The Road Beneath Us

And yet, and yet . . . two months later

2010-12-03T14:07:00.000-08:00

The nights that followed the decision to quit the bike tour left me in a state of raw panic. Lying awake in bed, stating at the dark ceiling, I felt the same anxiety I felt when making the decision to quit my job and undertake this adventure in the first place. It had been my entire life since June, and I was afraid whatever may lie ahead. We had already mailed our tent and panniers back to Columbus, but I know that if we hadn’t, we would have jumped back on our bikes and continued on.

We spent four days in San Francisco with Eric, a long-ago-lost college friend of mine. We hit every tourist destination possible – the Golden Gate Bridge, Yosemite, Muir Woods and Golden Gate Park to name a few. From San Fran, we shipped our bikes back to Columbus and we hopped a plane to St. Louis. We spent four days with my parents in Illinois and four days with Melissa’s mom in northeast Ohio.

The whole time, I was itching to be back in Columbus. During the final days of the bike tour, I had romanticized Columbus. I missed my old routine and job, the quite country roads surrounding Alum Creek that were perfect for bike rides, the solitude of a long swim at Ohio State, the comfort of our old apartment.

It was twilight as we approached Columbus, the downtown buildings rising out of the pinkish purple sky in front of us. For reasons unknown, my heart beat a little faster and I found it a little hard to swallow. I felt indifferent for the city that I was so yearning to get back to. Suddenly the bike tour felt like a distant memory, something I had done in my childhood – memories muffled and fuzzy in my head. I felt like I was suddenly being snapped out of a marvelous and breathtaking dream.

“It’s back to the real world,” I muttered.

Everything in Columbus is the same as we had left it, except for a bike lane that has been added to High Street. Temporarily, we are staying with Melissa’s sister and her boyfriend, in a two-bedroom apartment, two blocks down the road from our old apartment on Hamlet Street. Oddly, there is a vacancy in that building, as if it was awaiting our return.

We’ve been filling our days by searching for jobs, which is both intimidating and exhilarating. The whole country is wide open to us. We’re applying for jobs in Columbus. And we are applying for jobs in other states, time zones away. A major intention of ours had been to leave Columbus for good, and move to a city surrounded by mountains, close to the ocean, were bike commuting is the norm and people share our values in life. But we need a home base, and for right now, Columbus will do. If we end up staying here in the long run, I’m okay with it. And if we move to Portland or San Diego or Denver or some place completely new, I’m okay with that too.

It’s cold here, winter weather threatening, just around the corner-- a pretense of what’s to come. Our first days in Kentucky, baking in the harsh and unforgiving summer sun, seem too distant a memory to even think about. Our friend Aidan, who we met on the bike tour, who has been on his bike for over two years, is only days away from Mexico. I look at his photos on facebook longingly. I hate the old adage, The grass is always greener . . . but it seems to always hold true.

Brooke

* * *

Final images from our bike tour:

Boxing the bikes up for our 15 hour Amtrak ride to San Francisco.

The Golden Gate Bridge

Napa Valley

Yosemite

The end (and to be continued)

2010-10-10T22:57:00.000-07:00

The TransAmerican bicycle route ends on the west coast in Florence, Oregon. It only seems fitting that our bicycle tour ends here, too.

Standing in the cramped laundry room of a seedy RV “resort”, trying to absorb just a smidgen of heat off the nearby running dryer, we hurriedly stripped out of our soaked clothes. Shivering, and performing a balancing act aimed at avoiding contact with the filthy floor and walls, we both looked at each other and said, “I want to go home.”

We were on our way to San Francisco. We were 12 miles south of Florence. The wind was still, we were happy, we were making good time. And then my bike broke. It just broke. In exactly the same way Melissa’s bike broke in Yellowstone, sending my chain into its hardest back gear.

“I’m stopping!” I yelled as we flew down a hill.

And so we stopped at the bottom of a hill and just stood there, straddling our bikes, not knowing what to do or say. The nearest bike shops were in Florence, 12 miles back, and 40 miles down the road, in North Bend. Where we were, we didn’t have cell phone service, so our only option was to ride back to a small town that we had passed five miles ago, so that we could call the bike shops.

And that’s what brought us to Dune City, Oregon, and this depressing resort. None of the bike shops were open, but we were able to talk to the owner of one of them, the one that would be open tomorrow, on Columbus Day, and he sounded none too happy to try to fix the break. It looked like our only option was to stay in Florence one more night and pray that the bike could be fixed. And if it couldn’t, well . . . we didn’t know what we would do.

There was one couple at the resort that had a truck, and they offered to drive us back to Florence. The owner of the truck said he sees people like us all the time, and that we all have death wishes. He went on to say that the roads are too narrow and if there is a possibility of a head-on collision or hitting a biker, it’s “bye-bye biker”. We passed on accepting a ride from them.

I had to use the bathroom. Of course, there was no bathroom. So for the 1 billionth time on the bike tour, I had to sneak behind a building. I’m tired of it. I want indoor plumbing to be the norm. I want a normal life. I want a bed. I want to not live out of a bag. I want to stay in one place for longer than one night.

So we called Jill and Ryan, our friends in Eugene. And Ryan came and got us. And we’re not going back.

It’s rained for days. The fog ruins every single view of the beach. All we do is stare down over our front tires at the wet road, hoping to eventually get out of the wind and rain. So, we talked about it, we weighed our reasons for continuing on and found them to be less than convincing. It’s become clear that we’ve hit a wall with touring. We did this tour because we wanted to have fun, we wanted to do something unconventional while we had the chance. We wanted to take a time out and experience the freedom that comes with having nothing -- no routine, no responsibilities, nowhere to be. But, more and more, we realize we can’t wait to get back to a routine. We miss our friends, we miss racing, and want to be surrounded by familiar faces. We are both eager to get back to work. But it’s funny, not 20 minutes after deciding that we were done touring, the sun came out, the sky was blue, and of course, it made us second guess our decision to quit.

I can barely type these words without tears in my eyes . . . Our bike tour is over. We’ve come to a stopping point. We accomplished our goal of riding across the county. We even made it to Canada. And while we wanted to go down the coast, we’re not going to do it this time.

We’ve been homesick for quite a while now. And during the past couple of weeks the riding has been monotonous. Neither one of us has looked forward to riding our bikes each day. We both went on this bike tour because we love riding bikes, and right now we don’t.

I’ve gained more from this bike tour than I ever thought imaginable. I know now what I am capable of doing. And I’ve learned that people are good. I’ve been to places that I will sadly never visit again; and I’ve been to places that I never want to go back to again.

I’ve seen roadkill happen
I met my nephew
I’ve cried
I’ve sobbed
I’ve feared for my life
I’ve seen the most amazing sunsets and the most beautiful sunrises
I’ve washed my hair in a public sink
I’ve gone without showering for days
I’ve laughed so hard my whole body hurt
I’ve slept at the base of the Tetons
I’ve been surrounded by hundreds of butterflies
I’ve slept on an alter
I’ve out run a dog
I’ve lied about who I am
I’ve found comfort in a church
I’ve ridden over mountain passes
I’ve ridden through triple digit heat
I’ve milked a goat
I’ve dodged willy-worms crossing the road
I’ve been mistaken for a boy
I’ve made some amazing friends
I’ve slept on a complete stranger’s floor
I’ve drank a beer with a stranger in a garage while watching old Elvis movies
I’ve pushed my bike up hills
I’ve regretted the bike tour
I’ve sat in a city park, with six other bike tourist and have never been happier
I’ve attended Vacation Bible School
I’ve been homesick
I’ve raced two guys to the next town (and won)
I’ve been flipped off
I’ve been cheered on
I survived Jeffery City, Wyoming
I’ve crossed the 45th parallel, twice
I’ve consumed an estimated 100 jars of peanut butter
I’ve slept in a cabin built in 1880
I’ve bathed in hot springs
I’ve eaten way too much ice cream
I’ve watched orca whales dance
I’ve ridden through pitch black darkness
I’ve been robbed by a raccoon
I’ve slept in a dentist office
I’ve slept on the beach
I’ve had the time of my life

We’re going home.

Brooke

Prevailing winds

2010-10-09T17:32:00.000-07:00

Within the first few pages of Bicycling the Pacific Coast, the authors explain why the Pacific Coast route is done from north to south. The reason is the wind. Specifically, the prevailing wind, which blows north to south. AND if you pick up the Oregon Coast Bike Route Map, produced by the Oregon Department of Transportation, you will read this:

It is highly recommended that you cycle in a north to south direction, if your trip is planned between May and October, as the prevailing winds blow from the northwest.

BUT, if you read a little bit more on the subject (in the same map), you’ll come up with this (and I’ll paraphrase here):

October through December, the wind on the west coast blows NORTHwest/SOUTHwest.

Come again? So which is it? The eight mile per hour reading on my bike computer tells me it’s southwest. The plastic bags that are tied to my feet, loudly trailing behind me, also tells me it's southwest.

Over the past couple of days, we have been fighting 10-20 mph headwinds, with occasional gusts of 40 miles per hour. Forty.Miles.Per.Hour. One gust literally almost blew me off a cliff. Rounding some corners, we have to get off our bikes and push them through the wind. Oregon -- so far, (not) so good.

Brooke

The newest trend in bike fashion.

Rain, rain (and wind) go away

2010-10-08T11:17:00.000-07:00

I’m not going to lie, biking has been a bit rough over the last few days. We gladly left Cape LookOUT behind us, ditto the family of raccoons who terrorized us all night, and headed off towards Pacific City. We were trying to find the humor in it, but it wasn’t easy as it was rainy, cold, and windy. It is so true how much the weather effects your mood and outlook. On top of it, I was drained after sitting up all night in the tent in what felt like a Blair Witch Project reenactment and I could not wait to sit down inside away from the wind, have a cup of coffee, and relish in a moment of non-camping normalcy.

We turned out of the the park, and right into a huge hill. No big deal, we plowed up it, and right into a stiff headwind. The sky was depressing grey, it was threatening to rain, and the wind was ripping from the south slowing us down. Basically, it was the kind of day that makes you want to crawl right back into bed. (Actually, bed would have been handy last night -- a bed nestled in between four walls with comfy blankets and no wild animals clawing their way into our space would have been just perfect.)

Our first stop was Pacific City. From the inside of a coffee shop, looking out the window at the never-ending gray, watching the wind tear through the town, we had the type of loaded silence where it was painfully obvious what we were both thinking -- we didn’t want to go back out. We were exhausted and the raccoon incident hadn’t faded far enough into the past for it to be at all remotely funny. Our silence was broken by a friendly, smiling guy who asked us about our trip. He asked us where we were headed that day, Brooke told him, and he quickly replied, “No way! You won’t make that today in this wind!” and in an instant, he was loading our bikes into his truck. He drove us through the stiff wind and threatening sky, right to the front steps of a cheap hotel.

The next morning, we were up and on the road early. Things were going fine, until we stopped on the side of the road to eat a banana. During the two minutes of banana scarfing, my knee somehow locked up, refused to bend and simultaneously sent shooting pains down the side of my shin. The knee has been giving me trouble the past few weeks, but nothing like this. I tried a few times to hop on my bike and ride away, but this approach didn’t work. I couldn’t even bend my knee enough to even get clipped into my pedal. Standing there, in the gray depressing cold outdoors surrounded by cheesy seaside shops that were now closed for the season, I thought, there’s no scenario in which this doesn’t end badly.

With all the nearby hotels being either too pricey or closed for the season, our only option was to push our bikes three miles down Highway 101 to the local bike shop, where we could re-evaluate our options. Enter Bike Newport -- a bike shop that caters to bicycle tourists, with it’s biker’s lounge, showers and laundry. And as soon as we were in the door, the owner offered to refit me on my bike to try to alleviate some of the pain in my knee. He made some minor adjustments on my bike, and prescribed a rest day. So, here I sit in the biker’s lounge, catching up on the blog, excitedly wooing customers with bike touring stories . . . and feeling pretty defeated all at the same time.

Melissa

Cape LookOUT!

2010-10-06T20:31:00.000-07:00

While riding in the middle of the country, during some of our hardest days, what kept us going was the thought of riding down the Pacific coast. In our minds, riding down Washington, Oregon and California, with the Pacific Ocean on our right, we would be in heaven. And it is beautiful. Our first evening on the Oregon coast left us in awe.

We took a bus from Portland to the coast, made a quick stop at the Tillamook Cheese Factory (yum!) and headed for Cape Lookout State Park. We got to the park early and took our time picking out the most perfect hiker/biker site -- secluded, close to the ocean and far away from the regular camp sites. We spent the evening taking pictures and playing on the beach. It was perfect.

It was after we went to bed when it started. First was the wind. I’m not talking about a breeze; I’m talking about a fear-for-your-life-loud-as-all-get-out-gale-force-wind wind. We would hear the waves crash in a deafening roar, and then, just like counting seconds between thunder and lighting, an explosion of wind would hit our tent. Each time, our tent would cave in on us. I thought for sure our tent poles were going to snap. I didn’t even want to look in the direction the wind was coming for fear that a piece of straw would come flying through the air and embed itself in my forehead.

We both barely sleep though out the night while the tent levitated and danced in the wind, and at 4:30 a.m. I heard Melissa scream, “Someone just stole one of our bags!” While in and out of sleep, she watched as one of her heavy back panniers was drug out from under our vestibule.

Barely awake, I grabbed my glasses and headlamp, unzipped the tent and ran out into the darkness yelling back, “Stay here!”

Once outside the tent, I couldn’t see a thing. It was pitch black. I thought I could somehow chase down the person who had stolen our bag. I ran barefoot, blindly through the darkness, at nothing in particular and almost tripped over the bag. It had been dropped 10 to 15 feet from our tent. “I need your light!” I shouted at Melissa, as mine was not giving off enough and I wanted to investigate -- somehow, being half asleep, I had forgotten to be scared.

After I “searched” the area I got back in the tent where Melissa was inside, clutching pepper spray in one hand and our leatherman knife in the other. We sat still for a while, not knowing what to do, wildly waving our headlamps in the direction of any sound we heard. Occasionally I would mumble, while squinting my eyes, “I can’t see a thing.” After about five minutes of silence, Melissa asks, “Why do you have your sunglasses on?”

I reached up to my face and sure enough, I did in fact have on my sunglasses. No, they are not prescription. And yes, I am almost legally blind without my glasses or contacts. For a second we were able to forget about being scared to death. (“I must have look like a damn superhero out there!”)

We called 911. The dispatcher said she would pass on our information to an officer. After that, we somehow fell back to sleep. And then, again, I was woken up by Melissa yelling, “Oh my God!”

It was a raccoon. A damn raccoon. A raccoon who was strong enough to steal one of our bags out from under our tent. Melissa saw its beady little eyes peaking in, looking for more to steal. At least, that’s the story we are going with. Because it makes it hell of a lot less scary.

Brooke

Back to Portland

2010-10-05T21:09:00.000-07:00

The TransAm is a popular bicycle route across the country. Most days, we met a handful of other cyclists. Within the first few minutes, we would know if we wanted to ride with these people the next day or if we would have to take an extra rest day or hustle ahead to get off the same schedule as them. Most other cyclists were great, but there were those who were very competitive about weight of gear or how many miles we were making a day. Those conversations quickly become exhausting. So, it was best for us to ride with others who didn’t take touring too seriously.

We met John, wearing his Cookie Monster bike jersey (a homage to the fact that he loves sweets) outside of Rough River Falls, Kentucky. We rode like hell that day to keep up with him, because he is competitive, but in a funny and self-deprecating way. Of course, he was faster and sped in front of us, but after we had taken a few rest days and John, a few days off for a meeting, we met back up with him in Eminence, Missouri. Those where the only two days we rode with him, but we texted with him for the remainder of our trip and continuously asked those who were headed east if they had met him. John would send us random informative texts about where to get the best ice cream or lunch in the towns ahead, and who or what to avoid. It was awesome to have his encouraging texts coming in almost daily, giving us something to look forward to in the towns ahead.

We were more than ecstatic when John and his wife, Mo, wanted to meet us on the Oregon coast. We peddled like hell out of Astoria, riding to meet John and Mo in Seaside. And when we saw them standing outside their baby blue Volkswagen bus, we couldn’t stop smiling. They took us for an amazing breakfast in Cannon Beach where we shared our stories about our tours. It turns out John rode a couple of 140 mile days!

Spur of the moment we decided to go back to Portland with them. We spent most of our time divided between exploring Portland and eating pie.

Melissa and Brooke

Entering Oregon . . . again

2010-10-02T18:06:00.000-07:00

Um, I’m embarrassed to say it -- we went off route again . . . but we had to! Had. To. I promise. See, we were supposed to cross over into Oregon on a ferry, but the ferry we needed doesn’t run after Labor Day, so we had to improvise.

The improvisation included crossing the Washington/Oregon border right smack dab in the middle of a very long, very busy bridge. It also included a couple of hellacious climbs and rough roads. But we did it! And the success of the ride made me feel like a map genius -- as in, I’ll probably (err, definitely) make Melissa go off route again.

Brooke

The quickest way to Castle Rock

2010-10-01T09:05:00.000-07:00

The Adventure Cycling maps tend to follow unnamed back country roads. The idea is that the roads are less traveled and, therefore, safer. While most of the time the roads are beautiful and seemingly untouched, they also add extra miles between point A and point B.

Last night we skirted around Elma, going up and down hills and coming into town on a road that I’m sure most locals are not even aware exists. Today, I thought, I’ll outsmart the map and create my own route -- a straight line between A and B.

So I bought a very detailed street map of the area. I set it out on a street corner and traced a route from Elma to Castle Rock, knocking 20 miles off the days milage. Proudly, I thought, today is going to be a good day . . . until a passerbyer randomly informed me of a road closure on my new route. Not a big deal -- we’ll go around it on this road, turn on that road, meet up with the planed route here.

Do I even need to say it? My route was a nightmare. The whole plan was diabolical from the beginning. I took Melissa on the main road in a fairly large town and found that bikes were not allowed to go over certain bridges. We’d go around the bridge and find that the town was not built on the grid system and get turned around and lost. We’d go through another town and find only one-way streets and get lost. At one point I asked a man on a bike (who looked like a biker) for directions and he yelled out street names and pointed in various directions and then went on to tell me about how President Grant, before he was president, was a surveyor and worked on the very road we were standing on. (He started off this unsolicited history lesson by saying, “You’re not going to believe this but . . .” And I wanted to yell, “you’re right -- I cannot believe you are telling me this crap!” Instead I yelled, “Cool!” He also pointed to himself every time he said Grants’ name, as if he himself was President Grant. It was all very odd.) But the kicker was the van that turned directly in front of Melissa, missing her front wheel by millimeters. (Melissa chased the guy down to “educate” him of his error. He of course yelled out something like, “What? You can’t read road signals? I had my blinker on!”)

In the end, my route only cut off five miles, but probably (err, definitely) added hours of stressful stopping. We reached our Warm Showers destination just as it turned dark -- we had been en route for nine hours. As we slumped down in our bed for the night, I made Melissa a promise that that was the last time I ever buy a map and attempt to redo a route that has been correct for over 30 years.

Brooke

Four flats and a scam artist

2010-09-30T09:03:00.000-07:00

Ben raced us to the ferry in the morning, and we barely made it on. But, we made it! And forty minutes later, we pedaled off the ferry into Bremerton, Washington feeling simultaneously excited to be riding again, but a little nervous at the thought of heading down the coast. I think it’s normal to feel a little jittery after having consecutive rest days on this tour. Even though it was just a few days off, we always feel a little rusty and unsettled getting back on the bikes. But, it was a beautiful day, sunny and warm, and we were ready to get our day started.

Not five minutes off the ferry, we took a turn and were faced with a hill so steep it would have qualified as a vertical black diamond on a ski slope. We laughed and began our climb up the hill. Things were going great, until I got a flat. Brooke and I were like a pit crew at a NASCAR race working together to change the flat and before we knew it we were back in action. Until, the next flat. Same tire. Huh. Again, we didn’t get upset, I didn’t even feel the urge to kick my tire across the road. We changed it and again, I pumped and pumped furiously with the mini hand pump to get up to 90 PSI. Until, mid pump Brooke exclaims, “Oh no!” and covered her ears and took a staggering step backwards.

When the tube exploded it made a sound no less severe and jarring than a gun shot. This particular tube had given us trouble with bulging, and this time, it definitely was bulging and Brooke caught it just before it exploded, sending me flailing backward into my bike knocking it and all my gear to the ground. Yeah, now I admit reaching a point of raw anger and kicking something was tempting and seemed as valuable option as any. I refrained from kicking something, but that was our last tube, and it was not patchable at this point. So, after I stopped shaking, and began to find some shred of humor in this stupid situation, we grabbed the tube from the first flat, sat down and began searching for the hole. We got it patched and we headed down the road.

We made it about 10 miles until my third flat. Same tire. I know this sounds ridiculous, and I know you are thinking “why didn’t you check the tire for glass or thorns or any other obvious sharp object?” The thing is, I did. I thought I did a pretty thorough job of it, but obviously I was missing something. There was glass in the tire, which was buried in the rubber in such a sly, barely visible way that Brooke had to fish it out with tweezers. UGH. Anyhow, we moved on flat tire free for the rest of the day.

Astonishingly, we were still feeling happy to be riding. We planned to stay at a biker’s hostel that night, and we were looking forward to having a bed and a roof over our heads for our first night back in the saddle. We arrived at the biker’s hostel, and we met our host for the night. Right off the bat, he told us a strange story about his Scott carbon fiber road bike, and the story took a bizarre twist when he divulged that it was purchased with money a friend left him after the friend committed suicide. Huh. Then he trailed off with a regretful mutter that he should have done it differently and bought another brand of bicycle with the money. When it comes to knowing how to react to a story such this, Brooke is clueless. In this case, she relied on the enthusiastic smile and nod method as if she were agreeing. I however, thought the guy was a wacko and stared at him with furrowed eyebrows and left it at that. We moved on. As we were heading into the house, he took one look at our bikes and announced that we were carrying way too much. Again, Brooke politely smiled and nodded. Again, I looked at him with the same furrowed eyebrows that said, “nobody asked you”.

