we ride our final 80 miles tomorrow. woot. here's the speed version catch up:
Day 29: Caro, MI to Sarnia, Ontario. 86.1 miles. 6:19 in saddle.
Day 30: Sarnia to Sand Hill, Ontario. 108.7 miles. 7:47 in saddle.
Day 31: Sand Hill to Buffalo, NY. 111.5 miles. 8:33 in Saddle.
Day 32: Buffalo to Rochester, NY. 104.5 miles. 7:39 in saddle.
Day 33: Rochester to Lebanon, NY. 132.3 miles. 10:20 in saddle.
Day 34: Lebanon to Lebanon, NY. Rest Day #4.
Day 35: Lebanon to Brunswick, NY. 121.1 miles. 8:22 saddle.
Day 36: Brunswick, NY to Concord, NH. 136.1 miles. 10:20 in saddle.
Day 37: Concord, NH to Portland, ME. Approx 80.
only things to note about our stupidly long days is that day 33 saw the largest grade we've seen in n.america, at mile 115, and day 36 (today) included vermont's green mountains. ill get to the meat of it soon enough.
Monday, July 19, 2010
Saturday, July 17, 2010
July 9th to 11th: Mostly Michigan
Day 26: Manitowoc, WI to Luddington, MI (rest day #3)
'i set my pulse to the great lakes pulse.'
Although we crossed state lines, we rested on the SS Badger, a large ferry that crosses the 60 miles of Lake Michigan, opposed to taking the long way down through the endless endless endless Chicago suburbs or through Michigan's upper peninsula. We decided on this route before the trip, and although we were called cheaters by a Luddington native, this was a choice of convenience; going North or South for hundreds of miles is hard on one's heart when all they know is East.
We stocked up on cheap cheese and canned coffee to keep them cool, and prepared to sit for 5 hours and watch as the horizons turned to the nothingness of water. Did you know the waxiness of cheese curds can replace brushing your teeth? Our days off so far have usually revolved around sitting and drinking unhealthy portions of coffee, so we shared a refillable cup all afternoon while reading and writing.
A no frills adventurer somewhere between Dave and my ages discussed his cycling tours in the Caribbean and throughout the states. The father/son dynamic he had echoed ours in the constant ownership of a VW van from some era, but we realized we are far less in tune with minimalism than he.
As we covered ground on his disappointment with his fellow Midwesterner's eating and drinking habits and the improved respect for riders he's found in his new home in LA, he was analyzing the rigging system of the life boats above our heads. We enjoyed watching his survivalist mentality at work, and felt comfort in his discovery of the manual crank arms if the ship's backup power were to fail.
It was a quick ride with all the small talking strangers, and we got a carbo load in a packed grill where some 'America's got talent' finalist sang some fluff under the happy hour crowd's noise. With benadryl to drown out the Friday night parties at the campground next to Luddington's cemetery, we crashed out early.
Day 27: Luddington to Coleman outskirts, MI. 100.4 miles. 6:46 in saddle.
'the feeling of being in motion again, it's the most extraordinary thing in the world.'
Highway 10 starts up in Luddington as if it plunged into Lake Michigan and emerged, shaking out its fur on the East side. The flat route cut through a large patch of old growth forest and we decided that stopping in the town of Nirvana would split our day nicely. We ended up passing it though, since its green welcome sign that even the smallest towns begin with, was missing. It's likely nailed to a dorm room wall like the mile marker after 419 that disappeared along Montana's Highway 2. At what point does a department of transportation give up on replacing these signs?
Because 'stealth camping' was often discussed, but never tried, our easy day gave us time to plot out a patch safe from dogs and farmhouse windows. Dave noticed and stopped at a grandma's one-person caramel corn stand, only open a few hours a week. I hesitated eating a sugared corn product since I swore off such foods after retiring from a stint as a kettle corn carney in high school, but Mrs. Brownie's product was tops.
A good portion of the day's filth got washed off in a local creek, and as dusk fell we rode out along a rail to trail to an area that google's satellite imaging suggested would be wooded. We wouldn't settle for anything less than the cover of a solid oak or a batch of shimmering aspen, and we found the latter just moments after our odo's read 100. The brush was not unlike the humidity, but we shouldered our bags and bikes in three trips 50 yards to the two tent-sized patches with full sleeves and pants because the mosquitoes were thick as well.
Heaving and slapping, I could strip down in the tent and wait for some sort of breeze to wind through the trees. It was a good hour before I finally cooled, and I listened to my father, first, trample through the woods looking for the black socks and riding shorts he dropped in his aimless portage, and then settle into his nightly sandwich, corn nuts, snickers, and banana routine. It's an orchestra of noises that lulls me to sleep most nights, yet he still can't keep his weight up.
Day 28: Coleman to Caro, MI. 83.4 miles. 5:44 in saddle.
'light the field for the big game tonight'
July 11 has been marked on my mental calendar since at least last summer as the World Cup final, and for it to fall on national free Slurpee day made for an unhealthy and enjoyable one.
We got out of the woods quickly and unscathed, but started realizing that it's more work to play the stealth game. We passed a $5 campground with toilets just to climb into the forest, and our other attempts at eyeing dugouts and roadside burms ended with free to cheap (legal) sites being close. We have definitely been romanticizing the idea, and when we give ourselves a 90-110 mile travel window each day, it's more timely work to seek out the stealth spots. Didn't Thoreau just camp out on his buddy's property, omitting the times he hopped into town for some beer?
I called ahead to a bar & grill that said they'd put the game on for us, but we had to hammer out 75 miles by the 2:30 kick off while still locating 7-elevens along the way. This region of Michigan is farmland, and our only hill of any kind was an overpass. Slightly clouded makes for easy riding as well. Akron lies at gripping side of Michigan's thumb, and our destination was essentially a motorcycle bar, full of grumblers when the barmaid switched the wall-sized projector screen from a Tiger's game to ours. "These two called ahead for dibs, boys."
The bar's owner was so excited to have some "pedal bikers" in one of his four area biker bars, he threw us t-shirts, one on the house, and some sampling of the trashcan turkey they had cooking in the alley behind the place. Juicy. By the end of the game "What the hell country is called 'ESP'?" we had consumed more fried food than our bodies could handle, literally, and we witnessed the owner argue with his buddy (a motel owner on our route) over who got to put us up for the night.
