Sometimes a Great Notion

Dearest Blog Followers, (note: this is a post I wrote a week and a half ago, and am only now just publishing it, I think it was penned the last Sunday in March).

It is with regret and dissapointment that I write to all of you today to say that my trip has come to an early and unforseen conclusion.

I am sitting in my friend Ellie's house, overlooking a quiet street in Bellingham, WA, enjoying the changing clouds, the wind, and the keyboard on her computer, which clicks satisfyingly with each letter. Read the next paragraphs for a travelogue of the first (and last) 200 miles of my trip, or skip to the end and read why my trip has come to an untimely end. Better yet, do both!

The Travelogue:

I began my trip on Thursday, in the midst of a rain squall in Vancouver, British Columbia. The plan was to make a large loop around British Columbia, beginning in Vancouver, heading north along the east side of the Strait of Georgia, then across to the east side of Vancouver Island, then south towards Victoria, then south and east, angling for Bellingham, WA.

No doubt Vancouver has many charms, though none of them were evident as I wove the alien streets, riding through Stanely Park, over the Lion's Gate Bridge, and then past mossy houses and creeks in foggy West Vancouver. I missed a five thirty ferry, and took the seven thirty ferry instead, arriving in Langdale, and certain I'd find my campsite, which was a mere five miles from the ferry terminal. However, the darkness, the rain, and the strange, hilly roads conspired against me, and I rode ten miles before giving up and pitching my tent alongside the ocean, half beneath a pine tree, half on a sidewalk just outside of the town of Sechelt. I awoke to find the sun shining, and also to find that my bike rack was so poorly adjusted that it had been rubbing on my tire for miles, and in fact, my tire had acutally worn halfway through the aluminum tube. It's a wonder that my tire didn't explode. After some frustrating minutes with a wrench, I was able to adjust everything properly, drank some coffee in town, and got on my way. The day's goal: forty five miles, and one ferry ride, destination: Saltery Bay.

Thankfully the sun shone as I rode, and I began to discover that pedaling up steep grades with an extra thirty pounds of stuff on your bike was going to be harder than expected. I wouldn't dream of doing this ride without a small chain ring, since I shifted into the lowest gears possible on the steep hills, and barely managed five mph. A quick grocery store lunch (with a .49 cent Orangina!) and I arrived at the ferry terminal, only to wait for two hours, which was fine by me. Unlike the previous day, my campsite was only a three minute ride once I'd gotten off the ferry. I set up my tent beneath trees right out of Tolkien's Mirkwood, and then took refuge from the large, hungry mosquitoes clinging to the tent. Sadly, the water wasn't turned on in this particular provincial park, so I had to do with the approximatley seven ounces I had left in my water bottle. Dinner was an appetizer of honey straight from the plastic squeeze bottle, followed up by an entree of watery noodles (which tasted like canned salmon from the previous night, since I was hoping to wash out my pan, though this wasn't to be, as I couldn't waste what water I had on such frivolties). I capped off this delicious meal with an apple, accompanied by a half of a jar of peanut butter. It rained during the night, and I broke my fast with a granola bar, peanut butter and honey sandwich.

Saturday's goal: nineteen miles to Powell River, where I'd take a ferry across the Strait of Georgia, then an additional sixty odd miles south on Vancouver Island. I had an hour wait in Powell River, so I treated myself to a real breakfast, and devoured scrambled eggs, toast, bacon, potatoes, fruit, coffee and french toast. The guy at the restraunt asked if "all of the food was for me." Indeed it was, guy at the restraunt counter, indeed it was. The ferry was a nice, scenic ride, then it deposited me onto Vancouver Island, where I battled headwinds and hills for the next four hours. The scenery was generally great, green, with views of the ocean, and the mountains looking blue and wet in the distance. I snacked on candy bars and enjoyed the brief interludes of sun.

I was, as they say, knackered when I arrived at the day's campground, which was large, shady, and next to the ocean. I was excited to hear seals barking, until I realized it was a neighboring camper's dog. Fortunately, the Canadian Government saw fit to turn the water on this time, so I feasted on canned chili with pasta, A snickers bar, apples with peanut butter, and potato chips. I even washed my pots and pans.

Sunday was to be my final day on the road. I hoping to ride what I'd though would be a mere fourteen miles to catch a ferry back to Vancouver, where my lovely friend Ellie, whose hospitality I am currently taking advantage of, offered to pick me up and drive me back to Bellingham. However, the ferry terminal was, in reality, thirty miles away, which I didn't discover until I'd convinced myself that the ferry was just around the corner. Not wanting to miss the boat, I obtained directions from some fellow cyclists, who told me to "ride along the parkway (canadian code for a four lane expressway), since it was the fastest and most direct way, and, better yet, it was downhill the whole way!" These two cyclists caught up to me at a traffic light just as I was about to turn, and mentioned with a smile, that there were actually a few hills. It's never downhill the whole way.

