the structure fell about our feet

Sitting here in the reading room of Seattle Central Library, the imminence of my return to Ann Arbor seems to have suddenly caught up with the wealth of experience I've taken from this summer. As new friends disappear into their past lives, so must I.

It is a bittersweet, but fitting transition - this space, at this time. At this moment, my legs still tanned and toned, I am confronted by the work of a master craftsman, his genius setting the standard for my own. At this moment, my motivations are in conflict, my goals less certain than they've been over the past two and a half months, but my conscience filled with a sort of purpose I don't think I've ever known. My sense of accomplishment is quickly fading, replaced by the overwhelming self doubt of the coming weeks, months, even years. The hope I've seen in the work we've done has little to no hope in academic discourse, at least not at Michigan.

I ran into Craig here a few hours ago, with his friend from another life, completely messing with the spacetime continuum. Something about this moment makes one both quick to recount the past and project onto an uncertain future. But for now, for the sake of my own sanity, I will keep to what I know. That is, to bid farewell to this summer as a series of unbelievable memories.

On an eventful Wednesday afternoon, after an eventful early-summer week, I came upon a screaming bunch of hoodlums standing in a circle in the parking lot of a Lutheran Church. Their apparent lack of civilized communication skills, alongside seemingly naive ambition and excitement, had me seriously concerned about the remainder of the time I was about to spend with them. As it turned out, most of them could actually communicate effectively, and all embodied a unique and undying spirit that could have sustained the group far beyond the following ten weeks. Some made me laugh, many nearly drove me insane, but I found far more calming voices, and even more motivating spirits, to keep me going on even the worst days. I cannot say I ever found a confidant within the group, and often regret never doing more to build strong and lasting connections, but was often comforted to share special moments (be they good or bad). We may not have been best friends, but there were still many moments of solidarity. And in solidarity, the path certainly became more clear.

And so I will miss them all. What a group. They all gave me a reason to get up in the morning, because it was them who made me aware of what I could do and could accomplish. There was no fierce competition (except during "Assassins"), we all had different reasons for having the same goal, and we were unstoppable. I will miss the comedy of Kathy, Zach, Kevin, Jessie, Ian, Quang, and Christopher, who made me laugh probably more than I'm willing to admit. I will miss Isaiah, Arianna, and J-Muffin, who gave me a reason to keep pedaling, harder and harder. I will miss Erik, Joy, Anson, and Derek, who were always kind and generous. I will miss yelling at John R to get up in the morning. I will miss Laura, Kristen, Lindsey, Bobby, Reed, Michelle, Dan, Kim, Pen, and Dae, who always kept things interesting in their own unique ways. And I will miss Katrina, Craig, Sharon, and Kate, who kept me sane.

Indeed there was a huge support network within the group, but it was what extended outside that made me proud to call myself a member of Bike and Build, and always made my blog postings worthwhile. This blog has always been not just about updating any and all who wish to read about the days in the life of a cross-country cyclist, it has been an outlet for some of the thoughts I keep pent up all day. My writing too keeps me sane, allows me to gather up the pieces of a day or few, reconciling them into palatable memory. Though my thoughts were never all here, I'd say these entries have been sometimes obsessively detailed, and it makes me feel content to know there are people out there who enjoy reading what I have to say. From my father, whose pride and encouragement were persistent, and my mother, who constantly worried about me, to Arianna's mother and grandfather, Derek's mother, all of Anson's family, Craig's dad, Joy's mom, and the other family members I've yet to know, you all kept me writing in addition to riding. I even heard encouragement from people I've never met, people who stumbled on my blog randomly, or followed it after hearing about the organization. The breadth of investment has been overwhelming and I cannot thank you all enough for your love and support.

Finally, I want to refer you back to my first post. After crossing the country, much of what I said back then I still feel very strong about, perhaps even more so. Now I am more encouraged by the human spirit than I have ever been, but am still concerned that we are not doing enough to support each other, that the spirit of competition has hindered the spirit of camaraderie. The work we have done with Bike and Build has certainly been a great deed, but never great enough to ease our burning consciences. I hope at least, from this blog, and our spreading the word, that consciousness will grow and good deeds will become more widespread. Problems will persist, but they will only get bigger with apathy.

It is with sadness that I bid farewell to all of you, those whose faces I know well and those I've never met. But the time is right, and the transition is fitting. I will pass now into a world where I hope, one day, I can use these experiences from Bike and Build much more extensively and effectively. Thank you again for your support. Keep in touch, if you can (sjhought@umich.edu).

And we were free to go...

relief

Well, if you haven't guessed it by now, we've made it. Trip complete. Almost...

It's been a few days since the ceremonial end to the ride, but I'm still in Vancouver with many of the remaining Bike and Build-ers. We're staying at a Salvation Army church and emergency homeless shelter. The shelter is closed for the summer, so no homeless are staying with us, however they do still open the building up for church and food services. And there are several homeless shelters neighboring the building, so it is an interesting experience. Nobody really bothers us, and the people who run the facility are really nice, so I've felt pretty comfortable there for the past two nights. More about that later.

So, on being done. What a relief. I don't know, I haven't felt the excitement of having just completed a whirlwind bike ride across the US, and BC. I'm happy to be off the road, especially after two final days of dodging insane Richmond/Vancouver traffic, although it does feel a bit strange. It's been two days since our final ride, and I'm feeling a bit sluggish, like I need to get back on my bike to feel better. My body is telling me to get up, put my jersey and chamois on, and get on the road. But I can't, my bike's already in a box, ready to head back to Ann Arbor. I think, probably as soon as I get back to Ann Arbor, I'll probably hit the road for more riding. Its like a drug, those exercise endorphines....I think my body is going through withdrawal or something.

So not too much emotion for me...at least not yet. We all ended our ride at a beach in Stanley Park, beside downtown Vancouver. Most were elated, throwing their bodies into the water, champagne into the air (which they either bought or had donated), and cake at each other. Not me (thought I did get caked while on the phone with my grandparents). The extent of my celebrating consisted of me picking up my bike, walking to the water, contemplating my next move, then tossing it in. And again, for a photo, I hurled it in, much like I had done the day prior (though not in frustration). I was the only one to actually fully submerge my bike, probably a stupid idea, but the thing is screwed up enough already. A little salt water won't hurt...

Now, many of us have spent a couple days in the city. Our accomodations are simple, even meager, but I've been comfortable here. The Salvation Army had us for lunch yesterday at an amazing facility called Belkin House, a shelter, counseling, training and rehabilitation center for people "at risk due to homelessness". I refrain from calling it a homeless shelter, and refrain from calling any of the residents homeless, because it was clear to me that they were there to try to turn their lives around. And the facility was absolutely incredible. Probably something we'd never see in the states, at least it wouldn't be so well-funded by the government (partly due to our lacking universal health care).

So Belkin House functions in many capacities: as an emergency shelter for those off the streets, as a refugee shelter for those fleeing other countries (those rooms were NICE), as a shelter for displaced/battered women and children, as a rehabilitation center for convicted criminals (they have a separate detox center), and it even has leasable rooms for those looking to get back on their feet. There are 44 male and 26 female shelter beds (yes beds...with $700 mattresses...no joke), 30 beds for male federal offenders (called CRF), as well as 92 male and 16 female (+ children) supported housing. The supported housing is really nice, probably nicer than most dorm rooms, with in-room bathrooms, microwaves, mini-fridges, and storage. All CRF and supported housing residents are assigned a "counselor", are required to take various life/work skills classes, and have access to the internet and resources to make positive steps toward greater independence. There is even a work out facility, ping-pong and pool tables, a library, and lots and lots of puzzles. Oh, and they get fed too. The Salvation Army is a Christian mission, but none of the residents are required to participate in the spiritual aspects of Belkin House.

This visit was definitely one of the highlights of the trip, and a perfect experience to close everything out. It made me feel really great about having just a mat, sleeping bag and pillow to sleep on the floor, and incredibly grateful to all the amazing people who have taken us in along the way. Not only could we not have completed this trip without them, but I really don't think, at least from my perspective, we could have come to understand the need to pay it forward, so to speak. And not just during the trip, but hopefully for a long time ahead. Sometimes I think we took our hosts for granted, like we came to expect consistent hospitality, but going to Belkin House yesterday really reaffirmed my appreciation for all the people working hard to make good in their lives, and all the people working hard to help them out.

As for the rest of my time in Vancouver, I'll probably just grab some lunch, write some postcards, and head to the post office. Maybe I'll walk around a little bit, but I really just think my exploration of this city will have to wait until another time (I'll be back here, right?). My impressions of it have been mixed (I'm kind of equating it with Boston right now), and a more in-depth visit may change my mind. I don't know, its a very residential city, and a seemingly new one. Not that there isn't history here, I'm just not sure I'm finding a certain character that makes this place stand out. Aesthetically and culturally it seems the city is following a grossly capitalist model...rapid architecture for the homogeneous masses. Though it is evident that Vancouver is an extremely diverse city, I can't seem to find those ethnic roots anywhere...the Chinatown seems amazing, but everything else seems to be a watered-down version of something else. I mean, I'm sure its a perfectly fitting place to live, but is Vancouver just another generic city? Am I only looking at the surface? Somebody, feel free to change my mind.

One thing I've found absolutely haunting about this city is the way it glows at night. I've grown so used to high-voltage urbanism, other cities in a near panic of light, that I was really amazed at the simultaneously eerie and relaxing glow created by the predominantly residential skyline. The absolutely garish glass and concrete towers disappear at night, revealing rather thousands of candles floating in air, sometimes in a sea of mist. It's both fantastic and disorienting.

As for Bike and Build, our numbers are dwindling. Some left yesterday, some are probably leaving as I speak, and I will be leaving in about three hours. At long last, we all must get on with our lives (well, most of us). Seeing everyone depart is sad for sure, however I think we all need it. I have a few days in Seattle, where I will sleep in a real bed and take a real shower, then it's back to Ann Arbor. Oh jeez.

I'll be back in a day or two to wrap up the trip, and the blog. Don't touch that dial.

here we go...

It's the morning of our final day, at long last, and I have some good news.

Joy made the cue sheet for today, and was able to knock our mileage down to only 13!!! Which means we aren't getting on the road until 11:30, haha. Some people are still sleeping. I'm going to sit around trying not to go insane thinking about the inevitable.

morale, don't fail me now!

I woke up this morning to various sounds of jubilance...that we would be crossing into Canada, that our trip would soon be over...so much, it made me want to vomit...or at least not get too far ahead of myself (well, yes, vomit). If my reaction wasn't omen enough, the jubilance quickly faded into misery as the rain clouds, confusing roads, and dangerous/insane traffic persisted. And in the end, the ride turned out far more miserable, and far more frightening, than any of us anticipated.

By miserable, I mean I actually picked up my bike and hurled it into a ditch...not once, but twice. (Damages from the second hurl have yet to be assessed.)

So let's start from the beginning, eh? Well, in the beginning there was rain. Not a deluge, just a drizzle. Always a perfect way to start the morning on a bad note. Leaving Washington was not too bad, as we all were still relatively rested and excited for the new country to come. There was some traffic heading to the border, and through the morning I remained pretty uptight, as everyone else around me seemed prematurely relaxed, as if the ride was in the bag.

The rain stopped as we hit the border; false hope for the optimists of the group. The crossing was smooth, and there was a great sign on the other side for a nice photo op (apparently British Columbia is "The Best Place on Earth"...haven't sold me yet). So I guess, from the morning, I was feeling a bit better. However, I had not eaten much for breakfast (a bowl of cereal), and was hoping there'd be a cafe within reach. Unfortunately, we left Lynden on a Sunday, when absolutely nothing is open (Dutch tradition, apparently), and entered the farmland of BC.

For the next 15 miles, the rain picked up, the road became progressively more hilly, and my stomach started to grumble. At one point I hit a pothole and almost crashed, surely setting the tone, and my temperament, for the rest of the ride. From thereon, everything was uncertain, everything was unsafe, every muscle in my body was tense, and every word from my mouth was, if not openly hostile, then implicitly so.


At mile 25 we finally reached a Starbucks, where I thought I might be able to shelter myself from the cool rain. Inside, the air was colder than out, and my feathers were ruffled. I still got a hot chocolate and some baked goods, but sat outside, where the air was only slightly less uncomfortable. At this point, my clothes were already drenched, and I still had 30 miles to go. Without the rain, the ride would have been much more manageable

At mile 28, the route became confusing. Routes 99 and 99A seem very much the same on a traffic sign, with only one letter difference. Some opted for 99, and realized it went directly onto a highway, but 99A was the correct route (still a highway, but not divided), with an occasionally wide bike lane and persistent traffic.

At mile 28.5, on an off-ramp to 99A (yes, it was that busy), a car was trying to exit as I was passing, and almost veered directly into me. After giving him an angry look and gesture (nothing obscene), he proceeded to call me an asshole from out his window as he sped past me on the right, off the ramp. I had the right of way, buddy.

And at mile 29, I got a flat. Already completely frustrated, I lost it, picked up my bike and, like I said before, literally hurled it into a ditch. It probably spun a full 360 in the air before crashing to the ground. After a moment to scream a bit (well, a lot), and calm down a bit, I changed the tube and got on my way. It was still raining, and I did not want to have to stop again, for the sake of warmth.

At mile 36, the pseudo-bike lane (of the many we had today...just glorified shoulders) shifted to the opposite side of the street, and I followed it to a narrow 4-lane bridge with an insane amount of traffic. We had about 4 feet elevated on which to ride our bikes (a sidewalk, basically), directly to the right of which were cars careening in the opposite direction, spraying water up into my already soiled face.

At mile 39, the bike lane disappeared, and I was left to my own devices on a busy 4-lane road, yet again. The road led directly into a mess of a highway interchange, where I feared for my life with every car that zoomed past me.

At mile 40, I missed an exit (yes, an EXIT...we were at an interchange) and continued 4 miles on a road (yet another busy one) that I was not supposed to be on. I crossed the city limits of Vancouver (where I should have STAYED...) and decided I probably was not going to find the turn I was looking for, turned around, and went back to look for it. With some help, I managed my way back to that insane interchange, and found a bike route that led me to the road I needed. At this point, I had gone more than 8 miles out of my way.

The rest of the route was pretty straightforward, but the rain and traffic persisted, and I was still frustrated to say the least. By mile 60 (of what was supposed to be only 55), I was ready to be finished, but knew the church was within reach. I had calmed down a lot, and when I saw Joy and Sharon, felt good that the day was almost over. Of course I got a bit ahead of myself....

At mile 63, I noticed I was passing and had just missed the turn into the church. I pulled off into a driveway on the right, hit a lip in the curb, and crashed to the ground, scraping up my ankle, knee, hip and shoulder. The tempers flared again, and I became so fed up with the day that I picked up my bike and hurled it again onto the sidewalk. Like clockwork, I've managed a crash every five weeks, all onto my already screwed-up right shoulder. Joy and Sharon came over to make sure I was okay, and I just screamed at them. I let all my anger from the day (and possibly from the entire trip) go, then stomped across the street to the church, where I greeted church members with restrained hostility, and threw my bike down again before going inside to lick my wounds.

I continued to shiver until the van came with dry clothes and to take us to showers.I don't think I have ever been that angry on this trip. And I don't know what damage my bike sustained from the crash, and the second and third smashes. Will deal with it tomorrow.

Now we're at a really great church, The Tapestry Church, and after having a warm shower, a great meal, and wireless internet, I'm ready to crash...onto my thermarest, that is. Of course it's after 11 now, and everyone just got back from a bar...celebrating prematurely...and making it rather loud. I cannot wait for peace and quiet. After today, I've never been more ready to be rid of this group, and to be rid of the potential horrors of cycling, once and for all. They're good people, some of whom I really respect, but it's been far too much for far too long. I don't fare well in an environment like this.

We have about 25 miles to Stanley Park in Vancouver tomorrow, even though we basically made it to the coast two days ago. The city limits are only a couple miles from here, but we have to make it all the way to the other side as safely as possible, I guess. Whatever. I just want to be done. No jubilance from this guy...not yet.

denial...

This is nonsense. I am not suddenly on the other side of the country, am I? No, I refuse to believe it.

Don't tell me that I just rode 3,900 miles. Don't tell me that, in the past five days, we climbed over 15,000 feet to cross six mountain passes. Don't tell me that I braved extreme heat and extreme cold; extreme rain and extreme wind, thunder, and lightning; extreme traffic and extreme wildlife. Don't tell me about all that has crossed my eyes, from the flattest flatlands to the highest mountaintops. Don't tell me about the time I nearly died in a thunderstorm (more than once), or the time I never felt more alive crossing the Rockies.

As far as I'm concerned, this did not happen.

You see, I have been living day-to-day for the past two-and-a-half months. I've put all the good and the bad behind me to focus on the stretch of road yet to come, every goal very precisely laid out, so as not to get too far ahead of, or too far behind, myself. And for me, the only way to make it to Vancouver by Monday is to first make it through mile one on our ride to Richmond tomorrow.

It is a coping mechanism of sorts, structuring my entire mode of being around a very specific goal, a goal that culminates in a much grander accomplishment. And for me, that micro-structure blinds me from the hyper-ambition of a "bigger picture", keeping me grounded, keeping me modest, and keeping me sane. For the past two-and-a-half months, I know the rest of my life exists somewhere in time, but it does not matter for the present moment in my life. I have all the tools and skills and knowledge and strength and motivation to make it from mile one to mile two. At least that is the hope.

Greg LeMond once said, "It never gets easier, you just go faster." Of course I'm not about to ride in the Tour de France (despite all the mention from passers-by that France is in the opposite direction...thanks for the redundant geography lesson), much less win it, but I do know that every day presents an almost overwhelming challenge. To think solely of the challenge of biking from Portsmouth, NH to Vancouver, BC would be to think like a defeatist. Because, somewhere in the middle, you do get stronger, you do go faster, and you are able to realize your ability to cover more, and more, and more ground. Then suddenly, you're rich...rich in ability, and rich in experience.

But for now, I'd like to remain meek.

We have about 55 miles into Richmond tomorrow. From Lynden, Richmond is only about an hour by car (plus customs), but it will take us probably as much as six. The ride is pretty flat, with views of the Coast Mountains to the north (the subrange just north of Vancouver, for which the postcards display well, is called the North Shore Mountains) and Cascades to the east. It will start relatively rural, but become urban (and densely so) very quickly. Our trip leader Joy and Bike and Build Director Brendan Newman drove the route today, and said it was tough even in the van. Which scares me. We will have lots of turns, we will have lots of traffic (including a six lane highway over a bridge, which is the only way into Richmond from the south.

But I hope our view of the mountains will keep us sane. From Lynden, Mt. Baker is amazingly clear, and will be all the way to Vancouver. I'm sure it's not as spectacular as Mt. Rainier, but still is pretty great to look at, especially knowing that it is, at long last, to our east. Hopefully, for the next 80 miles, I won't look back too much. After all, there is so much to anticipate, and so much we're still unable to account for.

We haven't accomplished anything, yet.

The Passes of Washington State

For the sake of my archive, this is what we've climbed over the past five days:

8/17 - Flowery Trail Pass - 4,046 ft - 2,000' up, 2,500' down

8/18 - Sherman Pass - 5,575 ft - 4,300' up, 2,000' down

8/19 - Wauconda Pass - 4,310 ft - 1,800' up, 3,500' down

8/20 - Loup Loup Pass - 4,020 ft - 3,200' up, 2,400' down

8/21 - Washington Pass - 5,477 ft - 3,300' up...

8/21 - Rainy Pass - 4,875 ft - 6 miles from Washington Pass - 4,600' down

**NOTE: Anson observed it was 41 degrees at the top of Washington Pass, and 43 degrees at the top of Rainy Pass at the time we arrived. We rode through light drizzle, and were thus wet, but later riders found themselves riding through light snow. My toes became numb on the ascent of both, and for the three miles of downhill before climbing to Rainy, my hands became cold and numb almost to the point of not being able to grip my brakes. Other riders were cold to the point of barely being able to speak. Many of us (Anson, Bobby, Isaiah, Ian, and myself) flagged down a passing truck carrying an RV, who let us warm up inside the RV. Though many riders decided to brave another 17 miles of potentially debilitating downhill cold, Sharon, Ian, Isaiah, and I accepted their offer of a ride down the hill to our van. Our bikes were left at the top, and Ian and Isaiah eventually returned to the top (via our van, as it drove to warm up other riders), but I did not want to risk my safety to go down that hill, so I did not complete 17 miles of the ride that day. In fact just the thought of completing that hill was enough to push me to tears. It was not worth it, and others agreed with me. Besides, the climb was what REALLY counted, and I've probably done more than enough extra miles earlier in the trip to make up for what was lost.

wild, wild...pacific northwest?

When I think of cowpokes in spurs, gun slings at their hips, staring each other down on dusty, windblown streets, I don't normally think of Washington state.

But here it is, Winthrop, Washington. An old wild west town, this place is everything you'd expect from The Good, the Bad and the Ugly.

But I don't have much time, actually only about 5 minutes until I'm kicked off. I'm at the library in Winthrop, after poking around a bit, and still have 15 miles left in my ride. We're on our way up to the middle of nowhere, just outside North Cascades National Park, where we're expecting pretty primitive camping conditions. By that I mean the only running water around will be the river we're pitching our tents next to. It's been raining on and off today, so lets hope things will stay dry overnight. We have to camp again tomorrow, and I'd really like to not have a soaked sleeping bag.

Gotta give my goodbyes. The past couple passes have been manageable, and we've ridden literally into the desert of Washington. Like seriously, I saw tumbleweed. Things have cooled down a lot now. We only have two more passes, Washington and Rainy tomorrow, then its pretty much downhill to Rockport, where we're supposed to have a bit more civilized camping arrangements. From there, the coast!

Thirty seconds left, must give my goodbyes.

get your @$$ over the pass

Hey all, so sorry to not be in touch for a few days, as we have not had easy access to internet.

We'll, we're out of the great state of Idaho, it was a quick one, but Sandpoint was a good stop. We got to do siding at our build on Saturday, and basically got the entire house done by midday. Woooo.

But we're in Washington now, and so far I LOVE it. Seriously. Well, kinda. If it weren't so damn hot, I'd say it's pretty great. Its been over 100 the past three days, so we've been getting up early to try to beat the heat...it's not really working.

Why is it great, you ask? Well, actually, I don't really know. They have...shoulders. And lots of mountains...like a lot. The past two days we've climbed a total of about 7,000 feet and crossed both Flowery Trail Pass (4,046 ft) yesterday and Sherman Pass (5,575 ft), the highest continuously maintained road/pass in the state, today. So, needless to repeat, we've done a lot of climbing recently. For Flowery Trail, we climbed about 2,000 feet over six miles, and for Sherman, we climbed 4,500 over 22 miles, so Flowery Trail was definitely steeper. But with those climbs came a lot of sweet downhills. The one into Chewelah was 8 miles straight shot, but the one to Republic today was a little more of a tease. We went down for about 10 miles, shallower than out of Flowery Trail, no brakes needed, then came the headwind, and I had to pedal, then came another uphill, and I refused to pedal hard at all. Let's just say I was a little angry at that point, and after the previous over 20 mile climb in intense heat, just wanted to get done.

Okay, I'm rambling...lets ramble some more. Fortunately we're staying right in town, there's an organic food mart across the street, where I can buy my final round of Clif Bars, and an ice cream shop right next door with wireless internet, which is where I am right now. Its a pretty sweet deal. After my fourth flat tire in four riding days (I wanted to get all the way to Vancouver without having to change my tires, but they already have over 4,000 miles on them, and it'll have to happen tonight), and being in a pissy mood until Sherman Pass, and then again right before Republic, this town really knew how to calm my mood (completely with food).

Yesterday was better. The climb was tough, and it was hot, but the roads were really good and I was in a pretty good mood the entire day. It's amazing what a good attitude will do to make the day more manageable. When we got into Chewelah after a really nice 8 mile downhill, we were very warmly greeted by the amazing people at St. Paul's Lutheran Church. They had a potluck around 12, which I didn't really make it in for, arranged to have the city pool open for us at 2, cooked hot dogs for us at 3, and had a big dinner at 6. AND they displayed all the t-shirts they'd received from Bike and Build over the previous six years they hosted us, as well as some photos from previous years. There was a nice cool creek, and a cool air-conditioned basement to sleep in. So all in all it was just a great day in general

Damn, its hot.

I gotta go, but we're riding into Omak tomorrow, apparently in the desert of Washington. It has already been really dry here, but I guess it gets drier. We have another hill to climb tomorrow, up to Wauconda Pass (4,310 ft). We're at 2,600 ft now, Omak is at 870 feet, and the climb is early, so I imagine a difficult, but still less challenging day tomorrow. It's also supposed to cool down, finally, into the 80's. Maybe (inevitably) some rain. Oh, and we're in the Cascades now, apparently. I don't know where they started, maybe at that huge river we crossed today (the Columbia)

Looking further ahead, we only have 6 riding days left, but they aren't going to be easy. Through some more mountains and parks, where we're camping, after Omak. We still have the rest of the Cascades, where we're going over two passes in one day (Washington and Rainy...sounds wet), among the daily others, as you may have already taken note of. They're only 4 miles from each other, so I imagine the climb between them won't be too bad. Apparently this side of the pass is not so bad, and the other side is basically all downhill until we get to the coast. Maybe we'll be able to see Mount Rainier on the way??

Alright, sorry for all the blabber. Gotta go.

my favorite things

We've escaped...from Montana. After being held in purgatory for what seemed like an eternity, and more recently being pushed to our physical and mental breaking points, we've finally found our way out...

...into Idaho. Here, egomaniacal drivers in pickups tote rifles on their dashboards, and fans of Ziggy Marley come in droves to worship their [proxy?] idol. Of course, these are only my extreme initial impressions. Otherwise, Sandpoint seems like a well-equipped outdoors town (FUN FACT: Sandpoint is the headquarters of Coldwater Creek, a big women's outdoor apparel company).

We've also crossed our final time zone...Pacific Time...which means the current time (8:28) is inconsistent with my not so sudden urge to sleep.

But tonight's feature: my favorite things! To say the least, Bike & Build has taught us to work with often limited resources. In this light, I have listed eleven things, in no particular order, that I have come to appreciate more than anything else in my daily routine.

- GRASS: anything soft enough to sit on will do, however soft, plump, cushy, deep green grass is really what I crave. Give me a good patch of grass, and an amazingly relaxing rest will most certainly ensue.

- PEANUT BUTTER: Nearly 3,500 miles and about 70 peanut butter sandwiches later, I must admit I still look forward to that creamy, sometimes crunchy, peanutty goodness at every lunch stop.

- SHOULDERS: This is a two-part fav. First, my own shoulders. One may be slightly messed-up, but they keep me firmly supported on my bike and even protect my head in a fall (three times so far). Lets just say I am grateful they still function, especially after my first fall. Second, road shoulders...WIIIIIDE road shoulders. Three words: peace of mind.

- ICE: adds a bit of refreshment to a long, hot ride.

- 50 CENT "DESIGNER" SUNGLASSES: because it's not about the UV protection.

- PLUSH CARPET: it’s the Bike & Build equivalent of sleeping on a cloud.

- A FRESH COAT OF CHAMOIS CREAM: especially in cooling “eurostyle”, this stuff has the power to make any chaffing, rubbing, or pulling discomfort disappear.

- GAS STATIONS: For a quick snack, cold Gatorade, or pee emergency, these things are lifesavers. Forget the hyper-sapping of precious natural resources.

- HILLS: The odd one of the bunch, you might be thinking. But they make the ride interesting (and often absolutely gorgeous), help the time pass much faster, and there’s always a sweet downhill or two. It only took until after crossing into the Rockies for me to realize this.

- ICE CREAM: My main indulgence/vice, of many on this trip. Every night is a search for the nearest Dairy Queen or local spot. The local spots are always the best (Huckleberry and Mint Chocolate Chip mix surprisingly well), but a large M&M Blizzard with chocolate soft serve hits the spot every night…sometimes twice.

- PEOPLE: They’re not so bad…specifically the non B&B types…because without them, we’d be camping, eating pasta, and talking to the same 29 others every night.

Ten days left!

heat wave

I don't actually like to make conversation about the weather, unless prompted by someone or absolutely overwhelmed by it. In the case of this entry, it's safe to say that in the next few days, we will experience the latter.

We've been pretty luck thus far. Other Bike and Build tours (Southern US, among others) have certainly experienced worse heat than us. And last year, NUS rode into a heat wave going through the North Dakota and Montana plains. That must have sucked. But up until today, there have been few other days on our trip where the heat has become unbearable. It happened on the 120 mile day to Gays Mills, and on the 97 mile day to Bowling Green. As today's 70 mile ride began cool, riding along the shores of beautiful Lake Koocanusa, it warmed up quickly, and ended a blistering 93 in Libby.

Apparently the Northwest, of all places, is in the middle of a record-breaking heat wave, and we are riding right into it. Today Seattle reached the 90s, Portland hit 100, and still other areas climbed to over 100, and it's expected to get hotter. These are places that are used to seeing 70's in the summer, even 60's in some of the coastal and higher inland areas.

Tomorrow we ride to Sandpoint, Idaho under more 90-degree weather, and for our build day on Saturday, the tempurature could rise to near 100. The following rides on Sunday and Monday, to Chewelah and Republic (both in Washington state), we're probably going to experience temps somewhere around 100. And it's dry. No clouds, much less any rain.

In other non weather-related news, we had another fantastic ride today. It was hot, and I was exhausted from too little sleep the past two nights (had some internet and Olympics to catch up on), however the scenery was pretty freaking amazing. Lake Koocanusa (catchy name...figure it out) is actually a huge reservoir created by the damming of the Kootenay River. It stretches for 90 miles through a massive valley, from British Columbia to Montana, and is filled with some really, really fresh water. And no development, as we were in a national forest, so little traffic (except for all the damned logging trucks) Carved into the steep mountain edges, the road weaved in and down, up and out, and left many a photo opportunity. The shoulder was wide, and we made many stops, including one to climb the side of a cliff for a better view (like the views weren't good enough already). It was probably one of my favorite days of the trip, a good day to be tired.

Riding into Libby, the trees became more and more sparse on the hills. It's a logging town, of course, some mining too. Lots of poverty. One of the riders (Jessie) met a woman working at the gas station, who is trying to raise children on a minimum-wage job, with little help from the government. She loved what we were doing, but lamented that the local Habitat affiliate was not doing enough for the reason. Actually, I think she specifically said that it was a total joke. I'm sure it was a difficult position for Jessie, who knew that the organization she was representing had the capacity to help people like this woman, but realized the limitiations of an organization trying to tackle an overwhelming problem. There are just too many people in need.

One final news flash: we're still in the Rockies. Not sure why I thought we'd go through Glacier and be done with them, but we're not. We're just not climbing any more passes through them. For the past two days, we've had mountains on both sides. Today we're in Libby, which is set under peaks that are still partly snow-capped. Tomorrow we'll see even more snow-caps riding into Sandpoint. I'm not actually sure when the Rockies end and the Cascades begin, or when we'll just be amongst rolling hills. All I know is that, from here on out, we're probably not going to hit any flat land.

A longish ride tomorrow, 85 miles. We're getting up at 5:30 to beat some of the heat, so I better get to bed. Perhaps I'll keep a little water on me.

we just went over WHAT?! (extended version)

That's right, boys and girls, the Rockies have officially been conquered. Lewis and Clark, I don't know who all y'all hooligans think you are, but don't all y'all go stealin my thunder.

[Sorry, no concise version available. Here we go.]

And by conquer, I mean we probably went over the slimmest and quite possibly shortest part of the Rockies, in a single day. We had one major climb, about 12 miles from 4,500 ft up to 6,646 ft and the Continental Divide, and a steeper 12 miles back down to about 3,200 ft. But hey, while we were doing that, other people in this world (most likely in the US somewhere) were sitting on their couches getting fat, while still others were starving, and even others were fighting not to freeze to death. Woah, that's some guilt-ridden rhetoric there, Sean, better keep that stuff zipped-up.

Oh wait, those people fighting not to freeze to death were the members of the 2008 Bike and Build Northern United States tour. Funny, I know them. And I was fighting to stave off hunger at every (frequent) opportunity.

Yesterday, we left in two groups at two very distinct times. One group wanted to get through Glacier before the 11-4 bicycle restriction, which was actually only on a very short section of the road toward the other end. They left probably around 6AM, sped past all the amazing mountains and stuff, and got into Whitefish by about 1:30PM. I'm not going to lament their decision, because it was theirs, however I hope they got to at least enjoy the ride and not feel like they had to rush themselves. I, on the other hand, thought it would be a nice take my time through the park. So, along with about two-thirds of the group, slept in until about 6:45 (yes, I said "slept in"), had to take down the tents of the speed-demons, because they were apparently in too big a rush to take them down themselves, and had everything packed in the trailer and ready to go at our usual departure time of 8AM. Oh, and it was cold...like REALLY REALLY COLD. We left our campsite soon after, wearing as many layers as humanly possible, and made our way one mile to a cafe for breakfast. I got a huge pancake (about half the size of the largest one I've had on this trip...details to come in a future entry) , an egg, and some sausage links.

Pleasantly full, we hit the road and immediately ran into strong, gusty winds, which made the already 40-degree morning feel like winter. And it didn't get any better as we climbed. I had my cycling shorts on, with leg warmers (so basically thick tights), and 4 layers on top, including arm warmers, a long-sleeved jersey, and a hooded sweatshirt. I wore the hood underneath my helmet, of course. Others wore street clothes, because all the cycling clothing we had was not going to suffice. We entered the park sometime around 10AM, and had a blustery ride along Lake St. Mary. I really think there were two things keeping us going: first was the fact that if we stopped, we all would freeze. Second, of course, was the distraction (and overwhelmingly so) of the amazing mountain range we were entering into. As I already mention, this range has been carved out by many glaciers in recent millenia, so the terrain is a bit different, and a bit more amazingly unpredictable than other ranges. But we were surrounded on both sides by steep walls of rock, towering probably about four or five thousand feet over our heads, descending straight into this lake. I haven't seen anything this spectacular since Milford Sound in New Zealand, but we were BIKING through this, which made it even more amazing. There were plenty of stops along the way up...an overlook here, a waterfall there, a gorge just a short hike away, enough to make our first 12 miles last about two or three hours. There were still about six miles left until Logan Pass, at which time I decided to book it. And it was worth it. Of course, in those six miles, I still stopped several times, so as not to pass out. I mean, the climb was not as steep as other climbs we've had, but it was loooong. So I would ride about a mile or two, find a pull-out, and stare about 1,000 feet down at the stretch of road I had just conquered, and across the landscape that I was increasingly towering over (though the mountain peaks would remain over my head).

There was a point, about a mile from the top where I could both see my destination and see how far I had come, and I completely freaked out. I just did THAT?! The final stretch seemed to get steeper, but I had so much adrenaline rushing through me, I didn't even notice it. Now I know how some athletes feel during competition: you see the end, you see your potentially stunning accomplishment, and the mere potential pushes you to go faster, to work harder, and to nearly kill yourself for it. So, needless to say, I was exhausted, but thrilled when I made it to the Continental Divide. But of course, as I had just booked it far ahead of the people I had originally been riding with, the sense of victory could not be immediately shared with anyone but the guy in a white SUV who gave me a thumbs up. Others followed behind about 10 minutes or so later, during which time I tried desperately not to freeze, but the adrenaline was rushing enough, and I had just worked myself hard enough, that the real cold had yet to come.

Once all the excitement had worn down, I started to shiver. There was an unheated visitor center at the top, which didn't do much but to block the still nasty wind. It was about 1:15 at this time, and what was supposed to be a triumphant lunch break turned into a fight not to freeze. It was probably in the low 40's at the top, but the wind made it feel at least 10 degrees colder, if not more. So I at a peanut butter sandwich outside (no food allowed inside), huddled up next to an unlit fireplace, then got back on the road....downhill, against the wind. I have never been more cold on this trip than I was going down that hill for about the first 5 miles. The wind eventually died down, the sun came out, and as we descended, it started getting warm. From Logan Pass, we had a downhill that was steeper than the uphill, and a long stretch of road that was under construction (and not paved), so the new brake pads I had just installed were put to good use. So downhill can sometimes be fun, but this downhill was not. It was long, steep, lots of turns, and so impossible to go fast. My hands were gripping the brakes for my life for 12 miles, and hurt so much (the cold didn't help, of course) when attempting to move them from anything other than gripping position. Any big bumps in the road were insanely painful.

At one point, with a huge cliff directly to my left, near arthritic joints, and a dirt road under my feet, a water truck came upon us, spraying water to wet the dirt. This was probably to prevent the dirt from being kicked up, and to keep it well-packed or something. Anyway, he was spraying water across the entire road, and not just a light mist, but a huge, powerful wall. As we came upon these walls, I think most of us saw our lives flash in front of our eyes. I mean, this water was going to blow us over the cliff. The girl in front of me stopped her bike and shuttered as he came by, and about one foot from blasting her, the driver turned off the water, then turned it back on upon passing her. He did the same for another person in front of me, but when my turn came, I was still certain I was going to get blasted over the edge. The water wall got closer, I clenched my handlebars (and my teeth), bracing for impact, the adrenaline rushing yet again, it was inevitable. And again, literally one foot from my front tire, the water stopped and I was saved. We had conquered yet another unanticipated obstacle. The road eventually leveled out, and it was more of a gradual downhill to Lake MacDonald, where we stopped for more lunch, some really good breadsticks and personal pizza. It was 4:00 at this time (perfect timing for the end of the biking restriction). We haven't been in a touristy area in a while, so this day, we were a little surprised at the price of food. $7.95 for a pizza only big enough to satisfy half my appetite? This has been unfamiliar territory, but of course these days, it takes about two or three times the effort to fill my stomach.

Ah, this entry is getting too long. I'm not being very concise. Well, the rest of the way, it was basically rolling hills and more food. About 15 miles after pizza, we left the park (at about 5:30), and had a lunch/early dinner stop. I at half a peanut butter sandwich, and still could not satisfy my stomach. Another 15 miles to Hungry Horse, Montana, where it figures I would still be hungry as a horse. We stopped into this amazing homemade ice cream shop, and tried our taste buds at huckleberry ice cream. Of course, I had to get the largest size (which was huge), and it had to come with half huckleberry and half mint chocolate chip. On this trip, I've jumped at every chance I can get at mint chocolate chip ice cream. Speaking of which, I kind of want some now.

The end of the ride was obnoxious. The roads were busier than they'd ever been since entering Montana, and the shoulder was totally inconsistent. There was one point where the road was very narrow, only two lanes along a river and no shoulder, and literally in an instant, the road widened probably 40 feet and there were 4 lanes, with a turn lane in the middle, and a wide shoulder.

Okay, Sean, let's wrap it up.

I made it to Whitefish at 8:15, and nearly immediately sat down to eat dinner (pasta, fried chicken, potato salad, bread, and really good brownies). Anyone want to count my calories for the day? 8,000? 10,000? The final person made it in around 9PM, just as it was getting too dark to ride. One of the sweeps had to stay back with the van, which broke down immediately upon leaving the lunch stop outside the park. She didn't get to ride the last 25 miles, because she wouldn't have made it before dark, and I think she was a little upset. Actually, really upset. I mean, she just swept on the longest day of the trip, which is difficult enough, and she was the only one who didn't make it the whole way in. I would have been upset.

Speaking of upset, it's a damn good thing we have a day off. We had eleven days without a break, a total of eight weeks away from anything we'd probably call familiar, and we're all inevitably wearing on each other. Interpersonal tensions are building, personality conflicts are manifesting themselves in new and different ways, and people are just getting belligerent and often overbearing. There are moments when I really feel connected to these people, like when we all are sharing the same breathtaking experience of climbing the Rockies, but then there are moments when I just want to throw rocks at everyone, well at specific people. There are several Bike and Builders (I guess they probably know who they are) who really test me in negative ways, try my patience, and push me to the limits of my sanity. These are the people I need a break from, an extended break would be more desirable than just one day, but alas, we all still need to make it to Vancouver.

And for now, at 1:30, I need to put Bike and Build behind me for as much of the rest of the day as I can, and enjoy Whitefish. Woke up around 8:00, walked over to a really nice health club for a shower, then came to this coffee shop, Montana Coffee Traders, had some really good quiche, and started writing this blog. Next, I need lunch, so it's over to the Red Caboose Diner for something good. This town is really great, a little rustic, a bit more haughty, and a lot of outdoorsy...I think my wallet might suffer a little bit before the day is over. Happy coping.

On a final note, I watched TV for the first time today, basically since starting the trip. It was the Olympics, of course, a water polo battle between foes Serbia and Croatia, but I want to speak for a second about the commercials. Specifically, the slew of ridiculous ads I saw from the John McCain campaign. So I've heard about the other opportunities he's taken to attack Barack Obama, like the one made to equate Obama with Brittney Spears. Sounds like a lowball. I haven't followed it much since leaving the real world, but I'm pretty certain this campaign has become unnecessarily nasty. In that spirit, I then have a few words for Mr. McCain, just to vent some of my frustrations. Please sir, why don't you act your age and go retire to Florida...oh wait, you're from Arizona...in any case, I hear they have great assisted living facilities there. Why not give it up and spend the remaining years of your life reconciling what little dignity you have remaining. Thanks.

some kind of wonderful

After over 1,000 miles of some of the most flat, desolate land I have ever seen in my life, we've finally come upon something pretty interesting...the Rockies.

But these past few days, I thought coming upon a huge mountain range would mean more interesting terrain. On the contrary, things just kept getting flatter, and I found myself more and more in the middle of nowhere than ever. We finally came over a hill yesterday, and in the distance (about 80 miles away) we could make out a very faint line of higher terrain. Upon entering Cut Bank yesterday, we came over another hill and saw them towering even higher, and my heart probably skipped a few beats.

The ride today was pretty miserable, but totally worth it. The first 50 miles were a big tease. The ground was flat uphill, we had a headwind, my body was exhausted from the previous 9 straight days of riding, and we couldn't see any mountains! They were hiding behind a mass of haze (smog?), and it seemed like they were never going to show. I was miserable, screaming aloud to nothing, trying desperately to resist the urge to throw my bike into a ditch. Around mile 20, a white patch near the horizon finally became a clear glacier, as the mountains finally showed themselves, and they were bigger than ever. But the wind still didn't let up. I think I averaged somewhere around 10 mph the whole day.

At mile 50, we finally entered a valley, the Rockies finally far far over our heads. The final 14 miles were hills....a lot of winding uphill on narrow, busy roads. But the scenery was amazing. The mountains here aren't as high as those down south (only up to about 11,000 ft) but they've been partially carved away by glaciers, so their rock formations are absolutely beautiful. At one point, the end of our final climb, we came over a hill at 6,000 feet and looked over massive peaks descending into a long lake (Lake St. Mary). We then descended 1,500 ft into it, and are now staying at a really tricked out campground in St. Mary. It has wireless (of course), lots of expensive RV's, and a $4 all-you-can-eat pancake breakfast. I'm totally there tomorrow.

Well, I have to run to dinner now, but once I'm in Whitefish, I'll write more about how amazing this place is. I have never been more excited about any day on this trip than I am about tomorrow. We're riding the Going-to-the-Sun Road tomorrow, a 50 mile, totally scenic road through Glacier NP. We'll climb up to 6,600 ft, cross the Continental Divide, and be totally distracted by everything around us. We're not allowed to ride our bikes on it between 11 and 4 because that is peak time for tourist traffic. So it'll be a long day, and totally the best day ever. I'm so excited.

riding into eternity

But first, our letter of the day: M

M is for mosquitoes...and Montana, too, though I assume you already knew that...

We've been here five days now...through Culbertson, Wolf Point, Glasgow, Malta, and into Chinook...but they've all seemed to run together. The land is fairly flat, barren, deserted...an occasional hill will creep up and frustrate your otherwise smooth ride, Highway 2 ceases to end, and the mosquitoes swarm at a moments notice. We're riding along the Milk River, which is one of the largest breeding grounds for mosquitoes in the country. In fact, there are so many that they actually have what is called "mosquito season" here, because the weather gets hot, and despite the dry weather, the water table is rather high and almost completely standing. The longer the heat extends, the longer the season extends. There are enough to make you want to keep riding, and to even ride at a certain speed. You can run, but you cannot hide.

The ground is less fertile than probably anywhere else we've been, which means that farming is restricted to grains and low-lying crops. Corn is rare here, but cattle ranching is almost completely the norm, especially away from the river. And in Montana too, there is evidence of an oil boom. Unlike North Dakota, Montana has kept the drilling from growing too rapidly, though there is pressure on the government to open up more land to drilling. In any case, we have seen much less oil truck traffic here, and almost no oil wells, but that does not mean we are safe from crazy drivers.

They call this place big sky country for good reason. That big blue is a mass much larger than the treeless ground beneath your wheels, and has the capacity to consume everything within your sight, including the road ahead. At the same time, it is both closer than you could ever imagine, and completely out of reach. This is the kind of place where you begin to believe the world actually has an edge, and if you ride far enough, you just might fall into eternity.

Toward dusk, the clouds begin to grow and stretch from east to west, overtaking the blue surrounding them. These sudden masses manifest in an amazing perspectival relationship with the ground, revealing the rather diminutive character of my place amongst the scene. Whole towns disappear in their presence, as it is the horizon they seek, and the horizon to which I am drawn. Rays of light burst from small breaks in the accretion, illuminating both my past and my future.

We passed many miles north of a series of small mountain ranges today. The Little Rockies and the Bear Paw Mountains, to be precise, where I began to feel as though I was coming closer and closer to the edge. But soon, the real Rockies will be in our sight, perhaps as early as tomorrow, and the ground will again begin to cradle me the way that is familiar. The trees will probably return as well, and the sky will again become that place where only few humans reach, a place that must be conquered to know eternity.

Hurricane Theodore and other recent happenings

Hello.

It has been a while. Internet is not as sparse as I thought it would be. We've actually had wireless our last two nights, I've just been a little preoccupied...actually mostly avoiding an update to this thing.

We are well into Montana now, and not too much has happened since my last post. Let's see how well I can do with getting you all up to speed.

Let's start with the now infamous (at least in our little circle) Hurricane Theodore. So there aren't many things we do on this trip that are more dangerous than riding our bikes across the country. There have been a few exceptions however, as some have gone skydiving, some have hammered nails high on a steep roof, and some have challenged each other to a death-defying game of "Assassins" (currently in play, I have yet to be assassinated). But Saturday night in Teddy Roosevelt National Park was a risk none of us were anticipating we'd take.

Saturday was another beautiful ride. More rolling hills, ascending into amazing buttes, descending back into oil wells. The wind was light in the morning, and at our backs on the last 14 miles into the park. In almost literally a moment, without warning, the rolling hills gave way to a long, enjoyable drop into a massive canyon of wind-blown rock formations. These were the North Dakota Badlands, of course. It was amazing, and definitely worth the extra day or two we had to go out of our way to get there. We got to our campsite, set up the tents, had a nice camp stove meal, and a really beautiful night to watch the sunset/drift comfortably off to sleep. There was a slight chance of rain, only about 20%, so we weren't too concerned, but made sure all our bags were under some sort of cover while we slept. I decided not to sleep in a tent, choosing instead to sleep under a tarp that was a lot less crowded and more open to the breeze and the stars. I was comfortable, but didn't get to sleep right away, as the tarp was a little noisy blowing in the breeze. But I got to sleep eventually. Then the wind picked up, and I was woken up by two others sleeping under the tarp, who noticed lightning in the distance. Of course, here the sky is so big that you can see a thunderstorm from miles and miles away, and it's not even necessarily coming toward you, but we prepared to get hit anyway. Four of us put all the bags in the trailer, moved the bikes and other loose items underneath the overhang of the bathroom on our site, and watched as the storm got closer and closer. Then came the rain, and now five of us took shelter in the girls bathroom, overlooking all of the tents. Then the wind picked up, hard and fast. We all watched as the rain poured down, the lightning crash, and the wind nearly blow all the tents, full of people, over. In one tent, I could hear the manic laughter of Kathy, who, while stuck in the storm, found both her and everyone else's present situation absolutely hilarious. I mean, it was pretty funny, the one day we've camped out all trip, and there is a massive thunderstorm teasing us all. Then a huge tree branch fell five feet from the bathrooms, freaking all the dry, safe ones out, prompting us to scream for everyone to get into the bathroom. Within 5 minutes, the girls bathroom had been overtaken by about 20 soaking wet riders, all freezing and filled with adrenaline. And within 10 minutes, all but one of the tents were completely flattened.