We saddled up our surleys, angled to the curb in the company of twenty harleys, and made off to the newly renovated, log cabin-style motel, WoodyZZZ.
The place was the opposite of what emotions are evoked by 'small town motel,' and the hospitality of the owner was explained by his preparation for our same trip, shot down before it started by his knee surgery. We left him our adventure cycling maps, and hopes that his trip goes as well as ours when he recovers.
'i set my pulse to the great lakes pulse.'
Although we crossed state lines, we rested on the SS Badger, a large ferry that crosses the 60 miles of Lake Michigan, opposed to taking the long way down through the endless endless endless Chicago suburbs or through Michigan's upper peninsula. We decided on this route before the trip, and although we were called cheaters by a Luddington native, this was a choice of convenience; going North or South for hundreds of miles is hard on one's heart when all they know is East.
We stocked up on cheap cheese and canned coffee to keep them cool, and prepared to sit for 5 hours and watch as the horizons turned to the nothingness of water. Did you know the waxiness of cheese curds can replace brushing your teeth? Our days off so far have usually revolved around sitting and drinking unhealthy portions of coffee, so we shared a refillable cup all afternoon while reading and writing.
A no frills adventurer somewhere between Dave and my ages discussed his cycling tours in the Caribbean and throughout the states. The father/son dynamic he had echoed ours in the constant ownership of a VW van from some era, but we realized we are far less in tune with minimalism than he.
As we covered ground on his disappointment with his fellow Midwesterner's eating and drinking habits and the improved respect for riders he's found in his new home in LA, he was analyzing the rigging system of the life boats above our heads. We enjoyed watching his survivalist mentality at work, and felt comfort in his discovery of the manual crank arms if the ship's backup power were to fail.
It was a quick ride with all the small talking strangers, and we got a carbo load in a packed grill where some 'America's got talent' finalist sang some fluff under the happy hour crowd's noise. With benadryl to drown out the Friday night parties at the campground next to Luddington's cemetery, we crashed out early.
Day 27: Luddington to Coleman outskirts, MI. 100.4 miles. 6:46 in saddle.
'the feeling of being in motion again, it's the most extraordinary thing in the world.'
Highway 10 starts up in Luddington as if it plunged into Lake Michigan and emerged, shaking out its fur on the East side. The flat route cut through a large patch of old growth forest and we decided that stopping in the town of Nirvana would split our day nicely. We ended up passing it though, since its green welcome sign that even the smallest towns begin with, was missing. It's likely nailed to a dorm room wall like the mile marker after 419 that disappeared along Montana's Highway 2. At what point does a department of transportation give up on replacing these signs?
Because 'stealth camping' was often discussed, but never tried, our easy day gave us time to plot out a patch safe from dogs and farmhouse windows. Dave noticed and stopped at a grandma's one-person caramel corn stand, only open a few hours a week. I hesitated eating a sugared corn product since I swore off such foods after retiring from a stint as a kettle corn carney in high school, but Mrs. Brownie's product was tops.
A good portion of the day's filth got washed off in a local creek, and as dusk fell we rode out along a rail to trail to an area that google's satellite imaging suggested would be wooded. We wouldn't settle for anything less than the cover of a solid oak or a batch of shimmering aspen, and we found the latter just moments after our odo's read 100. The brush was not unlike the humidity, but we shouldered our bags and bikes in three trips 50 yards to the two tent-sized patches with full sleeves and pants because the mosquitoes were thick as well.
Heaving and slapping, I could strip down in the tent and wait for some sort of breeze to wind through the trees. It was a good hour before I finally cooled, and I listened to my father, first, trample through the woods looking for the black socks and riding shorts he dropped in his aimless portage, and then settle into his nightly sandwich, corn nuts, snickers, and banana routine. It's an orchestra of noises that lulls me to sleep most nights, yet he still can't keep his weight up.
Day 28: Coleman to Caro, MI. 83.4 miles. 5:44 in saddle.
'light the field for the big game tonight'
July 11 has been marked on my mental calendar since at least last summer as the World Cup final, and for it to fall on national free Slurpee day made for an unhealthy and enjoyable one.
We got out of the woods quickly and unscathed, but started realizing that it's more work to play the stealth game. We passed a $5 campground with toilets just to climb into the forest, and our other attempts at eyeing dugouts and roadside burms ended with free to cheap (legal) sites being close. We have definitely been romanticizing the idea, and when we give ourselves a 90-110 mile travel window each day, it's more timely work to seek out the stealth spots. Didn't Thoreau just camp out on his buddy's property, omitting the times he hopped into town for some beer?
I called ahead to a bar & grill that said they'd put the game on for us, but we had to hammer out 75 miles by the 2:30 kick off while still locating 7-elevens along the way. This region of Michigan is farmland, and our only hill of any kind was an overpass. Slightly clouded makes for easy riding as well. Akron lies at gripping side of Michigan's thumb, and our destination was essentially a motorcycle bar, full of grumblers when the barmaid switched the wall-sized projector screen from a Tiger's game to ours. "These two called ahead for dibs, boys."
The bar's owner was so excited to have some "pedal bikers" in one of his four area biker bars, he threw us t-shirts, one on the house, and some sampling of the trashcan turkey they had cooking in the alley behind the place. Juicy. By the end of the game "What the hell country is called 'ESP'?" we had consumed more fried food than our bodies could handle, literally, and we witnessed the owner argue with his buddy (a motel owner on our route) over who got to put us up for the night.
We saddled up our surleys, angled to the curb in the company of twenty harleys, and made off to the newly renovated, log cabin-style motel, WoodyZZZ.
The place was the opposite of what emotions are evoked by 'small town motel,' and the hospitality of the owner was explained by his preparation for our same trip, shot down before it started by his knee surgery. We left him our adventure cycling maps, and hopes that his trip goes as well as ours when he recovers.
July 6th to 8th: Mostly Wisconsin
Day 23: Twin cities-ish, MN to Eau Claire, WI. 136 miles. 9:24 saddle time.
Day 24: Eau Claire to Stevens Point, MN. 116 miles. 8:46 saddle time.
Day 25: Stevens Point to Valders/Manitowac, WI. 107 miles. 7:15 saddle time.
"we are capsules of energy."
"you'll pass this on, won't you?"
"thank you thank you thank you...you're far too kind."
