West Philly Running

Geoff introduced me to the Fishtown Beer Runners, a group based out of the NE Philly Fishtown neighborhood where, incidentally, my Philadelphia odyssey began over four years ago.  A PhD student, the lore goes, with a proclivity towards running and drinking set out to determine whether there was really any health benefit to drinking water after a run versus, say, drinking a beer.  His experimental results were the foundation for the Beer Runners, finding that a pint of water and equal quantity of beer provided the same amount of hydration, while the beer calories were also beneficial nutrients after a run (and the beer drinkers were generally much happier than the water drinkers).  They gather weekly to run to a nearby bar where they hydrate with a pint or two.  They captured my heart.

West Philly is the place I now call home.  The community, which is generally associated with U Penn, Drexel University and the Fresh Prince is sorely lacking the unifying element of a running group that drinks together.  It would be up to me to bring this to fruition.  So I did. www.WestPhillyRunners.com

Later, I decided to run the Philadelphia half-marathon.  Geoff had nearly convinced me to run the entire marathon. However, at the mile twelve marker, when faced with the decision to go on or conclude my running, I opted to forgo potential bodily harm and sprinted to the finish line.  Geoff ran on, finishing two hours later, a marathoner and [my] hero.  My marathon glory yet awaits me in the future.

A Roof Over Our Heads

There are times when carefree cycling is in order and others when a sun-filled sky beckons concerted work.  At least thats the notion that occurred to me as I sat atop a wall of a roofless building scrubbing rust off steel that would one day support a new roof.  I felt glad to accept this gift of a warm day in late Fall.  Ryan knelt across from me on an the ledge of the adjacent wall, shirtless and shoe-less, looking like a boy building his first tree-house.  Happiness is found in these moments, the strain of effort directly translated to action for a great cause.  Yet, how did I end up here in West Philly so far from where I envisioned myself only months ago?

Einstein defined insanity as doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.  Such interesting thoughts come to mind as you sit at your computer editing yet another cover letter for another job that you know should be yours.  But it won't be, because you know that it isn't a job you are applying for, but an illusion.  I opted to keep my sanity, conceding, recession confirmed.  Conveniently, my summer apartment lease ended at the same time as my desire to continue the fruitless search for professional work.  It was at about this time that an old friend made me an offer for a work-housing agreement.  That is, I would work for him in exchange for free housing.  The only catch is that the house is also the work site.

The first step to living in a gutted building is to take stock of what you have.  Practically speaking, my new residence had everything necessary to sustain a functional human life: bathroom with shower and kitchen - two burner propane range, slate counter.  Added to this the upright piano in exquisite contrast.  Then, after you get through that initial shock of the deprivation and the cold shower, you set about making it a home.  Our first order of business, a roof over our heads.

After a brief reprieve.

I thought I would retire this blog.

Then recently an old friend encouraged me to write again.  I pointed out, as though she wasn't aware, that I was no longer biking.  "And what would I write about now that I'm not on my trip anyway?"  She replied patiently, but clearly disappointed that I couldn't see what was plainly in front of me.  Biking into the wind has always been meant as a metaphor.  And it has never been more appropriate given the direction of my life in the recent months.  So here goes.

Epilogue

It is only logical to ask me if it was worth it: the pain, surgery, scars.  I live my life with the unwavering belief that when I am in fact living my life as I choose then I have no reason for regret.  I count myself lucky to have taken a risk and seen it through.  My scar will never stop making me smile.

Geoff and I rode a total of 1800 miles on this trip.  We stayed with 15 hosts and at 2 churches.  We crossed through 8 states (Geoff made it through quite a few more).  In one trip, my perception of an entire nation, a people was fundamentally altered.  I set out to see the US and I believe I succeeded in seeing what is great in it. It is easy to lose track of the things that bind us when faced with a constant barrage of partisanship.  Yet, everywhere I went I found people happy to help me carry out this dream.  I encountered people proud of their lives, their communities, their families.  Our accommodation ranged between a luxurious apartment in Saint Louis and a tent pitched behind a church where two roads met somewhere in Kentucky, but the hosts were fundamentally the same; these people were happy with their lot and open to share their lives with us.  A few folks in Kansas didn't know where Philadelphia even was, had never heard of it, which made us as good as aliens to them and yet they treated us as cordially as if we were from their town.

