Day 35 - On A Bus Someplace in North Dakota

Remember that “different direction” I hinted about a while back?  Well, here it is: I’m currently riding Greyhound Bus Lines from Missoula, MT to Buffalo, NY.  How’s that for a plot twist??  I spoke to a number of people who told me that, this late in the season, what I was about to ride into would be hot, dry, and most importantly, lonely because everyone has gone through already.  So I’m gonna Take It Easy, Take The Bus.  Believe it or not, this greyhound bus actually has A/C outlets and Wi-Fi!  I’m about to drive through Turah, MT, whatever the heck that is.  Some folks with matching jerseys are riding their bikes up a side road.  Part of me wishes I was with them, but I know my legs need a break.  It will take 47 hours to get to Buffalo, so I get at least 2 days off the bike.  I’m going to keep the blog going, though, because I will be getting back on the bike when I get to Buffalo.  I’ll be taking the ACA routes around Lake Erie, and then heading down to Allegheny State Park, where I used to vacation when I was a kid.  So the trip continues, just in a different form.  The only thing constant is change.

It’s weird to watch the sun set and know what it’s like to be down there on the road.   I keep looking at the spot that I would have been and imagining myself like a ghost, pedaling along.  I was starting to feel a weird sense of home being on the bike all day, like the trail had me covered.  It was in its way a bit of a dependable life, something you could count on.

Missoula was a pretty interesting place.  I’m not as big of a fan of the physical geography as, say, Bend.  It’s a little stark for me.  But I did like the people.  I met up with friends of friends that I’d never met who are in their early twenties and went to a party full of people even younger - some undoubtedly too old to drink.  I still felt like I fit in, but because I was so exhausted, I couldn’t really fully participate, and I ended up with 4 hours sleep that night.  I really admired Corwin - that was the boyfriend’s - attitude; both of them really.  They were so happy and eager to play hosts and be helpful; I appreciated it because I needed that, but also it reminded me of the importance of being good to guests.

As far as the “original trip” goes, I’m keeping the full original map up on Google Maps Engine as a reminder of how having a plan is awesome, and even better is having a plan and having the freedom to leave that plan in the dust.  My current line of thought is that I’d like to take next summer and do the rest of the trail from east to west; start in Virginia and go to Missoula, and do it during the “high season” so that I share the road with other people.  Perhaps even join up with a small tour group.  I definitely enjoyed this trip, but the best part was the people, and I’d like to meet even more of them next time.

One awesome thought, being out here “among the people”: now, I feel like If I choose the San Francisco high-powered life, I now know that I’m making a choice, and I can bail out whenever I like.  I’m not locked in.  I have seen the other side, and I can pick, and not feel like I’m missing out.

Day 34 - Missoula, MT (63.7 miles)

The thing I will take away from this trip is the feeling I had biking the last 20 miles downhill into Lolo, MT, trees on both sides, river on one side, and wind at my back.  Suddenly, I felt *alive*.  I felt eager to see what would happen next.  I’ll quote from Blue Highways:

“I had been a man who walks into a strange dark room, turns on the light, sees himself in an unexpected mirror, and jumps back. Now it was time to get on, time to see WHAT THE HELL IS NEXT.”

I realized that the universe was unfolding into a myriad of possibilities, and that I had been circling the drain of my disappointments.  I just got suddenly really excited to do everything, all number of things.  I swear as God and Montana is my witness I will never be bored again, and I am going to do whatever the hell I want (that doesn’t hurt other people), and if you don’t like it, well, tough.  I wish I had known before how genuinely excited I could be about life; I think I’ve felt this way when I was younger, but it’s been a long time and it’s hard to remember.  I want to do this, and that, and everything all at once.  Here’s a partial list:

Go back and get my Ph.D.  I’m not sure exactly in what, maybe in Cognitive Science or some sort of UX/Visual Design.  I want it to do something with computers or art or entertainment, but mostly with how people think. I had this idea bout exploring how using different programming languages changes the way people express themselves and the workplaces they construct, but that’s just one idea

Learn to surf

Take a self safari through Africa

Ride a motorcycle through New Zealand doing extreme sports

Go to the World Cup - maybe the one in Moscow?

Get my exercise certification and teach in a gym

Get a Golden Retriever (or maybe a Lab)

Whitewater rafting

Food cleanse

Ride a double century in a single day

Clean out my storage shed in Austin finally

Move to Iceland or Estonia or someplace and work

Live in Missoula or Bend or Madison or someplace like that - explore college towns

Hang gliding

Turning on to Highway 93 was a jarring affront of civilization after the 66 miles in the forest.  As I sit in this Pizza Hut, in Lolo, I know that I could turn my phone back on, but I haven’t.  I’m savoring the last few moments of it being just me.  Not exactly being alone, but being just me.  I know that soon I will have to wonder who’s reading my blog, or who likes my Facebook, I’ll have to find the Warmshowers host and check out the ACA office and generally be nice to people and care what they think of me, and I’m savoring this moment of it really just being me, and it being up to me what I want and where I go.  It’s not that I don’t care what other people think, it’s that I care way more what I think, and I’m going to be my own best friend, and make sure that I get what I want out of life.

Day 33 - Powell, ID (68.7 miles)

For the first day in my whole trip I find myself without much of anything to say.  Having made that decision about how to end this phase of the bike trip, I think a sort of quiet has settled over me.  I’m so ready to be done; I’m curious what the next stage will bring, and I’m really eager to get there.  Today was the most remote part of my trip; 66 miles through forest.  I met a few folks yesterday who were out riding on Highway 12, and they had either just started or were only out for a week or so.  I felt a certain sort of kinship with them, but I also felt a bit defensive, as if I wanted to say “you’re not *really* going on a bike ride”.  Last night I met a guy named Tom who used to be an intern for Google.  We were both inside the little lodge and he came over and just said “Touring cyclist?”  We had a wide-ranging conversation about computer science and philosophy - the kind people used to have in wooden lodges in the woods, and I guess they still do.  I recognized some of myself in him; we both talked about how CS and such were just so spiritually unfulfilling, and how we didn’t know what we wanted to do with our time.  I was a bit older than him and I think he was looking for me to tell him that everything was going to be OK, and I couldn’t do that.  At one point he said “Man, I was hoping for better news.”  But better to know now!  What struck me about our conversation, though, was at the very end, just as we were about to get up, I asked him where his companions were (he said he had traveled here with 1 friend and 2 other guys me’d met along the way).  He said “Well, they’re out in the camping area over there, but it’s my birthday, so I thought I’d get myself some cobbler”.  Suddenly I got really sad for him.  He didn’t look sad at all, but then with his type (stoic), it’s hard to know; maybe he really wasn’t sad, maybe he didn’t care about birthdays.  But I was sad for him.  I wished him a happy birthday, and I wondered at the sort of people that travel together through hardships like the ones you see on the road, but then don’t bother to celebrate birthdays together.  I guess that’s OK if it’s OK with him, but that’s not how I want to spend *my* birthdays, or how I want to related to people

I also ran into a military couple out at the lodge fire last night (which none of the other cyclists came to either).  They had grown up in Missoula, but then the military moved them around and they had spent most of the last 11 years in Germany, of all places.  I think I said something dismissive about the military and insulted them a bit - when the husband got up for a minute the wife gave me a bit of stink eye.  I need to watch what I say to people.  My Dad was in the Navy for a while and really didn’t have a good experience, so I grew up thinking the military was not a great life choice.  Anyway, they said Missoula was an awesome place, you just had to stick it out, and try to find work.

Today I woke up wet and very very cold.  My tent stinks.  I waited for the lodge to open, and now I’m warming up over a firm wooden table, before I start in on my last 50-60 miles.  I can’t wait for Missoula.

Day 32 - Lowell, ID (76.8 miles)

1200 feet.  1400 feet.  2000 feet.  After a while, the numbers just start to blend together.  It’s hard to convey the sense of starting out a day at 1800 feet and climbing up to 5300.  At 9am, the town of White Bird was closed up tight as a drum (despite the cafe saying they would open at 8).  The sun had started to climb in the sky.  There was nothing left to do but patch the gimpy tube on the back of my bike, eat the last of the Clif Bars that Emily had given me, fill my two water bottles with lukewarm water from the hotel tap, and start pedaling.  On the way out of town, I passed a couple on an ATV who waved at me, as if to say “it’s your funeral, buddy”.

Old Highway 95 is an angry road.  Relentless, tortuous, torturous, unrelenting.  It is a road that says “I do not want you.  Please leave me alone”.  It winds its way up from White Bird to the summit of White Bird Hill, joining back up with the new, modern US-95.  There is - quite literally - nothing there, and no reason to take the road anymore.  It’s not clear to me why they even keep it open.  The land is open and brown and dry, which has the undesirable “benefit” that you could see almost all the way to the top from the bottom - so you knew just how screwed you truly were.  Deer scampered up and down along the rocky cliffs.  There was an historical site for an old Indian battle, and I could imagine in my head rampaging groups of Native Americans on horseback, parading over the hills.  I saw no cars the entire time; I think they were afraid.  At one point a farmer got on the road with a tractor carrying some bales of hay, but he got off as quickly as he could.  Even the two horses I passed turned around and went back the other way.  500 feet up the mountain I was completely, devastatingly alone.  900 feet up the mountain, the rear tire fell off the wheel of my bike.  It had been giving me trouble for days, and now it was completely, unavoidably broken.  Buddhism preaches this idea of relativism; that things are what we make of them.  In that moment, I was quite certain that they were wrong.  It was hot.  My back tire was broken.  I was alone, and I had 1800 feet left to climb.  These were facts, as real as things could be.  I could almost reach out and touch the heat, and I could damn sure reach out and touch the broken back wheel.  So I changed that wheel, got back on that bike, and made it to the top.  

I don’t know if I will ever ride that road again.  I think it would be fun someday to ride my car or motorcycle back along that road, but I don’t know if I’ll ever be on a bike there again.  But I will never forget it.

Today, I met my friend Jessica.  She’s also riding across the country, but from the opposite direction.  She was one of my inspirations for starting this trip, and you should definitely check out her blog at http://bikingacrossthe.us.  When I realized that there was a chance we might pass like ships in the night, we concocted a plan to do a high five, and today was High Five Day.  We ended up meeting at a wheat field outside of Stites, ID.  Random, but entirely appropriate somehow, that the two of us, both from the Bay Area, should now have a picture of each other in a wheat field in rural Idaho.  I have no idea how I’m going to explain that picture to my grandkids.  She was with a couple of guys, Alex and Jeremiah; they were definitely cool.  Everyone I meet out on the trail is cool.  They’re my people.

Jessica said something interesting as we were staring at this immense field of wheat: “This is something I’ve never seen before”.  And it’s true.  I hadn’t.  And I realized; that’s one of the awesome things about this trip.  I will definitely admit to being a New-o-phile; I like something new all the time.  And this trip provides that in spades.  Every day I see something or experience something I had never seen.  I think that’s what I love about being on the bike; it’s fast enough (compared to hiking) that I get to a new place every day, but it’s slow enough (compared to driving) that I actually *see* the things I roll past.  I could also see a motorcycle working out that way, which is why Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance works.  I’ve seen arid deserts, lush deciduous forests, I’ve thrown my bike over a barbed wire fence, seen ninjas, made friends with a New Yorker, and ate a lot of grilled cheese sandwiches.  I rode 122 miles in one day, climbed 3000 feet over a mountain pass, got chased by bees, stand up paddle boarded, sand boarded, and camped in the rain  (last night it rained on me for only the second time the whole trip - and I was fine!).  Some experiences just wash off me, others will linger.  But that attitude - of seeking something new all the time - is definitely going to stick with me.

Day 31 - Whitebird, ID (89.76 miles)

Today, I disappointed a friend.  Actually, I suppose it would be more accurate to say that I disappointed him a while back, and today was the reckoning.

But a pause, first, to get the actual bike trip stuff out of the way.  Long story short, I woke up in Idaho, biked a bunch, then fell asleep in Idaho.  In between, I hung out with Stu, biked 12 miles up 1500 feet to get my rear tire changed, rode through the sun, had a flat on my rear tire again, freaked out a little about heading into the wilderness without a working rear tire, ended up in White Bird, ID, met a couple from Michigan, shared two pitchers of beer and 3 bags of chips and a smoked egg for dinner (being a vegetarian in a small town is tough) for a grand total of $16, and now I’m typing this sitting in a motel owned by a very large woman with a very small dog.  Good?  Good.

So, back to disappointing my friend.  Good news is, this is just a professional disappointment, not like some kind of personal attack.  Bad news is, it’s one of my best friends.  Anyway, I really hate when this happens, and although this may be a bad thing to admit publicly, when it comes to my professional life, it happens more often than I would care to admit.  It sucks when I disappoint someone.  It’s this terrible feeling, deep in the pit of my stomach, that stays with me for a long time.  I rode all day with it just rumbling around in my stomach, and I just really hated it.  I felt so bad.  But, like all bad things, it’s an opportunity, a learning opportunity.  One of the worst things about most of the times that I disappoint people - and that’s certainly true this time - is that I can identify a specific moment when I had a chance to do the right thing and I didn’t do it.  In this case, he had given me a job opportunity working for a company that did things that were honestly outside my professional goals and competencies.  The first couple of assignments I received were in line with what I enjoy and am good at, and that went reasonably well.  But then came something that they needed me to do which was more in line with their normal work, but that I knew was not a good fit for myself.  The right thing to do at that point would have been to be open about the fact that it wasn’t a good fit.  But I wanted to be a team player.  I was afraid of letting him down, afraid that maybe they would be mad at me and not pay me for the work I already did - basically I was just a coward, and I told him, and their company, what they wanted to hear.  And, of course, the irony is that in the end, I let them down way more, because I acted like I was going to get it done, and then I just didn’t.

When I think about incidents like this, it occurs to me that, as much as I don’t like to admit it, I basically have People Pleaser syndrome.  This is a known psychological condition, where people want so bad for other people to like or approve of them that they lie, or overextend themselves, to try to make that happen.  The bald truth is that I definitely feel that I’m not all that well-liked.  I feel lonely a lot, to be honest, and I don’t have as many friends as I would prefer, and most of the friends I do have are not as close as I would like.  My family - sorry, guys - has never quite given me the sort of intense and obvious love that I would have preferred, and I think sometimes I wind up being needy in my other personal relationships as a result.  Whatever the reason, I’m afraid of people, afraid of telling them the truth.  

Or, at least, I used to be.  But I’m not going to do that anymore.  At 37 years of age, I’ve seen what lies down that path.  Much like an athlete who goes into a sports game trying not to get injured and actually increases their odds of injuring themselves, the tentativeness that comes from being afraid of being myself and telling others my truth - even though it’s ostensibly in the service of trying to avoid them pain - makes me more likely to cause others pain.  I’ve seen it professionally, and in my personal and family life.  If I had gone to my friend weeks ago and said “hey, this project is just not a good fit for me, plus I’m on this big trip and I’m probably not going to get a lot of work done”, he would have been sad for a minute, and I would have let him down in a minor way, but we would have gotten over it; now it’s a big deal, and a big letdown, that hopefully won’t - but could - affect our friendship.  He was counting on me, and I blew it.

So, anyway, I have a new set of rules for myself:

1) The Only Person I Have To Worry About Letting Down Is Myself - In this case, the person I’m letting down is a good friend, so it’s natural to assume that I would be more upset as a result.  But, really, the person that I’m most upset at disappointing is myself.  What makes me sad about my friend’s disappointment of me is that I genuinely feel that he has a very valid right to be disappointed.  And this is important; people will often be disappointed in me, for their own personal reasons.  No matter how good (or casual) of a friend or contact they are, the first and most important thing is to check in with myself to see if *I* feel that they have a valid reason to be disappointed.  If I don’t think they do, that’s not cause for openly denigrating their feelings or denying them - they have a right to feel that way - but it doesn’t mean that I have to necessarily agree.  I think this is really important, because internalizing someone else’s disappointment, when you don’t really feel it, is a recipe for eventually resenting that person.

2) Be My Own Best Friend - basically, act in a way that won’t cause me to be disappointed in myself, always.  Every Single Time.  It’s not too much to ask to always act in a way that won’t cause my future self to be disappointed in myself.  And that’s what I intend to do.

3) Underpromise and Overdeliver - especially professionally.

4) Embrace Fear - those moments when you feel afraid talking to someone else - those are the times to shine.

3) Chill The Fuck Out - we talked about this one already, but basically, when in doubt, don’t get all disappointed.  Just smile and roll with it.

4) Don’t Be Disappointed In Others - Having someone feel disappointed in you is the worst feeling.  I think the reason it feels so bad is because it’s kind of a negation of who you are as a person.  It’s almost always a statement about the past, which is something you can’t change.  And generally speaking, it doesn’t have any positive outcome or results.  It just makes for a lot of bad feeling.  It’s a natural human response, of course, and I’m not saying it’s always a bad thing - but when in doubt, I’m going to remember what it feels like when someone is disappointed in me, and try not to make other people feel that way if I can help it.  If I can truly accept them for who they are and for what they do, I think I’ll make more friends, and feel better about myself in the end.

I’ll be honest - I’m over Idaho.  :)  I’m looking forward to Montana!

Day 30 - New Meadows, ID (69.57 miles)

Today was awesome!

Actually, let me clarify: in almost every physical/logistical way, today sucked.  Riding up US-95 in Idaho is kind of a hellscape for cyclists: it’s a two-lane country road with no shoulder and the speed limit hits 65 in spots, used by semis, one of which came within 18 inches of my head.  It was under construction for a good bit of its length, making the road surface incredibly choppy and even turning into a one-lane road at one stretch.  To make matters more interesting, my rear tire has gone flat in a way that I can’t fix; it’s bald down to the red tread, and can only hold about 85% of the air it should hold.  So every mile or so I had to pull over and use my frame pump to top it back up.  I’m going to have to detour next morning 12 miles each way on that bald tire to hit a bike shop.  And the new sleeping bag I bought won’t stay on the bag, so I can’t stand up on the pedals or hammer too hard without worrying about it falling off right onto the road.  Last night I ended up camping without a shower because I got into New Meadows so late I couldn’t find a room.  And for no particularly good reason, I was just grumpy all day.  Today is the first day on the whole trip when I can genuinely say I was *annoyed*.  I’ve had days where I felt tired, lonely, sad even, but today I just felt irritated, like this was a stupid chore and I couldn’t really remember why I was doing it.  I wanted to pull over and hop in my car so bad.  Maybe it was the 122 miles yesterday, or all the problems I had today, but I just wanted to kick things.

But, you know what?  I’m still smiling.  It used to be that, when I was in a bad mood, like I was today, I would search for reasons.  Immediately I would try to “fix” it.  Why am I in a bad mood? I would ask.  Should I not have come cycling?  Should I stop and quit?  Was this a stupid idea?  Am I doomed to be in a bad mood forever?  Does nothing ever change?  Now, what I realized is - I’m just in a bad mood.  Nothing more, nothing less.  It doesn’t really *mean* anything.  And it will most likely pass (which it did).  The sun is shining, I met a really cool guy named Stu in the park who worked as a chef in Alberta and had never left Canada before in his life, the bike will get fixed, I’ll try to get a shower tonight - everything is fine in the most perfect of all possible universes.  Really.  Things could be so, so much worse.

By the way, I have come to a momentous decision about my trip, dear reader - but we’ll leave that for tomorrow.

Day 29 - Gateway, OR (122.0 miles)

Ooh!  Ooh!  Today’s post is gonna be a good one, I can feel it.  So much to talk about.

I had an interesting incident happen to me today.  I’d like to relay the entire incident without comment.  And then, you know, comment.  :)

So I’m about 70 or so miles into my day - a long, hard day, which I’ll talk about in a minute - and I pull into the diner in Richland, OR, an oasis in the desert.  Never has a garden burger looked so good.  As I pulled up, I saw the unmistakable signs of 2 other folks doing the same thing I was - touring bikes loaded down with multicolored Gottlieb panniers, sitting out front.  I walked inside and immediately could spot them by the bike helmets on the table.  I got a bit of an attack of social anxiety because I couldn’t tell if the other person was the guy’s wife or his son, so I passed on saying hello the first time past their table, but when I got up to get something from my bike and got a better look (wife), I noticed the guy’s San Francisco shirt.  I pointed at it and said “hey!  I like the shirt”.  He grunted in that way that says “please do not ever speak to me again”.  Everything about these two folks just screamed unhappiness and social anxiety.  And I was bummed, because here was a chance to really bond with some cyclists, and of course they have to be grumpy.  A few minutes went by, they paid - silently - and left.  I could tell there was some consternation outside, and then the guy came back in and started looking all around the cafe, a bit frantic.  He finally walked right over to me, and in an accusatory tone, he pointed at my map and said “Are you sure that’s your map?”  (Like, what do you think, I stole your map?)  I smiled politely and said “Yep!  Pretty sure.”  He stomped off.

Anyway, they left first, and I noticed they headed east as well.  A few minutes later, I took off.  Now, right east of Richland is a climb, about 1000 feet.  I saw it on the map, but the reality turned out to be higher, steeper, and hotter than I had imagined, and it was definitely a rough climb.  As I’ll get into, I was trying to make this a record day, and I was deep in the middle of Hell’s Canyon, which is pretty much what it sounds like - the surface of Mars.  Way up ahead on the cliff, I saw the two from the diner.  Slowly, steadily I caught up to them until I was within sight of the woman, who was about 25 feet behind.  Despite the incident in the diner, as I passed by her I gave a cheerful “hello!”  She stared at the ground and said “hi”, quietly.  The two of them began to pull over and get off their bikes in the gravel by the side of the road.  As I caught up to the guy, I said 

“Where are you guys riding from?”

“San Francisco.”  He looked away.  I felt weird getting off my bike, so I didn't, but I was going really slowly up the hill, so there was time to chat.

“Cool!  Me too!”  There was a bit of awkward silence. “Are you having a good time?”

He stared right at me.  “No”.  My enthusiasm flagged, but with my newfound social extroversion, I plowed right through it.

“Well, where are you guys camping tonight?”

“Oxbow.”  (Oxbow was about 25 miles away; they were going to have a long afternoon, but they would definitely make it).  “That’s a good plan!” I said.

I started to pull away from them, up the hill.  As I passed, I said the first thing that came into my mind back over my shoulder: “Remember, it’s the journey, not the destination!”  Then I laughed, maybe a bit too cheerily.  I guess I couldn’t think of what else to say.

Just around the next bend, just out of sight of the couple, the hill finally crested, and I started to coast down the other side.  And I realized, in that moment - much like the moment in the river a few weeks ago - I was having a *fantastic time*.  I was just having a *fantastic damn time*.  The sun was out, it wasn’t really that hot, there were no bugs and almost no cars, I was well on my way to setting a personal record day, and I was on my bike, for god’s sake, in god’s country, gazing out over hills and dales and pulling my own weight across the world.  It was an amazing moment, I was so happy.  The contrast with the couple was so stark.  I knew, instinctively, that it was a moment I would remember forever.  I’ll quote from the book I’m reading, Blue Highways:

"It was one of those moments that you know at the time will stay with you to the grave: the sweet pie, the gaunt man playing the old music, the coals in the stove glowing orange, the scent of kerosene and hot bread…I thought: It is for this I have come."

A few miles up the road, I pulled off for a bit at a rest stop, and watched them bike past me.  I gave them some space and rode behind them to the junction at a small town called Halfway.  They passed the junction by, and I went towards town.  But I saw them pull over about 500 feet up the road (still about 15 miles from Oxbow).  They were obviously consulting something, or maybe arguing, I couldn’t tell.  Anyway, I wasn’t in Halfway very long, and I never saw them again, which means either they suddenly sped up quite a bit, or they ended up stopping in Halfway for the night.  I hope they have a happy life.  I also sorta hope I don’t see them again.

Now begins the commentary part.  :)

This story, this incident, hit me pretty hard, for a number of reasons.  I think in some ways it kind of sums up what the trip has meant to me so far.  First of all: the obvious.  I know I spend a lot of time complaining about the attitudes of people in San Francisco. I am aware of the dangers of finding what you’re looking for; it’s easy to reinforce your own conclusions.  I also am very much aware that every place has happy people, and every place has grumpy people.  But I can’t help feel like it’s quite a coincidence that after 1200+ miles of biking - and 1200+ miles from home - the first grumpy people I meet on my *entire trip* are from San Francisco!  I almost feel like the universe is trying to tell me something.

I realized, too, in that moment, that life really is what you make of it.  Here we were, both in the same place, but we could not have been having different experiences.  I craved the physical challenge, I welcomed the sun (it had been freezing that morning when I left), I cherished my freedom, meeting new people, getting out of the city.  They saw sun, and heat.  Maybe they were having an argument with each other, who knows.  Either way, we saw the same things, but we saw different things in them.  (I also thought to myself: Why are you here?  Nobody is ever forced to ride their bike 1200 miles across the country.  If this sucks so much for you, stop!  Give up!  Do something you like doing!)

So, today’s topic is: Fun.  As in, I am having a metric ton of fun.  It occurs to me that, re-reading some of this blog, I focus too much on problem-solving, on the negative.  I haven’t given enough of a sense of how awesome this trip really is.  So, let’s fix that: this is awesome.  I am having a great time.  The joy of hitting the bed after a long day of riding, the erotic pleasure of fresh, cold water on the tongue when you’re parched, the feel of the linoleum counter at a diner, discovering new people in new places, moving from $20 hostel to $30 motel in the middle of nowhere, the satisfaction of relying on my own two feet - you can’t buy happiness and love like this, and it’s fantastic, everything I dreamed and more.  I don’t think this trip is going to suddenly fix everything about my life, but it’s already put me in a better spot in so many ways.  And it makes me happy.

On that note, I decided to set out to make today a record day - and I did!!  My goal was to get to Cambridge, ID, but that turned out to be a bit optimistic, so I ended up here in Gateway, with some awesome folks who run a very, very cheap motel in the middle of nowhere (with A/C and wifi!).  But I did 122 miles, with at least 4000 feet change in elevation.  It was about 10 and a half hours on the bike, and another 2 and a half off it.  I rode through barren desert, along the Snake River, stopped off in the Oregon Trail Interpretive Center, and generally rocked it.  In honor of this moment, here is a list of

Top Five Things Adam Theoretically Could Not Possibly Do And Then, In Fact, Did:

1) Ride 120+ miles in a single day.  I was repeatedly told that was so unlikely as to be impossible.  Not only did I do it, I did it on a hilly, hot day.  I think on a cool, flat day I could rip out 150+.

2) Take a carbon fiber frame across the country.  Well, I’m 1200+ miles in, and it’s totally fine.  Including those 20 miles on washboard gravel, throwing it over 2 barbed wire fences, straight up inclines, straight down declines.  Dear guy at the Sports Basement: you were wrong, and I was right.

3) Ride with most of my stuff on my back.  You wouldn’t believe how many other touring cyclists look incredulous when they see me pull up.  It must say in some book someplace not to take a backpack, because they all, universally, can’t believe it.  Most common comment: “Doesn’t your back hurt?”  Answer: No.

4) Ride without either camping outdoors, or spending a fortune on motels.  It turns out that, if you just plan ahead a little bit, and ask the right questions, there are places all over the rural parts of this country where you can stay - with a roof over your head, a shower, and usually wifi - for $20-$30/night.  The only times I’ve really had trouble are when I’ve been in slightly larger cities, like Bend or Ft. Bragg.  But rural folks always seem to save a bed for travelers, especially here along the TransAmerica.

5) Ride “this late in the season”.  Apparently if you ride this late in the year, it’s too hot, and there’s an awful headwind up the coast.  Well, I never really noticed the headwind, and yeah, it’s kinda hot, but it’s not *that* bad; it was worse in Texas, honestly.

People are just pessimistic!  Don’t let them tell you what you can’t do!

Day 28 - Sumpter, OR (45.1 miles)

I like diners.  I like the flow of them.  I like ordering food and then having it show up.  I like opening the menu and scanning over the usual - comforting in its repetition - to see if anything odd jumps out at me.  Sometimes it does, sometimes it doesn’t.  What’s a huckleberry? (It’s like a blueberry but smaller)  Why does this diner serve Elk? (Because it’s elk country)  Is there a grilled cheese sandwich?  Would they make one anyway?  Can I guess the ethnicity of the person behind the counter?  Are there enchiladas on the menu?  Souvlaki?  Whitefish?  How’s the pie?  I like ordering a diet coke and having the waitress say “Is Diet Pepsi OK?”  (Yeah, it’s totally fine).  I like watching the staff clean up and close around me.  I’ve been in more diners than I can count, and I still look forward to each one.

Right now I’m in the Scoop-n-Steamer in Sumpter, OR, which is an old logging town that is desperately clinging to its logging roots.  Every building is made of logs, and the bench I’m sitting in is made of solid wood.  The motel owner warned me about some “motorcycle punks” that are roaming the town, and the diner closes at 6, or earlier if nobody shows up.  The tater tots are amazing (hey, America: tots are better than fries.  Seriously.  Move on over) but the pie came out of a cold case (it’s OK, I forgive them).  Some guy in fatigues just came in asking where he could buy an American flag, and a guy on a motorcycle wanted to rent the log cabin (he can’t, there’s a family staying there).  Oh, and here comes the family from the cabin, wanting to eat.  There’s a calendar next to me under the cash register turned to a picture of the arch in St. Louis.

This is apropos of nothing, but a few days back I signed up for a 10-day meditation course, and just yesterday I found out I was accepted.  It runs in mid-October.  They warned people in the welcome docs to practice being alone.  I think I’ve got it covered.

You’ll notice I didn’t cover too many miles the last 2 days.  I’m trying out something new tomorrow.  I went over three peaks today, did over 3000 feet elevation gain.  Sumpter is about 20 miles short of where I really wanted to stop for the day, but they had $20 beds, and Baker City just had motels.  So I’m going to wake up at 5, get out by 6, and get to Baker City by 8, have breakfast, then get to the Oregon Trail interpretive center by 9 (trying not to die of dysentery as I ford the river with my oxen), and try to eventually set a record day for myself, at least 100 miles.  I know I have it in me athletically, we’ll just see if I have the mental stamina to make it happen.  I have to unroll my paper maps (remember those?) tonight and see what I’m likely to face east/north-east of Baker City.  It looks like, if I hustle, I can get out of Oregon tomorrow, which would be pretty awesome.  Oregon has been great but I feel like I’ve been here long enough to establish residency.

Are you ready for one more tortured biking-philosophy analogy?  (Imagine me saying that in Hank Williams Jr.’s voice: ARE YOU READY FOR ONE MORE TORTURED BIKING-PHILOSOPHY ANALOGY??!?)  One thing I’ve been struggling with is tracking change in elevation.  You would think that you could just *look at the road*.  But the surprising thing that I’ve learned is that that doesn’t really work.  I’ve often looked at the road ahead of me and been convinced that I’m about to conquer a huge hill, only to sail right through it.  At first I thought that was just a trick of the mind, but after 1100 miles what I’ve learned is that the eye doesn’t do a good job at all of detecting the change in elevation, rather only the *change in the change* in elevation.  That is, when you see a hill ahead, it really means that you’re about to encounter a stretch of road that is more uphill than what you’re currently on.  But if you’re plowing down a hill, that could mean that it’s just flat ahead, or even downhill, just less so.  And same with going up: more than a few times I’ve been excited to get to what seemed like the top of a hill, only to discover that it’s just a little less steep.  Which is demoralizing.  Here’s the thing, though: life is like this, too.  We’d like to think that we like things we like, and hate things we hate.  But really, if you think about it, what we like is having more to like than what we had before, and what we hate is having new things to hate.  If I made $100k last year, then making $100k this year is practically invisible.  But if I made $20k, there’s a big ol’ downhill right ahead of me and I’m about to coast in the drops.  I even went so far as to buy some fancy altimeters to try to tell what kind of progress I was making, and they work OK, but they only tell me the overall trend; they’re not so good at the minute-by-minute.  In the end, the only reliable way I have of knowing whether I’m going uphill or down is to feel the push on every pedal stroke.  The feet never lie; when it’s hard to pedal, it’s hard to pedal, and that’s that.  And, again, life is like that.  The only way to know what’s really going on *right now* is to check in with *right now*.  Scanning the road ahead - on the bike or in life - doesn’t tell you as much as you might think it would.  There’s now, and then there’s more now, and then there is nothing else.

Wrong state?

Day 27 - Prairie City, OR (31.33 miles)

Hello out there!  Question: who’s reading this thing?  I’m interested in who might be out there, curious about my trip.  Can you do me a favor, gentle reader?  If you’re reading these words right now, would you let me know?  You can leave a comment here, or in the Facebook thread for today, or you can email me at adam@adamhunter.net.  I’d love to feel more connected back to the people I know who care about me.

Today was a bit of a rest day.  The cycling has become pretty easy, and civilization still has its outposts here, so I’m trying to take advantage of that while I can.  I met a nice woman named Johanna at the local ranger station who, it turns out, was on Warmshowers, and she offered to put me up.  I ended up playing volleyball with her and her friends from the Fish and Wildlife job she has for the summer, and then we had a barbecue.  It was really interesting to go from being on the road to suddenly immersed in this social circle, and it sparked a lot of feelings inside me that I wanted to blog about while they’re still fresh.

I am exceptionally grateful for the generosity that Johanna showed me by taking her into my house, introducing me to her friends.  It was fun to pretend to be normal for a few hours and do things like play volleyball.  Her friends are really nice people, obviously folks that care about the environment.  One guy was an amazing wildlife photographer.  One guy had been in the peace corps.  I enjoyed hanging out with them.  I hope we keep in touch.

At the same time, I can’t deny that I felt kind of uncomfortable, and I was excited to get back on the road and be alone again.  And I want to dive inside that feeling, that discomfort, because I feel like some truths about myself lie inside there.  It’s too fresh to be clear on why I felt uncomfortable, but I want to capture that feeling.  I felt a bit trapped, and maybe a bit frustrated, but I’m not exactly sure why.  Johanna and her friends were definitely guarded - in a very healthy, normal way that you would be with a stranger.  But after my experiences with the Oregon Country Fair, and with Emily - who is amazingly open - and some of the other folks I’ve met on the road, I feel like I’m in a deeply open and vulnerable spiritual place that these folks just weren’t in tune with, at that moment (through no fault of their own of course).

Vulnerable.  That’s the right word.  I feel very vulnerable right now, and I think I’m drawn to others who feel similarly vulnerable.  Vulnerability, openness, spirituality.  I feel ready to change, confident with who I am, willing to reveal that to the world.  I feel like I could meet someone at this coffee shop right now and 5 minutes later be telling them my darkest fears and listening to them discuss their own.  I’m done with trying to hide from things, and people, and put up walls, and pretend.  Even the sort of normal socially acceptable amount of hiding and guardedness that comes from just a normal circle of friends trying to meet a stranger struck the wrong chord with me energetically.   Most of their morning conversation was a fun, light, interesting if somewhat prosaic conversation about how gross bugs are, and I think on a different day, at a different time, I would definitely have been 100% into it, but I felt like I had to force it a bit.  Johanna was a bit guarded about having me stay with her - at least at first - because her roommates were gone.  And I can totally understand that, she didn’t feel comfortable right away with having a strange guy in her house.  That’s perfectly normal.  The fact is that I definitely was attracted to her, and even though I certainly wasn’t going to act on those feelings, I think the tension in the air made her guarded.  Which - I want to emphasize - is perfectly normal and natural and fine.  But, because of where I’m at in life, I am definitely paying special attention to, or attracted to, people who are just feeling exceptionally open and vulnerable.  Obviously I’m here, opening up some pretty deep and uncomfortable feelings for the world to read.  I’ve already irritated at least one person, and I’m sure I’ll annoy a few more before I’m done.  In some ways this is a particularly selfish act, but I don’t see that as so much of a bad thing.  I want deeply to love others, but first I have to love myself.

I’m so excited to get back on the road!  Montana here I come!

Day 26 - Mt Vernon, OR (75.94 miles)

Hot.  The word of the day is Hot.  Hot as in fire, which - although I never saw - seemed to be chasing me, like a mountain lion, unseen but waiting to pounce.  Hot as in the sun, which beat down mercilessly the whole way.  I would have thought that by now my skin would be tan enough to deal, but apparently yesterday the sun was worse for some reason.  The state of Oregon, by the way, is on fire.  Now, I realize that, safe in your homes in San Francisco or New York or whatever, that statement may have limited impact.  It may be hard to conceptualize what it means for Oregon to be burning.  But here, in the middle of it, there is nothing theoretical about it.  The smoke is choking the air all the way out here in Mt. Vernon, 70 miles away.  I rode yesterday near the Painted Hills, but I didn’t even bother to detour up to see them because there’s nothing to see except thick gray smoke.  You can smell it in the air, like somebody decided to roast marshmallows.  It burns the eyes and the throat.

In some ways, a good bit of yesterday’s ride wa one of the more pleasant I’ve had.  Because of the conditions, Highway 26 had an eerie post-apocalyptic feel.  I rode brazenly right down the center of the highway on smooth paved road, and after an intiai climb it was mostly downhill.  I played games with taking my feet out of the clips and just riding spreadeagled down the road, swinging wide S arcs from side to side.  Kinda fun.  (Then it got hot and sapped my will to live).

I stopped off at the John Day Fossil Beds, which were cool, and did a mile hike into a gorge with blue-green rocks.  At the paleontology welcome center - perhaps the only paleontology welcome center I will ever go to - there was a really nice woman that I struck up a conversation with.  Turns out that she’s home for a summer internship, there are 4 of them working there, 2 in the back doing actual paleontology, and 2 out front doing customer relations and museum stuff.  The four of them live together on site and she said it was basically the best summer ever.  This prompted two thoughts: first, I really wish I was still young enough to get an internship.  Second, for most of my life, if you had asked me which of these internships I would rather have, I would have said the science one, of course.  But now, as an adult, I really think I would like - and learn more from - the role that she had, meeting folks and working on social skills and just learning more about people.  So that’s kind of a shift in my life.

By the way - 1000 miles!!1!!111!!!!!

Today I met my first real “Transamerica buddy”.  A guy named Mike heading the opposite way was also staying at the Bike Inn in Mt Vernon.  Super nice guy, works in film in NYC.  Had a really interesting conversation with him about what I’m about to face coming up.  He’s pretty screwed because of the fires, so he has to do about 80 miles today through the middle of nowhere just to camp in the dirt and do it again tomorrow, to get around everything.  I know he’ll be fine but grumpy.  :)  One of the worst parts is he has to ride back about 8 miles along road he already covered, which just sucks.

Mike and I had a conversation last night which actually made me want to brooch a topic that’s been on my mind since I finished reading Wild.  It’s a bit of a controversial topic, but hey, that’s what this blog is about.  Two of my good friends back in San Francisco - Alex and Brent, my Australian running and yoga buddies - gave me Wild as a Kindle book before I left.  As a piece of writing I give it a B, but as a work of non-fiction it gets a C-.  For those of you who don’t know, it’s a book about a woman named Cheryl who hikes the Pacific Crest Trail.  Cheryl is a pretty young blonde thing, and a terrible, terrible hiker.  She spends most of the first part of the book surviving on the generosity of others, getting rides over bad parts of terrain, and generally whining to anyone who will listen about how hard her life is.  Near the end of the book, there’s a remarkably self-aware story.  She meets up with three young attractive guys who have hiked even a few more miles than she did, and then loses them, and then a month later meets up with them again, near the end of her trip.  I’ll quote from the book here:

“So we came up with a trail name for you,” said Josh. “What is it?” I asked reluctantly from behind the scrim of my drenched blue sleeping bag, as if it could protect me from whatever they might say. “The Queen of the PCT,” said Richie. 

“Because people always want to give you things and do things for you,” added Rick. “They never give us anything. They don’t do a damn thing for us, in fact.” 

I lowered my sleeping bag and looked at them, and we all laughed. All the time that I’d been fielding questions about whether I was afraid to be a woman alone— the assumption that a woman alone would be preyed upon— I’d been the recipient of one kindness after another. Aside from the creepy experience with the sandy-haired guy who’d jammed my water purifier and the couple who’d booted me from the campground in California, I had nothing but generosity to report. The world and its people had opened their arms to me at every turn. 

As if on cue, the old man leaned over the cash register. “Young lady, I wanted to tell you that if you want to stay another night and dry out, we’d let you have one of these cabins for next to nothing.”

Mike was telling me about his trip last night.  He’s been over 3000 miles on his bike, and I think he’s enjoyed his trip, but he told me flat out that people have not really been terribly nice to him.  Now, I liked Mike.  I thought he was a really great guy.  But there’s no question he’s a New Yorker.  He talks fast, move fast, bikes fast.  He’s in incredibly good shape.  He’s half Hispanic, and really tan, with a goatee.  He told me that from time to time people took him for one thing or another - Hispanic, usually - and they were just a little bit frosty.  Nobody was offering him free cabins.  Which is a shame, because he’s a great guy, and totally a good dude.  He regaled me with a story about protecting his friends on the NY subway from a bunch of teenagers with guns.  Mike is the kind of guy you would want on your side in a bar fight.  But he’s not a pretty young blonde thing, and in this world, that makes all the difference.  Now, I have to admit that on this trip people have been very nice to me.  I’ve been trying to smile a lot, and I think that helps.  But in life in general, I’ve definitely bemoaned the fact that women - and especially cute women - go to the front of the line, every time.  And if *I* feel that way, I can only *imagine* what genuine minorities feel - African-Americans, or short people, fat people, poor people.  

I don’t know what the right answer is here.  I’m not suggesting that people with privilege should turn that privilege down.  If you’re hiking the PCT and you’re tired and someone offers you a free room, and you suspect it’s because you’re attractive, I am not going to tell you to turn that free room down.  What I might suggest - and this advice is as much for me as anyone - is being self-aware about how lucky you are, and maybe paying it forward, maybe even to someone who doesn’t seem at first to be the obvious choice; someone who looks scruffy or homeless or just doesn’t fit the mold of polished attractiveness.  And maybe, once in a while, I would turn that room down - to build character, as my Dad would say.  That’s a goal of mine for this trip - to be nice to everyone, no matter what they look like or who they seem to be at first, until their behavior proves me right or wrong.  I won’t succeed 100% of the time, but I’m going to make an effort.

Day 25 - Mitchell, OR (62.6 miles)

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. 

Day 24 - Prineville, OR (63.62 miles)

Back in the saddle!  It felt good to be back out on the bike.  Leaving the fair was a bit of a journey; I had to catch a ride with the family next to me back to Eugene, then the next day get a Greyhound back to Bend, pick up my bike where I’d left it at my friend’s office, then back on the road.  Living this way - relying on the generosity of others, and being so exposed in so many ways - has been amazingly instructive and fun.  I remember a while back meeting some monks from an order up in Marin county that had sworn - among other things - a particular style of oath of poverty wherein they could not prepare their own meals.  They had to eat every meal based on the generosity of others.  That’s a terrifying prospect, but the reason they did it, they told me at the time, was to ensure that they stayed connected to others.  There’s an aspect of Buddhism that can creep in - one of what they call the “false houses” - which goes by various names but basically translates to apathy, failing to care about others.  The thing is, when you know that every meal you eat has to come because someone cares about you, then you make sure you act in a way that ensures people care about you.  Being on this trip, I finally get that at a visceral level.  It pays to be nice, and it feels good to rely on the generosity of others, to be connected, and then pay it forward.  Life is not about creating self-sufficiency, it’s about caring for others.  “People who need people are the happiest people”.  This night in Prineville I’m once again staying in someone’s house, sleeping a nice warm bed with towels and a shower for free, just because I was nice to someone I met online, and they were nice to me.  I care more about those two people now that I ever did about many of the people I know in SF.  If either of them had any trouble I’d be one of the first in line to help out.

Anyway, I had a thing about my first day back, I really wanted to pick back up in Sisters since that’s where I’d left off.  So I went about 40 miles out of way, just so I could join an imaginary line.  (When I die, please inscribe “he was a stubborn coot” on my gravestone).

By the way, this is apropos of nothing, but I’ve now driven/ridden through Sisters, OR three times, and I’ve gotta say: that place is creepy.  Gives me the willies.  Someone is seriously buried under the courthouse floorboards in that town.

One of the things that has become clear to me on this trip is that I’ve been misusing the information superhighway.  Stay with me here while I navigate through some tortured analogies, but this sorta made sense when I was on a bicycle in the heat: online social media (ok cupid, Facebook, twitter, secret, coffee meets bagel, reddit, whatever) is like Photoshop.  Photoshop is a great way to take a picture you already took and make it a little bit better: touch it up, tone it down.  You could even create a pastiche of different photos.  I’ve seen some pretty amazing things done with Photoshop, but the key is that they always start with source material; and, generally speaking, good source material.  One of the truisms photographers (at least the ones that are any good) live by that I learned in photography school is that you can make a good photo better with post processing, but you can’t make a bad photo good, and generally speaking, it’s way easier to just take a good photo to start with than to try to somehow polish a turd.  So, back to the analogy.  Social media is a great way to keep in touch with people you already know, or deepen relationships with people that you’ve already met for some reason.  It may even (arguably) be possible to transform relationships; for example by meeting a friend through another person, or turn someone you know in one context into someone you know in another.  But what many of these sites - and I’m particularly thinking about online dating here - purport to be able to do is create meaningful relationships whole cloth from nothing; to transmute air into diamonds.  And, after a lot of time spent down that hole, I’m just not sure it can be done.  Blame it on our brain chemistry, or our roots as animals, but I think we just don’t cement relationships in our mind until we meet someone.  That’s especially true for dating, but what I’m realizing is that it’s just true across the board.  Ask most people and they’ll tell you that most of their good friends are people they met in real life.  It doesn’t have to be an intensely meaningful beginning; it could just be studying next to someone at a coffee shop or even meeting at the grocery store.  But I know more about someone in 2 minutes of being in their presence than a whole mountain of online goop will ever tell me, and I suspect I’m not alone.  Of course there are always exceptions that prove the rule.  I know someone who met somebody online and was engaged to be married to that person 5 days later.  But I think that’s like winning the lottery - possible, but not a good plan for the future.  I’ve met way more people in person on this trip that I’ve connected with than I have in the last year of living in SF, because my approach is all analog; physically meeting them.  Interestingly, a number of the folks I’ve met that I’ve connected best with don’t even do digital social media, or if they do, they use it more like what I’ve described, to keep in touch or to deepen relationships.

Days 18-23 - Veneta, OR (Oregon Country Fair)

Huh.  The Oregon Country Fair.  It’s hard to even write about it.  It’s honestly too much.  It will probably take me a while to process all of it and even figure out what I think well enough to write it down.  Right now it’s a set of emotions, feelings that don’t seem to fit well into words.  The fair was a deep philosophical experience for me, but at the moment my brain seems to be stuck at a more prosaic level.  So let’s get the basics out of the way and leave the philosophy until the next blog entry.  Big thanks to David for telling me about it, various Oregon folks for talking me into it, and of course Emily for being my fair buddy!

Ten Things I Loved About the Oregon Country Fair

These are not necessarily my ten favorite things about the fair period, but ten things that I loved, that sum up the fair as well as anything can for me right now.

1. Reusable Forks - So, at the OCF, they don’t use plastic forks or spoons.  Every food vendor gives out real metal forks.  At first this was very confusing.  How can that possibly work?  Well, here’s how: at every garbage stop, there were four bins - one for landfill (marked with a sad red triangle), one for recycling, one for compost, and a final bin for the forks.  Volunteers would then come around and pick up these forks and take them to a central washing station which would then redistribute them.  Sounds like a lot of work doesn’t it?  Good thing…

2. Volunteering at the OCF Is an Honor - At most festivals of this type, the festival heads have to put up a fight to get people to come and volunteer.  Usually some sort of free pass is implied.  But at the OCF, that is stood on its ear.  Volunteering at the OCF is an honor, and a really tough gig to get into.  Volunteers and staff are treated royally, and have special privileges, like being able to stay after 7 pm, when the “real fair” apparently begins, with special staff-only midnight shows and other fun.

3.  Kids Allowed - One of the absolute best parts about the OCF was the kids.  Something I’ve always found off about SF is that the are never any children (or old people for that matter) around, as if the circle of life got stuck at about age 29.  And having attended other festivals like Lightning in a Bottle, there’s always an element that comes out once the alcohol starts to kick in, an unsavory side to the freedom agenda.  For many reasons - but not the least of them the presence of full families, and the absence of alcohol - that never seemed to happen at OCF.  And having kids around was just really fun.  They have such a positive energy.  I was raised to believe that the “hippie parenting style” was too permissive, that kids would turn into privileged hellions.  There was absolutely no evidence to support that conclusion.  Both sides of us at the campground had families with awesome, mature and actually really interesting kids, ages about 7-17.  And all the kids at the fair were honestly and truly well behaved.  I did not see a single screaming match or even a crying baby the whole weekend.  Which brings me to…

3. Everyone is So Incredibly, Genuinely Happy - I mean, it almost got a bit odd.  Where is the angry couple fighting with each other over where they left the car?  Where is the husband upset that the wife is walking too slow?  Where’s that one drunk guy that creeps everybody out?  The privileged teenager?  The annoyed customer?  I don’t know.  They weren’t there.  I’ve never seen such an agreeable bunch of people, for three straight days.  It was a model for how society could work.

4. The Grounds - The physical grounds of the OCF are incredibly gorgeous.  They get to leave the buildings there year-round, which helps a lot.  Most of the stands are two-level because the grounds do flood in the winter, and they leave belongings upstairs, which becomes the camp ground for a lot of the staff.  The fairgrounds are heavily wooded and shaded, and fun little hobbit-style paths have been built to get people around.  Although Saturday afternoon got to feeling a bit crowded, most of the three days felt calm and fluid, but still intimate.  There was no fighting with 90 degree sun and wide open fields; even the concert venues were awesome little nooks.

5. The Food - It’s really good.  Like, really good.  Not every last thing of course, but out of maybe 10 meals, I’d say 6 were amazing, 2 were good, and only 2 were mediocre.  We had an amazing tofu burrito, A delicious indian Thali, some amazing mochas.

6. No Shilling - There was certainly a lot of stuff for sale, and a lot of booths, but nobody was in your face about buying things, and the booths were very respectful.  All the wares were on display but set back off the trails, and nobody was ever accosting you with samples, or propositioning you, or anything.

7. Ninjas - NANDA.  They’re ninjas.  They did a ninja show.  It was…the best thing.  Just the best.  Apparently they tour around the U.S. doing festivals, and if you ever get a chance to see them, you must go.  Hilarious, intensely talented.  I was reminded once again that to be truly funny, you first have to be at the top of your craft, and they absolutely were at the top of their craft.  Their caveman/jacket/Matrix act was one of the absolute best things I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen 7 Cirque shows.

8. Environmental Music - The “featured acts” that we saw were definitely good, and as advertised, but what really impressed me was that around every corner, somebody was playing music or doing something to entertain you.  We saw kids playing full size pianos on carts, a marching band (actually two different ones), guys dressed as trees for no good reason, people on stilts, etc., etc.  The design of the grounds meant that you would walk from one soundscape into another seamlessly, and it felt like there was just always something going on, but in a fairly spontaneous and natural way.

9. Honest-to-God Hippies - Yes, the flower children are alive and well, and although they were outnumbered 10 to 1, there was still a pretty serious collection of some pretty serious hippies.  Tie dye was unironically in full force, dancing in non-dancing situations was entirely acceptable, and the moon was most definitely in the seventh house.

10. It’s Not Even All That Expensive - You can go to the whole thing for about $50, all three days.  Camping for all four days will set you back another $60.  Lightning in a Bottle was well over $200.  Burning Man is even more.