A half mile out the door and we were crossing the Mississippi River, which felt as strange, huge or exciting as the continental divide or having our back wheels in the Pacific. It wasn't a particularly early start for us, and we found the neighborhood to be in a great mood. In a 20 minute span, we heard two happy horns, got one thumbs up on a country road, and then two separate truck drivers held up traffic to chat once we hit signaled streets. I felt like I had a golden ticket and was storming the candy factory. On a related note, our bicycles are made in a suburb south or the twin cities, but we were told via email to not bother visiting unless we were interested in watching a bunch of guys "drink beer and work on computers." We didn't.
And after 40 miles of terror along a 'highway' shoulder (four highways merged to madness), I got a text from Seth, a guy from Eau Claire who I hadn't met or spoken to, but we use the same website to trade records. He said he'd could put us up for the night.
"How are you feeling Dad, is this the one?"
"Yes it is."
"The One" was discussed before the trip; I wanted to ride further than my longest (around Lake Balaton, done last September on a knobby mountain bike with no training. Hi, Zsolt.)
We had another 100 to go, so I reset my odometer to fake my way through the day. The twin cities' spread of suburbs lasts until the Wisconsin border, and riding through this portion was a lowlight of the trip. Once we dropped to the St Croix river, the bridge was up and we weaved through the gridlocked small town until we were at the bridge barrier (the pedestrian part, we're not jerks.) It was reminiscent of my mornings to work or school, always separated by one of two drawbridges that dictate my tardiness. I love blitzing across a drawbridge that has just come down, it's an unexplainable rush.
The Wisconsin side of the river (Houlton) had the highest grade we've seen thus far for a quarter mile, and I realize now that you can't capture steepness in a photograph. We rode rolling farmland until mile 110, and the change from flat helped us gain a crank/coast rhythm to carry us through a long day.
The last 26 were flat, relaxed, and calm since our host was at band practice, and his lady friend wouldn't be off work until 9 to let us into her place. There was a 10 mile stretch of fresh blacktop, possible laid that day, which allowed for some side by side chatting. No stripes, no stones, no sticks. Ask me how sticky it was.
The part of town where we stayed had old homes with neighbors congregating on front porches and yards, a quality of neighborhoods I've been eyeing since talking to Amanda in Fargo. John and her built a porch because everyone else hung out on them, and it was their window into becoming a part of the older neighborhood. I also got to catch the bicycle ride of a elderly couple that Amanda says they do every night before dusk; I forgot to mention how cute that was.
Right, Eau Claire. Seth and Nicole were easy to get along with and I wished I could have stayed awake to chat more than two hours about records, Japan, and how to judge a town in America on arbitrary criteria. Their local organic truth serum made me a chatty cat, and I still find it weird to have hung out with someone from the internet and got on so well. As for Dave, he was asleep as soon as their one-eared Boston terrier cleaned all the salt from his (exposed) skin. His name is Gizmo.
My half hour of tooling around Eau Claire doesn't warrant an evaluation, but after coffee, muffins, and quiche at the Acoustic Café downtown, I swore I was in Bellingham, Washington, minus the Subarus and blonde dreadlocks. When my eye caught both of these on the long slope out of town, I realized my theory was bunk.
We had hoped for an easy day after the long one, but it didn't pan out. We had a morning of hills, and an afternoon of flat. An uneventful day because we were pretty tired, and riding with muscle memory at this point in the trip. Not looking around much, just moving along content that our bodies wake up faster and can function for 8 hours of pedaling without complaints.
"Share the road" has more meaning in some of these stretches, as a two lane highway will have a two-foot paved shoulder for our use, and an outer, ten-foot compact gravel strip for families that ride exclusively by horse and cart. The first buggy we crossed paths with had a family who smiled wide and waved with an enthusiasm I didn't expect. I figure they approved of our chosen mode, and we were pleased to see the
smallest tike embracing a tractor-wheel sized innertube, likely not for its intended use, but for the local creek.
Google maps sent me to the office of a campground in Steven's point (complete with reviews of the facilities), but the grounds were another 15 down the road. At 110 miles and feeling defeated, we found the nearest motel (30 dollars a night of shadiness). All full but too lazy to change their vacancy status, we had the desk man yelling at us where to try next (think Carl of ATHF minus the gold chain, and definitely on a stimulant of some kind) when a guy walks up declaring his basement is free. We would normally consider this shady as well (he followed us from the road, into the motel's parking lot), but his enthusiasm and "Life is Good" shirt that my parents love to wear was convincing.
Three miles later and we were enjoying the company of Bruce and his wife Jan, empty nesters keeping busy with five cats and still pleased with their long careers. Besides finally catching up on posting pictures on this site, we talked shop with Bruce about his adventures around the country on his recumbent bike, and we discussed food consumption for the long distance rider at length (a topic we'll summarize when we're done; my dad enjoys that we're eating Lance-style).
Breakfast and coffee was made up when I awoke, and the falling apart of a saddlebag proved that running into Bruce was essential to us making through another morning of riding. We feel lucky that he'd be on his way to get ice cream and notice two rubber legged and filthy guys making poor decisions for sleeping arrangements. He said it was a returned favor for all the help he received on his last adventure. He even drew out his favorite country road route with gauntlets of sprinklers, and caught up to us on his way to work, just to be sure we were going to make it.
A few minutes later, the owner of Bruce's favorite bike shop had pulled over and suggested we go back to his place to draw out a better route to Lake Michigan. He had recently worked with the Adventure Cycling team to plot this route out, so it was fresh in his mind. Meanwhile, his wife drove down the road to check the status of some construction that could alter the planned route. The selflessness we've been seeing is hard to fathom.
His scenic route, besides the portions I sweatily wiped away, takes the mundane straits out of the ride, but we would eventually return to the boredom of highways to make better time to a farmtown on the coast.
Arriving at the home of Leon and Linda, we weren't ready for a photo shoot, but the community reporter was ready with a camera and a list of questions about the trip and FHSSA. Leon #10 was a chef, and they both treated us to a meal far beyond what we've been doing with a camp stove, well, any stove for that matter. The numbering system is used to keep siblings straight; there are 13.
The wide house cooled quickly from the winds of the lake, and it was the breeziest night of sleep we'd seen in these humid states. The bay windows likely make heating an issue in the winter, but their view over the property's pond and rows of crops makes you want to grab another cup and sit down to watch the still-life do absolutely nothing.
Day 24: Eau Claire to Stevens Point, MN. 116 miles. 8:46 saddle time.