But the human side of things was only part of what made me fall in love with this country.  There is the 'country' itself with its geographical diversity.  I should have kept a tally of the number of times I heard the expression 'beautiful country.'  It was without fail that any town we came to, the folks there would talk about the beautiful country we had just come through.  If you spend the least of efforts, you can see the beauty contained everywhere.  The this scale of what lies out there to explore makes me glad I am here, able to take advantage.  This country is huge, even after biking to the geographical center, I can not comprehend the enormity.  For a man with wanderlust unrestrained, I can be assured a life lived here in the US will never leave me wanting.

'When the wind is blowing in your face, you know you're going the right way.' Paul from Eggleston, VA

Sticks and Stones and Broken Bones

My spirits could not be dampened in Denver.  As I strolled through the surprisingly flat town, I could not help sighting cyclists by droves, cruising through town.  I am, at my core, an urban cyclist, seeing it as the most logical and utilitarian use of the vehicle.  And so I was overjoyed to find bicycles in Denver piloted by a seemingly representative cross-section of the city's population.  Unlike Philly, where only the hip or daring are typically found on bikes (not clad in lycra), here you find an adult, casually dressed, riding a cruiser like he was plucked out of Holland and dropped on the front range. 

Often a pang of disappointment at being confined to pedestrian mobility.  Easily replaced by the beauty that surrounded me, in a city that felt like it had been built into nature, as though she had opened her arms to let it be.  You find yourself forgiving the moonscape downtown, where green was obstinately replaced by gray, for over the shoulder of the tallest skyscraper is the overshadowing mountain range, refusing to be bested.

Jason and I probably got started a little too early with our tour of Great Divide Brewery

Jason, a coworker from Philly, in a fortuitous turn of events, happened to be working in Denver during my visit and tromped around the city with me.  An afternoon will pass unobserved with the exchange of words over a few rounds of beer.  Denver may be known for its beautiful location, but the sheer number of local micro-brews may be just as important. It is certain, at least, that they compliments each other.

I rendezvoused with Emily at Golder's Denver office, where I presented my case for a future position.  They seemed to find me mildly curious, a lukewarm impression for a casual interview so we'll see how that all turns out.  In the mean time, my travels are of greater importance.  Boulder has much over Denver in terms of location, but it did not stir the same passionate drive in me as Denver had.  Perhaps in my mind, the college town is dismissed as artificial, compared to a city with its economic dynamism and cultural capacity.  An eight-hour hike into the surrounding mountains confirmed that my arm was still broken and it voiced its annoyance by swelling to a cartoon version of itself.  So I decided that I will restrict my hikes to two hours until I have surgery to fix my arm.

Sun Valley, Idaho was a brilliant half-way point to Seattle.  Next to Sawtooth National Forest, among the snow-capped peaks, Emily's old friend has a family home bordering the park.  The temperature stands in stark contrast to the 'lowlands' of Denver and so we opted for a drive through the mountain range instead of a hike (and I figured I ought to give my broken arm a rest before Seattle).  Again, I admit that my photos and words fail to express the beauty of this region.

The Gulf admires the view

A solitary rain cloud.

Not in Kansas Anymore (finally)

A patchwork of clouds covered the sky, extending towards the horizon.  And staring hopefully towards the gray expanse, I spotted it: the sawtooth pattern barely visible, but just as it had been described - purple mountain majesty.  I thought to myself, this isn't how I was supposed to get here, but I forced the thought out of my mind.  I am a traveler and my immediate goal is realized.  You may wonder how I made my way here. Many voices of doubt assailed me when I explained my aim of reaching Denver by simply asking around. These voices are ignorant to the most basic axiom of the traveler: Make your needs known and the universe will conspire to meet them. Special thanks to Coach Delgado who was kind enough to make me a guest in his home, assist me with shipping my gear home and find me a ride to Denver. I believe him to be the embodiment of the Good Christian archetype.


I have a score to settle with Kansas that must wait until my body is whole.  For now I anticipate an awesome weekend in Denver. Expect some photos soon.

