T+100: A Question of Community

Mile 3580: Brockport, NY

100 days ago, Wes and I drove away from Detroit.  11 days later, we began our bike journey from Portland, Oregon.  It has been an amazing, revelatory experience, but it has been a journey through and with strangers.  That’s what makes the time spent in Manitowac, Wisconsin and Ludington, Michigan so wonderful and so different.   In both places, dear friends came to see us, wish us well, and provide us respite on our journey.  In both experiences, questions of making, participating in, and sustaining community were central.

Robert drove all the way up from Chicago on a few hours sleep to, as he said, “honor and support your trip.”  In 2002, he had taken very nearly the same trip by bike, going from Anacortes, Washington to Portland, Maine pulling a BOB trailer.  He, however, was traveling with a group of 12, with a designated trip leader, and camping almost exclusively.  We spent a fair amount of our too short visit comparing trips---comparing the places and people that somehow touched us.   They were traveling just after 9/11; emotions were still raw.   Robert did not see the signs of economic devastation that we have seen nearly everywhere. 

Also, his group was a company of strangers that came together for a common purpose and experience.   There were big variations in age and outlook in the company composed of 11 men and 1 woman.  It didn’t take long for the group to divide into niches, then cliques, then factions.   Robert ended riding the last part of the trip alone, as each faction broke off and took their own journey.  Ten years later, the group has not stayed in touch with each other.

By contrast, this trip has re-knit my marriage to Wes.  We are with each other 24/7, and lord knows we can get on each other’s nerves.  However, it has re-acquainted both of us with each other’s strengths.  After years of marriage, it is easy to focus the weaknesses, in each other and the relationship.   Of all the gifts of this trip, the renewal of our partnership and friendship may be the most important and enduring.

We also talked about Detroit—how much we love it, what will become of it, and how it is so different from the way it is presented--- and any place else we have ever been.  Robert came to Detroit as a volunteer in service.  That experience began an incredible journey.  After living a year with the Capuchin brothers in Detroit, Robert began the long, arduous path to becoming a Franciscan brother himself.   This is no easy thing.  The whole process takes no less than seven years, which is huge at any point, but gigantic when one begins after the age of 40.   One might excel in the schooling and service, as Robert has done, but finding a way to live in community with other flawed and incomplete humans is challenging under the best of circumstances.  All these contradictions and conundrums were presenting a huge challenge to Robert when we saw him.  All we could do is offer our love and community.  

We could offer no insights on these conundrums, but all of us could be super-fascinated by the process of loading four 80 foot wind turbine propellers onto the Badger ferry.   That was some feat.    It took four semi-trucks and occupied a full deck of the Badger.   Wes and I wondered if they came from the turbine factory just outside of Wausau.

The ride across Lake Michigan on the coal powered ferry Badger was beautiful but boring.  I wasn’t willing to pay the highway robbers’ fee to get Wi-Fi onboard.  It was much too windy to stay on deck, (which I have done of previous crossings).  I didn’t want to play bingo, or watch the movies, or the football game.  Both Wes and I would sit for a while, wander for a while, read the paper for a while.  I was fascinated by the big group of ham radio operators who set up several stations and broadcast throughout the trip.  (In the Colorado floods, the older technologies of ham radio and land line phones were the only communication systems that didn’t fail.)

We visited a bit with a family from Wisconsin, who told us they take a “mini-cruise” every year for the delight of their brother, a vivacious middle-aged man with Downs who LOVED the boat, the views, the food, and was happy to tell his family and those around him how good it all was.  We mentioned that we thought Wisconsinites were not cursed with self-consciousness.   One brother said, “I wish we had more.   All of it can just get to be too much!”

