the knee caps. No thanks. When you ask me what size I need and I tell you I need "26 x 1.5 presta" tubes, don't give me "26 x 1.9-2.6." It's happened. That's why I always check now.

I contemplated entitling this post "Size does matter," but, well, after the uptick in blog traffic following the "Vagabondage" post I worry about attracting the wrong kind of attention. But seriously, make sure you get the right tube size for your tires. And make sure you wear a good bike helmet. (Thought I'd slip in that little reminder, since I was already ranting about safety and very few bike riders in this part of the country seem to find them necessary. Y'all should expect a lecture at the stoplight soon....)

Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

Doggone it!

Confession: I kind of wanted a dog to get run over today.

I usually *love* dogs. No, really. My family has always had dogs. (Well, up until Rusty passed away a couple years ago and my dad swore he was done with dogs -- I think he was more attached to that troublesome pooch than he realized.) I dogsat for Meghan and Andrew for a week on my way through Houston. I've snuggled with various pups at friends' homes. I even temporarily adopted two rottweilers and a german shepherd who were living at the house I rented in Mexico. But these damn unleashed, un-fenced-in mutts in rural America are really on my last nerve.

What is it about dogs and bicyclists? Is there some kind of universal canine code? (Kujo's First Law: Kill anything on two wheels.) The first time I was very nearly attacked was on my way through Indiana. A snarling, frothy-mouthed shepherd mix almost took a chunk out of my calf. Then in West Texas I was chased for over half a mile by what looked like a rabid golden retriever. I actually called the cops that time, but was not surprised that Animal Control never showed up. Here in the south, the dogs remain unleashed, but the majority are somehow less bloodthirsty: usually they just run alongside and bark, but with tails wagging. Sometimes there's a token "arf arf" and then the dogs go back to what they were doing before. Are they lazier here? Is the heat slowing them down as much as it's slowing *me* down? Maybe they're more well-loved here, or better fed. (Does southern hospitality apply to the way canines are treated?) But today, on my way through the tiny town of Ninety-Six, SC (yes, that's the real name of the place) I was almost mauled by another damn loose dog.

As a woman stood on her porch and called once to her dog -- and not in an overly loud or commanding voice, mind you -- her mangy mutt continued to chase me down the street. I screamed at the top of my lungs. A van coming my way slowed slightly, I suspect out of a sense of morbid curiosity because the guy made no move to pull over and help me or even roll down his window. Just as I was pulling out my pepper spray, the dog backed off. I think it saw the gleam in my eye that said I was getting ready to kick it in the nose. (That's how you're supposed to get away from sharks, anyway: punch 'em in the nose. Preferably while you still have an appendage to strike with.)

I still love dogs -- I mean, can anyone resist a pup as cute as Nugget (pictured here)? Just be sure your pooch doesn't try to chew my legs off and we'll get along just fine....

Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

Homeward bound

Ollie and I are in the home stretch! Having reached our southeasternmost point, we've got about a month and a bit over 700 miles to go. In fact, mark your calendars: we're aiming to roll into the District on July 10th. (I'll post details on the homecoming festivities soon -- still working out some logistics, but you can bet it will involve bikes, brews, and local food.)

Home. Wow. I'm getting close. Not surprisingly, I've had a fair bit of Paul Simon on the mental mp3 player recently. And as usual, after a few repetitions, I started changing some of the words....

Homeward Bound (ABF remix)

I'm sittin' on the front porch waitin'
For the rain to pass, while conversatin'
(Well, it *is* The South)
On a tour around the States
On a loaded bike with too much weight
The temperature's at ninety-eight
When will the humid heat abate?

Homeward bound
I'm finally
Homeward bound
Home, in the east coast time zone
Home, where the city rats roam
Home, with my loved ones waiting patiently for me

Every day's an endless ride
Cars whizzing past just beside
And each town looks the same to me
The WalMarts and the Mickey Ds
And each park ranger's face I see
Reminds me that I'm glad to be

Homeward bound
At last I am
Homeward bound
Home, where the shower's all mine
Home, where my clothes smell just fine
Home, with my Netflix queue there waiting just for me

Tonight I will not shower again Rewear the wet socks and pretend
Mosquitos aren't biting me
While I sip on a cold sweet tea
With Ollie leaning next to me
And all the roads point toward DC!

