T+95: Urban, Wild, and Weird in Wisconsin

Mile 3293: PORT STANLEY, ONT

We are out of Medford early, on our way to Wausau, cutting across the center of Wisconsin, and moving as fast as we can.  We have been following Highway 64 and it has been a good run, but today, we have to cut south, and start making our way to the ferry at Manitowac. 

Something shifts as we move further south.  The day before we had dubbed Wisconsin the “Deer Lawn Ornament Capital” of the USA.   Today, on Highway 97, lawns are not decorated with concrete lawn critters, instead we start to see “Impeach Obama,”  “Nobama” and “Walker is Right” signs.  There is a huge uptick in the number of flags being displayed.  The road is rougher and the traffic is faster.   The sense of play that marked the day before is gone.

Just outside of the town of Athens, we are on a high point, and can see big ridges in the distance.  That must be the “mountain” of the Mountain to Bay trail.  Road A heads due east toward Wausau, but we have decided to take Road M, after lunch in Athens, which winds over to Wausau and will get us off this rather unpleasant, rough road.

We take a quick ride down to the bridge over the Big Rib River and come up into town of Athens, which is dominated by a lush central square.  We are ready for lunch, but don’t see a café.  There’s a bakery, and we enter there in hopes that there might be sandwiches.  The coffee is off and the bakery only has sweets, so I ask if there is any place we can get a sandwich in town.  She points with her thumb and says, “The mercantile next door.”

With visions of cold sandwiches wrapped in plastic, we go to what appears to be an early 20^th century five and dime.  We open the door and are completely surprised.  What had been a variety store has become a charming café with wooden tables covered with flowery tablecloths.  Two women sit at a table, with laptops opens, obviously in a heavy work-related discussions.   A group of solidly built, mostly blonde, men and women, are scurrying about, preparing for the lunch rush.

When the youngish waitress arrives at our table, she announces that the special today is smothered pork chops with mashed potatoes, corn, and coleslaw.  Thinking that the side dishes sound better than the main dish, I ask if the corn is fresh.  Oh, no, it comes from a can, she says sheepishly.  At least she recognized the oddity of her answer.  The food is good, and as we eat our lunch, we watch a constant parade of folks, some in business garb, some fresh from the fields, come to eat and visit.  The customers visit with each other, but only look at us. 

After lunch, we ride down to Road M, which is closed. Now what?  The next road is Wisconsin 29, but it is unlikely that this divided highway will allow bikes.  We ride the 10 miles to 29, and sure enough, bikes are not allowed.  Our next choice is to go 5 miles to the south and take Road N.  The wind is blowing hard to the east and we need to go east, but we keep heading south, looking for a paved road.  This is definitely one of the disadvantages of trying to figure out your own route.

About a mile south of 29, we choose to take a dirt road.  Bad choice.  The surface is soft and our tires are slipping around.  We wobble alongside farms in the midst of their harvest.  Wes hollers at farmer on a huge tractor, “Does this road go to Wausau?”  He says, “Sure,” but his face says, “What on earth are you doing here?” We muddle on for another mile or two, while I get more and more frustrated.   Riding the 10 miles extra to get on a paved road now seems absolutely necessary. 

We make our way to the paved road, get the tail wind, and it’s a good thing because it is very hilly.  The area around Wausau is characterized by big hills and two anomalous big mountains which can be seen for miles.  Why there are mountains in the middle of Wisconsin remains an unanswered mystery to us.  We get a nice wind assist as we climb ever higher and higher hills.  A few miles in, the road suddenly becomes very busy.  Highway 29 has been closed for repairs.  Now this little country road with no shoulders is crowded with big trucks and fast cars.  A few times we have to leave the road on steep hills to let trucks go by.  It pretty much sucks.   As the afternoon wears on, and we are still a long way from Wausau, we stop at a pub for a break.  The waitress seems surly, but when another man comes in and engages us in conversation, she warms up and ends up buying our root beer and beer for us.