These questions of community were very much present in our reunion with our dear friends Keith and Tada.  They drove over from Detroit, and arranged adjoining rooms for us in Ludington, sweet things that they are.   When the Badger pulled in, amongst hundreds of small boats out salmon fishing, they were dockside, waving and smiling, taking pictures and pointing us out to random passersby.  It was wonderful to see them.  In Ludington, we visited and talked and ate.  True friends that they are, Keith and Tada helped us with our re-supply and maintenance tasks.   It’s a true friend that helps you do your stinky bike laundry.  While Wes and Keith did laundry and talked politics, Tada and I combed second stores looking for fall clothes for our bike trip.

While on these errands, we hear that my brother Steve and his cat had been airlifted from his canyon home in Colorado.  The road is out both above and below his property.  There is no electricity, water, or cell service and will not be for some time.  His wife has arrived from Maine: can they use our car in Wyoming while they secure their property, then drive it out to Maine, where they will stay the winter?  Of course.  It will also work great for us to pick up our car in Maine.  My brother Scott will pick it up in Wyoming and get it to them in Colorado. I am proud of my family. The crisis is now entering what will be a very long recovery phase.  

 

Keith, Tada, Wes, and I also had an extensive conversation about intentional and eco-village communities.  Tada has been fascinated by intentional communities for years and reads extensively about their various iterations.  She is currently focusing on eco-villages.  We talk at length about the various permutations.  Can community be consciously created?  What are the elements of voice and choice, money and power that make or hurt the formation of communities? Humans are weird and capricious, and (like me), so often confused by what we want and what we need.   In my experience, managing the complications of an intimate relationship between two people is hard; I can’t imagine negotiating financial, spiritual, and residential intimacy with a group of people.

The four of us decided to walk out to the Ludington lighthouse under threatening skies.   We stop at the end of the end of the jetty, admire the view, note the many salmon fishers, and have a brief conversation with four men fishing from the pier around the lighthouse.  I tease one fellow, dressed head to toe in camouflage by asking if he was hiding from the fish.  Tada sets down her big daypack while talking to another fellow.  All of a sudden, the wind shifts.  The front, which was headed north, starts coming south.  It is clear we will be rained on in just a few minutes.  We hurry down the jetty and back to the car, but don’t quite make it before the rain begins.  

Back at the motel, Tada realizes she has left her bag.  Keith and Tada return to the jetty under drenching skies to find that all the fishers have moved away from the daypack, to the other side of the lighthouse.  They told them they feared it was a bomb.  They didn’t quite believe it, but were worried enough to move away, just in case.

All these conversations about community make me homesick for Southwest Detroit, which is a real living community.  It is a joy to live where people contribute sports, and arts, and gardening, and history walks, and progressive dinners, and help with building, cleaning, or kids for the good of the community.    How all these communities-- of friends, of family, of location, of choice, or shared experience, or shared values—are sustained and maintained in the face of inevitable human frailty is a big question in all these conversations. 

We don’t have any answers as we climb aboard our bikes after kissing our friends good-bye.   When we head out to the woods of Michigan, we feel quite acutely the loneliness of this kind of travel.  How wonderful it was to be with friends, to share intimate news of our families, to talk at length about our fears and joys.   Travel is fun and meeting people is great, but blessed are those who are held in the web of friendship.  We have been blessed by our friends and we look forward to returning that blessing soon.

 

Posted from Fulton, NY

T+89: The Good, the Bad, and the Odd in Minnesota

Mile 3010: Midland, MI

After leaving Sauk Centre, we continued on the Lakes to Marshes path until it intersected with the Lake Wobegon Path, which has two arms.  The first continues south until just outside Minneapolis/St. Paul.  The second turned north and went through farmland and crossed the upper reaches of the Mississippi.  We took the northern route.

All throughout North Dakota, we had become expert at spotting the water towers (or water balls, as I like to call them) of towns towards which we headed.   Seeing that water ball provided a boost of energy in the last three or four miles of biking before a break.  (air conditioning! cool drinks!)  In this part of Minnesota, we see church spires first.  The further south we go, the larger and more epic the Catholic churches become.  In many parts of our trip so far, Catholic churches were absent or tiny.   