We moved on into the house where he began telling us how he makes very little money running this hostel, and how he was giving us a real deal. It seemed like a total hassle to move on down the road, so we took a room and paid way too much. When we were bringing in our gear, he told us to be quite because his wife was sleeping. Turns out, she was sicker than a dog, and Brooke and I had the pleasure of falling asleep to the hacking and coughing of his wife in the next room. Right before bed, our hostel host made the announcement that he was sleeping outside in the RV because his wife was too sick to be in the same room with. ICK.

The next morning he tried to give us directions to a place where we had no intention of going. Brooke’s attempts at explaining this to the guy were cut off in mid sentence, while he blathered on about a road we would never ride. Finally, we were out the door and on our way. Good riddance scam artist!

Melissa

Seattle

2010-09-29T20:04:00.000-07:00

We took off for Seattle where we stayed with my friend Ben, his girlfriend Megan and their dog Wendy for four nights. While there, I wrote a lot, immersed myself in an intense and focused job search, and came up with a few strong and well defined cover letters to compliment my new and improved, slightly tweaked resume.

Kind of.

In reality, our stay looked more like this: we rode our bikes unloaded around Seattle and through an industrial park that had multiple trains clanking around on several sets of railroad tracks; we ate at the amazing Thai restaurant that I have been raving about since my first visit to Seattle a couple of years ago; we went on a 10 mile hike where we spotted many different types of crazy looking mushrooms; and we drank some pretty fantastic pumpkin ales which reminded us all too clearly that fall is upon us.

Melissa

Port Townsend

2010-09-24T20:02:00.000-07:00

Out of the corner of my eye I could make out three, maybe four photographers snapping away. I think, although I did not look, if I would have looked up, I would have seen a boom mike.

“Did you come to Port Townsend just for this?” an excited voice asked. How could I break the news that we did even know what festival we were currently at.

So I replied, “Yes! We did!” with a huge smile and nod.

Just twenty minutes earlier Melissa and I had gotten off the Port Townsend ferry and entered the town with one purpose: to stock up on food before pitching our tent at the state park a few miles down the road. We rode down the town’s Norman Rockwell-ish main street while people (and I can’t say for certain if I imagined this or not) waved and smiled at us. The air of the town felt different. It felt . . . festive.

I had been concerned with looking to my right while riding through town, where we could see the cold gray water that we had just crossed. But in a quick glance down a side street to my left, I saw a flurry of action. There were twenty people in official looking matching t-shirts setting up rows of hay bales, which were being set to face an official looking stage. Others, to the back of the street, were setting up a massive buffet line under a grand white tent.

“Did you see that?! A festival!” I barely managed to shout as I whipped a u-turn (of course, in true Melissa fashion, she was oblivious to all of it.) I’ve been begging for a town festival as of late, so I was thrilled.

We walked our bikes through the buzz of activity and stopped at the back street corner, trying to figure out what was going on.

“Are you ladies here for the film festival?” a small, impeccably dressed older woman sporting a ‘Women for Obama’ button asked. Her question was followed by another person’s question (“Where are you two coming from?”), who was followed by another (“Bike tour, eh?”), who was followed by another (“All this way for the festival?”) until Melissa and I were surrounded by what seemed like 50 questioning townspeople and accompanying photographers and videographers.

For a minute, we were the main event at this festival. Questions were being asked rapid fire and we could barely answer them all, both of us holding four different conversations at once.

“Where are you staying?” no one in particular asked.

“Well you could probably stay at my dental office,” said another voice.

“Really?” I asked, racking my brain for what this man might have just said. . . . stay at my garage . . . ? extra office . . . ? guest room? I thought what he had just said started with a “D” and sounded like “dental”, but that couldn’t possibly be it. We’d never been offered a business to sleep in . . . let alone a dentist’s office. Or any place with needles and drills (or any other place the Melissa fears and avoids -- he might as well have said, “Here! Sleep in my airplane! While I fly through turbulence! And oh! My dentist is on board! Can he clean your teeth for you?!). Wait-- did he just offer us a place to stay at his dental office?!

He did! He totally did. He gave us a key and directions and sent us off. We dropped off our bikes (at the dentist’s office!) and attended the outside viewing of American Graffiti at the11th annual Port Townsend Film Festival.

Brooke

Anacortes

2010-09-23T19:24:00.000-07:00

Months before we left for the trip, I was scouring Columbus for other people who had completed bicycle tours of their own. To put it mildly, over the rather depressing Ohio winter, deep in the planning phase of this trip, I had a few anguished moments which left me feeling like my plan was stupid, unrealistic and half baked. I was worried that I was just running from some as yet unidentified problem, or taking the easy way out. I was desperate to find someone who had done some touring of their own, so they could reassure me, so they could tell me it would be worth it. Realistically, I knew that was a tall order. Ultimately, I am the only one capable of deciding what risks are worth taking in my life. But still, I needed to hear the plus side of someone else’s pivotal decision to take off on a bike across the country.

That person was Todd Shaw. I was in court wrapping up some cases from the morning docket, when the judge who was hearing my cases for the day suggested I go talk to Magistrate Shaw about my plans to embark on the bike trip. I was sheepish, and totally overanalyzed the entire thing. I didn’t want to bother the guy, and I felt insecure about just popping down to his office to pick his brain about bike tours. And, I especially didn’t want to come off like I needed I pep talk, I wanted to seem self assured. Determined. So I put it off for a few days. But, finally I decided to go introduce myself and ask him to share some of his bicycle touring stories.

Man, his face immediately lit up while he riffled through his desk to pull out pictures from the trip he and his wife took across the country on a tandem. He traced for me on a map the route they took, and it was evident that he cherished the memories. He said it was the best time of their lives. He told me just what I wanted to hear. He told me with certainty that I’d never regret going on the tour. I left his office about an hour later with my enthusiasm and confidence was restored. As I was walking out the door, he said, “if you go through Anacortes let me know and I’ll arrange for you to stay at my home there.” At the time, I didn’t think I’d ever take him up on that offer. I thought it was probably just a polite gesture. But, now that I’m in bike touring mentality where I make it a rule to accept the kindness coming my way, I called him up and asked him if the offer to stay in Anacortes was still open. It was. It turns out that his wife Kathleen was just getting back in to town and was happy to accommodate us for the night.

When we got off the ferry in Anacortes, Kathleen was there with her bike ready to lead us to her house. We followed her to her place, and not five minutes in the door we were swapping bike tour stories. It was awesome to hear the enthusiasm in her voice about her and her husband’s bike trip, which was about ten years ago. The experience is still with her in such an apparent way, so again, talking with her I was reassured that these memories will be with me forever. This trip will shape who I am, in so many positive ways and I’m really looking forward to the day when I can give back the kindness that has been tossed my way.

Kathleen cooked us a delicious vegetarian meal and had chocolate bars and cookies for us. We did laundry, got a good night’s sleep and took off for Port Townsend the next morning.

If this bike trip has taught me anything, it is this: be willing to accept the kindness of strangers and be kind back. Take the extra step to be nice. Offer to help people when you think they need it. It is enriching for everyone involved. I know this sounds unsophisticated and obvious, but to really put it in practice is a tremendous thing. So, thanks Todd and Kathleen for the amazing night of rest in your home. We will pass the big-heartedness and generosity forward!

Melissa

Bridge coming out of Anacortes.

Orcas Island

2010-09-22T16:30:00.000-07:00

We went to Orcas Island ready to climb Mt. Constitution. The view from Mt. Constitution, we had been told, is the eighth wonder of the world. The climb is “epic” and “brutal”, with 80 hairpin switchbacks and steep inclines. One three mile section has an average grade of 10%.

I wish that I could tell you about that climb. I wish I could tell you how we soldiered up that mountain and took in the 360 degree views of Vancouver, the Cascade Range, the rest of the San Juan Islands and the Olympic Range. But . . . we didn’t see much beyond the fog and rain from inside our tent at the base of the climb.

On a clear day, you can climb up Mt. Constitution and see forever. On a foggy, rainy, windy day, you can barely see one foot in front of your face. We went to the island with the main purpose of getting to the top, but left the island without even attempting to make the trek.

Brooke

San Juan Island

2010-09-21T13:08:00.000-07:00

By the time we got off the ferry and through U.S. customs on San Juan Island, it was 7:40 p.m. and getting dark fast. Looking lost, as we so often do when staring at the map, a man, speech slurred and stance slightly wavering in the breeze, offered to help us find a campground. Melissa and I weren’t, but probably should have been, taking into account that we were standing outside a bar.

“Go this way,” the man said, pointing at an island on the map that was not the one we were currently standing on.

“Here,” he said firmly, then pointed in a huge gesture down the road. “Just follow this road, towards that big cloud.”

And the crazy part is, we did. We followed his directions. Until . . . we ran into a dead end not but two blocks away from the bar. But we thought, hey this is an island! we can’t get too lost! So we continued out of town on a nearby road (towards the cloud), which went smoothly until it got way too dark way too soon.

We stopped at a house, hoping to get some more directions, but it proved useless. And then, like angels sent from above, Katie and Kyle rolled up on their bikes. “You guys okay?” they asked. And just like that, they offered to let us sleep on their property.

We followed them, and their headlights, six miles inland, up a huge hill and down a steep gravel road, in the pitch dark. We arrived on their property, which they share with Katie’s parents, and were immediately invited in for a late supper, which turned into an invitation to sleep in their guest room.

The dad, Dennis, is a retired Lutheran minister and the next morning he cooked us a great breakfast and packed us a sack lunch, complete with peanut butter and jelly sandwiches (cut in half, of course) and freshly baked zucchini bread. After hugs and pictures, Melissa and I headed off to the San Juan County Park on the other side of the island.

The San Juan County Park, without a doubt, is the most beautiful place we have ever camped. The park sits on a bluff, overlooking Puget Sound, with views of the Olympic Mountains, Canada and the many, many orca whales who migrate in the waters below. It was so amazingly calming there and we sat on the bluff and stared at the water, orca whales and passing boats until the sun went down.

Brooke

Before we could find a map, Kyle drew us an almost perfect rendering of the island (to which Katie exclaimed, "It's a kidney!").

Victoria, B.C.

2010-09-19T11:47:00.000-07:00

After a two hour ferry ride we arrived in Victoria, British Columbia. Mike and Jenna had set us up with a place to stay, Jenna’s sister’s place on the island -- a cute, quite farmhouse on the southern half of the island. The directions getting there (on paper) had been simple: get on the Galloping Goose bike trail and head south. For the life of us, we couldn’t find the trail, and ended up riding the non-scenic highway to our destination.

The next morning we work up early so that we could see some sights in Victoria before boarding the 10:30 a.m. ferry to Port Angeles. Three measly miles before the ferry, I felt that awful foreshadowing mushy feeling of a flat tire. Turns out I not only had a flat, but I had a big gaping, not-so-friendly looking hole in my back tire. After a not so quick detour to a bike shop, and an $84 tire, we had missed the ferry.

So on to Plan B: taking a later ferry to the San Juan Islands in Washington state (which quickly became Plan B when the employees at the bike shop told us about the amazing bike riding the islands offered. Previous to Plan B, we were on the Be-Pissed-Off-And-Cry-Because-You-Missed-Your-Ferry-And-Have-No-Idea-Where-You-Are-Going-Or-What-You-Are-Going-To-Do-Next Plan). Plan B seemed like a nicer option. Plan B also gave us time to explore Victoria.

When it was time to head to the ferry, Melissa and I looked (again) for the Galloping Goose bike trail. (Again) we could not find it. Apparently, the elusive Galloping Goose is rarely seen, except by those native to the area (hence, when we would ask a local for directions, they would point in the distance and say, “right there. You can’t miss it.” And then we would miss it.).
We would catch glimpses of it, be on it for a second, round a corner, and then be off of it, in the middle of a housing development, completely lost. But magically, like an angel from heaven, a cyclist on a carbon Trek Madone came to our rescue. “I’ll take you there,” he said, “As long as you can keep up!”

So, lungs bursting, legs pumping, we followed him a couple of miles (in the opposite direction of the one in which we were originally heading) to the Galloping Goose -- a beautiful rails-to-trails bike path that is so heavily signed and well kept, I’m not sure how anyone, including us, would ever miss it.

So Plan B: Island hopping!

Brooke

Lining up for our first ferry ride of the tour!

The Parliament building in Victoria.

The mythical Galloping Goose.

On the ferry to the San Juan Islands.

Vancouver, B.C.

2010-09-18T22:30:00.000-07:00

After eight fuzzy and dazed, but restful days in Eugene we took a Amtrak train to Vancouver. It was so awesome to be with our pals in Eugene, but we have to keep moving down the road. FYI-Amtrak is a pretty good deal if you are traveling with a bike. It was $5 per bike, which is pretty unbelievable considering how pricey it is to box up a bike and stick it on a plane.

We got into Vancouver late, around 11:50 pm. It was a 9 hour train ride, plus a three hour lay over in Portland. However, the lay over was perfectly timed right around lunch, and Brooke and I had just enough time to hop off the train and ride our bikes to the food carts for delicious vegetarian indian food! It was fun to sail through the streets of Portland, the country’s most bicyclist friendly city. Portland’s cyclist friendly vibe is heaven for me, with bikers everywhere enjoying their safe and roomy bike lanes!

We arranged to stay with a Warm Showers host to keep our costs down, and our host graciously agreed to pick us up at the train station, despite it being so late. (For those of you who don’t know about Warm Showers, it’s an organization where touring cyclists list their homes as a place for other touring cyclists to spend a night for free. It’s a great organization!) Brooke and I were dead last off the train, and on top of it customs held us up so they could personally check out our mace. While riffling through our panniers looking for our mace, Brooke and I were exchanging anxious glances fearing that Mike, our Warm Showers host, was on the verge of leaving us because we were so late. Alas, I was relieved to see him standing in the station with a smile on his face when we finally emerged off the train.

Wow! Vancouver is hands down my favorite city, and every time I go, it gets better and better. I must confess, the thought of moving to Vancouver is becoming more and more tempting. It’s rare to find a city so aesthetically pleasing, there are mountains and water everywhere you look. The city is surrounded with kick ass mountain bike and running trails. Everywhere you look, people are engaging in outdoorsy activities.

The first day we were there, Mike took us on a killer run along the water, and then up into the woods on a trail. Our pace was pretty fast as we headed off the paved path and up into the woods. We ran hard over roots and rocks, the path became hypnotizing to me as I settled into the pace. It was so awesome to fly though the woods breathing hard, it was the best run I’ve had in a long time!

Brooke and I spent the rest of the day walking around the city, we checked out the public market and bought some awesome vegetarian soup mixes that we plan to cook while camping on the San Juan Islands. That night, Mike and Jenna told us all about their 11 month tour down the Pacific coast and into South America all the way to Argentina as we drove around the city and over the Lions Gate Bridge to check out the amazing views. While we were staying with Jenna and Mike, they made sure we ate the best vegetarian food available! They were amazing hosts, and made Brooke and I eager to give back to other cyclists in the future.

The next morning, we rode off towards the ferry and headed for Victoria!

Melissa

We had a quick lunch at the Portland food carts on the way to Vancouver.

Japadog! Japanese inspired vegetarian hotdog, complete with teriyaki sauce, Japanese mayo and seaweed.

Revelations and relaxation in Eugene

2010-09-15T13:06:00.000-07:00

Well, I might as well make it official with an announcement on my blog. Not that announcing an extremely personal life decision on one’s blog is the last step in finalizing said decision, but it’s a start, right? So, for all of you who would rather not read uber-divulge-y personal revelations on a bike touring blog, read no further!

I want a baby. Henry did me in. He proved too cute and irresistible with that little smile. He’d sneak it on me, wearing me down little-by-little and, 8 days later I’m convinced I want a baby. It wasn’t just his cute happy little smile. It was his cutesy socks, the sweet little hats he’d wear, and his adorable little t-shirts. He’s a charming little peek-a-boo player too, and he knows it. Suddenly, I have this fire under my ass to reproduce. It’s probably just some ancient chemical in my brian that kicks in right around my current age, telling me to spawn, but still, it’s there. It’s undeniably there.

So, now that the cat’s out of the bag on babies, it’s on to Eugene . . . Eugene was great. It was awesome to see one of my oldest friends doing all sorts of mom things with her first child. And, what’s cool, is that Jill is still the same old Jill, just with an adorable precious gift of a son. Eugene is such a hippy town, and Brooke and I liked it a lot. Good vegetarian food is easy to come by, and the vibe there was definitely laid back.

Other than jogging along the bike paths by the river and walking around the city, Brooke and I spent a lot of time getting caught up on True Blood. I know, such a stimulating and interesting TV program. Even though we burnt too many hours watching trashy vampire shows, we also started looking for jobs and thinking about what we want our futures to look like.

Unbelievably, I really enjoyed searching for jobs and imagining what type of work I may want to pursue when the bike tour is over. I’m definitely nervous about all of the uncertainty of the future, but on the other hand, I’m also trying to be positive and I’m attempting to enjoy the process. I usually get really worked up about stuff like this, I worry about qualifications, and whether I’ll fit in but this time I’m not going to get bogged down with that stuff. My stance on this is all way more zen than I am usually capable of pulling off, but it beats second guessing myself, and worrying myself to death. Before you know it, I may be reading Buddha books!

On a side note, this trip has made my brian mushy. I was supposed to meet up with some fellow bicycle tourists in Eugene, and I totally forgot. I don’t really know how this happened. So, my apologies to Aaron and his very generous wife who gave up her room at the Marriott so we could have a place to stay in Missoula. I’m really sorry I’ve turned into such a scatter brained dingbat. I wanted to hear about your trip down the coast!

Melissa

The final pass on the TransAm

2010-09-08T16:06:00.000-07:00

Hey everyone, we did it! We’ve reached the grand finale of passes on the TransAm! McKenzie Pass--DONE! There were no fireworks at the top, however we had something much better! We were warmly (and hilariously) welcomed to the top of the pass by a bus full of rowdy and vocal senior citizens clapping, whistling and cheering us on. Lucky for us, we reached the top amid the hoots, hollers and cries of “you rock!” and “go girls” and “you can do it!” So, a huge thank you to the tour bus full of sweet senior citizens for the kind words of encouragement! What a great memory for Brooke and me. And, a somewhat sad goodbye to the TransAmerican Bicycle Trail, at least for the time being.

I know what some of you are thinking. You’re thinking, why didn’t they finish the route all the way to Astoria to the Pacific Ocean for god sakes!? The answer may disappoint some of you. The truth is, we don’t care about completing every last mile nearly as much as we care about spending time with our friends in Eugene. For us, it’s never been about completing miles, or doing the entire route. Plus, we will be riding down the Pacific Coast soon enough. Riding the TransAm has been simultaneously fun, crazy, terrible, terrifying, awesome, thrilling, hilarious... and hell, let’s just say we’ve certainly had our moments, all of which have been life enriching in their own way. In many ways, the ride hasn’t even sunk in, and i’m sure (keeping finger’s crossed) after I have some time off, I will have more to say on the matter. But it’s time for a rest, and it’s definitely time for the sanity and comfort of waking up in a snug and warm bed in the welcoming home of my friends!

But, back to McKenzie Pass. We started off good and early this morning, because last night while partaking in a few local brews at the bar, we were constantly warned of bad weather heading our way. We had a long ride and we needed to get a jump on it, so we took off early. The pastor at the Episcopal church was nice enough (read: concerned for our safety) to print off a weather report and leave it for us in the morning. So, at least we knew beforehand what we were getting ourselves into. The weather report was rather gloomy, and might as well have read: stay the hell at home unless you are batshit crazy. Nevertheless, Brooke and I batshit crazy as ever, pedaled out of Sisters, Oregon feeling great. There was a slight drizzle, but the lovely scent of rain and cedars hung in the foggy air making me feel thankful for the chance to ride through this stretch of forest, no matter what the weather forecast predicted.

It was chilly and wet, but beautiful right from the start. Being sandwiched between towering cedars, and lush ferns and feeling the mist on your face is totally worth the slight discomfort of being damp. As I was saying, I was feeling grateful for all kinds of things when I woke up this morning, and the most obvious being that we were scheduled to arrive at our friends’ place in Eugene late that afternoon. We had about 90 miles to go in what promised to be cold and wet riding conditions, and I couldn’t have cared less knowing that at the end of the day good friends, good beer, and one very smiley 4 month old baby boy awaited me.

We were about 8 miles into our ride when the road started creeping gradually upward. It was nice to ease into it, taking some time to focus on getting a rhythm. It was raining, and as we climbed it rained more. As no surprise, it also got much colder the further we went up. We were working hard though, which kept us toasty except for our hands and feet. The climb is full of switchbacks, so you really can’t see far enough ahead to know what steep pitch is right around the corner. But, wow, it’s such a amazing scenery, and when you are crawling along at 4 MPH, you really get a good look at things. We climbed for about an hour, curving with the road through the gigantic cedars and hugging the shoulder of the narrow road, which sometimes was cut so close to the rock that my shoulders or panniers would bounce off it. When we reached the top of the pass, it was raining hard, and there was nothing to be seen except age old hard black lava rocks in every direction. The combination of the rain, the black jagged rocks, and the grey lifeless sky may have been too much to take, but thankfully the seniors livened it up a bit for us!

On the way down, we immediately started winding through roads cut through the spiky and ragged lava rock. I’ve never seen anything like it, and it was pretty cool. It wasn’t long until the hill really got going and the grade steepened rather quickly. As you probably know if you’ve been following along, Brooke hates steep descents. Her fear was amplified by ten thousand today when she faced not only a steep decent, but a steep decent full of sharp switchbacks in the driving rain and visibility blocking fog. In short, this was Brooke’s worst nightmare. Meanwhile, it’s kind of the stuff I live for. We’re different in this respect! Brooke and I headed down, slowly, sometimes even stopping to walk. I would get ahead, then stop and wait for Brooke to catch up. Rain was pooling on the tops of my panniers, and dripping from my helmet. The forest was still as beautiful as always, and the trees were covered in a beautiful yellowy moss that glowed in the fog. It took us as long to get down the other side of the pass, as it did to go up it. When we got down, our hands and feet were numb and drenched, but our pricey rain gear worked tremendously, keeping our bodies dry and warm. We pulled into a coffee shop, and I noticed a bus stop on the edge of the parking lot. I didn’t think twice about checking to see if it headed to Eugene. It did, and there was not a moment of hesitation when we each forked over $1.50 to ride the bus in. Getting to my friends’ house and meeting their tiny adorable little baby 3 hours sooner than I would have had I rode in, was worth the insignificant pang of guilt or regret of skipping out on miles!

Melissa

90 miles, two passes and a tree of shoes

2010-09-06T20:37:00.000-07:00

Long day to Dayville

2010-09-05T20:34:00.000-07:00

When I came around the corner I saw Melissa standing there. She had already taken all the bags off her bike, which was lying on the side of the road. She had her back wheel in one hand, the other hand dangling unhappily at her side.

“You okay?” I asked.

“No, I’m not. I hate this,” she replied with tears in her eyes, as she kicked her wheel into the ditch.

Today was supposed to be an easy day. Today was supposed to be downhill and little milage. Today, we were supposed to get to the Dayville Presbyterian Church early. Instead, we were changing our third flat tire of the day.

I know, I know. This is what bike touring is all about. This is “what makes us stronger”. These are the hard days that make it all worth is. It also sucks. It turns a rest day into a long drawn-out pain-in-the-butt-day.

I hadn’t patched tubes in days. And the two extra tubes that we had left were already on my bike and hers, put there at 6 a.m. and 15 minutes before. And so we sat down on the hot, windy road and started patching.

A truck, going to opposite direction pulled up. “You girls need help?”

“We’re going the other direction,” we said in unison, both trying to paste a fake smile on our exasperated faces.

“Well, that’s okay girls.” And in a haze of motion we were in his truck.

No, I don’t feel bad about hitch-hiking the last few miles to Dayville.

Later that night, after we had put up with the weird guy who was also staying in the church, Melissa started to pump up the third tube of the day. I could hear the air flowing in and out of the hand pump and then suddenly, the loudest popping sound I have ever heard. I ran in the other room and saw Melissa standing with her back to the bike, her hands over her ears. And there was our fourth flat of the day. And this time, all we could do was laugh.

Brooke

This stain glass window was given to the Dayville Presbyterian Church by a cyclist. Their doors are never locked; open for anyone passing by.

Three summits in one day

2010-09-04T20:36:00.000-07:00

Sumpter, Tipton, Dixie -- done. Three passes in 69 miles -- done. This one felt so good. Possibly we were powered by the all-you-can-eat salad bar we cleared out the day before, or maybe it was the woman who would not let us fill up our water bottles at her gas station unless we bought something (and she was the only store around for 50 miles).

5,082, 5,124 and 5,277 feet and every time we got to the summit of each I thought to myself, “Really? That’s it?”

Brooke

The people you meet

2010-09-03T20:25:00.000-07:00

We met Jim and Sharon during one of our first days in Colorado. They were sitting at a table in a hotel eating hummus and tabouli. We liked them immediately. We spent the next 48 hours with them -- chatting in the hotel lobby, going to dinner, walking around town.

They, like us, were new to bike touring. But where Melissa and I had jumped in feet first, Jim and Sharon had jumped in head first. Weeks before, they had both taken an early retirement, sold all their belongings, including their cars and condo, and bought touring bikes. Literally, all they own is what they can carry on their bikes. Whenever they sign in to a hotel, their home address for the night is the hotels address.

They were like a breath of fresh air. Whereas most other bike tourist we had met along the way were competitive, Jim and Sharon were not. They didn’t care how many miles we had done the day before. They didn’t care how much or little we spent on food. Or how much weight we were carrying on our bikes. What they did care about where the people we met along the way.

Before checking into Hotel Ordway, they had spent two nights at a hotel 20 miles down the road. And upon checking out, they planed on only going 30 miles to the next town. Why? Well . . . why not? Bike touring to them is about meeting the locals and immersing themselves in the local cultures and customs. They figured that most of the small towns they were biking through, they would never be in again.

Their thoughts on bike touring really stuck with us. They were right, whenever again would we be in Twin Bridges, Montana or Ness City, Kansas? Sure, it’s really great to brag to other cyclist that you had just rode 105 miles in the pouring rain or hadn’t taken a rest day in weeks. But, it’s even better to tell them about the people you met, or the local bar owner who invited you to stay at his house.

When you put in the big miles, all there is left to do is find a place to crash for the night. But if you slow down, that’s where the real memories are made.

Brooke

Oregon!

2010-09-02T19:35:00.000-07:00

Needless to say, we are ecstatic to be in Oregon. We stood in front of this sign and took ridiculous photos of ourselves for 30 minutes. There are definite times during the bike tour that I hope I will never ever forget. This is one of them. The sky was blue and there was a slight breeze, making the high temperatures of Hells Canyon bearable. Melissa and I danced around the Oregon sign like absolute fools; we were absolutely giddy. Just simply getting to the Beaver State feels unbelievable.

Brooke

On to Idaho

2010-09-01T20:13:00.000-07:00

Welp, we’re not in Glacier National Park. And we sure as heck are not biking into Canada right now. Nope, we’re going on to the coast. Why? Because it’s cold. Because, there is another problem with my sleeping bag (surprise, surprise)-- it’s only rated for 30 degrees. And a lot of times at night, it dips down into the 30’s. And then I freeze. So it’s on to the coast . . . and hopefully warmer temperatures.

Idaho made us like bike touring again. From the moment we topped Lolo Pass, we were surrounded by beautiful dense forests and small, almost hidden waterfalls. On our second day in Idaho we stopped for a quick break at a trailhead just off the highway. Two older hippies came trotting out of the forest and exclaimed, “If you have the time, it’s well worth it,” while pointing behind them.

What was behind them was heaven on earth -- natural hot springs. The hippies convinced us to hike back to them, with our bikes, down dirt trails and through huge towering cedars. We pushed our bikes 1.5 miles into the forest and saw the steam rising into the air. We left our bikes and climbed down a cliff to the stream, where the steam seemed to be originating. Beside that stream was the most amazing hot spring jetting out of the side of the cliff, into a small rock pool. Melissa and I peeled off our clothes and stayed there for two hours.

On one of our last days in Idaho we met Archie at a mom-and-pop diner. Although he’s retired, and actually graduated high school in 1939 (you do the math), he’s the bus boy, because he’s “got nothing else to do.” Back in the day, Archie was sued for 15 million dollars. At the time, he was living in Seattle, working in advertising. The suit came from one single line of copy he wrote -- “Idaho potatoes taste better when grown in Washington.” Now he writes poetry, and today he wrote a bike trip motto for Melissa and me . . . “One part stupidity, one part intelligence and one part determination.” I think it sums it up nicely.

Idaho has been a literal “Tour of Churches”. Almost every night we knocked on a church door and were welcomed with open-arms. It’s comforting sleeping in a church. It’s relaxing talking with the pastors. One night we even had these really comfortable purple velvet benches to sleep on. That night, as we were falling to sleep Melissa said, “I’m going to sleep so good in my manger tonight.”

Brooke

MisSOULa

2010-08-26T15:16:00.000-07:00

Well, let’s face it. Montana has not been kind to us. Montana has done us no favors. Okay, I can honestly say that leaving Montana behind as a not distant enough memory of a place I will never ride a bike through again has been really fun. So, at least we have that, Montana.

I’m being dramatic here. But our tour of Montana did start off badly, but actually our rest days in Missoula were fantastic. So, it must just be that bicycling though Montana is a tad draining, but otherwise it’s a perfectly fine state. And, I’d be willing to bet if you are a sane person with a vehicle driving through wide open “Big Sky Country” it’s marvelous. I can say the beer in Montana rocks. As a testament to this, Brooke allegedly-allegedly- doesn’t like beer, however I had to pry the pint of Cold Smoke from her hands at the end of the night at the Kettle House. Really, the beer here is outstanding.

Also, to be fair I must mention that we did have some really good luck here! A nice gentleman I met in West Yellowstone, Montana paid for us to spend a fabulous night at the lovely Courtyard Marriott where we drank up the TV like it was 1950 and we’d never watched one before. I met him while I was hunched over on the side of the road mid stomach cramp, desiccated from the good ole’ Montana wind. He approached me because his son and daughter-in-law do bicycle tours, and he wanted to hear all about our trip. He offered to take us out to dinner that night, but because I was having trouble inhaling due to the cramps, and had irrationally already begun calling all the people I know asking them to google various things such as “appendicitis” and “kidney stones”, we had to pass on dinner. (Turns out, dehydration can cause some wicked cramps!) So anyway, being the awesome guy that he is, he offered to get us a room in Missoula since we couldn’t have dinner that night.

Also, we lucked out again, and got to stay with a friend of a friend in her cute apartment right in downtown Missoula. Perfect! and, free! So, Montana...we’ll always have the memories of your torturous miserable winds which caused me to down too many of your wonderful tasty beers!

Melissa

Bad bike tourist

2010-08-23T21:12:00.000-07:00

Every so often (well . . . okay, EVERY morning) one of us utters this statement, “We’re bad bike tourist.” You see, a good bike tourist gets up at 5 a.m. They are on the road by 6 a.m. and done riding by noon. Way far on the other hand, our day looks like this: up a 6 a.m., eating breakfast by 7 a.m., still drinking coffee at 9 a.m., on the road at 9:30 a.m. That combination of numbers usually leads us to still be sitting on our bikes during the late afternoon.

First of all, we are both very okay with riding later in the day. We’re both okay with starting whenever we want in the morning, sight-seeing along the way and stopping whenever we want. Until . . . . today.

Today Melissa and I left Jackson Hot Springs at noon. Noon! We spent our morning talking to a waitress about Henry Miller and Anais Nin and books and music and life. And we lost track of time. And we got to Sula, MT at 6:30 p.m. -- the place we had planned on camping for the night. Only, everything was closed. Yes, the whole town was closed. So we had to get back on our bikes and pedal down the road to find food and shelter, which ended up costing us a lot more than I would like to admit.

Today, we were bad bike tourist.

Brooke

Keeping my head on straight

2010-08-22T18:09:00.000-07:00

Today, Brooke and I plowed, slogged, and inched little-by-little our way across a long stretch of desolate Montana on what must have been the windiest day of the year. Just turing the pedals over was a feat. Because of the headwind, we were resigned to spinning in our easiest gear through the gusts, and just that simple unambitious plan took a Herculean effort.

I don’t know exactly what our expectations of Montana were before we arrived, but to say the least, we were expecting an easier go of things. I think because we are getting close to Eugene, Oregon where we will take some much needed time off to rest and hang out with our friends Jill and Ryan and their new son Henry, we somehow wanted to believe that it would be smooth sailing all the way to their front door. Needless to say, that hasn’t been the case, it’s been rough both mentally and physically. Rough in a good way though, rough in the way that makes accomplishments meaningful.

Completing the miles, getting to the coast, riding it all, means more than it has up until this point. Before, I really didn’t care that much about actually finishing. It was too overwhelming to think about, too far off in the distance to even acknowledge, but now, we’re so close! So, I know I can handle physical pain on my bike, I can handle working hard, being winded with my heart thumping hard in my chest. I can deal with the ebb and flow of muscle cramps escalating and receding. I can handle all of that, I even like it sometimes. But when the physical pounding starts to penetrate my inner strength, my morale, that’s when things go downhill.

Sitting here, drinking a much needed beer (Moose Drool by Big Sky Brewing Company) beneath a humungous buffalo head shot on Ted Turner’s ranch, I feel fine. I feel pretty great about things, actually. I’ve got myself under control mentally and I’m thankful for my health, thankful for the opportunity to do this-to have the chance to experience this boundless freedom. But, out there on the road today I was in a different frame of mind. Today’s ride was so hard physically and mentally, that it brought back memories of Kansas. Need I say more? Kansas was almost the end of our tour, though we’ve never really told anyone that before.

Thoughts of Kansas still have the ability to make me shutter and shake my head in disbelief. Disbelief that we didn’t quit or kill each other. Memories of Brooke and I riding through Kansas, still kinda new to bicycle touring flooded my head and heart today while I was moving at a snail's pace with no end in sight. We were so vulnerable back then, so inexperienced in the world of bike touring. We were both so afraid, and hilariously, and to no avail, we both tried to conceal from each other how frustrated and nervous we were, how much we were second guessing the bicycle tour. We were second guessing back then because we were worried we couldn’t do it. Now, we know we can do it, but sometimes I question why we are doing this. Why are we doing this? And, I worry about how will it be when we stop and settle down someplace. I feel out of the loop with my friends, I miss my family, I have no job, no home, and it’s no consolation that all I could hear today was the wind furiously ripping through the lonely landscape around me. I’m so far away from everything I love, and for what --to ride my bike through windy boring Montana eight hours a day. I know it’s just my reaction to constant change, and the uncertainly of the future. But, still bicycle touring gives you an awful lot of time to think, and if you're are not in the right frame of mind, you can really bring yourself down.

At the end of our ride, we ended up at Jackson Hot Springs. It was cold and grey outside, the wind was blowing, and a storm was forming off in the distance. We each drank a beer, and jumped in the perfectly steamy hot springs, and it was the best payoff to a tough, challenging day in the saddle.

Melissa

Flats

2010-08-21T15:04:00.000-07:00

This is flat #10. An approaching truck (with ample room in the bed, may I add) slowly rolled up to us from behind. I put on my most desperate yes-we-are-in-need-of-help face. And then he slowed down just slow enough to yell, “Get your damn bikes off the road!” Sigh . . . .

Brooke

On the other side of the pass

2010-08-20T14:29:00.000-07:00

On the map, it’s simply called “Pass”. The locals call it “The Virginia City Hill”. It’s 2,000 feet of climbing within eight miles. It’s hell. It’s eight miles that took us over an hour and a half to climb up. We’d stop intermittently, gasping for air, lungs bursting, only to stare up at the climb remaining in front of us. I’m pretty sure there was a great view of the Madison River Valley behind us, but I was too tired to even look back at it. It seemed as though the Pass would never end.

But 37 miles after the crest of the hill was the pay-off. It’s a sleepy little town that proclaims itself as ‘Appalachia with a View’. Immediately upon enter the town of 400, we were greeted with bike lanes -- something completely unheard of during the bike tour thus far.

We followed the magical bike lane to the town park, where we saw a small building with a sign proudly draped across it, reading “Twin Bridges Bike Camp”. Melissa and I wheeled our bikes up to the building and for the next fifteen minutes shouted back and forth to each other, “Look at this!” “I can’t believe this!” and “Have you seen this?!” It was like Christmas morning.

Twin Bridges Bike Camp was built by the citizens of Twin Bridge, Montana. The facility is solely for the use of touring cyclists and the amenities have been designed and paid for by cyclists. It has a bathroom, a shower, a bike washing stand, as sink, books, band-aids, bug spray . . . everything we could possibly want.

The best part of the bike camp are the towns people that stop by for a visit. There is nothing else like this on the Trans-American bike route and they know it. They’re proud. And they should be.

Brooke

At the top of "Pass"

Welcome to Twin Bridges.

Welcome to the Madison Valley

2010-08-19T19:52:00.000-07:00

Ennis, Montana -- the home of 800 people, 10,000 trout and one beautiful sunset.

Can I return my $50 can of bear mace?

2010-08-18T05:41:00.000-07:00

So we got out of Yellowstone without seeing a bear. Oddly, I’m a little upset about this. It seemed everywhere we went, I heard a passer-by’er talking about their encounters with a bear-- usually from a distance and usually in a car. They would talk about it like a badge of honor. I have mixed feelings about this.

Growing up I vividly remember watching the movie The Bear. Curled up on my parents couch, tears rolling down my face, I would periodically choke out, “I love bears!” Bears were cute and cuddly and no one could resist their cute little paws. I imagined myself in the wild, skipping along a path and coming upon a cute little bear peacefully eating honey. He would purr and I would pet him. We’d become friends and we would cuddle while falling asleep in a field of daisies. They are just like cats! I thought to myself.

Fast forward 20-years to Kinsman, Ohio. While spending the weekend at Melissa’s mom’s house, we stumbled upon the television show, I Survived. Sweet mother of Jesus, it was terrifying. While hiking through Yellowstone (where we just came from!), two men were attacked by a (no drumroll needed here) bear. Or should I say, BEAR!!!! It was full out mayhem. Big giant paws with big giant claws everywhere! . . . Clawing at their faces. And legs. And arms. And torsos. Bears are not like kitty cats. The point was made and well received, thank you every much Biography – bears are scary.

So I went to Yellowstone armed. Armed with a $50 can of bear mace. I carried this huge can with me for days (in fact, it’s still in my bag right now). At night, it was always within reach. I plucked down the money for it and I didn’t even get to use it! I’m upset I didn’t get my boy scout patch for this one.

So . . . I paid to see the bears!!!! Like any normal blue-blooded American would do. Thank you Grizzly and Wolf Discovery Center!

Brooke

I think this bear was purring as he smashed his paw into the bear-proof dumpster.

Yellowstone!

2010-08-17T20:00:00.000-07:00

OLD FAITHFUL

Old Faithful was scheduled to go off at 3:08 p.m. At 3:06, there were hundreds of people gathered around the geyser, cameras in hand, quietly anticipating the blow. The clock ticked to 3:07, everyone was waiting on baited breath, fingers at the ready. 3:08 . . . a few spurts of water went up in the air. 3:09 . . . it’s a little late. 3:10 . . . must be blowing any second now . . . Ya’all, we stood there for 20 minutes waiting for Old “Faithful” to go off!

Ten minutes in Melissa’s arms got tired, so she handed the camera off to me. Everywhere around me people would shout, “Thats’s it!” after a small shot of water flew in the air from the geyser. Even after the 50th person said it, everyone still chuckled.

And then it went off! And . . . I watched the whole damn thing from the viewfinder of Melissa’s camera. She was shouting behind me the whole time, “Get it! Get it! OH, you’re missing it!” So what you see in these pictures is exactly the same thing that I saw.

We ended up getting a ride to Mammoth Hot Springs from Old Faithful from a really nice couple from Missouri who are on a retirement trip. Kay, the woman, said it best -- “Water goes up, water comes down.” She didn’t even witness the actually eruption. She saw a few spurts of water fly about five feet in the air. But I guess it’s all the same, right?

Mammoth Hot Springs & Elk Preserve

Don’t touch the water. It’s hot.

There are signs posted all over the hot springs which sport a cartoon drawing of a boy-scout looking kid being singed in a hot spring, his mother is in the distance, eyes and mouth wide-open. These signs did little more than make me want to actually test the water temperature out with my fingers. Don’t worry I didn’t.

Norris Geyser Basin

The Grand Canyon of Yellowstone

The Grand Canyon of Yellowstone was breathtaking. The shear power of the waterfall was outrageous. What also was outrageous was the path down to the viewing area for the falls. It was a zig-zagging half asphalt, half gravel steep path down 600 feet. And we were, um, walking down it. Yes - walking.

I’ve suddenly become a klutz. Melissa wouldn’t even let me walk near the edge. I was a little scared I would fall until I saw an old man, with a lame leg, walking in front of me. I half expected an old woman on a Hoveround to come zipping around the corner. Sigh . . . I’m a klutz and a baby.

RVs (Because if you are a cyclist, this is your #1 cause of death in Yellowstone)

Surprisingly, we haven’t had much trouble with RVs running us off the road in Yellowstone. They’ve really kind of become a sort of entertainment. They have names like, Endeavor, Condor, Raptor, Arctic Fox, there has even been a Desert Fox. If I ever own a recreational vehicle company, my RVs will sport names like these: F U Mother Nature, Get Out of My Way, More Gas Please, and Where Can I Dump My Shit?

But, the best ones are cruiseamerica.com. These are rented RVs. The people behind the wheel have probably never before driven something so big. And you can tell. They’re always to close to the white line or over the yellow line. Whenever one of us sees one, we shout out to the other, “Cruise America!!!” And then we get as far to the side as we can. The sides of the rented RVs are covered in photo murals of happy families riding horses, or hiking or snorkeling.

These murals are not the reality. As everyone of these RVs pass us, we can see into their lives in the RV. There is always a small foot proudly displayed in the windshield, belonging to a woman passenger, un-shoed, of course. Beside her, the driver is usually a male - white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel, face frozen in a grimace. If we are lucky enough to come upon one of these parked, the sound of screaming children vibrates in our ears for miles to come. And, the cherry on top is a small white yipping dog, usually named “Princess”.

Brooke

Saved by Arctic Fox and some old hippies

2010-08-14T19:58:00.000-07:00

Sometimes the bike tour looses it’s luster and today, the thrill is long gone. Today Brooke and I had a bit of a setback, and we spent some time becoming acquainted with what I remember from undergrad Intro to Psych class as the five stages of grief. Remember those? Yeah, I actually don’t really remember them either. But, I do remember thinking the whole idea sounded a tad simplistic when applied to real, heart wrenching, uncontainable grief and thankfully, we weren’t dealing with that type of grief.

Today, we were merely dealing with the type of grief that accompanies a colossal mechanical failure of your bike which leaves you stranded in the woods 10 miles from Yellowstone National Park. And, I do believe this type of grief can be lumped into distinct categories beginning with our familiar friend Denial.

The Denial phase of this predicament definitely came first, and it lasted quite awhile. That part was easy, as denial can be so delightful sometimes. I went to shift my bike into an easier gear as I started to climb a hill, and my derailleur cable snapped, sending my chain flying down the rear cassette into the hardest gear I have. Well, I certainly wasn’t going up this hill any time soon, so I thought, eh, might as well turn around and sit by this beautiful lake and stare at the Tetons for awhile.

I didn’t miss a beat. I wholeheartedly embraced denial by sitting on the side of the road appreciating the beauty of the Tetons and not even glancing over at my strewn about gear and busted bike. It’s like I’d been fearing this moment for so long on this trip, that I didn’t even want to register it now that it was happening.

So, to further cement my casual coolness regarding the situation, I sent off shoulder shrugging text messages about how I wasn’t that worried at all. It was quite pleasant actually, siting there believing that the bike mechanic fairy would arrive any minute. Alas, someone did come, and he winced at my snapped derailleur cable, then he tied it in a knot and said, “well, now you have two gears, that’s better than one!” Then he merrily skipped off to his RV aptly named Intruder, and pulled away.

Hmmm. That got to me a little, and led right in the Anger stage. To be precise, I’ve entitled this stage ‘Unmitigated Anger at all RV Drivers’. It’s not pretty or rational, but they are such an easy target. Even when you aren’t experiencing the frustrations of a broken bicycle in the middle of a national forest, making fun of RVs and blaming them for ruining your day is so easy.

Life while bicycling the country gets boring sometimes, so Brooke and I had already begun entertaining each other at the end of the day by comparing the ridiculous names of the RVs that have passed us by. Usually, we just laugh. But, today I hated them all. Their lives were so simple, with their motors, air conditioning, satellite dishes, and SUVs in tow. I sat there smirking, Oh, here comes Viewfinder, followed by Endeavor, and oh look Suncatcher is pulling up towing his SUV! They all are emblazoned with stupid names suggesting their ability to conquer nature, or become one with it. But, as we know, anger rarely gets anyone anywhere. So, I moved on to the bargaining phase.

To be accurate, I like to call it ‘Bargaining with Complete Strangers’ and only as a last straw, God. All of a sudden, I had renewed strength to deal with this situation, I was going to be proactive! I took charge! First, I called some bike shops, only to find out that they were 50, 70, and 90 miles away. But, I would not be discouraged!

Next, we called a ranger, who was helpful and gave us a short 15 mile ride back the direction we came, towards the nearest bicycle shop 50 miles away. As we were unloading our gear from the ranger’s truck, and simultaneously wondering how on earth I was going to ride 35 miles in an unrideable gear to the bike shop, I made somewhat pathetic eye contact with the driver of an RV called Arctic Fox. His name was Buck, and he offered to give us a ride to the bike shop, after all, he was just out driving around, he said. I admit, after my afternoon of badmouthing all RVs I held my head in shame as I gladly accepted the ride. Buck, his sister and her husband were coming back from Sturgis, and were just killing time before heading home. They offered to drive us all the way to the bike shop!

40 miles later we arrived at the bicycle shop. I honestly thought the bicycle repair would take about 10 minutes. I was wrong. The cable broke off in a terrible place, and it fell into the shaft of my STI shifter. It was virtually impossible to fish it out. The bike mechanic cursed, muttered to himself, blatantly announced that this was his idea of a real pain in the ass as I stood beside him holding the flashlight, trying my best to show my appreciation and support. When it was all said and done, the mechanic was able to fish out the piece of cable and fix the bike, all for $12! Brooke and I loaded up the bikes, and set off to find a place to camp. We were back where we set off from two days before, which was discouraging but at least the bike was fixed!

Melissa

Hiker/Biker!

2010-08-13T19:41:00.000-07:00

Hiker/biker sites are the best thing since sliced bread. A lot of the campgrounds fill up before 9 a.m., so these make it possible to camp in the Tetons and Yellowstone.

Our food is stowed in a bear box and we are safely hidden from the bears!

(Melissa tried to fit inside the bear box for the night, but she couldn't fit . . . so she is reluctantly sleeping in the tent.)

At the base of Grand Teton

2010-08-12T16:52:00.000-07:00

Exciting news everyone! We are in bear country now! And by God, a bear was just spotted in THIS very campsite just LAST NIGHT. And, again! THIS MORNING! Lets face it, they are everywhere, despite my fervent prayers that they please, pretty please with chocolate covered chocolate chocolate cherries on top just stay far away off in the woods.

I know what you’re thinking. Predictably, you’re thinking, Oh cry me a river Mis, you are in some of the most spectacular parts of the country and all you can think about is bear attacks. To that I say, not just bear attacks. I worry about the three escaped convicts thought to be hiding out in Yellowstone, and I worry about the one lone armed and dangerous american indian riding around Wyoming on horseback who is presently wanted by the FBI for assaulting an officer and numerous other violent crimes. And, for good measure, I worry about moose and wolves. Who knew moose were dangerous. I swear I’ve always thought of them as cartoonish goofy creatures tromping clumsily around in the woods. Apparently, they charge and stomp people. At this point, I have moments where my worries assemble in a ragged stream of indecipherable general anxiety. But, At least it hasn’t reached a state of paralyzing fear.

All the dramatics aside, we went out on a hike today, and it was marvelous. The Tetons are breathtaking, and make you feel so exposed and small. It’s an awesome feeling to be immersed in nature. We saw a Coyote today, took lots of pictures and talked to the climbers. This place is awesome, my cabin mates drove us into Jackson for the night last night and we got to hang out in some very expensive cowboy bars. Off to Yellowstone tomorrow!

Melissa

Over Togwotee Pass

2010-08-10T21:43:00.000-07:00

Aside from riding my bike, I’ve spent the day relentlessly soliciting stories of bear encounters from locals. Despite Brooke’s eye rolling, conspicuous sighs, and pleas for me to resist the urge to ask, I can’t stop. Time and time again, I plunge headfirst into prying numerous locals for their personal bear stories. And, Brooke’s right, I shouldn’t ask, but I do anyway. My intentions are good, I swear. Ideally, I’m aiming to collect enough reassuring and disarming stories about bears so I end up less afraid. The opposite keeps happening though.

For instance, over breakfast I asked the gentleman sitting in the booth in front of us about bears. He simply said he carried a gun, and then he got extremely personal and asked me if I had a menstrual period. Understandably, I was perplexed and caught off guard by the question, and replied, “excuse me?” He repeated it again, louder. I said, “ah, yes, I sure do, ummmm, why?” He politely informed me that bears can smell that a mile away. Hmm, good to know, I guess.

So, armed with that particularly icky piece of information, Brooke and I set off to climb Togwotee Pass. It wasn’t bad, and due to road construction, we got to lift from a construction worker over the actual pass.

One obvious theme regarding bears is don’t keep food near you when you sleep, and keep all things that smell like food away from you. I have but one small problem with the rule. My sleeping bag smells like a ham sandwich.

I woke up in the church in Dubois to a woman cooking ham, onions and peppers and I swear the exhaust from the stove had to be shooting directly down on me. Because, tonight as I unrolled my sleeping bag the scent of ham and peppers wafted up at me and across the room to Brooke. Hmm. Not much to do about it at this point.

This afternoon, we were discouraged because everything is so expensive here, but in the end Brooke and I got a good deal on this cabin. I originally called and asked prices for camping, and was told it was $47 for a tent site. Outrageous! There are less expensive sites around, but none of those had bear boxes, water, toilets or showers. Brooke and I have food with us, and at a minimum require a bear box. In the end, we lucked out, mostly because we looked so exhausted and frustrated with the camping situation that we got a good deal on this cabin.

Melissa

Things to worry about (because we like to worry)

2010-08-09T17:28:00.000-07:00

Fill in the blanks here: _______ and ________ and _________, oh my! If you guessed any one of these, you are correct:

bears
escaped convicts
crazy American Indian on a horse
wolves
moose

Bears
Well, bears is a given. Melissa seeks out this information ALL the time. If we meet a local, her first question is, “have you seen any bears around here?” To which they always reply, “YEEESSSSS.” And usually a horrific bear encounter story follows where the local gives a play-by-play of a friend of a friend whose arm got eaten by a bear. Then I usually find Melissa rolled up in a corner somewhere, clutching her bear mace repeating over and over in a whisper, “lets rent a car, lets rent a car.”

Escaped convicts
Are you kidding me on this one?! Seriously, all I wanted to do was enjoy my morning breakfast of 55 pancakes when a newscaster pipes up in the background, “two escaped convicts and their accomplice are suspected to be hiding in Yellowstone.” Yes, the very Yellowstone that we will be camping in in a few days!

Crazy American Indian on a horse
Melissa and I rode through the Wind River Indian Reservation today. Today there was (and still is) a 5’7”, 270 pound American Indian wanted by the FBI for a string of brutal crimes. He’s committing all these crimes while riding a horse. And he is only 11 miles away from where we are sleeping tonight.

Wolves
I was warned about wolves a couple of days ago, while doing laundry at Lander. While the guy told me about the scary wolves, I acted scared but thought to myself, “This dude is nuts.” And then low and behold -- he was right on the money! A little poster outside of a convenience store told me so! It showed a picture of a scary, teeth baring wolf with the words -- ‘We were told wolves would only attack the sick and lame. We were told wrong!’ And there were horrible, gruesome pictures of wolves attacking livestock and deer and pictures of the disgusting aftermath. Those wolves are crazy. We could be next!

Moose
I too thought moose were very peaceful creatures. Until a young man in Wyoming told me differently! Apparently, they just up right charge you if they see you. And then they stomp on you. And then they continue to stomp on you after you are dead.

Brooke

Feeling young and free and ancient and tired in Lander

2010-08-08T16:31:00.000-07:00

Lander, Wyoming is exactly the type of town I hoped and prayed we’d come across during this bike trip. For the year leading up to this trip, I’d indulge myself in little fantasies about free camping next to other bikers in a cool outdoorsy western town. I pictured us scrounging off each other and the locals, sharing beers, and cooking communally. I guess what I wanted was my own personal bicycle touring Woodstock experience.

In my imagination, we’d all sit around swapping stories of our bike tour, we’d drink beer and share our secrets with perfect strangers we knew we would never see again. It would validate the trip for me, reassure me that I’d made the right decision to drop my life in Columbus and embark on this crazy unpredictable adventure. And, in many ways, that’s exactly what happened in Lander. And, it was great, perfect in a millions of different ways.

Brooke and I scrounged our asses off, we drank beer for free, we camped for free, we sat around in the grass eating free pizza generously purchased by the credit card of a fellow bicycle tourist’s grandparents. We talked about exes, love, heartbreak, and families with the other campers well into the night. Brooke and I even dabbled in a little innocent B&E of the local middle school to sneak a shower. It was all I ever wanted as far as bonding with perfect strangers goes, but here’s the thing, it also made me feel really old. Too old for this type of thing. It made me crave a routine, a job, the same bed and shower every night and morning. It made me miss my non-disposable friends, the ones who know and love me. And, I missed my family more than I ever have in my life. I was so sleepy by 10 p.m., while others were raring to go well on into the night. I felt ancient.

It didn’t help matters that three of the guys we were hanging out with that night were constantly one small step from being arrested or injured. One of the guys had been arrested already, and as the night progressed he got more and more drunk. He ended up being hit by a car later that night, and that’s the last I’d heard of him. In hindsight, maybe the recklessness of that particular group was mostly responsible for causing me to feel too old for this particular form of freedom.

On a positive note, I’ll say again that people are so generous. My new friend Amanda, a girl we met bicycle touring ended her tour in Lander, and she gave me her ipod. Who does that? Who gives away a perfectly good ipod to someone they barely know? A bicycle tourist does. Because, as a fellow bicycle tourist, they know what you’ve seen, they know the freedom, the loneliness, the amazing conversations with strangers, they get it.

Melissa

The Lander city park.

Our last breakfast with Amanda, who we miss terribly.

Destination: Jeffrey City (radioactive wasteland)

2010-08-06T23:03:00.000-07:00

The wind has returned. It’s 66 miles from Rawlins to Jeffrey City, Wyoming . . . the last 22 miles took us through the Green Mountains of Wyoming, at the northern edge of the Great Divide Basin, and provided enough wind to rival Kansas.

Those 22 miles took us two hours and 15 minutes. In the end, we were rewarded with the town of Jeffrey City, population 50. During the uranium boom of the 1970s, Jeffery City boosted a population of 5,000. Now, the “city” is merely a ghost town, with boarded up hotels, apartment buildings, gas stations and schools. The town was built on the idea of the atomic bomb -- today it looks as though radioactivity has sent it’s residents running to the nearest towns, which are 60 miles away in both directions.

The only business still in operation in Jeffrey City is a bar, the Split Rock Cafe. Like so many other places on the TransAmerica bike trail, this too is infamous-- but not in a good way.

Melissa and I entered Split Rock Cafe and took a seat at the bar. No one looked at us, not the three old men at the bar and not the two women sitting at a table close to the door who were both playing internet poker on laptops. We sat there and no one said a word, and then we sat there some more. Finally, one of the grey haired and grey beared old men at the bar coughed, the only indication that anyone in the bar was alive. The cough prompted one of the women at the table to shout at us without turning her eyes away from her computer screen, “You’ll have to wait a while. I’ve been waitin’ on you people all day and this is the first time I’ve sat down. So I’m gonna sit here and finish my dinner.”

Beside her laptop, she had a huge plate of fries and fried fish. “That’s fine,” Melissa and I meekly reply in unison.

And that is the infamous owner of Split Rock Cafe, hater of all that is good -- especially bike riders.

After a while, she took our orders, sighing and grunting as we told her what we wanted. Melissa ordered a beer, which was given to her with a glass of ice. “Coolers broken,” we were informed.

We ate, as quietly as possible. Every time I wanted a refill of my glass of water, I had to walk to the bathroom and refill it myself.

Aidan and Amanda came in, while they were ordering, the woman mumbled under her breath, “I can’t wait ‘til it snows.”

As we left the bar, she glared at us, but said in a jovial tone, “Watch out for the snakes over there, they’re big,” nodding towards the park were we planned on spending the night.

With her warnings, we’re free camping at the Lion’s Club Park, under a pavilion full of trash, weeds, forgotten memories, and the carcass of a dead cow. Next to the pavilion is the Lion’s Club Building. Inside the doorless building are remnants of the town -- old black and white school photos, bibles, newspapers from 1985.

Admittedly though, Jeffrey City may very well be one of my favorite places to camp. As the wind rips through the pavilion and we gaze at the forsaken buildings surrounding us and the lonely road, it feels as though we were the only people left in the world.

Brooke

Back to basics (which is camping)

2010-08-05T17:52:00.000-07:00

Alright, alright. I know . . . We’ve been spending too much money on hotels. But, there has always been a legitimate reason. I swear! For example:

It’s too hot
It’s raining
The town doesn’t look safe enough for free camping
There’s free breakfast at hotels
Brooke hates the bag that she sleeps in (it’s loud and noisy, people!)

See? Reasons. Very good reasons, in fact. But as of today, we’re off the hotel kick. We must go back to the one-hotel-per-week mantra. So tonight we are camping. And . . . it’s surprisingly not that bad! Our campground has showers and laundry and a pool and an outside kitchen . . . it’s pretty great. AND it’s not 105billion degrees out, which helps a lot.

So tonight we sleep under the wide open sky of Wyoming (in the shadows of huge mega RVs, next to the busy and noisy interstate, and cozied up to angry hungry mosquitos). This is what bike touring is all about!

On a side note, we actually rode on aforementioned interstate. Seriously, we rode on I-80 for 13 miles. And it was legal!

Brooke

Photos of the sunset that night, right after the rain, hail and rainbow

Enter Wyoming (and lightning)

2010-08-04T18:04:00.000-07:00

We reached our sixth state!

Went up a hill and saw this . . .

Which quickly turned into the scariest and closest lighting ever.

So we hitch hiked to here.

This sign was in our room. It reads: We do not dispose of animal carcasses. To get to the town dump, go up to Encampment and take a right on 4th Street. Go until you see the sign.

We saw this bear. This bear is not real. But . . . Melissa still brandished her mace.

Then we found the Beartrap Bar!!!

The maximum occupancy? 59.

The second continental devide

2010-08-03T17:50:00.000-07:00

We went off our trusty Adventure Cycling maps and live to tell about it! Our second continental pass, conquered.

Downhill . . . everywhere

2010-08-02T15:37:00.000-07:00

Against all odds, we made it out of Frisco. We’ve been having to pick the lesser of the two evils lately -- leave early in the morning and freeze, or leave later in the morning and get drenched by the afternoon rains. This morning we left our hotel at 10 a.m.

The Breckenridge/Frisco area is really biker friendly. Leaving our hotel, we jumped on a simple bike path to Silverthorne . . . or we should have jumped on a simple bike path to Silverthorne. Once on the bike path, our map read this: Turn left following bike path downhill. And then there was a detailed map of the bike path, which looked more like the blue print for a death defying theme park roller coaster ride.

AND everywhere you look is downhill! Which "left", "downhill" am I supposed to take? Every left is downhill! So we asked directions a lot. To which all the askees would throw up their arms in angst and reply breathlessly, “I’m not from here.”

Finally, we zigzagged our way out of the factory outlet malls and eateries and made it to Kremmling, Colorado. The riding was great and the rain held off. We’ve found a cute coffee shop, where you will be able to find us for the next four hours.

Brooke

Continental Divide Conquered!

2010-08-01T16:50:00.000-07:00

We made it over Hoosier Pass! An achievement of which I’m immensely proud. And, to be honest, it wasn’t that bad. We’ve climbed worse. But, it’s Hoosier Pass! WOW! I feel triumphant. I’ll say it again. WOW.

Hoosier’s Pass is certainly one of those markers that you know is there, just killing time, waiting for you. All the while you ride the Trans-Am, it’s there, waiting for you to arrive, day in and day out, getting closer, slowly, mile by mile. The reason it’s such a big deal is because it’s the first place where cyclists cross the Continental Divide. And it’s the real deal as far as mountains go. It’s at 11,539 ft, which makes us cross country cyclists feel tough, and deserving of Ooohs and Ahhhhs. At that elevation, we feel entitled to all of the bitching and moaning.

Before you get there, say about 3 days before you arrive, you are inundated by a steady barrage of east bound cyclists’ descriptions of “The Climb.” These seasoned and proven warhorses emerge in the distance, on the other side of the road, steadily pedaling, just like you. And then you meet in the middle of a country road in the middle of nowhere, solely for one purpose: they want to tell their Hoosier Pass story, like a certain type of veteran of war wants to tell a war story. And you, such a novice, are held captive to listen. And not just passively listen, but relive with them, every last one of their grunts and wheezes, and more than that, you must feel the pain of the muscle cramps they personally experienced! And when it’s all said and done, you move on, more nervous than 5 minutes before, they move on, satisfied.

So, it’s the big day! Brooke and I start out. And, then we stop about 6 miles into the ride, suspiciously, right at the base of The Climb. We stopped, using a bathroom break as a sorry excuse. Then, we both decided, hell, let’s just have a cup of coffee, this place looks cute! So, we sat there, wondering how it was going to be. Not so much wondering, as worrying, if you want the truth. We hemmed and hawed long enough, and it was time.

I was nervous enough that my throat was constricting, I was already having a tough time with breathing, and I hadn’t even begun. But, we needed to just dive in and pedal, and that’s what we did. And, to our surprise, it wasn’t nearly the monster we’d made it into in our heads.

It was just a steady climb. The type of steady climb where you get transfixed, you get into a rhythm, your breathing keeps time, and your pedaling keeps the beat. We climbed at about 5.6 MPH and it lasted for 6 miles. In the end, I almost felt like I did when I was a kid worrying about ripping off a bandaid, or pulling out a loose tooth hanging by a thread. All the gruesome imagery, all the putting it off, and the reality isn’t a fraction as bad as you thought it would be.

When we reached the top, Brooke exclaimed “we’re here, this is it!” and I, ever the pessimist, dryly wheezed, “be patient Brooke..we don’t know for sure.” But, Alas, Brooke was right! Behold! The tippy top of Hoosier Pass! And, what did we get for all the sweat and perseverance? A torrential downpour!

The way down from Hoosier Pass into Breckenridge is a downward spiral. Picture the spiral image of the galaxy, it’s that twisty and infinite in it’s turns. I Loved it. The boundless curves, the impossibly steep sections, the G-forces, and fast plummet. I loved it! And, the rain only added to my heavenly decent. Brooke, on the other hand, hated it, to the point of hyperventilation. We stopped so she could cry her eyes out, but eventually we made it down the 10 mile decent into Breckenridge. It was freezing, I believe it hailed somewhere along the way. We entered Breckenridge shivering and looking for a cup of coffee.

Brooke called her dad from the coffee shop, and her parents generously found us a hotel 9 miles down the road in Frisco. We were all set to ride to Frisco, but it was full on storming by this point, so we ducked into a designer clothing store to get out of the rain, expecting to get the boot immediately. But, the owner of the store helped us navigate Breckenridge’s free bus system. We took a bus to Frisco, and luxuriated in the hotel jacuzzi for the rest of the night, only taking a break to go to Wal-mart to buy dinner.

Melissa

Procrastinating at the coffee shop . . . See the worry on my face? I can barely smile.

Brooke -- before the tears.

We made it!

Goin' down to South Park

2010-07-31T18:55:00.000-07:00

Tonight we are sleeping one block away from South Park City, Colorado. Yes, the 1880’s mining town that the television show South Park is based on.

Gold miner ghost town

2010-07-30T18:38:00.000-07:00

Why hello there Guffey, Colorado! You do not disappoint, you outlandish, freakish, hell of a good time little town! This town is one part gold miner ghost town, two parts installation art, with a dash of 50‘s country western, peppered with the skulls, skins, and antlers of every animal imaginable. Guffey was on our list of places we set out to see at any cost, and it might be my favorite place so far.

The ride to Guffey is a bit of work. We started in Canon City at 5,332 feet and ended at 8,600 feet in Guffey. But, experiencing Guffey was worth the thinning air causing my nose to bleed, and my lungs to shrivel up and die on me. And, it was even worth dealing with the bipolar weather. Being in Guffey was even worth compromising my usual negative feelings about cow skulls and mystery antlers and skins as decorations.

We raced a storm to get to there, which was scary for me, since this storm continued looming closer and closer and I was averaging a speed of 5 MPH. In the end, we beat it out, and it was awesome to lay in the cabin listening to the low rumble of thunder which lasted for hours. In the mountains, the weather goes like this. The morning clouds appear to hang out seemingly cordial and pleasant perched above the mountain tops. But all the while, they are just fooling us. What they are doing off in the distance is gathering strength. Come about 1p.m. they turn sinister and menacing and they start hurling lightening bolts.

If you are a biker, when you get to Guffey the first thing you do is look up Bill. Bill is a collector of sorts, and he is mostly responsible for the ambiance of Guffey. Beyond that, he did the same trip Brooke and I are doing (the Trans-American Bicycle Trail) in 1976 for the Bikecentenial. So, in Guffey, they take care of the bikers. Brooke and I heard that Bill rents cabins at a cheap price to bikers, so we headed to the “cabin rental office”. Please see below for a picture of aforementioned cabin rental office.
Arriving at what I thought may be where I rented the cabin, I pulled up behind a slumped over like a sack of potatoes, unmoving body of a man I presumed might be Bill. He was sitting alone in a golf cart, looking like a piece of installation art himself. I pulled up along side him, and asked if he was Bill. He wasn’t; he was Charlie, Bill was out of town. Charlie was in charge. I asked about the cabin, and Charlie lead us through some tall grass towards a tiny 8x6 “cabin” that contained a sole bed. But, mid stride, he changed his mind, and gave us a WAY better one, for half the price! The cabin we stayed in was built in the 1880s and it was really awesome. Check it out.

We handed Charlie the cash, and we went off to explore. I was barely two steps out of the cabin, and Charlie handed me a beer. Then he handed me the keys to city hall. See below for some pics from inside Guffey’s City Hall. After the tour of city hall, I took some pics of the old rusted out cars parked haphazardly around town, and the bizzaro but alluring “sculpture”... maybe you’d call it a sculpture.

We ended the night hanging out in the shed with Charlie drinking beer, watching an old Elvis movie, and talking about bear encounters, one of my obsessions and greatest fears.

Melissa

The official ballot for the major of Guffey. Monster the cat won. His campaign manager, Junior, a black cat, was out campaigning while we drank beers with Charlie.

A great day in the canyon

2010-07-29T15:45:00.000-07:00

Today was another easy day of riding. We got to Canon City, Colorado early and found a monastery that allowed us to sleep in one of their dorm rooms. We went to a wine tasting and met Aidan (the same trans-am’er that we rode with in Kentucky) and Amanda (another east to west rider that we met our first night in Colorado) at a local brewery. All-in-all, it was a great day.

Brooke

Pueblo CO, 81009

2010-07-28T19:01:00.000-07:00

I wanted to avoid Pueblo at all costs. Whatever I knew about the town stemmed from those freaky early 90’s commercials for government information (don’t you remember the one where the guy runs to his fridge to write an address on his kitchen floor in mustard because he can’t find a pen or pencil? Well, you can see it here. Weird. I know.). Needless to say, Pueblo is the source for government booklets and pamphlets.

Pueblo is also the source of two really great people. When we got into town, we immediately went to Walmart to get some lunch. I went to do the shopping, and Melissa stayed outside with our bikes. I came out of the store, bag in hand, to the sound of her laughing. She was sitting against the side of the building, talking with two employees.

We ate our lunch right there, talking with them about the bike tour and they informed us where we should go and the sites we shouldn’t miss over the next couple of days. When their break was over, we started to get on our bikes.

“Wait! Don’t go yet!” we hear one of them shout. And she ran out, with a card in her hand.

They had written us a card with words of encouragement: Go for it! The Sky’s the Limit! and Good Luck.

Now what I’ll think about when I think of Pueblo, CO is this:

Some of the sites of eastern Colorado...

While riding towards Pueblo, we also got our first glimpse of the upcoming mountains. To the north we could barely make out Pikes Peak, and the south, the Spanish Peaks.

Brooke

Pot-pie and tall tales

2010-07-26T15:33:00.000-07:00

We took a clobbering today, but it felt so great. The self-reliance, and the sheer effort of riding such a far distance had me amped. Even coming in to Ordway, I was on an adrenaline high, and my legs felt no pain, but upon arrival, and two steps off the bike I was in a world of hurt. But, it was that type of exhaustion that feels marvelous. We hammered out a 90 mile ride, 58 miles of which were along a stretch of road that had absolutely nothing. No houses, no gas stations, nothing. I saw a tumbleweed cross the road in front of me, lots of dead snakes . . . and that was about it during that stretch.

At about 80 miles in, we finally came to a little town called Sugar Grove. I saw a slapped together structure that by all appearances seemed to be the town’s general store. As I went in covered in my usual post ride grime, I saw a sign that said, “pot-pie,” and another that read, “bait shop.” I thought nothing of it, interpreting the phrase “pot-pie” in the most literal of ways, and went on in in search of some desperately needed water.

As I opened the door, the overpowering scent of Marijuana engulfed me. I was so out of it, I still didn’t make the connection. Upon entering, I saw a lone little man sitting behind a counter, and nothing else. I thought, well, they must just keep a low inventory at this general store, so I blurted out, “do you sell water and do you have a public restroom” he replies, “we sell medicinal Marijuana, and that’s all we have here” Crazy. He was a nice guy, and ended up giving us two big ice cold bottles of water courtesy of Pot-Pie, LLC. Crazy. Medicinal marijuana in small town Colorado, who knew!

When we finally pulled in to Ordway, I promptly headed to the local bar. The fashion is definitely taking a turn towards “western”. Everything feels so “cowboys and indians, cattle drives and ranchers”. It’s awesome, almost theme-parkish and it makes me giddy and excited to explore. For men, the look as all about cowboy crossed with rocker. We’re talking leather vests, metal studs, black jeans, leather brimmed hats all a la Kid Rock. For the women, whatever they don, it’s bedazzaled to the max, covered in sequins, and topped off with lace trim and a disco ball for a belt buckle. Needless to say, Brooke and I stick out like sore thumbs here with our biker tans, baggy shorts and t-shirts.

So into the bar I go, feeling tough from the long ride and happy to be in Colorado! I walk in, and sit down next to a bearded guy sipping a shot and drinking a beer. We start to talk-- and I’ll be honest, in the regular daylight, with all of my normal faculties in tact, I wouldn’t have given him much room to woo me with his tall-tales from the plains of Colorado. But, in the glow of the budweiser sign mounted above his head, his eyes looked wise, rather than skittish and unable to focus due to alcohol consumption. They looked like they might hold the answers to the mysteries of Colorado’s wilderness, as opposed to looking half crazy and prone to rampant exaggeration and compulsive tall-tale telling. It was like we were in the 1800s and we were cowboys sitting around a fire exchanging stories of fighting off indians, and wrangling cattle, and killing rattle snakes with our bare hands. Ok, not quite, but you get what I’m going for.

He begins, and I eagerly let him launch into several crazy stories. He begins with “ya all seein’ lots of blood splatter out there on the road, but nuthins there, huh? This stretch of road’s like a fast food joint for the animals better at crossing the road.” Next, we start talking snakes. We’d seen tons of them today, all dead on the road. So, he asks if we’ve seen a snake called a Red Racer. He’s says, “them’s fast...I’ll be driving in my truck, I’ll see one of ‘em, and I’ll get on the gas real good, and think I’ve got him! I wait for the thud, and there isn’t one! You can’t hit ‘em theys so fast!” And, he goes on, he says, “they’ll chase you-- they love to chase, you run, and they follow you for miles.” In his words, “they see ya, they pick their head up, look over sideways-like at ya, and they start after ya...”

We talked about tarantulas, how they’ll be ambling along at a spider pace, and then (again, his words with accompanying hand gesturing) “blammo! they jump up at ya, and they can jump high!” He tries to hit tarantulas too, and he says “ain’t there a one of ‘em that’s ever been hit on the road, they jump right out the way.” Apparently, the migrate in big groups that cover the entire road. Tall tale, or truth, I’m not sure. But, he says they head south for the winter, and we’ll be through Colorado before tarantula migration season. Lucky us.

Melissa

We stopped for breakfast in Eads, CO & shipped 8 lbs home.

15 miles of abandoned rail cars.

Tan lines.

All signs point to . . .

2010-07-25T18:03:00.000-07:00

COLORADO!!!

The monster at the end of this book

2010-07-24T16:03:00.000-07:00

Today I woke up with Josh’s warnings about Kansas storms echoing in my head. Specifically, in the 30 minute span I was awake before I walked out the door, a made sure I allowed sufficient time to completely freak myself the F out. By the time we were walking out the door of the hotel, I had myself convinced that today with the day for a tornado in Kansas. “Might as well just get on out there, Mis, out into big scary stormy hot windy dangerous Kansas” I told myself. You’re a bike tourist, what are you gonna do, call up Josh?” You can’t beg strangers for rides everyday!

Needless to say, I didn’t want to leave the hotel and I wasn’t feeling very capable or confident today. But, when I stepped outside, it was beautiful. The sunrise was gorgeous! As we pedaled down the road, we immediately noticed that the there was no wind! No wind! It was so calm and peaceful. The way the sun was coming up, and nobody was outside except us, it was magical. And the moment was all mine to enjoy.

We made our miles so easily today, and we were done riding at 11:30 am. The weather finally cooled off some, and the wind actually switched directions! We had a slight tailwind today, which made riding pleasurable.

After it was all said and done, today was one of those days where I want to kick myself for worrying obsessively about something, when really, there was nothing to worry about all along. This is a problem with me, and today illustrates it perfectly. I feel like I’m Grover in the Little Golden Book entitled “The Monster at the End of This Book”. Maybe some of you know it. If not, well, you are too young, or missed out because of parental neglect. Just kidding. It is my favorite Little Golden Book though.

Anyhow, because we finished riding early, we had time to do our laundry! How exciting. At the laundry mat, I managed to find a decorating magazine from 1989, which honestly provided entertainment for the entire time we were there. The little mail-in order forms for cheap jewelry, decorative plates and figurines cracked me up, and the fabric patterns! So, here are some pics of the sky, and trust me, they don’t do it justice.

Melissa

Please see rules 4 and 5 for our hotel room. Thank you.

Thank you Josh

2010-07-23T19:52:00.000-07:00

I feel like I’m on repeat, but today was, you guessed it, really windy and really hot. We pedaled into the wind, which was gusting to 40 miles per hour. It was 114 degrees. Around 3 p.m., we still had 17 miles to go to get to Ness City Kansas. To give you perspective, on a road bike with no gear and normal Ohio wind, this would have taken us less than an hour, easy. But, here in Kansas, with the wind, we average about 8mph. So, it would have taken us about 3 hours.

We both felt really defeated, but we pedaled on because we had no choice in the matter. I spotted a couple guys working the oil derricks, I noticed they had trucks, and seemed to be just hanging out. So yes, I confess, I asked them if they were heading to Ness City. I quickly followed with, “I’ll pay you to take us there.” The oil worker, whose name is Josh, immediately replied, “no you can’t pay me, but I’ll take you!” “I’m heading there right now.” O’ Wonderful, perfect oil derrick worker Josh. He saved us. We hopped in the truck, and Josh pulled out onto the road. I felt like we were going about 95mph, since I was used to a speed of 8mph. He told us all about tornados, and the perils of Kansas storms. It is supposed to storm tomorrow, so by the time we got out of the truck, my worries had progressed from simple concerns of wind and heat, to concerns of lightening, tornados, wind and heat.

As miserable as this trip sounds sometimes, the truth is, I love the challenge. It is incredibly mentally and physically challenging, and it is always unpredictable. It’s certainly not boring. At the end of the day, we always end up safe, and it is great to lay around thinking and laughing about of all the obstacles we overcame that day. We got to Ness City, got checked in the hotel, and promptly headed down the road for a beer. I expected to find an empty bar with a lonesome bored bar tender, but when I opened the door, the bar was bustling with people drinking beers and staying out of the heat. The people in Kansas have been some of the nicest!

Melissa

An oven called Kansas

2010-07-22T22:55:00.000-07:00

Today, we broke. Today, after riding in 24 mile per hour winds and a heat index of 109 and 58 miles with no service on the route and a flat tire . . . we got a hotel room. Nope! Not camping tonight.

We had planned on free camping at the town park, but after the town swimming pool employees told us that a bike had recently been stolen and that the town teenagers would be cruising by our “campsite” all night long and the wind was still blowing incredibly fast and the 7 p.m. sun still felt like it was burning us, we got a hotel room.

Actually, we thought about it for a while. We debated on either getting a hotel room every night while in the heat of Kansas, or renting a U-Haul and driving to Colorado. We actually walked to the U-Haul store, but it was closed, and so our fate was closed. Hotel room it is . . . until we get to a place where our insides don’t boil while we sleep and the wind doesn’t rip through our dreams at night.

Ooooohhhh, the wind. The wind is brutal. It’s unrelenting. It’s like nothing I have ever experienced in my life. Imagine leaning left into the wind while sitting on your bike for five to seven hours each day. And then imagine what it’s like when a semi truck goes by. The semi stops the wind for a second, so that your body automatically goes left, hard and fast, so that all you can do is react and push down with your right hand as hard as possible . . . and then the semi is gone . . . and the wind is back, so that you fly right, towards the ditch. Oh.The.Wind.

Brooke

More of these today.

Most of the trees look like this-- windblown.

This cute little guy gave us some entertainment for a while.

Flat tires, poison ivy and a flat screen TV

2010-07-20T13:49:00.000-07:00

I’ve been dreading this moment since Day One -- the day I get my first flat. Outside the small town of Buhler, Kansas, I was all over the road. I was swerving left and swerving right and actually yelled out to myself in an annoyed voice, “Go f’ing straight!”

Finally, I looked down at my tire. Flat. Completely and utterly flat. After a long sigh, I got off my bike, took off the front panniers, pumped it back up, threw the front panniers back on and rode as fast as I could until it went flat again-- which ended up being every two miles. I repeated this a couple of times instead of changing the flat right there on the side of the road. Why? Because it was hot with no shade, and I could see Buhler in the distance.

When we finally got to Buhler, changing the tire was easy. We found some shade, took our time and the tire change went smoothly. We headed off to Hutchinson, where we found an amazing free biker hostel. It’s located in the basement of a church, has beds with clean sheets, a shower, and most spectacularly there are flat screen TVs mounted above the beds! What’s not to love? Cable TV, movies, air conditioning and a full kitchen for us to enjoy. Because the riding has been a little brutal due to heat, we decided that staying here for two nights and taking a rest day would be a great idea.

And . . . I have my first case of poison ivy. Ugh.

Brooke

Can we move in?

Kansas heat wave

2010-07-19T22:42:00.000-07:00

Today has been a bit tough due to the merciless, unwavering, cruel, cruel heat. Actually, I’m declaring that today this trip goes into the ThisMakesMeFeelCompletlyCrazyAndWhyDidIDoThisToMyself Category.

There are heat warnings. Specifically, it’s 101 degrees with a heat index of 114!!! The roads are bubbling up and sticking to our tires because they too are pissed off. You can see the heat rising up off the road in those blurry little see though lines, and the water I continue to pump into my body is as boiling hot as I am. The water situation is a losing battle anyhow. Inevitably, I end up dehydrated and cranky.

I forgot to mention that the cows are literally dropping dead in the pasture from the heat, all 2,300 of them thus far. It is really sad, and speaks volumes about how hot it actually is. But, if there is a plus side, the local news team seems really excited to have something to report on. Speaking of the local news, it is super entertaining in small town Kansas. The news casters seem like they are in a high school play about news reporting, with their scripted chuckles, giggles and kooky one liners. But, that’s another story.

All we see are these poor smoldering cows as we ride through Kansas. We rode and rode for miles and miles, and saw cows and hay and that’s about it. 76 miles later, we rode into Newton, Kansas, and saw a mexican restaurant. Perfect! We leaned our bikes on the wall outside and went in. I’ve never been outright cringed at for my appearance, until today. As I walked past a woman happily eating her chimichanga or whatever, she blatantly cringed and turned away in horror as I strolled past en route to the bathroom. Huh, I thought, I must look pretty bad.

Turns out, my appearance was cringe worthy, my clothing and skin were covered in dried and crusted white salty sweat. Rings of it everywhere. Well, guys, that’s what happens when you bike 76 miles through a Kansas crosswind ripping from the south at 22 miles per hour in the 101 degree heat. So, we scarfed down baskets of chips and salsa, and ate our hearts out. We arrived at the city park, where we discovered a pool. We dove in. City pools are usually free to cross country cyclists, which is awesome. The pool had a shower, which was also amazing. We camped out for free in the park with another cross country cyclist we met named Matt.

Melissa

Keep your fingers crossed for these guys.

Jealous yet?

A one horse town (with a pool)

2010-07-18T13:00:00.000-07:00

We didn’t plan on stopping in Eureka, Kansas, today. And we definitely did not plan on getting a hotel room. But as we peddled past the Blue Stem Lodge in the self-proclaimed ‘Horse Racing Capital of Kansas’, we saw the pool. We considered our options: ride another 30 miles to a town park without a shower, or escape the 109 degree heat index in the inviting pool.

Brooke

Is that a herd of deer on the wall?

2010-07-17T20:12:00.000-07:00

It goes without saying that we were elated to wake up to this magnificent sunrise. AHH, so beautiful and a great way to start the day.
Having access to the church kitchen made it really hard to get on the road early. Brooke and I have been really good about saving money by camping out. So having a stove, coffee pot, microwave and a real table and chairs at our disposal was something we wanted to lazily enjoy. We decided to sit and have an entire second pot of coffee, just because we could.

The downside to that decision was that we ended up riding until almost 5 p.m. through the hottest part of the day. We had 70 miles to ride, and we got a late start. Our bicycle map takes us on backroads through small towns and there are usually 30 plus miles in between towns. So, it’s not like you can just stop at any point when you become tired and frustrated with riding. Often times, you are out in the middle of nowhere, and there is nothing to stop at for miles.
Here in Kansas, the heat has been unbearable. There has been a heat advisory, which makes riding in the middle of the afternoon borderline dangerous. So, we’ve been trying to get on the road as early as possible to get the riding done before it gets too stifling hot.

We finally headed out, and things were fine, we had a nice tailwind and were making good time. Until this.We had to go around, which added time and miles. We continued on, until this.

UGH. Again, we got around it, but added time and miles.

It was getting late, and we were overheated. We stopped into a little gas station and ran into two bikers heading the opposite direction. They mentioned a women they met about 15 miles down the road who hosts bikers in the town’s community center. The two cyclists were adamant that we stop and check it out. We were looking for the last house on the right in the small town of Coyville.

We rode right up, and knocked on the door. Only on a self contained bicycle tour would we do something like this. Gayla answered the door, acting as though she expected us. “Come on in!” “what do you need?” “ice water?” “would you like to do laundry?” “sit down, here’s the TV remote and make yourself at home.”

The first thing I saw upon entering the door was a mass amount of deer antlers. Oh yikes. Taxidermy- the act of mounting or reproducing dead animals for display. Check this out.

I’m obviously no hunter, I don’t eat meat, and I admit I was a little stunned by the zoo on the wall. But, Gayla was great, and she asked us to stay for dinner and let us shower and do laundry. How awesome is that? Gayla was a fast talker and often answered her own questions. She was a riot. We ate dinner under the eyes of the 10 or 12 mounted deer on the wall. After dinner, she took us across the street to the town community center, where we would sleep for the night. Yes, air conditioning and a roof!

Melissa

Welcome to Kansas

2010-07-16T21:07:00.000-07:00

While researching and reading blogs about bike touring, I read a lot about the Immanuel Lutheran Church in Walnut, Kansas. It’s on a country road with nothing around it for miles. And bikers stop in for a rest or a roof over their head.

As we turned our bikes down the first paved road after mile-post 42, we saw a sign telling us we were five miles away. There was a gradual incline up those five miles, and we couldn’t see the church. But as we topped the rise, the steeple of the church seemed to raise out of the earth in front of us. And there it stood -- a picturesque white two-story church, smack dab in the middle of hay fields and corn fields.

There was a note on the Fellowship Hall door, welcoming all cyclist and inviting us to anything we could find in the kitchen. Melissa and I did just that. We cooked a great meal and settled in for the night. Around 8 p.m., Pastor John came in and welcomed us to his church. As he left he said, “This is your home for tonight.”

Brooke

Golden City, MO

2010-07-15T19:54:00.000-07:00

The Welcoming Committee

We woke up to rain this morning. Secretly, for me, this was the best thing that could happen. I don’t want to leave. I want to stay with the goats and the dogs and the hens and the peacefulness forever. But the sun came out and the clouds disappeared and so Melissa and I packed up our bikes and said good-bye. Molly, one of the great pyrenees didn’t want us to leave, and followed us down the drive. She stared at is for a while as we biked down the highway, then chased after us. It broke my heart. I have dreams of coming back to Harmony Hill. Kidding is in the winter . . . possibly a great break from the bike tour?