I haven’t even mentioned Jason Webley, or Swami Beyondananda, or the awesome woman at our camp who tried to force feed us, or the free Ukelele lessons (which actually taught me how to play the Ukelele, at least as a beginner) or the Kirtan (perhaps the best I’ve ever heard), or the Ritz (full nude coed wet and dry sauna, with hot showers and live music), or the Library, or the fact that the standard greeting for the whole three days is “Happy Fair!”, or the free health care tent, or…etc. etc.

Because I do believe in balance, and even though the OCF was, for me, an incredibly amazing thing, I will mention:

Three Things That Are Not As Awesome About the Oregon Country Fair

1. It’s Not Cheap Inside - Yes, getting in is cheap, but once you’re inside, there’s nothing counterculture about the prices for food and stuff.  I wouldn’t say I felt I was being gouged, because the food was quite good, but it also was a bit pricy to eat there all 3 days.  And, in particular, the stuff for sale felt a bit over-priced at times - but to be fair (ha ha), it was almost all hand-made and top quality stuff, so you get what you pay for.

2. Caucasian Invasion - It’s all white people.  There were no blacks.  There were no Hispanics.  There were not even any - and this is especially odd - any Asian people.  I don’t mean there weren’t very many - I mean I could probably count on two hands the number of people I remember seeing all weekend from any minority group.  At no time did I ever feel that anyone was doing this on purpose - I’m sure minorities are absolutely welcome - but I guess Oregon, and the hippie movement, is just a caucasian thing.  I suppose there’s nothing wrong with that, but coming from such a multiethnic place as SF, it felt a bit odd.

3. Mosquitos - From about 7:30 to 9ish, it kind of sucked to be outside.  We hid in our tents, and that basically worked.  But it definitely was an issue.

I have no idea what the next few years will have in store for me, but if I’m anywhere near Oregon, I’m definitely coming back some day!  An incredible experience.

Day 17 - Bend, OR

As I was getting ready to leave our airbnb this morning, I noticed that I was really enjoying packing up.  It gave me a little thrill to carefully put each little piece of gear in its appointed place.  The last few days I’ve been living high on the hog, sleeping on the same room I woke up in, so my stuff was just strewn all over.  Something about having to put it all in a tiny pack that barely holds its contents brought me a deep sense of satisfaction, and it got me thinking philosophically about scarcity - that is, not having enough of stuff, be it space, money, time, etc.  When you’re a kid, you just assume that more is better.  A bigger box of crayons with more colors in it must be better than a smaller box.  A bigger toy is better than a smaller toy.  Some people never really get past that stage.  And, to be fair, there’s nothing fun about being broke, or hungry, or sick.  But, it’s a well-known artistic principle that limiting the canvas really helps with the process.  Since the dawn of time, artists have artificially constrained themselves, using small canvases, or outdated techniques, or limiting their color palette.  There’s something about abundance that can be a little bit shocking and deadening, introducing a sense of dullness.  Our competitive instinct is what keeps us moving; at a deep level, I’m convinced that we’re still waking up every morning worried about filling our bellies and avoiding lions.  When our minds sense that we have enough of everything, they shut down the intelligence - after all, thinking and struggling consume resources, and when we don’t need to, why would we?  

Anyway, to come down off the philosophy for a moment, there’s something about the purity of this trip that really is focusing my mind.  Getting on the bike, living out of a tiny bag, sharpens the senses.  When you only have to make a limited number of decisions, you savor those decisions.  When you only have 3 shirts, you know how you’re going to get dressed that day.  Losing the myriad of - let’s face it - meaningless choices imposed on us by modern city life makes the more important ones bubble to the surface.  I can’t get wait to get back on the road.

On a related note, I wrote a few days ago about getting stronger physically, but I noticed today that I’m definitely getting stronger mentally as well.  I’m not sure if it’s so much that I have a clearer sense of who I am, as much as I just feel more comfortable expressing that, and being in my own skin.  I’ve long understood that, when it comes to the big choices, I have to be my own man, but I think I was still struggling with the little things - with the thousands of tiny choices we make around other humans every day.  I’ve written before in a different blog about feeling a bit like a giant in a land of tiny people; that sense of paralysis that comes from feeling like every little move you make - and I”m speaking metaphorically here - every emotional move you make is going to potentially hurt someone.  I’ve always lacked confidence in my social skills, and I worry a lot about every little conversation, even with people I don’t know (in fact *especially* with people I don’t know).  But lately, I just kind of don’t give as much of a shit, and I think that - for me - that’s healthy.  The weird thing is that it seems like the more I care, the more I twist in anxiety, and the more I come across as stilted and weird.  It’s a negative feedback loop.  By genuinely expecting everyone else to be the protagonist of their own story, and letting them react to me however they like, I can calm down.  I just don’t have the energy to manage other peoples’ emotional states, and the sooner I realize that, the better.

As a reward to those who read that far, here's the unedited first 10 days of my GoPro footage.  Warning: it's truly unedited, and almost unwatchable, but yet it's still strangely fascinating in parts.  Eventually I'll be turning it into a full multimedia project.

Day 16 - Bend, OR

I live in San Francisco - a city known for its fit inhabitants, and for its enjoyment of the outdoors.  As cities go, it's a pretty healthy place, I think we can all agree.  And, even as SF inhabitants go, I'd like to think I'm a weekend athlete.  I am, after all, biking across the country.

So perhaps you will understand what I mean when I say that Bend, OR makes me feel like a giant slob.  I went to a running meeting today at a running store called Foot Zone.  I knew I was in trouble when six guys in their late 20s/early 30s showed up, each of them a chiseled tower of running perfection.  I asked the guy what the distance and pace would be and he said about 5-7 miles and "we start at about 8 minute miles but we often end up around 7".  Now, I can run an 8 minute mile, so this encouraged me.  But I forgot about the 3400 feet elevation.  They dropped me faster than a hooker.  I think I made it one mile.  And this was the Wednesday lunch run!

In the shopping center that my friend Meg works at - sort of an industrial warehouse space - there is as follows: a yoga studio, a Pilates studio, a CrossFit studio, a martial arts dojo, a physical rehab clinic, a store specializing in tennis, and at least one or two others that I'm forgetting.  Oh, yeah, a place that makes skateboards.  In one block!  There is nobody fat here.  Honestly.  I think they all got scared.

I'm really looking forward to the OCF.  I took off my old bike chain (it needed to be replaced) and I turned it into jewelry.  Check it out!

Day 15 - Bend, OR

It’s extremely odd being back in civilization.  It feels a bit like a cloak that I have to put on, and I’m not sure it’s fitting entirely well.  I mean, I like people, and I like the trappings of society, but having to “be cool” again and “fit in” is almost immediately exhausting.  I find myself a bit more irritable than I was out on the road.  I think part of that is a drive to work out and physically move.  It’s also an energetic drive to take on challenges and be moving forward.  But also I think I may be discovering that I’m more introverted than I thought.  I still love people - that’s a common misconception about introverts - but too much interaction is draining me.  Or that just happens to be the way I'm feeling lately.

Bend is kind of amazing!  I’ve never seen a city so focused on athletic activity.  Snowboarding, skiing, stand up paddle boarding, running, cycling, hiking, you name it, they’re doing it.  They even have an event - the Pull Pedal Paddle - where you have to downhill ski, then cross country ski, then ride a bike, then paddle a kayak, and finally run to the finish.  I want to do it.  I could definitely see myself hanging out here for a while and really bearing down on my own fitness and my own love of the outdoors.  I don’t know if I could be here permanently, but I thin kit would be a really fun ride.  Speaking of which, I got to stand up paddle board (SUP) for the first time!  I really enjoyed it, and I didn’t fall in at all, not even getting on or off.  I definitely credit the yoga with vastly improving my balance.

I'm super excited about the Oregon Country Fair coming up Friday!

Day 14 - Sisters, OR (42.4 miles)

I can feel myself getting stronger on the bike.  Today I did about 45 miles, but there was a 3800 feet climb, from 1500 to 5300 feet, over the McKenzie Pass.  Before I left on this trip, that would’ve been a big deal, but honestly today I found myself wishing that it was even longer!  I’m actually a bit sad that I’m getting off the bike, which I think is a good sign, that I’m enjoying the trip.  Honestly the only part that got to me was the sun; at that elevation the sun really bakes down on you.  That, and I was terrified of being stung by a bee (for those who don’t know, I’m allergic).  With my giant blue sleeping bag on my back, I think I look like a giant flower.  :)  I guess the trip is all about overcoming fears, or at least plowing through them.  The good news is that Bend is at 3400 feet, so I won’t lose all of my altitude acclimation.  I’ve sworn to myself that I’m going to try to keep in shape over this next week - maybe do some rock climbing, hit the gym, perhaps even ride my bike around a bit, so my body doesn’t forget how to ride.

