T+125: Fellow Travelers, Part 1

Return Mile 0: BROOKLIN, MAINE

Bar Harbor with Cruiser
 

The biking portion of our journey is really, truly over.  Yesterday, we drove our car to Bar Harbor (or as they might say here “drove th’ cah t’ Bah Hahbah”), where we had our bikes and Bobs boxed, and ate the most astonishing and delicious meal.  After wandering the tourist town which was full of German tourists who had just disembarked from a cruise ship, we looked at a variety of restaurants, but nothing appealed.  We asked one of the guys at the bike shop where we could get “some real food for real people.”  He thought for a moment, then leaned in as if to tell us a secret. “Well,” he whispered, “if you go down the driveway next to the shop, and go a little ways further, you’ll find a bagel shop.  You have to be nice to the German lady there, and you can get some of the best food you will ever eat.” 

We walked down the dirt alley, past a big fellow woodworking in the warm fall sun, into a rough courtyard, where there was a small, rather rundown building marked Bagel Factory.  Inside, there were two tiny tables, and one woman working the ovens.  We ask what kind of bagels she has, and she replies, “None.”  We were taken aback.  “But if you wait 4 minutes, I’ll have the next batch right out of the oven.”  Great.  I order poppy seed and Wes orders sesame.  We ask about the beans and rice scrawled on the chalkboard menu.  “That’s gone.  The only thing I’ve got is chili.”  That’s fine. “If you want something to drink, I have coffee, tea, and some hot spiced cider that has some hard cider in it, but I think all the alcohol has burnt off.”   We’ll have some cider too.

The fresh, hot bagels were the best I have ever tasted.  The vegie chili with tofu, dried tomatoes, and bits of fresh rosemary was deeply savory, and the cider crackling without being overly sweet.  While we are oohing and aahing over the simple, great food, while visiting with the proprietor/chef Agnes, another fellow comes in, tries to order the beans and rice, only to be steered to the chili by Agnes, with our enthusiastic endorsement.  Why the beans and rice dish is not erased from the board, I can’t say.  When we go to pay the bill, Agnes tots the charge and says $8.60.  Back at the bike shop, when we tell of our experience in this “only the locals know” diner, the bike guys nod. “Agnes is a treasure…and a master chef…you’ll never get better.”  We would have to agree.

But back in the story of our journey across the continent, we are still on the North Shore of Lake Erie, about to meet some of the most memorable people of the trip…..

 --------------------------------------

The back and forth cycling from the highway to the shore and back again has made for a very long day.  When we finally arrive in the town of Dunnville, the sun is glowing red on the horizon.  The town, with its crooked High Street and the Queen’s Gate Pub right on the corner, looks like it was lifted from Britain’s Midlands and plopped down in Canada’s flat farmlands.  We make our way up the river road to the one and only motel in this town of about 5,000 people.  The Riverview looks quite typical when we pull in and we think we are in for another night in plastic-land.  The room, however, was such a pleasant surprise.  Not only was it big, clean, and well-equipped (as well as reasonably priced), it has a really beautiful view of the lush and lovely Grand River not 30 feet out the window.   We open the curtains as wide as possible and watch the shimmering river turn red, then orange, then pink, then purple as the sun slips away.   We see geese, swans, and ducks.  In the distance, we hear the clattering of cranes.

Instead of walking into the quaint downtown, as recommended by our hosts Zina and George, we choose to go the Chinese restaurant next door.  The hostess is a very tiny, round faced woman with softly curled hair and a frightened expression.  Her English is quite limited and she seems new to her job, and perhaps to this continent.   She tries to steer us to the buffet, but that is more food than we want, so she seats us alone in a separate dining room away from the other guests.  This particular Chinese restaurant has a full bar, and lists a martini on the menu, which Wes decides to order.  The hostess had heard of a martini.   She runs into the next room and grabs the lone Anglo waitress, who comes back and asks, “What did you order?”  A gin martini, Wes replies.  The waitress says, “Well, I’ve never made one before, but I’ll give it a try.” 