Covered bridge on Lake Wobegon Trail

At Albany, we turn north and follow the Lake Wobegon trail through cute little villages surrounded by corn fields or marshes.  We start to notice that the marshes are dry and the corn looks parched.  It is hot, but the wind is at our back because we are going north, so we tool right along.  We are heading to the town of Little Falls, where we cross the Mississippi and then turn east again to cross the state.  About ten miles from Little Falls, we enter the hamlet of Bowlus.  It has a very sweet town park; Wes wants to stop in the shade and drink some water.  We start to pull into the picnic area when we look across the street and see Jordie’s Trailside Café: Coffee and Homemade Desserts

Everyone who knows Wes will recognize the he has spent nearly every day of his life for the past five years at Jordi’s Café con Leche in Detroit.  There is no way we are not going in this cute brick café.  Inside, we drink glass after glass ice tea with lime and visit with Sonya, the daughter of the owner, Jordie.  Sonya hauls out notebook after notebook of notes and records of long-distance bicyclists who have stopped by on this route.  They have a particular fondness for this type of traveler and have maintained relationships with several for many years.   Sonya, laughing, tells me I have to go see the men’s bathroom.  It is a completely over the top shrine to the Twins baseball team.  All the wall space is covered with player photos, pennants, schedules, and posters.  There must be at least a dozen stuffed animals in Twins uniforms.  

The whole place is very frilly, funky, and comfortable, with real tablecloths, real but unmatched dishes, and a stream of folks in and out to say hi.  Sonya asks where we are staying.  Before we can answer, she says, “Why don’t you stay here?  Lots of cyclists camp in the garden around back.  We’re having a pasta and pizza buffet tonight.  It’ll be fun.”   Wes and I look at each other.   We are pretty far from our mileage goal, but this place is pretty special and a night without a hotel cost would be good, soooo….

They show us to the garden.  It is magical.  They have created a water fall, with pools full of koi, surrounded by rocks and teaming with all sorts of flowers.  There are numerous little angels and cheerful signs.  Why the effect is not cloying, I can’t comprehend.  Instead, it is pretty, and peaceful, and welcoming.  I set up shop on a covered, rocking picnic table.  Wes grabs a newspaper, finds a nook, and settles into to one of his favorite pastimes. 

Two older bicyclists stop by to see if Jordie’s can cater their next big ride.  They are fascinated by our trip and equipment and we are fascinated by them and their bikes.  They are both well into their 70’s, seemingly a pair, although they strongly emphasize that they do not live in the same town.  They belong to a bike club whose youngest member is 55 and whose patriarch is 85.  “On the Tuesday rides, he’ll stay with the pack and make sure everyone is doing all right, but on the Friday rides, forget it!  Nobody can keep up with him.”   They are both small, slight people.  The woman is about my size.  They are riding Giant road bikes.  She offers to let me give her bike a try.  I step on her tiny clip pedals, press a few strokes, and cannot believe how far I have gone.  The pick-up and pull on this bike is astonishing.  It would be easy to maintain a pace of 15-20 miles an hour on this thing.   I am jealous.  Of course, there is no way this light and powerful bike could pull or carry a load.   But we surely could make better time if our average running speed was greater than 10 miles an hour.

All the food at Jordie’s is handmade, mostly by Sonya.  This includes the pizza dough and some of the pastas.  None of the food is very fancy or elaborate, but it is delicious and thoughtfully presented.  We choose to eat in a little alcove of the main dining room, where we can watch the steady stream of locals come in, get hugs, eat pizza and pasta, and gossip.  This is obviously a community center.  While in the alcove, we see a little shrine and read a framed and mounted newspaper article with the headline, “Jordie’s Trailside Café opens in a muted affair.”  The article tells that the brick building, now so cute and ruffly, had been a longtime railside bar, owned by Jordie and her fiancé Mike.  Drinking apparently got the best of Mike and he died from his alcoholism.  Jordie decided she would never serve anyone another drink of alcohol, closed the bar, and with the help of her daughter created the café which would be dedicated to hope and wholesomeness.  Now it is a haven of poetry, music, gardening, and homegrown food, with a constant throng of diners, visitors, and gardeners.