I made the ferry with mere minutes to spare, and then spent the two hours en route warming up, changing out of my spandex, and spending my small change on chips and candy bars from the vending machines. I found Ellie, and then showed her that the back seat of her car would actually fold forward, so that tidbit of knowledge was worth the drive up to Vancouver. After a brief wait at the border, my purported journey of one thousand, nine hundred and eighty seven point three miles had come to an end, with one thousand, seven hundred and eighty seven point three odd miles left uncompleted.

To all of you who had bets wagered for and against me, I apoligize to those who lost money, and congratulate those of you who won.

The Explanation:

Why, then, you ask, has this journey come to an early and unexpected end? I think that this whole trip was something that, in theory, seemed like the greatest thing in the world, and I sure had a great time planning it and thinking and dreaming of it. However, the reality of the situation was not at all what I had been anticipating. It was cold, rainy, and windy. The clouds covered the sun, the woods dripped with moss and mist and felt damp and unpleasant. The roads were covered in sand that got into all of my stuff. My tent was perpetually wet. My clothes didn't dry. I ate too many nature valley granola bars. I couldn't carry cold beer in my panniers. The campsites were deserted. My butt hurt. Pedaling up hills was not terribly difficult, just boring, as I could only manage about five miles per hour.

I think I underestimated how the impact of these little annoyances was magnified by the fact that I was living off of the back of my bike. Again, this probably sounds slightly romantic and adventurous, but it just sort of sucked. I wasn't having fun, and it was depressing to think that I'd be dealing with these issues for the next four weeks.

I originally decided to do this trip because I was ready for an adventure, and ready for a physical challenge. In the end, I think each day of my bike tour would have ended up being a mental challenge, rather than the physical challenge I was hoping for. I was, simply put, lonely. Five weeks would be a long, long time to spend alone. Breaking camp in the morning, eating breakfast, riding all day, setting up camp, making dinner, and going to sleep alone sounds like a recipe for disaster in my books. This, combined with the crappy weather, really didn't put me in the mood to press on with my tour.

Some wise people have told me that it is often harder to admit defeat and to admit the things we cannot do than it is to press on stubbornly, doing something we hate just to prove that we did it. If I wanted that, I would have been a math major in college. I've made peace with myself over this failed venture, and am quite happy that I threw the towel in early. One day, I'd love to do this trip, but with a whole posse of people, and in the summer. If you'd like to be part of my future summer-time-bike-touring-posse, just let me know.

Until that day, thanks for all of your support. Sometimes a great notion, right? Right.

Just like David Sedaris

Based on the voicemails and emails I've been getting, it seems like some of you are waiting with anticipation for me to blog, and that some of you actually read and enjoy this little experiment. I'm assuming that your level of anxiety regarding when I'll post something new on my blog rivals my anxiety waiting for the next David Sedaris book, or at least the newest This American Life Podcast. If so, I apologize for any strokes, heart attacks or episodes of epilepsy I've caused.

I am off for an exploratory mission to check out the Clackamas River trout fishing scene here in Portland, OR, but I will update everyone on the minutiae of my life when I return this evening.

I promise. No fish tales, only fish tails.

We've got a full tank of gas, a half pack of cigarettes, it's 1,987.3 miles to Mexico, it's dark, and we're wearing sunglasses.

The Blues Brothers say it so well:

We've got a full tank of gas, a half pack of cigarettes, it's 1,987.3 miles to Mexico, it's dark, and we're wearing sunglasses. Hit it.

This is my last night in a house, in a bed, and the last night before I begin pedaling north, then south, one thousand, nine hundred and eighty seven point three miles, Vancouver to Mexico.

My saddle bags weigh in at 26 pounds, with food, and my tent adds an extra five pounds.

Tomorrow calls for a 90% chance of rain, so I might as well face up to the fact that it's going to be a wet and wild ride, at least until I hit the Bay Area. Maybe not, maybe the weather gods will smile upon me and my spandex, and grant tail winds and sunshine. Still, I'm packing rain gear and long underwear.

I'm nervous, and I'd be worried if I wasn't, but I'm going to take this one day at a time. Getting out of Vancouver might be a hassle, but after that I simply follow highway 101 and highway 1, south, the ocean to the right, the whole American continent to the left.

I'm also excited, and ready to see how I handle this voyage.

I'll be updating this blog when and where I can. Keep me in your thoughts and prayers, and I'll keep you in mine. This is the moment I've been long waiting for, and I'm just itching to get going. Still, I need to remain humble and keep my eyes and ears open along the way, and absorb the whole spectacular scene as I go.

Irish fisherman said a prayer that went something like this:

"Lord, your ocean is so big, and my boat is so small. Keep me safe, O Lord".

While I don't believe in God, I do believe that there are forces greater than myself, and I know just how big the ocean truly is. Here's to a safe and swift journey. Mountains, redwoods, coves, mists, I'm ready to meet you and feel you.