Homeward bound
I'm getting close
Homeward bound
Home, where my friends are waiting
Home, where the salsa's playing
Home, in my bed I'll lay down for a long, long time....

Clean sheets. A real pillow. My espresso maker. Yes, just about a month left. Can you believe it?? DC, here we come!

Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

Return of the native, Part 2

During my time in Mississippi, I had a chance to visit a second young farmer -- Horton, the driving force behind Isis Gardens. Like Will, Horton recently returned to his native Tupelo after years of working on farms elsewhere. (In his case, he was returning from Colorado.) He, too, decided that home was calling, that Mississippi was in dire need of chemical-free, responsibly grown food. He, too, moved home and began cultivating a piece of land that had been in the family for years. And yet it was a very different operation from the town's other organic farm.

When Aaron and I stopped by the CSA farm on a Friday afternoon, Horton walked us around the rambling property, excitedly pointing out various cover crops, dozens of heirloom vegetable varieties, the insectary (a plot of land set aside to attract beneficial insects), purple marten houses (to attract bug eating birds), even the inside of the Depression era home he had recently come to inhabit. It was decidedly less structured, and perhaps overgrown in places, but the green space nurtured an abundance of plant and animal diversity quite rare in these parts.

As we took a little rest in the shade of the front porch to sip on cups of cool sun tea, Genevieve joined us and the couple graciously invited Aaron and me to stay for lunch. As we munched on leftover pasta and a giant salad, and sipped on cold beers spiked with chamomile flowers, Horton expanded on his passion for seed saving. As conventional American (and global) agriculture careens at a breakneck speed toward uniformity and productivity, this young farmer remains part of a small but persistent group of growers striving to preserve quality and diversity in our food system. Perpetuating strains of corn and potatoes and beans that are all but extinct. Nurturing tomato and melon varieties from places as far away as war-torn Iraq. (Consider the very real possibility that without heirloom growers like Horton, some of these treasures may be lost forever.)

Now, I know southerners have a reputation for hospitality. I have also found organic farmers to be more welcoming and generous than the general population. Horton espouses the best of both groups, with a ready smile and openness to sharing both food and knowledge. I was just giddy when he sent me away the following afternoon with a big hug and envelopes of heirloom tomato and melon seeds from my dad's native country. I can't wait to get planting, doing my part to keep some of these rare (and delicious) species around a bit longer...

Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

Who gave that jerk a license?

Greetings from Alabama, land of the most reckless drivers in the country. Maybe in the world. Keep in mind that I lived in Kuwait, where it was not uncommon to see a car in a tree near the highway exit ramp.

Ollie has noted an uptick in muttered profanity in direct proportion to the number of vehicles trying to run us off the road. To channel some of the frustration, since it appears I can't report these jerks with no rear license plates, I think it's time for a few more rewritten license plate slogans from the past few states....

Texas: Are we there yet?

Louisiana: Where the stimulus money is clearly not being spent on road repair

Mississippi: When did the hills start?

Alabama: Our truckers make Massachusetts drivers look like boyscouts

Onward into Georgia, where at last we will be heading north in earnest! And I do believe we'll be there for the start of peach season. Lovely.

Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

Southern discomfort

Okay, sure, I realize I am biking through The South in The Summer. Thunderstorms. Spandex that never quite dries out. Unrelenting heat. Fire ants. Aggressive truck drivers with partially consumed six-packs in the passenger seat. But seriously, with temps in the 90s and 95% humidity (and that's when it's not torrentially raining on me) every day, how do folks survive here? Southern Comfort and lime on ice is sounding pretty good right about now, climbing hill #78 (give or take 20 hills) since crossing over into Alabama. I'm having flashbacks to Pittsburgh or San Francisco or, heck, Big Sur as by the end of yesterday's ride I pushed my bike uphill and rolled it downhill (after deathgripping the brakes and squeaking down a series of screaming descents) the final leg to Seth's apartment.