Once the rain and wind died down, we split up into the guys and girls bathrooms, and the van, and decided to spend the rest of the night on the floor, on top of whatever dry stuff we could find. Mind you, this is a public bathroom in a national park. Not the most enticing of accommodations. But I had a great spot, a urinal directly to my right, and a clogged, sh*t-filled toilet right behind me. I was sitting up, as I didn't have much room to lay down, but once I found myself drifting off to sleep, leaning into the urinal, I decided it was probably time to find a way to lay down. So I shimmied my legs underneath the partition between the urinal and the sink, hanging my feet over a bag of one of the riders, then lay my head directly under the partition between the urinal and the clogged toilet. This way, closer to the ground, not only would I not risk waking up with my face somewhere I'd rather it not be, but I would get to smell the ground instead of other peoples' pee.

Let's just say I didn't get very much sleep that night, maybe a broken hour or two. It was about 2:30 when the storm hit, we had been up for about an hour beforehand, getting everything out of the rain, and an hour afterward until we all settled back down. In the morning, the scene was both unsettling and absolutely hilarious. The sun was rising over the hills, and tons of debris was strewn about the flattened tents (all but one). One tent was completely submerged in water, another was a few feet from a fallen branch. A park ranger arrived at about 6:15, with the following words: "Did you guys lose a tarp? Because I found this here tarp up in a tree about a mile from here." It was ours, nonetheless.

We got out of there as fast as we could, riding 100 miles (well, 80 for a few of us) to Culbertson, MT, where we were never so thankful to see a church floor and hot food in probably all our lives.

The past few days have been mostly uneventful. Perhaps in the next blog, I will describe the Montana scene to you (think nothing, nothing, and more nothing). Its been interesting, and lots of good food. These people here really know how to eat, and apparently so do I. More to follow, but the cafe I'm in is closing now, so I have to go.

breaking news...

we've been caught on tape!

"Cyclists Ride Through Minot" - KMOT-TV (8/1/08)

where combines meet oil wells

Coming out of Minot this morning, the landscape changed suddenly. Riding south on the boulevard of the american waistline (they call it Broadway), passing the Dairy Queen, the McDonalds, the Arby's, the Wal-Mart, and everything else you could possibly need to gain 300 pounds, I noticed we were riding uphill. It was a steady climb we had not experienced since leaving Duluth a week ago (though not so steep). Out of Minot, the hills became gracefully rolling, the man-made treelines disappeared to reveal the true beauty of the Western prairie, wheat fields glistened in the morning sun, and oil tankers rumbled anxiously down the country road, nearly running us down.

It was something we had been warned about upon leaving: two riders had been hit by a car on this day last year, the shoulder not wide enough to safely navigate the increased traffic a new economy had brought. We were aware of the oil fields out west, but I was amazed to find a waning farming economy being directly replaced by the riches underneath something called the Bakken Formation. These oil wells, in full drilling regailia, are effectivlely turning western North Dakota into a new sort of Persian Gulf. You should read this really interesting NYT Article put out at the beginning of the year: "Oil in North Dakota Brings Job Boom and Burdens" (1 Jan 2008).

It's an amazingly contradictory landscape, something I cannot even begin to understand. At the same time combines and oil tankers bustle, infrastructure powerful enough to destroy civilizations is not so stealthily contained by the eerie silence of a live-wire fence. And a road sign marking our entrance into the Fort Berthold Indian Reservation shows the bullet wounds of a centuries old cultural and racial conflict.

The hills descend and ascend, without a tree in sight. This was once an ocean, now sandbars have accumulated as a result of the wind. The prairie lingers, the wheat fields and cattle ranches stretch across the horizon, but they do little to conceal the competing values of a country desperately fighting to maintain its status as the hegemon. And we Bike and Build-ers fight to keep our wheels on the road, to keep our mission alive, to show this country that life cannot sustain it self solely on earning a quick buck.

I think I may have found my site for thesis: Parshall, North Dakota, or somewhere thereabouts. New Town may also be interesting, but Parshall is one of those small farming nodes I spoke of in my previous entry, but one that is seeing a sudden transformation of its economy. I'm not sure, I think I want to research this area more. There are many tensions, contradictions, compromises, and whatever, that could make an interesting exploration for architectural production.

Anyway, back to today. So the ride was not as dangerous as we had initially thought. Yes, big oil trucks were whizzing by on a relatively narrow country road, but we had enough shoulder and often enough time to react to avoid disaster. Most often, a truck would pass me without a problem, but there were a few times where I intentionally rode off the road just to be safe, usually when they were about to pass me in both directions. But I was more interested in the amazing scene in front of me. There was one point, about six miles out of New Town, where we came over one of those large sandbars, an oil well directly to the left, and we could see for miles. In the near distance, Lake Sakakawea, formed by the damming of the Missouri River. In the far distance, a large butte of some sort. It was an intense ride.

So New Town. Well, it's a pretty small place in the middle of nowhere. And by nowhere, I mean probably the most nowhere I have ever seen in my life (apparently Montana is worse). Well, except the Australian Outback. We're on a reservation, the majority of the population is Native American, a quarter of the population lives below the poverty line, however they do have a casino. All the Minot locals were talking about it, apparently it's the place to go, if there ever was a place to go in these parts.

We didn't have lunch today, save for a gas station literally in the middle of endless wheat fields. The van managed 18 miles this morning before something went wrong with the shifter/transmission, so the damn thing had to get towed to Minot to get fixed. I arrived around 1:30 or 2, no van. Had some ice cream and fries at Tastee Freeze, no van. Freaked out and went to a rummage sale to look for clothes to change into, no clothes, and no van. It's now 6:00, the van is still not here, and I'm still sitting in my riding clothes, smelling to high heaven. I want a shower, I want clean clothes, NOW.

We're outta here tomorrow, maybe passing by the casino, onto the Badlands, and our first night of camping. We reach Montana on Sunday, and probably find ourselves more isolated than ever after that. Who knows when you'll hear from me again.

something magical

Along this seemingly endless prairie, things spring out of absolutely nowhere and nothing, like magic. Take, for example, Minot, North Dakota (why not?!). Now the home of a huge air force base, which is the dominant economic engine of the city, Minot sprung up literally overnight as a tent city during the construction of the Great Northern Railway. Within five months, the city grew to 5,000 residents, and gained its nickname as the "Magic City".

But the city exists in stark contrast to the prairie that surrounds it. Unlike some of the smaller towns we've passed through, which exist as more concentrated nodes along a huge farming and ranching network, Minot is an obsessed military town in polite, midwestern veil. Surrounded by more than 200 nuclear warheads, apparently armed and ready, Minot is probably more of a fortress than anything. According to a very affable member of the All Saints Episcopal Church (our host for two nights here), and former first lieutenant in the Air Force, we passed by several of them along our ride from Rugby yesterday, and will pass by more going to New Town tomorrow. These weapons of mass testosterone, capable of ending life on this planet as we know it, are apparently pretty nondescript, loitering along the roadside, enclosed by an electrified fence, marked with radioactive warnings.

Crossing the middle of nowhere yesterday, about 20 miles outside the city, I saw a huge airplane cross the sky at a relatively low altitude. Here, cropdusters and small craft are typically the only things that dot the sky. It was a B-52, one of several I have seen since arriving here. Minot AFB is one of only two bases in the country where the B-52 is housed. My god, there are far too many fun facts about this place, I'm not sure where to begin. But the library is closing and I'm being kicked out. We're on our way out of civilization for a while. Hopefully more blog postings will follow soon.

family photos

So I'm sitting here in the kitchen of trip leader Isaiah Berg's family's farm in rural North Dakota. It's Starkweather, to be exact, a tiny town of about 150 people, 26 miles north of Devils Lake, where we actually rode 116 miles into this afternoon. Upon arriving at a church there, where our bikes and gear are stored, we were trucked, vanned and school bussed up to the farm. Isaiah drove me and a few others up, along the way telling us everything he could about the countryside around us, frequently pointing to distant tree lines that he identifies with specific neighbors. We'll be staying here tonight, eating some good food, taking tractor rides, petting the horses (maybe milking the cows), and sleeping under the stars, if the sky decides to clear.

Its a small house, filled with more people than is probably safe (us and probably the entire town of Starkweather), but the land is huge. Isaiah told us that his family farms about 4,500 acres, in addition to the cattle and few horses they also raise(both for milk and beef). His family is incredibly nice, and along with his neighbors (i.e. the people that live within a 5 mile radius of him), they seem to be cooking up an amazing meal for us. Lining the wall are photos from Isaiah and his siblings younger years, as well as (auto?)biographical binders of each child's life. The one of Isaiah is pretty enjoyable. He's a smart kid, spelling bee champ and even Presidential Scholar (overachiever extraordinaire). But he photos are the most amusing.

There are people all surrounding me, some waiting to use the computer, so I'll end soon. The ride was nice, pretty fast, we had little wind, with the exception of a rare tailwind late in the day. There were a few incidents, however. At about mile 27, while in an incredibly fast paceline of 14 riders (averaging probably 22 mph), Quang hit a rock and took a massive spill right in front of me. I thought he was going to take me and the rest of the people behind me out, but he swerved into the road and we all managed to miss him. A disaster seemed imminent, but it was averted. Poor Quang though, it was his second spill of the trip. Then around mile 100, we ran into a bad thunderstorm and had to take cover under some lady's porch in the middle of nowhere. It was pretty scary, we were seeing lightning in the distance for probably 5-10 miles before the clouds got really low, the lightning got really close, and I thought I was going to die. Other people took refuge in a Dairy Queen, some beside a hay bail, and others stupidly rode through it. I don't know how they were so brave, my heart was pounding, and I was ducking ridiculously on my bike, thinking that somehow I would be safer if I moved my face closer to my handlebars. Anyway, we left at 6 this morning, and with a few unplanned delays, made it to Devils Lake at 2PM. I'd say that was a pretty good pace.

G-flat

So here in Northern Minnesota...and North Dakota.....and Montana, the ground is flat, civilization is sparse, days are long, and the wind is not even close to being at our backs. To ensure a sane (and safe) arrival at our destination, we here at Bike and Build have devised a simple plan to prepare your mind, body, spirit, and bike for the road ahead.