We have a nice sleep on the grass to the sound of the little waterfall.  We have a hard time dragging ourselves away the next morning, staying for breakfast and watching a several groups of construction workers come into this frilly place for their sausage, eggs and homemade bread.   We push off on the bike trail, headed up to the Mississippi River.   While riding, we visit with two middle-aged women on slow, heavy bikes, who like so many women when they hear of our long ride, exclaim, “Doesn’t your butt get sore?”  I tell them yes, it does and give them advice on managing the pain.   I think they are shocked at my strategies and realizing that discomfort is part of the package.

At the bridge, Wes stops to get his video camera to film this most momentous of river crossings.  He is effusively disgusted to find out that his GoPro camera has no charge even though it has not been used since the last charge.  This is a real irritant with this device.  I can see that these good farm women from Minnesota are very uncomfortable with this display of emotion.  They hurriedly make their goodbyes and rush off as fast as their slow, comfy bikes can take them.

Once again, the dear little Veer phone saves the day and we are able to film the river crossing.  On the other side of the river, we realize we have made a big mistake.  This trail ends on US Highway 10, a super busy divided highway, full of trucks and cars going full speed.  We have gone about six miles too far to the north and now have to travel on the shoulder, facing a stiff headwind, to get back on the right track.  It is really awful cycling.

We spot a road to the east and decide to bail.  We wander through back lanes and finally make our way back to where we should have been, having wasted 12 miles and a bunch of energy fighting the wind. 

Back on track, we head east, climbing and falling through a series of back roads where the crops are becoming increasing burnt.  There are whole fields of dead and dry soybeans; corn stalks with little, bent heads chatter in the hot, dry wind pouring in from the southeast.  We are in the farm lands of central Minnesota and seeing firsthand the effects of the severe drought in this region.  It is the first topic of conversation in every shop or bar.   There was too much rain in May and June; planting was delayed.  There has been no rain since late June.   Most farmers have no capacity to irrigate. All they can do is watch their crops thirst to death.

There are very few cafes in this part of the state.  Here and in Wisconsin, food is available in almosy exclusively in taverns.   We stop for lunch in a non-descript bar in Ramey, MN.  The customers are a group of farmers.  I hear one lament, “Last year, I was getting 360 bushels of corn to the acre.  This year, I will be lucky to get 60.” 

There is one young woman working.  She is the bartender, store clerk, and cook.  We ask about the special and she tells us it is chicken wild rice soup with a grilled cheese sandwich.  Sounds good.  Twenty minutes later she returns and we know for sure we are not at Jordie’s.   The soup is a gloppy combination of barely heated cream of chicken soup, Cheez whiz, and cold wild rice.  The sandwich is probably Kraft singles on margarine soaked Wonder bread.  It is a rare day when Wes can’t eat, but this is one of them.

 We fight our way down to the town of Milaca, where we have another odd experience.

The town has two choices for lodging.  One is a Motel 8 out on the highway.  The other is the Phoenix Hotel in town.  The Phoenix is a mixed used re-development of the former high school.  In addition to small retail, some condos, and a Pizza Hut, the high school is now a convention center and hotel with an almost hidden entrance.  The layout is peculiar, and our room is through a twisty turny hall on the second floor.  The hotel clerk tells us not to leave our bikes outside, they will surely be stolen and that there is plenty of space in our room.  We clonk our bikes and BOBs up the elevator into our odd room which has a giant bathroom foyer upon entering, then two beds with two televisions around the corner.  