And if the weather and hills weren't enough, Birmingham officially gave Aaron the middle finger yesterday: 2 wipe-outs, a murderous flat tire (with 4 separate slashes), a cracked iPhone, broken bike chain, and mangled derailleur. All unrelated incidents. Yeah, I know. Ridiculous. Thankfully none of these events involved an automobile (though not for lack of garbage trucks trying to run us off the road along Hwy 78). And thankfully my brother pulled through with a little tech support, giving me the number for a local bike shop after I frantically called him from the side of the road. An hour later, Roger had transported me, Aaron, the two bikes, and our gear (which completely filled his truck bed) over to Bob's Bikes, where the friendly mechanics not only fixed up Aaron's bike but also gave me a screw to replace the stick I'd been using to hold my rear fender in place. Now *that's* service.

At least the evenings have been nice and cool. And we've been spared serious attacks from the Mississippi state bird (aka the mosquito). I wonder, though, if the decline in bug bites is due to a lower resistance to OFF or an increase in my personal disgustingness since leaving Tupelo, MS....

Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

Return of the native, Part 1

I'd first met Will back at Deep Seeded Community Farm on my way through California last December. As we harvested kale and washed carrots, I learned that he had spent some years working on organic farms in Humbolt County, and now, at 24, the anthropology-student-turned-farmer was ready to start his own place. But rather than add another farm to the somewhat saturated organic produce market in coastal northern California, Will decided to move home to Mississippi, where comparatively little exists in terms of sustainably grown food. Modeled closely on the Arcata farm where he'd been interning, the goal was to provide fresh, clean food and build a sense of a food community. What I discovered during my days working with Will last week in Tupelo was that over the past five months he's managed to cultivate not only healthy plants but a healthy fan club. Organics taking root in Mississippi? Y'all better believe it.

He's something of a local celebrity, with a recent article in the local paper leading to dozens of calls from folks interested in buying fresh produce, seeking gardening advice, or sometimes letting the young farmer know he was welcome to come by to harvest their extra mulberries. People would stop him on the street, in a cafe, at the market, to compliment the work he has been doing. He seems to take it all in stride.

Cultivating a piece of land on his parents' property for vegetable farming, and with plans for a flower and animal operation on his own land soon, Will has already built up a strong group of supporters for his operation. (No, really, at the Saturday farmers' market the sole organic stand generally sells out by around 10am.) He welcomes volunteers and neighbors to come by Native Son Farm and chats easily about the different varietals, from the sweetness of the heirloom corn to the history of the "mortgage lifter" tomatoes. Folks coming to pick up their CSA-inspired produce box from the front porch on Fridays sometimes wander about the crop rows or seek advice on preparing unusual items. There's a woman in town with a penchant for kohlrabi who was the inspiration behind Will's planting of the delicious, alien-looking root vegetable. I suspect others will be stopping by with requests in coming months. People are talking; Will's listening.

It's a family affair, with dad assisting with equipment, mom reaching out to community members and sending out the weekly CSA notices, sister Lauren and girlfriend Amanda working alongside Will on the farm and at the Saturday farmers' market.

In addition to the CSA and farmers' market stand, there are plans for a series of farm dinners -- to celebrate local food and help supplement the farm's income -- featuring the talent of Will's friend David, a local chef. (More on David's amazing work in a future post.) The first farm dinner, with ingredients culled from a 30-mile radius (including fresh rabbit and goat cheese), happened to take place last Thursday, so Aaron ("the photographer from San Francisco" deemed, well, the official photographer) and I ("the woman biking around the country for over a year to visit farms" and happily designated as the evening's wine stewardess) had a chance to help out. The food was divine. In spite of a series of rain showers, the event was an overwhelming success, with gleeful, full-bellied patrons advising on dates for the next dinner as they departed. And there will be more: the farmer and chef team are looking to hold 6 or so each year under the stunning giant oak tree alongside the farm.

All in all, I was impressed by Will's insight and his success thus far. Soon hopefully other farmers will begin to provide fresh, clean food in Mississippi. Wouldn't you know that I met a second organic farming friend in town over the weekend. Check back soon for more on Horton's organic farm down the road....

[In case you're wondering about the higher quality of this photo, it was snapped by "the photographer from San Francisco" while Will and I washed veggies for the farm dinner. Yes, a real camera... and a real photographer, for once. ;)]

Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry