On the train, the land whistles past in a blur of fall colors. It’s hardly satisfying, and it can get dull, but there’s no better way to see most of the East coast in a day.

I should make a proper beginning for you, and recount my adventures poking around our Capital. Then it’s on to New York City, Atlanta and Dadeville, Alabama.

So, here goes.

I woke in Washington in a small studio apartment. Celeste left early for work. Joe was gone too, off to the Saudi embassy to get a visa. I had the place to myself and was in no rush. I ate and showered. Then my phone buzzed. Celeste had sent me this message:

“Do you want to go the French embassy tonight, for a talk on conservation?”

Dare I call it serendipity? “Absolutely!” I wrote back.

The night before, I was wearing a shirt that had seen 3,800 miles of road and a few gallons of sweat. That night, I arrived at the French Embassy on my bike, in a dress shirt, slacks, and leather shoes. I even got a hair cut. It was a good 24 hour turn-around.

I have high standards for talks. I want a dynamo out to seize my eye and keep me glued. The guy was smart, had some good pictures of penguins and clearly cared about conservation, but his style was, well, dry. Good talks drill the message into people’s heads, and I can’t for the life of me remember what the guy was trying to tell me. I do remember the wrap up: “Wine is served.”

The crowd flooded out the doors to the food and French wine. I cradled a glass with Celeste in the middle of the foyer. We met one of Celeste’s co-workers, who is trying to get work with Exxon. I talked politics with her boyfriend, who said he was in special ops during the first years of the War in Afghanistan. “We were the first boots on the ground.”

He was a colorful guy, smart as a tack and charming. He was curious about my trip. “Is it safe?”

“If you’re a competent cyclist, absolutely. If you’ve never ridden a bike before, the learning curve will be a little steeper.” I told them to go to Nova Scotia and cycle there for a week. I’ve heard it’s gorgeous, and the people are kind to cyclists.

We were the last to leave. After scarfing down a few handfuls of grapes, we walked out into the cool night air. Celeste got a call while we waited for the bus. She was asking a professional friend about work opportunities. I didn’t think a thing of it, until the bus came and she got off the phone. She told me later, “If there’d been anyone else at the bus stop, I wouldn’t have had that conversation. Who knows who could have heard?” I found this a little bit odd. So I asked why. “People keep secrets in this town. People are tight lipped, playing their poker face. When I got here, we were told not to speak about work in elevators, or on our cell phones. You have to be careful.”

It’s true. Walking downtown, people are serious and blank. Don’t expect a smile, or a hello. Are they hiding something? Are they scared? Of what? Of me?

.   .   .

I did a few silly tourist things in DC. I went to the Library of Congress, and circled the Capital. I ran around the Mall, and past the White House. They had Barack sealed off by a ridiculous fence that put me about a football field from the Rose Garden.

I was with Celeste for two nights. Then I went to stay with an Israeli couple, Itai and Aviv. Itai is a wandering musician in need of something to play. Aviv is studying in the US for six months. They’re most recent exploit was driving their car from Texas to Panama.

Doesn’t that sound like a sweet idea for a bike ride?

We did a lot of hanging out. I went to Georgetown and super-glued my fingers to a keyboard. I’d slip back to Foggy Bottom for company and yam-lentil soup. My last day with them, Itai was busy baking chocolate cake for Aviv, and refused to let her enter the kitchen. Their place is small, so denying her kitchen access was a blow. Instead of doing her reading, she would come to the edge of the kitchen and ask me, “What’s he making?” A shrug was all she got out of me.

What's Itai making that smells soo good?

What're you cooking in there?!

Cake!

On my fourth night in DC, I met up with Jon Sandoval. I’d tried to surf with Sandoval my first night in town, but it hadn’t worked out. We’d both committed to getting together, and we met at a classy bar just below Itai and Aviv’s.

Do you know how some conversations take on a life of their own? The trust is instant and solid, the questions fly, the stories spiral out of control and the laughter is contagious. Good beer never hurts. Jon is from Idaho, and worked in environmental regulation for the state. Boise is home, and DC is work. He knows Emil, my friend who hosted me back in July.

I ended up spending four nights with Jon. The first two were with Rene Gutschi, an Austrian couchsurfer traveling around the world. DC was his final destination before flying home. Rene knows how to party.

Our first night I made pizzas, we drank Negra Modelos and talked into the wee hours. Our second night, we went out. We hit a Thai place, where we sampled some Thai beers. I ordered spicy, and got curry with teeth. After dinner we went to what Jon labeled, “A DC dive bar.”

Seemed pretty nice to me. Compared to the Beaver back in Bellingham, this place was fancy. We ordered two dark beers and, as Jon and I were talking, this woman walked up to me and said, “I know you. You were at the hostel in Eugene. What the hell are you doing here?”

I could not believe it.  But here she was, standing in front me, wanting to know what stroke of luck had brought our lives to collide. Again.

We found a free booth and had another round. The shock didn’t wear off, and conversation was no cure.  We decided to meet the next day and check out the Crafty Bastards art fest. Then she was off with her friend, leaving Jon, Rene and I with our drinks. We cleaned them off and went to Lucky’s, where Rene entertained the crowd with his light up shirt. He said they were glow worms.

We left Lucky’s on a wonderful tilt, and found Jon’s apartment a few minutes later where we all crashed and slept late.

.   .   .

Rene flew out the next day. I wrote. And wrote.

Then I met up with Ilse and her friend Kyle at Washington Circle. Ilse is working in DC on an internship that runs against her grain. She wants to be farming and writing, but a job’s a job. She’ll get her farm. Kyle works for the UN Development Committee, educating Americans about the value of supporting emerging nations. One of his main programs is a scholarship fund for Somali women to study in the United States. I told them about cycling, about The Cookie Lady and Dan-the-man and all the wonderful people I’ve met. With such good company the walk slipped by quick as cream. Before we knew it, we were in the Adams Morgan neighborhood. The fair was easy to find: follow the crowd. Crafty Bastards is honey-water for the youth of DC. Art, music, and jungle jims. What more could any true child-at-heart need? After poking around the luggage stenciled with Ronald Reagan and Kim Jung-il, Bat t-shirts, and giant stuffed donoughts we found our answer: falafel.

Amsterdam Falafel Company was just a block up the street. The line was out the door. We waited, and the line grew longer, and longer. I’d never had falafel before. It’s fried chickpeas, in pita, slathered in toppings. The wait was worth it. We sat down and plowed through the chickpeas and “frites” – their double fried french fries.

Stuffed, we started walking off our late lunch. For a few minutes, we walked behind a strange man in a cheap suit. He had long, straight black hair and a black dress hat. He was fondling a wad of money in his hands, and kept a quick pace. When he crossed the street, the three of us all looked at each other, wondering what was up with him. A used car salesman? A pimp? A gambler? I thought he might be a banker.

When we got back to Washington Square, I bid my farewells. We gave hugs all around and then Kyle and Ilse slipped away.

Ilse & I

I booked it to Trader Joes, for chocolate. Then I went up to Jon’s pad, to get a little more writing done and have a meal. He was cooking some pesto pasta. Conversation spun out of control. We were both anxious to work our legs a bit, so we walked to the FDR Memorial.

Lincoln’s memorial is my favorite. FDR’s is a close second, partly because it doesn’t feel like a monument. The very stones tell a story as you walk from one end to the other.

FDR posed for a photo

Freedom from Fear

.   .   .

The next day was quiet. I did a wash, rinse and repeat until I finished writing. Jon relaxed, slept and read. We watched a few very difficult movies, including The Reader. When the movie finished, I scratched this down: “What we forget, we repeat!”

.   .   .

The next day, I left for New York. It was a belated departure, after much heckling with Amtrak over tickets, prices and passes. And whether I could bring my bike on the train. The morning went by quick, with a run around the mall. The afternoon dwindling away, until I realized I needed to find a pedal wrench. So I went to The Bike Rack. I’d met Chuck, the owner, at the Crafty Bastard. We’d hit it off. Turns out he tried to do Peace Corps in his early twenties, and wants to do it later on. He’ll have to kiss his sweet shop goodbye first, which’ll be hard for him to do. It’s a clean place, with buckets of character and high quality bikes. And a giant mastiff who, at nine months old, weights 130 pounds. He spends a lot of time snoozing, but when I found him in the back of the shop he was glad for my company.

On my way out the door, I met Chuck’s friend Guillermo. It was getting late, and I was hungry for dinner, so they pointed me to a pub not two blocks away. I parked my bike inside and, after a great conversation about cycling, left for dinner. Not fifteen minutes after sitting down, Guillermo joined me for a beer. He’s originally from Venezuela, but has sent roots down in DC. His work is less than satisfying, something to do with banking, and he wants to open a bed-and-breakfast so he can focus on cooking and living. I didn’t want the conversation to end, but the meal was done, the glasses were dry and I had a train to catch.

And I did catch it, but my bike didn’t.

I arrived to the station half an hour before my departure. I thought, surely, there will be time to load the bike on the train. At the desk, I met with one of Amtrak’s many quirks. I have to arrive at least an hour early, if not two, to get everything settled and ready. I can’t just roll the bike onboard. I have to put it in a box, and load it as luggage. Thankfully, they said they could send the bike on the in morning.

So I caught my 10 pm train to New York City. I spent most of it snoozing. We pulled into Penn Station at 2 am, and I caught the subway to Canal Street. Then I bee-lined it to Broome Street, in SoHo, where my friends live. They had hidden a key under a grate near the front door. Minutes later, I was speeding up the elevator, and in bed. After a few days of couches and floors, I was happy for sheets, a good pillow and room to stretch and turn.

.   .   .

Some days, life is tough. Life at Mike and Kathy’s is far from it. They live in a loft apartment in SoHo that was, once upon a time, a garment factory. The elevator opens up in their livingroom. The wood floors tilt and creek. The ceilings are decorated in floral patterned tin. Three elegant columns in the middle of the apartment support the roof.

It’s slightly nuts, and, like so many buildings in New York, very beautiful. For a week, I hung out with Mike as Kathy came and went. She works for Girl Scouts of America, as their head exec. Her life is slightly nuts. Mike is a dreamer with deft fingers, a musical ear and a way with words. I cooked. My first full day in the City was Kathy’s last for a few nights. So, I prepared basil pesto pasta, with feta, tomato and a salad.

Mike and I did some editing. We cruised his bed watching Law & Order and cleaning off a 48 ounce bag of M&M’s. I went running in Central   , poked around Washington Square in “The Village,” and listened to musicians spin out their songs.

I read two books, Three Cups of Tea, and Half the Sky. Now I’m itching to be the change.

The story of Greg Mortenson has sunk into the American consciousness. Greg is a mountain climber who financed his love working as a hospital nurse. He attempted to climb K2, the second highest peak on earth. The mountain has a reputation for savagery, but Greg survived his failed attempt. Alive but weak, he got lost on his decent and wandered into the village of Korphe. There, he laid down the roots of a new life. He found the children of Korphe studying in a field, without a teacher, drawing letters in the dirt. He promised to build a school, which was the beginning of the Central Asia Institute.

The Institute was running on a thread just a few years ago. In 2007, their budget was over $13 million. By the standards of non-profits, this is tiny, but Greg’s impact is huge. The source of his success is in the relationships he’s built with the people in Pakistan and Afghanistan. He speaks their language, he embraces their culture and he stands by his promises. He loves building schools. This love has lead his small non-profit to incredible success. Greg practices the art of local development.

Half the Sky just hit the shelves. Written by Nick Kristof and Sheryl WuDunn, this is a heartfelt call to action to end violence and oppression against women. I can’t think of a more critical book to read. The stories are not easy, the facts are heartbreaking, and the opportunity these women represent is, to borrow their word, “transcendent.”

.   .   .

Mike and I spent a few days together. We wandered from bookstore to bookstore, trying to find a venue for him to read his short, one-syllable stories. We went to Washington Square Park. And we hosted my friend Adriana for dinner. We shared a house for the last six months of college, and now she lives in Brooklyn. She is an artist in love with the creative grind.

All it took was a walk to get back on the same page. Adri had to return a book to the library, so we took a little tour of Brooklyn before hopping the subway to Soho. We cooked a pasta dinner as Mike played his twelve string guitar.  We ended the evening with dark chocolate and a walk to the park and back to the subway station.

I was humming the whole walk back to Broome street. People were out, the air was cool but far from crisp, and an evening with such warm company put me in wonderful spirits.

.   .   .

My last day in New York turned out not to be. I got sucked into finishing Mike’s “small stories” and left late from Broome street. I got to the station half an hour before the train was set to leave, and decided to just change my reservation. Mike left the same day for a family reunion, but thankfully Kathy had returned so I knew I had a place to crash for one last night. She wasn’t home when I got there, so I just posted myself near the door with a book. Several people asked for directions. “Where’s the hardware store?” “Do you know how to get to Spring Street?” I must have looked like a local in spite of the fact everything I was wearing, minus the briefs, I bought at a thrift store. Why pay a hundred bucks at Columbia or North Face when I can pay $4 at Value Village?

Kathy was surprised to see me on her stoop. It was her only evening alone, and I felt bad for intruding, but I gave her all the space she asked for. Her big event of the week was meeting Michelle and Barack at the White House, with a clutch of DC Girl Scouts. Kathy came home just buzzing with light, but with sore feet. Given her crazy schedule, I can’t blame her for wanting a little space on her only day off.

The next morning I did a little writing and left super early. Instead of taking the subway, I walked. And I’m so glad I walked. I would have never found The Soup Spot, were it not for walking. I would’ve caved and bought something crappy and expensive in Penn Station. It’s a hole in the wall that reminded me of Seinfeld. Whether it’s the original inspiration or not, it’s absolutely delicious, and the lines are long. Unlike the Soup Nazi, the owners were incredibly friendly. I don’t often buy soup. It’s just not on my menu, but this time I got butternut squash soup and a tomato mozzarella sandwich. For seven bucks I got bread and a plum for desert!

In line at the place for soup

Oh, I can't wait!

It was so good I got back in line and ordered dinner for the train.

My second time on Amtrak went a little smoother. Sixteen hours, starting at 2 in the afternoon. They refused to microwave my soup, citing government regulations. I almost laughed. I made a few phone calls on my way down, and managed to wrestle out a decent nights sleep on the half-empty train.

.   .   .

The next morning, I woke on the outskirts of Atlanta. To my surprise, we pulled into the tiny station early. Within the hour my bike was all set up and I hit the streets. I made breakfast at a Kroger grocery and then went to a museum down the street. I didn’t know till I got there that the Boys & Girls Club headquarters was across the street. I worked for the B&G for about two years, so it was a thrill to stand in their sculpture garden and wonder at all the big decisions being made inside.

Then a little brown station wagon pulled up, and my Aunt Melissa, Uncle David and Rachel jumped out.

Then I met Jack, Rachel’s baby boy. He didn’t know what to make of the crazy redhead smiling at him, but he warmed up to me pretty quick.

After strapping the bike on the back, we sped off to The Varsity. I locked up my bike on the way in, and Jack fixated on the wheel of my bike. Inside, we met up with my cousin David, Jack’s daddy. Lunch passed quick. Jack plowed through some fries, and the rest of us had burgers. Then it was time for David to head back to work, and we were off to the house so we could get cleaned up. When we arrived, I started to get my bike down. Jack walked over and started spinning the wheel. “Wheel,” he said. I didn’t think much of it. Inside, I quickly came to realize who runs the place: Jack. I hope that’s typical for all 18-month olds. He’s got balls, a little lawn mower and a basketball hoop in the livingroom, and he made the rounds as we all sat and watched. He likes being the center of attention, and at 18 months, he’s cute as could be, so I’m fine with giving it to him.

Then he started calling me Bill. I think the first few times he was misspeaking “wheel,”  but then we got it in our heads he was calling me Bill. Given my first name is William, it’s not a stretch for me to be a Bill. But I’m not. I’m Ben. Yet, I’ve been named Bill by little Jack. Ever ytime he saw me that afternoon, he’d point and say, “Bill!” and we’d all laugh. He liked making us laugh. So he’d say, “Bill!” again.

So my new name is Bill. But only Jack gets to use it!

That afternoon, we went to the Martin Luther King Jr. Historic Site.  We toured the exhibits, and talked about what Melissa remembers of the Birmingham Campaign and my great Uncle David. It’s hard to imagine a nation in the grips of racial violence, but the pictures don’t lie. The mobs, the little girls blown down the street with fire-hoses, the lynchings. People can do vile, retched acts. And in the face of the mob, people can be both tough and full of love.

We stood by Martin and Coretta’s grave, and listened to the fountains. I tossed an acorn in their eternal flame. Then Jack started stretching his little fingers out to the water. He wanted to touch it so bad, but the ledge was too wide and his arms too short. I kneeled down next to him, and splashed the water. He watched, wrapped up in it. I splashed it again, and again. He walked around the corner of the fountain and stretched again. He was just a smidge from the water’s edge. Then inspiration struck. He stood up on his tip-toes, and dipped his fingers in the water. A huge grin erupted on his face.

Jack wants in the water

Tippy toes!

Poke!

On our way out, we stopped near the flame. An acorn fell and bounced. He picked it up and threw it down, and it bounced on the red bricks. I picked one up and bounced it. We started tossing them. Then he saw where a hundred acorns had all collected in this low spot, and water had filled them in. I picked up a handful, and put them in his tiny palm. He rolled them over, looking close and then threw them to the ground. He bent down close and looked at them, like he’d never seen acorns before, and the acorns filled his world.

.   .   .

Melissa, John and I left the next morning. It was sad to say goodbye to Jack. He was not happy to see Grandma, Grampa and Bill leaving, but we had to get to Dadeville. A storm was on the brew, and only a few minutes after sliding into the car the rain started falling in sheets. Creeks were running in all the gutters, and along the roadside. I was happy to be dry.

Dadeville is a small country town, that happens to be the county seat. My Aunt and Uncle live up on a small hill, sheltered in a forest of oak, hickory and poplar. I’ve been here a week now, and my time has been filled with rain and talk of family and politics. And a mysterious creature, that is living under their deck. It may be a super-fat groundhog, or a nutria pushed out of a pond nearby. We’ve seen it a few times, and Melissa is determined to see it gone. They are going to trap it and move it to somewhere remote and far away.

Tonight’s the big party. Food is cooking and beer is on ice. Near thirty people will be plowing through plates of spaghetti, and I’ll be part of the evening’s entertainment. Tomorrow, I hop a train for New Orleans.

I saw myself pushing up the driveway in late June, waving goodbye to my parents and Sam-dog (I nick-named him Sam-Bo-Butt-Sniff). I saw myself on the edge of night, pushing into my first thousand miles as a host of Idaho mosquitoes tried to suck my blood. I tasted polish sausage. I saw Chris and Clarissa’s home in Colorado Springs, and the blackberry pizza bubbling fresh from the oven. I saw Maribeth Hinderer welcoming me in from a downpour. I saw the black snake I rolled over on the Katy Trail. And I pushed on, into the cool night. Over the Potomac. Around Jefferson’s Memorial. Around Washington’s. Past the Reflecting Pool where thousands stood and listened. The movie reel started rolling in my head, and I listened to Martin Luther King sing:

“And when this happens, when we let freedom ring, when we let it ring from every village and every hamlet, from every state and every city, we will be able to speed up that day when all of God’s children, black men and white men, Jews and Gentiles, Protestants and Catholics, will be able to join hands and sing in the words of the old Negro spiritual:

Free at last! Free at last!

Thank God Almighty, we are free at last!”

And I find a Memorial. I find marble steps, full of tourists. I find a cold night, and a black sky filled with the white, blazing lights of our Memorial to a more perfect union. Behind the fierce lights, stars lie, hiding.

Are we free at last? Are we free at last?

This bike, this burden I’ve pushed these many miles, will not climb steps. I pick it up and begin the climb. One step follows one step until I find the top. And there he is, the symbol of a giant man, sitting in his stone chair, hands gripping the handles, face gentle and hard, looking out. Honest Abe. A man who lived in a time of peril, and rose to the challenge. I don’t understand him. I admire him.

We are not free. Yet.

Martin and Abe taught us, by their living example, to seize freedom now. In this moment, we can live up to our dreams.

. . .

Kindness. Love. Respect. Honesty. Joy. Humility. Forgiveness. Patience and stubborn persistence. Stubborn as a rusty nail. We can be who we want to be. I dream it. I believe it.

. . .

I left Booneville hungry, and I didn’t get far. Happy Time. It’s a gas station on the edge of town. I stopped and ordered an $8 pizza. Mushrooms and onions. It came out fast, and disappeared faster. I may have burned my mouth, but that’s what cycling does to me. I get that hungry.

The weather was perfect. The sky was a clear blue. The sun was out, but not too hot. The air was drier than normal. I blame the mountains. Higher up, it seems there is just less water in the air. When I’m on top of a mountain, it’s cooler. Coming down, I can feel the air escalate a few degrees, and the water sticks to my skin. Suddenly, I’m bathing in a fine mix of humidity and sweat. And I smell sweet as fried apple pie.

The road out of Booneville was busy for a few minutes, but as the town disappeared behind me, the traffic faded with it. I found myself winding up a little valley, following Cow Creek. The summit came fast, then down into another creek valley, then back up, then back down into the tiny town of Buckhorn.

I was happy to leave the roller coaster hills behind for a few minutes. A grocery was the first thing that came into view in Buckhorn, so I pulled in. A few old timers were sitting out front of the store, which stretched out for quite a ways. It’d seen much better days. I walked in and smelled dust. I had images of my parent’s store room I tore apart and helped rebuild in high school. Only the entrance was lit, and it seemed to be the only space in the building people actually used. I asked to refill my water bottles. “See the cash register down that-a-way?” I said yes, but didn’t see it. “The sink’s right behind it.” I started walking, poking around a museum of old junk. Coke signs. Dusty lamps. Nuts, bolts and screws. Car parts. Candy bars. Old furniture. Then the antique register came into view, on a glass counter. Behind it, I saw a damn near ancient porcelain sink, with a rusted out tap. I turned the handle, just to humor the guys up front. I only filled one bottle, since who the hell knows what was in the water. I’d seen a newer gas station across the street. I decided to fill up there.

On my way back, I picked up a Lipton iced tea from one of the few refrigerators working in the whole place. An old guy pulled up in a 70′s Ford town car that’d seen a few rough patches of road. The guy was rail-thin, and must have been in his 80′s. He started talking about fishing. All the guys took a turn talking about their favorite fishing holes. Then the old guy started talking about politics, on his way out the door. We left at the same time, as he began to rant about, “that damn foreigner who’s trying to ally our country with his. We wants ta tax driving now! The idiots who voted him in’ll get what they deserve! But we’ll all be broke!”

I didn’t say a word, but I thought of a few. I kept my lips sealed. What’s the sense in confronting him? He’s so glued in his rut. I thought, “I’ll never change his mind.”

Yet.

“We have also come to this hallowed spot to remind America of the fierce urgency of Now. This is no time to engage in the luxury of cooling off or to take the tranquilizing drug of gradualism. Now is the time to make real the promises of democracy.”

I know there will be a next time. The question is, will I be brave? Will I stand strong for what I believe, and bare the crucible’s pressure?

I left. I got on my bike and left the shadows of that dark, dusty grocery. I refilled my bottles across the street and turned my back on Buckhorn. But the glare of the man sticks with me still. The ignorance sticks with me. The hate sticks with me. I hope that, when the time comes, when the fight comes to me, that I know not to put up my fists but to stick out my neck, take a risk and speak the honest truth. You are wrong. Let freedom ring.

I did two more climbs that day. The first was hard, the second was more gradual, but I had to wrestle with a four lane highway. At the top of the second, I started to roll off route, into the town of Hazard, Kentucky.

Hazard is a mountain city of five thousand people, surrounded by pavement, strip and steep, green mountains. The only downhill in Hazard is the road into town. Getting out means going up. I pedaled around downtown, whistling. The sun was setting. I was cruising on gravity. I found a downtown empty, except for lawyer’s offices. Hazard is the county seat, and home to the courthouse, which is a grand building, with pillars and a manicured grounds. There are no restaurants downtown. Only government: lawyers, police, schools, courts, and McDonald’s. A police officer in town pointed me toward a free shower at the town rec center, called the Pavilion. I charged up my phone and let the sweat pour down the drain. The moment after stepping out of a shower, after a long day of cycling, is one of the best. Clean. Satisfied. And ready for a snooze.

When I left the Pavillion, it was dark. I rolled down to the Courthouse, set up my tent in the grass and made a phone call to Stanley Asah. I owed him the phone call. We ended up talking into the night. We agreed to grill up some meat upon my return to Seattle, and go hiking or snowshoeing or both.

I curled up in my tent and fell into a deep, blissful sleep. If I dreamed, I don’t remember it.

The next day, I woke and made oatmeal. I was camped near the courthouse, in a little park with a shelter and a bunch of tables. A few minutes after I got up, a bunch of guys from the parks department showed up and started hauling away the tables. They seemed to be twiddling their thumbs, waiting for me to wrap up my breakfast. So I plowed through it and got all cleaned up.

The lawyers were going to work, but the town seemed empty. People were walking around in fancy clothes, but they commuted into town. It felt a little like downtown Seattle, in miniature and worn down.

This is coal country. Coal has a way of taking its toll. You see it in the small things, the black dust, the rock all over the road, the weary miners. You see it in the big things, the torn up slopes, the ambulance-only mine entrances, the acrid taste of the water, and how some mountains do a permanent disappearing act.

The first few miles of the day were on a broad, four lane highway. Every few minutes, a huge coal truck would roar past me. Mack trucks. They are all huge Mack trucks with powerful diesel engines to pull the heavy loads up the steep slopes. But in some places in Appalachia, there are no slopes.

“There’s no way to make flat ground for development, except coal mining. And sometimes, the company just dumps the whole mountain,” said David Baldridge. He’s the son of Laurence and Martha Baldridge. Laurence is the pastor of the Caney Baptist Church, where I stayed the night. David is a coal mine regulator. And it’s true, there is no flat ground in this part of Appalachia, unless people flatten it. Why not pull out the coal first?

It’s eerie. I road to the top of a hill, only to see flat ground. To my left is the road, and a blasted out cliff. To my right is a stretch of brown, flat ground covered in gravel. Here, the water does not flow. It puddles up. A few empty bulldozers sit empty, waiting for a key to purr to life. In the distance, another blasted out cliff, marking the property line. Two black layers of coal stand out from the rock, black lines in the ancient stone. Money, waiting to be burned.

I stood there for a few minutes. Cars and trucks whizzed by. Sweat trickled from my forehead. I wiped my brow with my green bandanna. What can I do? I am just one man. Yet, look what man can do to a mountain. He can make it disappear. We must look like ants to the vultures circling high overhead. Tiny dots, digging hole after hole, piling rock into truck after truck, sending the mountain to furnace. Pulling energy from stone. Is it alchemy? Is it madness?

I saw several bright green shirts. A young woman working in a gas station was wearing one. It said, in big white letters: “Coal Mining. Our Future!” And it made me wonder. It made me think. People chose their future. They pick what seeds to sow. And some people sow their fields with salt, then throw up their hands when the crops never come.

I do not support coal mining. But I’m not so naive to think we are wise enough to purge it from our future. And these people in Appalachia need work. Coal mines are jobs. Dirty jobs, yes, but jobs nonetheless. Jobs that put money in people’s pockets. There aren’t any other jobs here, so it’s either welfare or the coal mines.

Here’s what I have to say:

I put the mountain behind me. I passed through the tiny town of Dwarf, which is only a cluster of houses in a little draw between the mountains. Then I started winding down a valley, following the Troublesome Creek. I had no trouble. In fact, I had great luck. A few miles out from the big town of Hindman, population 787, I found a gas station. Or what looked like a gas station. The parking lot was jam packed with cars. And I was hungry. I figured a crowd can’t be too far off, and it was lunchtime. So I pulled up.

As I parked the bike, two older guys walked by. They asked where I was from. I gave them the story, and asked what was going on. “Food. This-a-way.” Pointing inside, they opened the door and disappeared. I followed and found a huge room, full of tables. In the back was a row of folding tables filled with food. It was Wednesday’s community lunch. I lucked out! Homemade baked chicken, mashed potatoes, veggies and deserts. All you can eat!

A cyclist can’t do better than that. Turns out, one of the men I met was the county judge. He asked where I was headed. I hoped to make the border with Virginia, and he looked troubled. “You won’t make it. It’s too far, and your headed into some rough country.” He looked over my map, made a few marks with his pen and said, “I wouldn’t lay my head down between here and here. Meth. Alcohol. I’d be worried someone’d slice my throat.”

I didn’t react. I don’t like it when people try to scare me. But it worked. I didn’t pitch my tent between the two pen marks on my map. I stopped at Pippa Passes, home of Alice Lloyd College and the Caney Baptist Church. I’d heard about Laurence and Martha on the road earlier in the day, from a guy at a grocery store in Hindman. When I pulled in, I met Martha. She is a small, old lady with a big heart. “Oh, just pitch your tent anywhere you want. The door to the church there is open, so you can go in and use the bathroom. We’re having a youth night. My son David runs it and you’re welcome to join them for dinner.” I went and showered for free at Alice Lloyd’s rec center, which was just a hop and a skip down the road. Then I came back to the church, found a comfy couch. My head hit the pillow and I was out. I woke up and the light was fading.

David and the kids would be showing up soon. I poked around the church for a little while, and then the van pulled in. The hotdogs were on the stove in the kitchen, and Martha was poking around, setting out chips and soda.

David and I hit it off immediately, in part because we were the only guys in a room full of adolescent girls. Six of them. “We usually have a few young men come too, but not tonight.” I entertained them with my cycling stories. We all ate hotdogs. Martha had made about thirty, so I ended up eating about six. Then we sat down in one of the back rooms to watch a video. It talked about what being a Christian meant, and how so many people who go to Church don’t actually follow in the footsteps of Christ. The preacher was young. He was sitting in a diner, full of white people in nice clothes. He was young. He had glasses and short cut blond hair. He was trying to look cool, but I couldn’t connect with him. He was passionate. He knew how to hold your gaze. But in the end, my head grew numb from staring at a glowing tube. God is not a television.

We had a pretty slow discussion after. David kept trying to prompt the girls to ask questions. Conversation drifted from this topic to that topic, never really settling on anything of substance. The girls were bored stiff. Who could blame them? I was too.

I hopped in the van to take them home. David and I talked about cycling, coal mining, and people who live in the area. There are lots of tattered rebel flags and trailers. He told me there is a lot of meth too.

How do you heal a place like this? What can we do to help these people? Is a college like Alice Lloyd enough? Food is a start. Build community. Create opportunity. I know all the words but I’m not sure on the details. And I was just passing through.

My last day in Kentucky began under a blanket of fog. The sun came out, and the fog lifted. Pippa Passes sits in a narrow valley between two steep, tree covered ridges. Watching the sun come up over the mountains, and the water fade from the air, was the perfect way to begin my final day in the Bluegrass State.

The next town after Pippa Passes was little more than a bump, a gas station and a Post Office, but here is where the judge marked his first line. The poverty line. Over the next thirty miles, I climbed two peaks, followed creeks and tried to ease my worry about dogs. Some of the homes are heartbreaking. Burned out mobile homes. Broken windows. Garbage. Tires and plastic bags in the streams. And people who look tired. Just tired. The dogs troubled me with their voices. Every few turns in the road brought on a fresh chorus of barks. One dog I remember over all the others. The yellow bulldog was chained to a steel bar, grounded in cement. The bulldog screamed at me.

When I think back on that day, I see sunshine, blue sky and green trees everywhere. Then I hear this dog screaming and it makes me shiver. It was somewhere between a pained howl and a bark, and it broke my heart. I wanted to help the dog, but I wanted to keep my hand.

Later on, I passed a row of homes. One was in particularly sad shape. A couple was sitting in the carport. I made eye contact with the woman. I waved, and she made a frantic pedaling motion with her hands, which left me puzzled. She was grinning. Then I heard the barking, and saw three dogs closing in on me. I pulled my pepper spray but didn’t have to use it. I mustered all the deep anger I could in my voice, and yelled at the dogs, “Don’t make a problem for yourselves!” They backed off, and I was glad I didn’t have to plaster their eyes in pepper juice.

I pushed on. I left it all behind. I pulled out onto a large highway, and passed out of the poverty line. I turned into a Dairy Bar and had some potato wedges and a fresh ear of corn. I put the dogs out of my mind.

An old Ford Mustang pulled into the gravel parking lot. A young couple got out. They looked like they were in high school. They ordered food and started talking to the woman running the Dairy Bar. I listened to their conversation. They were pregnant. Twins. She was just starting to show. The man had gotten a job working for Qwest.

We eventually got to talking. They were curious about the bike. I was curious how a couple so young could already be pregnant. They said they were getting married soon. The guy said he was twenty two. The woman was eighteen. And I was trying to wrap my head around how different their lives are from mine.

Here I am, done with college, on a bike trip, about to start a tour in Peace Corps. Here they are, about to get married and have twins and start working like crazy to support their children. Same age, dramatically different life experience. They seemed happy, and a bit in shock. But they seemed good for each other. The guy was no dweeb. He would stick around, and do his duty.

My appetite satisfied, I started up the road, over the next big hill. It turned out not to be as bad as I feared, but the next hill came quick. It proved to be more mountain than hill. Steep. Narrow. Gorgeous. I got to the top and took a break in the afternoon sun. Coated in sweat and sunscreen, I was looking forward to the last downhill in Kentucky.

If only I knew.

On my map, the next big town is Elkhorn City. Then, just a little ways up the road is Breaks Interstate Park. On the map, it looks like a few centimeters, and the slope looks nonexistent. I learned a lesson: maps can lie.

I stopped in Elkhorn and considered finding a church and stopping for the night. But I wanted to make Virginia. So I pushed on. A guy stopped in his truck and asked if I was lost. “No, just checking over my map. How far is Breaks?” I asked.

“Seven miles. Uphill.”

I was plowing down a granola bar as he replied and decided to clean off a second one. I started pedaling moments later. The sky was growing dim, and I wanted to make it to the border and the park.

Not ten minutes later, I came to a sign pointing down a long, steep road. It read, “Breaks Interstate Park Recreation Area.” The drop made me dizzy it was so steep, and I didn’t want to think about the climb in the morning. I called a motel up the road for information. “Keep going. The campgrounds are a few more miles.”

Five minutes later, I said goodbye to Kentucky. The only person to wish me off was a German Shepard, barking his heart out. It was not the Kentucky send-off I was hoping for, but at least the dog had the decency not to chase me.

So I kept going. And going. Uphill. After half an hour, I was dying of hunger, coated in a fresh layer of sweat and about ready to collapse on the side of the road and call it a night. I kept telling myself, “The park will be around the next bend.” I kept finding more trees, and kudzu, and trees. I started taking hits off my honey bottle to keep up my energy.

When I made it to the park entrance, I felt relief roll through my body. Then the road turned up a steep hill. And a sign said, “1 1/2 miles to campgrounds.”

What the hell! But there’s such luscious grass right here! I pushed on. A sign said, “1 mile to camp office.” When I got there, I found a big red stop sign. I stopped and pulled up to the window. I knocked. The light was on, and a big board mapping out all the sites was just inside the window. A few sites were marked in red, but almost all were green. Little numbers were by each light, indicating the cost. The closest ones were all $20. The cheapest one I could find was $9, and it was on the farthest loop, and quite a walk from a shower room.

I waited for someone to show up for ten minutes. The dusk light was disappearing quick. Eventually, the sweat and the hunger and the exhaustion all piled up and I couldn’t take it. “Screw it. If they want my money, they’ll come get it.”

I pedaled into the first loop, with the $20 camp sites, and stopped at the washroom. The loop was empty except for one camper. A couple was sitting out front, having some dinner and starting a small fire. They gave me a once over and must have been wondering what this crazy guy on a bike was up to.

I was on a mission to scrub it! In the washroom I went. I started the shower, stepped in and let the hot water pour over my tired muscles. I looked up into the light overhead and a spiderweb caught my eye.

Just seconds later, the web shattered. A fly hit the bullseye, and the web and served its purpose. The fly was desperately trying to escape, frantically buzzing its wings, making the web vibrate in a blaze of movement. The fly was a black dot in the yellow light. Then a second, smaller dot appeared. The spider closed in, its long legs stretching toward the fly.

I watched, wrapped up in the scene, soap and water forgotten, my buck nudity not even a thought.

Here is life, wild and beyond reason. A fly caught in a spider’s web. The spider is probably half the size of the fly. Like a lanky chef preparing a feast, the spider closes in and touches the fly, wrapping a strand of web around one wing, drawing the fly toward death. Minutes later, the fly is a black ball. The spasms of wings slow. The spider curls up on the fly. Fangs sink in, and fly becomes spider.

I finished my shower soon after. When I left the shower room, it was black as night. I set about preparing couscous for dinner, and managed to spill it all over my stove! Brilliant move! So, a third of my dinner was on the table and the ground. I had a bag of raisin bran, and went over to the camper to ask for some milk. I ended up with a plate of sausage and pasta. I feel awful because they gave me a card with their names, and I’ve lost it. (If you are reading this, please leave a comment with your names! I want to get it right!) I will call them Mike and Jen. Mike is a retired teacher and a general handyman. Jen worked in an office and is retired. They drive their camper around whenever the whim hits and the weather works. It was on a whim for them to come to Breaks Interstate Park, and my luck that they offered me dinner.

We sat and talked well into the night, about my trip and their travels. I had been a wee bit lonely, eating dinner by myself in the dark. Sitting there with them, in the light of their camper, talking, brought me good cheer.

We bid good night and I pitched my tent. Curling up I fell into a deep sleep. In the morning I woke and Mike and Jen were up and near ready to depart. Mike brought over milk and a banana, which made breakfast absolutely perfect. I loaded honey over the raisin bran and was on the road a few minutes after they left.

Virginia. The last state.

Haysi is the first town in Virginia. As I got close, I started having hunger pangs for biscuits and gravy. One of the wonderful things about cycling in the South is the delicious, rich food. I figured there must be a greasy spoon in Haysi that’ll fix me up. Even a gas station would do. The road into Haysi climbs a gigantic hill. At the top is a house, and there I met Anita Belcher. Anita was out in her garden, throwing out some seeds. I stopped for some conversation. “Where’s the best biscuits and gravy in town?”

She looked at me, and motioned me to get off the road. “My kitchen. Come on in.” And off I went. To Church.

I parked my bike, and Anita showed me her beautiful gardens. “My grandchildren love to visit in the spring, when all the flowers are opening.” I met her husband, who goes by C.C. They invited me inside, and after sitting at the table. I asked about the house, and how they’d met. C.C. told me they started dating when he got back from World War II. He told me they talked about getting married, but Anita refused to marry anyone who wasn’t a member of the Church. C.C. looked at me with loving eyes. He asked, “Are you a believer?”

“Are you a believer?”

“No, I’m not.” I said.

Feeling compelled, he told me the story of Christ. It’s a good story. We are all sinners, because of Adam and Eve. God sent his own son, Jesus, to save us from our sins. Jesus died for us and came back from the dead. And we, as good people, must accept him as our Lord and Savior if we are to go to heaven. C.C. told me of the perils and unending suffering of hell. He looked scared for me. He really looked frightened.

I quietly listened.

C.C., after finishing his story, decided to do some gardening. Anita had been listening the whole time, and working in front of the stove. Bacon sizzled in a cast iron skillet. She threw batter in another iron pan and put it in the oven to bake.

Then she sat down with me. We talked, for a long time. I listened, mostly, and she spoke the good word. She told me of Jesus’ love. She told me about her granddaughter who got in a car wreck. The doctors said she would die from her injuries. She prayed. They all prayed and she lived. She told me that hell was real. And she fed me the best biscuits and gravy I’ve ever had in my life.

She told me to be discerning.

I listened. I was honestly curious. I want to listen to the voice of the Bible Belt, to understand it, and build community.

We went out to the carport and sat for who knows how long. She told me about a young man she knew. He came and talked with her. She asked him if he would accept Jesus as his lord and savior. He told her he couldn’t, that it wasn’t who he was.

I asked her if that hurt her. She said yes.

I was quiet for a while. She didn’t ask me.

I could feel the love from her. This small, old woman had taken me into her home, and told me the story in her heart. She wanted me to be a part of her community. She wanted me to join God’s circle.

She told me one of the greatest problems in our society is a move from a belief in absolute black and white to a belief in a thousand shades of gray. Instead of believing in God, we believe in nothing. As a result, we are choosing to go to hell.

I started this trip wanting to stitch us all together. I believe that building community with people is a way to heal the world. Here, in Haysi, I’ve found a woman of genuine, overpowering love. I asked, “Is there a middle ground where I can meet you?”

“There is no middle ground.”

Here is a woman of absolutes. Your either in the circle, or outside it. It’s your choice.

I was getting ready to leave. I had more miles to make. Thunder had been rumbling the sky, and rain had poured down. But now, it was calm. The sun was out. Everything smelled clean.

C.C. called from the garden, “Is Ben leaving? Tell him to wait until I come over. I want to pray with him.”

C.C. came over. He asked me, “Will you accept Jesus as your Lord and Savior?” I looked at Anita, and she said something about needing to go inside. She left. She didn’t want to listen.

I told him I couldn’t. That it just wasn’t me. He looked at me, but he didn’t look surprised. “Can we pray?”

I nodded, and he bent his head and asked God to reveal himself to me, and give me safe travels.

I gave C.C. a hug. He took my picture and I left.

I rolled down the hill. I can’t say I felt broken, because I knew, with even more confidence, who I was. But I hurt. I wanted to connect with these people, and build community, but there was this thing between us, dividing us. How do you bridge the gap? How?

. . .

Ron told me in Eastern Oregon, “It doesn’t matter how bad I feel. After fifteen minutes on my bike I’m grinning ear to ear.”

He’s right. It’s true. Pedaling through the small towns of Birchleaf, Bee, Davenport and Council, I felt better. It was raining, but I felt better with each passing mile.

And I met Jerry and Eric on the road. They’re cycling to San Francisco on ten-speeds from the 70′s. I thought they were more than a little loony toons, but I didn’t tell them that. They had luggage bags bungee corded to their bikes. They said all their gear was wrapped in plastic, which I found reassuring.

“You know you’re going to hit the Rockies at a hard time, right?”

“If it gets really rough, we’ll head South.”

“Well, here.” I handed them my can of dog mace. I figured I’d gotten it from Rocky and Katie back in West Kentucky, and I should pass it on. “Take this. I hope you guys don’t need it.”

They were grateful for it, and gave me contact info for a family in Radford, Virginia. “Give ‘em a call when you get close. They’re awesome.”

In Honaker, about ten miles from my destination, I stopped at a gas station. I wanted to get the phone number for the Church-hostel and give them a call. I wanted to let them know I was coming.

A truck pulled in. The guy stepped out and started to pump gas. He asked, “Where you riding from?”

“Seattle.”

“Wow! No kidding?”

I walked over and shook his hand. We introduced ourselves, and there I met Mark Boyd. I asked where was a good place to eat in town. He told me of a place down the road, and then said, “But we’re having a football party at my place tonight. It’s Friday, and the local team’s matched up with their rival. We’re going to the game, then coming back. We’ve got tons of food. If you want, we can throw your bike in the truck. I can drive you back to the route in the morning.”

I weighed the options. Why not? A few minutes later, we were rolling down the road to Mark’s parent’s house. They have a neon orange Volkswagen Bug from the sixties. Mark introduced me to his parents, Guy and Barbara. I admired their bright orange fiestaware. I thought it was still a little early for Halloween.

When I got to Mark’s house, I found a whole lot more orange. His carport was all decked out in orange. I didn’t say anything. I figured maybe the family just really likes the color. He showed me the shower, the bedroom and let me know I was welcome to whatever I needed. “Do you want to come to the game?”

I decided to stay and put my feet up. I scrubbed. I did some laundry. I cleaned off half a bag of tortilla chips. I was alone for a quite a stint, so I watched the fog move in and the sun fade behind the mountains. Mark and his wife Marlean live on a cleared ridge that used to be pasture land. It’s easy to see why they bought the land. It’s utterly breathtaking. The mountains in the Appalachians are steep, rolling hills littered in huge swaths of green. As the light began to fail and the colors turned rich, all I could manage to do was stand and breath the thick, wet air.

Then people started to arrive. Benny and Rita Chafin, and their daughter’s Leah and Maggie, were first. They too, were dressed in orange. Benny and I hit it off and started talking immediately, since we were outnumbered by women. Barbara appeared a few minutes later. Then food started to spill out of everywhere. Marlean got home and immediately rushed to the kitchen. Moments later plate after plate of wonderful food appeared. I started plowing into sliced apples and creamy peanut-molasses dip. Cycling at least fifty miles a day has a way of totally erasing all guilt in such pleasures.

More people started to show up as the fog thickened and the night grew older. I met Dwight Jackson, who everyone promised would be a character and a hoot. He proved to be both, but seemed, to me, a bit on the quiet side. I don’t think he knew what to make of me, as I told stories of my ride. But I liked him nonetheless. Mark and Guy showed up. As did another young man, Vincent Sizemore, who didn’t stick around too long, but did manage to help eat the mountains of food everywhere.

We stayed up into the wee hours of morning. The girls started a fire in the fire pit. The men huddled together and talked. Then people started peeling off. “I’ve got work in the morning,” said Benny. Then he stuck around another half hour to talk politics with me as his wife Rita started to tap her foot.

As the party wound up, I went inside to my room. I looked at my phone and noticed it needed a charge. I looked around, and that’s when I saw the Boar who would be sleeping with me.

The whole boar wasn’t present, but the ugly end sure was. The long tongue was collecting dust between the giant teeth sticking out crooked from the pigs snout. The head was quite a mess. How could anything that ugly find a mate to reproduce? Beauty may be in the eye of the beholder, but damn this thing was hideous. And the only power outlet I could find was right beneath him.

I plugged it in, careful not to touch the thing. Then I turned out the light and tried to think of something else. I was out quick, thankfully.

In the morning, Mark and I had breakfast. He works delivering plants to big stores, and his season was wrapped up. So he was free and breezy.

A few minutes later, we piled into his truck for the drive back to the route. We said our goodbyes and I was off into the wild blue morning.

On the edge of Rosedale, the next town, I met three cyclists on tour: Joe, Clancy and Chase. Clancy and Chase are halfway around the block. They started their ride in Oregon, took a right in Maine, took another right in Virginia and are aiming for San Francisco. Joe met up with them along the way. He’s rolling to San Fran too. We blabbed for a long time in a parking lot on the side of the road. I asked about routes into Washington DC. They asked about Appalachia and Kentucky.

I told them what they already knew, that they were headed for hard weather in the Rockies. “We’ll hitchhike over if we have to.” I didn’t mention the Sierra’s, or the Donner Party. Thankfully, California has a better transportation system than it did in the 1840′s. I’m sure if they made it from Oregon to Maine they’ll be alright, but it seems they were setting themselves up for failure. It gets cold in the Rockies in August. I wouldn’t want to cycle over them in November. Or December.

To each their own. And I must admit, they’ve chosen a good challenge. If they make it, I’ll owe them props and a beer.

I found another gorgeous day in Appalachia coming up and over Hayters Gap. The Gap is a little one lane road, winding up between Beartown Mountain and Clinch Mountain. It’s wild country. Bear, cougar and rattle snakes all call the forests home. And everything they eat, of course. On my way up, a car passed me and stopped on the side of the road. An older guy hopped out with what looked like gaiters on. Turned out they were for rattle snakes. “I’m hunting ginseng.” His wife was there too, but she was wearing a dress. I asked if she was going too. “Ohh no. I’m just dropping him off and going home.” Ginseng is a popular traditional medicine in Appalachia. It’s so popular, it’s illegal to collect in some parks.

On the other side of the mountain, I passed through the town of Hayters Gap, which is really nothing more than a concentration of houses. But I was out of water. I stopped at the home of Kenneth and Shirley Davenport. I met their new puppy, and heard about Kenneth’s decades of fishing experience, and their son’s home across the valley. I heard about a 44 inch rattle snake the game warden had brought by after an accident, and how black bears wander around in the corn fields every now and again. Shirley made me a delicious sandwich and I got my bottles refilled.

And then I was off, aiming for the town of Damascus.

My accuracy is a little off. I ended the day thirteen miles shy of Damascus, in the town of Meadowview, at the Farmer’s Guild. There I met Kyla Hebard.

The Farmer’s Guild is a cool little outfit: they have a grocery and craft store, and a restaurant called the Harvest Table. The niche is local food and crafts. They have wide range: everything from rocking chairs to cranberries. And of course, the Harvest Table serves some incredible food. Food as art. What an incredible idea!

Kyla works at the Harvest Table, and she’s joining the Peace Corps in February. We hit it off immediately. She told me to come over to her home, share a meal and then go to Rhythm & Roots.

What’s Rhythm & Roots?

Only the biggest, bestest, most mind blowing bluegrass reunion of all time! Twenty stages, in downtown Bristol, smack dab on the state line between Virginia and Tennessee. How could I resist? And why the hell would I try?

I got direction’s to Kyla’s place and met up with her later, after a blab session with my parents. She’s living with her parents, Fred Hebard and Dayle Zanzinger. They’re both plant pathologists, and Fred is hard at work bring the American Chestnut back to life. Fred is doing cutting edge restoration work that will, hopefully, see the return of the chestnut to Appalachia. The trees were a vital part of the culture and economy of the East Coast. It’s been seventy years since the blight decimated the Chestnut forests of the United States. Meadowview has one of the biggest chestnut farms in the country, and Fred is the staff pathologist.

I found home. And an incredible feast: sushi, tuna, salad, oysters, clams and, of course, chips and guacamole. After a speedy shower, I joined Kyla, her boyfriend Brett, her sister Paige, Dayle and Fred in devouring this delicious meal.

Then we split it for Bristol. When we arrived, we caught the beginning of Patty Loveless’ performance, which didn’t catch my interest too much. We saw some of their family friends playing at one of the bars, and then I went to watch the Dan Tyminski Band. I had no clue what kind of show I was in for, which made the experience all the more mind blowing.

You’ve heard Dan’s voice before.

His band put on a damn fine show. His mandolin player, Adam Steffey, can play so fast his fingers blur in the stage light.

And all I could do was follow along with my ears. I got right up to the stage, and snapped a few pictures for you all. Too bad I couldn’t capture some of the music — a recording wouldn’t have done them justice anyway.

~~~~~~

Then I met Scythian, rocking out the dance tent. I caught the tail end of their show, and the crowd was in rapture. They were pounding the floor with their bodies, pushing into the air, moving in waves of music. They are the immigrant road show, and their energy just enveloped me. Within moments I was one of the crazy people pounding the pavement. It was a shame I couldn’t split myself in two and see both Scythian and Dan Tyminski. So it goes.

We got back to the house at around 1 am, and I immediately hit the sack.

In the morning, I was first up among the young people. Fred and I talked a while, until the rest of the family piled down the stairs. It was late morning. Clouds mixed with blue in the early sky, and soft light poured through the windows.

Paige had to get back to Danville, Kentucky, for school. She attends Centre College, which, coincidentally, is where Morgan Lynn, my friend from Marion, Kentucky, also goes to school.

Brett had to get back to Washington for work. Kyla had to get to the Farmers Guild. Fred was heading to the farm. And I was on for Damascus, and the mountains!

Crossing the interstate was uneventful. Pedaling to Damascus took me past farmland and pasture, through small groves of forest and then into downtown.

Damascus is the intersection between the Appalachian Trail and the Transamerica touring route. I hit the town at the end of the season, in the middle of a rain shower. The clouds kept thickening until they couldn’t resist coming down, bound for earth.

Since so many hikers and cyclists pass through, there are hostels, bike shops and a bounty of good grub. I only got a little taste of what Damascus had to offer, but I liked what I saw: hippies, tasty food and mountains galore!

My bike was putting up a fit, so I chased down a bike shopand had them do a little repair work while I found a burger at Fatie’s Diner, home of the six pound burger contest. The pictures of failed attempts were more than a little disturbing, but the yam fries with brown sugar butter and black bean burger made up for it. I left a happy customer.

When I got back to my bike, it was purring instead of clicking, and I was ready to hit the road. I almost stayed the night in Damascus, but the afternoon was still only half gone, and I wanted more miles under my belt. The guy at the shop said I had no chance of making it over the mountain to Troutdale before dark.

I proved him wrong. I got to town with light to spare. Not much, but some.

I took the Creeper Trail up the steepest part of the mountain. It’s a rails-to-trails convert, so the grades are all gradual, the views are spectacular and there is no traffic to fret over.

I stopped in the town of Konnarock to for a rest and a Milky Way halfway to Troutdale. The summit came soon after Konnarock, and the rest of the way to Troutdale was a coast. I stopped in the little diner/grocery store for some hot food to tide me over, even though the yam fries were still with me. Then I pedaled up to the Baptist Church of Troutdale, which runs a hostel for hikers and bikers. They even have hot showers!

Which I thoroughly enjoyed.

My only problem: the showers were open, but the Church was locked. And I thought the beds were there. So I asked one of the neighbors where Ken Riggins, the pastor, and his wife Mary lived. A few minutes later, as night was settling in for a cool evening, I knocked on their door.

“Where’s the hostel?”

They’d been asked before. “I knew we should have fixed that sign!” The letters had all fallen down, and I had to make out the message from the glued stencils. It didn’t work too well, obviously. We ended up talking until ten o’clock about traveling, cycling and their work ministering.

They were incredibly loving and genuine. And they were respectful. When they asked the inevitable question, they were not surprised at my answer. They didn’t redouble their efforts at evangelizing. They told stories about their family, about Ken’s struggle with cancer and their lives up in the mountains. “We’re blessed to be here.”

As conversation wound down, Ken offered to drive me back to the hostel. I took his offer and was relaxing in the bunk house within moments.

I was alone, so I made an early night and turned out the light.

In the morning, I got all packed and had breakfast at the diner. Pancakes. With buckets of honey, strawberries and peaches. There are few better ways to start a long day on the bike.

I’d been pulling too many short days, and I wanted to make as many miles as I could. Jerry and Eric, who I’d met a few days before, had given me the contact info for the Lee Family in Radford. Radford was 80 miles down the road, so I had to start pedaling early.

The towns of Sugar Grove and Cedar Springs passed by fast. I was coming off the mountain, into the valley, and all that energy I’d earned climbing the Creeper Trail was coming back to me, with extras, like a song on my lips, curling out of me in a whistle, and whatever words struck me as nice.

I stopped in Rural Retreat for a breather and a little gas station food. The road from Rural Retreat to Wytheville was a four lane highway, but the traffic was light as a breeze, and I had no trouble at all.

In fact, I found apples! Local apples.

Me want apples!

You’ve gotta love orchards, especially when they stick the crops right next the road to reel you off the pavement. I slathered mine in honey.

In Wytheville I had a bar-b-q sandwich at Skeeters, which I’d never heard of before, but has “world famous hotdogs.” They’ve sold 9 million of them. The joint feels like the fifties: old posters for Coke and Pepsi, and a real soda bar. The sandwich was pretty good too. Then I gave a bunch of folks a call, including my contacts in Radford, the Lee’s. Sam picked up the phone, and handed it to his mom Sarah a few minutes later. “Oh, we’d love to host you. See you in a few hours!”

I still had forty miles to make, and the afternoon was wearing on, so I booked it out of Wytheville. I had an incredible second wind that carried me twenty five miles down the road without more than a two minute rest break.

I stopped in Draper, a little town with a funky gas station, for a refill on my water. I talked to the cute store clerk and her boyfriend for a few minutes. I love watching people’s jaws drop. “You rode that from Seattle!?”

I chatted it up with an older woman leaving the store. We were outside in the gravel lot. I was getting on my bike. She said, “I could never do that.”

“You’d be surprised. I can tell your tough.”

She looked at me. She nodded. “I’ve gotta be.”

We gotta be tough. Life takes more than muscle. It demands a stubborn, persistent mind. The world demands we work hard today, in hopes of building a better tomorrow.

I still had plenty of miles to Radford, and the light was turning long. I waved goodbye to the clerk and her boyfriend and disappeared into the fading grey.

I pushed hard. Really damn hard. Four miles out, the stars started coming out. I was on a riverbank road, covered in trees except for the slit in the middle, where the pavement spread. I was waiting for the bridge over the river, for the street lamps, for the hot shower, food and soft couch waiting for me at the Lee’s.

Clouds of bugs were floating in the air. Somehow, one slipped past my glasses, through my eye lashes, and got glued to my eye. For the final four miles, I was blinking like a madman, hoping a car wouldn’t sideswipe me.

Crossing the bridge was such a relief. Meeting Thad in his front lawn was even more so. I wanted to get out of the grey weather, and into somewhere warm and dry.

Thad is a doctor. He did the Transam in ’98 with his two older sons. They both went into the Air Force, one to the Academy, another through the ROTC at his college.

Thad was wearing a shirt from the American Embassy in Afghanistan. “You don’t ever want to go there. Ever.” I asked if he’d been. “No, but I’ve heard enough from my sons to know I never want to go.”

His son Sam is still in the house, and wants to be a rock star. This isn’t some fanciful dream, he’s got talent and practices all the time. His wife Sarah stayed upstairs, since I got there late in the evening.

“Help yourself to anything in the kitchen. Make yourself at home.”

Thad and I talked as I whipped up a sandwich with eggs, apples and thick slabs of homemade bread. We talked about cycling, his work, Peace Corps and politics. I downed a huge piece of Sarah’s homemade cake too, which was a wonderful way to end a long day.

The shower was next to bliss. So was sleeping in a bed until the late morning.

When I woke, everyone was gone except Sarah. She’s a nurse, working at the local college part-time. She shared the gossip from the college’s crazy politics: a terrible president firing everyone in her crosshairs, as the State slashes the budget and the university gives the President a million dollar bonus. Wacky.

I hit the road when she started taking care of some paperwork. Halfway between Radford and Christianburg, the big-town-next-door, where I successfully missed a turn and got lost. My head was in the clouds I guess. The big town didn’t help any, and a few missing signs.

I did eventually escape the city’s clutches, and found my way into this beautiful valley. The road was following Catawba Creek. Forested mountains on both sides kept me company. The road I was following was the only one in the valley, and there were no lines, just a small strip of pavement, twisting through the hills.

As I approached the town of Catawba, the sun came out! It’d been grey all day long, but then the sun decided, for whatever reason, an appearance was necessary. The sun was descending, but the long strings of yellow light brought a cheer to me that I’d missed for the past few grey, rainy days.

I had a big sub sandwich at a gas station in Catawba. All the food came from Sam’s Club, but I didn’t care a lick. The fat brownie was good too. At some point, fuel is all that matters. Quality just goes out the window.

“Two more hours,” I told myself. “Then you can quit.”

Sarah had told me someone in Troutville, the next town, took cyclists in. My backup was the city park. Little did I know what the night had in store. Dan. Oh, I was about to collide with Dan the man.

I’ve had wonderful luck with Dan’s in my life. Dan Powers, a good high school friend, lived with me for half a year. He played music, we made dinner and had tons of fun together. I remember sitting in his room as he practiced chords. Seemed, to my memory, that most of the time we were laughing.

The Dan I was to meet this night was a different kind of man.

It was dark, and raining when I pulled into Troutville, exhausted. A light rain was falling, a stubborn drizzle good for fogging up glasses and turning a quiet night cold and wet.

I stopped under a street lamp, in front of a grey house. I was hunting for a phone number, trying to call Sarah. Fingers divided the blinds, and for a split second I saw a pair of eyes watching me. A few minutes later, a short, lanky man came out. We stood in the pool of yellow light, talking in the rain.

“I saw your light. Are you staying the night in Troutville?”

Something about him made my stomach turn summersaults.

“Yeah, I’m heading to the city park. There’s a guy who hosts cyclists I’m trying to connect with. Do you know him?”

“Uhh, well if you need a place, you can stay here. I’ve got a bed you can use. I sleep in my chair most times, and I have food. My name’s Dan.”

We shook hands. “I’m Ben.” What a tempting offer. “Oh, but  it’s late and I don’t want to disturb you and your family.”

“I don’t have a family. I live alone, except my four dogs. But their small and friendly. Come on inside.”

My stomach felt like a washing machine on a super-spin cycle. I didn’t like him.

“Hold on. Let me park my bike.” I left it in the pool of light.

“You should bring the bike around the side.”

“It’s fine here,” I said.

I followed him around the hedge and up to the side door. He opened it and I followed him into a small kitchen. A few lights were on, but not many. The kitchen was dark, covered in wood panelling. It looked like a fifties housewife did the decorating.

“Meet my dogs.”

A little screen, like the kind to keep babies from wandering, divided the kitchen and livingroom. Four little dogs started barking at me.

I was waiting for Dan to pull out a gun.

For whatever reason, I kneeled down to let the dogs smell my hand through the screen. Dan was standing over me.

After a moment, I stood, and walked back to the door.

“Are you going to stay? You should. I’d love to have the company. I never have anyone to talk to.”

The kitchen opened up into a backroom. A light was on. It was the laundry room, and the ceiling had collapsed. I started feeling queezy.

“I should get going. I need to get down to the park to meet this guy. But if you want, we can go outside and talk for a few minutes. Then I have to go.”

“Do you have something arranged with this guy or something? Is he going to meet you? I don’t understand why you won’t stay, and accept my hospitality.” Dan looked hurt.

“Yes, he’s going to meet me. And I’d feel bad if I didn’t go, since we’ve set something up already. I really appreciate your kindness, but I’d feel bad.”

“Okay,” Dan said. “Lets go out and smoke a cigarette.”

We went outside. He had some lawn furniture. He sat on a bench, and scooted over, like he wanted me to sit next to him. I pretended not to notice, and took a chair.

He offered me a cig and I decline. Then he lit up and started talking.

“No one likes me. I don’t understand why. It’s always been this way, but no one likes me.” He paused, and took a drag. He leaned in and said, “People walk up to me and ask, ‘Are you gay?’ Do you think I’m gay?”

“No.” I was creeped out, and trying to keep a poker face.

“Well, finally! Some people. I just don’t understand.” Then, he leaned toward me again, and said, “Do you want to go ’round back? I’ll give you a blowjob.”

“No.”

“Oh.”

The rain stopped. Dan flicked his cigarette butt into the grass, and flipped out a second one. His lighter clicked.

“I meant that some people, they ask me if I will. They see me and think I’m gay. But you don’t.”

“No, I don’t. I think it’s sad you live alone, though.”

He looked at the house. “I used to live with my mom, till she died. And my brother, but he drowned. I have a nineteen year old son, but I never see him.”

“Do you go out?” I ask.

“On the first of the month, to collect my check. I’m disabled. I buy groceries, pay my bills. Then I come back and stay inside.”

“Sounds lonely. You should get out, connect with people, seize the day.” My words fell on deaf ears. He took a long suck on the cigarette. Smoke curled from his mouth.

“I’ve got a friends. They drive me to the store. But that’s the only time I see ‘em.”

“Go out. Seize the day.”

Silence filled in between us. I decided it was high time. The spin cycle in my stomach was slowing down.

I stood. “I need to get a move on to the park. It was nice talking with you.”

Dan followed me to the bike. I hopped on and we shook hands. “Take care.”

“It’d really tickle me if you came back. If the guy doesn’t show, come on back and you can have a bed. It’d tickle me to death.”

“Thanks for the offer. I need to go.”

He turned and started walking back into the house. He looked over his shoulder at me. I thought I saw a smile.

Moments later, I was a half-mile down the road. The rain was falling.

“I don’t know what to do. He’s only a half mile away, and I don’t like the idea of staying in this park.”

“Go get a motel room,” my dad said, through the cell phone. “Then you’ll just disappear.”

Disappearing sounded nice.

.    .   .

Chasing down a motel  room took longer than I expected.  My map said there was a motel  four miles out of town. I pushed hard to get there. Images of Dan slicing my tent open with a knife kept me pumping hard on the pedals. I passed a lit up gas station, and thought to stop. “Aww, it’ll be just up the road.”

The night kept getting darker, and darker. Traffic was whittling down. In the distance, I saw an orange glow that must have been the city of Buchanan, fifteen mile away.

I wanted a shower, and a bed, and a locked door. I turned around and booked it for the gas station.

Which is how I met Gregg Stump.

The Virginian Market & Deli is like so many gas station stops in Appalachia: all the American basics, with a healthy dose of rough charm and good humor. Lots of wood. Ice cream. Chips, candy bars and sandwiches. And beer, of course. “It’s how you bring ‘em in: gas and alcohol. It’s the truth. The  sad truth.”

Gregg is a big man, and his voice makes him huge. He edges on loud, is damn proud of his West Virginia twang, and has an enormous heart.

“Howdy. The name’s Gregg Stump, and I’m a hillbilly, born ‘n raised in West Virginia and proud of it!”

“I pick up hitchhikers, ’cause I was one, and I know the life. I’ve stood on the side o’ the road, waiting hours ‘n hours for a ride ta pick me up. I know.  Ain’t never had no trouble. I don’t start nothing, but folks know  anything ‘t happens in my truck I’ll be damn sure ta finish.”

“Ya know, I wanted to take the dog for a ride tonight anyways. So, it’s no problem. We’ll just throw your bike in the truck, and I’ll drive ya cross town to the motels. You can have your pick of ‘em too, since that’s where the truckers all stop for the night.”

And so, I had the wonderful pleasure of Gregg’s company as he closed up shop and drove me the six miles back across Troutville, past Dan-the-man’s house, to the truck stop. He told stories of his travels, of a man in his hometown in West Virginia who bought a hotel with his millions in coal money and set about turning the place into the place to go in West Virginia. He told me his politics. His business. His life. And I must say I could not have found a better man to end the evening with, given my introduction to Troutville.

He dropped me at a motel and bid me goodnight. Then I pedaled from motel to motel, price shopping.  I finally found home in the Motel 8, where I showered and crashed.

And the bed felt wonderful.

.    .   .

I woke. I got my things together and went to the lobby to fill up on raisin bran. I met a trucker and his wife who were on vacation, riding their motorcycle. We chatted. As they left, I heard the wife say, “I can’t believe what he’s doing…”

The morning was gray, and threatening rain. More rain. So it goes.

I passed Dan-the-man’s house in a burst, not pausing for even a glance.

Within the hour, I was on side roads, following railroad tracks through the forest. Then I met a turtle.

I don't like turtle pancakes. So I put him in the grass.

Now, I would give turtle stew a try, but the side of the road is hardly the place, and I wasn’t hungry, surprisingly.

By the time I made it to Buchanan, the sun was rolling out, I stopped at a little fruit stand to hoard up some apples and had a snack. Buchanan claims to the be, “The Gateway to the Shenandoah.” It did seem that as I passed through town, everything got brighter, the colors more intense. As I passed over the James River, I entered the big valley between Old Appalachia, and New. 

How can  I do justice to the Shenandoah? The soil is deep. Small, family farms are plentiful. Fresh food is well at hand. Colors are rich, and the people are kind.

I had hoped to go visit Polyface Farms, in Wooley, Virginia. Polyface is home to the Salatine family, who are famous for their farming practices. Unfortunately, I didn’t arrange this ahead of time. I gave a call and found out that everyone was out with the cattle, and wouldn’t have time to chat. So, instead of going thirty miles off my route, I stuck to it and went to Lexington.

Lexington is a cool little town, with deep roots. The old red brick and rought iron are from an older time, and it seems a bunch of wild liberals have taken up in the college town. I hadn’t seen an organic grocery in forever, and within moments of arriving in town I’d stumbled on one. I raided the discount pile and came away with an arm-load of goodies, including these thick oatmeal bars that kept me fueled for the rest of the day.By the time I’d left the grocery, the sun was out, the sky was a rich sapphire blue. Perfect weather.

I didn’t stay too long in Lexington, although I certainly could have. I poked around the bike shop, and rode down main street, which has the feel of a small, European city. But I was anxious to make it to Vesuvius before dark.

On my way out of town, I had a few long hills to climb that invited a fresh coat of sweat to my  ripening skin.  One of the advantages of touring alone is that no one has to smell me, except me. And I’ve gotten used to it. I quickly found my way onto the back roads where traffic is next to non-existant. The road pulled up alongside a river, and had it been August, I would have ignored the “No Trespassing” signs and taken a dip.

There was just something about the light. There are days when the world is cast in grey, when the life sinks out of all the color, when no matter what you do, it’s impossible to conjure anything vibrant from the sad light. There are days when the every detail, every flash of grass, every line between leaf and sky is clear and sharp as glass. The light was pure and full and in everything. I couldn’t help myself. I stopped, and broke out the camera to capture the overwhelming green.

Approaching Vesuvius

Seize the road and the trees

Forest Profile

Vesuvius is a small town, tucked up next to the Blue Ridge. State route 56 runs through it, but hardly any traffic takes it. There are faster highways. Which means Vesuvius doesn’t see the hoards of cars, or the pollution. The crowds haven’t found it, and so nature thrives.

Sunrise over the Blue Ridge

 

Of course, I stopped along the way. I’d pause for water, or a bar, or, since the light was so good, and the leaves were turning, a picture. (And here’s a good tip for future tours: when your honey bear runs low, fill it with water and swish it around. Drink the last of the honey as a sweet water-nectar.)

Leaves turning on Vesuvius Climb

 

As I was taking this photo, a woman drove up in a Prius. She asked if I was okay, and I said yes. Then we got to talking. She asked if I’d seen another cyclist. No, I hadn’t. She was waiting for her husband, who was doing the last stretch of the Transam. She was his support vehicle.

I was tempted to ask her to carry my bags. But I decided it was worth more to me to push the shit up the hill. a few minutes after we parted, I was at the top.

At the top of the ridge I took a pit stop and cleaned off my loaf of bread. I continued the tour, taking it easy on the Blue Ridge. I wanted to see the sights, and why not?

The top of the Ridge is a series of rolling mountains. They aren’t nearly as steep at the top as they are on the climb up, but they’re steep enough to notice. Farmers have been tilling the land for centuries, and you can see it in the golden prairies.

Golden Praries on the Blue Ridge

 

I stopped in the little town of Love to get water, and came away with a new bottle of local honey. I immediately started taking shots off the bottle. Again, why not? A good sugar high keeps the pedals turning.

At one stop, I got off my bike to do a short hike. Signs educated me about the geology of the Blue Ridge, which is an ancient lava flow. I saw where slaves in the 1700′s built walls in the steep rock to keep half-wild boars from wandering too far. It must have been dreary, mindless work. The plantations only spared the slaves for it during winter, when the fields were covered in snow. I found it hard to imagine.

On my way back to the bike, I met a couple who reported just seeing a momma black bear with two cubs cross the road, not two hundred feet away. Thankfully, I was headed the other direction. I busted it to put some miles between me and them.

On my way, I started hearing these strange birds. I couldn’t figure out what they were. Then I saw these vibrant orange mushrooms that I just had to snap a picture of. So I parked the bike and took a moment.

Orange 'shrooms on the Blue Ridge

 

Can you smell 'em? Yummy!

 

I couldn’t for the life of me figure out what the heck these birds were. Their voices were gutteral, moving from the back the throat in deep, wide notes. After a few minutes of recording them, I finally spotted the bird. A raven, perched far off in the trees. Two of them had been crooning to each other. Then one fell silent. Then the one I’d spotted took flight.

A few minutes later, I pulled into a spot called the Raven’s Roost. A trail curved off onto a rocky bluff. I couldn’t resist scrambling out to the edge and snapping a few pictures. Here’s the best of them:

Did you spot the pink and blue faces painted on the rocks?

After downing a few honey covered bars, I hit the road again, only to stop for yet another detour: Humpback Mountain.

I almost didn’t do it. I almost passed it by, and I’m so glad I didn’t. I ran into two couples eating lunch in the campground who said, “The climb’ll take about two hours, up and back.”

That sucked a little air from my bubble, but after parking my bike at the trailhead, a woman drove up who looked ready to climb. She was older, rought at the edges and in love with the fresh air. She had a tie die handkerchief on and a Harley Davidson shirt. Before too long she was up the trail. “Takes about forty minutes, round trip, for me to get up and back.”

How can I pass this up? I grabbed my camera and cruised up the trail after her.

The climb was steep, and for a good stretch was just a staircase. I caught up with her and we got to talking about the tour, and what she does for a living. She told me about wanting to be a park ranger in California, and about her fire fighting days with the Forest Service. She told me about a great little skinny dipping spot in Yosemite where the water comes out of the cliff and forms a natural whirl pool.

She spotted a black snake crossing the trail. I was clueless until she put her hand out. We gave the snake his space. Moments later she saw this little orange salamander, who I chased under a leaf with my camera.

Orange Salamander, Humpback Mountain

Near the top of Humpback Mountain, the trail intersects with the Appalachian Trail. It was cool seeing the fire rings and lean-to’s people had made for shelter. Then the summit came into view: sharp, jagged rocks splitting off into the free air. We had to scramble to get out to the very top, where she was kind enough to take my picture. To the left is Waynesboro. To the right is Charlottesville. Two valleys, and the ridge between them.

Summit of Humpback Mountain

Merry Christmas! Want a cookie?

 

I’d been wondering where he hides out all year long, and it turns out it’s Afton, Virginia.

Kathy & Andy on the front porch of their home, in Fredericksburg, Virginia

 

I've finally reached the sea! Or saltwater, which'll have to cut it.

 

Checkin' out the moonrise!

 

And here's a bike eye view!

 

I felt powerless. Totally powerless. I looked up at ol’ Abe, turned around and took my bike down. In my gut, I knew it wasn’t a fight worth fighting. Why waste the energy? I’d gotten my photo, and made a scene to boot.

They sent a message. Tight wads will be tight wads, and I was an opportunity for a power trip, on what must have been another dull night. I was a chance to be, “The Enforcer.”  And they are part of our society. Serious people, doing serious work. I’m a serious person, who wants to do real work. Do I care if I can bring my bike inside? No. I care about civil rights, justice, the health of our planet and our people. There is serious work, and doing it demands a lot of lighthearted play.

I had my fun. I poked fun at the law. And, after three months, thirty eight hundred miles, six jars of peanut butter, seven jars of honey and ten times more granola bars than I have fingers and toes,  I got my snapshot with Honest Abe.

Hey Abe! Say Cheddar!

I’ve had my fun. And I’m hooked.

Peace, Love & Bar-B-Q Sauce,

Ben

It’s coming, I promise! I hope you find it worth the wait!

Peace, Love & Bar-B-Q Sauce,
Ben

What an exceptional place.

Kentucky is a gem. There is no other way of describing this land. It is so green. So green. The colors easily rival the forests of Washington. From the slow, winding rivers, carving a wet path through the hills, to the quiet forests spilling over with life: I can’t count the deer I’ve seen, the birds I wake to every morning, the white noise of crickets as the sun dies.

But I should pick up the story in Marion, Kentucky, at the library.

I was typing away, my fingers buzzing over the keyboard, when Morgan Lynn walked up to me. She stands out. For one, she is young, and for another, she is beautiful. In a library filled with children and older adults, I felt lucky. Of course, I looked like an oddball in my cycling clothes.

“Do you have a place to stay?”

That’s music to a cyclist’s ear.

But I had a dilemma. I’d only been on the bike for twelve miles. I need to make more miles! Lately, I’ve felt an itch to see the Atlantic, and be off the saddle. My fingers are numb from holding the handlebars. It’s a crazy itch, and only making miles can scratch it.

I could push on another sixty miles. Or, I could stop here, twelve miles into my day, and get to know Marion, and get to know a new friend.

I stayed. Surprised?

I finished writing. I made myself a peanut butter honey sandwich. Morgan had lunch with her godmother. I met up with her, filled out some postcards, and we talked about Morocco, Peace Corps and Nest. Turns out, Morgan knows a woman finishing up a tour in Morocco. Her friend’s work has focused on empowering women and boosting the economy through micro loans. She is also personal friends with the British Ambassador to Morocco.

Yes, I’m in Marion, Kentucky, and I just met a woman who knows the British Ambassador to Morocco.

I was blown away.

Morgan wants to do an internship in the American Embassy in Morocco this spring. So I may have a friend in the embassy.

We went and met her Dad, who owns Lynn Auto Sales. His shop is the local hangout. The guys go down, sit around the office and shoot the shit. Morgan said that Lynn Auto Sales is where the big names go when they visit town. When Senator Mitch McConnell came to Marion, they held the meeting at Lynn Auto Sales. Alan, her father, has a barbecue grill out back that’s as big as an SUV. He claims to make the best barbecue, ever. I didn’t have a chance to eat a rack of ribs while I was in town, so I’ll have to come back to Marion and give it a try.

So, I stayed the night.

Morgan and I spent the afternoon talking at her house, which is on the highest point in Western Kentucky. From her porch, you can survey the land below: the small city, the farms stretching out toward the horizon, the rolling hills and swaths of forest.

I met Winston, Morgan’s big chubby bull dog. He doesn’t move fast, or much, but he’s got wrinkles like no dog I’ve ever met. And to Morgan, those wrinkles are just adorable. I am not a fan of wrinky dogs, but even I had to admit he had a charm. Something about how he snorted with each breath. I don’t know.

We talked about our dreams, what we want to do with our lives, how we want to be of service, how we want to be part of creating a better world. It’d been a while since I’d talked to someone like those dreams. I felt really good.

Alan came home from work. He and I talked. He reminded me of my dad, in some ways: a Southerner with a big heart and a work ethic. He has an interest in politics, so he and I got along really well. We totally disagreed with each other, but there was a deeper connection. We liked each other. We respected each other. It’s silly how easily a disagreement of opinion can be forgotten. I think we both recognized a character in each other: that we care about people.

We drove to her godparent’s house, which, I must say, was stunning. Morgan’s godmother Caroline has had the farm in her family for years and years. When she married Jean Claude, Morgan’s godfather, they did an expansion of the house. It’s a beautiful house, perfect for a big dinner party, guests galore and live music. We sat down to a roast beef dinner, which was an incredible feast! It felt like Thanksgiving, and tasted just as good.

People in Kentucky love gravy. Biscuits and gravy. Gravy on meat and spuds. I like it.

We talked round and round about my trip, about politics, and family. We all ended up stuffed pigs, and there was plenty of food left on the table. Jean Claude, Alan and I went to sit outside. Jean Claude smoked a cigar. We watched the dogs, and conversation spun off into the warm night air. All of us were a few drinks into the evening. Alan was falling asleep in his chair. So, we said our goodbyes and we went home. I slept like a rock.

I woke to what I thought was an empty house. Alan, the early riser, was gone. I realized Morgan, who claimed to be an early riser, was snoozing late. I sat on the porch and watched wild turkeys waddle through the yard. Winston helped keep an eye on them.

When Morgan got up, we talked some more. Then I decided to hit the road, and make some miles.

My destination: Sebree, Kentucky.

The sky was cast in heavy clouds, and the air was thick and warm. I was happy to be riding. Grinning in fact. The hills were usually somewhere between steep and insane, which made for a fun ride mashing my granny gears.

I got caught in a downpour in the late afternoon. I booked it under a big maple tree, and gave the parents a call. We talked for a good hour. Toward the tail end, my dad said, “It must have stopped raining. When you called, the rain was a background roar. I can’t hear it anymore.”

He was right. The rain here in Kentucky is different from Washington. Instead of hanging overhead all day, spitting a drizzle, the rain comes and goes. When it comes, it’s hard to do much else but sit it out. When its gone, the land smells fresh, clean and alive.

Sebree is a little town with a big heart, and a love for cyclists. It’s all Violet’s fault.

At the edge of town, a truck stopped and rolled the window down. The man inside said, “Do you have a place to stay?” I said, “Not yet.”

“Well, go up the hill, around the corner and look for the First Baptist Church. Pull in and go see Violet. She’ll get you a shower, a dry place to sleep and a big meal to fill you up.”

So off I went, up the hill, around the corner and into the Church, which is, to say the least, large. In Kentucky, Church is the center of many people’s lives. You can tell in the size of the buildings. The biggest buildings in town are always Churches, and they are beautiful brick monuments, with stained glass, pillars and giant wood doors. To say they are a dime a dozen is an exagerration, but even the smallest of small towns has two churches, or three or four. Sebree, a town of twelve hundred people, has twelve Churches. It’s really cool to see. I think my hometown of Bainbridge Island had about that many Churches for twenty thousand people.

I walked up to Violet’s open kitchen door and knocked on the screen. She came and immediately invited me inside. “Do you want something to drink, a coke maybe?” I said yes. We sat down at her kitchen table, where she told me her story, and I told her mine. She’s fed over 200 cyclists at that table this summer, and a countless number over the thirty years she and her husband Bob have been at the Church. She gets a thrill out of it, in part because it’s a chance to minister, and just to hear the stories and share the cyclist’s crazy energy.

She showed me the Church, and the hostle, which is also the youth room. There are pool tables, ping pong and some little foosball tables. And showers. And couches and a giant kitchen fit to feed an army. I bee-lined it into the shower and then, refreshed, went back up to Violet’s for dinner.

She said dinner was leftovers. It tasted so good, I had my doubts. Her husband Bob wasn’t home yet. And a storm was threatening. He had been out on a fourwheeler, and I could tell she was worried. But she kept it to herself. He came in eventually, just as Violet was serving some lemon pie and ice cream. We introduced and he sat down to join the conversation. We talked a while. I downed the pie with lightening speed.

Then it was off to an early snooze.

I ended up staying an extra day in Sebree. For a couple reasons. The next morning was Sunday, and I’d never been to a Baptist mass. So, I stuck around for morning Bible study and Bob’s sermon on being god’s willing worker. Their was a low turnout, because of labor day, but I had plenty of people to chat it up with. Bob took me around to meet everyone, and people were gracious and curious. I felt welcome. I didn’t understand everything, but at one point during Bob’s sermon I whispered to Violet that I could tell we stood on the same rock.

I could tell she wanted me to become a Christian. She was praying for me to. Toward the end of the sermon, Bob made an invitation to anyone who wanted to come up and profess their love for God and become a Christian. He didn’t look at me, but I knew he meant me. I stayed in the pew, watching, curious, taking it in.

Afterward, Violet slipped back to the house. “Come as soon as you can, and we’ll eat.” It took me longer. People wanted to talk, and I love to entertain. I did eventually make it to her table, where I met Michael, and two big guys who had the same name. I’ve forgotten it though. Michael was another cyclist, heading to New Orleans, his home. He’d been gone since February, riding 10,000 miles. The conversation drifted around, as did the piles of delicious tropical chicken salad, cheese, crackers and veggies. We talked a lot about hunting. And my sweet tea kept disappearing. And more desert. The rest of the lemon pie did a disappearing act of its own.

As lunch wound down, Michael and I bid our farewells and went back to the youth room. I wanted to get going, so I started packing up. But something held me in place. I just wasn’t amped to ride. I was tired. The sky was a heavy blanket of gray clouds, looming and full of rain. And the air was thick and hot. The air conditioned Church felt so nice, and Michael was my excuse for staying. He’s a character, to say the least.

Alcohol was at the front of his mind, like God was at the front of Violets. It seemed every other sentence was about this cheap beer or that fine bourbon or how this county was dry as a bone but the county after that was wet, but the stores were all closed. He was thirsty. I didn’t envy him in the least. It’s hard to find liqiour in Kentucky, even though they make a crazy amount of bourbon. I just never looked for any. It’s hard to cycle with a hangover, and it certainly robs it of some of the fun. While Michael cycles, he drinks, smokes cigarettes, “and if I could figure out how to rig a bong to my bike, I’d be sucking on that too!”

How? I have no clue, and I don’t want to find out.

I’ve never met a cyclist like Michael before. He’s well educated, by his own admition. He’s built more cars than I can shake a stick at, worked as an illustrator for magazines, and is preparing to write a book about his adventures riding 10,000 miles around the US.

To say the least, I was curious about the guy. We went and had thick milk shakes at the Dari-Bar, which was the only place in town open on a Sunday, besides the pizza place. I cooked pasta and threw some slices of cheese on top. We called it dinner, but really it was just a fill up. The kitchen was big, but we found the pantry pretty bare of ingredients. But, so it goes!

The next morning, I got an early start in the wrong direction. About five miles outside of town, I realized I was heading north instead of east. I turned around, and called it my morning stretch session. When I pulled onto the right road, I started making some good miles.

In Utica, a little town thirty miles east of Sebree, I stopped and had one of the best bbq sandwiches of my life. The price? $2.00. And I bought it in a country store that had been continueously operating for generations. The building was ancient. No indoor plumbing, except a sink.

I stopped at a fire station ten miles outside of Uitca to use the bathroom, where I met Chief Mark Luckett. He was having lunch, and we ended up talking for twenty minutes about my ride, and about his station. He warned me about the drivers, as any good fireman would do, and told me about how he built the original fire truck by hand with three other men in the 1970′s. He was standing in front of his new fire truck, which he got for free because of a grant. He wished me well in my travels, and I was off into the afternoon sun.

The end of the day brought me to Falls of Rough, a state park created after the damming of the Rough River created a giant reservoir. I didn’t end up having to pay the fee for the site, because no one was at the booth when I arrived in the evening, and no one was there when I left in the morning. I slept hard.

The next morning, I got a very late start. I peeked outside my tent, but couldn’t see a thing through the thick, gray fog. It was too heavy to ride, so I slept long.

After eating breakfast at a greasy spoon not five hundred yards up the road, I got on my way. An hour into my ride, I met Leo Fraser, a fellow cyclist riding a silver Nishiki, pulling a trailer. He is headed West, to Portland, Oregon. And he is late. But he didn’t seem deterred. He told me of his travels, and how it’d taken him a month to go 900 miles. His first bike had totally broken down, and this was his second. A kind bike shop owner had sold it to him. The bike had already seen the TransAm trail once before, he said, and now it would see it again.

I warned him he was late, as almost everyone else probably has. He said he would go South, or hitch a ride over the Rockies. I hope he does okay. It can get aweful cold in the mountains in August. I wished him all the best.

Just outside of Sonora, Kentucky, I stumbled into fresh bell peppers, a huge loaf of homemade bread, and wild blackberry jam. My first hint was a sign: “Fresh Vegetables” outside a down to earth farm. I’d just waved to a man in a collared shirt plowing his field with horses. I was curious, to say the least, and hungry. Of course, I’m always hungry.

I pulled into the farm house yard, and parked the bike. I heard someone behind me and turned around to see a woman in a bonnet and full length skirt. Her little daughter, who couldn’t have been more than four, wore the same clothes, in the same style. My guess is the clothes were homemade, so I knew the veggies would be homegrown. My best guess is that a congregation of Menonites call this part of Central Kentucky home.

She took me to the porch, where piles of green beans, peppers, onions and potatoes greeted my feasting eyes. I took a huge pile of beans and three peppers. I’d never bought green beans before, and I thought I could eat them raw. My mistake. I discovered later that to make them edible, they have to be boiled for two hours. Not an option. So I gave them away. The peppers were delicious, covered in peanut butter and honey.

I asked where I could find some bread. She pointed to the house I’d just passed. I rode up the dirt drive and parked in front of the house. An old couple came out on the porch. The man introduced himself as Joe Yoeder. I asked about bread, and he called a young woman who was working in the yard. She went inside and got me a loaf the size of a watermelon. Then Joe said he had homemade perserves. Homegrown strawberry or wild blackberry. I chose my favorite.

My day made, I pushed on into Sonora, where I stopped to rest and get more groceries. From Sonora, I turned South toward Mammoth Cave National Park. I got turned around not five miles out of Sonora. I’d missed a turn and took a few back roads to get on route. Along the way, I passed three horse drawn carriages.

I didn’t make it to Mammoth Cave. I stumbled into a little slice of heaven, that held me up: Round Stone Native Seed. It’s the Seymore family farm. John took over from his father. For years, they grew tabacco and corn, just like every other farmer in Kentucky. Then, John’s father-in-law turned him onto a new market: harvesting native seed. The father-in-law was on the board of the Kentucky Nature Conservancy. They needed native seed for their work. The demand was there, the supply was nonexistant.

So John jumped at the chance to do something new.

“I spent five years just saving seed, and I didn’t make a dime. That was ten years ago. In the last three years, we’ve quadrupled in size. I’ve got thirteen men working for me, and business is growing.”

“And I feel good about what I’m doing. When you grow tabacco, you know in your heart you’re hurting people. Now, I know I’m doing good.”

The farm is tucked back into a little valley. They grow trees, grasses and flowers. They mill their own wood, but their main business is harvesting seed.

The place is ripe with life. Each turn of the head brings another vista, another grove of trees, another scratch of life. A red beetle marching across the porch, the hum of crickets, the darting flight of grey bats feeding as the sun sinks, and the sky grows heavy with black. The dog asleep on the porch.

The Seymores live at the top of a hill, overlooking the farm. I pedaled to the top, only to find an empty house. I turned around to leave, but luck was with me: an SUV pulled into the drive. A woman rolled her window down. I asked to camp in her yard. She sent me up to a flat patch of grass, further up the hill. A few minutes later, she came out with her two children to invite me to share dinner and take a shower. I was plowing through an apple, relishing the incredible scene: the sun was plowing into the trees on the far ridge, crickets were buzzing up a storm, and the colors all around me were green, orange and brown.

Before we got in the house, I introduced myself. “I’m Leslie Seymore, and this is Carlie and Carson. My husband’s name is John. He’ll be home in a few minutes, he’s just finishing up down the hill.”

When John got home, we sat down to grilled chicken, rice and pasta. The food disappeared quick. The counter clear, John asked, “Do you want to go see the grey bats?”

“The bats?”

“Yeah, we’ve got over a mile of cave here on the farm, and the grey bats come every late summer to have their babies and feed. They’re leaving now, to start eating.”

We hop in his truck, and we blast down the hill to the farm. John pulls off into the grass. He points up into the orange colored sky. “See the bats?”

I stick my head out the window. We park beneath a tree, and John climbs in the back. We sit on his pickup, watching bats stream out of the trees in wave after wave.

“We’ve got about 30,000 bats living here, and each one eats 3,000 insects a night.” For a bat smaller than my palm, that’s a feast.

The bats twist in the air, darting after bugs. They dive and soar, a few coming within feet of our heads. John doesn’t flintch, so I try nt to either. He trusts the bats to carve a path around him.

For a split moment, I cath the sharp outline of a bat, the curve of skin stretched over bone, then gone in a burst of wingbeats, out into the night.

“Lets go to the cave.” We hop back in the truck, and minutes later get out. He hands me a flashlight. “Keep it pointed to the ground, or off.” We walk into the trees, down into a little rift. Then a blast of cool air hits my face. The cave. We pause and watch the bats stream out. It’s hard to see them in the dim light. We move in, kneeling our heads. Thirty feet in, we pause and kneel.

“Listen, you can hear them.”

I can hear water making music with limestone. Then, faint, I hear the little blasts, the voices of bats, little shrieks that map the room. Bats flow in a stream around us. I turn back toward the entrance. Pale blue light shines into the black cave. We’re in the black. And it’s uttery gorgeous.

On the way back to the truck, he points to a little tree. “That’s my redwood. When we visited California, I got the seedling and planted it here.” Some of the needles were brown. The seedling was out of place, but struggling none the less for a chance at life.

We pushed onto the backroads. We toured the grass, windows down. “Smell the honey? It’s the grass.”

Pulling into one of his far fields, he asks, “Have you heard of switchgrass? We let the grass die, then we harvest and sell it to the power companies. They burn it instead of coal, and get carbon credits. It burns much cleaner, and we harvest every year.”

No mine. Less pollution. Locally grown. I like this recipe, and so does he.

“I want to show you the barn.”

“I don’t buy new machines. I buy old and used and rebuild them, fix them up. Then I know how they work. It’s better that way. The barn is filled with old machines, made to do the work of today. “They work just great. They’ve taken some new parts, but mostly these are the originals.

His is a factory of grass, wood and recycled steel. You can tell he loves it — it’s painted in the depth of thought put into every detail. He has machines to sort seed, to cut out the weeds, and clean the seeds. At the end, a river of soft, milled seed is sorted by weight to determine quality.

Then there is the grass gone wild, and left wild in front of his parent’s house. “Makes a great place for deer to bed in.”

“My dad bought this land for the wildlife, to be close to the deer, rabbits and bats.”

“You should be proud,” I said.

“No, I’m just thankful. The Lord put the grass there, I’m just the man who harvests.”

. . .

I slept on the porch. I wanted to hear the crickets, and the bats. I slept well. In the morning, I caught John before he left for work. Then Leslie followed soon after, with the kids in tow. Off to school. I was last to leave. I gave the dog an ear rub and was off, flying down the hill, then climbing, slowly, up the next.

Later that morning, I found Mammoth Cave. I took the two hour historical tour, which was the longest one I could find. It was funny listening to the Park Rangers repeat, again and again, that “This is a hike, not a stroll, not a walk but a hike! We do not want to carry you out of the cave! If something happens, that’s the only way out! So mind your feet.”

My tour was big, to say the least: over a hundred people, and nearly a third of them were from India. All of them were women, too, and they giggled up a storm as we desecended the stairs.

The caves are mind blowing. Just utterly mind blowing. The land around the entrance doesn’t look out of the ordinary. Vibrant, lush green. Trees. Sunlight. Then, the land sinks. Stairs lead into the earth, into the black.

The first few miles of caves were used in the War of 1812 to mine for a critical ingriedient in gunpowder. Slaves brought the cave dirt to these giant boxes, where they ran water through the boxes. Then they pumped the water out of the cave, where they boiled it off to collect the crystals left behind. The boxes and wooden pipes are still in the caves.

Later, the caves were used for tourism. Graffiti is everywhere during the first few miles. People have scrawled their names on the rocks, using knives and smoke from lamps.

Fat Man’s Misery was the experience of a lifetime. It’s the tightest spot in the tour. I had to bend down and squeeze through a tiny little tunnel in the rock, that stretched out for a good fifty yards. And I had to be quick about it, because a crowd of people was behind me, wanting to get through.

Some of the pits in the cave are too deep to see to the bottom. Grate bridges span the pits. Looking down is sure to spin your stomach.

It’s cold in the caves. I liked it, because the humidity was low and the cool air reminded me of home. It was a blessing in comparison to the heavy heat topside. I didn’t want to leave the cave. I wanted to keep poking around on my own, with a lantern. My mind drifted to Bilbo Baggins and Gollum.

I spent the night in Munfordville, at a Motel 8. I hadn’t connected with anyone, the light was dying and I was desperate for a shower. I caved and paid. And it was good I did, because I found out that Peace Corps needed some more paperwork. So I spent the next morning entertaining the folks at the Health Clinic. They don’t see many cyclists, and I think they liked the change of pace.

I didn’t make it too far after I got done cycling. I had fajitas at this delicious Mexican place and made it up to Hodgenville. On the way I met two cyclists, Kevin and Mike, doing a short sprint to Sebree, where they were going to have a weekend men’s group from their Baptist Church.

Hodgenville loves Abe Lincoln. They have a statue in their town squircle, which is both the town square, and the town roundabout. I had a chocolate pie and sweet tea at Honest Abe’s Diner. Then I made it to the city park, where I found a hot game of softball. The score: 2 to 20. And it only got worse from there. It was a church league. I talked it up with the people sitting around, and ended up meeting Devon Norton.

Devon claims to have been one of the best shortstops to have ever walked the halls of Hodgenville High School. He said he hit 26 homeruns in one game, which I was a bit skeptical of. He blew his chances of playing college ball when he got in a fight and ended up in jail for two months. Now he works making railroad pins. But he dreams of playing for the Texas Rangers, and getting on a team is his start. Either way, he’s aching to play. Whether it’s in a Church League or the Majors. I was aching to play too, just talking to him.

I slept like a rock next to the baseball fields. In the morning, I hit a grocery store for breakfast and then made miles. It turned into Abraham Lincoln Day. I visited his Birthplace, his childhood home and the Lincoln Homestead. I ended the day in Harrodsburg, at the Kentucky Fudge Company. They run a little restaurant out of the town’s original drug store. They’ve polished up all the original wood, and have medical bottles from the old days in the cases. And they make fruit smoothies. The owner was behind the big wood counter, and he connected me up with a minister in town who let me snooze in his church yard.

The next morning, I climbed out of my tent into a free breakfast at the Church. A few guys were having a Saturday morning fellowship breakfast. They’d finished by the time I got up, but one of the guys invited me to have the leftovers. He made me a huge waffle and I plowed through the rest of their sausage.

I booked it out of town after breakfast, and made it down to Danville, where I had a date with Danville Bike and Footwear. Ernst, the owner, has done the Tans Am on a silver Nishiki, which he sold to Leo Fraser, the cyclist I’d met at Falls of Rough. He showed me Leo’s original bike, which was an old, well loved and slightly abused 10 speed. I was surprised he’d made it over the Appalachians on the thing. When I saw the old leather saddle he’d used, I busted up laughing. It was so worn in, it looked fit for the garbage. I wheeled out my bike with tightened brakes, ready for the Appalachians. On my way, I met Taka, and his mother Masumi. We went across the street to check out two farmer’s stands. I had my first fried apple pie, which was so delicious I bought a second one.

Then we went to have lunch at a greasy spoon down the street. We ended up talking until 4 pm, about building community and world peace, traveling, cycling, the US and Japan. Taka has lived in the US for several stints, the first when he was in high school, the second when he came to college in the US, and he is currently living in Danville for a Japanese manufacturing company. He’s 27, and seems hungry for adventure and community. He’s had a hard time finding both in Kentucky. His family has hosted exchange students for years and years, and his mother volunteers with an student exchange nonprofit, connecting students with host families. I told them I want to come live in Japan someday, and really learn the language. I’m serious about it. I’m not happy that I put three years of my life into learning Japanese, only to have it leak out my ears. I’ve never been to Japan, and I’ve always been curious. I want to see Mt. Fuji, and meditate in a mountain monestary. Now I’ve got friends in Japan. The dream is one step closer to realization.

I got on the bike at 4 pm and booked it for Berea. On the way, I missed a turn. I ended up tacking on an extra 8 miles worth of pedaling, which was just fine. I ended up entertaining some motorbikers at a gas station, and searching for sunscreen at a Wal-Mart supercenter. They didn’t have any. I stumped Wal-Mart, which put a smile on my face. Thankfully, Rite-Aid was next door.

I pulled through the town of Paint Lick, which in a car is just a bump in the road, but on a bike is something to enjoy. A short string of old buildings, that look their age but look well loved. How can a town end up with the name Paint Lick? There must be a good story, about a kid drinking a bucket of paint, mistaking it for tomato juice, or something loony like that. Over the next few days, I would pass through several towns called Lick: Red Lick, and Elk Lick. People in Kentucky must have curious tongues. Lets end that stream of thought right there!

I got to Berea around 8 pm. Berea is an incredible place. If you ever get the chance, and find yourself in Kentucky, Berea is a destination location. Here’s why: Berea College. It is a no tuition college that’s been running since the 1850′s. They allowed Black students to join the college in the 1850′s, just a few years before the onslaught of the Civil War. With Jim Crow, the college was forced to exclude Blacks and many other people, until the law was changed in the 1950′s. Put simply, Berea was ahead of its time, and it remains at the cusp of educational change. They charge no tuition. 90% of their students come from the Mountain region of Kentucky, which has a long history of poverty. The other 10% come from other countries around the world. The college stresses traditional crafts, keeping the cultural legacy of Kentucky alive. If Berea is anything, it is a thriving product of the folk culture of the Appalachians. Imagine a craft, and it’s on display: everything from folk musical instruments to printing to sewing and fabric making and traditional cooking. Berea is a mindblowing place. I’ll have to come back and spent a few months here to get a taste of the place, and deepen my understanding of the magic of these mountains. Yes, there is poverty. But there is so much more to Eastern Kentucky than the struggles these people endure. They are proud. And they have much to be proud of.

I wandered into the Main Street Cafe. It was dark, and the cafe was bright, filled with people, and a man was singing. I’d found home for an hour, and a delicious sandwich with garden tomatoes, mushrooms and mozzarella. I was reminded of Bellingham, and I felt both homesick and happy to find this charm growing on the other side of the country. I also had a citrus cream brownie, which blew me away.

After a while, the cafe started closing up. I ordered a cup of tea, and the owner came over to chat. He introduced himself as Sune, and his accent clued me in. He’s not a Kentucky native.

“Where are you going to be staying tonight?” He asked.

“Well, I was hoping you could connect the dots for me.” I said.