Our destination for the day was Golden City, Missouri, 40 miles away. The riding was fairly easy. The hills also disappeared and we got our first taste of the plains. I’m in love with the flat roads. At one point, I got in the drops of my bike and rode as if I was in a time trail. Seeing a speed over 11 mph was like seeing heaven. I’m pretty sure I went fast enough to get last place in a race. And I loved it.

We reached Golden City fairly quickly. We found Cooky’s, a bikers oasis, and ate the pie we have been hearing about forever. It was early in the day, but the heat index was around 110, so we decided to call it quits. We went to the library, we went to the grocery store and we went to the bar. And when the sun finally started to go down, we headed to the town park.

At the park, we were welcomed by the Golden City Welcoming Committee. The Golden City Welcoming Committee consisted of two 11-year-olds. They came blazing into the park, the girl on a bmx bike, the boy standing on the pegs behind her. The boy jumped off the bike, took a wide legged stance, threw on his sunglasses and said, “Where you guys headed?” Nodding his head, saying “Yep, yep.” He followed up with, “How was the riding today? Hot?” He was 11 going on 25.

They helped us put up our tent, gave us some directions and let us know where we should eat in town (they suggested the mac and cheese pizza at the local gas station). I asked if they were brother and sister. They said no. I asked if they were neighboors and the boy replied, “You could say that. You could say we are boyfriend and girlfriend, too.” To which the girl screamed, “You could not!”

They were awesome. After they left, a 15-year-old boy came and talked to us and then a woman who was out walking her dogs stopped and chatted. Golden City . . . it really lives up to its name.

Brooke

Way out in the country

2010-07-14T17:37:00.000-07:00

Harmony Hill, Missouri, as you heard from Brooke, was great. Jennifer, Duane, and their girls-Etsu, Dirty Bird, Peppermint Pattie, Princess and the other 37 goats were fantastic! I’ve never experienced anything quite like that place. Jennifer is an animal person through and through, and it shows! These goats love her, and she loves them. They all have names, and she knows each individual goat’s personal “Baah” or voice. I know, I know, I know...you may be skeptical, but it’s true.

I’m going to go out on a limb and say that I, unlike Brooke, may not be cut out for goat ranching. I helped out as much as I could, but the cold hard truth is that i’m terrible at milking goats. I yank, and twist, and I definitely don’t have the whole pull and squeeze maneuver down. Oh hell, I gave it a shot. When milk did squirt out, it shot out sideways missing the bucket entirely. Jennifer finally said that if I were left to milk a goat, the goat and I would be there three days from when I began the endeavor. So, I did a lot of petting dogs, and looking around in wonder. I tried to redeem myself my being funny, and asking questions but that’s about all I had to offer. Jennifer was cool about it though.

One of my highlights of the stay was when Jennifer took us way far out into the country on the longest most relaxing country drive I’ve ever had. It was so great to sit and stare out the window of her F-350 diesel truck. For hours, we sailed over the monstrous hills and rattled down the dirt roads that were sometimes more like narrow twisty paths. We discussed everything under the sun. She treated us to lunch at an awesome indian restaurant, which is our favorite food, and definitely hard to come by on this trip. She also cooked us amazing vegetarian dishes each night, which was so appreciated by Brooke and I.

Once in awhile, we meet somebody that we can talk to instantly about anything and everything. Jennifer was one of those people, and we are fortunate to have met her. I’m so amazed at how this bike tour has allowed us to get to really know the people we meet. Short spontaneous conversations often leave me smiling for the rest of the day, or thinking in ways I never have before. Thanks to Jennifer and Duane, the goats, chickens, and dogs!

Melissa

To Harmony Hill

2010-07-12T19:26:00.000-07:00

This morning we left Rhonda’s and promptly rode our bikes 19 miles down the road to Terry’s house, where he had a full breakfast waiting for us. And an added plus, the night before he told me that he works on bikes regularly -- rebuilding them and such. I thought, Great! You can look at my rear derailler because it has a mind of it’s own. It decides what gear I should be in.

So after breakfast, I roll my bike into his garage, expecting a bike stand . . . or something. He produces a rope. A rope which he wraps around my seat and throws over the garage door track so that he can lift my back wheel off the ground. As he was doing this I thought, Yeeeaaahhh, no good can come from this. But he cooked us breakfast! So what could I do but watch. (While in the background Melissa had her arms thrown in the air mouthing, NOOOOOOOO!)

He gets on the ground, cheek level to the floor, looks at my cassette and proclaims, “Looks good to me!” Thank God! So he fills our tires with air (and his brother gives us another hand pump so that we can slowly drain the air out of our tires at a later date with that one -- and great! more weight to carry!) and off we go (as my bike shifts on its own down the driveway, me sitting atop, waving good-bye).

And then we rode through hills. Lots and lots of hills. Hills that we had to push our bike up. Hills that were terrifying on the way down. (Are you all tired of hearing about hills? I’m afraid my next blog post will be titled HILLS. Contain a few paragraphs with only one word repeated over and over, “hills”. And will be signed, Love, Hills.)

Mmm hmm

Then we arrived in Walnut Grove, Missouri -- the home of our first WWOOFing farm!

So here we are, at Harmony Hill. A goat farm in the-middle-of-know-where Missouri (well, actually it is in the middle of big giant hills even though everyone for miles around says it is flat past Houston, Missouri or even Elizabethtown, Illinois, or that there are “rolling hills” or that it is as “flat as Kansas” -- they are all wrong). It’s owned by Jennifer and Duane Keys, who raise Boer goats, along with a farm full of three huge great white pyrenees guard dogs, four other playful dogs, chickens, cats and vegetable and herb gardens on 10 acres. I’m in Heaven here.

Jennifer is a “goat lady”. A self-proclaimed and awesome goat lady. When Melissa and I rolled our bikes up to Harmony Hill, she was in the pasture, with her goats. Immediately she began introducing us to “the ladies”. She pointed to one and said, “that’s Etsu. Come here, Etsu.” She just hithered a goat. I had my doubts. I’ve never been around goats and thought to myself, there is no way that goat is coming over here. And then it stood up, and waltzed it’s way over to Jennifer. All these goats know there names! They are smart and extremely lovable, too.

We got to the goat farm late in the day so all we got to try our hand at was milking the goats. And let me tell you -- it is hard! I’ve seen it on TV a lot and I’ve always thought it looked easy even though everyone fumbled with it. I’d yell at the television, “do it like this!” and feverishly move my hands up and down while tapping my thumbs on my closed fingers. So not the case. It was weird. And felt odd. And I missed the bucket by about 50 inches. And the goats, um, teats felt really tacky. Actually, it was a lot of odd. But they know their names! So I can handle the oddness.

I’ve only been here a couple of hours, but I already love it here. So I’m writing to tell you that the bike tour is over. I’m relocating my bike and myself to Harmony Hill, Walnut Grove, Missouri, population 41 . . . goats.

Brooke

Cumulonimbus

2010-07-11T17:53:00.000-07:00

"Rollers," as the locals like to call them.

Riding out the storm at McDonald’s. Again. McDonald’s rest-stops have become a regularly scheduled event in our lives. As vegetarians and self confessed health nuts, who would have thought we’d scan the horizon for the golden arches, but nothing surprises me on this trip.
Turns out, the milkshakes are great, and Ronald supplies free wifi, air conditioning and ice water. (But, Puleeeeze, don’t think I’m endorsing McDonald’s outside the context of an insane trek across the country on a bicycle. To be clear, I’m not). But, in bicycle touring world, what more could two sweaty, ravenous, and internet deprived bike tourists want? So, check out this storm.

We dodged storms like this all day, and I was at the end of my rope with it. Yeah, it’s exciting the first time, but once you notice that you are forever scanning the horizon examining the clouds in a way you’ve never done before while pedaling through the middle of nowhere, it starts to become a little unnerving. Is that a Cumulonimbus in the making on the horizon? It looks so big and fluffy in the distance, but what havoc will it bring as it approaches? What’s the worst that can happen? I ask myself. It’s sort of rhetorical, so there’s no need to actually answer.

So, we outran the aforementioned monster and ended up in the safe zone of McDonald’s. We ordered our milkshakes, and sat around pondering where we would stay for the night. It wasn’t looking good. Our original plan was to free camp at the town’s park, but the rain was coming down in sheets, and there was lightening and thunder going off like a bomb. I ease-dropped on a teenager’s cell phone call and heard her utter in between her slurps of milkshake the phrase “like yeah, dude, severe thunderstorm with possible freaking rotation, OMG!!!!!”. Eeeeek. I was worried.

But, just then, in walk Rhonda and Terry, halos and all, for some smoothies. Turns out, they are cyclists and we began to chit-chat about our tour and before you know it, Rhonda invited us to come back to her place, which was three miles away, for the night. She gave us her number and address, and promptly headed out the door for, you guessed it . . . church.

Initially, we were not planning to take her up on her offer, because the town had a park that allowed free camping for the night and the Born-Again from the previous night was a little too pushy with the questions, and a little too persistent about wanting to “save” us right there on the spot. But, the storm just wouldn’t let up. So, we sat and checked for hotels close by. Even if we wanted to stay with Rhonda, who seemed nice enough, riding to her house in this weather would have been impossible.

Just when I was really starting to get worried, in walks Rhonda, bare-foot and soaked with an inverted, wind-blown umbrella in her hand ...and surely you know how this story ends. Rescued again by Christians! And, it’s such a mixed bag. Rhonda was sweet, she was nice, she boisterously exclaimed that she was so happy we were still at McD’s, because she would have driven to all the parks in the area looking for us. Who would have done that? I mean, a Christian would-- and that is kindness, pure and simple.

She had brought her tiny pickup truck, and we were able to squeeze everything into the truck, and she drove us to her place for the night. But, not long after we arrived, the questions started. Questions like, “how do you two know each other?” and “you’re both single, right?” and, “No husbands or kids?” followed by a inquisitive look. And, then I’m put into a position that is so uncomfortable. I have to lie. Brooke and I literally sat there and said that we were indeed single! How awful is that? Again, rhetorical, so no need to answer. Sometimes I feel like Homer Simpson taking advantage of all of the Ned Flanders of the world. It’s hard. It’s like I’m some buffoon sinner, going about my business taking advantage of the Christian next door. Sure I’ll eat your fried fish, and Yes, I’d love a free place to sleep tonight! I feel manipulative because I can’t be truthful. I honestly don’t know what Terry would have said had I replied that Brooke and I have been in a relationship together for over two years. Would he have thrown me out into the storm, where surely I would have been struck by lightening for my beliefs. And, it’s not like I’m anti-Christian, as I said before, the Christians have been so accommodating and kind and I’ve felt their message of love and kindness many times on this trip. But, I wonder what will happen when I tell them the truth about me? But, for now i feel like i’m a total cop out for keeping my mouth shut. Thoughts?

So, before the round of storms, I was pedaling along happily humming a Lady Gaga song and spotted this little guy! Pretty cool. (Yes, I moved him off the road to the safety of the ditch.)I also got some photos of some butterflies and the sky before it turned crazy.

Melissa

Life (back) on the road

2010-07-10T19:36:00.000-07:00

Last night my mom and dad, Melissa and myself were eating at a pizza shop in town and guess who shows up? John from Portland! He rode 95 miles that day so that he could catch up with us. AND, he was able to talk his way into camping in the back yard of our B&B, so we grabbed our leftover pizza and met him there.

It’s probably no secret that Melissa and I decided to skip most of the Ozark Mountains. We made that decision so that I could spend more time with my family in St. Louis. It cost us some days, so my dad offered to drive us further up the road. (Actually, he offered to drive us to Kansas, but we somehow settled on Eminence, Missouri.)

As we were all sitting outside listen to John’s stories about the mountains, lo and behold, a friend we met at Hayes Canyon Campground showed up. He and his wife are touring on their motorcycle, and just happened to stay at the same town and same bed and breakfast that we were at. Small world. Very, very small world.

After a very good breakfast, I said good-bye to my parents and Melissa, John and myself set off. The morning was mostly full of bad drivers (translation: drivers trying to hit us or flipping us the bird or yelling obscenities -- John chooses to believe they are actually yelling kind words of encouragement! Well in that case, thanks Missouri drivers, I will continue to ride on the road where I lawfully belong!).

Melissa and I rode 42 miles, and stopped for the night in Houston. We’re free camping in the town park, we’ve been giving leftover fish and chips from a born-again Christian bike rally (we couldn’t make these things up) and we’re going to bed at 8 p.m. Ah, exciting life on the road.

Brooke

On the road again . . . soon

2010-07-09T13:30:00.000-07:00

My sister was browsing thewoombie.com (a swaddling one-sie site for babies) on the world wide web and Melissa shouts out, “Do they come in size six feet?”

Yes, after being around my two week old nephew for four days, Melissa was able to diagnose me . . . Ya all, I have colic! During the last few days of the bike tour, I had the exact same symptoms as two-week-old Brady! Lets review:

I’m fussy
Nothing you can do can satisfy me
I cry for long periods of time . . . for no reason
I kick my legs at night when laying in my bag
I look uncomfortable and appear in pain

I have colic. I can say with absolute certainty that I probably maybe have colic.

Luckily, these symptoms seem to disappear in and around four months. Yeah!

Rather than have me demonstrate my colicky symptoms further, Melissa, on her own accord, has decided that at night, she will swaddle me using my sleeping bag and bungie cords. Won’t that be fun?! I secretly think her idea of swaddling is due to her fear that I might run-away at night.

Tomorrow we are hitting the road. After probably too many days of rest and recuperation, we are leaving my parents and biking west from Eminence, Missouri. I am both nervous and excited to start again. But the good news is, Melissa and I were able to repack our bikes, making them 32 pounds lighter.

Tomorrow we ride!

Brooke

Off for some rest days

2010-07-05T20:05:00.000-07:00

This morning should have been a relaxing, easy morning. Shoulda, Woulda, Coulda! We had no pressure to make our miles because Brooke’s dad and mom were scheduled to pick us up somewhere along the route and take us to her sister’s for a few rest days from all of the bike tour hoopla.

Brooke’s sister lives about one hour off the trail, and we figured, why not take a little break from all of this FUN. But, because Brooke secretly enjoys the headaches, she decided spur of the moment to use the mini hand pump to fill up our tires just as we were getting ready to roll out of camp. Genius!

The hand pump did nothing more than let most of the air out of her back tire as Brooke frantically tried to hold it onto the valve while I futilely pumped air outside of the valve with the miniature F-ING pump. It all happened so fast, and before we knew it, there was very little air in the tire. Ugh. Just because Brooke and I are on a bike tour, it doesn’t mean that we are good with using all the necessary bike accessories accompanying us.

So, as the story goes, Brooke cussed and cursed, and I ever so unhelpfully made comments like “why did you just do that?” and “shouldn’t you have just waited until we had a full sized floor pump around to do this?" and I repeated this doozie a few times “ooooh, that’s really bad, Brooke!”

Thankfully, Brooke is a better person than I am, and didn’t suggest that I use my own hot air to blow up her back tire! Then, Brooke remembered all the barefoot children riding bikes around the campground last night, so she took off to find a pump. Predictably, the only pump in the entire campground was broken, so we had no choice but to ride out with Brooke’s mostly flat tire.

Three miles down the road we saw an athletic looking guy packing a car with sports equipment and Voila! They let us borrow a bike pump and invited us to stay the night. Oh, how I wish we would have had that offer last night, and we could have skipped the dealings with the mucky campground filled with unsavory characters. With all four tires filled to the brim with air, we headed off for Chester, Illinois.

We were really excited about the levy section of the trail today because it is flat and goes along the river. We arrived, and it was indeed flat, but with a headwind that felt like a jet engine before take-off. What’s kind of sad is that despite the headwind, I was still elated to be on a flat surface, even if the pesky headwind made me want to die a little.

We pedaled along at 8mph, and eventually arrived at a little place called Gorham. Gorham. There are no words for the nothingness that is Gorham. It’s hard sometimes, because when you are pedaling to whatever next little town is on the map, you envision-- almost in the way a person lost wandering the Sahara likely envisions-- air conditioning, or friendly helpful people, or god forbid, a convenience store. But, so often it is not the case that you find cool air, ice water, and friendly people. Rather, you find only a closed post office, or a stretch of abandoned railroad tracks, and nobody around at all.

So, today Brooke and I sat crouched in the sliver of shade outside the closed post office and made our peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, we peed behind the post office, and actually everything was perfect. You learn that you don’t need much to make you happy when you are doing something like this. PB&J still tastes great sitting on the sidewalk in the heat with nobody around for miles. The bike tour allows you to be happy about the little things, like making it to the next place, or finding that the ice in your pricey thermos hasn’t melted yet.

Brooke’s parents found us out in the middle of nowhere, and it was great to see them. We loaded up the truck, stopped for large milkshakes at McDonald’s, and headed to a hotel with a real bed, and air conditioning for the night and it was wonderful!

Melissa

On to Little Grassy (dirty, filthy) Lake

2010-07-04T17:45:00.000-07:00

Sunday we woke to the blowing, snorting and neighing of the horses and the enthusiastic yee-hawing and giddeups of the cowboys and cowgirls surrounding our tent. All I know is that horse people are some of the friendliest, most laid back people around.

This campground was magical, and it was really REEEALY hard to leave. This place was so majestic that the horses could have been unicorns, and the people could have been fairies, and they could have been riding over rainbows as Brooke and I sat slumped over the picnic table drinking the beers we had schleped 30 miles. That's how slap happy and giddy exhauted we were, or maybe it was the after effects of the heatstroke. But, whatever the case, we loved it there, and in hindsight, we should have stuck around and accepted the offers to go horseback riding the next day.

Instead, we slowly packed up our things and made our way out of Hayes Canyon Campground and pedaled down the road toward Carbondale. We made pretty good time, and around lunch time we spotted a convience store and stopped to make our peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. We sat and ate, and watched gigantic RVs pull up and pull away. We laugh everytime at the motorized staircases that emerge to float the RV occupants down to the ground. These gigantic Rv's are really starting to resemble arcs or spaceships.

First, we made it to Devil's Kitchen Lake, which it turns out, is really creepy because there is no swiming, boating, or anything at all because of the full grown trees submerged beneath the surface. There was a immaculately groomed, totally empty campgroud to go along perfectly with the weirdo deserted picture perfect lake. It seemed like a setting for a horror movie. It had a creepy feel because of the blantant lack of activity, and it wasn't hard to imagine the trees coming to life at night to drag you under in your sleep. It looked deserted in the same way one would imigine the world after the human race has died off.

So, we moved on to the next campground and hoped for something with a less creepy feel. We ended up at the Little Grassy Lake Campground, which was an experience. Let's just say it was not as aesthetically pleasing as was the wonderland Hayes Canyon Campground, and it was certainly not immaculately groomed. This place was full of men who looked like they might blow at any moment. To go along with the angry men, there were chained pitbulls, overflowing dumpsters, and more ciggarete butts in our campsite then grass. Rather than falling asleep to the gentle sounds of horses, we fell asleep to a very intoxicated jerk spouting a shitstorm of profanities at his wife and children.

Melissa

The day I wanted to quit

2010-07-03T18:19:00.000-07:00

Today was THE most miserable day I have ever spent on a bike. Ever.

The day started off good enough. We got a late start, having stopped at a diner, GeeJay’s, for breakfast in Cave in Rock. I was very optimistic about the day, because a few days back, while in Kentucky, someone had said, “after Elizabethtown, Illinois, you’re golden. It’ll flatten out.” These words echoed in my head for days, and I just couldn’t wait for E-town, where I knew, I KNEW the terrain would finally level out. Turns out, he was wrong. Completely and entirely wrong.

Yet, I continued believing that Elizabethtown and flatness were only ten miles away! Stupid clueless me! I guess I don’t know what I expected -- well, actually I do -- I expected a flat road. With no hills. And maybe possibly a little down hill. Let’s face it, I expected smooth sailing to the Mississippi River!

In hindsight, I should have known better. Only a few miles into the ride, on a full stomach, my bike fell on me because the hill was so steep I stopped moving forward. Yes . . . the bike fell on ME. Not the reverse. Then, a couple miles later, the french press flew off of Melissa’s bike and shattered (which I later used 20 feet of duck tape to fix). This set the tone for the rest of the day, but I tried to keep the dream of flat roads alive.

We climbed hill after hill, which I was okay with, because soon we hit the sweet town of Elizabethtown. Wonderful Elizabethtown I thought, with all its bars and carry-outs, Gateway to the Flat Lands! We felt pretty good. We felt so good that we stopped and bought a few beers and loaded them on our bikes to enjoy later. We hit the road. The flat, smooth-sailing road . . .

Except that that was not what happened. The road from Elizabethtown heading west was horrible. My dream of flat roads began to shatter. It was borderline mountainous. After the first huge hill I felt defeated. After the second, I was a little devastated. And I felt tired. Tired of endless hills. Halfway up the third huge hill is when the tears started.

I bawled. I cried more than I have ever cried in my life. I stopped midway up one and just stood on the side of the road, mouth open in a wail, tears rolling down my face. Every time I heard a car coming I would grab a water bottle to hide my face, acting like I was just taking a water break. At that point, had I known where one was located, I would have found a greyhound to drive me home.

The crying lasted for a good 20 miles. I cried on uphills because I was tired. I cried on down hills because I knew there would be a corresponding uphill right around the corner. This bike tour is by far the hardest thing I have ever done in my life. Harder than a half Ironman.