Day 25: Stevens Point to Valders/Manitowac, WI. 107 miles. 7:15 saddle time.
"we are capsules of energy."
"you'll pass this on, won't you?"
"thank you thank you thank you...you're far too kind."
A half mile out the door and we were crossing the Mississippi River, which felt as strange, huge or exciting as the continental divide or having our back wheels in the Pacific. It wasn't a particularly early start for us, and we found the neighborhood to be in a great mood. In a 20 minute span, we heard two happy horns, got one thumbs up on a country road, and then two separate truck drivers held up traffic to chat once we hit signaled streets. I felt like I had a golden ticket and was storming the candy factory. On a related note, our bicycles are made in a suburb south or the twin cities, but we were told via email to not bother visiting unless we were interested in watching a bunch of guys "drink beer and work on computers." We didn't.
And after 40 miles of terror along a 'highway' shoulder (four highways merged to madness), I got a text from Seth, a guy from Eau Claire who I hadn't met or spoken to, but we use the same website to trade records. He said he'd could put us up for the night.
"How are you feeling Dad, is this the one?"
"Yes it is."
"The One" was discussed before the trip; I wanted to ride further than my longest (around Lake Balaton, done last September on a knobby mountain bike with no training. Hi, Zsolt.)
We had another 100 to go, so I reset my odometer to fake my way through the day. The twin cities' spread of suburbs lasts until the Wisconsin border, and riding through this portion was a lowlight of the trip. Once we dropped to the St Croix river, the bridge was up and we weaved through the gridlocked small town until we were at the bridge barrier (the pedestrian part, we're not jerks.) It was reminiscent of my mornings to work or school, always separated by one of two drawbridges that dictate my tardiness. I love blitzing across a drawbridge that has just come down, it's an unexplainable rush.
The Wisconsin side of the river (Houlton) had the highest grade we've seen thus far for a quarter mile, and I realize now that you can't capture steepness in a photograph. We rode rolling farmland until mile 110, and the change from flat helped us gain a crank/coast rhythm to carry us through a long day.
The last 26 were flat, relaxed, and calm since our host was at band practice, and his lady friend wouldn't be off work until 9 to let us into her place. There was a 10 mile stretch of fresh blacktop, possible laid that day, which allowed for some side by side chatting. No stripes, no stones, no sticks. Ask me how sticky it was.
The part of town where we stayed had old homes with neighbors congregating on front porches and yards, a quality of neighborhoods I've been eyeing since talking to Amanda in Fargo. John and her built a porch because everyone else hung out on them, and it was their window into becoming a part of the older neighborhood. I also got to catch the bicycle ride of a elderly couple that Amanda says they do every night before dusk; I forgot to mention how cute that was.
Right, Eau Claire. Seth and Nicole were easy to get along with and I wished I could have stayed awake to chat more than two hours about records, Japan, and how to judge a town in America on arbitrary criteria. Their local organic truth serum made me a chatty cat, and I still find it weird to have hung out with someone from the internet and got on so well. As for Dave, he was asleep as soon as their one-eared Boston terrier cleaned all the salt from his (exposed) skin. His name is Gizmo.
My half hour of tooling around Eau Claire doesn't warrant an evaluation, but after coffee, muffins, and quiche at the Acoustic Café downtown, I swore I was in Bellingham, Washington, minus the Subarus and blonde dreadlocks. When my eye caught both of these on the long slope out of town, I realized my theory was bunk.
We had hoped for an easy day after the long one, but it didn't pan out. We had a morning of hills, and an afternoon of flat. An uneventful day because we were pretty tired, and riding with muscle memory at this point in the trip. Not looking around much, just moving along content that our bodies wake up faster and can function for 8 hours of pedaling without complaints.
"Share the road" has more meaning in some of these stretches, as a two lane highway will have a two-foot paved shoulder for our use, and an outer, ten-foot compact gravel strip for families that ride exclusively by horse and cart. The first buggy we crossed paths with had a family who smiled wide and waved with an enthusiasm I didn't expect. I figure they approved of our chosen mode, and we were pleased to see the
smallest tike embracing a tractor-wheel sized innertube, likely not for its intended use, but for the local creek.
Google maps sent me to the office of a campground in Steven's point (complete with reviews of the facilities), but the grounds were another 15 down the road. At 110 miles and feeling defeated, we found the nearest motel (30 dollars a night of shadiness). All full but too lazy to change their vacancy status, we had the desk man yelling at us where to try next (think Carl of ATHF minus the gold chain, and definitely on a stimulant of some kind) when a guy walks up declaring his basement is free. We would normally consider this shady as well (he followed us from the road, into the motel's parking lot), but his enthusiasm and "Life is Good" shirt that my parents love to wear was convincing.
Three miles later and we were enjoying the company of Bruce and his wife Jan, empty nesters keeping busy with five cats and still pleased with their long careers. Besides finally catching up on posting pictures on this site, we talked shop with Bruce about his adventures around the country on his recumbent bike, and we discussed food consumption for the long distance rider at length (a topic we'll summarize when we're done; my dad enjoys that we're eating Lance-style).
Breakfast and coffee was made up when I awoke, and the falling apart of a saddlebag proved that running into Bruce was essential to us making through another morning of riding. We feel lucky that he'd be on his way to get ice cream and notice two rubber legged and filthy guys making poor decisions for sleeping arrangements. He said it was a returned favor for all the help he received on his last adventure. He even drew out his favorite country road route with gauntlets of sprinklers, and caught up to us on his way to work, just to be sure we were going to make it.
A few minutes later, the owner of Bruce's favorite bike shop had pulled over and suggested we go back to his place to draw out a better route to Lake Michigan. He had recently worked with the Adventure Cycling team to plot this route out, so it was fresh in his mind. Meanwhile, his wife drove down the road to check the status of some construction that could alter the planned route. The selflessness we've been seeing is hard to fathom.
His scenic route, besides the portions I sweatily wiped away, takes the mundane straits out of the ride, but we would eventually return to the boredom of highways to make better time to a farmtown on the coast.
Arriving at the home of Leon and Linda, we weren't ready for a photo shoot, but the community reporter was ready with a camera and a list of questions about the trip and FHSSA. Leon #10 was a chef, and they both treated us to a meal far beyond what we've been doing with a camp stove, well, any stove for that matter. The numbering system is used to keep siblings straight; there are 13.