All you need are a few things: anywhere from three to nine other people, a good road game, also a spare tube and Road Morph (the best compact tire pump in the world). Perhaps your bike, too. Now just follow these simple steps, and you're on your way to a fantastic 90 mile ride from Bemidji to Crookston, Minnesota!

1) Leave at 6:30AM, before the wind kicks up. And pray for no wind.

2) If the road is flat and you're in the middle of nowhere, don't ride alone. If the road is flat, you're in the middle of nowhere, AND there's a headwind (which is most often the case), stop your bike and wait for others to catch up. If no one is behind you, well then you're screwed.

3) In a small group of no more than eight...though ten is okay, but you're kinda stretching it....form what is called a double paceline. A paceline is a fancy term for a line of riders drafting off each other to minimize effort and maximize speed, the lead rider "pulling" all behind. Each rider lines up anywhere between 6 inches and 4 feet (the closer, the better) from the rider in front of her/him and maintains speed and distance for maximum drafting benefits. The "pulling" rider is responsible for calling out all road hazards, and notifying the riders behind of any change in speed that could cause tires to touch, and crashes to occur. These calls are passed back by each rider, and all react in a safe manner. If the shoulder is wide enough, and a game of Contact requires riders to be within earshot of all others, a double paceline should be ideal (a triple paceline is NEVER recommended). In a double paceline, half the line rides a safe distance next to the other half (more than a foot), and all are responsible for the safety of both lines.

3) A road game is also a nice distraction from the mundane world around you. As was mentioned before, play Contact.

4) Indeed it is flat here, but watch out for those flats! If the shoulder is filled with rocks and other debris, they often can creep up on you without warning. With rocks, the leaks are often slow and will not be realized for a while down the road. However, anything that could puncture your tire, like metal or glass, may require you to stop suddenly. Let your paceline know you are stopping before slamming on the breaks. Nobody likes crashing.

5) Take several short brakes. On a 90 mile day, it is important to keep your pace consistent (that means no napping), but not to burn the midnight oil at 11 o'clock in the morning. Eat many light meals: yogurt and cereal in the early morning, more yogurt and some egg bake after 35 miles, a peanut butter sandwich and banana at mile 70 or 75, and you will be well energized. And don't forget to hydrate, especially with Gatorade.

6) Make sure you've ridden 2,200 miles before attempting this.

Following this, while averaging 18.1 mph, should have you arriving at your destination around 12:40PM with a big smile on your face.

Best of luck.

uphill...next 1,500 miles

After a very difficult day passing the 2,000 mile (halfway!) threshold, we've arrived in the birthplace of Judy Garland, Grand Rapids, Minnesota. And it's quite magical, I must say. The ride was a steep uphill out of Duluth for the first two or three miles...a nice warm up...then a rolling uphill for the next 40 (by rolling, I mean some steep, some shallow, almost no downhill). In fact, this is probably the only day we've had without a significant downhill after any steep climb. And then there was the wind...it was an exceptionally windy day, out of the west at probably 15-20 mph with gusts upwards of 30 or 35. Definitely the worst headwinds we've experienced all trip...there were times where I was pedaling as hard as possible, but going only 8 or 9 mph. Lets just say it sucked...there were several points where I was ready to take my bike and throw it off a cliff. Unfortunately, there are no cliffs to be had around these parts. And we spent 73 of our 85 miles on the same road...US 2...which we'll be on probably for the next 1,500 miles to Glacier NP. No joke. But we had a wonderful and worthwhile welcome at the church, where there fruit smoothies, crackers, cheese, hummus, and cookies. I really want another smoothie, now.

Not much to talk about. I ranted for a little bit yesterday, which was just posted below and is probably a more interesting read. Here in Grand Rapids, we will cross the Mississippi for the final time (it is really really small here, the source only about an hour away at Lake Itasca) and head to Bemidji, the heart of American curling.

FUN FACT: The Bemidji men's and women's curling teams have represented the US in the 2005 World Curling Championships and the 2006 Olympic Games, where the men's team won the bronze medal.

ANOTHER FUN FACT: Bike & Build's 2008 Northern United States tour is the first tour in the history of Bike & Build to make it 2,000 miles with EVERY rider (except trip leaders, who have to drive the van) biking EVERY SINGLE MILE of the trip (i.e. no van rides). That means NO serious illness, NO serious injuries, NO serious slacking, and PLENTY of motivation. I'm really impressed with everyone! Of course our goal is to make it the whole way...

Finally, RIP Randy Pausch. You are an inspiration.

impressionable youth

So I knew this whole experience was going to be different, but I guess I wasn’t so prepared for the effect it was going to have on me.

I just spent the past hour stressing to my friend Alex about how important the whole mission of this trip has become to me, however upon returning to Michigan in early September, how powerless I will yet again feel about the way I’m working (and to an extent, the way I’m thinking). It’s an incredibly overwhelming feeling, to believe so much in the need for various social, environmental, economic (etc.) justices vis-à-vis the built environment, but know that your work is pandering to something much more abstract. Never more than today have I understood the chasm between academia and mere mortality, and never more have I felt the two so irreconcilable. And it worries me to no end. Worries me that I will never have the kind of impact I want to have on this earth, worries me that I will never be able to ground my abstract tendencies, and worries me worse that I will constantly problematize the world around me, never seeing anything as working toward something better.

Today, for about five minutes, I was ready to drop out of school, give up on delayed gratification, for a few people who seemed so happy, so content, so resolved. These are people I am not normally familiar with. We are in Duluth, Minnesota, and today we did work with a local housing group called Common Ground, which is a land trust organization, that does a variety of things to bring high quality homes to individuals that normally could not afford them. That sounds a lot like Habitat, right, but it’s actually very different. A land trust, rather than selling the entire house and property to the owner, like Habitat, retains ownership of the land underneath the house, leasing it to the owner when they purchase the house. This both reduces the costs passed down to the owner, including not having to pay property taxes, and allows the homes to be of typically much higher quality than a Habitat home. Add in government subsidies, other grants, an array of product donations and pro-bono labor, and a $210,000 market-value home can be sold to someone of lower income for $145,000. And some of the benefits to affordability come in the way the house’s value changes over time. Because the land is not owned, the house instead actually depreciates in value, like any other commodity, and is therefore able to be re-sold to other low income individuals for even less. So the assumption is that all the equity is actually stored in the land, something that the land trust has control of. It’s a bit complicated, but you might be thinking, “wait, Sean, isn’t the point of owning a house to make an investment, to build equity, and by not owning the land, aren’t these people effectively making out like they would when purchasing a car?” Well, yes it is to build equity, and Common Ground actually has it written into their purchase agreement that any owner will receive the benefit of 30% of any increase in the assessed value of the home. This allows the homes to remain affordable once they are resold (one land trust home recently re-sold for $39,000, about 33% of its market value), and allow all savings from the subsidies, grants, donations and labor to be recycled and have even more of an impact on affordability. At the same time, the land trust is building its own equity (less 30%) by retaining the land. It’s an interesting system, one that is both encouraging and worrying.

So in the morning, I was hooked. I thought land trusts were the future of affordable housing, and they might very well be. But I’m still concerned that they reinforce ever disconcerting American spatial and material cultures. All these less fortunate people are able achieve is being able to have the same things that their wealthier brethren would have been able to afford on their own. Sure, it is a way of leveling the playing field, so to speak, but this specific land trust was doing nothing to begin to rethink the very obstinate way of the American Dream. To me, the concept of affordable housing has less to do with lowering costs to make better, nicer, bigger things accessible more people. Rather, it has more to do with the more value-driven issue of housing equity, something that privileges social change over a systematic material dependency.

We, as Americans, have a problem with cities that we cannot resolve, both personally and (as a result) logistically. We, as Americans, value too much our personal bubbles. We, as Americans, do not understand that grass was never meant for trimming. And as a result, we refuse to make certain compromises, compromises that might actually allow us to live equally wholesome lives in a much more environmentally and socially respectful manner. But instead, we live in an economy that has completely manipulated our value system; an economy that has completely structured the way we are able distinguish ourselves from, and often paradoxically associate ourselves with, everyone else; an economy that values quantity, often as a measure of quality, but always as a measure of privilege.

And so my academic dilemma. For five minutes today, my heart grew so big for the people I was surrounded by. Why? Because they were happy…certainly happier than me, and probably happier than they’d ever been in their lives. To those receiving these houses, a roof over their head is all they need, and a nice roof is even better. They have known what it is like to have little, perhaps even nothing, and are therefore incredibly grateful for such an overwhelming validation of their importance in this society. And every day the land trust employees and volunteers take pleasure in seeing someone else’s gratitude for all the work they do. For five minutes, their joy was enough to make me forget all the work we have left to do, the revolution that still needs to occur before I’m happy (which might be never). And, in all honesty, I’ve felt pretty empowered by the work I’ve been doing on the trip. Beside myself, other people actually believe I’m doing something valuable, productive, and even helpful! But, when I go back to the academic world, I feel like I’m going to effectively stagnate for another year, as I collect some pseudo-intellectual dust. Beside my own, I will no longer have such control of other people’s destinies, which is never enough for me to feel like I’m doing something valuable, much less productive. And as a result of this adventure, I feel like I will have even less incentive to work toward any sort of artificial abstraction most often required in something so important as a final thesis.

The world I am living in this summer is so unbelievably different than the one I have been living in for the past six years, and will be for at least another year. And to attempt to reconcile the two seems overwhelming and completely impossible. My personal and academic values are coming into deep conflict, at this very moment. The stress builds, my eyes grow bloodshot, tears are shed, and I eventually collapse in exhaustion.

The next day, I get up and ride 85 miles.

out there, on the edge of the prairie

I encountered a very large man along the ride today.