The country-side was boring. There was nothing pretty to look at. The sun was blazing down on us. Every drink I took out of my water bottle was boiling hot. Bugs were ricocheting off my face like a pin ball machine. We were on a busy road with motorcycles blaring past us, loudly going a million miles an hour. It. Took. Forty-five minutes to push our bikes up just one hill.

Five hours after we had left Cave in Rock, one hour into having heat stroke (seriously), we hit Eddyville, a mere 32 miles away. You could have stuck a fork in me. We stopped at a gas station and I consumed two bags of chips within two minutes.

And that’s when we saw the horse running down the road. The guy riding the horse saw our mesmerized faces and stopped. For a second I thought I was seeing a mirage. Peanut the Horse was so cool. He could bow and he could do the grapevine across the parking lot with all four legs. Eldon, the horse rider, was really cool, too. He told us about the horse camp that he was at for the weekend, Hayes Canyon Campground, one mile away. (If it had been any further than that, I would have put myself and my bike on Peanut.)

Hayes Canyon was without a doubt the most amazing campground I have ever been to. Every camp had a horse corral with the most beautiful horses. Along with horses, everyone had a friendly, tail-wagging dog.

People kept stopping to chat with us. People were out walking their tail-wagging dog or riding their grapevining horses. Four older women were driving “the strip” in a golf-cart, cat-calling at us whenever they passed. Eldon and his father, who used to be Amish, stopped by and invited us to dinner. The campground and the people there made all the pain I had experienced on the bike that day worth it.

Fireworks were set to start at 9:30 p.m. I feel asleep at 8:30 and only slightly remember Eldon pulling up in his truck to invite us to watch them with him. I fell back to sleep listening to them go off.

Brooke

Yes, this is how we felt.

Paradise! Not a dry county!

The view out of Elizabethtown. Over the next hill is brimstone and fire.

Peanut.

Our next-door neighbors at Hayes Canyon.

The Land of Lincoln

2010-07-02T17:44:00.000-07:00

We are in Illinois! A state that is not Kentucky! I can not even begin to describe how happy this makes me. We’ve gotten really good at bike touring (meaning, we now have a plan for the day AND follow the map). (The later is veeerrrrry important in bike touring.)

Many years ago, my dad attempted to teach me how to read a map. In my infinite child-wisdom, all I can remember is sitting in the passenger seat sighing, “I just don’t understand.” I’m sure I quickly followed that up by, “This is stupid.”

Whelp, getting lost on the bike tour has been my come-upins. I am now following the old proverb, Measure twice, cut once. So now the actions of our day could be written out like an old telegraph:

Turn right onto US 27 STOP
(check map)
Turn left onto SR 753 STOP
(check map)
Turn left onto SR 152 STOP
(check map and then recheck map)

Reading, and I mean actually reading the map, is going fairly well. If the route heads north, we head north. Amazing.

So Dad, I’m sorry that I had that teenager attitude in the front seat of the old Cadillac. I promise that you have my full attention for the next life lesson you choose to teach.

Also, as I write this, Melissa and I are eating at a real live restaurant. This is a monumental occasion. Well . . . not really. The guys we met a few nights back at Rough River Falls told us of an amazing meal. Noodles, cream of mushroom soup and tuna. Brilliant. We bought the supplies for this meal yesterday and our mouths have been watering over it ever since.

We got to the camp site. We boiled the noodles. We dropped all the noodles on the forest floor.

“Save the ones on the top!” I yelled.

Seriously.

We.ate.noddles.off.the.forest.dirt.floor. But we were only able to save so many. So we were still hungry. So we had to go to the nearest restaurant.

Brooke

79.5 miles to Sebree, KY

2010-07-01T20:20:00.000-07:00

We had breakfast this morning . . . twice. Once at David and Sherry’s and the again, ten miles down the road.

Second Breakfast was where we met John. John’s from Portland, a high school teacher and really, really funny. He’s also fast. Really, really fast. He’s cycling East to West, (with minimal gear) so we set off to ride to the next stop together -- Sebree, Kentucky, 79.5 miles away.

Somewhere between Rough River Falls and Sebree, we spotted a green jersey up the road - Aidan from Ireland. Yesterday I had found a water bottle in the middle of the road. Knowing it was his, I picked it up and packed it on my bike, thinking there was probably no way I would be able to reunite him with his water bottle. Needless to say, he was very happy to see it.

We all rode to Sebree Baptist Church, where there is a shower, beds, kitchen . . . everything. Bob, the preacher, and his wife, Violet, invited us over for dinner. Fried green tomatoes, sweet potatoes, cole slaw, ice cream, fudge . . . . everything.

Bob and Violet told local legends for hours. About the first serial killers, pirates, men on horses sinking into the ground. It was really great. They’ve been hosting cyclists for years and can remember everyone who has passed through.

As we get through western Kentucky, the hills are getting easier, the dogs nicer, but we’ve entered chicken country. Nearly every farm we pass has a sign that reads ‘Tyson’ or ‘Purdue’. On those properties are long, sad, windowless buildings. Truckloads of chickens, crammed into small cages stacked on top of one another, pass us on the road. To make it worse, there is a town of 238 people, 10 miles down the road from where we are staying, called Slaughters.

Brooke

One frosty beer sent from heaven

2010-06-30T21:41:00.000-07:00

People are great! People do not suck! The people we meet on this trip never cease to amaze me. Their generosity, their encouragement, the stories they tell of their own lives, how they genuinely express their well wishes to us on their trip . . . and I could keep going. I have never connected to complete and total strangers in this way before, so forgive me for my sentimental mushiness. Also, I’m exhausted, which tends to make me weepy.

Today we started off just fine. We’re getting good at this, finally. Ok, “good” is too strong of a word, but we both see a glimmer of hope that we can and will do this, and that is a great feeling!We woke up early and did the usual; tent breakdown, stuff away our sleeping bags, fire up the camp stove to make coffee and oatmeal, and then hit the road.

Don’t get me wrong, we are still dealing with the chronic miseries that are the Kentucky hills. These are hills of an alternate universe. I’m not exaggerating, they are tough like they have a secret form of gravity unknown to the rest of the entire planet. But, the good news is that it is getting easier simply because I’ve gotten used to the fact that I’m going to go 4.5 miles per hour up these hills, and that the way it is. I’ve gotten out of road bike racer mentality, and evolved into bike tourist mentality.

On the Terrifying Dog Chase front-the dogs have gotten smaller, cuter, and lazier. Fortunately, it is becoming less and less of an issue, as we make our way west.

And, on the the highlights of the day! First one on my list is my free beer! We pulled into this little country general store about two miles out from where we thought we might camp for the night. We ordered a grilled cheese sandwich, and then I promptly blurted out, “is there anywhere I can buy beer around here?” to which I received a deadpan look, and the woman sadly said, “honey, your in a dry county.” Bummer, I thought.

But, like an angel from heaven, when she brought out our sandwich, she also brought two frosty cold mugs of perfect delicious beer. It brought tears to my eyes. Greedily, I thought, Brooke has never drank a beer in her life, so more for me! Not so. Brooke actually chugged that beer, and loved it. Now, that is a transformation if there ever was one.

The lady also asked us if we’ve ever had fried green tomatoes. We hadn’t. She fried us up some, and they were amazing. Semi beer buzzed, and full of greasy food, we took off for our campground.In typical Melissa and Brooke fashion, we felt lost and decided to pull in to a little corner store and ask for directions. The man we asked, (Dave) actually invited us back to his place to stay. He said he was also hosting seven young guys from Eastern Kentucky University who were cycling West to East. We declined at first, but luckily he passed us on the road again, and practically insisted we come to his place. So, we did.

Dave hooked us up. First, he has a beautiful summer home on a lake. We immediately changed into our bathing suits and dove in to the water. When we got out, we were offered showers, which as a self contained bike tourists, a warm shower is something you never decline. I’m guessing we were offered the shower for Dave and his wife, Sherry’s, comfort just as much as our own. We weren’t smelling too great at that point.

When the other cyclist arrived, they told us all about their trip, and what parts were hardest for them. These guys are doing their bike tour to raise money for Alzheimer's disease, and they were pretty amazing. They have a SAG wagon, which makes doing this trip much easier. They are cruising along at 80-miles a day. And, as if all of this wasn’t perfect enough, his wife offered to let us do our laundry. Dave cooked dinner, we ate tons, and we slept in his living room.

Melissa

43 miles to Hodgenville, KY

2010-06-29T14:27:00.000-07:00

Racing the rain to Bardstown, KY

2010-06-28T16:12:00.000-07:00

Last night I woke up to the sound of Melissa’s frustrated and whimpering sounds. She was half way out the tent and half asleep, trying in vein to zip the fly closed. It was storming. Bad. The wind was ripping through the shelter we had pitched our tent in. Ripping though so much so, that the sides of the tent were lifting off the ground.

“The tent’s going to blow away,” she cried when I asked her what she was doing.

I told her that I highly doubted the wind could lift the tent, with a 150-pound woman inside, off the ground and down the road. I finally got her back in the tent. But I kept waking up. Because, it was a really bad storm. I was scared. I think we were both scared that a tornado was on the way.

We had checked the weather the day before, and saw that it was supposed to rain all day. When we woke up, the sky was fairly clear. We packed up the tent as quickly as possible and hit the road.

We didn’t want to get stuck in Springfield another day. We had been advised and told by too many people in that small town that, ‘we’d better be packing’. And, on top of that, whenever we asked a local if there was anything in the town to do, they would all reply, “uhhhh, there’s fast food . . . .”

So we raced the rain to Bardstown, about 24 miles away. Thankfully we beat it by about two hours.

Brooke

Riding out the storm in Springfield, KY

2010-06-27T12:59:00.000-07:00

Happy Anniversary

2010-06-26T14:24:00.000-07:00

I met Melissa at Roll:, a bike shop in Columbus, Ohio. I was an employee; she had stopped in on a chilly fall morning to buy leg warmers before a long bike ride.

I was smitten. I remember everything about the interaction -- her voice, her hair, her stance, the way she contemplated which brand of leg warmer to buy, her arms moving like a scale. I sold them to her and I watched her drive away.

Months later, by chance, she started working at Roll:, too. We worked together on Saturdays. Saturdays quickly became my favorite day of the week. I completely fell for her during a bike ride, our first ever bike ride together.

Yesterday, while pushing our bikes up a hill, somewhere between Kirksville and Bryantsville, Kentucky, we realized that today was our two-year anniversary. So we are spending the day not sweating, not getting chased by dogs, not cursing endless uphills.

We’re taking it easy at The Harrodsburg Festival of Books & Arts, listening to book readings and acoustic guitar playing. We’ve stored our bags at a hotel and we’re acting like civilized human beings, without bike shorts or bike cleats. We’ve spent most of the day chatting to local authors and eating ice cream at an old drugstore turned fudge shoppe.

Or relationship began on a bike ride and is still going strong as we pedal our way across the country. So, here’s to Melissa, the most wonderful person I have ever met. The girl who I once sold leg warmers to, without ever knowing her name. And I’m sure those leg warmers are packed very nicely somewhere in those panniers.

Brooke

An awesome little girl let us crash her private pool party. The perfect end to the perfect day.

Kentucky rotts know how to eat

2010-06-25T19:20:00.000-07:00

Rottweilers in Kentucky eat well. These random dog chases have me on high alert and the hills are bringing me to my knees. In terms of my list of worries, the skirmishes with the dogs are the at the top, the hills are a distant second.

I knew it would be like this in Kentucky, and at the start of the trip I ridiculously hoped that after the first few dog encounters maybe I’d relax a little about it. That’s not what happened, instead i’m constantly revved up waiting for an attack. And you never know when it is going to happen. So, in the absence of a crystal ball, I’m forever listening for the slight jingle their collars make when they lift their ears at the sound of us coming.

From the moment I hear the jingle of the collar, the scene escalates into rapid fire round of ferocious barks and then it’s all a blur. Usually, Brooke is ahead of me. She’s tipped them off, but it’s me they see as the sitting duck. I pedal, my heart explodes, I scream at them. Someone recommended yelling, “get off the couch” at them, like that would throw them into a tailspin and they would slink away. These dogs probably growl their owners off the couch.

These dogs do whatever they want to. In my absolute panic, I haven’t been able to get that particular command out, I just scream “No”, and I curse and I plead “don’t make me mace you.” They come at you full throttle, and they are big. I view them as fast linebackers that could knock you and your bike over in one tackle, and then tear your leg off. I just brace myself and accept the inevitable. Thankfully, they do loose steam. They peter out, after about 200 feet. So far, we’ve outrun them.

On another note, the road we were riding crumbled a few days ago, and a colossal chunk of it fell off down the side of a cliff. Jagged parts of the double yellow line were suspended above the other half of the road lying twenty feet below. We pedaled up to the washout, and pushed our bikes carefully between the edge of the cliff and the various backhoes.

This road was on a enormous hill, so once we got off the bikes, we couldn’t really get the momentum to get back on, so we pushed up the rest of the way, which likely took 15 minutes. After a bike push up a hill that steep, your thirst is unquenchable. Thank god for camelbaks and electrolyte pills!

Melissa

Vacation Bible School in Kirksville

2010-06-24T17:34:00.000-07:00

Headline: We made it out of Berea!

Twelve miles out of Berea (with no turning back), we saw a water tower in the distance. Another town! That does not go by the name of Berea!

We pedaled straight into Kirksville, KY, a small town that was nearly devastated by a tornado last year, and stopped at the Baptist church to fill up on water.

Feeling good about ourselves and our supreme map reading ability and good-fortune to be out of Berea, we continued on. Around curves, up and down hills, following the highway as it turned into a narrow country blacktop, all while maintaining a pace of about 14 miles-per-hour.

I was in the lead, Melissa behind, passing a house where I could hear dogs barking -- which wasn’t unusual, almost every home that we pass has a barking dog. Then I hear Melissa shouting, “Pedal! Pedal!” and I see her fly past in a blaze of light. I glanced over my shoulder and saw the largest german shepherd I have ever seen chasing after her, with FOUR other german shepards in tow.

Breathless and terrified, we stopped at the next house. There we consulted the maps trying to figure out how much longer we would be on this road.

Ummm . . . . maybe we should have been concerned when the highway turned into a blacktop. Maybe we should have glanced at the map when we saw no other people, biking or driving. Realizing we were possibly completely lost, with the GPS not working, we finally saw a passing car.

When we asked were County Road 1295 was, the road that we have been looking for, the road that we needed to turn right on, the woman driving gave us one of those I-hate-to-break-it-to-you looks and the child, yes, CHILD, in the passenger seat laughed.

“Oh, honey, you're far away from that. You’ll be gettin’ your exercise in today, that’s for sure.”

Yep, County Road 1295 was BEFORE Kirksville. We weren't even supposed to enter Kirksville. We were just so stupidly excited to reach another town that we didn’t think.

So, back to Kirksville we went. In silence. Feeling a little less then chipper. Walking as quietly as possible pass the german shepherds. We stopped at the same church to use the same water fountain. The secretary working at the church actually invited us to stay for the night so that we could attend there Vacation Bible School. But we needed to get moving. We’d lost 20 miles getting lost and we had 34 miles to cover before our next stop.

As we got ready to leave the church, we heard grumbling. In the distance the sky was dark. It hadn‘t rained on us two nights before even though the sky looked the same, so we hit the road. Anyway, the clouds seemed to be moving fast in the opposite direction.

Not five miles later, the sky opened up. It poured. We were drenched within seconds. It was only 2 p.m. but it seemed as though it was 9 p.m. And the worst part? We were on a curvy road with no shoulder. Every time I heard a car coming in the distance, my whole body tightened. I was really afraid that no one would be able to see us or even stop if they could see us.

Melissa made the executive decision to turn back. Back to Kirksville . . . again.

So we’re spending the night at the Kirksville Baptist Church. It’s amazing. Hot shower, laundry, full kitchen, air conditioning. And Bible School starts at 6 p.m. The people attending the Bible School were beyond kind to us tonight. It was such an interesting night, and we met a little boy named Aaron, who lifted our spirits because he was hilarious and as he says "I ain't been scared since I was one year old".

Brooke

Berea . . . still.

2010-06-23T17:32:00.000-07:00

Today we rode . . . 4.27 miles! Yes, 4.27. I didn’t misplace the decimal point.

Why’d we stay in Berea another night? Because we had a really nice, donated hotel waiting for us (Comfort Inn & Suites) and we couldn’t bear the thought of giving it up. So we took today, our THIRD day, as a rest day.

We woke up to a blazing hot tent and sat in the blazing hot sun and made breakfast. After sweating gallons, we spotted the campground shelter and proceeded to move everything there. We did yoga, repacked our bags, and hit the road.

First stop, Walmart. Second stop, Berea College. We sat under a tree and read. And that’s it. Then we got on our bikes and biked 2.13 miles back to the hotel. And that’s really it.

So, tomorrow! Tomorrow, perhaps we will leave Berea!

Brooke

Sufferfest Berea

2010-06-22T21:30:00.000-07:00

On our first day, we hilariously ended up right back where we started. Literally, you can see the glowing sign of the hotel we stayed in last night from the picnic table on which I type. It’s glow will probably keep me awake tonight while I lay in my tent, but hell this is an adventure!

We didn’t make it to Natural Bridge State Park, which is fine. We got a little turned around. Truthfully-we were crazy for thinking that we should go ahead and deviate off our trusty, easy to understand, and made especially for bicycling maps from Adventure Cycling.

But, here’s the story. Riding from the hotel, was more like plunging head on onto something like the indie 500 race track. Picture the Atari game Frogger, then substitute two bikers crossing with their loaded touring bikes. That’s what we looked like, as we walked our bikes, then paused in a clear lane, took a few more precarious steps into the turning lane, and finally got across this 4 lane highway.

The bikes were loaded down and predictably hard to control. We headed off, and rode for about an hour when I finally snapped out of denial, and acknowledged that my front derailleur was not shifting at all. I was stuck in the big ring! On hills! With 500 pounds of gear weighing me down like an anchor. So, after pulling over, sweating a lot, and staring at the unmovable derailleur, we decided to head back to Berea.

Fifteen dollars later, and we were back in business but it was getting late. Thanks to the Appalachia bike store and the two very bearded young guys who pointed out that I was carrying too much stuff while they fixed my bike. I could have done without the commentary at that point, but the bike shifted great on the way out of Berea, AGAIN!

We were determined to try to get to The Natural Bridge. Natural Bridge Ahoy! And so, to that end, we pedaled out to the middle of nowhere Kentucky.

The hills were unridable and pitiless, so we pushed and pushed the bikes while walking beside them, sweat dripping off my elbows and running into my eyes. It was more of a bike push than a bike ride kind of day. There was nobody around, except cows and flies. However, we continued on, mostly because nobody wanted to be the one to call it quits. Brooke was using her most optimistic voice, meanwhile her face read “Oh F*C&&$^%!. We pedaled on.

Finally, off in the distance I spotted someone who appeared to be checking a mailbox. I pedaled like a mad woman hoping I could reach him before he disappeared into the sanity and comfort of his air conditioned home. Thankfully, he was about 95-years-old, and he was moving slow. So, I asked for some directions.

“Where Y’all headin,” he asked. To which I replied, “Natural Bridge Park” as casually as if I’d been asking for directions to the local library. His eyes smiled at me, but immediately they were overcome with fear and concern for my life. Once he knew I was serious, he laughed, and then said, “Ya’lls three counties away...” So, back to Berea again! I have to say, after all of that, I am impressed with my patience. I’m not known for my cool, calm and collected personality, so this was a good test! It eventually became funny, and we laughed and pedaled, passing the same goofy mailboxes, and the now familiar junk along the road.

We arrived at a campground, and miraculously we found it without having any problems at all. Just as we pulled up, relieved (not at all smug or cocky) that we did something right for once, I noticed the sky looking gloomy and dark. Great! So, we hiked off to the campsite in a huff trying to beat out the impending storm. “Hiked” is too strong a word, since hiking is something you generally do in the woods. We walked, and pushed our respective balls and chains.

Our “site” was astonishingly located up a big hill covered in dead brown grass beneath three crosses! I was feeling so sorry for myself because of Sufferfest Berea I thought I might as well just hop right on up there, and Brooke could use the tent stakes as nails!

Thunder was going off in the distance, and the scary clouds accompanying the thunder were rolling in! We whipped out the tent, and it’s various foreign parts and dohickies. We’d set it up that one time in our bedroom, and that went well, so we didn’t practice setting it up Ever Again. Not too smart. But, now, it was showtime and I was trying so hard to be positive! I was thinking, “forget about the past and what you should have done to make your present more bearable, live in the now!” “be present, even though it’s miserable and kind of scary!” Brooke says I was crying, I don’t think I was, but okay.

I was flinging tent stakes, and pounding them in the hard dead grass with my bike shoe, while Brooke was trying to match up the zippers and clips, when she wasn’t tripping over my tent stakes. We looked mentally deranged. We’d used up our patience stores for the day. Alas, we got the tent up and got our stuff inside it. It was still hot as hell, and by this point the layer of filth on our bodies went sweat, sunscreen, sweat, bugspray, sweat.Now it was time to fire up the camp stove and cook dinner! We were so exhausted, even trying to find the campstove and food took too much energy. Our campstove is great. It’s all the rage with the minimalist Johnny Wilderness types who like to carry gear sparingly. But, the thing shoots a soccer ball sized flame up towards your head when you light it, and the flame is white hot as the sun. So, the stove, once lit and under control heats things nicely, it boils water like nothing I’ve ever seen. But it scares us. We cringe and tip toe around it. We try to get a safe distance from all things that we would like to keep, rather then see go up in flames. We got the thing lit, and had a manageable flame, and I cooked up some black bean and rice. It tasted great, and we got to eat it as the sun was going down and the sky was turning pink.
We’re loving the challenge, and life is so unpredictable! The last thing I have to say on the subject of bike touring is that it will make you eat like you’ve never eaten. While Brooke wasn’t looking, I dug my sweaty fingers into the peanut butter jar just because I was that desperate for sustenance and didn’t have the energy to hunt for my knife, which at that point would have been like finding a needle in a haystack.

