R+71: Embracing the Tangle

Detroit. 2.28.14

I have been back at work for six weeks now.  I am still getting my feet under me.   The contrast to our lives on the bike is remarkable.  While we were on the bike sojourn, and then later, when we were on the writers’ retreat in our cabin, life, managing priorities and communications were much simpler.

On the bike, choices are reduced.  When do we leave?  Where do we go?  When do we stop?  Where do we stay?  What do we eat?  Of these, the only one that regularly presented complications was “Where do we stay?”  In many places across the country, there were exactly two choices.  Do we camp outside or do we stay in the one small motel in town?  In Circle, Montana, for instance, there was a KOA campground or there was a creepy looking motel.  We were so tired after biking hours in a howling wind, we didn’t want any more time outside.  We opted for the motel, and were filled with anxiety when we saw its ramshackle sign and abandoned, crumbling coffee shop.  As it turned out, the motel owner “gave us his best room,” which although the plumbing leaked, and was newly painted a spectacular combination of pink, blue, and gold,  it ended up being a pretty good rest for our weary bones.

To stay or not stay here....that is the question.

Other times, we were faced with a plethora of choices.  In Shawano, Wisconsin, there were many nice looking accommodations.  It was late, we had been lost (again), but we had reservations at a resort, theoretically on the lake.  Our inner voices were screaming at us, to just take one of these rooms and not bike out in the dark to that distant room.  But no.  And when we got there, after meeting the befuddled owner in a lobby reeking of cat, we found our beautiful lakeside resort was actually a rundown welfare motel. 

Still--these choices were pretty straightforward: cope or not cope with the choice.  Rail against your fate (Wes’ choice in Shawano) or slip into surly resignation (Shaun’s choice in Shawano).   The good news was that we could leave behind our bad choices the next day.   We left it behind and rolled onto the next adventure.

Communications on the road are also pretty simple.  First of all, for much of the day, silence reigns.  Once we mount our bikes, there might be an hour or two where the only communication was an internal conversation with yourself.   Many times, there was not even that.    

Our brains were focused on making sure that our bodies were functioning as needed, especially when the terrain was challenging.  The only thing that mattered, that truly was all-consuming, was getting that bike up that hill.  The same can be said for many down-hills.  Full concentration was required when zipping down a mountain at 35 miles an hour.  There is only one choice available.   The same is true riding in traffic, as when we were trying to make our way on that hell-hole of a two lane road going into Whitefish, MT.  With no shoulder, heavy traffic, and a six inch drop off the highway to the surrounding land, it took every ounce of our mind and body to stay alive.  

As we were going in and out of public places, like restaurants or bars, communication was an option.  If we were tired, or not feeling social, we could easily choose not to engage with the people around us.  When we did talk to the strangers we met, it was easy enough to turn the conversation to them and find out about who they are, what they are experiencing, what they are perceiving in the world.   We had nearly pat answers to the five standard questions.  (Where did you start?  Where are you going?  How many miles a day do you ride?  Where do you stay?  How many tires have you gone through?)  If our conversation turned to our background or interests, we could disclose… or not.  In any case, these were 15-45 minute relationships.  Before long, we would be down the road and would likely never see this person again.   Such are the pleasures of anonymity.

Oh, what a difference to be back in Detroit and back at work.   First of all, good bye to anonymity.  Nearly everywhere I go in this small town masquerading as a big city, I see someone I know.  Here at the coffee shop where I am writing this, I have spoken to 7 people in less than an hour.   Some of these people I have known for years.  I know their families.  I have had disagreements off and on through the years.  I must choose how I continue these relationships.  Let bygones be bygones?  Warily engage and watch out for grounds of conflict?  Keep the war alive?  I almost never choose the latter, although I know people who do.  I wish I could always choose the first, but I am rather bad at that best of choices.  Mostly I focus on the positive and watch out for the negative.   With the woman whose politics make me uneasy, but whose personality and family I like, we talk of family and history and neighborhood.

Back at work, the choices can be overwhelming.  There are ramifications to everything.  Who will it benefit?  Who will disagree?  What happens if we do?  What happens if we don’t?  What are the steps to get there?  Everything is a finely balanced choice.  Choose wrong and the resulting mess will bring emotions and confusion and disorder that may take years to sort. 

Even in the best of circumstances, I am operating with a mass of indefinites.   This is a human operation.  Humans don’t always say what they mean… even when they are not trying to obfuscate.  They may not have the skills to express it.  They may not feel comfortable expressing it in these circumstances. They may not know what they want (one of my particular failings)… And there are the inevitable balancing acts.  What may be just great for A is deeply upsetting to B and C is not yet ready to choose.  Round and round and round it goes. 

Then the context for every decision must be considered.  Can I see what is happening in the city, in our community?  If I align with one group, do I damage my relationships with another?  If I speak against one option, do I close off the possibility of a relationship with the people who support the other option?  Which way is the best way?  Who knows?  Who can tell?
And no matter what, whatever I choose, I will have to live with consequences of my choice.  If my choice angers someone, then I will have to work through the backwash of that emotion, even while allowing another person the space and time to celebrate, or worry, or dismiss the same thing.  It is a tangle, that’s for sure.

