When I look back on this entry years from now, it will look like I just left Prineville and ended up in Mitchell, easy as pie. The reality was a bit more…dusty. :)
A quick quiz, to get keep you on your toes. Which of the following things *did not* happen to me today:
A) Staying in a hostel owned by a man named Skeeter
B) Offered dinner by a wagon train of 50 odd horses and 6 or 7 wagons
C) Spent an hour at a BLM office trying to dodge a forest fire
D) Got eaten by a whale
Send your answers SASE prepaid to me, care of this TV station.
As I pedal through the wilderness, a question I often find myself asking myself is “Why am I doing this?” I don’t know all the answers, but one thing I realized as I biked towards Mitchell: on this day, at that time, Mitchell, OR represented the world to me. I was so excited to be in Mitchell I could shake myself. Every color of the buildings, every bite of my delicious onion rings was like a taste of delectable heaven. Last night, though, I ran into a couple who were on their 3rd anniversary trip and wanted to see the Painted Hills. They had a hard time getting through last night because of the fires. They were still in good spirits, but they obviously were a little unhappy to be in Mitchell, and I suddenly saw the town through their eyes: just a podunk place they had to put up with to get on through. So, I realized that the bike trip is a little like salt: you add it to things and they just taste better. On the bike, everything is magnified in importance. Happening upon a water spigot out in the woods is like a second coming of Jesus. Finding a hostel with a hot shower is like staying at the Grand Floridian. Things have meaning relative to our situation, and when your world is a bike seat and a set of handlebars, every color stands out just a little bit more.
I want to talk for a minute about the Pain Rotation. This is a phrase I came up with to describe an interesting phenomenon: the way pain moves through my body. Day 1 of the trip, my calves and quads were spasming. By day 2, they were fine, but my lower left back hurt like hell. Day 4, the back got better but my butt really started to hurt on one side. Then the other side. Although overall my body toughened up, I don’t think I’ve had a single day where there wasn’t an obvious weak link in my body. And what I realized is that life is kind of like that. The reason that the Buddhists preach being able to meditate in the middle of a busy highway is because they understand that ultimately, the pursuit of happiness is a bit like whack-a-mole; as soon as one problem is solved another crops up. What I think they miss, of course, is that the joy is in the journey, not the destination. It’s like the old joke: the best thing about beating your head against a wall is that it feels so good when you stop. I can honestly say that being able to alleviate pain is one of the best feelings in the world; having an ache and rubbing it out, that moment when your butt hurts and you stand up for a second on the pedals. Can’t have highs without lows.
So, the town of Mitchell is basically on fire. Wildfires are closing in from the west, and last night the firefighters lost, and the fire jumped the highway. Now all the roads back to the west are closed. I am so deliriously proud of myself right now. Sitting in Prineville yesterday, everybody - including people who should know, like the BLM - advised me to just stay put and wait it out. But if I had, if I’d hesitated, I would now be stuck in Prineville for quite a while and it might have threatened to derail the whole trip. I knew on this trip I would have at least one moment of truth - and I think that was it. My big test - and I passed! I’m here! Fuck yeah! Let’s do this thing.
Oh! By the way, my bike has a name now: Rocinante.