We finally get to Wausau via the largest plastic land we have seen on this trip.  We cross a big waterway and make our way downtown, where we have a room.  The Jefferson Street Inn is part of the re-development of downtown.  Former factories and warehouses are now trendy, upscale boutiques and bars.  For the first time since we left Portland, we see people in suits.  We really stick out in our grubby bicycle wear, especially as we push the hotel cart with our baggage around the street to our entrance.

We go the Happy Hour in the hotel bar, and get a big kick out of watching the young urban professionals work the room for love or money.  Wes has an overly sweet martini, just like most of the young women in the room.  We end up in the dining room, next to a group of six young women from the same office.  We watch them in the mirror, and listen closely as they hash and re-hash office politics and the bad decision-making of their supervisor.  It is clear that one side of the table is strongly anti-manager, with the woman in the middle dominating the conversation.  The woman on the opposite end of the table is offering resistance, while the two women next to her look like they want to disappear.

The next morning, at the breakfast bar, we see for the first time that there is flooding in Colorado around Boulder.  My eldest brother, Stephen, lives up a mountain canyon on a creek just outside of Boulder.  Back at our room, I try calling all of my brother’s numbers.  There is no answer.  We cannot even leave a message.  I text.  No response.  This is very worrying.

We leave through the convention center at the hotel.  We see a man on a cell phone, with his suit coat unbuttoned, and tie loose, in a complete state of stress, even though it is only 7:30am.  Something has obviously gone wrong with the event he was coordinating that day, and it is all he can do to not yell into the phone.  We pass by a table with bored staffers sitting by big stacks of conference materials.  My body remembers all of this, and I feel a spasm of sympathetic stress, then feel glad it is not me organizing this event.

Wausau has a full set of bike routes around the town, but the desk clerks are only vaguely aware of them.  Wes spends 15 minutes with one clerk, who tries to describe the bike route to the beginning of the Mountain to Bay Trail.  It is clear she is having a hard time getting out of her car brain.  (This is quite common---most people answer the question “how far?” with “how long it takes to drive there.”) Finally, she gets her brain re-oriented and gives Wes excellent, complicated instructions that wind us through town, through suburbs and parkland, and finally around a mountain to get to the start of this 110 mile rails to trail path.

At first we are confused when we get close.  All we see is a ragged path with a rough and sandy surface.  We follow it a quarter mile, already making plans to find another route, when we see the actual beginning of the route, with its kiosk, tables, restrooms, and asphalt surface.  What a relief!  We start making our way on the path.  We will ride this path all the way to Green Bay, with a stop in the tourist town of Schawano.

The first part is beautifully maintained, with lots of parks, kiosks, and waymarkers.  However, by the time we get to Eland, where we planned to take our break, the trail has deteriorated to a two track, with exceptionally rough bridges over an increasingly remote and boggy landscape.  The bridges always have sponsorship signs, saying things like “Bridge sponsored by Knechtel Construction.”   We make up stories about going into Knechtel Construction and saying, “You know that bridge you sponsored 15 years ago when they first built the rails to trails?  It’s a mess now….are you sponsoring its repairs now?   You aren’t?  Didn’t you know that you are responsible for those bridges as long as your sign is standing?  You didn’t?  You’ll need to consult the fine print on page 14b of your sponsorship agreement.  Please see the footnote: “Sponsorship in Perpetuity”.  It doesn’t help with the splintered boards sticking up, or the 2 inch drops off the end of the bridge, but it amuses us and helps to pass the time.

We completely lose the track at Eland, and there is no place whatever to take a break or buy some food.  We start following a track, but the mileage markers have started over and the direction isn’t right.  (One of the on-going jokes of this trip has to do with the compass Wes is carrying.  On the night before we left Wyoming, Wes had a small smeltdown about the weight we were carrying.  One of things he wanted to jettison as excess weight was the 2 ounce compass.  I insisted and, of course, we have used the compass every day and sometimes it has absolutely saved the day.) 

We go back to where we lost the track and puzzle over the course of action.  I try my brothers’ numbers again to no avail.  I send an email.  I leave a message with my second brother, Scott, to see if he has heard anything from Stephen.