“I would invite you to come home with me, but my grandson is staying with us. I can offer you a place to sleep in a movie theatre I own. I’m remodeling it, but it’s warm, dry and there’s a bathroom you can use.”

So, I spent the night in an old movie theater, that had been converted into a doctor’s office and was being transformed into an art gallery. I poked around, because I couldn’t not poke around an old empty movie theatre. It was both beautiful and slightly creepy. I thought of this old show I watched as a kid called Are You Afraid of the Dark?. One episode, called “The Tale of the Midnight Madness,” was about an failing movie theater. The owner plays a vampire movie to save the business, which draws a huge crowd. But then the vampire comes to life.

That night, I had a dream: I was sitting in an orchestra. I wasn’t playing, just watching. All my friends were there: Rose, Kelsi, Freddy, Mitchell, Andrew and all the people from spring block. Mitchell, Andrew and Freddy were all trying to play along. Mitchell had a trombone. Andrew a trumpet. Freddy was mashing away on drums. But Mitchell couldn’t keep from laughing. It spilled out of him, and then some of the people next to him started giggling. And Andrew had to stop. They couldn’t play worth a damn, but all the while the orchestra kept beating out this soaring music. The three of them all stood up, and set their instruments down. We stood around and talked. They were doing some sort of magazine on the band. Suddenly, a cake appeared. The cake was made out of cans, cut into ribbons. Inside each was a huge candle, burning a long flame. The music built up and up, roaring into a finale. Mitchell blew out the candles. And I woke.

The next morning, I rode out to Sune’s house. “Come out and have breakfast in the morning, and you can do your writing.”

I arrived aroudn 8:30 and sat down to write, and drink tea. I met Sune’s wife Barbara, their son Scottie and their grandson Lucas. They made a delicious french toast breakfast, and Sune offered to make some eggs for me too. I couldn’t refuse, and was glad I didn’t. He brought out this incredible, thick bread full of nuts and hearty grains.

“That’ll stick with you,” said Barbara. It did, but I burned it right quick that afternoon.

I didn’t finish my post, and all of the libraries were closed in observance of Sunday. So, I hopped on the bike around noon and started pedaling up into the Appalachians.

These are real mountains. They are small, but damn steep. At times, pedaling up feels like climbing a staircase. I didn’t hit the mountains until the late afternoon, because I was delayed in Red Lick.

Red Lick is a bump in the road, even for a cyclist. It’s only a collection of homes, and a few churchs. Nature was calling, so I pulled into the first church I saw. It was Sunday, so I knew someone would be around. And I was right: the pastor, Charles Collier.

Some people I hit it off with. Charles was one of them, and man does he have a curious story. Charles is in his late thirties. He has a wife he’s known since the second grade, and three brilliant children. For years, he smoked pot. He describes himself as a former adict. Then he found meth, and pain pills. His life spiraled out of control, until a make-or-break moment when he tried to commit suicide by overdosing. He didn’t want his children to turn out like him, and he figured the best way was to end his life. He woke up half an hour before his kids got home on the bus. Then he found God, and his calling as a pastor. Charles is very humble, owing to his experience, and the reality of his family: his wife is the breadwinner.

We talked until 4 pm about spirituality, and he was incredibly open to what I had to say. I was glad for it. He didn’t judge me, or condem. He said, “I hate throwing bricks in a glass house. We need to be open minded, accepting, and loving of one another.” Wow! For someone of a completely different religious background, Charles was talking my language. Be loving, honest, kind, generous and forgiving. It was a wonderful, uplifting conversation. “I don’t preach hellfire. You don’t win people with talk of the devil. You win them talking about love.” He didn’t save my soul. He did convince me that we are all, fundamentally, looking for the same thing. That we are all struggling to live as best we can.

The sun was starting to fade, and I wanted to make it to Boonville before dark. So I bid him farewell.

Then I took another wrong turn. I didn’t know it, until I got to the top of the mountain. Instead of a left, I took a right, and I found myself at 6 pm at Ada’s Mountain Market, at the summit of the steepest mountain I’ve ever climbed. It’s gorgeous: vibrant, green and so damn alive. Everything’s breathing. There I met James and Sherry Woolery. They just opened the market three months ago, and offered to let me camp in the yard. They shared their dinner with me, and opened their home, letting me shower in their bathroom and enjoy the cool air of their sharply slating yard. I did find a flat patch of ground to pitch my tent, but the slope, like every slope in Appalachia, is steep, or crazy steep.

I had my first Ale-Eight-1, which is Kentucky’s muck water. Jerry Brown, a friend of the Woolery’s, bought it for me. I learned once again the strength of American generousity and kindness. You only find Ale-Eight-1 in Kentucky. It’s bottled in glass, and delicious after a long climb. I met the rest of the Woolery family: their son Joseph, his wife Kimberly, and their granddaughter Rachel, who is cute as can be. I even got to play hide-and-seek with her, before she had to go to bed.

In the morning, I booked it down the mountain I’d climbed the night before. The morning had been foggy, but by the time I hit the bottomland, the sun was high and the fog was clearing. I had maybe ten cars pass me the whole day. I passed through one tiny town after another, just a few houses and a church. I stopped for lunch at a little church on a hill, near a creek trickling over a bedrock of slate. The trees outnumber the people in this part of Kentucky by at least a thousand to one. And I like it.

When I got to Boonville, it was well into the afternoon. I sat down at the Library at 2 pm, and wrote until they closed at 5 pm. I had a lousy dinner at a dive of a diner, which made me queezy afterward. Then I went to the Presbyterian Church, which has a free camping area for cyclists, a shower and a little outhouse. The shower was cold and wonderful.

I talked to Jess on the phone. It’d been way too long. I need to do better about keeping in tune with people. I felt a wee bit lonely, in the site by myself. I wanted to be with people. I was aching to see people I love. So, if we haven’t talked in a w hile, lets make a point of it.

I’m at the Boonville Library finishing this up. I have around 800 miles left to push, and a few mountains to climb. I’m planning to log 70 some miles today. Which means I’d best get going.

Looks like you made it all the way to the bottom. I love you for it! I really do. You’re the reason I write. You.

So, couchsurfing is probably the sweetest thing in the world. I just have to say it, after spending three days with Kevin and Dave in St. Louis. What incredible guys. There’s just no way around it. Funny as hell, addicted to sandwiches, and in love with traveling and travelers. They are itching to explore and experience and I can’t tell you how wonderful it is to be surrounded with that kind of energy. I felt at home. It’s a warm, fuzzy feeling.

I rode my bike with 10,000 people. 14 miles isn’t far, but it takes a while when the streets are clogged with cyclists of all ages. Some people were screaming by on little road bikes that weighed 12 pounds. Others were screaming on much heavier touring bikes that were, thankfully, not loaded down with gear. Some folks were huffing it on cruizer bikes and old beaters with broken components, grinning like kids. And there were tons of kids too, of all ages, blasting down the dark streets of St. Louis.

They let us go in waves. If they’d let all four city blocks full of people go at once, it would have been chaos at a carnival. People might’ve died. A stampede of cyclists! So, it took a while to get going, but once the midnight air was rushing across my arms, I felt lucky to be alive. Truly blessed. What a wonderful coincidence to wander halfway across the country, stumbling into St. Louis, only to discover thousands of other cyclists all eager to ride. There were a few bikes with radios blasting music into the air. And, for St. Louis, it got cold. I was in a tee-shirt and shorts, so that didn’t help any, but a chill fell on the city. I was happy when we got back to Kevin’s place, and I could curl up on Dave’s cozy couch beneath a soft blanket. I slept well.

I spent Sunday with Dave. We went to what we hoped was a Croatian Day party with roasting lamb. We were hungry too, and Dave’s grandma promised us that where Croatians are having a party, there will be lamb. We found the Croatian Church, where the newspaper said the festivities were held. A six member accordian jam band greated us, and a room full of people over seventy. There was no food, but I do remember seeing an old lady at a table by herself, chugging on a cigarette. We felt out of place. And everyone knew it.

So we left. And went to The Festival of Nations. There were tons of people our age, and older and younger. I saw other people wearing shorts, so I felt more comfortable. And was there food! Oh my god! From every region of the world, easily, if not quite every country. We had delicious chicken sandwiches and shared a spinach empanada. There had been a huge line at the Argentinian stand the whole time we were there. At around 6 pm, we hopped in line. We ate the very last empanada, and ended up talking to the head chef who claimed he imported all of his ingredients from Argentina, and that he always, always had a huge line at his stand. He only sells his empanadas at festivals and markets, and has no restaurant, but people follow him from market to market to eat his empanadas. After plowing through one, I can see why. I’ll have to spend some time in Argentina someday. I’ll have to find a way to live down there for a time, learn Spanish and eat empanadas. Wouldn’t be too bad, would it?

Dave and I came home after that, and went on a walk. Kevin was having dinner with some good friends, so we walked and talked our way out to the Art Museum. It was dark, and with the lights and fountains it felt like we were in Europe. I have no clue what Europe is like, but Dave does, and he claimed it was done in a style to mimic Versailles. On our way back, Kevin met up with us on Dave’s yellow road bike. It’s a cute little bicycle, and I took a turn pushing pedals. I was aching to ride more, but their house is only blocks away from the Art Museum. When we got there, conversation had wandered into what we were to do. It wandered further toward Kevin’s “girlfriend” who works at a wine bar not a hundred yards from their place.

She is beautiful. And the wine doesn’t help any. When I finished my wine from Walla Walla, Washington, and they’d finished their European beers, we went back and crashed. They woke early in the morning, and were gone when I got up. I collected my things, and bid a fond farewell to their incredible little home.

It took me a while to get out of St. Louis. It’s a big city, for one thing, and for another, I needed postcards. So I went hunting. And it took longer than I expected, but down by the Arch, the gateway to the west, I found what I needed. Then I crossed the Mississippi, which is a huge slick of brown water as it passes the city. I can’t imagine what that water must be carrying.

Then I landed in East St. Louis. I’d been warned, so I was prepared, but when I stopped at a gas station just on the other side of the bridge, the ad for an upcoming male strip event took me by surprise. “Only Women Allowed Inside!” Huh?

It’s a rundown place. And East St. Louis needs help. I don’t have too many answers, but a start would be a good school. It’d be better than the strip joints that dot the sidewalks. They are called “Private Clubs.” VIPs only. Very important people. Uh hu. It’s really sad.

As I rode down the cracked and broken streets, I got through what was once downtown and is now strip central. I passed a big building with a gate and a rent-a-cop. He gave me a thumbs up. Then I passed some run down apartments, windows covered in plastic and plywood. Two women were out grilling food for lunch. I waved. They waved and laughed. I must have looked rediciulous to them: a white guy on a loaded bike, riding through the roughest part of town.

Eventually, I got out of the city. It took a while, and traffic was nasty, but every push got me that much further away. Before too long, I was riding long hills shaded by giant, green trees. The forest in Southern Illinois is just gorgeous. There’s no other way to describe it. Steep, rolling hills. Forests that reminded me of the jungles of Costa Rica. Thick, wild and green. I passed farms covered in corn and soybeans. I stopped at a little farmers stand and got peaches and corn. I ended the day in the little Amish town of Campbell Hill. I slept in the park, next to some baseball diamonds. I had only one bottle of water, but needed no more. The sunset was a brilliant orange, and the night was cool.

I woke to spot the sunrise, a blaze of red on the eastern horizon. I put my head back down, only to be woken again by the clatter of hooves on pavement. I popped my head out of the tent to see a man on a horsedrawn carriage. His hat blew off his head, so he had to pull off the road, turn around and go grab it. It’s hard to do a U-turn in a carriage, but he did it.

Not five miles down the road, I found the Shawnee Country Store, in Ava, Illinois. The sign says “Fine Cheeses and Candies.” I was sold. I pedaled up, wandered in and met three generations of Schlabach’s. Richard owns the store. Richard’s father and son both work with him. I had slices of at least five types of cheese, and I tried to discover which would last longest inside one of my bags. “If it starts growing mold, just cut it off. I’ve heard you can slap the mold onto a wound and it’ll act like penicillen, but don’t do that just because I told you to.” I haven’t had to try it yet, but if I got a slice of moldy cheese and a gash in my leg, I might just give it a go.

I got my social fix at the country store, a ton of dried fruit and a loaf of fresh baked bread that’s still serving me well. I promised to call them when I got to the coast, and it’s a promise I intend to keep. If you ever pass through Ava, give this store some business. I promise you’ll be happy you did.

I rode from Ava to Murphysboro, where I stopped at the library to eat some lunch. Then I pedaled to Carbondale, where I got detoured from my ride. I needed a sticker for my bike, and since Carbondale’s a college town they have a few sweet bike shops. One is called Surgeon‘s. Sadly, they didn’t have a sticker. But Phoenix Bicycles got me hooked up. And that’s where I met Joe. He’s been working for Phoenix for years, and offered me a couch to sleep on, and to show me the town. I took him up on his offer. I found a place to nap for a few minutes on campus, and met up with him later. Sadly, he was without a bicycle. His had been stolen just days before, so we walked to his house. I showered. Then we hit the town. We found some good pizza, and a cheap place to get beer. We got a little buzzed, met up with some of his friends, and talked into the night. An old black woman asked us for some cash to buy a drink. I was glad to be looking at my feet, because she flashed us. When she asked if I had a dollar, I said I did, but I told her the only way I’d give it to her was if she promised to take care of herself. She did. She put on a sweet face. And gave me a kiss on the cheek, which would have been far more awkward if I had not been looking at my feet a few minutes earlier. It was weird enough already. Then she left. I felt sorry for her. What do you do when someone refuses to take care of themselves, and repeats the same mistakes?

We went back to Joes. I crashed, and woke up the next morning with a bit of a headache. Despite a hangover, I made the day into a good ride: seventy miles to Golconda, Illinois. And there were a few steep hills between Carbondale and Golconda. I could tell you the grade and the length, but the only way you’ll really understand is if you push a loaded bike up one. It ain’t easy.

I spent most of the day in the saddle, and paid the price. Enough said.

On the way to Golconda, I met Rocky Orlando and Katie Morgan. They are Biking for Austism. Katie just finished a year teaching autistic children in New York City, and is doing a fundraiser before shipping out to Peace Corps in February. She’s not going to Morocco though, she’s headed to the Caribbean. Beautiful beachs. Rough times.

They are trying to raise $20,000 for Autism. I encourage you to give, if you can. They make me wonder what I could have made this trip into, had I decided to raise money for a cause. I decided not to, partly because of time, and partly because I wanted this trip to be about me seeing family, friends and the country, and not about one cause. There is no sense wondering what could have been. What’s inspiring is that Rocky and Katie are making this incredible contribution. I am so hungry to serve.

When I pulled into Golconda, the sun was at the rim of the sky, bright red and soon to be gone. The plan was to sleep in a State Recreation Area just outside of town. By just outside of town, I mean at the top of a giant hill outside of town. I road down the gravel road to the rec area, only to find a chained gate, locked bathrooms and no water. If there had been water, I would have called it a night right there. But I was thirsty, and wanted a shower. So I let gravity pull me into town, and within moments I was at a gas station, trying to find the private campground. It was another two miles. That wasn’t the best news, but it was better than, “Sorry, there’s nowhere to camp.” By the time I got going, it was pitch black. There are so few people in this part of Illinois, that I didn’t have much traffic to wrestle with. I lit myself up like a christmas tree and got on the road. I pulled into Deer Creek Campground a few minutes, and a few hills, later, where I met Charlie, the owner. He was driving around in a little golf cart, waiting for me. He set me up with a shower, a place to pitch a tent, and a good conversation about the state of our nation.

“I was proud to get shot at in Korea when I was your age. I wouldn’t put myself on the line for the nation now.” There are a lot of people in this country who are angry with the way things are going politically. I’m upset to, but for different reasons. I’m disappointed that compromises come quicker than the hard decisions. It’s been good to listen, but I’ve learned I need to take a strong stand for what I believe. And I need to speak plain, so people can understand what I mean. There’s no need to turn words into lawyerese, and there is a cost to talking in a way that makes someone feel dumb. The cost is their trust. I need to meet people where they are at, which means listening, and asking questions, and ultimately saying where I stand and why.

I’ve just got to figure that out. Which isn’t easy.

I pitched my tent as a thunderstorm descended on Golconda. Rain was spitting as my rainfly went on. I was soothed into a deep sleep by strobe lightning and pounding thunder. I sleep heavy, so it didn’t bother me.

The next morning was a lazy one. The plan for the day was to write this blog post. That didn’t happen. By the time I got done chatting with Mom, eating my oats and packing my stuff, it was darn late in the morning. I got downtown, snagged some cash from the ATM, and had iced tea and pie at the Dari-Mart. Then it was on to the library. The sign said closed. No luck.

On to the next town with a library! Rosiclare! Not to far, thankfully. By the time I got there, they were an hour shy of closing, and their only computer was occupied. And my stomach was talking to me. So I trucked it into Elizabethtown, just a few miles up the Ohio River. That’s where I found the E-Town River Restaurant, which is floating on the river. I had fried catfish, spud wedges, coleslaw and beans. My oh my. What a treat. It should be seldom enjoyed, because it is really rich, but when you do it is hot and yummy. The perfect food for a cyclist in desperate need for calories. Bring on the fat!

The evening was spent riding to Cave in Rock, the next little river town just ten miles up the river. I got a little off route, but got back on thanks to a kind old couple in a cadillac towncar. This is wild country here. There are so few people, and the houses are scattered so thin that it seems the forest will just gobble them up if the houses are left in disrepair. It’s wet enough too, and the forest is thick and powerful. It’ll take your breath away.

When I pulled into Cave in Rock, I stopped at a greasy spoon called Gee Jee’s. I got postcards and an ice cream sunday. Oops. On my way out the door, I met Sparks. That’s my name for him anyway. He’s a little dog, with a collar, who wanders Cave in Rock. He doesn’t have a home, an owner or a nametag. But he took a liking to me. Heck, I thought he’d adopted me. I hopped on my bike to ride to the state park, thinking I’d outrun him. It was a clever thought, but not near clever enough. I rode the pavement, but Sparks busted through backyards, gardens and over ditches to keep pace. When I pulled into my campsite a few minutes later, he was right behind me, panting up a storm, looking like the happiest dog in the world. He slept right next to me. He wasn’t so gung ho as to try and get in my little tent with me, but his head was pushing in the wall of my tent, not a foot from my face. He snored. I didn’t mind.

In the morning he was still there, snoozing away. I woke and he got up and started stretching. I got all packed up and pedalled back to Gee Jees to get some pancakes. The loaded them up with bananas and butter, and I coated them in honey. A perfect combo to start the day.

I rode down to the ferry, and Sparks followed me down. I was worried he’d chase me onto the little barge, but he didn’t He disappeared into a park, looking for squirrels. As the barge pulled away, I looked at the Illinois shore. I didn’t see him, which is for the best. I’d become a bit attached, and it was easier if I didn’t.

The ferry dropped me in Kentucky. I rode the twelve miles into Marion, which is where I’m writing this now. The town has been incredibly welcoming. I stopped at the post office to send home some extra stuff I didn’t want to push over the Appalachians, and three people welcomed me to Marion. When I got the library, I sat down and started writing. Not twenty minutes later, I met Morgan Lynn, a woman just a few years younger than I. She just got done with an internship with Nest. And she’s going into Peace Corps once she finishes school. She wants to go to Morocco. And her boyfriend just finished cycling across the country this summer. The coincidences piling up yet? I was going to keep pedaling today, but I want to get to know Morgan a little better before I hit the road. So I’ll stay the night. What’s traveling for, if not to meet people? I’m not trying to set a record, I’m trying to stitch us all together. And that takes time.

So, I will probably spend the night here in Marion. Tomorrow will be an early day, and a hard ride. Wish me luck.

With all the love in the world,

Ben

I’m getting ahead of myself. Should I pick up where I left off?

The morning I left Kansas City was gorgeous. No wind, blue sky, warm but not hot. And I had an escort. There is nothing better than a ride out of town, with a new friend. George knows all the good streets in Kansas City, and he took me all the way to the edge of the Metro area. Our route went through Swope Park, which, if you ever get the chance, is well worth visiting. A pocket of green in the city. The air tastes different. When trees replace concrete, the air tastes better. It blows me away.

We rode out to Lee’s Summit, where we had some grub at a diner that was packed to the gills. We had to wait. At the diner, they put their bench right in front of the case full of pies. For five minutes, we ogled the pies. Dangerous. Then we got seats, complementry cinamon rolls, and food. I had all you can eat tacos, which sounded like a brilliant idea at the time. “Oh, I won’t have to eat for the rest of the day!” Filling yourself to the brim with $7 all you can eat tacos is a bad idea. I didn’t want to eat later. Put it this way, it made for an interesting ride.

It was a long ride. Ninety miles, to the town of Sedalia, Missouri. I stopped a few times. Once to search a small college town for a smoothie, with no success. Once to poke around an Amish grocery store. I found dried apples and fresh honey oat bread. Score. Then I got a flat tire. A nasty, sharpened screw put a hole in my plans, and my tire. I pulled into Sedalia after dark, hungry, hunting for a place to snooze.

Sedalia is on the Katy Trail, a rails to trails route across Missouri. 260 miles of trail. No traffic. No worries. What more could a touring cyclist ask for?

Dinner. But everything in Sedalia was either closed, or unappetizing. I’d had enough “fast” food for the day, with memories of a bloated stomach still fresh and fragrant. My system didn’t want more punishment. So, I set out to find a place to stay. The only place to camp, legally, in Sedalia, is the State Fair Grounds. Lucky me, I hit town the last night of the State Fair.

I wish I’d gotten into town earlier in the day. The fair would have been buckets of fun. But I was exhausted. Riding ninety miles on a busy highway all day sucks the juice from you. I had enough energy to shower, pitch my tent, scarf down some food and collapse. Getting to sleep took time.

The State Fair is a crazy place. And the Fair Grounds, where everyone camps, is jam packed with RVs, trucks, and street lights. There are no dark, shady spots. And even if there were, you might get run over by a drunk in a pickup. Seeing the Ferris Wheel and the rides glittering in the night air was breathtaking. The RVs, not so much. I thank god I’m a heavy sleeper.

I woke in the morning to sun blazing my tent. The RV I had camped next to had moved, robbing me of any shade. I rolled out of my tent, took off my rainfly to hang it, and had a neighbor ask, “Do you sleep all night in the fetal position in that tiny tent?” She had a monstrous 10 person tent for her family of five. “It fits perfect. I can even stretch.” Which is kind of true.

Nothing in small town Missouri is open on Sunday. So, I ate out of my bag of food and started rolling down the Katy.

I rode through a tunnel of green. Trees drape over the trail for miles. Wetlands stretch out in pools and creeks, covered in a green film.

Water is everywhere: dripping from leaves, resting in still ponds, thick in the air. Yet, I came at a cool time. This past month in Missouri has been odd, as if Fall were already here. The sun is still high. The days are still long. Most people say it is unbearable here in August.

I stopped often, to eat, drink, and listen. I paused at a small pond and had bread, dried apples and a carrot. An owl hooted across the water. I couldn’t see her, and I didn’t need to. A thick mat of green stood between us, but it couldn’t stop her voice.

I rolled over the tail of a black snake. I thought it was a tire. On the highway, strips of blown out tire are everywhere. I thought, for a split second before I rolled over him, that the snake was a tire. Then the deed was done. And I realized it was a four foot black snake, stretched out across the trail. I felt sorry. I asked the snake to forgive me.

I made it forty miles. Rolling on limestone gravel is harder than pavement. I had to push, hard. I made it over the Missouri. Right before crossing, I had blackberry pie ice cream at this crazy used furniture shop in Boonville. Lots of stuff from the fifties, and the ice cream was the lure. I went in. But I didn’t leave with a dresser. No place to strap one to my bike, even if I’d wanted to.

I stopped around six at a campsite in New Franklin. I was beat, and happy to be off the saddle. The site was perfect: big, tall trees stretching out over thick grass growing in soft soil. And it was dirt cheap, shower included. What more could a cyclist possibly desire, besides dinner?

I woke in the morning, packed and got a move on. My destination was the town of Columbia. It’s nine miles off the trail, but it’s a college town, with college flare. I was missing that crazy energy. Nine miles was worth it.

I arrived in Columbia in the early afternoon. I went to Walt’s Bike Shop in town to get some help with a squeaky bottom bracket. I had a guy offer to let me camp in his yard, which was awesome. Then I went into town. I wanted to get a feel for the place. I’d heard from the tech in the shop of a good spot called Main Squeeze. Before I could get inside, a guy walked past with a box of Shakespeare’s Pizza. He’d just gotten off a shift delivering pizza’s on his bike. He admired my ride, then offered me a slice. Olive and jalapeno pepper pizza. Not my usual, but still yummy.

I had a berry berry good smoothie, which disappeared way too fast. I chatted it up with the woman behind the counter, who said, “Let me call my boyfriend. He’s a big cyclist, and he may have a place for you to crash tonight.”

I sat down to relax a bit. An older guy with a goatee sat down at a table next to me. “That your bike outside?” he asked. The ball started rolling. He offered me a place to stay. He told me he taught art at a community college north of town, that his house was littered with half finished pots, but that the shower was clean and his grass was soft.