During these first few weeks, being back in the tangle has felt claustrophobic.  How often I just wanted to get on my bike and disappear from all these complications. How much I just wanted to retreat into a spot where all the choices are mine, as are all the silences. 

However, in one of those moments of grace that sometimes touch my life, I had a realization.  The tangle is the work.  To engage in human work, and be in the human community means embracing the tangle.  My only choice is to be as authentic and simple and straightforward as I can.  The negotiations will be constant.  The confusion will be ever present.  My job, therefore, is presenting my best and truest heart, and silencing the worrisome yammer in my brain.  I agree to muddle on, sorting and sifting and winding the tangle that is life.

T+135: Stalled in Central New York

Centennial, Wyoming:  My body is not liking being off the bike. The daily vigorous exercise suited me.  My digestion has slowed to crawl; my shoulders and neck ache. I am having trouble sleeping.  The daily walks are helpful, but obviously not sufficient.  Today, we got my beloved Kuwahara mountain bike running.  We took a small jaunt in the 40 mile an hour wind.  My coat blew up like a balloon.

My 1986  Kuwahara reminds me of previous trips we have taken.  I rode that little stump jumper from Jasper, Alberta to Yellowstone, from Montreal to Halifax and back to Quebec.  It’s been on the backroads of Yellowstone during the Great Fire of 1988.  It’s been to Boulder and back a few times, and all around Wyoming.  None of these rides asked as much, nor delivered as much, as the most recent journey. 

Earlier trips were vacations, escapes, a hoot.  The trek across the country was a quest… to see what was going on in our country , to be sure.  But it was also to find out who I was after years of submersion into grievous overwork.  I had trouble seeing my personhood separate from my work.  Even though it was killing me, I couldn’t find a way to reduce it or make it relent.  The only thing I knew to do was something completely different.

Now that we are back, we cannot perceive what our life will be like in 6 months.   We are still in the sacred space of the trip, telling its tales and trying to mine its teachings.  As we wound through central New York, we thought we were on the downward slope, and getting close to that victory dance.  Wrong, wrong, wrong.  There was still plenty to learn about persistence, commitment, and dumb luck.   The first teacher was the little town of Fulton.

Mile 3695, Fulton, NY

We ride into Fulton and the first thing we see is a pretty lake.  We go over to it.  The next thing we see is a huge warning sign, “NO SWIMMING, NO WADING, DO NOT EAT FISH FROM THIS LAKE. If you get lake water on yourself, rinse immediately.”  It doesn’t say what the toxin is or what caused it.  We wonder about the flocks of geese and ducks paddling about on the lake.  Are they being poisoned?

As we leave the lake, we look across the street and immediately see a big Wal-Mart.   As we ride into town, we start to see the tell-tale signs of economic distress: empty buildings, abandoned homes, beater cars, pay-day loans, houses that haven’t been painted, faded For Sale signs, rusty fences, hand-made business signs.  At one of these handmade business signs on a faded old house, we stop.  The sign says “No Biggee Coffee House” and something about its home-grown look is appealing to us.

As soon as we step in side, we are warmly greeted by the proprietor.  She is a European American woman, with faded blonde hair, strong arms, and snapping, bright blue eyes.  We look around for a place to sit.  In the former living room, there are a series of second hand lounge chairs and saggy couches nestled around a makeshift stage sporting handmade signs announcing Game Night and Open Poetry Night.  We find two chairs around a well-used wooden table in the former dining room. 

We go to the handmade wooden counter and ask about latte’s.  They don’t have that kind of a machine.  How about some regular coffee? Fine.  She pours us two big mugs of coffee from the domestic drip coffee maker.  “Those are 50 cents each…so $1 dollar, please.” We are surprised at the low price.   Well, we better get a pastry, too.  “They’re all home-made,” she offers.  Wes gets the coffee cake, and I get the cinnamon roll.  Mine is delicious, but Wes’s is very dry. “That’ll be $1 dollar each, and they come with coffee, so you owe me another dollar.”

We are seated next to a middle aged couple who look like they just came off a 1950’s farm.  She has dyed blonde hair in a soft bouffant and is wearing a cotton shirt with small flowers.  He could stand to lose a few pounds, but has a round, open face with his short hair carefully Bryl-creamed into place.  They smile at us and say “Hi.”  This group is joined by a young woman, perhaps 17 or 18, who might be the daughter? niece? guardian? of the proprietor.  She is all excited about a fund-raising effort she is doing for a school club that  will use the funds to visit colleges.  She is taking orders for pies.  She makes a sales pitch at the couple’s table and at ours.   We explain we are just passing through; the farmer’s wife says they are too expensive at $22 a pie.  The farmer says he doesn’t thinks schools should be promoting the eating of sugar.