Thank goodness a mom, her teenage son and two tiny, barky dogs decide to go for a walk.  They give us directions, explaining how this is a crossroads of several trails and that our branch will veer off and go the right direction in another mile.  They also tell us there are two places to get food within the next five miles: either at the Mohican casino at the next crossroads, or go straight south to Wittenberg. “My son has walked there before!” she offers.

We thank them kindly, make our way to the crossroads, while wondering how the Mohican people, originally from New York State, ended up here in mid-Wisconsin.  We constantly marvel at how often people give us suggestions for 10 mile or more detours for food or recreation.  I suppose this is another form of car brain. 

At the next road crossing, we look down and see a small, forlorn looking casino.  No thanks. Something is bound to come up.  The route becomes more remote.  We cross through large stands of 2^nd or 3^rd growth timber.  It doesn’t look like many cyclists have been on this route.   We pass no walkers, no bicyclists.   At a certain point, we are dead hungry.  We have been cycling from Wausau for many hours, and have gone about 35 miles.  Now is the time for what we call “Emergency apples.”  We always carry an apple or two with us.  I sometimes have cream cheese or peanut butter from the breakfast bar. 

In the midst of the forest, we stop at one of the picnic tables set periodically about the trail.  We eat an apple, an orange, and two small packets of peanut butter.  We tap into our water stores.  It will have to do.  Something is bound to come up.

The trail crosses all sorts of paved and dirt roads.  For quite a long way, at these intersections, we see signs to Bonnie’s Bar and Grill.  It has the same effect as the signs advertising Wall Drug.  We really want to know where this Bar and Grill is.  Finally, about 45 miles in, and fairly late in the afternoon, I spot the town of Bowler just off the track. I see a beer sign in the distance.  Like a hound on a scent, I call Wes and we wend our way to Bonnie’s Bar and Grill.

It is capacious and north-woodsy, with all sorts of dead animals on the wall.  We make our way to the bar, where there are three men and  a woman laughing uproariously.  One fellow is gigantic, maybe 6’5, muscular in a big belly sort of way, with his arm in a sling.  The fellow next to him is rather short, as round as he is tall, with a huge bruise on his cheek and a large bandage on his brow.  Next to him is a slender fellow with big aviator style glasses and a Packers baseball cap.  Around the corner, a blousy blonde whose dye-job needs a re-touch, supposedly doing the books, but mostly laughing and joking, is Bonnie herself. 

The two guys are off work after a car wreck somehow related to their work, so now they are killing time at Bonnie’s, who they expect to keep them entertained.  They roll dice, they tell jokes.  She gets out some kind of numbers game that will give them free appetizers.  The aviator glasses guy is some sort of dogsbody, although we don’t think he actually works at the bar.  Bonnie tells him to go check on our order and he does.  Oh, could he please go see how much butter is still in the back, and he does.  The bartender is the solid center of this cacophonous group, but even so, after hearing that we travelling to Shawano, pulls in closer to warn us.  “Make sure you don’t stay in the cult hotel there.”

We ask about the cult, and she hollers over at Bonnie, “Hey Bonnie, tell these guys about the cult in Shwano!”  Bonnie couldn’t be more bored to tell us that the police raided the hotel there where the proprietors were selling sex parties in the guise of religious experiences as well as rooms.    The 30 year bartender was titillated by this news, Bonnie, not so much.

Just as we getting ready to leave, a brown skinned fellow with big red suspenders comes over and introduces himself to us.  “I heard you say that you are from Wyoming.  I used to live in Wyoming, so I thought I would come say hi.”  As it turns out, Gary is a Mohican who lived for a while in Sheridan, Wyoming.  He knew a lot of folks up there and had quite a few acquaintances on the Crow and Sioux reservations in Montana.  He was tickled by our stories of our encounters with the Assiniboine people.  When I told him about one of the mysteries we encountered on the trip---why do the Blackfeet people in Western Montana speak an Algonquin dialect?—he responds, “That’s what we speak!  I had no idea!  Man, I need to find out the story on that!”