Then Ian sat down. Ian was the boyfriend, and he ended up being my guide through Columbia. We talked a while. His lady friend sat down and shared a cookie with us. Then we left to tour campus and drop my gear at his apartment. After unloading my bike and taking a spritz in the shower, we went to chase down dinner. The night was epic. Some crazy nachos at Addison’s. Phat thai and coconut curry at Thai Garden. A brownie sundae loaded with ice cream, whipped cream and fudge at Sparky’s. Then we went to RagTag, which is a movie theatre, movie rental, bakery and bar all in one. We had beer. Delicious, wonderful beer. Then Ian’s friends started showing up. Things got a little wild when the birthday girl put in an appearance, and her plum pie arrived on cue, steaming hot from the oven. Wow. Glorious pie. I’ve never felt so full.

When this tour is over, I’ll have to learn how to eat a regular diet. Eating six thousand calories becomes compulsive. You need the energy to pedal, but I could see it becoming a habit I’ll need to kick when the tour is done.

I slept on his couch. Crickets wished me to sleep.

In the morning, after breakfast I bid Ian a fond farewell. I hit Uprise Bakery for bread, and then hit the trail. Two miles down, I stopped to work out on these outdoor bars and benches they have along the trail. They have pull up bars, and benches to do curls, all sitting out just begging to be used. They are made out of wood and steel to withstand the elements, just like a playground, but for adults. After I finished doing some pull ups, this guy walks past and introduces himself. He makes documentary movies, and wanted to know if I was writing for a magazine. My first thought was, should I be?

It was a brief collision, but wonderful.

A few minutes later, I met a second Scott, riding his bike. We talked a few minutes, until he hit his turn-around point. I kept chugging on, to the Katy.

That day, I almost ran over a Milk Snake. The vivid colors made me think, “Watch out!” but it turns out they aren’t poisonous. Didn’t know that at the time, though.

The towns along the Katy Trail are almost all tiny. Most of them are just a few hundred people, or less. The plan was to spend the night in Jefferson City, the state Capitol. When I got there, another cyclist told me the nearest campsite was five miles into the city. I knew there was another campsite just ten miles up the trail in Mokane, so I decided to keep pushing. It was only five o’clock.

When I got to Mokane, the sun was dying. I was done for. I pulled into town and stopped at the one and only store. It’s a small grocery, that’s been around forever. It’s a classic storefront, with big windows, wood floors, high ceilings. The woman behind the counter was smoking a cigarette. I asked her where the campground was. “What campground? We don’t have a campground in Mokane. I guess you could pitch your tent in the baseball field.”

She told me the next place to camp was ten more miles down the trail, in Portland. “I know there’s camping, ’cause my dad owns the campground. Ten bucks for a place to pitch and a bathroom and shower.”

Night was growing quick as a weed. I booked it up the trail as fast as my tired legs would carry me. In the evening, the Katy gets dark fast. But that didn’t bother me too much. The bumps in the trail, and the fallen branches were a bit to worry about, but my little light kept me going.

About two miles shy of Portland, I saw a huge blob in the trail. At first I thought it was a tarp. When I got close, a face popped out of a sleeping bag. In seconds I was past him.

My welcoming committee in Portland had wrangled a pack of small, yelping dogs to see me to my campsite. I swore I must have hit one, but the owners said they were fine. Thankfully they lost interest in me quickly. The site was fine. The bathroom smelled a little funky, and the water smelled of sulfur, which I guess is not uncommon for that part of Missouri, for whatever strange reason.

It was really late when I finally got to sleep, but whatever. I was somewhere with grass, and I’d swept the sweat off.

I woke late, which seems to be a pattern. I’m not sure why, but I just seem to sleep in, and then not get going until 10 am. In order to get a good, full day of riding, I go until dinner time. Then I stay up late. Maybe I’m a night owl? If I am, I’m an owl in love with the morning.

For some reason, the whole day from Portland to Augusta is a blur.

Toward the end of the day, I was tempted to bust it all the way to St. Charles, on the outskirts of St. Louis, but I had no plans and no idea where I’d stay in the city. So, I walked up the hill to the Augusta Brewery to have some grub.

I sat down at the bar, in a near empty restaurant. A couple was seated next to me, with their red haired daughter who couldn’t have been older than seven. They’d ridden their bikes to the brewery, and were enjoying a drink while their daughter ran around. We got to talking. The talk spilled over when I told them my story. They invited me to sleep above their garage, in their spare room. We’d forgotten to introduce ourselves until my bike was parked in their garage.

“I’m Ben.”

“I’m Matt, and this is Cindy and our daughter Lizzy.”

They live just a mile down the trail, in a house built in the 1830′s. The original house is small: a main hall, with two rooms, and a tiny upstairs where the kitchen used to be, and the children slept. They’ve since added a bit to the house, but nothing substantial. He had me feel the steps, where people’s feet had worn away the wood during 180 years of living.

We stayed up late talking about politics, raising children and their naked bike ride through St. Louis.

I woke early for me, since they had to leave for work, and their daughter was booking it for school. I hit the trail and rode into St. Charles. I made it by late morning and had a bagel at a coffee shop there in the city by the river. It’s an old town, with bricks on main street and old buildings. It’s touristy though, and pretty dead.

So I made a quick exit and made for St. Louis. My destination was Delmar avenue, or what’s called The Loop. Washington University and Forest Park are just south of Delmar, and the street is littered with people, food and music. I didn’t get to Delmar until late in the afternoon. Dealing with traffic in a big city on a bike can be a headache. The best way to get through it is to go slow. When I got to Delmar, I started trying to chase down a place to stay. I ended up hearing back from a guy who’s let me surf his couch the last two nights. He wasn’t going out until late though, so I had time to kill, and dinner to catch. I met up with some street musicians, who admired my bike. I ate some mac ‘n cheese at Blueberry Hill. Conversation spilled over like water. Our group grew to six people, all sitting outside Starbucks sucking down tea and talking about music. One of musicians, a guy named Tony, had his guitar. He busted out a jam that started with him yelling, “Blaah Blaah Blaah!” He’s got a beautiful voice. Somehow, he gave blood and life to empty words.

I met up with David and Kevin a few minutes later just down the street at a bar. We had a few beers and talked into the night. Around 11 pm, we left for their place just a mile away. They live in an old building. Their place reminded me of my place in college: wood floors, old molding, and a beautiful kitchen.

We stayed up talking until 1:30 in the morning. They had work the next day, but it didn’t seem to faze them. I crashed on their couch, and it was wonderful.

In the morning, I woke after Kevin and David had left. I’d seen David a bit earlier getting dressed up for work, but I’d gone back to sleep. As I cruised into the Kitchen, David was standing there. He’d left and come back. “I’m going to work from home today.” As I plowed into a bowl of granola, he set up shop in a small room and turned on some tunes on his record player.

Around 10 am, I went on a walk to the St. Louis Art Museum in Forest Park. Twenty minutes later, I was climbing the steps between two giant half naked maidens. It was a nice welcome. The Museum is free to all, so I just walked in and started poking around, looking at art from Europe in the dark ages and 12th century Persia.

Around 1 pm, Kevin and David picked me up and we went to have sandwiches at Gioia’s Deli. In St. Louis, sandwiches are a thing. People love them, loaded up with meat and cheese and covered in sauce. These folks know how to eat American, and damn is it good.

We crashed back at their place after devouring nine inch sandwiches. They took naps. I went for a run in the park that was simply spectacular. Rain had been threatening all day. Toward the end of the run, water started drizzling. Then pouring. I couldn’t help grinning at my luck. I needed a shower, and the sky provided.

I didn’t have soap handy, so bathing had to wait a few.

After I got back, we made a trip to the grocery store to pick up ingredients for Nanaimo bars. Kevin loves chocolate. So, what better could I do but make these famous Canadian bars?

We had a hell of a time chasing down vanilla custard powder, but eventually Goya came through for us. Spanish style.

Then we hit up Mi Ranchito. Cheap, delicious and spicy. What more could anyone want from Mexican? And they’d never been there, so I felt good finding the place. They both had giant margaritas. I had a beer.

We came back and made the Nanaimo bars and talked into the wee hours.

The morning saw more granola. Kevin slept in late. David and I took the train downtown to Soulard Farmer’s Market, which has been active since 1779. We had doughnuts and I got honey and salsa. And cheese. Cheddar cheese. I haven’t bought cheese all summer, so I’m pretty stoked about this sharp block. Bagels and cheddar. Ohh, damn.

David and I walked to a sculpture park downtown, hung out for a while until Kevin met us in his car. Then we went to another deli, Blues City Deli. Live music and sandwiches? It’s the lifeblood of St. Louis. I had a sausage covered in marinara and cheese. Kevin said it was Italian but we concluded that in Italy they would put it on pasta instead of a hotdog roll. I love this country.

Then, they dropped me off at Washington University. I’ve been typing away since then, freezing my butt off in the air conditioning. I can’t wait to book it outside where it’s warm and still feels like summer.

Maybe Pi for dinner?

The other spot on the agenda for the night is riding my bike through downtown with 10,000 other people at 3 am. I bet it’ll be worth a few words.

I love you all. Play more.

If you have an appetite for more words when your done, feel free to read about my adventures below.

The ride to Colorado Springs was uneventful. Getting out of Denver was a bit of a mess. Suburban sprawl can be messy and confusing, but I made it just fine. The wind was against me, but it wasn’t blowing too hard.

I got going late, which seems to be a pattern for me. I’m not sure why, but for whatever reason I seem to hit the afternoon storms dead on. I was thankful, though. A strip of blue sky led me all the way to Colorado Springs. To my left was a giant black cloud. Rain was pouring out of it. To my right was an even bigger black cloud, rumbling with thunder. Above me was gorgeous blue sky.

I passed through the Black Forest, which by Colorado standards is quite a forest. By Washington standards, the trees are small, but I was thankful for them anyway. I’ve been missing trees bad.

The outskirts of Colorado Springs was not pleasant. Pavement. Sprawl. Acres of houses. Big box stores galore. I found an REI and the bike mechanic got me on a sweet bike trail that took me all the way to Criterium Cycles. This is a sweet bike shop, with an awesome staff that is head over heels for cycling. Not ten minutes after walking into the shop, one of the bike techs, Chris, had invited me to sleep in his yard. What ended up happening is we made dinner with his girlfriend Clarissa and they let me sleep in their snooze in their spare room.

I had an incredible evening. There is nothing like riding in the dark, with another cyclist. The shop is maybe eight miles from Chris’ home downtown, and we took the trail all the way in. We had some stir fry and rice, some conversation and then hit the sack.

I woke early. Chris made me a little breakfast burrito, and then left to ride his mountain bike at the ski resort. I was left to my own devices. I spent the morning volunteering at Marian House Soup Kitchen. They have a large speed bump at the entrance to their parking lot which I failed to notice. I took my first graceful spill of the trip. A few scrapes. No big deal. I almost didn’t get to volunteer, because I was wearing shorts and sandals. They had some spare pants, and some shiny military shoes that fit just great. I looked a wee bit dorky, but I wasn’t the only one. We served breakfast to near 400 people before closing down the shop.

Then I was off in search of some food myself. I found Pike’s Perk, where I had an yummy mango smoothie. On my way to Garden of the Gods, I had a quesadilla at La Perla Tapatea, a little hole in the wall Mexican place specializing in street Mexican food. Delicious. The Garden of the Gods is the right name. The color is almost cruel. The signs said, “Do not leave paved trails,” but I only saw it on the way out. There are tons of dirt trails lacing the garden, so I took the first one up to the base of the biggest rock in the garden. I sat and listened the wind. A flock of small birds were sailing above me. A little squirrel came, squeaked and rushed off into the brush. The place is dry and arid. I made a few phone calls and then started walking back to my bike.

I had a hankering for some pizza. As a way of saying thank you, I offered to cook dinner. But I’d lost the slip of paper with Clarissa and Chris’ phone numbers. So I went to the house and hung out for a few minutes. I talked with Ari on the phone. We made tentative travel plans. The thought is, I go to Argentina for a month with her, and she comes to Morocco for a month with me. Seems fair? We’d get to hang out that way. We’ll see.

I made a ride out to the Sunflower Market, which was way further from the house than I thought it was. It was a great ride though, and I got all the fresh ingredients I needed, like blackberries and blue cheese. The pizza turned out really well. I ate half. Oops.

The next day, I left Colorado Springs for Pueblo. Before I rolled out of town, I hit the Mountain Chalet for soap and new undies and Old Town Bicycle Shop for a SRAM master link, just in case. The weather was good the whole day. Blue sky and sunshine, with a breeze to cool me off. I took a trail to the outskirts of the city, and then rode through the little town of Fountain. A mile outside of Fountain, I ran into those loony toons from Holland, Aart and Aagje. They were riding from Pueblo to Colorado Springs. They should be in Denver by now, and they leave for home in two days.

I hadn’t seen them since Walden, Colorado. I had a feeling when I rolled out of Walden that I’d see them again. Aart was stunned. He couldn’t believe I was standing there. Then he started laughing. We huddled in the shade of a giant tree and talked and talked. We probably stood there for at least half an hour. Maybe forty minutes. It passed like a few moments.

“The road to Pueblo is good. No traffic. Just a dirt road.” I tried to direct them to the trail, and told them about Criterium and Old Town Bicycle Shop.

The dirt road was pretty well graded, and far better than wrestling with traffic on the interstate.

Pueblo is a wonderful town. I’d been warned that some areas are a little sketchy. If they’re there, I didn’t see them. A guy named Mark at Mountain Chalet told me to go to the Edge. Bob Walker, the owner, is a hoot. “You want good Mexican? Go down the street. Good baked goods? Just a few blocks to the left. A place to snooze? I’ve got an old van out back your welcome to sleep in.”

The idea of sleeping in a van wasn’t super appealing. Clarissa had connected me with her friend Patty, who lives in Pueblo. I went and got some enchiladas at http://papajoses.com/. They were quick, cheap and tasty, which was the perfect combo. Then, ice cream, at Cookie Ladies. As I was parking my bike, a guy was sitting outside the shop with a double scoop, plowing face first. He looked like the happiest man in the world. He gave me a look and I said hi. I had a hunch he was curious. I got some ice cream and we sat down.

Turned out, he served in Peace Corps in the 60′s. Then he went to school to become a minister in the Catholic Church. At the same time, he and his wife adopted a child. And he came out of the closet. He said it was a tough time in his life. I believe it. He is still good friends with his former wife, and he has grandchildren through his adopted daughter who live just a few miles away. It all worked out. He put his best foot forward, and it worked out.

I told him about how I want to live, how I want to be the change I wish to see, how I want to meet people from all over the world. I told him about what my bike trip means. I told him about what my parents do. I told him I wanted to be part of the solution. He listened. He nodded.

“I can see it in your face.”

My ice cream was melting in my hand. I licked the dribbles from my fingers. I can get carried away talking about what’s possible.

He had to go see his former wife. “She’s in the hospital. I’m going to visit her before heading home.” He offered me a bunk bed in his house, but I said I already had plans.

I called Patty and rode to her house. She lives their with her two daughters. When I walked in, three other women were there, sitting down with ice cream to watch the movie Push. I had some more ice cream, and got wrapped up in the opening scene of the movie. I was exhausted, and smelly, but it didn’t matter. There is something about Blockbuster movies that is just addicting. I can’t quite explain it. I snuck off to the shower, but ended up getting sucked back into the movie. It was near 11 pm before I hit the hay.

In the morning, I got packed up. I thanked Patty and rolled downtown to the Wireworks Coffee house, where I filled up on oatmeal and orange juice. Then I discovered I’d left my phone charger at Patty’s. She had her sister unlock the door. It was right on the floor where I’d left it.

Then I went to the Hopscotch Bakery. I’d promised Bob, at the Edge, a little treat. So I picked up some cookies. The cookies didn’t last long. I asked Hopscotch about a good bakery in Kansas City, and they e-mailed me later with a few ideas. More on that later.

The ride from Pueblo to La Junta was dramatic, to say the least. The land in this part of Colorado is all farms, and with farms come farm stands. Melons and peppers galore. I was craving peaches, and stopped for a little a few bites of a juicy little peach.

As the day grew longer, the clouds darkened. The wind picked up. The sky turned black. Or, I want to call it black, but it was really a dark blue. It must be what the ocean looks like when the sunlight is almost lost to sight. The clouds were a huge wall of water, just waiting to collapse to the earth. I didn’t particularly want to be out when that happened. But the highway kept straight into the heart of the storm. What more could I do, but push?

The lightning started around 3 pm. Neon light cut the sky open. Then the clouds cut off the sunlight. I was waiting for hail, knocking on my head for good luck, ringing the bell on my bike wishing for good weather.

The calm held.

I rode from small town to small town, my eyes hunting for shelter, just in case.

When I got to La Junta, a wave of relief washed over me. I pulled up to the train station as the rain started rolling out of the clouds. The wind started blowing hard. The flags outside the station were cracking like towel whips. I was so happy to be there.

The station is nothing special. White ceramic tile. Posters of trains chugging through scenic American landscapes, like the green hills of Kentucky and the Oregon Coast. “Ride the Rails!”

I showered in the bathroom sink, and had some couscous in the microwave. I waited for the train, and the storm, to stop. When the storm finally gave out, I went for a little walk through town, peeking in the dark windows, not looking for anything in particular, but feeling a need to move.

Then I boarded the train. Kansas whipped by in an evening. I’ve no doubt I missed a lot. I don’t know Kansas like I would have, but at the same time, five hundred miles clicked by as I tried to sleep on my seat in the train.

We passed through storm after storm. I was glad to be in the train, instead of in the saddle.

When I woke in the morning, we were outside of Kansas City. The sun was rising, and the sky was blasted orange. The city was a black silhouette against a growing wave of fire, and it seemed like the whole sky was ablaze.

It only lasted a moment. But in that moment I couldn’t speak, and didn’t want to.

We pulled into the city and I got my bike. The rain started dripping. Another storm was on the brew. As I rolled into the station, I heard the rumble of lightning faint through the thick stone. The station is a large cavern, and at 7:30 in the morning the lights are off, and the main room is dark. Shadows drink up the small places. The windows offered only dim, gray light to cast out the night, and so night clung on into the morning. Every few moments, a flash of lightning would split open, and the room would be a bit brighter, for a second. Outside, rain filled the gutters, slugging down the streets into the low places, the side walk cracks and the sewer drains. I ate raisins and watched.

When a quiet moment came, around 9 am, I pulled out of the station and went to Westport. I was in search of breakfast. I found Napoleon’s Bakery, and the Corner Restaurant. They were fine. Napoleon’s certainly had flair, and the food looked delicious, but the price was jacked. The Corner was cheaper, both in price and the food. I was full, though. Then I went to find a place to relax. I discovered Tea Drops.

According to Danielle Brown, they are the only place in Westport with a couch. So, I hung out. Danielle served me a spectacular cupcake the size of a grapefruit. And tea, of course. Matte, hot. Moroccan mint, on ice. Conversation galore, about cycling, travel, Kansas City, Westport, family and friends. As the afternoon wore on I caved and got a Taro/Almond smoothie to itch my sweet tooth.

I met Danielle’s roommate, Parker. He’s 18, but his dreads make him look older. He’s got a wisdom about him. Can’t quite put my finger on it, but he’s very grown up, and very young, at the same time.

Time slipped away into the seems of Tea Drop’s leather couch. The sun made a dramatic appearance, banishing the storm clouds and revealing an old, glorious face of Kansas City.

Westport is, according to Parker, the oldest section of the city. Stone paving, and brick buildings, give character and charm to this little slice of Missouri. Move too far in any direction, and it’s easy to find broken streets and uninviting buildings. Some kind of gravity brought me here. I was so glad for it.

Parker and I went to a bike shop, Midwest Cyclery. The people were excellent. The shop was in poor repair. Water was dripping from the roof, but the owner didn’t seem too bothered by it. He tried to be helpful giving directions. He slipped across the street to buy a map of Kansas and Missouri and came back with a map of Kansas and Oklahoma. His heart was in the right place. The follow-through was a bit, well, lacking.

Then we went back to Tea Drops. Hung out a bit longer. Then I went on a ride to see Maribeth, Alan and Taylor. I know the Hinderer’s through my good friend Austin, who I’ve known since high school. His family just moved to Kansas City. His dad runs two car dealerships, Hyundai and Chevy.

Like me, they are in transition. I’m riding across the country. They are selling their house on Bainbridge, and buying a house in Kansas City. At the moment, they are living in a townhome behind a Walmart, way out in the boons twenty miles south of downtown. It was quite a ride, to say the least.

I set out and the weather was taking a turn for the worse. Heavy clouds were growing thick. The wind was whistling through the streets. The city was holding its breath, waiting for an onslaught of water.

I was at 40th street. The Hinderer’s live on 157th. I had a few miles to ride. I went to State Line Road, which marks the boundary between Kansas and Missouri.

On my way to State Line, I saw a man pushing a baby stroller with an older woman, who I guessed to be his mother. They all started walking into the street. They had beautiful olive skin, and dark hair. My thought was, these folks aren’t locals. The man said, “Hey, hold on you need to stop.” I squeeled to a stop in the empty street, and the man handed me a business card. “My name’s Amir. I’m a touring cyclist like yourself. I’d like to buy you a beer.” Sounds good to me! But I’m on my way to see friends, can we meet up while you’re in town? He gave me is phone number, and told me to call when I got the chance. “Oh, and you need to read this book, The Hungry Cyclist. Hell, I’ll buy you a copy. Just read it. You’ll enjoy it.” Pedaling the world for the perfect meal? Sounds like a book I’d like to write write. “We have to go, but give me a call.”

I left, wondering at the incredible connections, curious where my bike would take me. Then came State Line Road, and the hillls. I rode up and down about twenty, leaving the city behind.

The rain came. Cables of lightning started to string down, tying earth to sky. The rumble of thunder, and engines, filled my ears.

State Line Road is a series of rolling hills. The stoplights always seem to be at the bottom of each hill. I was coming down one hill when I saw two dead canaries: wet pavement and a car turning across the intersection. As I closed in I saw a third dead bird: the woman behind the wheel was yapping away on her cellphone. I rang my bell three times for luck, hoping she’d see me, hoping she wasn’t going to play bumper cars with me and my bicycle.

I rode through the intersection. She saw me. I waved. She smiled. All was fine. I hauled it up the hill.

About a mile from the Hinderer’s, the downpour came. Torrential is on the dot. Within seconds, my clothes were full of water. I could feel rain filling my socks, sliding between my toes. I was thinking about a hot shower, about dinner, about seeing Maribeth, Taylor and Alan. Then a bolt of lightning struck the top of the hill I was climbing. There was no waiting for thunder. The gutters were rivers. Then the thought came to me: it would be so sweet to see lightning strike a tree, and set it ablaze.

Didn’t happen.

I rolled up to the Hinderer household, tossed my bike in the garage and was promptly shown the shower. It was spectacular.

We ordered some Italian food. I ate a pizza to myself without any trouble. We caught up. I told stories, they told stories. It’s been years since we talked, so I gave them the update on my life’s romances. And school. And Peace Corps. Then Alan came home.

“Ben Packard! How the hell are ya? Have you been offered a beer?”

Alan is a big man. When I say big, I mean really big. He’s tall, and strong, and he’s got the heart of a teddy bear. But if you don’t know he’s got a fuzzy wuzzy heart in his chest, and he gives you his “I’m going to ruin you” look, you’d pee your pants.

Alan and I talk politics. He is a right winger, I’m a left winger, and we always end up laughing our heads off and having a great debate. He makes me think. I make him think. Mutually assured education. The trick is we both keep an open mind. We’re honest, curious and kind to each other, even in the heat of disagreement. We can both let go of our opinions, and get down to the basics: enjoying the moment, and our drinks.

I slept like a rock and woke before everyone else. I had a mischievous plan to bake coffee cake and produce some fabulous eggs. Alan had to leave for work before the coffee cake was finished, but there was plenty left for him, unless Maribeth and Taylor ate half the cake in the afternoon.

I was there until the early afternoon, sorting, cleaning and writing. Then I left to return home. The sky was decorated in chunky clouds, with enough blue to ease any worry.

The ride back into the city was wonderful. I tried to get a Kansas postcard, with no success. Now I may be too far east.

My plan: have dinner with Danielle and Parker. I picked up a yellow tomato for the sandwiches and some peaches for desert. Then I went to hang out at Tea Drops to wait for them. I talked with friends on the phone. Afternoon wore into evening. The light faded. Suddenly, it was 8 pm. We’d planned to meet an hour earlier, and the sand had slipped through my fingers.

I called. “Oh crap. We’ve already had dinner, but you should come over. We have one stuffed pepper left.” Stuffed pepper? What happened to the sandwiches? Well, it doesn’t matter. It sounds delicious.

When I got there, Parker met me outside. “We’ve got two other travelers staying with us, Destiny and Pattrick. Come on in and I’ll introduce you.” My pepper disappeared shortly.

Then we settled down to a game of hot dice. Hot dice is crazy fun, and very simple. We sat down in a circle, and rolled dice. I pulled ahead pretty quick. They called it beginner’s luck. Danielle said she always won hot dice, but she was loaning me her luck. We had a ridiculous amount of fun, for playing with six little dice.

Then we walked to the grocery store. Then back to the pad. We stayed up really late talking about the mysteries of the universe. I was the first one to peel off for bed.