--Geoff Update--
My steadfast travel companion has ventured forth, his intent to reach the Pacific by bike.  I spoke with him earlier today and know him to be safe in Colorado Springs.  A friend from home, Jeff, has traveled from NY to provide some temporary reinforcement.  The two will bike into the Southwest, across the Continental Divide and visit some of the amazing parks there.  I will try to keep up with their trip and post updates.

Trapped in Kansas

Plan B

The self-pity faded as quickly as the pain of my broken bone.  It's hard to say whether the opiates had anything to do with that.  One thing was certain: I would not be riding any longer.  The brutal finality of this fact shook the foundations of my resolve.  The future, previously a vaguely transparent shroud, became a vacuum; its emptiness paralyzed me.  The thought repeated itself endlessly, This is over; it is time to go home.  Yet the thought would invariably lead along the same track, a future self facing regret.  And what was home anyway?  I could appreciate the idea that this accident was meant to happen, but this was not the way it was meant to end.  That was the seed of hope.

What I spawned was an alternative plan.  First an inventory:

• left arm - unusable
• right arm - ready for the task at hand
• bicycle - unusable, would need to be eliminated
• shelter - available in Garden City as long as necessary
• clothing - I would need to reequip myself for pedestrian life
• mobility - limited by my bike and gear; my legs felt stronger than I could remember

Then a thought.  I had planned a rendezvous with Emily in Boulder, CO before this setback.  She would be traveling West from Philadelphia.  Perhaps she could scoop me up from my Kansas prison and bring me to Denver.  From there I could flip the coin that would decide my fate: East or West.  And here I must credit Emily who provides proof that a door is never closed without another being opened.  For when she heard my proposition, she responded, 'why don't you just come with me to Seattle?'

Never Underestimate Kansas

Kansas proved to be more pivotal than anyone would have anticipated.  I embarked upon the venture with resignation, asuming ignorantly that an entire state could realy have nothing to offer me.  And despite the ultimate outcome, I admit that I actually came to appreciate the Sunflower state for its simple beauty, good people and the challenges it offers.

I'm not typically one to go for sunflower seeds, but I was inspired to purchase a bag as soon as we crossed the border.  I reasoned that the ride was bound to be dismal and cracking open several hundred seeds would at least be distracting, and meditative at best.  In truth, those first few days, as we attempted to cross the vast expanse of the state as quickly as we could, the distraction was hardly necessary.  See, Kansas is not flat, that is a stereotype which has gotten a strong foothold.  In fact, the plains do not begin until two-thirds of the way (west) into the state.  The Eastern portion of Kansas recalled the beautiful rolling hills of Kentucky, where over each rise was another picture-perfect bucolic scene - if you're into that sort of thing.  The strong cross-wind slowed us down and ultimately factored into my crash.  But the wind also proved beautiful, as it animating the vast fields of wheat, bringing them to life, a sea of green.

It doesn't surprise me, though, that most often, Kansas is regarded as a flat expanse, a wasteland of sorts.  I, like many who have preceeded me, found the plains enrapturing and painfully boring - perhaps meditative like solitary confinement may be viewed as medidative.  As you ride, you suddenly become aware that the view that surrounds you is lacking in depth, an infinite flatness.  You recognize an object in the distance, a grainery perhaps, that pierces the sky like some kind of skyscraper.  You are overjoyed at the recognition, until gradually you become aware of the gulf of space and time that separates you and you search for anything else to distract you, but there is nothing.

Unless, of course, you are lucky enough to run into some inclement weather.  Herein lies one of the hidden treasures of the plains.  It surprised me, too, at first, this sudden shift of revelry for storms, which I previously would have done anything to avoid.  Yet there was a beauty in seing a storm passing in its entirety through the plains, or the whisper of cirrus clouds at the edge of space.  Clouds decorated the sky like the Gods had commissioned a great work.