Just as we leave, a news report about the Colorado floods comes on the bar television.  It is much worse than anyone expected and it is still raining.  I still have not heard anything from anyone in Colorado or Wyoming.

Bonnie’s has been a great, much needed stop (although with less than average bar food), but it is getting late, and we still have fifteen miles to Shawano (said Schwano).   About eight miles outside of this resort community on the lake, the trail returns to asphalt and we are going as fast as we can, knowing that we will lose the light if don’t get there soon.  About 1 mile away from town, the trail just ends.  We wander about, cross the nearby freeway, and end up on the busy main road into town.  It is after 5, and we know from past experience, that everything in these small towns will close at any moment.

We have reserved a cottage on the lake, with a kitchenette.  We want to pick up food and get to our cabin before dark.  Wes is agitated about our situation, especially after the detour and trail confusion.  We try to call the small resort for instructions, but there is no answer.  This should have been the first clue.  We ask a fellow on the side of the road how to get to this resort; he has never heard of it and can’t help us.  This should have been the second clue.  Finally, Wes goes into a store just as they are closing, while I try to use the map feature on my phone to figure out where we need to go.

As some of you know, Wes is big and energetic even when he is calm.  When he is anxious and hyped up, he can be overwhelming.  When I went into the store to tell him I found the route, I see the small, middle-aged store owner with a map quaking in front of big, gesticulating Wes, who is demanding where is the closest grocery store.  The fellow says, “The main store is just a few blocks to the south…” Wes almost shouts, “That’s the wrong direction! Isn’t there something to the east….?”  The storeowner offers, “There’s a Wallmart…”  Wes, “A Wallmart?!!!”   I guide Wes away and we make our way in the dying light to our resort on the lake.  We pick up some prepared food and a bottle of wine, look longingly at the nice looking motels in town, and wind our way through a tiny road during a spectacular sunset until we find the West Shore Resort.

Our hearts sink as we go into the office, which reeks of uncleaned cat boxes.  The little bent man finally comes out, rubs his eyes, apologizes and says he spent the day at the hospital with his wife, who’s not doing so good.  He doesn’t know how to run the credit card machine, and scribbles down the number, mumbling, “My daughter will take care of it in the morning.”   He tells us that most of these cabins now have month to month renters, but that he likes to keep one available for people like us.   He stresses, like a mantra, that it has a kitchenette and two bedrooms.

We walk through the grounds in the dying light and see that this resort has become low end housing.  The unit is horrible.  It is dark and too late to leave.  Wes sits in one chair, and jumps right up.  The arms are sticky with some sort of unknown goo.  He sits in another.  Its leg is broken.  The nicest chair in the lot has ink spilled all over it.  I am sullen; Wes is livid.  I sit silently and read in the one chair I trust.  Wes paces the room, lamenting his fate and wanting me to be as upset as he is.   This is one of the worst places we have ever stayed, made much worse by the resort price we paid.  This is not one of our better nights.

The next morning we get out of there as soon as possible.   The best thing about a bike trip is that nothing lasts too long.  Soon we are back on the path and on our way to Green Bay, where we will encounter more of weird, the wild, and the wonderful of Wisconsin.

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posted from Port Dover, ONT

T+9: The Not-So-Blue Portland Blues

PORTLAND, OR:  We are now on our 4^th day in Portland, and our moods are mixed, mixed, mixed.  Wes, who had been quite tolerant of the situation we find ourselves in, woke up this morning agitated and ready to go.  We wonder what do.  Should we rent a car and go to the mountains, away from the heat and into the cool beauty?  How would we get all our gear to a car rental place and back?  Should we get a better place to stay?  We are at the Hawthorne Hostel and it is pleasant enough, though it was difficult sleeping the first two nights because of the heat and noise.  Last night we moved into the dorm where, ironically, enough, both of us slept like rocks.

We have been exploring Portland.  It is a very nice, somewhat surprising city.  Some surprises reflect more on us as Detroiters than anything else.  Case in point, in the funky, hipster neighborhood of Hawthorne, where we are staying, there are three---count ‘em-- three---excellent grocery stores within walking distance of the hostel.   They are stuffed full of beautiful, fresh produce. 