Less brave souls would have rescinded their order at this point, but not Wes.   It takes several minutes and two more stops at our table, “What’s the other alcohol that goes in the drink?”  Vermouth.  “I don’t know if we have any vermouth…”  In the end, Wes got a chilled shot of gin with no vermouth and no olive or twist in whiskey glass.   Then the hostess forgot to put the drink on our bill, and ended up chasing us down in the parking lot as we walked back to the motel.   “Mister, mister…you need to pay for drink!”

Up the next morning, we have to satisfy Wes’ latte addiction, so we make our way to the teeming Tim Horton’s.  While enjoying our yogurt and coffee, a fellow comes up to us and asks if we are the owners of the bikes outside.   When we confirm we are, he launches into a big disquisition about how we need to get electric motors on those bikes.  “Sure does make goin’ up those hills easier.  But you want to know the best part?”  Sure, why not?  “You can go as fast as motorcycle with them motors, but you don’t have to get ‘em licensed like a motorcycle.  When I was living up by Toronto and had my license taken away, that’s what I did.  I got me an electric bike and I could go everywhere and didn’t think nuthin’ of it.” 

The fellow is a bit of a blatherskite and in the next few minutes, we find out that he is pro-windmill, anti-gun, thinks Canadian politicians are as crooked as American, calls his wife “The Boss”, and has a son in prison.  When we are leaving, he and “The Boss” are having a noisy confrontation over her desire to buy an ice cream birthday cake a week in advance.  “But, Honey, if you buy it now, you will just eat now and we’ll have to buy it again.”

Our powers of observation are not so keen, however, when we return to the highway.  Some miles later, when we haven’t returned to the lakeshore, and certain expected landmarks haven’t appeared, it finally dawns on us that the road sign has a crown on it, meaning we have been following Canada National Highway 3 instead Haldimand County 3.   We finally come to an intersection where we are faced with a choice: leave the national highway and take the long scenic way to Port Colborne, or take the short busy way to town.  Long scenic wins.

We have just turned the corner to return to the lake when another cyclist pulls up beside us.  He is a tall, lean, older man riding a mountain bike.  He asks about our trip and we begin a long conversation that takes us nearly to Port Colburne, where he lives in a beautiful house on the shores of Lake Erie.  His name is Chris.  He was raised in the wilds of Quebec 400 miles north of Montreal, in the French speaking outback near Hudson Bay.  He had come to this area at the age of 19.  He was 70 now, although he had the body and the bearing of a much younger man.  He had worked for years at the Nanticoke Generating Station, the continent’s largest coal powered power plant.  

We had cycled past this enormous—and shuttered-- edifice the day before and were shocked by the 20 foot tall pipes bringing water from the lake to plant.  When Wes asks Chris about the wind turbines, he responds by talking about how much he disagreed with closing the power plant.  He insisted that it was possible to use coal cleanly.  He also talked about the huge disruption created by closing the plant.  Not only were many thousands of union power plant workers released, but it affected all sorts of coal shipping jobs, railroad jobs, and power line transmission jobs.  The turbines weren’t adding the local economy at all, in his view.   Still, he was retired with a good pension and had turned his attention to becoming a wind surfer.  He said that the winds were quite odd this summer (as we had experienced this summer with our endless southeast winds).  On normal years, he said, westerly winds raised 20 foot waves on the eastern end of the lake where he lived.  It was considered one of the prime wind-surfing areas in the world. 

When we came to his house, he asked if we wanted any water, but we demurred.  (I wish we had; it would have been interesting to see his place).  Instead, we asked where was a good place to get something to eat.  He immediately mentioned a place we heard as the Eatery, but soon find out is Eataly.  The food is Italian and delicious and we find ourselves in conversation with a group of bikers both older and more out of shape than we are.   They are immodestly dressed in bikers’ jerseys and ask all sorts of questions about our trip and our equipment.  An older blonde woman spent a good bit of time trying to cajole her pudgy husband that THEY needed to take a bike trip, too.

