Des Moines, Iowa: On June 23,
Wes and I stayed at this same Candlewood Suites, en route to Wyoming, where we
would pick up Wes’ bike and make our way to Portland, Oregon. It is now October 25, and we are making our way
back to Wyoming, to drop off the bike and finish writing the story of our
travels from Portland to Portland. In
many ways, the trip began on that night in June, when we watched the movie, The
Journey, with Martin Sheen. That
movie resonated throughout our trip….the times of just going, the moments of
grief or of jubilation, the tender and touching connections with people who
walked…or in this case, cycled…into our lives, and left such a big impression.
We had just got on the Erie/Niagara Trail and were making
our way along the eastern coast. Our
goal was Niagara Falls, but it was far and we were tired. We couldn’t find one nice thing to say to
each other. All the petty grievances of
constant companionship were at the front of our minds and quick off our lips
that day. Why can’t Wes eat one meal
without spilling food on himself? Why
does Shaun always dawdle and delay and mess around when we need to be
going?
About five miles in, a youngish man, full beard, chestnut
colored hair, riding a bike with full panniers, rides up alongside us. One of his panniers is a rectangular plastic
box. Normally, one buys kitty litter or soap in these containers. Here it was bolted to his bike rack. Seeing that he was a fellow traveler, I
launched into the regular litany of questions.
Where are you coming from?
Portland, where he lives. Where
are you going to? Rhode Island, to meet
his girlfriend, although his original destination was Portland, Maine. He and a group of 4 other bicyclists set out
the third week of July and have been pretty much following the Northern
Tier. However, the group has been
splitting apart. Two split off in
Montana, including the girlfriend he was rushing to meet in Rhode Island on
October 8. The other two he left in
Minnesota. He has been traveling alone
for a while now. After experiencing what
Wes describes as “Existential Angst” (Why am I here? What am I doing?) during a particularly difficult crossing of
Michigan, he has chat stored up and is anxious to talk.
And talk we do. His
name is Bruce. He is originally from New
York, but has been living in Portland for some years. He is an emergency room nurse by trade, but a
mountain climber/adventurer by avocation.
This is the first time he has taken a major bike trip. He has been camping and eating rough most of
the way. A light day for him is 70
miles. It is clear that he has slowed
down to ride with us; Wes and I are pumping as fast as we can to keep up with
this slender, strong man and his light, modern bike.
We talk of our trips and compare notes. Bruce is a mountain climber and
backpacker. He has been on many trips,
but even he found the ride over the Cascades a challenge. He was eaten alive by mosquitoes in Saco,
MT. They stayed on the freeway all the
way across North Dakota, never venturing into the back ways and farm routes we
explored. He left his friends in
Minnesota so that he could make time across the mid-section. By the time he got to Wisconsin and was going
to take the ferry at Manitowoc, it had broken down. It was not at all clear who or how or what
was going to be able to fix that 100 year old coal fired ship. (I wonder what has happened to family
associated with Two Guys taxi; ferry traffic was the mainstay of their
business). He took the hovercraft over
the lake, landing at Muskegon. He
wandered through busy roads and surly people in our home state and was glad to
be out of there.
He was bee-lining across Canada and anxious to get to
Niagara. Despite having been raised in
New York City, and having travelled extensively throughout the state, he had
never seen the falls. After that, he was
off to the Finger Lakes, Ithaca and Cornell, then lickety-split across the
Catskills to Rhode Island. He had a ride
of about 700 miles to do in 8 days. Of
course, this makes Wes and I feel like a couple of pikers.
After we wore out the topic of our trips, we soon turned our
attention to politics, the economy, our personal history…and more. The conversation continued apace as we rode
the fifty miles to Niagara Falls. It
continued as we explored the town and ate dinner together that night. It didn’t stop until we said our good byes
the next morning from the hostel in Niagara Falls.
Like us, Bruce was using the bike trip to sort out a life
change. He had been an emergency room
nurse for some years and had been satisfied with it. He had recently purchased a house in
Portland, and now at the age of 40 (he looked barely 30), his life of work
interspersed with adventure was no longer working for him. He had become
frustrated and disaffected with the branch of medicine in which he was
working. When he was younger, he had
liked the adrenalin rush and lack of relationship at the core of that type of
nursing. It wore on him now.