Be safe, and be well, and be good to yourselves. I will update all of you when and where I can.

As always, lots of love.

Yours,

Connor

Hanging and Banging in the Desert

Well, it's a little hard to believe, but I've been on the road for over two weeks now (I think it's tuesday, but I'm not really sure. Time has become unimportant to me). I arrived in Moab eight days ago, and it's so good to be back in the desert, at least for a little while. This place is magical. To the east, the La Sal mountains rise up 12,000 feet, snow capped and gorgeous. Yesterday, as the sun was beginning to set, a layer of clouds obscured the lower half of the mountains, so all that was visible were the snowclad triangular peaks against the blue sky, like pieces of paper pasted above me head.

And to the south, north and west, nothing but red rock, red sand, red river (the Colorado). Arches and Canyonlands National Parks are here, Indian Creek is here, and canyons inscribed with petroglyphs and pictographs wind into the red hills and sandstone domes. (by the way, a pictograph uses paint, while a petroglyph is actually carved into the rock. Here you can see me looking at newspaper rock...which is a beautiful series of petroglyphs, though I spent 3.2 seconds looking at it before whining about getting back in the car to continue on to Indian Creek to go climbing).

Speaking of, a whole posse of people arrived on Friday night at the house where I'm staying, and after playing didgeridoos, harmonicas, guitars and mandolins late into the night, we woke up relatively early Saturday morning, packed up our gear, and drove the quick hour to one of my favorite places in the world, Indian Creek, Utah.

We spent a beautiful Saturday at the Cat Wall, one of the more popular cliffs, but we had the place more or less to ourselves. In the sun, we were able to climb sans shirts and absorb some vitamin D. Of course, I forgot my camera this time, but here is an idea of what the climbing looks like from a photo taken of my housemate Ben last fall:

Essentially, Indian Creek is all about crack climbing. There are few, if any, holds on the face of the rock, so instead you cram your hands, fingers and fists (along with your feet and sometimes your knees) into cracks that split the rock for what seems like miles and miles.

Just as I was finishing up leading Deseret Moon, a 130 foot route that thoroughly kicked my ass (but was also the hardest route I've done at Indian Creek, so I felt like hurling and smiling at the same time) very ominous clouds started moving in from the south. As we were packing up and heading down the trail, vicious winds started blowing, and the horizon was obscured by black clouds, only to be illuminated by jagged bolts of lighting just past the six shooter towers. We whooped and hollered our way down the trail to the cars, arriving just in time to beat a torrential downpour. I drove to our campsite in my friend Bobby's beat up and dilapidated Volvo station wagon. The drive was extra exciting because his windshield wipers don't work, but we managed to find the muddy road that brought us to a motley collection of vans, SUVs, and tarps draped over bushes. It looked like some sort of eastern european refugee camp, and I wouldn't have known where I was, except for the drum circle beating out a lazy beat beneath a tattered blue awning.

Some of the guys who came with us cooked a big pot of venison stirfry, so I filled my empty stomach with this delicious (and free) dinner, and then spent a few hours shooting the breeze in the back of the Volvo, before setting up my tent and settling down for a long winter's nap, which is ironic because at some point the steady rain turned to wet snow, and I awoke to an alien world cloaked in three inches of fresh white stuff.

When my fellow refugees emerged from the backs of their cars and suvs, shedding blankets and sleeping bags, we made a simple breakfast of banana bread and graham crakers and, dazed, drove back to town. With bruised, battered and bleeding hands, the souvenirs of hours spent crack climbing, we drummed the dashboard to bluegrass and dreamt of the day when the weather would clear and we'd be coming back to the Creek. In fact, that day is tomorrow! Well, I'm off to rub salve on the wounds and pack my gear.

Be good, and be good to yourselves.

Lots o' love,

Connor

On the Road: Colorado and Utah

Well, gang, I'm about halfway through my road-trip, geographically and chronologically speaking. I've driven roughly 1500 of the 3000 miles (despite a long and arduous detour in Colorado thanks to a major rockslide on I-70), and, two weeks to the day, I'll be starting my bike ride. I'll be somewhere in Vancouver, B.C., trying to navigate the city and head northwards, where the real meat of the trip begins. Most of the final details have been ironed out, and almost all of my gear is accounted for. A quick wash of my bike, and a big breakfast, and I'll be ready to go. I don't have a clear estimate of how long my trip will take, but the rough outline I've been working with is between four and six weeks. My time on the road will be affected by weather, side trips I elect to take, and the amount of sightseeing, lollygagging, beach walking, brewery visiting, and getting lost I do.

Right now, I'm sitting in beautiful Moab, Utah. Damn, it's great to be back in the desert. The smell of dirt and organic matter and budding trees is a welcome change after three months of ice and snow back home in Minnesota. Seeing mountains and the colorado river and mesas and canyons reminds me just how much I loved living here. Maybe I'll just continue riding from southern California straight back to the desert. Someone meet me in the middle of Nevada with a gatorade and a map.