I am almost embarrassed to say that I made Wes go look at the Fred Meyer store that I chanced into on our way to the hostel.  We were hot and thirsty, and I popped into this store for something cool to drink.  I wandered around, like some third world refugee, amazed at the range and excellence of the products, and the beauty and cleanliness of the store.  It is full pitiful for two full-grown adults to be oohing and aahing their way around a grocery store, but that is exactly what we did.

We notice Portland folks are much more rule adherent than we are.  If there are no cars coming at a crosswalk, Wes and I cross the street.  We have often left compliant Portlanders staring at us, as we blatantly crossed the street without the light.  At the hostel, we take responsibility for our comfort, and move our base of operations into the cool basement meeting room, only to realize later, that we were supposed to ask permission to use this area.   We are aware in many subtle and not so subtle ways that Detroit’s pioneer ways make us seem like scoff-laws in this more tempered and managed environment. 

We people watch incessantly and are surprised by the number of homeless individuals soliciting on the streets.   90 percent of these panhandlers are young, European- American males.   In every part of town, though certainly more numerous in the Hawthorne District, we see young men, often with companion animals and instruments, soliciting donations from passersby.   Wes stopped and asked two young men, bewhiskered and crusty, why there are so many homeless young people in this city.  These young men said they had been hopping trains, but that Portland was the end of the line and many folks got off here.  They weren’t sure they were staying. 

A fairly big number of mumblers and screechers make their way up and down the streets.   The disinvestment in mental health care is as fully apparent here as it is in Detroit, though the demography is different.  

In general, Portland strikes us as a very youthful city.  We wonder where their seniors, the middle aged, and children are.  We have not yet travelled more than 3 or 4 miles from downtown, and assume that families and elders might be seen in the more far-flung neighborhoods, but it is strange to us to see so many young folks.

It is true, as our friend Gail said, Portland is the epicenter of the piercing and tattoo culture. Inking is ubiquitous, pegged ears, commonplace.  We wonder if we are prejudiced when we find male fashion and bearing here a bit too geeky/nerdy for our Detroit muscle car and street cred eyes. 

But boy oh boy, is this a place for Wes’ coffee addiction.  We wander from one incredible coffee house to another, and are in fact, enjoying a beauty called Palio in a leafy arts and crafts neighborhood just off Hawthorne, as I write this blog.

This is also a wonderland of gardens.  Many people have given up on their lawns and established beautiful flower or food or shrub-scapes.  The trees are big and in the neighborhoods we have explored, there are many wonderful old houses.  Both Wes and I really like what we see, but for reasons we don't understand, it just doesn’t resonate for us. 

Is it the lack of an edge?  Is it that people are courteous here, but not particularly friendly---unlike Detroit, where folks are friendly, but not particularly courteous?   Is it that there are so many choices, so many options, for food and drink and shopping, that a sense of privilege is part of the package? 

Is it that we don’t sense the ferment and self-conscious path-choosing that makes up conversation after conversation in our delightful and dysfunctional city?  It seems the struggle for identity here is an individual quest expressed in body art and fashion.  As always, I pick up the local newspapers and rags, but don’t see many signs of collective action or identity.  Or perhaps I don’t recognize their form.

Or do we miss the presence of African Americans and African American culture?   While we perceive that this town has very many Latinos and Asian Americans, somehow, it doesn’t feel like their place, although we recognize we might not have the eyes to see it. 

All in all, we like Portland as a place to visit, but don’t feel any pull to stay here. We hear the call of the road louder each day.  When- oh- when will the bikes arrive?  We are ready to be in a more wild place.   This place might be a little too civilized for us Wyoming/Detroit pioneers.

T-88: A Home on the Road, Bedroom Version

Getting ready to be on the bike for months on end, on a self-supporting tour, means thinking about making the lightest, most comfortable home possible.  Oh yes, and make sure it weighs less than 70 pounds total.  This has been a big effort that is not quite done.