One day, one of these storms suddenly came upon us, but we did not seek shelter.  It was as if the Gods had honored us with a test of our courage and resolve.  Zeus hurled bolts of lightning all around us, rain turned the day to night, and hail fell from the sky.  Through rolling hills, the awesome power of the Gods was unleashed upon us.  We came through the curtain of rain in time to arrive in the next town.  Coffee warmed our bodies, but our hearts burned with the conquest.  The Gods, satisfied with our determination, opened the clouds to let the sun shine upon us once more and devined a gentle breeze to blow at our backs.  We rode 120 miles that day.

And then, my adventure - by bicycle at least - was brought to an untimely end.  I like to imagine that Kansas,sensing eminent defeat (we were a trifle 12 miles from the border) decided to play dirty and take me out in some Tanya Harding-esque move.  My left humerus was the casualty.  While I am down, I'm certainly not out, and I will be back on the road as soon as the cast comes off.
Thank you to all who have been so supportive of my trip and followed along.  I will ride into the wind again and my tales will apear here once more.

Looking Forward to Kansas

We are going to Kansas tomorrow!  I have rarely been less excited about traveling.  Kansas bears the unique distinction of being scorned by 9 out of 10 people I meet, and that one person who has something good to say is usually from Kansas or just too nice to tell the truth.

What I've heard about Kansas:

• Boring - I think even the people from Kansas agree
• Tornadoes (apparently these offer great tail winds)
• Hail and Thunder Storms
• Head Wind
• Flat, yet with a subtle elevation gain
• There's a town that will ticket you for cycling through (yes, it is on our route)
• Most roads are unpaved
• We will have no shade for most of the way - who needs trees when you have corn?

Some positive notes:

• the infinite flatness provides amazing sunsets (we will see many of these)
• the people are friendly
• it is God's country, hallelujah
• it only feels like it lasts forever, but actually does end at some point

I hope to add some items to the positive list by the time this week and a half of riding is through.  Until then, chances are I won't be writing too much, since Kansas is practically uninhabited and I don't expect many wi-fi hot spots.

Other Touring Cyclists Are Out There

It is safe to say we've wrapped up another state today.  Missouri began in Saint Louis and has concluded in Kansas City and we shall leave her in the past.. after a rest day.  We've challenged ourselves, riding much longer days than we had been.  And along the way we've had the pleasure of finally running into other cyclists.

Posing with the Golder office.
I love how I'm the ONLY one looking at the camera.

Outside of Saint Louis and across the Missouri River is the town of Saint Charles where Golder has an office.  True to my word, I paid the office a visit and met a handful of the staff and office manager Mark Sandfort.  Our timing was perfect.  Having arrived in Saint Louis on Thursday night, we were able to head over to Saint Charles (borrowing Luke's car - best host of all time) and ended up havin lunch with Mark and a few of the guys from the office out at Trailhead Brewing Co.  It just so happened that the Golder 50th Anniversary BBQ was also that afternoon and so Geoff and I hung around to join the office in celebrating.  And so, 1000 miles from the Conshohocken office, I was able to partake in this hearty celebration that took place across the US and the world.  My intent in visiting the different Golder offices throughout the US is to provide a common link and show just how small our company is in reality.  Not to mention to raise awareness of the Golder Trust for Orphans and raise funds for the cause.  The Denver office is next on the list and we should be there in early June.

The Saint Charles office is located prominently off of the Katy Trail, a 200+ mile rail trail that runs across Missouri.  The proximity to Golder coupled with the Katy's pretty direct route towards Kansas City made it an obvious choice.  While the path is unpaved, it gave us a chance to ride without worrying about cars or directions, so it struck a balance between speed and comfort.  But beyond that, the trail gave us an unexpected bonus: actually seeing other cyclists!  Imagine that, after 7 weeks of cycling, we had not seen one other touring cyclist.  It was on the afternoon of our first day on the trail that we rain into our first group.  As we approached each other on the trail, I sensed with horror that the import of our meeting may be lost on these strangers, so boldly I stopped my bike and probably said something idiotic like "looks like you guys are riding bikes, too."  No matter, this had the desired effect and delightful conversation and wine and protein bar exchanges were had.  We parted ways with plans to meet these folks in their town, but I am sad to say the plans fell through.  We must assume that it was not meant to be.  Perhaps the diversion to visit these new friends would have derailed our plans.. perhaps.