After all our company leaves, and Wes and I have to make our way to the bike route which begins at the intersection of the Welland Canal, which connects Lakes Erie and Ontario and the Erie/Niagara Parkway.  We are crabby as hell.  This general malaise has occurred on and off throughout the trip.  There was not one thing either of us was doing right (according to the other), and the afternoon promised to be a long slog of sniping at each other as we pedaled along.  We had just made about 5 miles when a young man with full panniers pulls up beside us, engages us in conversation and changes that moment and the rest of the day, night, and next morning…

That is a story for the next installment….

Posted from Des Moines, Iowa

T+109: Pet Cars, Lawn Fetishes, and Muer Fish Dinners

Mile 3883, NORTH CREEK, NY:  We are on the shores of the Hudson River, and hope to pass into Vermont tomorrow.  The round of bad weather has lifted; we have been traveling through the beautiful and nearly empty Adirondacks.  We have been re-building our mountain legs, and will need them as we go through Vermont and New Hampshire over the next few days.  The days are getting shorter, as are the miles we need to cover to get to Portland, Maine.

 

When we leave Imlay City, we travel on a back road to the small town of Capac, where we plan to cross I-69 and enter Southeast Michigan.  As we are cycling along, we begin to be passed by a large number of gleaming cars of all ages.  Not only are there restored Model T’s, there are also coupes from the 1930’s which have been turned into hot rods.  One is painted brilliant orange and decorated with purple flames.  There are woody station wagons from the late 40’s.  There are WWII Willy’s Jeeps, 1967 Impalas, 1965 Mustangs and hot pink Thunderbirds. There are Ramblers, and 57 Chevy sedans and Edsels. There is a 1975 Ford truck just like the one we owned when we moved to Detroit.  There are antique firetrucks and American cars and trucks of every conceivable year and make.  About 75 percent are lovingly and historically restored.  The rest are customized in some fashion.

We cycle through the town and there is an army of men directing traffic and closing streets.  Even though the car show had not yet begun, we saw many hundreds of vehicles parked and moving through town.   The drivers were nearly as diverse as their cars.  Certainly many were middle-aged and older white males, but there were also young men and women, people of color, couples, and families.   The cars were almost exclusively American made.  We did see one brave young hipster driving an early 60’s Mercedes-Benz.  Every single car was gleaming and polished.  Where they were parked, they often had their hoods lifted to show spotless, often chrome enhanced engines.   We are biking through a sea of pet cars, and stick out like sore thumbs.  These are not cars as a tool of transportation, but cars as objects of love and creativity.  These are hobbies and obsessions.  I puzzle about the dedication it takes to bring a 1937 Packard back to life.  Just finding the replacement parts must take hours and hours and tons of resources.  Even as we leave town via a back road, we still pass cars making their way to this event.   I later read that this little town of 2000 hosted 1500 cars at this event.

As we move across the landscape, we see a land use we have seen only rarely in this journey.  All throughout Southeast Michigan, we see houses with gigantic lawns, sometimes of many acres.  It is not unusual to see a house surrounded by a sea of featureless grass.  Very often, there are not even trees or ornamental plantings.  Because we are traveling on a Sunday, we see lots of people out tending these lawns with their riding lawnmowers.   We wonder, “What is the appeal of these very man-made, labor intensive mono-cultures?”   My guess is that these lawns are the anti-farm.  They prove that the owners do not have to depend on the land to provide them a living.  Also, lawn doesn’t just happen: it requires constant intervention and specialized tools.   Lawns are a metaphor for the dominance of the earth…and access to discretionary funds…and social isolation.   Because giant lawns are not productive, they are fetishes, imbued with power and meaning which makes their high costs seem worthy expenses. 

We follow the Belle River down to its meeting with the St. Clair River.  This is a landscape of large weeping willows and cottonwoods, interspersed with marshes.  Many of these marshes are inundated with phragmites, the invasive reed that can grow to 8 feet tall.  Where the water is further from the surface, there are big stands of oaks and hickories.  We cross the Old Gratiot road and feel positively sentimental.  We wind in and out of little towns and are tickled when we enter Macomb County.   We have wandered these environs quite a bit; they are a source of storytelling and reminiscence. (Remember that giant hill at Wahlberg’s Corners where we missed the turn to the Blue Water Bridge?  Remember the time we went walking in Algonac and all the canals were frozen?)

