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.