When I woke, Danielle was walking out the door for work. I made some oatmeal, packed and departed for the sunshine.

I got to Tea Drops a few minutes later, only to discover the owner’s family hanging out in the couches. “Meet our new friend Ben. He’s riding across the country…” This spiraled off into at least seven different conversations, as it seemed the whole family had descended on the little tea shop.

I caught up with Danielle some. Had some matte. Tried to chase down a package that was due to come in. Talked with friends on the phone, or tried. Then came time to meet up with Amir, his mother and sister at a little sandwich shop. We talked about travel, my plans, their plans. We swapped stories. When the food was gone, and the beers were empty, it was nap time for Amir’s sister. So she and her mom left for the hotel. Amir left for his friends place. And I left to find a bike shop. I found one nearby, but they had no stickers. So, I rolled down to a coffee shop, where I met two cyclists who recommended I try Acme. An All-American name for a Midwest bike shop, but this shop is no normal corporate biz. This is a shop. A worker owned bike cooperative. This place is dank. If you find yourself in Kansas City, do yourself a favor and check this place out. It’s one of the best shops I’ve ever seen. Used bikes galore. They build their own frames. They make their own racks. Hell, they even have their own bags, made in Kansas City. And they make art, with bicycles. So, if that isn’t enough incentive for you, go for the stickers. That’s what I needed, and now I’m happily marked up.

The afternoon was edging on, and I was starting to wonder if I’d make it out of the city by dark. I started back up the hill, and was near the crest when a car pulled up beside me. The window rolled down, and a woman asked, “Do you have a place to stay tonight?” I pointed to a parking lot. Let’s pull over.

I do, but it’s way the hell in the boonies. “We live on 58th street, just a few miles away. Your welcome to stay with us. My name’s Caroline.”

“I’m George.”

“I’m Ben.”

And so, we met. I peeled out of the parking lot minutes later to chase down some pita bread for dinner, and they rolled down the hill in their sub-compact Honda, adorned with a plentiful variety of bumper stickers. My favorite: The Nature Conservancy. I’d found home, for the night. Or home found me.

I stopped for grub. I went to the library and did some writing. Time peeled by way to fast. Then it was off to George and Caroline’s.

They live in an old part of town. Their house is an authentic craftsman, with lots of wood, and lots of antique furniture that is just, well, beautiful. We had the most elegant dinner of the summer: fresh tomatoes fro their garden, salad, avacado, pita and hummus. And beer. Local beer. We ate outside on their porch, enjoying the unusually cool weather. I thought it was the perfect temperature. George was cold.

Their cycling friend Martha showed up a little while later, to join us for dinner. We shared cycling stories. I heard about Holland, and the biggest hill in Kansas, which stopped the three of them in their tracks. They walked it. I couldn’t believe it.

Peaches and ice cream. Need I say more?

Yes, I do. We had tea, too.

Then a delightful sleep, that stretched into the wee hours. I woke this morning for breakfast with George. I saw Caroline head out the door to lead a bicycle tour of the city. George and I enjoyed some cereal and conversation. I ate two bananas. And now, it’s time to leave Kansas City.

I have a pile of postcards from Colorado I need to mail out. They’ll be postmarked from Missouri, but you’ll still enjoy them. I want to write more, but it’s hard to stretch time for both cycling all day and writing all day. One’s gotta give.

I think I want to be a writer. Alan recommended I go to law school. Ahh well, the great debate rages on. The words keep flowing.

I love you all.

A flying lesson
Four white bodies,
black wings blinking
on the pearl blue
parchment of sky,
little commas
circling the round page,
in formation –
they’ve no need for words.
The beat of muscles in air,
soaking lungs in sweet oxygen,
burning a belly full of grass seed,
is all they need
to soar.

. . .

Lance of sound
The hum of rubber on road
lulls me into quiet.
I stop thinking
until you –
until I come around a bend
and you float beside me,
on currents of twisting air,
hooked beak closed,
wings stretched like brown baskets,
holding the sky.

I stop. I must stop
to watch you.

You drift over an old barn.
Bees make music with yellow flowers.
You call, and fill the blue with red hunger.
I imagine the little heart
of a little mouse strung out with terror.

I forget
to breathe.

. . .

Wow! I can’t believe I made it here with these crazy legs. There is so much to tell you! So Much! I just haven’t had a computer to write it all, so I’ll do my best here.

I’ll start where I left off, in Lander, Wyoming. I was staying with Dawn and Fred at their funny farm, with their sheep, horse, chickens, ducks, and one donkey who craved roses. They live in such a gorgeous place. I’ll have to spend more time in Lander, someday.

I went to a coffee shop in Lander to write my last post that’s worth mentioning, because it has a cool vibe. I had a smoothie and spent the whole afternoon writing away. The ceiling reminded me of Mike and Kathy’s flat in New York.

I spent the evening with Dawn and Fred. We had a delicious dinner: fresh veggies and sausage, fried up together, and sauerkraut. They are gorgeous people. I had a beautiful conversation with Dawn about God, my Grandma, and living fully. Fred and I discussed the art of growing food.

I left the next morning, early, to beat the heat. The ride out of town was a little sad. I miss Lander. I was glad to be moving, but there is something about the place. I want to be there again, for a little while.

I made it eight miles out of town and stopped at a RV park. I got a candy bar, used the facilities and filled up on water. The next 130 miles were going to be a dry, lonely stretch of miles. Big, empty land.

Gorgeous land. Raw rock. Before I left, Dawn told me, “One of my favorite places on this earth is Red Rock Canyon.” Riding by, I can see why. I wish I had stopped and snapped some pictures for you all to see. You’ll have to be satisfied with my words, or go see them yourselves.

I found the first hint of the rock when I stopped at a bend in the road. There was a ranch on the right, with trees. Shade is a rare thing in Wyoming, so the sight of trees was a blessing. I stopped, took a swig of water and looked across the road at the huge wall of rock towering into the blue sky. I thought the earth was bleeding, it was so red. Bleeding iron. Long cracks ran up the rock. I felt like a tiny ant, looking up at an unabridged encyclopedia. Each layer of rock was a page, histories hidden deep in the stone. I was aching to climb it, to read the rock like brail, fingertips jammed in cracks.

I don’t know how. Yet. Someday soon, that’ll change.

I kept riding. Not fifteen minutes later, there came a gap in the rock wall to the left of the road. The shallow canyon twisted off into the wild. It reminded me of muddy rivers in the south, red with mud. But this was hard rock, hot under the blasting sun. I could’ve sat there all day, but I kept pedaling.

I was glad for the extra water. It was a hot day, and the thirty miles to Sweetwater Station took some time. Sweetwater is a little rest stop. There’s a bathroom, and some shade. A woman gave me half a banana, and invited me to stay at her house in Boulder, if I came through town. A bunch of guys were all working on the rest stop, drilling at walls, putting a new roof on one little building, and generally looking busy. It was a little loud, but I stopped for lunch anyway. I did some writing, and then called the parental units, and Miss Ari C. Weinberg. I spent a few hours at Sweetwater, blabbing away, not paying any attention to the weather at all. While I was plugged in, a storm hit. I had to call my conversation short with Ari when a gust of wind blew pages out of my journal and shot them into the sky. Within seconds, they were just little white specks against the darkening clouds. I buckled down to sit out the storm, not wanting to ride when the winds were high, even if they were in the right direction.

Around five o’clock, the wind started drying up a little bit. Enough that I felt I could make it twenty more miles to Jeffery City. The wind got worse, and started hauling at me from the side. I was riding at a tilt, which must have looked ridiculous. I couldn’t have looked as loony as a couple I met cycling to Lander. Here is a picture of a similar bicycle. They had a trailer, and said the bike weighed 440 pounds with them on it. Trying to ride 130 miles with a nasty side wind is hard work.

I made it to Jeffery City around 7 o’clock. The sun was hidden behind thick clouds. I was happy to see the town. My first introduction was a classic American neighborhood and a dark streetlight. A string of related houses, all one story, with trees, swept out from the highway. Each had a car. There was nothing truly remarkable about it, except the pavement running into the neighborhood was cracked and overgrown. The houses are all at the top of a small hill, and Jeffery City is splayed out below, a patchwork of boarded up buildings, chain link fences, and “Private Property, No Trespassing” signs. An empty baseball field sits overrun by tall, wild grass. The dugout fences are rust red. Most of town is to the right of the highway. One building stands out to the left, an old gas station with the words “Monk King Bird Studio” painted in giant bold letters on the walls. A junk collection sits around the old gas pumps. I had to watch for broken glass from a few drunk, lonely nights. I knocked. Bob Marley was rocking out in a photo on the door. No one came. I checked the place out. There was no door on the bathroom out back. From a distance, the room looked a bit, well, used. I went back out front and saw two other cyclists. I waved and the two guys rode up. They were headed West. “The cafe across the street is open, but if you want dinner you should head over soon. She said she’s closing up the kitchen soon.” I hustled over to the Split Rock Cafe & Bar, which may be the only business left in Jeffery City. I walked into the bar, which was dark. A woman was sitting at a laptop at the bar, playing a computer game as the TV listed off silently, blaring noisy light on the near empty room. I walked up, sat down and introduced myself. “I’m Vicky. Nice to meet ya.” Life hadn’t been too easy for Vicky, by the look, but she seemed happy where she was at. “I moved here five years ago, for the freedom.” She told me she had tried to start a local paper a few years back, but couldn’t find anyone to give her a license. “I went to Lander. I went to Rawlins. There was no one who would give me a business license. There’s no one to pay taxes to out here. That’s why I came. No one is going to tell you how to live.”

She’s right about that. Jeffery City was never actually a city. It was owned by the mining company. When the uranium ran dry in the mine, the company closed up shop, sold off the land and left. There were five thousand people living in Jeffery City. Enough for a grocery store, a Firestone Tires, and several bars and cafes. Now, “Closed” signs hang in the windows of all of them except the Split Rock. Vicky sold me a bowl of milk, and I had raisin bran for dinner. We talked and talked. She told me everyone in town is at least a bit crazy for living out in the middle of nowhere, and that some folks are off their rockers. “But we take care of each other out here. We make sure that folks take their pills.” It was funny. These folks at the edge of the wilderness, living in a ghost town, know each other and take care of each other. They have to. They need each other. But people living in big cities all across the country don’t know their neighbor’s names. How come we don’t take care of each other?

We talked late. Her son co-owns Bedlam Coffee in Seattle. She told me to check it out the next time I’m in Beltown. Sounds like a crazy, creative place. If you need a coffee, check it out.

I spent the night camping at the old Rotary Park, which is all overgrown. There is a picnic shelter there with tables and rusted out grills. Lightning painted the hills to the East of town as I drifted off to sleep.

The next day, I started early again to try to miss the wind. The ride out of town was gorgeous, with the sagebrush plain stretched out for miles and miles. “I could just wander out into the hills,” I said to the sky.

I pedaled to Muddy Gap, which isn’t much more than a gas station, some houses, and a little muddy creek. They were the first place that charged me for water. I was a bit surprised, but I was thirsty too, so I paid. A nice headwind was picking up by the time I left, which made my pace a crawl. Thankfully, the rocky hills and mountains were an eyeful. About ten miles out of town, I crossed the Continental Divide. There, I met a cyclist from Virginia. “I just lost my job, so I decided to ride across the country.” When I told him I was from Seattle, he started asking me tons of questions about the city. “I’m thinking about moving there.” He had a light road bike that made me jealous, and only about twenty pounds of gear on top of that. I complained about the wind, which he had at his tail. Then he reminded me of how lucky I am to be out here, riding my bike on a beautiful day. Wind or not, I can choose to love it or hate it. Why be bitter about something totally beyond my control? Just keep pushing. Then he zipped off for Jeffery City.

A half mile later, I hit Grandma’s Cafe. It looked closed. The huge sign was rusted and in need of some attention. The dirt parking lot was mostly empty. I parked my bike and walked in. There were a few guys sitting at tables by themselves. They glanced up, and glanced back down at their plates. I said hello to the waitress and sat down at the bar. She whipped out a cigarette, lit it, and handed me a menu. I had $4.50 in my wallet, so I ordered a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. It came with a pile of fires, which I downed in ten minutes. It was perfect. Fuel. I refilled my bottles, and my waterbag, and hit the road for Rawlins. There were thirty four miles to go, in the heat of the day. Most of it was sagebrush plains, and straight. The road was, like Grandma’s, in need of some repair. But it was gorgeous. And the drivers were all really friendly. Ten miles from Rawlins, the road wound up a ridge. I was glad for it. The rock would shelter me a bit from the wind. Five miles later, I was at the top of the hill, which stretched on endlessly in a high prairie. It looked like the top of the world, with the flat blue sky nose to nose with the flat yellow green earth. I crossed the Continental Divide for the second time, and rolled down into Rawlins.

My first mission was to find a way to cash a cashier’s check. I hustled from one end of town to the other until I landed at City Market, the big grocery in town. They cashed it, which made my day. I was out of money except for this check I had, and needed to get my situation figured out. Then I rolled up the hill to Rose’s Lariat, a tiny Mexican restaurant running out of what must have once been a diner. The place was jam packed, but I found an empty seat at the bar between two guys. One of them was a lawyer in town, who I struck up conversation with. I told him about my story, and he told me some of his. He grew up in Rawlins, and knew he wanted to live here after college. Being a lawyer is one of the few professional jobs in Wyoming, so he went to law school. He was eating when I sat down, and left a few minutes after I got my plate of cheese enchiladas smothered in bell peppers, onion and tomatoes. He shook my hand and left. When I’d cleaned my plate, the waitress came up and said he’d bought my dinner. I couldn’t believe it. But he did. I left a giant tip to show my gratitude, and headed for the Fairgrounds.

I’d heard I could camp at the County Fairgrounds, since so many people were staying there in RV’s for the county fair. I got there too late though. The office was closed, and the staff were too busy to help me out. So I went to a campground in town, which had a biker rate. I took a shower, pitched my tent and crashed.

The next morning, I met Aagje and Aart, two cyclists traveling from Holland. They said hello, and then rolled out on their bikes. I told them I’d follow close behind. It didn’t work out quite the way I thought. I did meet them at the Discount Grocery down the street from Rose’s Lariat. But I wouldn’t see them again that day. I went down to City Market and made a few phone calls to friends, and didn’t get out of town until a little past noon.

I wasn’t too excited to get out of town, since I’d have to ride the interstate for thirteen miles. Which would you choose: talking to friends on the phone, or riding a bicycle on the interstate? I did both, eventually.

The next town past Rawlins is called Sinclair. It is named after the Sinclair Oil Refinery, which is right on the route. The smell was foul. I wore a bandana over my mouth to filter the air a bit. The place is a mess of silver pipes and smoke. One giant stack was bleeding fire and black smoke. Dante would be right at home.

So we may roll easier
The sagebrush and grass
paint the land in shades
of yellow and green.

The sky is a blue canvas,
splattered with clouds.

And our gift?
A strip of black pavement.
Smells somewhere between
burning coal and hell.

A mess of silver pipes,
parking lots and towers
spitting fire to heaven.

the crushed body of a fox,
squeezed between rubber
and rock, ground into
the bitter tar.

. . .

Then the roadwork ended, and the interstate traffic resumed. Cars and trucks roared by. I stopped on a bridge, and looked down into the water. A semi drove across, making the whole bridge vibrate. It’s one thing to see a semi driving seventy. It’s a whole new experience to feel it vibrate your bones.

Not twenty yards from the interstate, three white pelicans drifted like priests in the water, calm and serene despite the insanity so close.

I made it forty miles that day. I wasn’t feeling too great, so when I hit Saratoga and was invited to join three other cyclists for dinner, I decided I was done. The three cyclists were named Clay, Leigh and Margaret. I can’t remember where Clay is from, but he said he was a social studies teacher on break, trying to get across the country and document the trip for his students with his camera. Leigh and Margaret were from Alaska and had no hard schedule to stick to. The restaurant had Fat Tire, so I had one and a delicious calzone. For the second night in a row, I had someone buy me dinner. Clay got the calzone. Leigh and Margaret bought the beer. I was reminded of a fortune I found in Lander, at the Chinese restaurant I went to with James Trosper and Chuck Anderson. The fortune read: May the giver forget his gift, and the receiver never forget what was given. Thank you to everyone. I won’t forget.

I rode with Leigh and Margaret to Saratoga Lake, where we were going to camp. There we met up with Aajge and Aart. They laughed and grinned when I rolled up, and I introduced them to Leigh and Margaret. Pictures were taken. Conversation spun out of control like water running over a waterfall. We saw more white pelicans than I can count. The fishing at the lake must be good to support so many big birds.

As the sun was setting, dark clouds started roiling in the South. The wind picked up just after I set up my tent. I really wasn’t feeling well, and ended up staying up half the night reading Stephen King’s book Skeleton Crew. I got to sleep around 2 pm.

The next morning, I was feeling a little better, but not great. It was the shortest day of the trip so far, only twenty miles. I got going really late from Saratoga. I blame the hot springs. I met a woman named Judi Davis who’d just finished a tour in Morocco with Peace Corps. It was her third tour, and she said it was wonderful. I got even more excited about going to la Maghreb. Then, I got caught in a crazy thunderstorm. Fifty mile per hour gusts blew my bike over three times, thankfully while I was inside a building. The rain was coming down hard, sideways. It was nuts. After the storm blew out, I made a break for the next town, Riverside Encampment. Technically, Riverside is a different city than Encampment, but they are a quarter mile apart, and I rode from my campsite in Encampment to the gas station in Riverside just to heat up a can of soup. Okay, it was also for shelter from another thunderstorm rolling in. I didn’t want tomato soup with a side of rain and lightning.

The sunset was a deep purple against the storm clouds. The light was piercing the ribbons of rain falling miles away.

The next morning was perfect. I went back to the gas station, had some cereal and took in the blue sky and sunshine. I called a good friend and had a great conversation with her, that filled me with good energy. And, I had a breeze at my back. I was in the perfect mood, and I was determined to catch up to Aart and Aagje. Riverside is covered in a thick blanket of trees. Or, thick by Wyoming standards. It reminded me of home.

When I climbed out of the valley, the prairie returned, as did that friendly south-west wind. I didn’t let it faze me. So what if there’s a wind blowing in my face? Keeps ya cool in the heat. I ran into a few cyclists going West who said they’d seen Aart and Aajge not ten miles back. Then I hit the border, and waved goodbye to Wyoming.

The border land is tough. High, exposed and rocky, people who live here have to be fierce. Go read The Meadow by James Galvin if you want to get the full flavor of this wild land. Winters are hard and lonely. Summers are hot. Wind is a constant companion, and often has teeth.

The land changed. The rock started surging out of the land in crude, hard shapes. My first taste of Colorado rock was a long line of rock, fifteen feet thick, thirty feet high, jutting from the earth, running up a ridge like an exposed spine.

Then I rode up a small rise and was surrounded by huge, lurching rock. Two hawks rode circles in the air. I wanted to poke around, but barbed wire fences and an ache to get to Walden kept me pedaling. The later the day gets, the fiercer the weather.

Here’s a taste of Colorado rock!

After the rise was a four mile stretch to the town of Caldwell. It was the longest four miles of the whole trip. The headwind was fierce and I could only crawl down the road. I was fantasizing about a burger and fries, but Caldwell didn’t deliver. The only store closed a while back. I was so thankful the Post Office was open, since my bottles were dry. Thankfully, the last stretch to Walden was kinder.

I was glad to get to Walden. I met up with Aart and Aajge, went to the city hall, which is in this really old stone building, showered and camped for free at the city park.

I met up with two more cyclists headed West, a brother and sister. The brother was really interested in leading trips in the backcountry, but had a biology degree. I told him to get in touch with me and I’d connect him up with Wendy Walker, my old mentor and friend from college, who would have the best shot of hooking him up with work.

We made dinner in the park, and then I chased down some groceries and a cinnamon roll for breakfast. When I came back, I found the park lights blazing right next to my tent. So I parked my bike, picked up my tent and moved it into the shadows. As I was shoving stakes into the ground, I saw Aart looking at where my tent was with a shocked expression. My tent had disappeared, but my bike was still there. The look was hilarious.

At midnight, a thousand runners started jogging through town. Walden was on the route of a two hundred mile relay run. The runners petered out around 6 am. The whole night, two women were cheering on the runners at the top of their lungs. “Go Forty Six!!” screamed at two am may be just what a tired, cold and hungry Forty Six needs, but for the cyclists trying to catch Z’s twenty yards away it’s far from desired. I slept hard anyway. I’m glad a heavy sleeper.

I woke before dawn and it was friggin cold. I ran around the park. Did push ups. Crammed the cinnamon roll in my mouth, and just had a hell of a time getting warm. The sleeping bag was tempting, but I resisted. I wanted to go early to get to Granby before late afternoon. I said goodbye to Aart and Aajge and started rolling.

The day was gorgeous. Just utterly gorgeous. Riding through the Aarapahoe Wildlife Refuge was awesome. Miles of sagebrush prairie, lakes, and a lonely stretch of road, which is perfect for riding. The fewer cars the better. Then I saw the hawk, and the four black and white birds flying in formation. Go read the poems again, at the top of the post.

Before Rand, the wind picked up out of nowhere. I was happy to get to the Rand store to get out of it. After plowing down some food, I hit the road again to make Willow Creek Pass, which is a gradual rise to 9000+ feet. The slopes of the mountains are covered in pine, aspen and douglas fir. Most of the forest is covered in pine, which has struggled in the last decade fighting the a bark beetle. Looking out over the forest from the top, at least half the trees were red, standing dead in the summer sun. Just dry kindling, waiting for a match. I was happy to see a pearl blue sky, empty of storm clouds.

At the top, I met six road cyclists who’d come from Granby and were headed back down. They were excited by my trip, and insisted I go up Rocky Mountain National Park. “You’ll kick yourself if you don’t go. Hell, if you don’t go, I’ll kick you!”

I started the descent and lost elevation fast. It was a glorious ride. I was ahead of the road cyclists for a little ways, but they sped past me pretty quick and disappeared around a bend. I stopped and ate a bagel.

A few miles out of Granby, another cyclist who I’d passed in the early morning caught up with me. He’d been going the other way, and was coming back on his road bike. “Don’t bother with Granby. There isn’t much to see. Head up to Grand Lake. It’s beautiful, right on the edge of the park and there are plenty of places to camp.”

I was exhausted, but it was only early in the afternoon. So, I decided to book it up the hill. I had that South West wind at my back this time, which made me happy.

Grand Lake is a tourist town. Downtown is nice. The sprawl is, well, sad. But the downtown is still nice. I had a great calzone and got hooked up with a place to sleep at the bike shop/go-cart rink. It was one of the stranger places I’ve slept. But it was a patch of ground, which is all I needed. I had a great conversation with the go-cart attendant that lasted way too late. Patrick was an interesting guy, though so it was worth it. My sleep was fitful because my sleeping pad was deflating, but I did sleep some.

I woke before dawn again. At 8000 feet, even in August, it’s cold. I rode to a coffee shop and had breakfast. Then I started up Rocky Mountain National Park.

What a glorious place. I was glad I got up early. The road was pretty empty for the first ten miles. The first ten miles were flat and forested. The forest was a splash of green and red, living and dead. Ten miles in, the climb got serious. Switchback after switchback carried me up into the thin air. The traffic got heavier as the morning grew old. It was still cold, even with the sunshine.

The Rockies are round mountains. They look like old men with bald heads, covered in green and red plaid blankets. At 10,000 feet, I had to focus on breathing. I needed every scrap of oxygen I could get to keep climbing. It was work to breath.

Then I hit alpine. The alpine prairie is delicate. The plants stick low to the ground. Half dead forest was replaced with endless acres of green grass. And up above me was my destination, the Alpine Visitor Center.

I was climbing at a snails pace. The last hundred yards, a new energy soaked my body and I blasted up to the visitor center. I can’t describe the feeling. To climb 4000 feet up into the sky on a bicycle in a morning up to the highest paved road in the US is an utter thrill.

At the top, I found a bench bathed in sun, out of the wind. Two cyclists were sitting on the ground. They were impressed by the load. “We’re just doing a day ride on road bikes. Your doing a serious ride!”

They’re brothers out for a joyride. Dennis owns the Happy Heart Farm, in Fort Collins. “What do you grow?” I asked.

“I grow community.” We hit it off.

Then I met Mark, a big guy from Chicago who was thrilled by the idea of riding long distance. “I’ve been thinking about doing this for years. My son’s really into cycling, and I want to do a cross country trip with him.” He offered me a couch in Chicago if I go that way, which was incredibly generous given we’d just met.

Here’s me at the top!

I was starting to wonder where Rose was. She and I were supposed to meet at the top around 1 pm. I was late. I decided to keep pedaling. Not two hundred yards out of the visitor center, she drives up. “I’ll meet you at the next pull off!”

I lit up. I couldn’t keep myself from grinning. I hadn’t seen any of the crew since graduation, and I was thrilled we’d collided. I was also excited to get out of the saddle. I threw my bike on the roof of her car, and we started rolling to Boulder. We talked all afternoon as the scenery slipped by.

It’s funny how different traveling can be. Sitting in a car with someone, you miss so much, yet you can actually get somewhere reasonably quick.