A cycling club from Mount Clemens, mostly on tandems, comes rolling by.  One pair slows down immensely to talk to us.  In mere seconds, the rest of the group is out of sight.  They are young-looking and fit 40-somethings.  They were surprised that we had come all the way across the country, but asked, “How did you find the time?”  Wes hollers, “I’m retired!”  The man says, “I guess we have a long wait ahead of us then.”  They wish us luck, wave good-bye and are gone in an instant.

Not for the first time, Wes and I wonder about the equipment we are riding.  A good road bike, equipped for touring, but not overloaded, can easily manage an average speed of about 12-15 miles an hour.  An excellent road bike without a load zips along at 18 miles an hour.  A tandem is faster yet.  Here we are, plugging along on heavy, slow bikes.  Now that we are pretty fit, we average 10-11 miles an hour.  Throw in challenging terrain, and our average rate goes down to 8 miles an hour.  Throw in our rotten state of fitness when we began and it is easy to see why we are still in Michigan on September 22.

When we talk to other cyclists, riding 70 miles a day is pretty standard.  We manage about 50.  There are some who ride 100 miles a day, though that strikes me as over the top.  Wes’ steel frame mountain bike Raleigh from the 1980’s is a relic.  My late 90’s mixte Trek is somewhat better.  I run the math in my head: how much further along would we be if we could average just 2 miles more an hour.  We are on the bikes a minimum of six hours daily, sometimes more.  Two more miles an hour would means that we could be 800 miles further along.   I tell Wes I am going to buy a fast road bike when I get off this trip.  He says, “Me too.”   About 30 minutes later, we ride past the bike club again.  They are in the parking lot to the St. Clair High School, off their bikes and getting ready to disperse.  We wave as we go by, and hope they notice that we may be slow, but we get there just the same.

We are excited to go into Canada and have looked for a motel near the Marine City ferry.  The closest bed and breakfast refers us up the road to the Blue Water Inn, which has an address in St. Clair, but is actually four miles up the river.  We are cranky when we get there, but our irritation soon turns to joy.  The room are newly renovated.  Unlike the kitsch filled bed and breakfasts or the generic plastic motels that have been our standard fare, these rooms are modern and urban and elegant.  We are the very end of the hotel and have a fantastic view of the river, though constant noise from the fans from the restaurant below. 

We have a delicious fish dinner at a River Crab, a Chuck Muer restaurant, watching the big ships move up and down the shipping channels of the St. Clair river.  We had hoped some friends could join us at this “pretty close to Detroit” moment, but we couldn’t give enough advance notice, so dined alone.   However, we have discovered a wonderful getaway just 50 miles from home which we will love to share with loved ones upon our return.

The next morning, we are ebullient as we make our way down the river path (another wonderful Michigan trail) to Marine City.  We have time to stop for lattes before we are one of two customers on the 10 minute ride across the river to Canada.   It has been fun and funny to be tourists in our own backyard, but we are anxious to see what other surprises await us as we enter that not-so-far, but still quite foreign, north shore of Lake Erie.

----------------------------

Posted from North Creek, NY

T+92: We Like Wisconsin

Mile 3243: Ridgetown, ONT

The next morning we make our way back through the town of Bloomer, whose 19^th century downtown is fairly intact.   We feel time pressing on us, so we don’t stop.  I experience this as a contradiction in terms.  Our “job” is to explore America, but we won’t make it across America before cold weather, if we don’t get a move on. 

It is not long before we are in the heartland of Wisconsin.  This is the landscape of small family farms.  Gone are the giant threshers we encountered in North Dakota, where the blades of a single mower were wider than both lanes of the highway.  (The thresher moved as far to the left as possible, and we left the road, and the huge arm of rotating blades still just missed us.)  The acreages for these Wisconsin farms are probably in the hundreds rather than the North Dakota thousands.  The ground is hilly and in the bottoms, it is marshy.  It is easy to see why this is dairy country.   While there are stands of corn, it does not dominate the landscape the way it does in central Minnesota.  In fact, it is more likely to be sweet corn or ethanol corn than miles and miles of feed corn.