I've been volunteering at the Youth Garden Project, where I worked in the fall. We've been busy building a geodesic green house, a fifteen sided dome that will eventually be filled with plants year round. In the fall, the garden crew worked hard to build the foundation and clear the site, so it has been fulfilling to finally see the dome rise up from the ground. I spent a good deal of time walking around barefoot on top of the twenty six foot diameter dome, screwing down panels, taping seems, and generally trying not to fall off.

Apart from helping out at the garden (where they fed the volunteers delicious meals such as the homemade sushi and donuts), I've been catching up with old friends in town, and, of course, climbing. I went out bouldering yesterday at my old stomping ground, and then this weekend myself and some friends will be heading down to Indian Creek to do some more climbing. I've also been getting out on my bike a little bit, but it's hard to resist the miles and miles of stellar rock climbing to be found in the desert landscape which surrounds Moab.

This past weekend, prior to coming to Moab, I spent four days with my friend Paul, who I worked with at the Youth Garden in the fall. He is currently living in Estes Park, Colorado, which is a pretty rad place. Maybe I'll ride my bike to Moab, and then to Colorado. Again, someone meet me in the rockies with a beer and a set of skis, and I'll get there one way or another. I got out on my bike for the first time since November. Paul took me on a sweet ride through Rocky Mountain National Park. I was pleasantly surprised to finish the ride without huffing and puffing, considering we rode the first 12 miles uphill, at 9,000 feet above sea level. Also, my new spandex is very nice, in case anyone was worried. We topped off the ride with a visit to the eight dollar Nepalese buffet, where we downed buckets of chai. This was, incidentally, one of the many meals I ate on my road trip that I didn't pay for. I guess that when people take in a homeless, unemployed guy who may smell weird, they feel inclined to buy him meals. To everyone who has participated in this, my stomach and I thank you.

We also did some climbing while I was in Colorado, checking out this sweet granite dome called Greyrock off of the Poudre River Canyon. It was a long day, hiking three miles in and three miles out (the hike out in the dark, one head lamp, on an icy trail), but the climbing was stellar and the view from the top couldn't be beat.

Bouldering at Lumpy Ridge, just outside of Estes. The granite is composed of lots of large, sharp crystals. Very painful! But this problem was pretty sweet, so I was happy to suffer.

The summit view from Greyrock. The plans stretching away to the east, and the rockies on all sides to the north, south and west. The slog in and out, with heavy packs and icy conditions, was totally worth the summit.

I'll be in Moab until Tuesday or Wednesday, then I'll make a stop in Portland, OR and finally end up in Tacoma, WA. From there, I'll be donning my spandex and pedaling off into the rain, fog and mist. Thanks to everyone for the supportive emails, food, and good wishes. I'll be thinking of all of you when I'm alone in the rain, somewhere along the northern California coast, wishing for a dry pair of pants, a hot meal, and a masseuse.

Be good, and be good to yourselves.

On the Road: Iowa and South Dakota

Well, it's official, loyal followers, I'm on my way. I'm currently sitting in Amy Buechler's kitchen in Rapid City, South Dakota, contemplating whether to take a nap when I'm done posting. I just might.

I began by visiting two friends from college, who are now engaged (congrats, guys!) and living in Iowa City, where we discussed the practicality of me using a catheter on my bike tri

p. I enjoyed sleeping on their leather (pleather?) couch, and then discovered that I'd received my first ever parking ticket from the City of Iowa City (you can take my 15 dollars and use it to hire a consultant to tell you to just refer to your city as Iowa City). After weeping uncontrollably for several seconds, I got in my car and drove to Rapid City, where I am now sitting. Along the way, I laughed quite hard at a billboard advertising a local mechanic's shop. The billboard proudly said: "24 Hour Toe Service." There were two of these billboards. Maybe he was one of America's few remaining licensed toe mechanics.

Then, I entered an impenetrable fog cloud, and drove more or less blindly for the remaining three hundred miles. It got worse as I went on, and soon I couldn't see billboards, mileage signs, the other lanes of the interstate, nor more than forty feet in front of me. Luckily, I was born with a rare condition known as echolocationitis, so I used my bat like powers to navigate the pea soup.

I discovered that my bike had been ensconced in a layer of ice.

Well, South Dakota's Black Hills are pretty beautiful, and I think I'll go stand on Amy's deck and look at them. (Thanks for letting me crash at your casa, Amy! and for taking me to the poop covered soccer field of your youth where we threw a poop covered frisbee at one another).

Behave yourselves.

Photo Shoot

As promised, bike porn: This is the machine I'll be riding, a 2003 Trek 1200 road bike, with an aluminum frame, carbon fiber fork, Shimano Tiagra components, and two very ugly wheels that have taken 9,000 miles of beating and still keep ticking.