 

In our house, we have a kitchen, a living room, a dining room,  two bedrooms, an office,  a bathroom, and a full basement where we wash clothes, store food, and watch movies.  I assure you we have filled every room with furniture, art, tchotchkes, and the detritus of daily life.  Nearly all of the functions of our life in our house still have to continue when we are on the bike.  We will still need to eat and sleep and keep ourselves clean and healthy.  There will be hours in camp that have to be filled with reading or writing or maintaining ourselves, our relationships, and our gear.

Because we will be travelling for months, through wide and varied terrain, through all kinds of weather, we also have to have carry a closet.  We know from previous tours that bike problems are an inevitable; we have to carry a tool chest as well.

How to do all this without overloading these two fat old slow souls?  How to manage the need for both comfort and lightness?  It also important to consider durability and ease of repair. Being on the road is necessarily dirty and sometimes quite rough.  More than once, we have slept in sites no one would consider a beauty spot--on gravel or in the pouring rain.  Clothing, tents, and sleeping gear will take a beating on trip like this.

So what's a soul to do?  I have thought long and hard about the problem of the bedroom.  

From this...

In tours past, we have each taken one pad, a sleeping bag, and threw them in a good tent.  Even in our younger, fitter days, we would often face a poor night's sleep.  Always, Wes is a better sleeper than me, able to sleep sitting up on a moment's notice and wake up refreshed.  Me?  Not so much.  Even in my comfortable bed, I toss and turn and smash my pillow and struggle to find a position that keeps my slight spina bifida hips and back from throbbing or going numb.   Then it is another effort to shut down the chatter in my mind. 

In the past few years, while car camping, we have discovered that sleeping together, under a down comforter is infinitely preferable to snarling up in separate sleeping bags.  We can snuggle and share body heat if it is cold.  We can throw off the comforter if we get warm.  Usually, it's both.  I sleep cold and want Wes' warmth.  Wes sleeps hot and kicks the covers off his feet.   Ok.  So we want to use a down comforter instead sleeping bags. 

 But down comforters are usually surrounded by white cotton, a terrible choice in wet or dirty conditions.  So now we need to find a way to protect the comforter.  Solution: a double silk liner bag  (from Campmor) which will keep the comforter clean and somewhat protect from damp.  On a really cold night, we will be able to get in the liner for increased warmth.  Good.  What is the weight and size cost?  Oh my.  More than 9 pounds.  Even compressed the bag and liner are 21 inches by 8 inches by 6 inches.  Big.

We choose to keep that weight and size in recognition that we have to sleep well or we will not be able  to keep up the cycling day after day. 

The bedroom is not done.  We still need a bed and a bedroom.   We choose to take two pads EACH. Wes will take two closed cells, and I will take a closed cell and a Therma-rest pad.  More weight, more bulk.  Add two more rolls the same size of the comforter roll.  Weight cost: 4 pounds for Wes and 5 pounds for me.  Weight so far: 18 pounds.


To this...

Finally, looking at our tent, we have several choices.  The big cabin tent we use for car camping is obviously wrong.  The small tent we bought last year for the bike trip, although light and small, was extremely uncomfortable.  The few nights we spent in it were miserable, sleepless, body-aching wrecks.  The tent we took on the last bike trip won't do either, with its broken zippers and holey floor. 
That sets me on a search to find a tent.  Light, strong, roomy, easy to set up, able to survive big winds and big rain.  We have even found ourselves in snow.  After look, look, look, we are thrilled with a great tent from REI.  Good size with plenty of storage space.  Wonderful weight: only 7 pounds and very small package. 

We almost have a bedroom (although we are still debating what to do about pillows).  Size: total bulk of  21 x 25 x 6.  Whew!  Weight cost:  25 pounds.  These are big numbers.  Can we make up weight and size in other parts of our home on the road?

 

T-714: What Kind of Comfort?

I spent a few hours last night looking at various kinds of bike trailers.    When we first started touring, such devices did not exist.  However, they have become ever more popular and we are actively considering using trailers on the next trip.