The ride is really fun and the weather is just right.  The hills can be charged, so we are moving pretty rapidly.  This is a testament both to our increasing fitness and the relative gentleness of the landscape.  Wes and I debate the best way to charge a hill and have mini-competitions to see who develops enough speed and thrust in the downhills to glide up the uphills without having to resort to the lowest gears.  Wes has fun making up silly sayings about this, “I’m playing this hill like a….lyre…like lycra…like a lute…like a bassoon….like a baboon.”

There starts to be more and more trees as the day progresses.  Our destination is the town of Medford, which sits just outside the Chequamegon National Forest.  In between the farms there are stands of Northern Forest, which is a rich mix of pines, firs, and larches, along with ashes, oaks, and birch.  At the little town of Prairie View, we first see a curious machine in a city park next to the Chippewa River.  We find out this large diagonal machine, whose top was 60 feet in the air, was the sole example of a counter-weight operated log stacker.  This a testament to the huge logging industry which is almost gone in Wisconsin, and to the ingenuity of 19^th century engineering.   At its base, a long rails-to-trails bike path winds its way down the river to Eau Claire.  It looks lovely. 

We make our way to a little café that specializes in homemade ice cream.  There are two older women in there, along with the proprietor.   All three women immediately start asking us all sorts of questions.  Wes starts teasing and flirting with the women in their 70’s, making them laugh and telling them to get ready for their bike trips.   The smaller, rounder woman, with assiduously dyed black hair, holds up her cane and waves it at Wes, “When I was younger, I rode my bike everywhere, but my biking days are OVER!”  The two debate who Wes looks like: certainly like their friend Rory, but doesn’t he also look like Burt Lancaster?  This makes us laugh because it is so outlandish.  We eat our lunch, visiting across the dining room.  Finally, they leave and wish us well. 

Hours later, we make our way into the little town of Gilman.  We are thirsty and hot, and after our delicious root beer float of the day before, have a hankering for another.  We step into a tiny café, and ask the big blousy waitress for a float, which is not on their menu.  She says, “Let me ask…”  A youngish cook steps out, sees that we are cyclists, and says, “I think we can do that.”   As he makes up root beer and ice cream concoction in the blender (decidedly not a float), he tells of his bicycle adventure at the age of 19, during which he and a group of friends cycled from Vancouver to San Diego.  “Man, I remember eating whatever we wanted: steaks, fries, cake.  Boy, those days are over!”  The waitress jokes, “I am a perfect size 10, I just wear this size 22 over it to hide it!” 

About that time, we hear the sound of small scooter pull up.  As a stocky, older gentlemen comes through the door, the waitress and cook holler, “Hey Pauly!”  He responds, “You got any of that lemon merengue pie left?”  Then, without waiting for answer, looks at us, “You ridin’ them bikes out there?  You need to get a scooter like mine.  Be a lot easier!”  They tell him the pie is all gone.  He says, “You had some this morning.” “Well you should have ordered it then!”  Back and forth like this, the signs of a long and easy acquaintance.   Pauly finally allows that he will just have a bowl of chili.  The waitress sets down the bowl.  As Pauly starts to struggle with the crackers, she steps over, removes the package from his bent and rigid hands, and deftly pours the crushed crackers into his bowl.  The gentleness and familiarity of the gesture touches me. 

The conversation and joking is really rolling and we don’t want to leave, so we decide to split a tuna fish sandwich.  The cooks starts making it as we talk about farming and trees and the economy.  They all say that the economy is barely scraping along.   The waitress says, “We lost alotta businesses in this little town, let me tell you.”  When they find out that this is Wes’ retirement trip, Pauly says,  “You know how you can tell when a dairy farmer has retired?  He starts to raise beef!” 

We truly finally have to leave.  Our fifteen minute break for a cool drink has stretched in 45 minutes.  We ask about the route ahead.  They tell us a back way into to Medford that will save us some miles and some hills.  Pauly takes his leave as we do.  Wes says, “I’ll leave with a joke.  You know there are only two kinds of gamblers.  The first one goes to the casinos, the second runs a farm.”  The cook laughs and says,  “Well, Pauly is both!”  Outside, Pauly zooms his tiny, maybe 50 cc scooter around us as we get ready to ride again.  He wishes us well, then putt-putts away.