Well, my rear derailleur has its share of scrapes and gouges, but, like my heart, it just won't give up the ghost, despite being dragged over the ground time after time (cue sappy/epic orchestral score).

Notice how the paint is peeling away from the rims! Eight years of salty winter roads, let's hope they make the next 2,000 miles without a broken spoke or rim, quite possibly sending me to my death over a precipitous cliff somewhere in the fog of northern California.

USA! USA! USA!

This is the cleanest this bike will be for the foreseeable future. I even waxed the frame! Wax on, wax off...

Here she is, kitted out with lights, saddle bag, panniers, rack, water bottle cages, and Shimano SPD pedals.
You still owe me bike names. Again, please email your suggestions, or slip them inside a case of pre-embargo Cuban Cohiba cigars, along with a bottle of Maker's Mark and the Star Wars trilogy on Hi Def DVD, and deliver to my door.

Last Days in Minnesota

I stepped outside this evening to hear an owl crying in the chill night, and see the big dipper hanging above me. What owl, I don't know, nor do I know why he was howling, but not knowing and guessing is really much better. (Grant, you can probably tell me the phylum, etc.)

My psych level for my trip is gaining steam with each day that passes. I still haven't gotten out on my bike yet, just skiing for the moment, so it might be a rude awakening when I finally don spandex and get back in the saddle. But I've been eating extra donuts and ice cream to pad my rear, so maybe it won't be too bad.

I just received the last bits of gear I ordered, and it was like a mini christmas in February! The panniers I chose are sweet, really lightweight and waterproof, which is good, since I'll be rained on quite a bit, apparently. Maybe I can outride the rain? Also, I've got some disco lights, a nice rack, new spandex, and a very shiny bike (not new, but newly clean. Photos forthcoming).

I almost can't believe I'm doing this. But I am! As I've said before (not in this blog, but often otherwise), life rich in experience beats life rich financially. And I definitely won't come out ahead as far as my bank account goes, but when I look back at this time when I'm gray and wizened, will I remember the fog near Big Sur, or how much money was in my checking account?

To think that a year ago, I was consumed with finding a career or job, is a little scary. I've found only seasonal work since, but have been very content with that decision. I might find myself in the northwest this summer/fall, working on yet another organic farm. In that light, I am suddenly worried that I know nothing about fishing for salmon and steelhead (rainbow trout returning from the Pacific), so maybe I'll spend a couple days tying some salmon flies. And more trout flies! The fishing season will be upon me once this trip is over, and there is always a new pattern to fill my fly boxes with, as well as old patterns to restock, since I invariably lose many a painstakingly tied fly in trees, shrubs, log jams, my hat, rock piles, and to the river itself. Not often to fish, I've found.

To close, I was helping my mother clean the basement since they are thinking of moving, and we found a big box full of stuff she had saved from my infancy. Inside, a pair of pretty cool Nike hightops, size three, and, best of all, a newspaper from the day I was born. Headline? "Reagan Investigated for Aid Given to Contras". Also, an article about these kids who perform something called "Rap", as well as a glossary of rap lingo. It is pretty hilarious.

Oh, how we outgrow the years of our youth. I'm a size twelve or thirteen shoe now (but rap lingo constantly needs a glossary).

Be well, be safe, be good (to yourselves and in general). And, seriously, send me bike name suggestions. I've received zero, and may have to name my bike sha neigh neigh, after the (in)famous cross dresser who visited Beloit College as part of a dance show. (I think it was spelled shanaynay).

Hoo Hoo, Hoooo

Connor

My Steed...Neigh! Nay? Neigh!

So, a little about the bike I'll be riding since, you know, I'll be on top one thousand, nine hundred and eighty seven point three miles (and likely more). We've made it this far! Also, strangely enough, I don't have a name for my bike. I'm taking suggestions! Please email them to donahueconnor@gmail.com. The more sexually suggestive, the better. I'm counting on all of you! I'll have the winning name tattooed across my skinny white butt.

In 2003, the summer before my junior year of highschool, I purchased a road bike, a Trek 1200, and have since logged nearly 9,000 miles on this machine. During this time, I've hit one car (though it wasn't my fault), crashed numerous times, and driven into a garage with my bike still on top of my car. Also, I accidentally rode down a freeway entrance ramp and onto I-39, and had to throw my bike over a chain link fence, and then climb after it, to safety. I cut my leg pretty badly doing this...and this was really the only time I've ever actually spilt blood while biking. Even when I hit the car, and flew over my handlebars, bouncing off of the windshield, I came out unscathed, as I somehow landed on my feet. Amazing! I wish someone had caught it on camera. This should fit in my biography nicely between my formative years as an aspiring Judo master, and my latter years as a washed up, wheelchair bound water color painter.