Melissa

Berea, KY!

2010-06-21T20:21:00.000-07:00

We made it to Berea! Albeit, we were driven here in a car, WE MADE IT TO BEREA. Yes, in caps, because this was a hard fought battle. This morning we left Youngstown, Ohio, stopped by Columbus, Ohio, to clean our apartment and drop off the keys . . . and now we are here! Yeah!

My final thoughts for the first day (um, although we have not even sat on our bikes yet), include the things we should have done WAY earlier:

Load the bikes. With everything. Possibly we should have done this months ago. Instead, I chose to make piles throughout the apartment -- in two different rooms no less -- of all the things to pack. I just spent the last three hours (here in Berea) attempting to close the panniers. And I’m not even sure I have everything I need.

This is a huge no-no in the bike touring world. Many people are probably wagging their tongues and pursing their lips right now. I should be unpacking and re-packing them right now. And here I sit, typing, glancing occasionally at my panniers, in disgust.

Begin sleeping in my sleeping bag much earlier. I’ve slept in it for the past three nights. It’s awful.

When I bought my sleeping bag six months ago, I must have gotten tongue-tied or misspoke or something. Because the salesman at the camping store did not sell me a sleeping bag. No, what I have in my possession is a sleeping bad.

It’s loud. And hot. And it’s a bag. In which I must sleep. Every time I move it emits a horrible noise. On the sound spectrum it is somewhere between Jet Engine Overhead and Nails On Chalk Board.

But . . . tomorrow we get to bike! Tomorrow we’re headed east for 50 miles to Natural Bridge State Park.

Brooke

Welp, I'm going on the bike tour now!

2010-06-18T20:15:00.000-07:00

My use of the English language has deteriorated into a few words and phrases (like the time I couldn’t stop saying “No Doubt!”). Everything we have done in the past week has led me to proclaim, “Welp, I’m going on the bike tour now!” Many of the things we did entered the There’s-No-Turning-Back-Now chapter of the bike tour.

This is how it went . . .I cut my hair. OFF. “Welp, I’m going on the bike tour now!”

The length of my hair is now measured in millimeters. My hair looks like it has sustained some serious wind tunnel testing. It also looks very surprised.

When I was little, my mom once suggested I cut my hair into a bob. When I got home from the salon, I took about four showers that night, thinking I could somehow stretch my hair into a longer length. Welp, I’m also here to report that that method still does not work.
(Although the lack of hair does make packing for the bike tour much easier. I no longer need a comb, or hair product, or conditioner, or . . . a mirror.)

I canceled all the utilities and changed my address with the post office. “Welp, I’m going on the bike tour now!”

We loaded a 17-foot U-Haul and I drove it across the entire state of Ohio. “Welp, I’m going on the bike tour now!”The loading and unloading brought many pinched fingers, strained muscles and a fall down a small flight of stairs (surprisingly, the faller was not me!). But everything is now successfully in storage. Yeah!

Sssssiiiiggggghhhh. That’s one huge sigh. This past seven days has been one big ball of stress and nonstop doing. I’m happy to say that we are leaving in two short days!

Brooke

Drive U-Haul, lose hair.

You're down, then you're up

2010-06-12T12:20:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was a roller coaster ride of emotion for me.

In the morning, I left my cat with her foster mom, Melissa Corliss. I’d have to say that this was the hardest thing I have had to do thus far in preparation for leaving. Melissa C. is one of the most amazing people I have ever met and I know Agnes will have a good home with her . . . but I’m worried that Agnes is confused and upset. If you are not a cat person, that last sentence probably has you rolling your eyes, but I am a cat person and I KNOW Agnes misses me. I really, really love cats.

Sometimes I can be the quintessential Cat Lady. When I was little I never wanted to be a doctor or teacher or princess. When I grew-up, I wanted to be a Cat Lady. Have I mentioned that I love cats? To illustrate that point, let me share with you one little known fact about me: my most favorite Christmas present ever was a subscription to Cat Fancy. Each month, I would tear the cat/kitten centerfold out and tape it on my closet door.

Yesterday was also my last day of work. As I sit here and type this post, I am unemployed. It’s both a little frightening and exhilarating. My co-workers had a Going Away Party for me last night. Their generosity and kindness blew me away. When I got home I read the card they had given me, and their kind words made me cry. The people you work with become family. To everyone at Nationwide, I will miss you more than you can believe and I am grateful to have met each and every one of you.

Brooke

Hello, anxiety!

2010-06-09T16:03:00.000-07:00

For the past week I have looked like an insane asylum escapee. My eyes have been popping out of my head. I continuously have a look of panic smeared all over my face. I even, all of a sudden, have heartburn. And maybe hives.

My ‘To Do List’ has suddenly become a scroll and I have become one of those people who always exclaim in a sigh, “I’m soooooooo busy.” I hate those people! And now I am in their ranks. It’s become all I say when someone asks me how the bike tour planning is coming.

And every so often (or every second of the past week) I get that feeling. My heart pounds, I find it hard to shallow past the lump in my throat, my palms get sweaty. I suddenly feel like there are steal rods running up and down the sides of my neck. The space behind my eyes feels electric and heavy . . . Ah ha! It's my old friend anxiety. Well hello!

The ridiculous part of my anxiety visits? I’m creating them! All by myself. Last night I had a meltdown about the bike boxes we need to pack up our other bikes. “We NEED bike boxes! And we HAVE to get them tonight! Like, NOW!” And the thing is, we don’t need bike boxes. I don’t even know what I am talking about most of the time.

And then I have freak-outs about underwear. Yes, un-der-wear. How many should I pack? What kind? When will I wash them? See, completely created drama.

I worry. I've always worried. When I was little I worried my teachers wouldn't like me, that my pets would run away, that I would fall in front of everyone in a movie theater if I got up and used the bathroom. Now I worry about the unknowns that come along with the bike tour. And boy, have I created some doozies in my head.

But I do have Melissa. I'm sentimental and a pack rat, which inevitably has caused me to save a lot of text messages from Melissa. I keep coming back to one in particular, reading it and re-reading it whenever worry and fear seem to envelope the place I sit. It reads: "I can't imagine my life without you. As long as we are together, we can do anything we want. I can't wait for our bike trip."

Neither can I.

Brooke

Finally, our first ride

2010-06-05T15:38:00.000-07:00

Shakedown ride number one – done. Melissa and I rode the bikes (almost) fully loaded. We set off from Italian Village and headed for the Olentangy Bike Path, where I immediately rode into 2070 and was transported into the 90-year-old me. We had started off slow (or at least I did) and everyone who we met on the path seemed to be going a million miles per hour. Slow down! Where’s your helmet? Hmph, kids these days! I think a girl on a tricycle passed me, but it was all a blur, so I can’t be sure.

And then, miraculously, it was a piece of cake. We rode 10 miles, turned around to head home and then it stared to rain. It not only rain, it poured. It may have been one of my most favorite bike rides ever.

Before we had even started the ride, before leaving our apartment, I stopped at the door to grab a couple of bucks – just in case either one of us got a flat. You know, so that I could pay someone to do it for me. And then I remembered that in 16 short days, Melissa and I will be riding our bikes . . . across the country . . . completely self-contained . . . . Hmmm, maybe possibly I should be ready to fix my own flat should it occur. And it will.

Brooke

Three weeks to go (gulp)

2010-06-01T18:42:00.000-07:00

Wow. Did another weekend just fly by? We're now THREE WEEKS away from our departure date. I'm restless. My nights of sleeping are gone and have been replaced by tossing and turning, powered by my reeling mind. I can't stop thinking about everything that needs to get done and everything I need to do. We've been planning for so long, but there are so many things that are packed into the last few weeks. Packing up the entire apartment, changing our address, finding health insurance, opening a joint checking account . . . . And it's hard to get organized when it looks like a bomb went off in your apartment. In addition to all the boxes laying around, stuff for the bike tour is sprawled out in just about every room. In all this chaos, for some reason I have a hard time believing that this is actually happening. This bike tour has always been so far on the horizon and now it is 20 days away!

Mixed in with all the packing and bike part installing (for the record, installing mirrors on your bike really sucks and is not easy and is way hard) I did this weekend, I actually got something huge accomplished. Melissa and I have been accepted on two WWOOFing farms! "WWOOFing", which stands for World Wide Opportunities on Organic Farms, is something that I really wanted to do on the bike tour. If you don't know what it is, you should really check it out (www.wwoofusa.org). We heard about it from our friends Jill and Ryan, and for that I am forever greatful. Basically, you volunteer on organic farms and in return, WWOOF hosts offer a warm place to stay, food and the opportunity to learn about organic lifestyles and sustainable living. So, while in Missouri, we will be volunteering on a small farm that has goats (!?), calves, sheep, chickens and produce (man, I'm excited for the goats! For some reason, I view them as really cute, sweet kittens.). In Colorado, we will be staying on a 60 acre farm that has chickens, cattle, lamb and a very large vegetable production. I cannot wait to get to these farms. I'm looking forward to the hard work and being part of these people's family, even if it is for just a short time. Hopefully we will add a couple more farms to the list.

Brooke

The countdown begins

2010-05-24T16:19:00.000-07:00

Four weeks. Melissa and I are leaving in four (!?) weeks. We still have a few loose ends to tie and this past weekend was a big one for us. Some of the more important things we accomplished:

We cooked on the camp stove twice. And we both still have both of our eyebrows! And . . . this one is very important . . . Melissa figured out the "perfect grind" for the french press that we are taking.
I planned out ("planned" being a very loose word) the first couple weeks of the tour, looking at where we might camp each night. I realized biking across the country is going to take a long time! (Okay, I already knew this, but actually seeing it on paper was a different beast all together.)
We then (because of the aforementioned) had a small melt down about our June 21 departure date, wondering if we should be leaving earlier. Will we make it to Yellowstone before the roads become impassable from snow?! (Mmmmm, I guess we didn't actually accomplish anything here -- unless night sweats count.)
I also put together a first aid kit. So . . . if we do get hypothermia and frostbite while in Montana, at least we will have some antibacterial cream and Band-Aids to dress it.

Brooke

Bicycle Travel Network interview

2010-05-19T16:08:00.000-07:00

Below are our answers to the interview questions asked by the Bicycle Travel Network. They are conducting interviews with each of their scholarship winners as a way to promote bicycle travel. We'll post the link as soon as it is up!

THE PLAN-We are using Adventure Cycling maps for our entire journey. Because we are first time bike tourists (read: clueless and nervous), we’ve chosen to be driven (gasp!) in a car (double gasp!) to our starting point on the TransAmerican Bicycle route. So, we are being driven from Columbus, Ohio to Berea, Kentucky, where we will start the TransAmerican Bicycle Route and head west. When we reach Missoula, Montana, we hope to do a loop into Canada, around Lake Louise. The Canada loop is contingent on timing and weather. After the jaunt into Canada, we plan to continue on the TransAmerican Bicycle Route to Oregon to stay with friends. If we skip Canada, it will be straight to Oregon to see our friends and their new baby boy. From there, we may go north up the Pacific Coast Route, to Vancouver, because Vancouver is awesome. On the way back down the coast we hope to meet up with another old friend in Seattle and head back south down the coast with him. After we reach the southern most part of the Pacific Coast Route, we are somewhat open to settling down somewhere for awhile, or if our financial situation looks good, and we have the desire, we may keep touring. We also are considering sticking around on the West Coast for the remaining months of winter and taking the Northern Tier Route back home to the Midwest in the spring. During our travels, we will be blogging about our experiences, good and bad, at www.theroadbeneathus.blogspot.com. It will be our main means of keeping in contact with friends and family. And we definitely hope to be a source of information for other want-to-be bicycle tourists!

THE ROUTE-We chose the TransAmerican Bicycle Route for our first tour because it goes through so many amazing parts of the country. A major plus about doing the TransAm Route is that it goes through Yellowstone and Glacier National Park -- two places we are both interested in visiting. Also, this particular route appears to have sections that go through small town America, which we both agree will be conducive to meeting lots of people while touring. We want interesting experiences, and we want to fall easily into conversations with with the people we see along the way, and this route seems best suited to that goal. The last major reason we chose this route is because it is heavily traversed, and we want the security of knowing that it is likely we will see other bike tourists along the way.

WHY BY BIKE?-We are bikers through and through, so a bike tour seemed like such a natural choice for us. We both bike commute to work daily, we race road bikes, cyclocross bikes and do triathlons, so doing a bike tour was appealing because it involved riding bikes. In addition, it is obviously less expensive than driving across the country. Plus, the idea of carrying everything you need to live on your bike, and going at your own pace was really, really appealing to us. We know from bike commuting to work daily that you see more, feel more and are more a part of your environment on a bike, so it seems like a great way to see the country.

WHAT WE WANT TO GAIN- We are both hoping to see if there really are other possibilities in life and alternative ways of living. We want to experience a time in our lives that doesn’t revolve around 9-5 jobs, material possessions and the mundane tasks of everyday life. Practically speaking, we want to gain touring experience and camping experience, and we want these hobbies to eventually come naturally to us, so much so that we’ll feel comfortable heading out on smaller trips without such extensive planning. We hope to be enlightened to a different way of living. We also look forward to meeting new people, and living a life that is unplanned and new everyday. Also, I (Melissa) am hoping that possibly if I remain open to different opportunities, that I will find more direction in my career.

PERSONAL FEARS-Yes, we certainly do have a few personal fears regarding the upcoming bike trip. We (OK, Melissa mostly) have a somewhat irrational fear that we will end up featured on a Dateline NBC episode because someone found our bodies chopped up hidden under a drainage ditch in the middle of nowhere. While I know the aforementioned scenario is crazy and irrational, we do have fears regarding personal safety. However, we both understand that time and time again people do this route and have nothing but great things to say about the wonderful people they met along the way. Another major fear is rooted in finances, or lack thereof. Since we quit our jobs to do the tour, we are concerned about finding new jobs when the trip is over. We have been relatively good at keeping these concerns at bay, but the fear of having a really rough time settling back down post bike tour, definitely weighs heavily on our minds at times. Predictably, we are also afraid of bears in Yellowstone, and making a major camping mistake, like causing a fire or running out of water at a really terrible time. The fear of getting horribly lost is not a major fear, but it is a nagging fear, especially when combined with the vision of being lost in a torrential downpour with lightening and thunder going off like bombs all around.

BIGGEST HURDLE- The biggest hurdle was actually getting to the point where we decided to quit our jobs to do this. It was a decision we didn’t take lightly. It is scary to outright quit a job that you have come to rely on, but we wanted this bike tour to be a once in a lifetime, life changing experience and we didn’t want to be held back by work related time constraints. So, because we wanted the trip to be epic, and because for it to actually be life changing, we decided to set our start date out for a little over a year and save, save, save money. That’s how we overcame our fear of quitting our jobs. We just looked hard at what we really wanted out of life right now, and decided that 9-5 jobs, and household chores and mundane tasks simply wasn’t what we wanted. We also knew that to do what we wanted it would be necessary to have some money saved in the bank, so we cut corners, stopped splurging on material things, and lived very thriftily over the last year. It came down to the fact that we wanted adventure more than security. Ultimately, now, post resignation from our jobs and the trip looming in the distance, the biggest hurdle seems to be avoiding the temptation to worry incessantly about finding a new job when the bike tour is over. To deal with this, we try to stay present, and we try to avoid getting caught up in worrying about the future. Because really, who knows anything about the future. It sounds stupid and cliche, but focussing on the positives, not the negatives, goes a long way when you are doing something like this.

USING THE SCHOLARSHIP- The book we won is a lodging book, so we will use that whenever needed (which will most likely be all the time). We’re grateful to have it, because we do worry about having difficulty finding lodging/campsites with ease. The mirrors that were generously provided, will be put on our touring bikes.

LOOKING FORWARD TO MOST-We’re looking forward to actually getting into the routine of touring. Most of all, we want to feel amazed and invigorated by our surroundings and nature. We want to experience genuine moments of freedom and not have a set schedule. We look forward to dealing with whatever gets thrown our way and becoming more self reliant. The idea of bike touring with the bare minimum, not really knowing where you will be tomorrow or the day after, is what we look forward to.

Friendship

2010-05-18T16:58:00.000-07:00

The past weekend was one of the last friend filled crazy beer swigging Brouhahas I will have the pleasure of experiencing for some time. At age 33, I cherish the familiarity of the friends I made in my 20‘s. They know me, and I know them inside and out. After countless hilarious shenanigans, goofy stunts at happy hours, botched relationships, laughs and tears, broken bones, and most recently dolly rides ending in stitches, these people are irreplaceable to me. There is so much history here. The weekend was bittersweet for me, because I know I’m leaving my friends and my life here behind. Change is such a mixed bag. It’s a blizzard of mixed emotions and inconsistent feelings. I know the challenging episodes involved in change will push me to explore my life with a renewed honesty. I want to discover the useful unknown truths about myself,.... blah blah. I could blather on here about all of the exhilarating experiences I’m sure to have on this journey, but it won’t take away the pain of change, the fear of loss. I miss my friends already, I don’t want new friends.

Melissa

Giving notice

2010-05-12T11:26:00.000-07:00

I told myself I wasn't going to do it, but I did. Twice. I cried. And then I cried some more.

I gave my work notice on Monday. And although I am excited about the bike tour, I cried before I could even get the words out. Nationwide has been a really great company to work for. I like the people I work with, the people I work for; I like my desk, I like the gym in the basement; I like the company's Green initiatives and I like their involvement in the community; I like the security guards and I like the people who work in the coffee shop -- the list could go on forever because I like a lot about Nationwide. This was also really hard for me because I hate disappointing people. The people I work for have given me a lot of opportunity and knowledge and I know I could have a very successful future at Nationwide. I could easily be a happy Nationwider for life.

I spent the better half of Monday morning with a stomach ache and hives. I nervously paced in front of my bosses office, trying to work up the nerve to let him know of my plans. When I finally did, I was nervous and uneasy and I could barely tell him what I wanted to say, what I had practiced saying in front of the mirror for days. But Rod, the head of the department, was amazing. He gave me hope. He was genuinely happy for me and supportive. What I thought was going to be a horrible moment, ended up being a really awesome and motivating one.

It's scary quitting a job. It's especially scary when you don't have another job lined-up. I know I may have a really hard time finding employment in the future. I don't know what's going to happen. Admittedly, my palms get a little sweaty when I think about a future without a paycheck. But, on the other hand, my heart pounds a little bit harder when I think about all the things I will see and experience on the road.

Brooke

Beef Bus meets the Short North

2010-05-05T17:23:00.000-07:00

Yesterday Melissa and I loaded up the touring bikes and rode around town. This was for me, gulp, the first time I had ever ridden Beef Bus, my newly anointed bike. (I know, I'm very ashamed of this fact.). Before heading out the door, we packed our panniers with whatever we could find. For me this ended up being a couple of soft, fluffy towels. Let me say that again-- I loaded up my touring bike with Soft. Fluffy. Towels.

Now, let me also tell you this: Melissa and I live in a basement apartment, which means our front door is up a flight of seven steps. Normally before any bike ride, I would pick up my bike, put the top tube over my shoulder and merrily skip up those stairs and out the door without another thought. Yesterday, that was not the case. Yesterday I almost got a hernia or threw out my back, or both, trying to haul my fully loaded (with soft, fluffy towels) Beef Bus up the stairs. After some curse words, a light sweat and some "umphs" and "errs" I was outside. Yes, touring bikes are heavy.

If you have ever ridden a touring bike, you know that they are a completely different beast than a road bike. They are heavy and big and, well, loaded down. So I mounted the bike and began to gingerly pedal, but . . . it actually wasn't bad. It was fun. And it made me really excited. But I also realized that I need to get out on that bike a little more. I could feel the difference in my legs between this beef bus bicycle and my other lighter, snappier bikes within the first couple of minutes. And I could also see the difference. It's amazing how much you can see when you are riding at a slower pace. But that is the point isn't it? When you bike tour, you want to go slow. You want to see as much as you can. You want to slow down the pace -- and that is exactly what I am looking forward to.

Brooke

Taking risks

2010-05-02T16:48:00.000-07:00

On June 21, we are leaving on an adventure that we have been preparing for for over a year. When thinking back, we can’t pinpoint the moment the decision was made to go on the bike tour. Was it possibly a fleeting thought that stuck? Was it a grand discussion where we weighed the pros and cons? Regardless, we have been living and breathing this dream for almost a year now. Soon we will be quitting our jobs, packing up all of our belongings and departing on a self-sustained cross-country bike tour.

A lot of people think we have lost our minds. And you know what? It will be scary and if you let yourself dwell in negative thoughts, you can consume yourself in fear and talk yourself out of just about anything. But we want to do this BECAUSE it will be hard. Undeniably, some of it will be unbearable and ugly and not fun. But more often than not, there will be parts of our bike tour that will be so amazing and unplanned and beautiful.

Recently, this advice was given to us in an email, The people that think what you are doing is crazy are asleep. I’m not sure if the person who typed this was quoting someone else, or speaking from his heart, but it is something that I will repeat to myself while on the road and for the rest of my life.

What people don’t think about when we tell them about our bike tour is what we will find out about ourselves and the world while on our bikes, with the sky above us and the road beneath us.

2010-05-02T16:34:00.000-07:00

Welcome to The Road Beneath Us! Follow us on our cross-country bike tour, departing June 21, 2010.