We are aglow with fun of the visit when I step in the local pharmacy to see if they carry Anbesol, which I use to dull the pain of constant abrasion on my tender parts.  The pharmacist is a real grump, proving that not all Wisconsinites are ebullient and outgoing.  Just down the street, at a garage littered with all sort of golf carts, four wheelers, lawnmowers and all manner of small motorized equipment, Wes hollers out to the youngish men,  “Can we get a squirt of air from you.”  Sure thing.  This leads to another long conversation.  One of the men has a cast on his leg.  I ask what happened to his leg.  Pointing with his thumb at this partner, “He ran me over with that golf cart!”

By the time we get out of this town, it is getting late and the sky is starting to darken with heavy rain clouds.  We still have 20 miles to reach our destination of Medford.   About 6 miles from Medford, we take the short cut and the sky lets loose.  We soldier on in the pouring rain.   When we get to the truck entrance to the town, we take it, and make our way through a warren of window manufacturers.  Just as we pull into the park alongside the Black River, the rain lifts.  We climb the steep hill to the main street and call our motel for further instructions.   The desk clerk seems totally befuddled and has a hard time describing how to get to the motel that does not involve major highways.  I am unhappy to hear that we have another 4 miles to go after we had just come more than 60.  A young, Goth woman in black with heavy tattoos steps out of a bar.  Her sweet face and gentle voice do not match her harsh clothes and loud tattoos.  She gives us good instructions to get to the motel, which is on the outskirts of town, by the Wallmart.  Now we understand why the downtown, once a prosperous and lovely mill town with elaborate limestone storefronts, looks so forlorn.  Another victim of “spawlmartization.” 

We wind our way to the perfectly average, but perfectly acceptable motel and realize that if we hadn’t taken the “short-cut”, we would have driven right by it.  On our way, we meet an older couple from Milwaukee.  They too want to hear all about our trip.  They, too, are funny and friendly.   During our nightly ritual of showering together at the end of our biking day, we talk about the open culture here in Wisconsin.  Certainly people have been friendly and helpful all the way across the country.  But nowhere else have we seen people so free of self-consciousness, so open to experience, so funny and friendly.  We decide: We like Wisconsin.

 

-----------------------

posted from Port Stanley, ONT

…………………………….

T-30: Yes...but

Well once again my decision making is suspect.   I woke up the other morning and said, I am going to take a long loaded run….just to see if I can.  I had Wes drag my big yellow BOB bag out to the garage.  I attached the trailer and went zooming off.  It was an absolutely beautiful morning in Detroit, one of those clear blue spring days where the humidity is low and the air almost sparkles.

I cycle down to the riverfront, where the first thing I see is a fisherman pull a 12 inch walleye from the water.  He is one of the many riverside and boating fishers partaking in the annual walleye run.  The riverfront is teaming with people, even though it is pretty early in the morning.  I am tickled at the range of people enjoying the sight of the glistening water. 

Underground Railroad Monument

There are all ages, all colors, women in hijab, and men in hard hats.  There are youth with pants four sizes too big walking along side hipsters with pants two sizes too small.  There are grandmas with squirmy little grandbabies sitting on lawn chairs watching their menfolk throw fishing line in the water and watch the red floaters bob, bob, bob downstream.  There’s a sailor all dressed in white  
scrubbing the sidewalk leading up the Detroit Princess party boat.  There’s even a few tourists having their picture taken with Underground Railway monument, standing alongside bronze statues, living and metal people peering mightily to the promised land of Canada just across the water.

I am a bit of spectacle with my full touring regalia: helmet and gloves, sun glasses, and most importantly, my low-slung bright yellow BOB trailer.  I see the occasional walker turn a full 180 degrees to watch me go by. It tickles my fancy to imagine they think me some exotic traveler making my way across the city on this beautiful morning.