In any case.  Having parted from our sibling cyclists, we made our way to the town of Hermann, which I must say was strangely German for being in central Missouri.  Or is that not P.C.?  Who knew a German enclave would have settled out here and then raised half a dozen generations in their native culture?  Anyway, we found the town's brewery and had a few pints to celebrate the afternoon and then headed off to a nearby cafe to wait out our buzz before continuing on with our ride.  While there, we ran into a cyclist, Chris, who we had actually seen that morning, 50 miles back, and now ran into again randomly in this cafe in Hermann.  So since we were all biking West, we decided to venture on together, adding spirit and newfound vitality to our group through fresh blood.  We rode on until sunset and luckily happened upon a campsite off the trail, where we made our first camp fire of this trip under a clear sky of vibrant stars.

We parted ways from Chris the next afternoon, but not before getting a police escort from another bike touring group across the Missouri River.  I'd say this was a lucky break, since we planned to cross this bridge anyway and hadn't realized that it was illegal (and insane) to do so without the escort.  That falls into the 'unbelievable trail magic' category.

Our next encounter happened the next morning.  I recall looking back after Geoff had fallen back to see three cyclists.  Alex and Will from England and Kenya, respectively, are also riding across the US to raise $40,000 for Autism research - http://www.x-america4autism.blogspot.com/  With loftier goals, and being just out of high school, these guys instantly won my respect.  Once again, since we were all heading in the same direction, it seemed sensible to ride on together.  It was with Alex and Will that I made my last blog post, locked in a McDonald's.  We ended up splitting a motel 4 ways with them to avoid camping out during the Tornado storm and to dry out our already soaked clothes.  Packed much lighter, and being in much better shape than me and Geoff, Will and Alex wound up pushing us to ride harder than we have yet on this trip, which I'm thankful for.  If anything our ride today has inspired me to shed some weight and send some excess gear home.  Alex and Will are on their own now, staying somewhere in the Kansas side of Kansas City, but there's a chance we'll meet up with them to ride through Kansas.  I can only hope that we will continue to run into other cyclists who will share their stories and joy at being out doing what we're doing.

Welcome to the Midwest

I am locked in a McDonald's in Knob Noster, Missouri due to a tornado warning.

Saint Louis

I am behind on chronicling my travels.  As stated previously, we made it Saint Louis, crossing the Mississippi and marking our official arrival to the Midwest.  Actually, we met our St. Louis host in Illinois, in East Saint Louis. Several people were keen to let us know that East Saint Louis is prominently featured in Chevy Chase's film Vacation, where the family's car is pillaged so relentlessly it is left on blocks.  This was usually said in the context of, 'you must be out of your minds to be riding your bikes through East Saint Louis.'  

Well let me assure you all that I have seen much worse riding through West Philly, though the highlight of our ride was this architectural marvel, composed of repurposed shipping containers:

Luke hosted us from Thursday evening until we left on Monday morning.  A better host in a city there can never be.  The definition of entrepreneur, Luke now owns a restaurant along with several rental properties and other properties around town.  I'm certain he wouldn't want me harping about these things.  I simply mention it, because I was just so impressed by the guy.  Most importantly, Luke has found his happiest times in his life during long bike tours like ours.  He shared tales of his tours through Alaska, where time became could be a minor consideration and adventure took center stage.  I saw a look in his face that I have seen on those of others who have toured.  It is pensive and reflective, but not melancholic  more like satisfied.  A man who seemingly has everything says all he wants to do at present is go tour.

Luke didn't just let us stay in his home and eat and drink at his restaurant.  As though that was already beyond common generosity, he also spent the weekend with us when he could.  The poor weather kept us from riding around the city on our bikes, which we were all eager to do.  We were not thwarted.  Luke took me and Geoff to a few of the important tourist spots.  The highlights for me were the City Museum and Anheiser-Busch Brewery.

The city museum is a mish-mash of industrial trash, put together to form a beautiful artistic landscape.. that you can climb all over.  The museum is fittingly housed in a gutted warehouse building.  As you approach the entrance you notice a full sized yellow school bus teetering on the roof's edge.  Then two old busted-up planes suspended above a courtyard, seemingly connected by giant slinkies.  