About that time a rather round young man comes in.  He is a regular.  The proprietor asks if he wants his usual.  He does.  She fixes him some sort of big sugary drink, which excites a comment from the farmer sitting next to Wes.  “See... this is what’s wrong with the American diet…too much sugar…too much wheat.  It just stimulates the production of bacteria in the gut.”

The young man is blissfully sucking his drink through a straw, when a handsome, slender, dark-skinned African American man comes into the coffee house.  Everyone greets him.  “Hey, Lionel!”  He goes over and gives the proprietor a big hug, “Hey, baby.”  The farmer’s wife leans over to us and whispers confidentially.  “They’re newly-weds…aren’t they cute?”

The young man with the drink goes up to Lionel and stops him in his tracks by saying, “I sure was sorry to hear about your son.  It’s real bad when someone so young dies, isn’t it?”  There is silence in the room.  Lionel finally smiles at the young man who seems totally unaware of his blunder.  “Thanks for your condolence.”  The farmer whispers to us that the son had died of a heart attack, even though he was just a young teen.  He gestures to a sign announcing a chicken dinner benefit for the family to help pay for the costs.

Lionel extricates himself from the young man, and scoots behind the counter to grab the coffee pot and re-fill everyone’s mugs.  We offer to pay for the re-fill, but…  “Oh, no, refills are free.”

About that time, we are joined by another 30 something woman, who has bangs and long blonde hair curling around her stout shoulders and thick back.  The teenager immediately accosts her with the pie sales pitch.  Ms Bangs looks at the prices, blanches, then declares, “I make all pies myself…bread, too, pasta, even. All that store bought stuff is no good…too expensive and full of all kinds of junk.”   This statement is confirmed by the farmer. “See that’s just what I’m saying!”

The teenager is none too pleased by her sales failure and she wails, “How am I ever going to go to college if I don’t make my sales.”  Her mother/aunt/guardian offers, “I don’t know how you will afford to go college. Period.”  The teenager offers, “I could get a job.”  Lionel asks, “What kind of job can you get?”  Teenager, “I could get one like yours.”  Lionel, “You have to have a car.”  Teenager, “You have to have a car to work at Domino’s?”  Lionel, “How else are you going make the deliveries?”  Teenager: “They don’t give you one to use?”  The whole room laughs.  The Mom? asks, “How would you get a car?”  Teenager, “I don’t know.  Why is it all so hard!?”  Ms Bangs, “That’s just the way it is.  Nothing is as easy as you think.”  Whole room: “Boy, ain’t that the truth,  That’s right, mmm-hmm.”

At that point, Lionel announces he has to get to work.  He goes over to hug his wife.  She asks, “That’s all?”  He glances around, decides to take a chance, and gives his new wife a nice big kiss.  As he exits, he says, “I’ll be back after a while to help you clean up.”

Wes and I decide we best be moving on, too.  At that point, the farmer pulls out a folder, reaches in, and gives Wes a flyer telling about a website and some products he is promoting.  It is promoting a wheat and sugar free diet, and he is selling some amino acids to promote better digestion.  He says, “I lost 40 pounds since I started following this diet and using this stuff.  You go on the website and you can find out all about it.”  Wes takes the paper and prepares to leave.  The proprietor has stepped away, so he just leaves a $5 dollar bill on the counter, hoping they will take the hint about their prices. 

As we ride away, we can see that the town is hanging on by a thread.  The downtown businesses are mostly closed.  We decide to push onto the next village just six miles away, where there is supposed to be a small motel.   As we walk our bikes up the hill (my knee still complaining), we talk about whether No Biggee can make it.  We hear a lone saxophonist practicing jazz in a small house across the highway.  The player would play a bit, stop, then try again, this time a little better, a little stronger.  By the time we had cleared the hill, s/he was able to play the whole phrase.   That’s our wish for the folks at No Biggee—that they’ll find a way to keep doing just a little better until they can do all right.

We make our way to the hamlet of Volney, where we cannot find the motel.  I call the number a few times.  It rings and rings.  Finally, we go into the Ace Hardware and ask about the motel.  The young man working the counter has never seen or heard of this motel.  Just at that moment, a customer with a prominent bandage on his neck comes the counter.  The counterman asks the customer about the motel, who immediately asserts, “Naah, that’s been out of business for a long time.”  Are there any other motels about?  “There’s one Fulton.”  We just came from there, we’d prefer not to backtrack.  This causes a great deal of consternation and “Is there one in…? How about in….? There’s definitely one in Oswego.”  We’re not going that direction. After much back and forth, checking the computer, contemplating routes…nope, we have to go back to Fulton and stay at the Riverside Motel.  Sorry.  

On our way out, we ask the young man about Fulton.  It seemed very depressed.  He says, “You shoulda seen it before.  Man, it was something.  We had Nestle’s, Birds Eye, and Miller.  Everyone was working and the town was just humming.  Did you know that Nestle’s had its first factory in America here in Fulton?”  We ask if there are is any signs of rebirth.  He shakes his head, “There’s some talk of Birds Eye starting something here again, but I’ll believe it when I see it.”