I told him that my sister was a nurse and that she has found
a great deal of satisfaction, after years of bouncing around the profession,
working as a hospice care nurse. She
really enjoys that it is patient and family-centered. Bruce says he has thought about it and is
going to think some more about it. This
conversation occurs as we are on the most eastern reach of Erie, as we are
cruising past giant houses on the Niagara Recreation Trail, 40 miles into our
common ride.
Bruce is a generation younger than us. His view of his prospects and future within
the American economy is sobering. He has
an enormous student debt that he believes he will never be able to pay
off. He feels good about the house he
recently purchased, but allows that he is the only one of his friends to make
that commitment. He has no pension plan,
no retirement savings, nor any expectation to ever receive Social
Security. He feels his best strategy is
to make the most of each day, no promises given nor expected. He doesn’t perceive a social contract beyond
his circle of friends and family.
We are surprised by this.
He allows that it would be a good thing to feel as though one were
getting and giving in a web of mutual support.
It’s just that he has never seen or felt such a thing. He is not a member of a union, and doesn’t
think he knows anyone who is.
It would be tempting to say that Bruce is alienated, but he
is not. He is a free agent, and ok with
that. He benefits from white privilege
and knows it. We all know that we move
more freely than any person of color. A
case in point: the night before Bruce camped (illegally) in the closed Peacock
Point Provincial Park. Local law
enforcement saw him there and shined a light on him, then moved on without
saying a word. Would that have happened
to someone who was not a white male on a nice bike? It is not hard to think of scenario where
the answer would be “No.”
He is an alert, educated, compassionate guy. He lives simply and tries to pay attention to
his choices. Part of the reason he has
the plastic box pannier is a commitment to living without waste. What surprises us, over and over, is the lack
of collective conscience or experience.
He was self-centered, but not at all narcissistic. Being for himself and himself alone was not
driven by ego; it was the way he was trained to be. It was how society asked him to perform.
He was truly surprised when I told him about our life in
Detroit and that I know at least 100 people by name in my immediate
neighborhood. Detroit is incredibly rich
in social capital, I tell him. The kind
of art-making, storytelling, urban agriculture, mutual protection, and social
activism that makes up our daily life in Detroit sounds appealing, but utterly
foreign, to Bruce. I do understand that
social capital is required and present when financial capital is absent,
(otherwise known as “making a way out of no way”). In addition, it is easy to disengage
from the social contract when one has financial means. What bothers me, truly saddens me, is
understanding that there are a large number of young people who don’t see
themselves connected to any larger whole.
As we get closer to the falls, all three of us get more and
more excited. This is a momentous point
in our trip. Already we are seeing all
sorts of signs of this area’s pre-American Revolution past. When we cross the border tomorrow, we will
enter one of the original colonies. We
are amazed at how little we know of War of 1812, which is remembered and
celebrated all throughout this region. I
say to Wes, “Just think! When we cross the border, we will actually be in the
Atlantic United States.” (I will soon
discover the folly of that statement.)
We stop to take pictures of the corner of Lake Erie with Buffalo, New
York in the distance.
We bike along the edge of the Niagara River. The river is big and powerful, with enormous
rocks which generate ferocious rapids.
It is easy to see why this river created such a barrier. When we get to the town of Niagara Falls, we
find ourselves in a huge sea of humanity, even though this is mid-September. It
is impossible to cycle in this throng, so we dismount and pick our way through
the crush.
The range of people here is astonishing. There are women in gorgeous saris, groups
speaking in the clicking tones of very South Africa, many, many Asians, some
speaking Japanese, some Tagalog, maybe some Vietnamese, Korean, and Chinese as
well. There urban folks and country
folks, the tight pant set right next to the baggy pants brigade. There are busloads of seniors, mamas
attempting to corral little ones while pushing strollers. Young lovers kiss in front of the falls
while someone takes their pictures. There
are folks in wheelchairs; people conversing in sign. I saw one family pushing what looked like a
gurney with a person tightly wrapped in a handmade quilt toward the
guardrail. A woman, whom I took to be
the grandma, held the wrapped one’s hand and issued a running commentary on the
sights and sounds. Every complexion,
every size, every age is represented: what a global mosaic.