Taking a closer look, I noticed children hurling huge rubber balls at each other in a giant ball pit.  For once the sound of screaming children didn't make me want to run into the nearest bar to search for adults.  Instead I'm sure at this point I was walking at jogging pace to get inside.  

The first thing you notice inside is a stream of humans being launched down a metal chute, arriving 10 feet before you and then walking away with a big smile on your face.  In fact, the place was full of slides, tunnels, ladders, and hidden rooms.  The cave led to the 10-story slide, which gave me wicked friction burns - totally worth it.  

My photos can't really capture the scale and the detail of this place.  It stands as one of the coolest places I've ever been.

I assumed the Budweiser brewery tour would be more or less the same as any other brewery tour I'd been to.  But seeing as you never leave a brewery tour dissatisfied, I was quite happy to oblige our host for a tour.  Once our tour began and our leaders, who I swear were both named Mario, took us out the front building's back door, my preconceptions were overruled.  Buildings constructed before the turn of the 20th century appeared in stunning relief to the steel gray sky.  As we walked, the eye would catch 20th century additions of giant pipe racks and smoke stacks that belied the industrial nature of today's Anheiser-Busch, yet I could not help but be won over by the historical flare of the place.  Architectural flourishes decorated brick building facades and interiors, which also competed for real-estate with modern steel tanks and the pipes that ran everywhere.  The first stop on the tour was the stable, which still functions to house the Budweiser Clydesdales, equestrian giants.  Further you are told that the school house that was converted to an office building long ago, once functioned on the brewery grounds.  I wonder what that Saint Louis was like, where school children walked to their classroom smelling of malted barley.

We left Saint Louis though I felt like I could stay in Luke's care forever, spoiled by luxury.  But of course there is much yet to be seen and regretfully every gem we find must be set back, only its memory can come with us.

A Jew in the Bible Belt

We sighted the St. Louis arch on Wednesday as we crested a small mountain.  The day was murky, but through the haze and the sweat in our eyes, we convinced ourselves that out there, about 100 miles in the distance, that was Saint Louis.  It only occurred to me later that I've been trying to get here since we left Red River Gorge.  As our only real destination, it has been our beacon as we crossed through rural towns in Western Kentucky and Illinois.  So you see, it isn't that strange that as we stood up on that hill, that sheer joy actually came into our hearts.  And words fall short of the feelings when, as we rounded a bluff, riding through the Mississippi's flood plain, we first sighted the glimmer of the famous arch as a monolithic tower on the horizon.

Geoff stretches before the great Mississippi.  This historic site called Fort Kaskaskia overlooks what was once the capital of Illinois, before it was swallowed up by the Mississippi's when it changed its course. 

Both photos show the bluffs, which were ever present to the West as we followed the Mississippi River up to St. Louis.

But I am getting ahead of myself.  This story actually picks up in Sebree, KY.  I get this feeling as we ride that some force conspires to ensure we appreciate the progress we make and the generosity we receive.  That's how I rationalize our ride into Sebree.  We had decided to postpone our rest day and ride the final 50 miles to Sebree, fabled to have "the best bike hostel on the TransAm," according to Ernst at the bike shop in Danville and then confirmed by countless blogs on the interwebs.  But, when I woke up on Saturday morning and stepped out of my tent, it promptly blew away.  The rain from the night before left a sky of beautiful blue and a wind that cut swiftly through the air, directly into our direction of travel.  Yet despite sore legs and wind that slowed us to a crawl, we arrived in Sebree, population 1,000.  We knew our destination was a church and assumed we could just ask around to find it.  We didn't anticipate that there would be 20 churches in town.  Fortunately a conscientious citizen noticed us looking dazed on a corner and figuring that these two bearded men in lycra were probably from out of town, pointed us towards our church.

Internet lore spoke of the First Baptist Church of Sebree, KY as a modern traveler's oasis.  I will add my part to the meme.  We entered the church parking lot and moments later were ushered into the pastor's home.  I didn't realize I was cold until stepping into the warmth of that home; the chill was totally diffused when hot chocolate was served.   The church basement doubles as youth center and bicycle vagabond housing.  We were the only two cyclists there that weekend, but not the first of the season and nearly 200 more were expected before the winter.  Kitchen, bathroom (with shower), laundry, mattresses, ping-pong table, pool table, big-screen TV...it all was a bit much, but who am I to complain?