We make our way back into town, past the abandoned Nestle factory to the Riverside Inn.  Once, it was a standard bearer.  Now it is showing its age with stained carpet, peeling wall paper, and a rutted parking lot.  We ask the young man serving as the desk clerk about the town.  He replies, “It sucks.  I can hardly wait to get out of here.”  Thinking of our encounter at No Biggee, we tell him we have met some nice people who trying to get things going.  He snorts, “Nice people! Not too many of those around here, if you ask me.”

The room is not at all expensive, but is full of all sorts of extraneous furniture like a couch in the entrance and a storage chest along the wall.  It is crowded and a bit dank.  The restaurant is closed, but they have some food in the bar.  It’s 10 wings and 2 beers for $10 night and there is a small crowd.   The waitress has her small son and infant in the bar and steals moments to attend to their needs.  The next morning, she is working the front desk and the tall man who was in the bar is serving as manager/maintenance/whatever. 

A full hot breakfast comes with the room.  There is one waitress, who is working hard, especially for a group of what appears to be construction workers, who have her coming and going, getting more food, more drinks, on and on.  When they leave, the table is a mess, there’s a lot of uneaten food, and they have left no tip.

She says to us, “Those guys do that every day. Never leave a tip.  Ask for everything.  I’m only getting $7 bucks an hour and working 14 hours a week.  I need the tips, but they don’t give a damn.”

We have decided to make the best of this rest day by doing laundry, correspondence, and dealing with Wes’ broken Go-Pro camera.  This gives us another view of this broken down town.  The laundromat is crowded.  We are greeted by a man who yells a story at us that makes no sense.  When he goes into the Laundromat, he is scrupulously avoided, even when he directly speaks to someone.  There is a large group of young Spanish speaking men, who point at our bikes, especially the bike trailers, but do not speak to us.  An older man with Downs, who may be at the Laundromat in some official capacity, goes from person to person, wishing each one well.  A tired looking woman with an adult son, cleans and sorts and stacks an enormous pile of laundry.  She apologizes to us, saying, “My washing machine broke down.  Don’t know when it’ll be fixed.”

Wes has spent hours on the phone with the Go-Pro camera people because this nearly new camera will not turn on and will not charge.  After a series of tests, which the camera fails, they tell us to send the camera back and they will issue a new one.  That’s great, but how can we get while we are on the road?  There are multiple confusing phone calls as Wes tries to work out the logistics.  Long story short, we have to send the camera back and they will send the camera on to one of our future destinations. 

There is no UPS or Fed-Ex store in town--closed.  There is a mailbox place that can send it.  Ok, back across town with all the information.  Wes asks the woman if she can print the mail label from the email Go Pro sent.  “Oh, no.  We don’t have any email access at this store.”  "Well, if I pull the email up on my computer, can we use the printer here?" I ask  “Oh, no.  That’s not allowed.  You have to go over to the library.”

Back across town again.  The library is next to the post office.  Wes will mail some letters, while I go start printing the labels.  Oops, bad plan.  I go the library and realize I have neither lock nor money.  I have to wait until Wes comes before I can start.  There is another young woman waiting just outside the library.  She is morbidly obese, and on oxygen.  She can only move a few feet at a time, before she has to sit down on her walker.  She calls for a taxi, then makes another phone call while she is waiting. The conversation grows more and more heated.  She is quite upset because a former roommate came into her apartment while she was gone and took something.  The person on the other end apparently didn’t think the offense was so bad.  The conversation becomes ever more heated until the young woman screams into the phone, saying, “I don’t know why you are trying to stress me out.  If you don’t watch out, I’ll have a heart attack and just die!”

I am relieved when Wes returns and we are able to print the labels.  There is one librarian in the large 1900's  edifice.  He is running around like mad, helping people with computers, answering reference questions, checking out books.  Back at the mailbox place, the clerk easily prepares the camera for shipping.  We ask her about the local economy.  She says it bad, really bad, but maybe the Bird’s Eye thing will help some.  I say I think it makes sense for Fulton to become a processor of the local apple harvest.  She says, “Oh, no, I don’t think there is enough apples to do anything with them.”  We say we just rode through miles of apples.  She insists there’s nothing to be done.

We stop at a shop on the way back and see that it has notices for 4 chicken dinner benefits for people experiencing some sort of crisis.  We have been up and down, back and forth in this town.  The signs of hope, local organizing, urban agriculture, or maker-space entrepreneurship, so common in Detroit, are nowhere to be seen in this little town.  We have seen a lot of despair, too much negativity, and a fervent belief in future negative outcomes.  It makes us sad and makes us want to leave.   Sore knee or no, we’re heading out tomorrow. 

 

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posted from Centennial, Wyoming

T+125: Fellow Travelers, Pt. 2

Des Moines, Iowa: On June 23, Wes and I stayed at this same Candlewood Suites, en route to Wyoming, where we would pick up Wes’ bike and make our way to Portland, Oregon.  It is now October 25, and we are making our way back to Wyoming, to drop off the bike and finish writing the story of our travels from Portland to Portland.  In many ways, the trip began on that night in June, when we watched the movie, The Journey, with Martin Sheen.  That movie resonated throughout our trip….the times of just going, the moments of grief or of jubilation, the tender and touching connections with people who walked…or in this case, cycled…into our lives, and left such a big impression.