I leave the waterfront on the other side of the Milliken State Park, past the swaying cattails and invasive phragmytes of the restored marsh.  I note my mileage (on my new bicycle computer, of course) and see that I have travelled just over 4 miles from my Southwest Detroit starting point.  I told Wes I was going to go down to the Belle Isle Bridge and back.  He shook his head ruefully, and said, “That far?”  I stuck out my chin at him: “It’s only 15 miles!”

I curve back to the riverfront by Stroh Riverplace.  I love this part of the Riverwalk, with its restored buildings, boutique hotels, boat slips, and Coast Guard station.  I am intrigued to see a Coast Guard cutter being lowered to the water.  The giant crane looks like a huge praying mantis.

I am still feeling good as leave the riverfront, cross the bumpity, bumpity cobblestone streets of old Iron Street, noting the ten or fifteen new murals depicting the strengths and beauty of Detroit on the sides of a rusting, wreck of old factory.   I am still feeling good as I pass by the big empty lot just before the Belle Isle Bridge.  Years and years ago, it was an industrial site for Goodyear, I think.  It has been too toxic for redevelopment and has sat fallow as long as I have lived in Detroit.  Today, it is abuzz with activities.  All along the fence is banner after banner proclaiming the upcoming Belle Isle Grand Prix.  The lots are being set up as service areas for the racing crews.

Well, here is where I made my big mistake.  If I had “the sense god promised a billy goat”, as my mother would say, I would have turned around right then and there, and started my homeward track.   This was the distance I told Wes I was going to take.  It was a good run.

But no.  Blinded by the beauty and ecstasy of my ride thus far, I turn my bike onto the Belle Isle Bridge.   It is gorgeous to look up and down the river.  There are geese, and swans, and ducks paddling with their babies. I am committed now.  The Belle Isle run, if I circle the island is another 5.5 miles. But hey, I’m feeling good, so why not?

I pull my trailer up the bridge, and notice for the first time, how much drag the trailer creates on a hill.  Flat Detroit is not very good training for the Cascades and the Rockies which start our trip, I note.  I huff and puff up the bridge, scream down the other side, pushed by the trailer, find the corner to the right quite a bit of challenge with the push of the trailer and drive right into….a construction zone. 

All along the river road, giant concrete barriers are being put up along the race route for the Detroit Grand Prix (http://www.michronicle.com/index.php/news-briefs-original/11459-chevrolet-detroit-belle-isle-grand-prix-revs-up-for-summer-classic).  The barriers block the view.  I weave in and out of heavy equipment, teams for workers, and trucks moving racing gear.  The workers stare at me.  I am sure they wonder what kind of fool would bring her bike and trailer into their midst. 

A few miles later, I finally leave the construction zone, then pull into the party zone on the riverfront.  It is a mess.  Even though there are garbage cans every 25 yards or so, there are cans, bottle, wrappers, dirty diapers, food containers and more everywhere.  On the grass, on the road.  It is disgusting.  This is the place where scads of teens hang out on weekend nights.  Every Monday morning, the place is a wreck.  By Tuesday, the debris would be gone, but now, with budget cuts, it is still sitting there on Thursday.

I leave the garbage zone and I notice that I am really starting to get tired now.  I have gone about 10 miles and it is starting to get hot.  I reach for my water bottle…empty.  I am not half way around the island, and I still have the whole way back to go. 

By the time I get to the Detroit Yacht Club, I am only ¾ around the island and I am pooped.  I stop in some shade, move my pannier to the other side because my right leg is hurting and record a note on my phone and call Wes.  I tell him to meet me at our favorite coney island in half an hour.  He asks me if I am all right.  What can I say?

The ride back to the diner is long and hard.  The river is still beautiful, but the temperature is up.  When I make it back to the Underground Railroad monument, I am in “just keep going” mode.  The tenth miles turn over so slowly on my bike computer.  When I turn away from the river and make my way up the gradual climb up to Michigan Avenue, my legs hurt, my forearms ache, and my shoulders are starting to knot. 

I stop at a red light to catch my breath, having climbed the bank of the former Cabacier Creek.  While I pant, a friendly fellow tells me “You don’t need to wait for the light, there ain’t no traffic.”  I wait anyway, glad to be off my bike, even for a moment. 