As it was Saturday night, conversation with the Violet, the pastor's wife, naturally moved to what we planned to do that night.  Violet made cursory reference to 'Curt's thing' happening that night.  It turned out that Curt, the Pastor's son, who lives in Sebree on a 100 acres hosts an annual Spring bonfire celebration.  It was happening tonight.  We were welcomed to join.  They were expecting about 50 folks and had been cooking up BBQ all day.  Oh, and they had a stage set up for a band this year.  We were warned, though, "there'll be beer there.. do you drink beer?"  Exhausted and relieved to be at our destination, it took all my power to stop from simultaneously laughing and crying as Violet listed the details of the evening's affair.  With a sort of pained, smiling expression, I agreed to go to the bonfire attempting to feign stoicism at the idea - this was a man of God after all, I probably shouldn't seem too enthused about the idea of drink and debauchery.

The Ass-Scratchin' Rodeo Band was good enough to draw folks away from the hot fire on this cold night.

What do you get when you add a 10' stack of wood and hydraulic fluid...?  Toss in some pickup trucks, moonshine, and Milwaukee's Best kegs.  That's what I call a good time.

Sunday in Sebree means one thing.  Church.  And God doesn't much care if you have a hangover or that you went to sleep at 2am.  Sure I'm not particularly religious, or Christian, but when a kind man lets you sleep in his church and then his son invites you to his party and treats you like an old friend, you figure the least you can do is go to mass.  I must have gotten extra credit for hitting the pre-mass bible study.  Despite much harping about Jesus being pretty great, no one mentioned the fact that as a non-believer I was hell-bound, so I found the whole affair to be pleasant and interesting from a social anthropologist's vantage.

The delegation was composed of a group linked from childhood by their faith and being locked in this community.  As a NYer, small-town life like this is the material of nightmares, but I was pleasantly surprised to find that these folks were not just content, but happy here.  The twenty-somethings, some of which had moved away and returned to Sebree, explained the importance of being close to their families and raising their children (most people my age had already reproduced) in a close community like they had been raised in.  While employment was limited in town to the church, coal mining and education, this didn't seem to be an issue for anyone I met, simply a fact of life.  Children smiled and greeted us warmly, without sarcasm or disrespect, which is something I've never encountered outside of a book.  I never heard a raised voice, never a word of reprimand.  Twilight zone stuff.

Geoff and I with Pastor Bob and wife Violet

A note about photography.  Back in Red River Gorge, my camera met its demise, took its last shuttering breath.  Since then, I have been photographing with a disposable camera with photos relevant to this post and which I've added to this post.  In Southern Illinois, my new camera arrived in the post.

If Bikes Were Rafts

Though some days have past now, I believe the storm that we lived through at Red River Gorge this weekend deserves a mention.  Those of you from back home may not even know about the storm, while those around here will likely be telling their kids about it.

The rain on Saturday had flooded the field where our tent was pitched so that our tent was surrounded by a protective moat of water.  We awoke Sunday to a break in the weather and actually managed some climbs in the morning.  However, that break was short lived and as the rain picked up that afternoon, it only seemed to intensify.  After hours of being shut in at Miguel's entertaining ourselves with endless games of scrabble and chess, I was ready for a walk.  The rain died down to a drizzle for a moment, which was as good a break as we had seen for hours and I figured I'd take a walk out and check on our tent.  Now our little moat has begun to fill in and I found myself unable to jump over the puddles without getting soaked.  I figured the last thing I wanted was to get head over to my tent that night and have to wade through this mess of water.  So I took up the stakes and trudged over to some higher ground where a slight slope meant the ground would be well drained. 