 

We had just got on the Erie/Niagara Trail and were making our way along the eastern coast.  Our goal was Niagara Falls, but it was far and we were tired.  We couldn’t find one nice thing to say to each other.  All the petty grievances of constant companionship were at the front of our minds and quick off our lips that day.  Why can’t Wes eat one meal without spilling food on himself?  Why does Shaun always dawdle and delay and mess around when we need to be going? 

About five miles in, a youngish man, full beard, chestnut colored hair, riding a bike with full panniers, rides up alongside us.  One of his panniers is a rectangular plastic box. Normally, one buys kitty litter or soap in these containers.  Here it was bolted to his bike rack.   Seeing that he was a fellow traveler, I launched into the regular litany of questions.  Where are you coming from?  Portland, where he lives.  Where are you going to?  Rhode Island, to meet his girlfriend, although his original destination was Portland, Maine.   He and a group of 4 other bicyclists set out the third week of July and have been pretty much following the Northern Tier.  However, the group has been splitting apart.   Two split off in Montana, including the girlfriend he was rushing to meet in Rhode Island on October 8.  The other two he left in Minnesota.  He has been traveling alone for a while now.  After experiencing what Wes describes as “Existential Angst” (Why am I here?  What am I doing?)  during a particularly difficult crossing of Michigan, he has chat stored up and is anxious to talk.

And talk we do.  His name is Bruce.  He is originally from New York, but has been living in Portland for some years.  He is an emergency room nurse by trade, but a mountain climber/adventurer by avocation.  This is the first time he has taken a major bike trip.  He has been camping and eating rough most of the way.   A light day for him is 70 miles.  It is clear that he has slowed down to ride with us; Wes and I are pumping as fast as we can to keep up with this slender, strong man and his light, modern bike. 

We talk of our trips and compare notes.  Bruce is a mountain climber and backpacker.  He has been on many trips, but even he found the ride over the Cascades a challenge.  He was eaten alive by mosquitoes in Saco, MT.  They stayed on the freeway all the way across North Dakota, never venturing into the back ways and farm routes we explored.  He left his friends in Minnesota so that he could make time across the mid-section.  By the time he got to Wisconsin and was going to take the ferry at Manitowoc, it had broken down.  It was not at all clear who or how or what was going to be able to fix that 100 year old coal fired ship.  (I wonder what has happened to family associated with Two Guys taxi; ferry traffic was the mainstay of their business).  He took the hovercraft over the lake, landing at Muskegon.  He wandered through busy roads and surly people in our home state and was glad to be out of there.

He was bee-lining across Canada and anxious to get to Niagara.  Despite having been raised in New York City, and having travelled extensively throughout the state, he had never seen the falls.  After that, he was off to the Finger Lakes, Ithaca and Cornell, then lickety-split across the Catskills to Rhode Island.  He had a ride of about 700 miles to do in 8 days.   Of course, this makes Wes and I feel like a couple of pikers.

After we wore out the topic of our trips, we soon turned our attention to politics, the economy, our personal history…and more.  The conversation continued apace as we rode the fifty miles to Niagara Falls.  It continued as we explored the town and ate dinner together that night.  It didn’t stop until we said our good byes the next morning from the hostel in Niagara Falls.

Like us, Bruce was using the bike trip to sort out a life change.  He had been an emergency room nurse for some years and had been satisfied with it.  He had recently purchased a house in Portland, and now at the age of 40 (he looked barely 30), his life of work interspersed with adventure was no longer working for him. He had become frustrated and disaffected with the branch of medicine in which he was working.  When he was younger, he had liked the adrenalin rush and lack of relationship at the core of that type of nursing.  It wore on him now.

I told him that my sister was a nurse and that she has found a great deal of satisfaction, after years of bouncing around the profession, working as a hospice care nurse.  She really enjoys that it is patient and family-centered.  Bruce says he has thought about it and is going to think some more about it.  This conversation occurs as we are on the most eastern reach of Erie, as we are cruising past giant houses on the Niagara Recreation Trail, 40 miles into our common ride.

Bruce is a generation younger than us.  His view of his prospects and future within the American economy is sobering.  He has an enormous student debt that he believes he will never be able to pay off.   He feels good about the house he recently purchased, but allows that he is the only one of his friends to make that commitment.  He has no pension plan, no retirement savings, nor any expectation to ever receive Social Security.  He feels his best strategy is to make the most of each day, no promises given nor expected.  He doesn’t perceive a social contract beyond his circle of friends and family.

We are surprised by this.  He allows that it would be a good thing to feel as though one were getting and giving in a web of mutual support.  It’s just that he has never seen or felt such a thing.  He is not a member of a union, and doesn’t think he knows anyone who is. 