Anyway, this bike is a road bike geared towards racing, not a touring bike, so I'm a at a little bit of a disadvantage as far as being able to carry a lot of gear with me. But, I'm OK with this, since I'm trying to pack lightly. I'm estimating that I'll have around thirty pounds of stuff with me, most of which I'll regret bringing but will be too stubborn to get rid of. I've purchased a rack for the rear of the bike, and all of my gear will be contained in two panniers, or strapped to the top of the rack. I also have a small daypack, which holds about two liters of water, plus some food, my pump, a spare tube, patch kit, etc. It's literally me and the horse I rode in on!

Today, I spent quite a bit of time overhauling my bike. I passed an exciting hour lubing my balls...that is, lubing the ball bearings in the wheel hubs. This was pretty difficult, since I had no idea what I was doing, and lacked the proper tools for the job. I think I did it right...I also took the headset apart, lubed and adjusted it, and installed new brake pads. Tomorrow I'll be cleaning the frame, chain, derailleurs, brakes, and repacking the derailleur pulleys with new grease. I've also installed a headlight and taillight, both of which offer fun disco flash modes, so I'll be both visible and stylin' as I roll down the road (though I'm not planning on any night riding, my experience with my friend Paul on the La Sal Mountain Loop Road has taught me the value of having a light when it's dark out...ask me about it sometime! Quebecois mountain bikers laughing at us from their Audi, stuffing newspapers and national park brochures down the front of my jersey, overdosing on caffeinated clif shots...nothing like Utah adventure! When the beer is all 3.2%, one gets creative in devising fun).

I'm a little worried about the added weight on my bike (panniers and rack, along with my recently acquired grecian muscles), and how it will affect the way my bike handles, as well as the increased potential for breaking a spoke on the rear wheel, which would be a big hassle. At the bike shop today, I was told to "make sure I know where all of the bike shops are along the route," since this isn't a repair I'd be able to do myself without specialized (i.e. expensive and heavy) tools. I think I'll cross my fingers and hope to hitch a ride if I get stuck somewhere.

Once my bike looks shiny and cared for, I'll take some photos. At the moment, it is in a sorrowful condition, blemished with salt, grime and RUST from my marathon 28 hour drive from Utah to MN in ice/snow storm. Yeah...hopefully I'll take better care of my future offspring? Ladies, I'm the man for you: I promise to scrub rust from our children in a timely manner.

Well, thanks for sticking with me while I geek out about my bike. It's definitely in my top five favorite possessions, alongside my fly rods, Carhartts, my collection of vintage victorian tea table doilies, and my thermal underwear (in both black and blue to complement the man purse I'll be toting on a particular day).

Otherwise, besides getting greased up in the garage, I've been skiing, eating lots of free food from my parent's pantry, seeing Charlie Parr play live, twice! (the most awkward/awesome bluegrass guitarist/banjoist/mandolinist player alive). I'm also attempting to keep two bonsai trees alive, apply for jobs, trim my toenails, and conclude a long running argument with myself: does Grain Belt taste exactly like Miller High Life?

I think this has been my longest post to date, so congratulations on getting to the end. Get those bike name suggestions to me ASAP. No holds barred, the dirrrtier, the better. Suggestions can also be taped to a case of New Glarus beer, and personally delivered to my door, along with a pizza.

Be safe, be well.

Here Be Monsters

Perhaps some of you find yourselves wondering about the purpose of this blog, and how it relates to my upcoming bike trip, and even the reasons for wanting to ride my bike day in, day out, for six weeks. Well, you're not alone. We're both taking a voyage into the mystery, the places on the map marked "here be monsters." I think that this all has to do with sushi, and flying on planes, and monsters.

See, I just watched a really incredible film, "First Ascent", which chronicles some of the hardest, most inspiring rock climbing routes in the world, and the climbers who achieve first ascents on these routes. The focus of the film is the emotional (and physical) battle between a young Swiss climber, Didier Berthod, and one of the hardest crack climbs in the world, Cobra Crack, which has since been rated 5.14b/c. (For those of you who aren't familiar with rock climbing ratings, this is really fucking hard). Though he misses tagging the first ascent of the Cobra due to an unexpected knee injury, Didier Berthod's parting commentary got under my skin (in the best possible way).

Berthod comes to a realization that the work he's put into climbing the Cobra for the past months has been motivated by an egotistical desire for the glory that comes with the first ascent of a landmark climb like Cobra Crack. A pair of crutches physically hobbles his body and mind, allowing Didier to realize the power his ego has had over him. As he packs up his gear and folds his tent in a rainy British Columbia forest at the base of Cobra Crack, he talks about how climbing has opened his eyes to what is possible in the world, and the importance of pure, unadulterated joy in everything we do.

When he was a boy, Didier says, he though flying on airplanes was reserved rich people, and that eating sushi was only for Japanese people (and rich people), but now he says, laughing, that he flies thousands of miles a year and eats sushi too, and more, besides. He's entered (or perhaps reentered) that mysterious place where monsters and the looming possibilities of tomorrow lurk, a place where a single, beautiful route which remains untouched on a gently overhanging sweep of coarse granite inspires a daily confrontation with pain, suffering and doubt.