When Chazz was old and could no longer run alongside the bike, we bought a baby bike trailer.  We would try to get him to sit in the trailer so he could still go with us.  He absolutely hated it.  It was an insult to his dignity and he would try to jump out whenever he could.  As arhritic as he was, sitting in a stupid baby trailer, looking out the plastic windows, was more uncomfortable.

However, we found we could tote a whole bunch of produce from the market, without making the bike top-heavy.  It would end up at home without being smashed.  Once the bike began rolling, the trailer added very little drag.  Paniers alter the geometry of the bike and change its center of gravity.  Their best advantage, however, is that they force the rider to choose only the essentials. 

But we would always have all sorts of junk hanging off the paniers...today's drying socks and dishcloths, an easy to reach windbreaker, the most recent groceries.  When we got to camp, the paniers were removed so they could be rooted through.  Packing up became a daily ritual after breakfast.  It had to be done right, with the heavy items below and thoughtful placement of liquid, easy access, and degree of grunge.  (You really don't want your sweaty, stinky clothes next to your food or clean clothes)

One thing is certain, long distance bike touring does not qualify as cushy.  There are a lot of days where you
just aren't as clean as you would like to be.  Sleeping on the ground day after day can give you what we call "hip pointers"...the sore spots that develop from placing your weight on hard surfaces.  You better pray that you don't get a heat rash, or jock itch, or saddle sores.  Riding a bike when every motion sends a searing bite through through your tender parts makes a long, long day.
The days of ecstasy are few and far between.  Many days are a pleasan

The smell of the wild roses
and salt sea was intoxicating

t sort of drudgery, neither exciting nor painful...making miles to the next stop, next camp, next meal.  Some days are hellish.  Pushing your loaded bike up a 8% grade from 4000 to 8000 feet in elevation in the searing heat is not fun.  It is just plain hard work.  Finding a decent camp in the pouring rain, then barely sleeping because a brush of the tent side will bring water pou
ring in, makes for both a miserable night and a miserable next day.  There are times when the mosquitos are so thick, you can't help but breathe them.

But there are moments of pure transcendence, when the bike, and the land, and your body, and all that is merge into a blessed wholeness.  Biking becomes a pure joy that is animal, spiritual, and intellectual.  These moments are unforgettable.  I remember cycling the southwest coast of Nova Scotia, following the nearly abandoned sea line highway.  The sea roses were in full bloom and stretched for miles and miles. 

The sweet smell mixed with the tang of sea air.  The sky was blue, and there was a slight tail wind. Up and down the hills, roaring through dips and valleys of the sea road, a song zinging through my brain as I loved the way my body felt on the bike.  I could not have been happier.



On the Going to th e Sun Road,
 we were glad to be going up instead of down.

 Another Zen experience like this happened just after we had finished climbing the Going to Sun Road in Glacier National Park.  Going to the Sun is unnerving experience.  A narrow two lane road switchbacks over the spine of the Rockies.  There is no shoulder and there is sheer cliff going up on one side, sheer cliff falling down on the other.  The Park Service only allows bikers on this road a few hours a day.  You have to get up well before dawn to begin this climb.  There is not stopping on this rugged trek, because cars and even worse trucks and RV's, begin over the pass at 8am.

We had just made the top and could feel the anxiety start to slip away.  We were greeted by the sight of alpine lakes.  Soon I was surging along this top country, all systems on go.  Before long, I left Wes in my dust, as I bob and weave my way through that stunning scene.

Now, I am sitting on a plump leather couch.  I see wonderful art on the wall.  But my body is always kind of uncomfortable and I am self concious about the belly pooch that is holding up this computer.  I long for the wholeness of grace within my body.  Early on I learned to be in my brain and silence my body until at long last, it screams at me in its hunger or stress.

I want the comfort of feeling fully alive, of joy in the moment, of feeling strong and skillful, swathed in beauty.  That's the kind of comfort almost nonexistant in the life I am leading now.    I must remind myself that comfort is not necessarily a function of ease.  Comfort is the result of wholeness.