The wide house cooled quickly from the winds of the lake, and it was the breeziest night of sleep we'd seen in these humid states. The bay windows likely make heating an issue in the winter, but their view over the property's pond and rows of crops makes you want to grab another cup and sit down to watch the still-life do absolutely nothing.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Bah, I can't keep up with the internet.
If you stumbled to this site because I mass messaged on facebook, welcome, and apologies that I can't write all of my sentences coherently at 1:30 in the morning.
We are in Rochester, NY and I need to wake up in 5 hours to ride again.
Since you last heard from us it was Wisconsin in 2 days, Minnesota in 3, Michigan in 3, Ontario in 2, and now we start day two of New York tomorrow morning. That was 1200 miles, bringing us to 3200 or so. 450 to go.
We shouldn't have promised updates to this thing AND 100 milers.
I have some stuff drafted on my dead phone that I will upload, and a day off at my Great Uncle's on Saturday might allow for some more, even pictures.
We bridge jumped with some kids into the Erie Canal today, which is almost as cool as this guy, 120 years ago on the same path:
We are going to make it.
We are in Rochester, NY and I need to wake up in 5 hours to ride again.
Since you last heard from us it was Wisconsin in 2 days, Minnesota in 3, Michigan in 3, Ontario in 2, and now we start day two of New York tomorrow morning. That was 1200 miles, bringing us to 3200 or so. 450 to go.
We shouldn't have promised updates to this thing AND 100 milers.
I have some stuff drafted on my dead phone that I will upload, and a day off at my Great Uncle's on Saturday might allow for some more, even pictures.
We bridge jumped with some kids into the Erie Canal today, which is almost as cool as this guy, 120 years ago on the same path:
We are going to make it.
Sunday, July 11, 2010
July 3rd to 5th: Fargo & Minnesota
Note: We'll be in Canada tomorrow , for a few days, so i will not be using the phone beyong texts, if this applies to you.
Day 20: Fargo to Fargo (rest day #2)
Day 21: Fargo to Garfield, MN. 113 miles. 7:21 saddle time.
Day 22: Garfield to Monticello (NW twin cities). 106 miles. 7:44 saddle time.
Corresponding quotations:
"You remind me of home."
"...the pause that refreshes"
"I'm like a load of fireworks, I'm no good after the fourth."
It may have taken a few hours to prepare for with our tinman joints, but we loaded a small bag each on our bikes and took a tour of town. John rode a trusty red flyer, and our cadillacs wobbled around unsteady without weight. The Red River divides North Dakota from Minnesota, and both sides have turned the area between dikes into running/riding paths. We criss-crossed between states as we received a thorough tour of the area. The expensive houses near the river occasionally have their back porches turned into fishing docks. It's a conversion that has been occurring too often in recent years, as Fargo at the bottom of a shallow bowl, which leaves few options for the waters that flow north with winding difficulty. If the bike path continues to Hudson Bay with this quality, we're on it.
Fargo might be Spokane's doppelganger (where's the umlaut on this phone?), it was weird to be walking around a town I seemed to know. My hometown's population dwarfs Fargo's slightly, but has the old brick charm, the downtown sliced by rails, the lurking monstrosities of the 70s that scar the skyline, the small university presence, the push for restoration over demolition...it goes on and I'll spare you.
They unsuccessfully converted the train station to a brewery, twice, but the building has become home to a flourishing bike shop. The first mechanic I talked to was excited to help me with a pedal issue and was thinking outloud if he could put us up for the night as soon as I spoke of our route. Every bike shop should have a healthy sandwich stand inside so you can eat while yelling about cycling with the staff bustling around you. Great Northern Bicycles. Look them up if you pass through. We've been disappointed with other shops along this route.
We wandered with our hot coffees in the ninety-plus afternoon, sweat cooled by the ever-present southern wind, looking for a barber for my dad. Fargo has a mass exodus to 'the lakes region' of Minnesota for the fourth, so the seven barbers and beauty schools we located were all closed, but we were really in it for the tour anyway.
Our hosts grilled a massive meal that we couldn't finish, and as far as celebrations go, the third is the new fourth because we were back to business the next day. My sister warned us that their generosity was like their state's wind, and we were thankful to be rested and refueled.
Sunday, the fourth, started with a large soufflé, a ride back to the crossroads where we left off on Friday, and a quick ride down the Red River paths to Minnesota. John had mentioned the quality of the river bed's clay (his brother was a ceramics major at UW, so not entirely random), and we got a quick taste of it from a seemingly small puddle. The clay built up quickly in our fenders and decelerated us to a stop. We were once again scouring a random neighborhood in America for a garden hose.
The wind had returned to our backs, lightly, so Minnesota's first 40 miles were better than 90% of what we saw in North Dakota. We didn't buy Adventure Cycling maps for Minnesota and Wisconsin, so we picked a country road that parallels a large interstate. Just as we were discussing how Minnesota was proving to be the best paved and shouldered roads we've seen, a recumbent cyclist was waving us down a little ways off the road. He handed us a map, and we now had our next 120 miles figured out: another rails to trails project. Smooth and with re-tarred cracks, this trail cut straight with little elevation change and lots of shade. I could ride without hands to stretch my back, check and write some emails, and rolled relaxed alongside my dad. Being a holiday where people tend to get drunk early to get ready for a long day of drinking, we felt safe from drivers on our secret trail.
The campground we found via google maps was nestled on a pond with a fake swan, and a horde of children riding bikes surrounded us with their wheels and questions. We showed them the brilliance of a well balanced set of panniers and freeze dried food, and maybe inspired them to run away from home successfully. They told us about a firework display happening at 9:30 at the lake down the road a mile, but I could only think about what a campground sounds like when all of the sugared-up children leave.
The quote I used for the fifth of July is a little forced, but we did feel oddly lethargic the first half of the day. Dave chalked it up to a residual aftershock from last week. Somedays your legs don't want to wake up, even on a mostly flat railroad trail.
After 60 uneventful miles of dealing with no cars, just families of cyclists, our trail stopped and black clouds lurked. We fished deep for our gear after a double shot of caffeine that's become a clockwork habit. After a half mile, a nail went clean through tread and out of sidewall, somehow managing to gouge away at my brake pad over a few rotations until I stopped. We spotted an elevated porch to duck under, behind a store, while the drops began. Busy with our surgical movements, we failed to notice the store was a front, not in the Corleone sense, but a nice house was attached directly to the high-end audio shop. The couple were quite welcoming to our encroachment, and offered to drive us ahead to avoid the storm. I felt uncomfortable handing our card over (which promotes donations) in a situation like this, but the genuine conversation lead to discussing our cause anyway. Having no contacts in this region, hearing a random stranger telling us 'he had us covered' should disaster strike reiterates how lucky we've felt to meet caring people. And maybe we should thank the accomplice of coincidence too: the rusty nail.