What am I looking for as I spend three, four, five, (more?) hours a day pedaling my bike south along our country's west coast? I don't think I'll be dispelling any myths about my ability to eat uncooked yellow tail tuna, but I am hoping that this time spent with whatever I can cram on the back of my bike will be enlightening. Let's hope that my trip doesn't expose me to a daily confrontation with pain, suffering, and doubt.

Next time, I promise more details about my trip because, let's face it, I'm going to be hightailing it out west sooner than I think.

Be good to yourselves.

Open Doors

I'm currently reading Jonathan Safran Foer's "Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close." Wow, what an eclectic book, full of sadness and craziness and things we can hope to understand. He tells us, through one of his characters, "So many people enter your life! Hundreds of thousands! You have to keep the door open so they can come in! But it also means you have to let them go!" This struck me. I hope it strikes you too. We can't always keep those inside the door with us, even if it's just one fast move or I'm gone, even if a sudden moment of clarity explodes right in our faces and we think we know exactly who and what we need. (A movie I'd like to see, by the way, One Fast Move or I'm Gone. And a great soundtrack, too, check it out).

The picture on my computer desktop is one I took of the North Fork of the Blackfoot River as it flowed cold and sharp out of the mountains in Montana. The water is gin clear, and only thing clear about the river is that we're out of gin. Every time I look at it, I think I see trout lying in the lee of boulders. Perhaps I'm just seeing rocks beneath water. But I don't think so. Rocks beneath water, and rocks made of water, and the water moving over the rocks, can these things also be like trout? And these fish, can we hope to keep them inside of our door? To entice them over the threshold, to remain with us more permanently than the thousands, millions even, who pass in and out in a lifetime. How do we do this? In memory, I suppose. Norman Maclean reminds us that "Nothing perfect lasts forever, except in our memories". Sometimes it seems that a great memory, one of the best kind, is just a starting point, not an ending. And so it is with the fish, the memories, that haunt my dreams.

Jonathan Safran Foer also comes up with this fantastic idea: You could make jewelry out of a rubber band which you'd wrap around your favorite book of poems for a year. And then you'd wear the rubber band, or give it to someone else. Poetic osmosis? In that vein, a poem:

Three Minute Poem

I don’t know how to walk anymore,

I don’t know how to remember the songs

that make up this place,

I haven’t met the

summer coolnesses, the river

pools tucked low into river shadows,

blue and black; I haven’t found the evening’s

embrace, and the dusk’s soft storytelling.

I haven’t tasted

the childhood sadnesses, color of

wet tarantula dust,

but I’ll try anyway, with my

three minute poem.

I’ll write to tell you of the tender moments,

watching the evening sleep,

revealing the small and infinite spaces in our hearts

I will hint at the truth of

my love river’s quiet moments,

midnight kissing in midnight valleys.

Number Twenty Three Begins

Right now, snow is falling outside, snow falling on cedars, snow falling on pine boughs and it's just in time, a new layer of white, nature knows when to clean up her act and give us something fresh and cool. Thanks, nature. This means skiing tomorrow, though, I must admit, I'm itching to get my bike out. Hopefully I get some riding in before my trip begins.

The details of my trip are slowly taking form. The current plan involves taking a long and convoluted drive across the country (the best kind), with my final destination as Tacoma, WA, where my brother has graciously agreed to drive the last leg to Vancouver, B.C. where I begin my trip (he's especially gracious because he gets my car for six weeks). If you live between Minnesota and Tacoma, you might find me knocking on your door at a strange hour, asking if there is any room in the inn. Please say yes!

I read William Least Heat Moon's "Blue Highways," his narrative about driving round the country on America's backroads and little highways. Should I leave the interstates behind? I'm thinking so. Last summer I took Montana highway 200 across the northern part of the state, and it was just gorgeous. Forget interstate billboards and semis, I'll take the Crazy Mountains any day. And they really are called the Crazy Mountains. Perfect.

Well, the eponymous date for my blog passed just this weekend. 1-30-1987 then, 1-30-2010 now. I'm twenty three. I'm still accepting gifts, in case you were wondering.

Right now, I'm digging:

Kid A, Radiohead

Century Spring, and Live at the Cave, Mason Jennings

Tallest Man on Earth EP, Tallest Man on Earth

"Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close", by Jonathan Safran Foer

(and pretty much anything by the Avett Brothers.)

Be on the lookout for zens of all sorts

especially the zens you know nothing about.

Listen for tractor driving songs

kind of like three minute poems,

singin' and sighin' and fish talkin'.

McKusick Road Blues

Today, as I was driving home from skiing (three pairs of gloves, two each of hat and sock!), I drove down McKusick road. It passes trees, a few houses with garages and snowmobiles and piles of chopped wood between trees, like little hammocks, a marsh of just ice and headless cattails, some thickets of brush. It climbs and dips a little, perhaps clambering over a glacial moraine or a tiny, immature volcano, waiting to burst.