Hours passed and night fell.  I had stayed up a bit later than Geoff to write and now headed back to the campsite.  I foolishly hadn't taken my headlamp with me and now had to make my way blindly groping for the entrance to our field.  As I approached the gate's opening, I looked out upon the field and got an eerie sense that I was looking out at a lake. I shrugged off the feeling, figuring the darkness and rain were playing tricks on my eyes.  Then I took my first step down into the field and into water up to my ankle.  As if on cue, lightning flashed in the distance, briefly illuminating the field.  It was enough to show me that the lake was no illusion.  I could see our tent ahead of me on dry ground, but down grade was a tent I had seen earlier that day now submerged in the  lake.  Only feet away in the new-formed lake was where our tent had been earlier that day.

We woke up, damp and slightly bitter the next morning to sunshine.  Mist hung in the air and I again cursed myself for not having a camera as the hazy sunlight was a stunning accent to the rocky cliff faces all around us.    We headed out in the afternoon towards Berea, KY.  Evidence of the flooding rain was all around us, swollen rivers stranding cows on islands of dry ground.  We noticed a set of bar-be-que grills sticking out of a river, I assume it was a campground on most days.  About mid-way through our ride, our directions prompted us to cross a valley so that we could cross over the easier mountain pass into Berea.  A sign stood at the intersection warning of high water ahead.  I reasoned that we would ride through and though our feet would get wet, we shouldn't have any issues.  The next sign we ran into was completely unnecessary.  It read, "Road Closed." Ten feet past it, the road disappeared, and where it reappeared is a mystery to us.  The flooding was so extensive, I couldn't see to the other side of the pool.  Even with the evidence directly before my eyes, I could not believe that this lake had not always been there.  It was an ominous sight.  We both stood for a moment, confounded and trying to grasp the situation.  After a moment, Geoff turned to me and simply said, "I guess we're not taking this road."  I still hold on to the image of riding down that road and disappearing beneath the murky brown water.

Cross-training

Before I begin, I must announce some bad new: the camera has passed on.  Of course, it is just a camera so don't shed too many tears. But until I find a replacement, I'm sorry that there may not be any photos.  I have a set of photos in this blog post that were taken with a friend's camera.

Plan B worked out so that we made it to Charleston, WV on Thursday night.  Of course we did ride 80 miles that day and we were walking zombies by the time we met with our Warmshowers host.  Jerry rode out to guide us back to his home. It was a quick 3 miles that gracelessly put an exclamation point on our day's ride, as the final quarter mile included the two steepest hills we'd ever ridden on.  I think I heard my bike whimper.  No matter, by the time my tendons felt like they were about to rip, we rolled into Jerry's open driveway and into the inviting scents of home: cut grass and bike grease.  Jerry and his wife, seasoned touring cyclists themselves, were keen to our state of fatigue and were kind enough prepare a delicious meal for us.  To the weary traveler, being provided the comforts of home are a tonic capable of combating homesickness, the most insidious of ailments.  That evening, as Alice, Jerry's granddaughter passed me the bowl of potatoes, Geoff and I were members of the family.  These moments are critical for me personally, reinforcing my belief that this trip is wise and that man has the capacity for infinite kindness.

It is comforting to think back on a night spent in a warm home on nights like these, where in a moment I will retire to my tent, in a field at the campsite, in the pouring rain.  We are in Red River Gorge.  After being here for the better part of three days I insist I do not know this place.  Formed by glaciers, the gorge's grand scale does not lend itself to a short stay.  It begs for you to stay, to get to know its secrets, trails forgotten, waterfalls backed by such a rich and dense foliage you are mesmerized at every turn.  I may have gotten acquainted with Red River, but I do not know her.

I had no intention to go on rock climbing as part of this trip.  I'm no climber, never have been.  Yet I wasn't averse to the idea when Geoff mentioned it, despite our argument about the logistics of getting there.  This was the perfect opportunity to try outdoor climbing, with all the equipment provided by Mike who was traveling from Philly to meet us.  And what the bike trip is about is going out and taking advantage of opportunities as they arise.  Here I am with no commitments, in the perfect position to catch the currents around me.  So what if I have not trained to climb, every experience is marked by a first step.

Tent city at Miguel's where you can camp, shower and get pizza.  I guess that's a good combination for climbers since this place is rocking out on the weekend.  Even with the torrential downpour we've had the last two days, this place is completely packed.