It would be tempting to say that Bruce is alienated, but he is not.  He is a free agent, and ok with that.  He benefits from white privilege and knows it.  We all know that we move more freely than any person of color.  A case in point: the night before Bruce camped (illegally) in the closed Peacock Point Provincial Park.  Local law enforcement saw him there and shined a light on him, then moved on without saying a word.  Would that have happened to someone who was not a white male on a nice bike?   It is not hard to think of scenario where the answer would be “No.”

He is an alert, educated, compassionate guy.  He lives simply and tries to pay attention to his choices.  Part of the reason he has the plastic box pannier is a commitment to living without waste.  What surprises us, over and over, is the lack of collective conscience or experience.  He was self-centered, but not at all narcissistic.  Being for himself and himself alone was not driven by ego; it was the way he was trained to be.  It was how society asked him to perform.

He was truly surprised when I told him about our life in Detroit and that I know at least 100 people by name in my immediate neighborhood.  Detroit is incredibly rich in social capital, I tell him.  The kind of art-making, storytelling, urban agriculture, mutual protection, and social activism that makes up our daily life in Detroit sounds appealing, but utterly foreign, to Bruce.  I do understand that social capital is required and present when financial capital is absent, (otherwise known as “making a way out of no way”). In addition, it is easy to disengage from the social contract when one has financial means.  What bothers me, truly saddens me, is understanding that there are a large number of young people who don’t see themselves connected to any larger whole. 

As we get closer to the falls, all three of us get more and more excited.  This is a momentous point in our trip.  Already we are seeing all sorts of signs of this area’s pre-American Revolution past.  When we cross the border tomorrow, we will enter one of the original colonies.  We are amazed at how little we know of War of 1812, which is remembered and celebrated all throughout this region.  I say to Wes, “Just think! When we cross the border, we will actually be in the Atlantic United States.”  (I will soon discover the folly of that statement.)  We stop to take pictures of the corner of Lake Erie with Buffalo, New York in the distance.

We bike along the edge of the Niagara River.  The river is big and powerful, with enormous rocks which generate ferocious rapids.  It is easy to see why this river created such a barrier.   When we get to the town of Niagara Falls, we find ourselves in a huge sea of humanity, even though this is mid-September. It is impossible to cycle in this throng, so we dismount and pick our way through the crush.  

The range of people here is astonishing.  There are women in gorgeous saris, groups speaking in the clicking tones of very South Africa, many, many Asians, some speaking Japanese, some Tagalog, maybe some Vietnamese, Korean, and Chinese as well.  There urban folks and country folks, the tight pant set right next to the baggy pants brigade.  There are busloads of seniors, mamas attempting to corral little ones while pushing strollers.   Young lovers kiss in front of the falls while someone takes their pictures.  There are folks in wheelchairs; people conversing in sign.  I saw one family pushing what looked like a gurney with a person tightly wrapped in a handmade quilt toward the guardrail.  A woman, whom I took to be the grandma, held the wrapped one’s hand and issued a running commentary on the sights and sounds.  Every complexion, every size, every age is represented: what a global mosaic.

Everyone takes turn pushing up to the guardrail to take a look at the awesome horseshoe falls.  There is a full 180 rainbow over the falls and a light mist falling over this human sea.  The city stretches behind us with high-rise hotels; helicopters circle endlessly and dip in and out of the water’s mist.   Boat with names like the Maiden of the Mist chug towards the cataract at the base of the falls.   On the edge, at least 300 feet above, we can hear the faint squeal of the crowd on the boat as they move into the fall’s spray.  The whole experience is giddy, surreal, slightly euphoric. 

I need to find the ladies room, so make my way through a cavernous hall, jam-packed with people.  It is tricky and takes quite a while.  While I am gone, a young man with a bike pulling an overloaded BOB trailer introduces himself to Wes.  He is Japanese, quite young, riding a single gear bicycle.  He has just begun his trip and is headed west, on the opposite path we have just traveled.  Wes and Bruce try to get this young man to join us at the hostel for the evening.  However, the wind has shifted and the light mist has become the equivalent of a heavy drizzle.   Just as I return, the young man bows deeply to Wes and Bruce and disappears into the crowd.

It is getting late; we need to get to the hostel and get our dinner. As we ride, we worry about this rider.  How will he ever make it over the Rockies and Cascades with a single gear?  And it is much too late in the year to be staying so far north.  He told Wes he was carrying 35 kilos on his bike…80 pounds and no gears as fall is coming on… with limited English.  Ay, ay, ay….

After we check into the run-down hostel with just a single staff on duty, a jocular, sandy-haired native of Ireland named Eric.  The hostel has all sorts of signs of events and tours it is offering on Fridays.  This Friday, there are none.  Wes and I have (over) paid for a private room; Bruce sleeps in the men’s dorms.  We walk down to Queen Street for dinner.  This area used to be the hipster/bistro/quaint shop district of this tourist town.  Now, most of the shops are closed and our steps echo as we walk.  We go into a brewpub, eat pretty average bar food, and listen to a group of Canadian physicists talk about US and Canadian politics.  Bruce is happy to be sleeping inside and eating at a restaurant.  Both have been rare events on his journey.   We take our leave.  Bruce wants to go listen to some incredibly loud rock music (we heard it three blocks away) and sample the local beer. 