I've been down McKusick road before. We usually take it to descend into the St. Croix River valley on summer afternoons.

I wished that instead of leading me back to White Bear Lake, and my house, and a State of the Union address, that it lead me into a small New England village, with a square, and a trout brook, taverns, maybe a small house in the woods, mine, where I could chop my own wood and rake the leaves and stones.

White Bear Lake, I'm leaving you soon, to drive again all over the west, to ride my bike the preposterous distance of 2,000 miles in five weeks, to camp the whole time and probably be wet and cold, potentially miserable. I'm not going to find a little village, no squares or little brooks. Just big rivers and big mountains and a whole lot else.

I baked whole wheat bread when I got home. It took hours. The rising was slow. It's cooling in the kitchen, and will go great with almond peach jam that I made this fall out in Utah. I'm eating bread tomorrow in the morning and will wishing the windchill wasn't so below zero. Little New England brook, you'd be frozen through and through.

Be good to yourselves.

Golf Courses

I can't think of a better use for a golf course in the winter than as a groomed ski trail ( and if they advocate using golf courses as common pasturage for locavores to raise cattle and other beasts that low and chew cud in the summer, I'd fully support that too). I've been going to Phalen golf course a couple of times a week, usually skate skiing 10-20k each time. Since I won't be able to get out on my bike for at least a month, skiing has proven to be a great way to get my legs and lungs up to par for my bike ride. (Ask Paul Peterson about my Red Rocks training regimen!) I've got about six weeks to train for an estimated six week long bike ride. I won't be breaking any records, but I want to keep my rear end happy, and the pedals moving up and over those coastal mountains.

*Side note: I can't decide whether to call it a bike ride or bike tour. Ride doesn't capture the bigness, and tour sounds like something involving tuscan wine samplings and fifty seven year old money market executives with $15,000 road bikes. Thoughts?

Skiing today was an exercise in frustration. The trail consisted of a pretty nice, thick base (the remnants of a big ol' December storm...the very one my friend Grant and I flew before on a marathon twenty six hour drive from Moab, UT back to the North Star State a few days before Christmas), topped by an icky brown, icy crust (courtesy of a misty, rainy weekend), and decorated with windblown powder drifted deep, like uneven frosting spread by unsure hands (today's storm). I shuffled across the icy sections and post holed in the powder for an hour before giving up. My middle fingers went numb, so I couldn't give the weather gods the bird.

Before I go further, I'd like to thank my friend Ellie Rogers for providing the inspiration to write this blog. When asking her if I should, she said yes, and that she thought we could arrange some sort of underground railroad-esque network of computers at various places along the coast, so that I could update as I rode. We're still trying to concoct a quilt code and lantern signals. Ellie has been blogging and writing eloquently, check out wherethelionliesdown.blogspot.com and you'll see what I mean.

I don't know what the proper length for a blog is. No one is telling me to write blah-blah number of double spaced MLA pages. Am I trampling on blog world toes here?

Ok, now a list to conclude:

1) Read these books: My Story as Told by Water (my new favorite James Duncan book about fly fishing and religion and the way in which industrial America/Amerika is threatening both of these, and about how fly fishing and religion are threatening industrial America), Take the Cannoli, Into the Wild (better than the movie! (the soundtrack is quite good, though), When you are Engulfed in Flames (David Sedaris tells you to quit smoking).

2) Don't read these books: Pilgrim at Tinker Creek (sorry, Ellie), the Wordy Shipmates (Sarah Vowell, you really let me down on this one.)

3) I'm trying to grow bonsai trees.

4) Blog writing is way harder than I thought.

Stay safe, and be peaceful to one another.

The birth of a blog

I've never blogged before. In fact, I just recently got a cell phone. I don't know if I'm 3G or 4G. I don't even know what a G is. Here goes!

Premise: I am going to be riding my bicycle from Vancouver, British Columbia south to the Mexico border (like Jimi Hendrix says, "I'm headin' down Mexico way").

Distance: One thousand, nine hundred and eighty seven point three miles. (I'm outfitted with a guidebook, known as "the bible" among Pacific coast tourers, and the suggested route is 1987.3 miles.) I'm both expecting and hoping that, in the end, I travel a greater distance.

Significance: 1987 happens to be a famous year in human history. The year of my birth. I turn 23 in a week. I'm unemployed, bachelor-ed (academically and personally), and a recent member of Barack Obama's Socialist Army.

minnesotaindependent.com/31237/bachmann-reedcuation-camps

1/30/1987...1987.3...Coincidence? No. It's an omen. A sign from the gods. Time to ride.

Preliminary Logisticating: I won't be leaving until mid March. Until then, I'll be training and updating this blog. Expect nothing. But do check back often. Until then, stay safe, and be peaceful to one another.**

**(thanks, Mark Wheat!).