Everyone takes turn pushing up to the guardrail to take a
look at the awesome horseshoe falls.
There is a full 180 rainbow over the falls and a light mist falling over
this human sea. The city stretches
behind us with high-rise hotels; helicopters circle endlessly and dip in and
out of the water’s mist. Boat with
names like the Maiden of the Mist chug towards the cataract at the base of the
falls. On the edge, at least 300 feet above,
we can hear the faint squeal of the crowd on the boat as they move into the
fall’s spray. The whole experience is
giddy, surreal, slightly euphoric.
I need to find the ladies room, so make my way through a
cavernous hall, jam-packed with people.
It is tricky and takes quite a while.
While I am gone, a young man with a bike pulling an overloaded BOB
trailer introduces himself to Wes. He is
Japanese, quite young, riding a single gear bicycle. He has just begun his trip and is headed
west, on the opposite path we have just traveled. Wes and Bruce try to get this young man to
join us at the hostel for the evening.
However, the wind has shifted and the light mist has become the
equivalent of a heavy drizzle. Just as
I return, the young man bows deeply to Wes and Bruce and disappears into the
crowd.
It is getting late; we need to get to the hostel and get our
dinner. As we ride, we worry about this rider.
How will he ever make it over the Rockies and Cascades with a single
gear? And it is much too late in the year
to be staying so far north. He told Wes
he was carrying 35 kilos on his bike…80 pounds and no gears as fall is coming
on… with limited English. Ay, ay, ay….
After we check into the run-down hostel with just a single
staff on duty, a jocular, sandy-haired native of Ireland named Eric. The hostel has all sorts of signs of events
and tours it is offering on Fridays.
This Friday, there are none. Wes
and I have (over) paid for a private room; Bruce sleeps in the men’s
dorms. We walk down to Queen Street for
dinner. This area used to be the
hipster/bistro/quaint shop district of this tourist town. Now, most of the shops are closed and our
steps echo as we walk. We go into a
brewpub, eat pretty average bar food, and listen to a group of Canadian
physicists talk about US and Canadian politics.
Bruce is happy to be sleeping inside and eating at a restaurant. Both have been rare events on his
journey. We take our leave. Bruce wants to go listen to some incredibly
loud rock music (we heard it three blocks away) and sample the local beer.
Wes and I are very much aware of our age as we say good
night. The 70 mile ride with Bruce has pushed us pretty hard; we’re beat. Wes is complaining of a scratchy throat and
watery eyes. He thinks he might have
picked up a germ while we traversing the crowd. We wonder at Bruce’s endurance, although we
do remember our last bike journey from Montreal to Halifax and back to
Quebec. We camped and cooked our own
food the whole way. Such are the strengths
and fleeting ways of youth.
The next morning, we are off on our bikes before Bruce,
although we are sure he will overtake us and leave us behind. We stop and ogle the whirlpool vista, where the
river makes sharp turn. At another vista
stop, we mis-communicate and run into each other, wrecking both of us and
causing a group of seniors who just exited a bus to come running over to see if
we are all right. We are a bit battered,
but more embarrassed than anything. The
bruise on my knee and gash on Wes’ finger will take the rest of the trip to
heal.
Crossing the border is hectic. We are the only bicyclists in
a swarm of motor vehicles. We wait
behind a group of motor cyclists from New Jersey, who have been out on a 1000
mile weekend jaunt. They will ride 350
miles back home today. One of them is long-haired,
good looking, perhaps Tongan, and he is fascinated by our trip, but wants to
know why we haven’t used it to raise money for a good cause. He didn’t like our answer that we were using
it to make a change in ourselves. As he
rode off, he said, “Next time you do this, make sure you benefit someone else!”
With that, we enter the last
phase of this trip. We are tired, but
think we are almost done. We are
wrong. There are many more challenges,
some of them as hard as any we’ve faced, in the last days of this journey from
sea to sea.
Posted from Centennial, Wyoming