Besides the elastic of my rain booties causing my calves to breakout pubescently, the hot rain was welcomed. We needed 40 more miles to a campground, and its pounding energized us. A gas station's 99 cent half-gallons of chocolate milk was a good choice, so we emptied some waterbottles and we charged on, once again paralleling a busy interstate. A lapse in my mapping skills put us along a road that passed Fuller Lake, which was fortunate and appeared planned. We only went a half-mile west...
When we neared Monticello (not pronounced like Jefferson's homestead on the nickel) my dad pointed out that weathering the storm in our tents would just lead to a miserable morning of mildew and constant rotation of drying clothes while we rode. We also had an inkling that if someone responded to an email I had just sent out, we might be in for a big day of riding, so a solid rest was essential. The motel (and dryer) were a nice change of pace.
Day 20: Fargo to Fargo (rest day #2)
Day 21: Fargo to Garfield, MN. 113 miles. 7:21 saddle time.
Day 22: Garfield to Monticello (NW twin cities). 106 miles. 7:44 saddle time.
Corresponding quotations:
"You remind me of home."
"...the pause that refreshes"
"I'm like a load of fireworks, I'm no good after the fourth."
It may have taken a few hours to prepare for with our tinman joints, but we loaded a small bag each on our bikes and took a tour of town. John rode a trusty red flyer, and our cadillacs wobbled around unsteady without weight. The Red River divides North Dakota from Minnesota, and both sides have turned the area between dikes into running/riding paths. We criss-crossed between states as we received a thorough tour of the area. The expensive houses near the river occasionally have their back porches turned into fishing docks. It's a conversion that has been occurring too often in recent years, as Fargo at the bottom of a shallow bowl, which leaves few options for the waters that flow north with winding difficulty. If the bike path continues to Hudson Bay with this quality, we're on it.
Fargo might be Spokane's doppelganger (where's the umlaut on this phone?), it was weird to be walking around a town I seemed to know. My hometown's population dwarfs Fargo's slightly, but has the old brick charm, the downtown sliced by rails, the lurking monstrosities of the 70s that scar the skyline, the small university presence, the push for restoration over demolition...it goes on and I'll spare you.
They unsuccessfully converted the train station to a brewery, twice, but the building has become home to a flourishing bike shop. The first mechanic I talked to was excited to help me with a pedal issue and was thinking outloud if he could put us up for the night as soon as I spoke of our route. Every bike shop should have a healthy sandwich stand inside so you can eat while yelling about cycling with the staff bustling around you. Great Northern Bicycles. Look them up if you pass through. We've been disappointed with other shops along this route.
We wandered with our hot coffees in the ninety-plus afternoon, sweat cooled by the ever-present southern wind, looking for a barber for my dad. Fargo has a mass exodus to 'the lakes region' of Minnesota for the fourth, so the seven barbers and beauty schools we located were all closed, but we were really in it for the tour anyway.
Our hosts grilled a massive meal that we couldn't finish, and as far as celebrations go, the third is the new fourth because we were back to business the next day. My sister warned us that their generosity was like their state's wind, and we were thankful to be rested and refueled.
Sunday, the fourth, started with a large soufflé, a ride back to the crossroads where we left off on Friday, and a quick ride down the Red River paths to Minnesota. John had mentioned the quality of the river bed's clay (his brother was a ceramics major at UW, so not entirely random), and we got a quick taste of it from a seemingly small puddle. The clay built up quickly in our fenders and decelerated us to a stop. We were once again scouring a random neighborhood in America for a garden hose.
The wind had returned to our backs, lightly, so Minnesota's first 40 miles were better than 90% of what we saw in North Dakota. We didn't buy Adventure Cycling maps for Minnesota and Wisconsin, so we picked a country road that parallels a large interstate. Just as we were discussing how Minnesota was proving to be the best paved and shouldered roads we've seen, a recumbent cyclist was waving us down a little ways off the road. He handed us a map, and we now had our next 120 miles figured out: another rails to trails project. Smooth and with re-tarred cracks, this trail cut straight with little elevation change and lots of shade. I could ride without hands to stretch my back, check and write some emails, and rolled relaxed alongside my dad. Being a holiday where people tend to get drunk early to get ready for a long day of drinking, we felt safe from drivers on our secret trail.
The campground we found via google maps was nestled on a pond with a fake swan, and a horde of children riding bikes surrounded us with their wheels and questions. We showed them the brilliance of a well balanced set of panniers and freeze dried food, and maybe inspired them to run away from home successfully. They told us about a firework display happening at 9:30 at the lake down the road a mile, but I could only think about what a campground sounds like when all of the sugared-up children leave.
The quote I used for the fifth of July is a little forced, but we did feel oddly lethargic the first half of the day. Dave chalked it up to a residual aftershock from last week. Somedays your legs don't want to wake up, even on a mostly flat railroad trail.
After 60 uneventful miles of dealing with no cars, just families of cyclists, our trail stopped and black clouds lurked. We fished deep for our gear after a double shot of caffeine that's become a clockwork habit. After a half mile, a nail went clean through tread and out of sidewall, somehow managing to gouge away at my brake pad over a few rotations until I stopped. We spotted an elevated porch to duck under, behind a store, while the drops began. Busy with our surgical movements, we failed to notice the store was a front, not in the Corleone sense, but a nice house was attached directly to the high-end audio shop. The couple were quite welcoming to our encroachment, and offered to drive us ahead to avoid the storm. I felt uncomfortable handing our card over (which promotes donations) in a situation like this, but the genuine conversation lead to discussing our cause anyway. Having no contacts in this region, hearing a random stranger telling us 'he had us covered' should disaster strike reiterates how lucky we've felt to meet caring people. And maybe we should thank the accomplice of coincidence too: the rusty nail.
Besides the elastic of my rain booties causing my calves to breakout pubescently, the hot rain was welcomed. We needed 40 more miles to a campground, and its pounding energized us. A gas station's 99 cent half-gallons of chocolate milk was a good choice, so we emptied some waterbottles and we charged on, once again paralleling a busy interstate. A lapse in my mapping skills put us along a road that passed Fuller Lake, which was fortunate and appeared planned. We only went a half-mile west...