Wes and I are very much aware of our age as we say good night. The 70 mile ride with Bruce has pushed us pretty hard; we’re beat.  Wes is complaining of a scratchy throat and watery eyes.  He thinks he might have picked up a germ while we traversing the crowd.   We wonder at Bruce’s endurance, although we do remember our last bike journey from Montreal to Halifax and back to Quebec.  We camped and cooked our own food the whole way.  Such are the strengths and fleeting ways of youth.

The next morning, we are off on our bikes before Bruce, although we are sure he will overtake us and leave us behind.  We stop and ogle the whirlpool vista, where the river makes sharp turn.  At another vista stop, we mis-communicate and run into each other, wrecking both of us and causing a group of seniors who just exited a bus to come running over to see if we are all right.  We are a bit battered, but more embarrassed than anything.  The bruise on my knee and gash on Wes’ finger will take the rest of the trip to heal.

Crossing the border is hectic. We are the only bicyclists in a swarm of motor vehicles.  We wait behind a group of motor cyclists from New Jersey, who have been out on a 1000 mile weekend jaunt.  They will ride 350 miles back home today.  One of them is long-haired, good looking, perhaps Tongan, and he is fascinated by our trip, but wants to know why we haven’t used it to raise money for a good cause.  He didn’t like our answer that we were using it to make a change in ourselves.  As he rode off, he said, “Next time you do this, make sure you benefit someone else!”

With that, we enter the last phase of this trip.  We are tired, but think we are almost done.  We are wrong.  There are many more challenges, some of them as hard as any we’ve faced, in the last days of this journey from sea to sea.

 

Posted from Centennial, Wyoming

T+116: The Outback of Erie

Mile 4162:  PORTLAND, ME

We made it to Portland yesterday, arriving at 2:30 in the afternoon.   Stephen and Esther got us a glorious room in the Regency Hotel.  We have been celebrating and reminiscing, and just a few minutes ago, Wes was crying because the trip was over. 

However, it is not over in many ways.  We still have to get back to Wyoming, where we will gather all the materials and add some reflections, ruminations, and rants to create the book about our trip.  I still need to finish writing the story of the travels from coast to coast.  In the next few days, as we stay in Brooklin, Maine with my brother and his wife, I want to share the stories from the rest of Canada, across New York, Vermont, New Hampshire, and Maine. 

I will keep the T+ counting until we return to Detroit.  It began when we left the city on June 22.  Eleven days later, we were abike in Portland, Oregon.  We cycled 105 days to get to Portland, Maine.  Of those 105 days, there were only 7 days we did not cycle, although to be sure, there were a few very short rides in those 98 days on the bike.   It really was two trips combined into one long trip: the first from Portland to Anacortes, WA, then from Anacortes on the Pacific Coast to Portland on the Atlantic Coast.  The first trip was 420 miles, the second, 3740 miles.  Now comes the re-entry.

But first, the rest of the story……

The eastern side of the North Shore of Lake Erie is quite distinct from the touristy middle range.  The shoreline changes.  No longer sandy beaches, it is either shallow, rocky, little inlets, or swampy coves.  The farms on the plains above the coast stretch out too.  Instead of a wide variety of vegetables, the landscape again begins to be dominated by corn and soybeans.   

 

We are following the Lake Shore route, which is taking us through mile after mile of small cottages.  For reasons we cannot determine, there are a number of bridges being replaced in this section of the lake. It is a bit frustrating because we keep getting turned off our route, returned to the busy main highway for a few miles, then returned to the shore route.  These detours are adding many miles to an already long ride.

There are few tourist services like restaurants and motels.  Nor is this the land of Victorian trophy farms, such as we had seen on Talbot Trail of Chatham-Kent. The wind turbines continue apace; the density of anti-wind turbine lawn signs also increases. 

 

We stop to read an information display about the turbines, and find out that the Ontario provincial government lets bids to private companies to build and run these wind farms.  It seems clear that local residents are not happy with the way Toronto chooses the companies or places the turbines.

We had been riding several hours and were beginning to look for a place to eat some lunch.  We are riding in a little colony of houses clustered in concentric circles around a small point on the lake. We see a sign directing us from the main route to the Peacock Point Store which has Hot Lunches.  It is a small white building across the street from circular park with big oak trees.  A line of small houses rings the park so that all the houses are facing each other. 

There are three people sitting outside the small building, chatting, smoking, and enjoying the bright fall sun.  One is a youngish, heavy-set blonde.  Another is an older male with long, scraggledy hair and wispy beard sitting in a non-motorized wheelchair.  Both his legs have been amputated.  A small sixty year old woman with dyed brown hair completes the trio.   A chalk board sign announces “Mary’s Last Day!  Thanks for a Great Season!”