We settle in for the evening and I tell Wes I would like a glass of wine while I work on my blogs.  Wine and beer are only sold in state liquor stores in Minnesota.  We are told the store is just six blocks up the street outside the hotel.  We set out walking, and the blocks and sidewalks soon disappear. Then there are no streetlights.  We walk on and on.  No store.  This feels more and more like a goose-chase.  We walk all the way out to the highway.  No liquor store.  We give up and buy ice tea at a Hardee’s and walk back, having never seen the store.  By the time we get back to our twisty-turny room, we’re done.

We hope for better day and a passage into Wisconsin the next day.  However, this is Minnesota and nothing goes quite as planned for us in this state …but that is a story for another post.

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posted from Midland, Michgan

T-59: The Meaning of Matter

We are now less than two months out from our big trip.  There is still a lot to do, but we making progress on all the easy fronts.  The easiest front of all is focusing on the stuff side of this equation.  What will we take?  How will we carry it?  

I particularly focus on this, making lists, and making piles and sorting, arranging, and measuring the pile.  Wes is very happy to let me do this.  I approach these matters with a combination of relish, fixation, and sheepishness. 

Beckett's playwriting/choreography for Quad

The relish part:  part of this is just the simple joy of numbers.  I, unlike so many, understood completely Samuel Beckett’s nostrum, uttered by his irrational character Watt, “there is nothing so comforting as numbers.”  Watt spends endless time trying to count steps (12 or 13 or 14, depending on whether you count the risers or treads), or figuring out the number of combinations of moves that will allow him to moving his sucking stones throughout his pockets without repeating either stone or pocket. 

I am embarrassed to say I understand this.  Ever since I was a little girl, I have been using math to help me cope with excess time, or stress, or boredom.  I remember when I was about 10 or 11 figuring out that there were 10 reflector poles per mile.  I would then figure how many poles there would be on this trip.  I would then do fractions in my mind to pass the miles.   

I still do this.  Yes, I truly do count swimming laps by doing fractions: 1/72, 1/36, 1/24, 1/18, 5/72, 1/12….  I suppose this is a mild form of autism.  It occupies the mind without engaging either the emotions or the body.

I like data.  I keep records.  It makes me feel grounded.  It is clear, finite, fixed.  It is not confusing and changeable, like people are, or interpersonal communications are.  My life is full of people.  Each one is wonderfully different and amazing.  Each one learns differently.  Each one communicates differently.  Some are good at it.  Some are not.  Some say what they are thinking and feeling.  A whole lot don’t.  I find it work to negotiate all these changes all the time.  I am amazed and jealous of people, like my friend Janice, who flow through the tides of diversity and emotion, with such grace and empathy. 

I find quite challenging to be a constant source of output.  My natural state is being a receptor, who then likes to arrange and systematize (see above), but who doesn’t much like to talk about it.  I do not have that whatever- it- is, that allows people to tell the same story over and over to different people.  This makes me a truly rotten promoter.  I have seen my friends like Rich and Keith go from person to person, happily sharing the same information over  and over, seeding a room with information.   I become either embarrassed, bored, or exhausted attempting this useful task. 

For better or worse and probably both, I have a wonkish, writerly turn of mind.  I can spend hours in silence.  I am overly stimulated, and as a result, way too talky and hyped up, when I get around a group of people.  Most people think that blatherskite is me.  That is the me they experience.…but it is not the comfortable and peaceful me.  It is the nervous and anxious and overcompensating me.

So part of this trip is just respite.  There will be days and days of  focusing on the simple, concrete need to deal with physical reality.  We need to pack the bike.  Is the bike packed? Check. We need to make our camp.  Is the camp set up? Check.  There are beginning, middle, and ends to these tasks.

Many hours on the bike are spent in silence, just being.  The body is active, the mind is quiet and receptive, perceiving the ever-changing panorama.  I love having a bike computer and watching the numbers go by and doing my fractions.    The ambivalences and endless interpersonal communications, with the constant negotiations and misunderstandings which make up the reality of my daily life will stop for a while.  I will revel in the concrete and rest in the simple meaning of matter.