When we neared Monticello (not pronounced like Jefferson's homestead on the nickel) my dad pointed out that weathering the storm in our tents would just lead to a miserable morning of mildew and constant rotation of drying clothes while we rode. We also had an inkling that if someone responded to an email I had just sent out, we might be in for a big day of riding, so a solid rest was essential. The motel (and dryer) were a nice change of pace.
Friday, July 9, 2010
June 30th to July 2nd
Day 17: Towner to Minnewaukan (Devil's Lake). 83.7 miles. 7:59 in the saddle. (10.4 average!!!)
Day 18: Minnewaukan to Cooperstown 101.2 miles. 8:12 in the saddle.
Day 19: Cooperstown to Fargo. 85.3 miles, 7:44 in the saddle.Corresponding Quotations:
"Where will it end?"
"Where will it eeennnddd?"
"WHERE WILL IT END?"
Wednesday: the big one. Another 20 mile morning out of the gates into headwind, but it was sturdier. We scouted a subway and purchased 2nd breakfast and 2 lunches for the road, each (thanks, mom). It was here that we met Brian, the elusive figure that I mentioned who had to be rescued from Logan's Pass awhile back. The story was a little telephoned, but it did take 24 hours from when he started pushing his bike into snow (following a hiker's tracks) to when he exited onto pavement again. There was a lot of wandering and drying of socks over a propane stove. He was all smiles in announcing his achievement, but I wonder what sort of thoughts he had in the dead of night up there among the snowdrifts. We planned to meet him at the east end of devils lake (he was taking the north shore), but the winds we hit around the other side stopped us far short and I was disappointed to miss out on some stories. I should add that Brian works for food as he crosses the country, which sounds like a greater challenge than the ride.
Hitting a grocery, we found out the gusts would be topping out at 35-40 mph, with a high of 92 F.
I should cover what this wind means to us.
We ride comfortably at 15-18 through the day on flats. If we "crank it," we can get our momentum over 20, but this isn't necessary if you're putting in 8 hours with scattered hills.
When a wind like this hits you head on, you are reduced to 6-9 mph depending on the gust, but you are still cranking, and not comfortable. Add an incline and you stop checking your speedometer.
With wind from the side, your panniers act as sails, in our case pushing us off the shoulder into traffic. Dropping your shoulder, adding a tilt, and applying a steady pressure with your hand opposite the wind will keep you mostly straight, but the awkward riding and new physics keeps you around 12, tops.
At a 45 angle, the surface area of your pannier has been maximized (drawings on their way?). You get the picture. My dad kept chanting 'relentless,' and I found that no amount of Talking Heads would remedy the situation. There was no laughter, no chatter, just a steady influx of water and energy bars until we hit a campground. Mayflies had just hatched and carpeted our shorts (they apparently don't like to hang out on skin) and a fisherman on Devils Lake echoed many's sentiments that these winds were unusual. He also claimed that 5 foot waves were hitting his canoe and although I doubt most of what he said, we did find whitecaps on swimmingpool-sized ponds odd.
We ate 'til our stomachs hurt more than our legs.
A solid 6 hour sleep was easy until a thunderstorm hit us at four am. We had skipped the rainflys, of course, as the clear evening had some constellation potential. Groggy and damp at 6 am, we were packed to ride and full of oatmeal. The first road we found was flooded by devils lake, so we did some exploration without our routed maps again.
For the mosţ part, we've used maps from Adventure Cycling, a Missoula-based company that provides successive and sectional maps that cover mileage, groceries, elevation, and camping options for bikers. Some introverted wanderers might find that this takes the 'adventure' out of cycling as you pass other map-wielding riders, and have a fairly zoomed-in route to work with. But the roads are well researched, and after crossing two states since Fargo, we've had mixed emotions over wanting to use them again. We like running into other riders each day.
Our wandering involved knowing that Cooperstown was roughly halfway to Fargo, and everything is on a grid. As we crested hills on dirt roads, we could eye the inverted flasks of watertowers (every town has one) and triangulate based on a state map with only major roads. The occasional sign doesn't hurt, although many roads out there are nameless.
We had four hours and sixty-five miles of beautiful, windless riding, but high noon brought the gusts back to kick us back to riding 8 mph for the rest of the day.
The major highlight was the gas station in Tokio. I realize people stop listening when someone rants about the joys of convenience stores, but we were truly impressed. Not tied to any gas company, the owner took pride in his product options and kept it air conditioned. Instead of solely stocking the low-priced, processed items you'd expect, there were healthy and fresh options as well. Our coffee was free, but I couldn't tell if that was just a rule for cyclists. Outside, a short conversation with a man who organizes work groups to build houses for tribe elders lead to some tearful talk of hospice care. He gave us money for lunch, which we used, and decided to match to the fund as well.
I'll interject storytime again and talk a few words about grandpa Fuller. We get to say hello once or twice a day depending on cell phone coverage, and he has a little map that he and Liz use to follow our progress. He usually starts with "I'm still on planet earth today..." and likes an update on how the scenery has been changing. He also wishes he was right there pedaling along. In spirit and in our thoughts he is, as we try to capture a few blurry images to relay to him in the evening. But he recently changed his tune from 'I can't wait to hear you read your journal when you get back' (said to my dad) to 'just days left now.' My sister heard this and printed my blog posts to read to him, so he doesn't miss anything (he can't talk long on the phone anymore.) The time we've spent talking with him and about our family has mostly been omitted on this site, but affects us daily, so that's my update.
The 27 mile stretch of due South roads into headwinds made for the hardest afternoon we've seen. Our progress was comical and I could write a long time about it. I won't. But I will say that we enjoyed the company of eighteen-wheelers for the first time because their backdrafts afforded us a two to three second lull from wind. Backdraft? Is this the right word? Perhaps an air eddy? A wind alcove?
Cooperstown had a city park with a gazebo we set up in, since there were a lot of bored teenagers with their fireworks and mischief in the park, and we figured they couldn't get to us as easy in the wooden fortress.
We tried a 4 am alarm for Friday, since the winds tend to intensify with the day's heat. They hadn't lessened since the night before, so we trudged on. The winds were again straight southerly, and this route had only two direct south stretches, which were bookended by eastern, lean-and-fight-for-lane-positioning roads.