We took a topsy turvy route to Boulder. When we got there, we were both happy to get on our feet again. We walked to Pearl street and watched the people. We went into a game shop. Then we went into a candy shop, where we got s’mores, which were gram crackers with marshmellow that had been dipped in chocolate. Rose had been texting someone most of the afternoon, but I was clueless who it was.

We sat on a bench outside the candy shop to eat our s’mores. Mine disappeared in moments. Then, a homeless dude sat next to me, so close he was practically sitting in my lap. Who is this guy? I thought.

Mitch.

Mitch was sitting next to me. I swear you couldn’t wipe the grin off my face with a belt sander. I was so thrilled to see him. Not only did I get to see Rose, but Mitch had driven from Leadville just to come see me.

We cruised down Pearl, wandering, searching for food. I’d been hungry for a while, but Rose had kept putting off dinner. She said she wasn’t hungry, but she was just waiting for Mitch to finally put in an appearance.

We went to this sweet brew pub, where the waiters forgot us for twenty minutes. We finally ordered, got a huge plate of nachos. I had a burger and fries. All the food disappeared in short order, as did the beer.

Then we hit Ben & Jerry’s, which may have been a mistake except for the delightfully delicious brownie sundays Mitch and I had. Rose was smart and resisted. Mitch and I were aching for a little while.

Then we drove to Roses home in Longmont, which is full of incredible art and plants. She lives with her sister. I got to hand it to the Woofendens, they know how to make a garden wherever they go. They know how to make peaceful places. They know how to soak walls in joy.

The next morning, Rose had to scoot out early to babysit. That left Mitch and I to our own devices. We made breakfast like mice, and successfully didn’t wake Rose’s sister.

Then we hit the road. We hit Neptune, in Boulder. I could spent a lot of money on top tier gear, and feel totally satisfied. The store is worth checking out just for all of the cool posters, cartoons and old gear they having hanging on the walls. They’ve been around the block, and they love the mountains. I’m glad we stopped.

We had crazy Mexican food at this little place run by a family from Southeast Asia. It was cheap, and good. And they had a bathroom, which we both needed bad.

Then we drove into Denver. We stopped at a little park, sat in the grass and took a snooze in the wonderful shade. We read. We talked.

Then it was time for dinner. Or, to find out where dinner was coming from. Food Inc. is a must see movie, especially if you haven’t read either Fast Food Nation or The Omnivores Dillema, which are must read books.

I snuck in a pound of grapes to the theater, because I didn’t want to pay the crazy prices for popcorn. I tried to get Mitch to help me, but he only had a handful. I didn’t want to walk out with any, and I was hungry, so I finished the grapes. Amazingly, it didn’t cause any trouble the next day.

We then met up with my cousin, Leslie Oliver. It was her only night off. She works for Congressman Ed Purlmutter, who keeps her busy. It was awesome to meet her. We made some excellent pasta, with a homemade sauce and salad. Then I bid farewell to Mitch. Leslie offered him a bed, but he refused. “I’m driving west. I’ll stop when I get tired.” He’s off to California.

I miss him already. I miss Rose too, and everyone from the crew. It made me realize how lucky I am to have such incredible people in my life. I’m going to give some folks a call tonight, to get back on the same page again. Won’t be the same as a potluck, but I need it. I need to stay involved in these people’s lives.

The next morning, Leslie left early. I got up to say goodbye. She did a crazy run, and then hit the road for work. Then I was left to my own devices. I cruised the newspaper. I went on a run, did laundry, then rode my bike downtown.

At the library, I gave Chuck Mueller a call. I’ve known him, and his late wife Barbara, since I was a newborn. They babysat me when I was an infant. Chuck worked with my parents for years and years. And Barbara and I had an awesome connection. She was my second mom. Chuck works for the Department of Veterans Affairs, which was just blocks from the library. I went down and gave him a big hug.

After Chuck got done with work, we had Mexican food at Benny’s Cantina. Then we went to his house in Aurora, just east of Denver. “I live right on the edge of the plains.” It’s certainly given me a taste for what Kansas is going to be like.

That night, I made brownies. We’ve been working through them since. I’ve missed having an oven.

I’ve spent the last few days with Chuck. The day before yesterday, we drove into Denver together in the morning, and I rode my bike around the city. I went down Colefax avenue, had a stack of pancakes at Pete’s Kitchen, which reminded me of a ritzy Horseshoe Cafe. Then I hit the library, the train station and finally ended up at The Market, where the food is art. I’d been looking for the place all day, without knowing it. I sat down, had a mango smoothie and a bagel, and started plowing through Into the Wild.

When Chuck got off work, I piled my bike into his car and we went to the gym. I hadn’t had a complete workout in a while, and was happy to have access to weights. We spent a good fifteen minutes in the sauna afterward. I’d never done that after a hard workout. It does the trick. Sweat it out.

We had dinner at an Irish pub at the mall down the street from his house. More brownies were due afterward.

I’ve hung out at Chucks house yesterday and today, writing. It’s been wonderful. The words have been flowing like melted butter, and it’s great to get them down. We worked out again last night, and had pizza afterward.

Tonight, I’m swinging solo here at Chuck’s. He’s headed home for a high school reunion.

Tomorrow morning, I leave for Colorado Springs.

I’ve been in doubt about where to go next. Do I take a train to Chicago? Or Austin? Or continue the ride?

I’ve decided to finish the ride. But I think I’ll ride the train across Kansas, and see the great state in a day instead of a week. It’ll be more fun that way.

I love you all. You blow me away.

Should I pick up where I left off?

You may have wished me good luck and good weather after my last post, but something wanted me to stay in Jackson one more night. I walked out of the library, and as I was packing up I met a beautiful woman named Hanna Waldman. She just graduated with a degree in outdoor education. She also just finished taking a bunch of pubescent boys mountain biking in the hills around Jackson, and was coming to write her report at the library. She seemed to enjoy talking to me instead for a few minutes. We hit it off really well. I told her about my trip. She told me about her upcoming trip to Sweden, to visit family. I was wishing I had family in Sweden, or anywhere in Europe for that matter, just for the connections. What a great way to travel, knowing you have a warm home to land. All the more reason to make family with the people you meet, but I digress. I almost asked her to have lunch with me, but I was anxious to hit the road. The sky was getting dark with thunderheads, for the forth day in a row, and I wanted to make some miles.

I passed a sweet produce stand on the way, but refused the temptation. I made it about ten miles out of town when the lightening started. There is something incredible about riding a metal bike through a sagebrush plain during a thunderstorm. You’re the tallest thing around, and your riding on metal. I was told later that day, “If the bike starts vibrating, get off it!” At the time, I was ignorant. The sky was black. Then the rain. The rain came in thick sheets, and within moments I was hosed, again. I was grinning like a fool.

There is a town outside of Jackson called Moose. There is a post office, grocery store, and the $23 million Teton National Park Visitor Center. I pulled into the grocery store, sat down and waited for the rain to pause. I went inside and checked it out, and made friends with one of the deli guys. The name’s slipped out of my ear. He offered to give me a free sandwich, because his friend is currently doing a round-the-world bike tour and randomly collided with him in Jackson a few weeks earlier. I had couscous and a sandwich, and was full as a stuffed pig. Then I checked my backpack, and realized my wallet had wandered off.

I would say my reaction was disappointment at myself, or the supposed thief. I wasn’t too worried, it would just be a real hassle to get back on my feet. I called my dad. He mailed me some ID. I canceled my credit cards and started riding back to Jackson to wait for my mail. Something was just willing me to be in Jackson another night. Halfway there, I remembered that as I was writing my last blog post in the library, my backpack had fallen over, and the pocket where I’d kept my wallet had been opened. I called, and someone had turned it in! “Disaster” averted.

When I rolled into Jackson, my next concern was finding a place to camp for the night. The town is not exactly the most friendly to camping in town, because of the appearance of homelessness. Apparently, many billionaires live there. You read that right. Billionaires. So, homeless people, or travelers who appear homeless but have homes elsewhere, are not tolerated. I was playing with the idea of riding 5 miles outside of town just to pitch my tent. I had a great conversation with this guy outside the library who said I live more with my heart than my head. He pointed me toward Fitzgerald’s Bicycles.

There, I met the owner, Jannine, who offered me her lawn, but said it was twenty some miles up a pass, in the wrong direction. Then she introduced me to Shane, a guy in his fifties who’s been living on his bike for thirty years. He’s ridden 250,000 some miles, by his guesstimate. He divides his time between Wyoming, Mexico and California, and of course rides his bike between all three. He connected me with the Simpson House.

The Simpson House has been the ski bum house for thirty five years. Shane used to live there. Now he just tends the garden when he’s in town. It doesn’t look like typical, rich Jackson. It looks like a thousand rad people have lived there, loved living there, and played hard. It could use some TLC. It has gotten plenty of the LC part of the equation, and has some rough edges as a result. No one was home, so we rode to Sanchez’s to get food. On the way, we found another cyclist at the fire station. I thought this was funny, because when I was riding into town the day before, I had thought of going to the fire station to get a place to sleep. His name was Ben.

Yeah, the coincidences are loony.

We all went to Sanchez’s, and got to know each other over giant burritos filled with delicious deliciousness. I’d been craving spicy fresh veggies, and Sanchez’s delivered with a toot and a bang. Ben is riding to Idaho from South Dakota. Shane told us of riding in Nicaragua after the government declared martial law following a big earthquake, and how he had to skulk around the alleys because no one would let him inside. The idea of riding my bike through Central and South America was growing more tempting by the moment (Any takers?).

We rode back to the Simpson house, where we met a few of the residents. I ended up talking with this woman until 11 pm as she was preparing a birthday cake and dinner. We talked about skiing and boardng in Jackson. I found out we had a mutual friend in Maria DeBari. Apparently, she was her roommate a few years back. We talked about cycling. She told me I was lucky to be able to do what I was doing, to be free and on my own, with so few strings and so many chances to play, discover, and explore. It was a good reminder. I’m trying to remind myself just how lucky I am every day.

I crashed. And slept incredibly well.

In the morning, I was craving muffins. I went on a search of the city, but to no avail. I refused to pay three dollars for a scone at this fancy, busy as hell breakfast place, and had bagels instead. I went to the library, where I did some research into WWOOFing in France. Apparently, the French don’t like giving visas for temporary workers. It was bummer news, but we’ll see. I’ve got more research to do yet. It’d still be sweet to farm in France before the tour. Another option is farming in Morocco, before doing Peace Corps. Bryan Conrad, who’s been a best friend for a decade, is doing a semester in Morocco learning Arabic. Maybe I’ll go farm and we can travel a bit together? I hope I can set it up in time. If it’s gonna happen, plans will need to be made soon.

After the library, I got my mail, and got some groceries at Jackson Whole Grocer. The woman at the register, who’s name I also can’t recall, gave me a sandwich and salad at the deli, which was way beyond my price range. I picked up some groceries, as a way of saying thank you. She rang me up, and then told me she bought them for me. “You’re somebodies son. Pay it forward, when you can.”

I had no words. I gave her my thanks, and promised to pay it forward.

I rolled to Fitz’s to check it out, since I had only gotten a glance the night before. There, I met a guy named Andrew Marinelli. He finished a Peace Corps tour in Niger in 2008. He is riding across the country raising money for the UN World Food Program to fight hunger. Talking with him was mind boggling. He’s a big guy, with a bigger heart and the will power to do what must be done. I was ridiculously excited to start serving in Peace Corps before talking to him, and afterward I nearly blew a gasket I was so friggin’ thrilled. I want to go so bad.

I rode out of town a few minutes later. No thunderstorms, but it was late in the day. I made it to the base of Towgotee pass. I met another cyclist along the way, and we rode together for a ways. I was grateful for the company. I pulled into a Forest Service campground after dark, as lightning was hitting the summit of the pass, and bright construction lights illuminated the hillside a few miles away. The clanking and banging of trucks rumbled through the night. I slept like a rock.

In the morning, I connected with these four folks who’d all graduated from the University of Montana, and were studying pine beetles and rust rot in the area. They told me, “As your passing through, look for dry red pines. They’ve been hit with the beetles.”

When half the forest is red, it’s hard to ignore. Dead trees. I bet the woodpeckers are having an incredible summer. They probably will for a few years too, but then they’ll be hungry, when all the snags fall down. What will grow in their place?

I hit construction about nine miles from the summit, and met about twenty cyclists heading west. Heard of Bike and Build? They raise money for Habitat for Humanity, build houses, and ride across the country. Not a bad rap. And Giant donates a bicycle to each person who raises the 4 grand to join. It’s a sweet deal, plus you get tons of company on the way. I rode through the construction on a truck. The woman driving had a nasty cold, which I caught, fought, and overcame. After she dropped me off, I rode to the pass. There were three Bike & Build cyclists cheering me on at the top named Raj, Caroline and Lauren. They were impressed with my bike, and were blown away after trying to pick it up. Their bikes were light as feathers. “We’ll never complain again!” Damn right.

I rode down to the bottom of the pass pretty quick, and hit a nasty headwind with teeth like ice. It felt like I was going up another pass all the way to DuBois. As Gene Myers, my mentor and friend said of his tour, “You never get to the top of a headwind.” You do get to a stopping point. Mine was DuBois. It’s a hard town to find a place to snooze. I wandered a while, went to the KOA, got turned off by the $22 dollar per night price, went to the library, and then went to the Opportunity Shop, run by St. Thomas Episcopal Church. Lynn Cunningham, the Reverend, was a bit hesitant. She’d just had 32 Bike & Build cyclists the night before, and she was worried the Church was gaining a reputation as “the place to go.” She said, “I don’t have a problem with opening our doors, but I’m not sure how the rest of the parish feels. I need to check with them, so just please keep where your staying to yourself.”

This put me in a bind. I went back to the KOA to get a shower, and ended up talking with the woman who owns it, Deb, for a long time. She couldn’t understand why I was riding across the country on my own. She told me a few stories about getting screwed by cyclists camping for free on her property, or taking showers without paying. I showered. I paid. She asked where I was staying, and I told her I was headed out of town, but that I wanted to do laundry first. It was getting dark. “You better get going.”

It was a good conversation to have. As a cyclist, I get looks. Some are good, others aren’t. The ones that aren’t usually don’t lead to any talk. So, I never connect with people who think I’m an idiot for riding solo across the country. This time, I did. I realized that people have different ideas about what’s fun, and that’s fine. Some people like riding horses, others bikes. Some folks like sleeping in an RV, others in a tent. The prejudice that grows between different groups takes effort to overcome. The prejudice is total bull. I tried to emphasize that I love to ride. You connect with the land and the people because you have no choice. You’re in the weather. Your sleeping on the ground. You need people for conversation, local info, and occasionally for help. We went away smiling.

I had a wonderful pizza at Paya’deli Pizza that was covered in pig and cheese. Delicious. I felt a little bit ill later. Cheese and meat are not the best combo for my stomach. But oh well, the indulgence was worth it.

The next morning, I left for Lander, WY. I didn’t make it where I expected to. I pulled off at a rest stop about fifteen miles from Fort Washakie, where I met James Trosper, great grandson of Chief Washakie, and the head of the Chief Washakie Foundation. I also met his friend, Chuck Anderson. They were curious about my bike, and I was curious about them, the Shoshone, and the land. You know you’ve had a good conversation when 40 minutes passes like a few breaths. James said, “Call me when you get to town.”

On the way, the land changed to high plains. The transition zone was littered with awesome rock. I saw a dead rattle snake on the road. Then I saw a dead little bird. I broke down. I barely felt the weight of the little bird in the palm of my hand. I moved him off the pavement, into the shade of a bush. I drank a little water, and felt better.

Eight miles from town, my bottles ran dry. I stopped at a farm. Four dead, old trucks sat in tall grass. The gates were open. A sign warned: Beware of Dogs. I called out, and the dogs started barking. I crossed the cattle guard, needing water. The dogs were small, so I wasn’t too worried, but the thought of a rancher with a shotgun settled in the back of my head. I pushed the thought away, and rang the bell. A tattered American flag hung outside. No one answered. A TV was blasting inside. There was a spigot outside, so I filled it and drank. Even the water tasted dry.

When I made it to Fort Washakie, I called James and nonone answered. He’d said he was going up into the mountains to cut poles for their Sun Dance Lodge. So, I waited. I called my parents as the sun sank. I went to the gas station and asked about James, and boy behind the counter pointed to a man filling up his SUV. “That’s his brother. You should ask him.” James’ brother George gave me directions to his house, so I rode there and waited. When James arrived, he welcomed me. I pitched my tent, talked more with James and Chuck, met James’ beautiful family and slept around midnight.

The next morning, James and Chuck decided to go to Lander for lunch, and invited me along. So, I put my bike in their SUV. We had Chinese buffet, talked more about Chief Washakie and parted around noon. I learned that the National Outdoor Leadership School has their headquarters in Lander, so I went in to learn how to become an instructor. They have a mind blowing school. I could say so much more, about how their mission is growing student competency in the wild, or about how their core is leadership in all aspects of living. I felt at home. I was realizing how much playing I have to do, to get to the level of competency they demand of their instructors. I have a lot of mountains to climb. Oh damn! Poor me!

I had a burger and beer at the local hangout spot. The beer made me snoozy, so I rode to the town park, where it is not only legal, but welcome, to camp. For free. Sweet deal. I slept like a baby.

I woke, packed my stuff and hit the Wildflour Bakery, which is my perfect bakery. They make delectable treats for reasonable prices. I had a cinnamon role covered in a homemade blueberry syrup. I had some more food at Mr. D’s gorocery, then hit the Noble Hotel. The Noble is the NOLS boardinghouse for students and instructors, but they also have free wifi and info. They told me about Sinks Canyon State Park. The woman at the desk was named Dawn. After telling me about Sinks, she asked if I wanted to come over for dinner. How could I refuse? “Be back by 4 pm.”

I rode out to Sinks, which is about six miles from town. The land below the canyon is dry, lumpy plains. Then you hit the steep rock walls of the canyon. Douglas firs grow in droves on the south side of the canyon. The north side is rocky and covered in sagebrush. One branch of the Popo Agie (pronounced Po-Po-shja) River passes through the valley. At one point, it hits a limestone cavern and roars into the earth. The river descends underground, and takes two hours to travel a half mile. The limestone has worn away. No one knows just how deep the water goes, or it’s exact path. I sat at the Sink, the place where the water is swallowed by the earth, for an hour, listening to the water and trying to quiet my mind. I’ve never seen anything like it. I could say, “If you get a chance, go.” But that isn’t what I mean. Make a chance, and go. It’s worth it.

At the Rise, where the water comes back to the surface is a giant pool filled with trout that look as big as my arm. There is a fish food dispenser, and people feed the fish bread. A local told me the fish taste terrible, all mushy and flavorless. Ahh, the wonder of wonder bread! Can our food system get a round of applause?

When I came back to town, I rode out to Dawn’s home. There I met her husband Fred. They live at the funny farm. They have chickens, ducks, a donkey, a horse and a small heard of sheep. They have one of the few barns in Wyoming, and a garden that’ll make you drool. We had one of the best meals of the trip: grilled chicken, potatoes, carrots and brocolli. All the veggies were fresh. The chicken tasted amazing with a little BBQ sauce. I tried to do a little fishing, and only made a birds nest of the line. I did get to watch the sun sink into the horizon, so the mess was well worth it.

This morning, I had another one of the best meals of my trip: a ham and cheese omelette, with more spuds and toast. Fred is an awesome cook. He and I talked and talked about food, gardens, schools and Wyoming. I’m going to spend one more night with them, and roll out of town early in the morning for Jeffrey City, where I plan to spend the night with a potter who runs the Munkingbird Pottery Shop out of an old garage. He’s got quite a reputation, so I’m excited. The town has a reputation too, for being a bit rough at the edges. I’ll see what a boom-and-bust uranium mining town is like tomorrow.

I’ve slowed down my trip to Colorado, since my cousin Leslie will be out of town this next week, and I want to see her. I should be in Wyoming for the next three days, and then I’ll hit Colorado.

To all my friends in Colorado, I want to see you! So, give a shout!

If you made it this far, congrats! I love you.

I should start at the beginning though, at West Yellowstone.

I rode into the Park as the sun was setting behind me, and a swarm of cars were leaving the park. There was only a trickle of traffic coming in. The colors were beyond description. The air, though, the air I can describe. It was cool, and it had a hint of pine. As the night grew, the air got cold. I felt inspired. I started singing to the cars, and smiling and laughing. Here I am, riding into Yellowstone as all the daytrippers are heading to their hotels. 14 miles in, I found the first campsite, at Madison. The sign said “Full”. I rode up to the window, asked if they could carve a spot for me, and said, “We always make room for cyclists. It’s park policy.” I got set up, read some of my book, The River Why, and crashed.

In the morning, I had some grub and went on my way. Instead of heading down to Old Faithful, I went up to Norris. I hit traffic and road construction along the way, but didn’t have to wait a second. I got up the hill to Norris, parked my bike and went for a stroll. When I came back, another cyclist had parked their Surly next to mine. I was curious. Who is this person? So I left a note, and went on another walk to see if I could spot them. Cyclists stand out a bit, but I had no luck. When I came back, the Surly was gone, but a note from a woman named Julie was in it’s place. She was camping at Canyon that night. So, I left for Canyon.

I took an alternate route along the way called the Virginia Cascades. The sign at the entrance said, “No RV’s, Trailers or Semis.” Perfect. I found the perfect spot next to the road to dip my toes in the water, and then got tempted by the river’s sandy bottom and walked in. It was the best head dunk of my life.

When I got to Canyon, I got a camping spot and then hit the Cafeteria. There I found Julie. She used to work at Boeing, before she quit to do a tour to Montreal.

The next morning, I rode to the top of Dunraven pass, and then hiked to the summit of Mt. Washburn, one of the tallest peaks in the park. Along the way, I met a heard of bighorn sheep hanging out in the road. That morning, the wind had teeth. Two sheep, a mom and a dad, were cuddling on the ground with two kids just keeping warm.

I spent the rest of the day finishing The River Why, which may now be in my top five best books. After I finished, I went for a short run in a thunderstorm and got hosed to the bone. Way better than a shower.

The next day, I rode down to Grant Village. Along the way, I stopped to check out a heard of Buffalo. I read them Mary Oliver’s Poem, Ghosts. I felt better.

When I reached the Buffalo heard, another thunderstorm was brewing. I was hoping to make it out of Yellowstone, so I booked it down to Grant Village. The ride was sunny and gorgeous, but after I finished cooking dinner at Grant, the thick clouds had consumed the sky. I got a campsite with these two guys cycling from Portland to Colorado Springs — I feel terrible but I can’t remember your names! I pitched my tent right as the rain started pouring.

The next morning was gorgeous. One of the guys started playing his mandolin. A song got stuck in my head, so I just had to sing. I got moving and made it down through the Tetons. Those mountains are just awesome. I was aching to climb them.

I stopped at a convenience store to get a refill on water and met Allen Sneidmiller, an American who served in the airforce during Vietnam cleaning soldier’s teeth, fought forest fires for eight years, and, at the age of sixty, has ridden 11,000 miles from Southern California, to Florida, to Walden Pond in Maine, and is now headed to Bellingham. When he hits Bellingham, he’ll ride down the coast back to California, where he’ll hop a boat to head home to Malaysia. He’s in awesome shape, has a great smile, and is wonderful to talk to. He consider’s himself one of the last Thoreauians: he lives as simply as possible. He has next to no money, but has traveled the world and lived deep. He plans to walk from Southeast Asia to Europe and wants to finish his days on a small sailboat in Baja California. He’s lived. This whole trip, people have been telling me, “Do it while your young.” After talking with Allen, I’ve come to realize this is total bull. Do it while your living. At the convenience store, the clerk came out to chat with Allen and I. He told us about two brothers, an 85 and an 86 year old who had stopped a few years back. They were riding their bikes around the world, going at a snails pace and having a blast. Why not live while you can?

On my ride into Jackson, I thought of the titles of two books I’d like to write:

Men: Our Chains, Our Freedom
Jesus Rides a Bike in Our Sugar High Society

I can’t tell you just what their about yet, but I’ve got a start!

As I was rolling into Jackson, another storm grew out of nothing. The sky turned black. The sky rumbled with thunder. And the sun pierced the clouds in front of me, turning the sagebrush a vivid yellow. The Teton’s where shrouded in black clouds, and every few moments a strand of lightning would pierce the darkness, turning the rocks white. The storm chased me into town. For the third day in a row, I got hosed. Knock on wood for good weather today.

I met a guy at a backcountry store in downtown named John. We had chips, salsa and enchiladas at this mexican restaurant and he bought me a delicious Negra Modelo. He invited me to sleep on his roommates futon, which I accepted. After one of the best showers of my life, some Ben & Jerry’s Stephen Colbert’s Americone Dream, we both crashed.

This morning I woke up, snagged some bagels, some groceries and hit the library. Today, I hit the big pass. Wish me luck and good weather.

The pictures below are of the Tetons and the bighorn sheep on Mt Washburn. I’ve got some picturess of the storm in Jackson that I’ll add a little later.