I found out something interesting by the way, that I forgot to mention.  On the trip up the Pacific Coast, I noticed that I was passing a lot of cyclists, but there were very few on my side of the road.  I assumed at first that was just because of the math involved (you pass more folks because of the timing), but still it seemed remarkable.  But in North Bend, when I stopped at Moe’s, he said that he was surprised to see me headed north, because almost everyone was going South.  I asked him why and he said it was because of the wind.  Apparently there’s a well-known north to south wind this time of year that scares off all but the hardiest of riders.  I had no idea!  I mean, I could tell the wind was strong from time to time, but I’m from San Francisco, and I though that was just normal.  Admittedly, he did say that I’d gotten lucky; the winds this week were less strong than usual.  But basically what I’m saying is that I’m a badass.  Also, what I’m saying is that sometimes, things are easier when you don’t know what you’re getting yourself into.  :)  If I had known before hand, I probably would have gotten all anxious about it.  

Anyway, today I slid into Sisters, OR - a really quirky little town where they passed a city ordinance in 1978 that all the storefronts have to look like they came out of a Western movie.  Also, the town’s specialty is…quilting?  Quilting.  I guess somebody has to do it!  I have always wanted a quilt of all my old t-shirts.  But I digress.

It’s funny people’s reactions to my trip.  It ranges all over the place, from “yeah, so?” to “oh my god you’re crazy”.  But clearly this is a good part of the country for the athletically ambitious because most people aren’t honestly all that surprised!

Day 13 - McKenzie Bridge, OR (55.7 miles)

I pitched my tent!  I left Eugene late because, first of all I was enjoying myself, and secondly, I had realized that I just wasn’t going to make it to Sisters in one day (it turned out to be over 100 miles with 5000 feet change in elevation).  As I approached McKenzie Bridge, the last town for 50 miles before Sisters, I still didn’t know what I was going to do.  Off by the side of the road, I saw a woman about my age and two bikes that were obviously packed for the trip.  So I stopped to say hi, and it turned out that they were headed my way, and planning on stopping in McKenzie Bridge too!  I had half a mind to try to plow on past it, since I still had 3 hours of daylight, but they said they had heard it was pretty primitive once we got past McKenzie Bridge, so I turned in to make some new friends.  Megan and Jacob were very cool, from D.C., out to ride the trail - him the whole thing, and her until Colorado.  And, wonder of wonders, I pitched my tent!

One thing that felt pretty good, even though I feel bad feeling good about it, is that I am making much better time than they are.  They were amazed at how light I’d packed, they’re carrying the “standard camping load”.  Granted, it was fun to watch them boil some quinoa, but I like my credit card camping style.  I wasn’t the least bit jealous of them hauling all that weight, and I think I made them think twice about all the stuff they’re carrying.  You see, normally when I meet other people - call it a self-esteem issue - I always feel like they know better than i do.  But my self-esteem has been feeling much more balanced as of late.  :)

Anyway, it’s beautiful camping here, and my tent works fine (for light duty of course).  Honestly everything is just coming up roses, and I couldn’t be happier.  I’m going to keep in touch with the two of them because I think i will see them again later - I’m stopping in Bend of course, and they’re stopping later in Colorado, so I think we’ll cross tracks again.  I hope we do, I think that would be super fun.

Day 12 - Eugene, OR (54.9 miles)

There’s an interesting character to the sunlight up here, that reminds me of home - my original home, my birthplace, of Buffalo, NY.  Buffalo is really miserable in the winter, that’s a well-known fact, but what most people don’t know is that Buffalo is actually really beautiful in the summer (granted, summer lasts all of a month, but still).  But there’s a particular character to the sunlight; maybe it’s the way it slants through the trees, the polarity of the light, something.  But I miss it.

Eugene is the funkiest place I’ve ever been - and that’s saying something, because I’ve lived in Austin and San Francisco.  I stopped off at a hostel in Whiteaker, a neighborhood near the U of O.  It was aggressively funky.  I stopped at a house that I thought was my hostel because there was an eclectic collection of folks partying at 2 in the afternoon, smoking pot and hanging out in a set of old beauty salon chairs that they had set out on the streets.  It turns out that’s just the house a few doors down.  :)  It reminded me of SoCo in Austin, but even more so, if such a thing is possible.  Can I just say once again how much I love hostels?  I wish there was a hostel in every town.  They’re a great place to live cheap, an awesome spot to meet folks, and just full of the right kind of attitude.  The best experiences I’ve had traveling are almost all associated with a hostel.  I met a really cool woman named Emily this time, a Faulknerian little spitfire who is riding her motorcycle around the entire country, just for shits, before she heads back to her job in finance.  My tribe for sure.

Another little quick philosophical story - another guy at the hostel, maybe early 20s, had a crazy life story.  He was from Eugene, but had gone to the outback of Australia for a job working at a slaughterhouse.  He had some family there, and they took him in, and he had the best time of his life.  But then this weird thing happened, one of his coworkers died in a freak accident, and he got wigged out, and hopped on a plane back to Eugene.  He said he knew as soon as he landed that it was a mistake - he actually said that he tried to get them to just fly him back, but of course they don’t do that kind of thing (at least not for free).  Anyway, it was obvious to both me and Emily that he needed to get back there ASAP; every time he talked about it his eyes lit up and he seemed so happy.  But he was just letting all these logistical things stand in his way - the price of the ticket, his worries about a job, getting an education, etc., etc.  Anyway, the point is:

YOU KNOW WHAT YOU REALLY WANT TO DO - DO THAT.  DO THAT THING, RIGHT NOW.  That is all.  :)

I really got a kick out of Eugene.  It’s good to know who my people are.  Now I just have to find more of them!  :)

Day 11 - Swisshome, OR (24.1 miles)

I found it.

I’m not even sure what it was.  I’m pretty certain that I couldn’t have told you before I left, and even now, having found it, I’m still not sure I could say.  At least, it would be hard to put into words.  But I can tell you where, and when, I found it.  Not that that would do you much good, because your it probably wouldn’t be found there.  In fact, even my it is not likely to be there anymore, because, for one thing, I’m not me anymore, at least not the me that found it, there.  But when I was that me, which was earlier today, I found it, and I found it in a river in Lane County, Oregon, between the tiny town of Brickerville and the only slightly larger town of Swisshome.  I’m in the basement room of the evangelical church of Swisshome right now, having toasted their last three pieces of wheat bread that the man up the street who let me in found in the crisper drawer of the fridge, and spread on them the banana jam that I bought a few days ago, in what seems like a different life.  I found it in that river, sitting on a rock, dipping my feet in up to the ankles in a cool (but not too cold) Oregon stream, with the sun setting behind me, and the rest of the road laid out in front.  I’d left my bike up by the bathroom at the primitive little park set up by the side of Highway 36, and when I got to the rock, I realized that I couldn’t see the bike, and I was nervous, and then I was mad at myself for being nervous, and I got anxious, and I told myself not to be anxious, which didn’t work, so I got up and walked, barefoot, over the rocks, and moved the bike so I could see it from the river, and got some little splinter in my foot, and walked back down the moss, and thought about whether the leaves I was looking at were poison oak, and what did it mean if I got poison oak on my feet, and then back over the rocks, and sat down heavily and breathed out, and stuck my feet back in the water, and then there it was.

It was just right there.  It was right there in that moment.  And nothing happened, and nothing continued to happen, and I smiled a little bit, and even now hours later, in the basement of this church I can feel the little sensation at the end of my nose that means tears are starting to well up in my eyes, and I won’t likely actually cry, but I feel like crying, and a bit like laughing, and a bit like smiling, and a bit like love.  It’s the *it*-ness of the thing, this sense that, of all the rivers, *this* is the river, and of all the rocks, *this* is the rock, and *that* is the piece, and *I* am the one who is here, who is meant to be here, and *this* is where I should put my feet, and *this* is right, and *this* is the thing, this it, this thing, and now I found it!  And now the last 6 years are worth the wait, and it’s OK, and moving on past this point is fine, and there is no regret, and there is no what-if-I-did-this, and nobody wants to be anything but who they are, and now I maybe will cry, because that feeling, that sense, is what I sensed in the casino days ago, what I sensed when I walked out my door, what I sensed when I planned this trip and stood in REI and quit my job and sat in a room doing downward dog, and none of those were *it* but they were *it-like*, and they knew the way to *it*, and all of them I am so grateful to, because *it* is the thing I want, and *it* is the thing I need, right there, right in that river, right there.  And now I head off to find another it, but with a happy heart, knowing that no matter how long the road, that there are *its* to be had, and that I will likely find another, but that even if I do not, the search is worth it, because they are there to be found.  It’s like finding gold, and knowing that the gold is there, and even if you never find another piece, now the digging is a worthwhile task.

Tomorrow - more about my trip.  Today was about this.