They seem surprised when we stop our bikes. When we ask if they are still serving lunch, the older woman jumps up, and motions me to follow her inside.  Wes stays outside with the other two.  The store with its little grill at one end, bank of coolers at the other, and line of shelves in between is nearly empty of products.   Mary explains that when she leaves today at 3pm, the store will close for the season.  She apologizes for the state of the store, bustling about, wiping shelves, swatting flies, and explaining what few items can still be prepared.  She says she is behind on the closing because she had family in all last week.  Her son and family had come all the way from Nunevet, where they live way above the Arctic Circle and he works as a geologist for an oil exploration company.  After the store closes, she will travel to Dallas to see her daughter, who works there in the medical field.  After that, she didn’t know what she will do, perhaps go get an apartment in Hamilton and see if she can find work until she can come back to Peacock Point the following spring.

When I return outside with Wes’ egg salad sandwich and my Italian sausage sandwich, Wes and the man in the wheelchair are in heavy discussion about the wind turbines.  “I hate ‘em!” the local declares.  “All they do is kill birds and they don’t even provide much energy.  All of these damn turbines and they only provide 8 percent---8 percent—of Canada’s energy.  Look around at all these towers.  (We could easily see 30.)  How come so many are turned off?  I’ll tell you why.  They turn ‘em off during the day because of the protests, but at night, they turn ‘em back on and sell all the energy to the United States!  And who even gets to choose whether to have a turbine or not?  Corrupt Toronto politicians, that’s who.  They come in and tell the farmers they have to lease their land to company for 50 years, no questions asked.  At the end of the term, the farmer is supposed to get turbine, but who’s going to want it when it’s old and broken down?  I tell you, it’s a bad deal from start to finish.  I hate ‘em!”

There is not much anyone can say to this rant, so we change the subject.  In increasing numbers, all along the coast, we have seen many houses with Union Jack flags, along with signs that say “Loyalist Cemetery” and “Loyalist Union Social Club.”  We ask if these British flags stand for anything.  Did it mean anything when one house had the Canadian red maple, and another the stars and bars of England.  No, no.  If anything, the flags just show who the house supports in soccer….or maybe their ethnic origin. The blonde, whose name is Donna, says that she regularly flies a German flag, because she is German and she supports the Frankfort team. 

Eldon, the man in the chair, says, “I should see about finding me a Finnish flag!  But that’s the thing with you Americans.  You’re not even allowed to put up a flag in front of your home.  I think it is just a real crime when you aren’t even allowed to do that.”  I try to correct him, but he is not to be deterred.  “And another thing, look at the mess your government is in right now.  Why is there such a big mess about getting health care?  It’s unbelievable!  What a bunch of corrupt politicians…but, hey! I’m not saying ours aren’t a bunch of crooks, too!”

He goes on.  “Look at Donna and me.  I don’t know what we would do without NHS.  But you Americans are against health care for the people.  It just don’t make any sense to me.”  Wes points out that most Americans are not against the new health care law, and Eldon is just about ready to start another rant, when I ask Donna about her experience with national health.  I tell about our encounter with our contrary host in Port Rowan, who was furious with the difficulties he encountered trying to get treatment for his Parkinson’s.

She says that they was not at all her experience.  Her husband had recently passed away after contracting a particularly aggressive form of Lou Gehrig’s disease.  A year ago, he began falling.  Six months later, the 36 year old man with three children, was dead.  They had taken him to all kinds of specialists in Toronto and London.  Nothing worked, but she never had to pay a bill.  But…she also pointed out…she also hadn’t been able to work and if it hadn’t been for the community here in Turkey Point, she and her family wouldn’t have made it.

“Yep!”  Eldon declares, “It’s not unusual for me to come home and find food, or some groceries just sittin’ on my table, but that’s just the way it is here in Turkey Point.  People take care of each other here, not like some big city where nobody knows nothin’ about you.   I remember a few years back, when I ran out of water after my cistern sprung a leak, people brought me some of their own, even though it meant they were cutting into their own stores.”

We find out that the water supply will be shut off to the whole community after Thanksgiving.  Many people will leave the colony, but fulltime residents like Donna and Eldon will need to depend on water from their individual cisterns.  I ask if people have trouble making it through the winter on the limited water supply.  She laughs, and says, “That’s how we know they are city people.  They don’t know all the tricks to save water---liking using your dishwashing water to flush your toilet---but if you’ve lived here all your life, like my family all the way back to my grandma, it’s no big deal.”   I ask why they don’t keep the water on the winter.  Eldon replies, “The pipes from Lake Erie freeze!”

Our delicious handmade sandwiches are long gone, and our short break has stretched far past its allotted time, when we make our good byes to this vivacious trio.  There was a certain melancholy in the air.  In a few short hours, the store which had provided work for Donna and Mary would close.  Most of the summer people would leave and the water would be cut off.  Not one of the trio had a clear sense of how they would get through the coming winter, but they were all certain they would find a way.  They wished us a good ride and told us to come back and see them sometime.  We cycle off and wonder if we ever would.

 

Posted from Brooklin, Maine

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