The great prairies and pine forests of Minnesota are his home, over which he seems to look with pride. That's where we are, Hinckley, Minnesota, in the east-central portion of the state. Things have flattened out again, and we are now somewhere in the range of tall prairie grass to even taller pine trees (we are in Pine County, after all). Hinckley is one of those small midwestern towns that only people like Garrison Keillor ever tell you about. Though beset with economic troubles, the town still seems to maintain an inflated sense of itself, most visibly by means of the Grand Casino, a flashy steel frame standing amidst arguably more pervasive rural poverty.

I have to make this one quick, as the library is closing in 5 minutes, but I haven't posted anything in a while, so I suppose 'tis time. We had a great ride today, along a bike trail for 22 miles, and some nice wide shouldered roads. We were traveling north and east for most of the day, and of course there was an east wind. Probably the only day of the year the wind is out of the east, which also happened to be one of the few days we're actually travelling east. Figures.

Okay, gotta run, the librarian is kicking me out. We'll be riding to Duluth tomorrow, and staying for another day to build.

bad day, good day

The hills are back.

So we left a relaxing time in Madison for a ride that was supposed to be a mere 102 miles to Gays Mills, with some hills, and maybe some rain. We started out having a pretty smooth ride on some great country roads, until about 26 of the 30 of us realized we were waaay off course...some had gone more off than others, but all 26 of us ended up going at least 14 miles out of the way (some over 20) because one of the country roads we were supposed to turn on was not marked. After about 30 minutes of trying to figure out where we were and where we needed to go, we finally got back in the saddle, and back on course about 30 minutes later. As a result, our lunch stop was a bit earlier on the course than planned (46 on my odometer), just because some people had already gone over 50 miles on the day. After lunch, a typo on our cue sheet (the piece of paper with our route directions) sent us the wrong way on another country road, sending us only about a half mile or so off course before we realized the problem, asked some locals, and turned ourselves around (when you realize you are traveling east on this trip, you know something must be wrong). The day was getting long, there was no rain in sight, only blistering sun, which meant no means for cooling off our sweltering bodies. At mile 92 on my odometer, we had another break, and immediately following that break, I missed a turn and sent myself another half mile on the wrong road before realizing I had to turn back. In all, what was supposed to only be 102 turned into 120 miles, and after leaving Madison around 7:30 in the morning, I finally arrived in Gays Mills at 6:30 in the evening. ELEVEN HOURS. The sweeps didn't make it in until 8:00. The last 20 miles felt probably longer than the previous 100.

To make matters worse, it was hot, and there were tons of hills. We had three very steep climbs, most all toward the end of the day, and another long, steady climb even closer to the end. We also had two steep descents, one toward the end, and the second upon arrival into Gays Mills. It is not good to have steep downhills at the end of a long day. Our bodies are exhausted enough, but our mental strength is incredibly weak too, making the downhills as much of a challenge as the uphills, in addition to a serious safety risk. But we all made it, no serious human injuries to speak of (some bike injuries though).

Oh yeah, and I crashed again. I have no idea how it happened, I was doing and feeling so well...it was around mile 25 on the day (right before we realized we were lost and the day went from good to terrible), I was cruising uphill at around 22 mph, and I just lost control of my bike and fell over, messing up my beautiful new white handlebar tape. It was pretty hilarious in retrospect, but I did scrape up my right shoulder, arm, and hand. Fortunately it did not exacerbate my previous injury any more.

Anyway, today. Today was good, really good. We left Gays Mills and almost immediately had a long, steep uphill climb. I would find out at lunch that we climbed at an 11% grade, which is pretty steep. I felt good, and rode as hard as I could all the way to the top, at which point, there was an unbelievable view of the town about 1,000 feet down. It was a really great sense of accomplishment to set a pretty positive tone for the rest of the day. We rode through three states today, crossing into Iowa, and riding along the Mississippi River up through Minnesota for a while, then back across and into La Crosse. We actually spent most of the day in those two states, stopping for lunch in New Albin, Iowa. The roads were a little bumpy, but I felt like I was cruising the entire day. My energy level was good, my legs felt a bit tired but strong, and there was no wind to speak of. I think I had one of my faster days...at times, I noticed myself cruising up a hill at 24 mph, which is pretty nice. With the exception of the big hill and other rolling hills in the beginning, and some city riding at the end, I think I was probably averaging somewhere around 19 or 20 mph, which is a really nice feeling. In headwinds, its hard to get over 14 or 15 mph, and in yesterdays long ride of rolling hills, I know I averaged only 15.6 mph. So today was really nice. The sun was out, after the morning clouds burned off, and it was hot, but it didn't bother me as much as yesterday.

So we're in La Crosse now, it seems like a really nice town. Too bad there isn't much time to check it out. Anyway, I have to go now. We have a meeting in 10 minutes, then dinner, then some chores. To Pepin, WI tomorrow, more riding along the Mississippi, then St Paul on Monday, and more riding along the Mississippi.

All your oxen have died.

Date: July 17, 2008 (or 1848)
Weather: hot
Health: good
Food: 500 pounds
Next Landmark: Gays Mills, Wisconsin
Miles Traveled: 1,440

Press SPACE BAR to continue.

The great frontier of America awaits us. We know not what dangers we will encounter on our journey across the Great American Desert, but we hear of great abundance, wealth, and prosperity out West. We hear the vast lands preceding our destination begin as flat, barren, and windswept, then advance into great mountains, savage lands that have taken men both in altitude and climate. But we are pioneers of men, we are risk-takers, and our wagon train, 32 carriages in all, is well-equipped to make the journey in a short six weeks.

A great rain has left the heartland under devastating floods. Though our weather has been generally good thus far, we have been witness to the saturation born by the rains of June and early July. Farmland is flooded (now marshland), crops are destroyed, and rivers are nearly overflowing into town centers. Weeks later, I begin to imagine the devastation that must have ensued directly following the rain. Yesterday we were forced to ford a flooded portion of our path. Shoes and socks removed, we traversed about 200 yards in high ankle-deep stagnant water, teeming with algae, mosquitoes, and potential disease. We have also heard of the inevitabilities of such diseases, and have all survived a mild plague, however the risks were never more present in our minds than at that moment. There was talk of ringworm, malaria, and even the dreaded cholera. But, a day later, we've arrived in Madison and all seem healthy.

Okay, my chronicles of a pioneer are now over. I will begin to speak like a normal 21st century twentysomething. Dude, we're in Madison, man its rad. What? Okay, well it is pretty cool. Since arriving here less than 24 hours ago, I've spent most of my time trying to compare it with Ann Arbor, since they are very similar towns, and have concluded that I like Madison a lot more. So basically both towns have the exact same demographics, very large, very liberal activist college-towns whose economies revolve around and are spun off of the dominating educational institutions (for those who aren't aware, the University of Wisconsin-Madison is located here). Madison has the added demographic of state and federal government agencies, as it is also the state capital. But their difference lies in the overwhelming attitude of the populous, and here in Madtown (as the locals refer to it), that attitude seems much more laid back and down-to-earth. Unlike Ann Arbor, who is a small dog trying to fit into big dog shoes, Madison is not ashamed of its small town, Midwestern roots. It is a small town at heart, things are more local, more independent, less uptight/pretentious, and much more proud.

Madison is also one of the most well-planned cities I have ever been to, mostly because it is one of the few cities in the country that has succeeded in integrating cycling traffic with the rest of the commuter lifestyle. In one city, I have never seen so many bike paths and trails, and I almost wonder why anyone bothers to use a car here. Something that would never fly in Ann Arbor, although it wouldn't hurt for them to try. It is a bit of an elongated city too, as the main section of downtown, including the capitol building, is wedged between two lakes, Monoa and Mendota. The university, of which I have only seen a small part at night, stretches along Mendota. The main business drag, State Street, was once a four-lane road, but was converted into a pedestrian (and cyclist) mall in 1974 (right after the first oil crisis, nonetheless). It's pretty fascinating, and is something I wished they'd to to Main, State, or even Liberty in Ann Arbor. The other great thing about Madison is all their independent coffee shops, interesting kitsch stores, and ICE CREAM locales. We are in the land of dairy, after all. I'm sitting at the Mermaid Cafe, a great little shop across the street from the church we are staying at for two nights. I didn't try their coffee, of course, but I did have an amazing sandwich called Schenk's Corners...seasoned scrambled eggs, cheddar cheese (everything in Wisconsin is eaten with cheddar), sauteed red peppers and onions, and fresh basil, on a focaccia. I don't know why, but I just have to rave about this place for a little while, because the food and atmosphere are great. Something you surely don't get at the massive coffee shops in A2. No Sweetwaters here, although they do have Espresso Royale, and I think I've only seen one Starbucks. They do local well here.

We have a day off here, as you might already know, and I think I'm just going to take my time to walk and bike around the city. Take advantage of all the bike lanes and trails for sure. There is a bike shop that I MUST visit, its called Machinery Row, and looks like the coolest place in the world...perhaps even cooler than Two Wheel Tango, which will be tough to beat. There are also a bunch of other really good shops (within downtown limits, which Ann Arbor can hardly say for itself). And about 25 miles from here is the headquarters and main manufacturing plant for Trek, so they also have a huge dealership here. In any case, I'm headed to Machinery Row, then to some of the shops on State Street, maybe a stop beforehand for lunch at Chipotle (though I could easily eat here at Mermaid), and then a romp through UW, and maybe their arboretum. I dont know, we'll see.

We have a long ride to Gays Mills tomorrow, a small town somewhere far west of here, along the Kickapoo River, and has recently been devastated by two floods only 10 months apart. There was an interesting article in written about Gays Mills in the Chicago Tribune at the end of June. (Here is the link) It speaks of the town's consideration to move to higher ground, at the encouragement of FEMA, and the disapproval of many residents. Perhaps, when we get there and get to talk to some of the people, we'll be able to get a better sense of the implications of the move, and all that it has to do with our own mission. Specifically, the ramifications of trying to recreate the same town, the same environment, for the same people, potentially miles away. This proposed move would certainly conflict with the more organic process of human settlement.

Westward ho.