I meet Wes at the Coney.  I am sweaty, sore, and beat.  I have cycled 18 miles without a break, carrying a 40 pound load.  Wes laughs out loud as we listen to the recording I made of my pitiful self at the Yacht club. “What did you expect?”

I say to him, “Well, I have answered my question.”  “What is that?”  “Can I do twenty miles in a shot.”    The answer is “yes, but…”  After I cycle the remaining two miles home, I have gone twenty miles, sure enough, but I will be sore tomorrow, and not worth much today.

Yes, I can ride twenty miles with a load, but I have also shown, once again, that I am poor, poor, poor at recognizing reasonable boundaries.   And not just on bicycle rides, I assure you.

 

 

 

 

T-76: Getting Ready--Body Version

When we tell people we are going on a cross country bicycle trip, they have two responses.  The majority shake their heads ruefully and allow that we must be soft in the heads to do such a ridiculous thing.  A certain number bounce with enthusiasm and wish they could join us as we head out.  Though their responses are quite different, they share a common question, “How are you training?”  In the case of Wes, the answer is, “I take an occasional walk with the dog.”

In my case, the story is quite different.  Not only have I returned to the gym and started working with a personal trainer---more on that in a moment—I also thought I should get a physical for the first time in years and years. Thus begins a journey that has not yet ended.

I go to my long time physician and friend.  I am prepared for the worst, I think.  Multiple tests—blood, urine, height, weight.   “Weight shockingly high….let’s check one more thing.  One of my staff will be in shortly to give you an electrocardiogram.  It will be good for a baseline as you have never had one.”

Ok.  The assistant, who seems remarkably surly, comes in and rather roughly attaches contacts to various points on my chest and ribs.  She connects a whole handful of wires to me.  Turns on the machine.  Pulls off the leads.  Leaves without a word.  I gingerly pry the contacts from my body.  And wait.  And wait some more.  In desperation, I grab an out of date Readers Digest, and discover that a friend and an acquaintance are the cover story. 

My doctor comes back and tells me to sit down.  It is clear she is shaken.  She shows me the EKG and points out that it shows a major problem on one of the sectors.  I need to see a heart doctor…pronto. 

Well, what the hell.  I knew my life was stressful; I knew I was heavier than I have ever been, but I had been exercising hard at the gym with no problem.  But what do I know? 

My fifth line was going up instead of down

It will take two weeks to get an appointment.  Don’t worry, we’ll figure out what’s going on.  Ok.  I won’t worry, my mouth says, but my brain has already started spinning desperate scenarios at warp speed. 

The spinning notches up a few days later, when my doctor calls me with the news that though my blood pressure is great, and my heart rate is low, my cholesterol level is dangerously high.  So now I am convinced that I am going to have a heart attack at any moment.  I tell myself that my grandfather died of a heart attack in March (it’s March now! I worry) when he was younger than me.

I try to beat back the dread, but I fail at it miserably.

I have several visits to the cardiologist, who, of course, is miles and miles away from my office.  I have to miss a bunch of work, which only adds to my stress and anxiety.   More blood tests, a carotid artery sonogram, a stress test, another EKG.  The doctor calls me in.  I can feel my anxiety tighten a fist around me.

“We can find nothing wrong with your heart.  The previous test must have been done wrong.   You need to keep exercising and get your cholesterol down.  Oh, by the way, there is a nodule on your thyroid that needs to be checked. We’ll see you when you get back from your bike ride.” I guess I am relieved, but now I have to take a bunch of tests on my thyroid. I read about goiters and worry about cancer.  This is ridiculous.

I will keep working out and trying hard to increase my fitness level.  I am making good progress, contacting muscles, like those cut during my abdominal surgery,  that have been out of communication for years. I find I like the free weights.  I sweat to achieve minimal results like walking 2 miles or biking 5 miles in 30 minutes.  I need a Masters in body knowledge and maintenance, but I am struggling for basic skills.   It is what it is.

I know I will get in better shape on the bike, but I sure do wish I wasn’t starting at such a deficit.  But like my trainer says.  It’s not where you start, it how long you keep going, that matters.  Well, I can see a long and winding road ahead of me.