We met part of a team who had rented a car among three riders and alternated drivers, but still included 'out and backs' so each rider had their full cross-country mileage accounted for. I liked this idea more than convincing someone to be driver.
When we got to our last turn, which lead southeast into Fargo, my sister's friends met us in their truck. At 5 pm on a Friday of a holiday weekend, getting a ride through town to avoid everyone's trucks and boats sounded great, but our crossroad wasn't yet in the city proper. We had been looking forward to our arrival in Fargo through five days of wind, and at times considered going east, or northeast to just exit this flat state, so we didn't load the bikes.
Pointing to the next grain elevator, I asked if beyond it would be Fargo. Since this road lacked a "Welcome to..." sign, we decided it was. At only four miles away, it was the hardest 40 minutes I've seen. Yes, at 6 mph, we cricked our necks into a sad aerodynamic position and dug forward. With people watching who we almost knew, this was the best we could do, and the newsreport had the winds at 40 again. At about 20 minutes in, my chronically grimaced face confused my brain and I started streaming tears. I wasn't sad or angry, I had just exhausted what my body could do, and it was giving up. The lines on the ground turned magic eye. I was already riding in the dirt beyond the shoulder for my own safety, and it took no braking to stop for a bag of licorice and a liter. The fuel and the cowbell-like ringing of screwdriver on snow shovel got us to the end. Thank you for your spirited cheers, John and Amanda.
My dad was able to fall asleep in the ten minute car ride to their house. We ate home-cooked, and partially backyard-grown dinner. Stepping on a bathroom scale, we now had a goal for our day off in Fargo: eat and figure out how to eat more while riding the rest of the trip. My cognitive abilities returned the next day.
Day 18: Minnewaukan to Cooperstown 101.2 miles. 8:12 in the saddle.
Day 19: Cooperstown to Fargo. 85.3 miles, 7:44 in the saddle.Corresponding Quotations:
"Where will it end?"
"Where will it eeennnddd?"
"WHERE WILL IT END?"
Wednesday: the big one. Another 20 mile morning out of the gates into headwind, but it was sturdier. We scouted a subway and purchased 2nd breakfast and 2 lunches for the road, each (thanks, mom). It was here that we met Brian, the elusive figure that I mentioned who had to be rescued from Logan's Pass awhile back. The story was a little telephoned, but it did take 24 hours from when he started pushing his bike into snow (following a hiker's tracks) to when he exited onto pavement again. There was a lot of wandering and drying of socks over a propane stove. He was all smiles in announcing his achievement, but I wonder what sort of thoughts he had in the dead of night up there among the snowdrifts. We planned to meet him at the east end of devils lake (he was taking the north shore), but the winds we hit around the other side stopped us far short and I was disappointed to miss out on some stories. I should add that Brian works for food as he crosses the country, which sounds like a greater challenge than the ride.
Hitting a grocery, we found out the gusts would be topping out at 35-40 mph, with a high of 92 F.
I should cover what this wind means to us.
We ride comfortably at 15-18 through the day on flats. If we "crank it," we can get our momentum over 20, but this isn't necessary if you're putting in 8 hours with scattered hills.
When a wind like this hits you head on, you are reduced to 6-9 mph depending on the gust, but you are still cranking, and not comfortable. Add an incline and you stop checking your speedometer.
With wind from the side, your panniers act as sails, in our case pushing us off the shoulder into traffic. Dropping your shoulder, adding a tilt, and applying a steady pressure with your hand opposite the wind will keep you mostly straight, but the awkward riding and new physics keeps you around 12, tops.
At a 45 angle, the surface area of your pannier has been maximized (drawings on their way?). You get the picture. My dad kept chanting 'relentless,' and I found that no amount of Talking Heads would remedy the situation. There was no laughter, no chatter, just a steady influx of water and energy bars until we hit a campground. Mayflies had just hatched and carpeted our shorts (they apparently don't like to hang out on skin) and a fisherman on Devils Lake echoed many's sentiments that these winds were unusual. He also claimed that 5 foot waves were hitting his canoe and although I doubt most of what he said, we did find whitecaps on swimmingpool-sized ponds odd.
We ate 'til our stomachs hurt more than our legs.
A solid 6 hour sleep was easy until a thunderstorm hit us at four am. We had skipped the rainflys, of course, as the clear evening had some constellation potential. Groggy and damp at 6 am, we were packed to ride and full of oatmeal. The first road we found was flooded by devils lake, so we did some exploration without our routed maps again.
For the mosţ part, we've used maps from Adventure Cycling, a Missoula-based company that provides successive and sectional maps that cover mileage, groceries, elevation, and camping options for bikers. Some introverted wanderers might find that this takes the 'adventure' out of cycling as you pass other map-wielding riders, and have a fairly zoomed-in route to work with. But the roads are well researched, and after crossing two states since Fargo, we've had mixed emotions over wanting to use them again. We like running into other riders each day.
Our wandering involved knowing that Cooperstown was roughly halfway to Fargo, and everything is on a grid. As we crested hills on dirt roads, we could eye the inverted flasks of watertowers (every town has one) and triangulate based on a state map with only major roads. The occasional sign doesn't hurt, although many roads out there are nameless.
We had four hours and sixty-five miles of beautiful, windless riding, but high noon brought the gusts back to kick us back to riding 8 mph for the rest of the day.
The major highlight was the gas station in Tokio. I realize people stop listening when someone rants about the joys of convenience stores, but we were truly impressed. Not tied to any gas company, the owner took pride in his product options and kept it air conditioned. Instead of solely stocking the low-priced, processed items you'd expect, there were healthy and fresh options as well. Our coffee was free, but I couldn't tell if that was just a rule for cyclists. Outside, a short conversation with a man who organizes work groups to build houses for tribe elders lead to some tearful talk of hospice care. He gave us money for lunch, which we used, and decided to match to the fund as well.
I'll interject storytime again and talk a few words about grandpa Fuller. We get to say hello once or twice a day depending on cell phone coverage, and he has a little map that he and Liz use to follow our progress. He usually starts with "I'm still on planet earth today..." and likes an update on how the scenery has been changing. He also wishes he was right there pedaling along. In spirit and in our thoughts he is, as we try to capture a few blurry images to relay to him in the evening. But he recently changed his tune from 'I can't wait to hear you read your journal when you get back' (said to my dad) to 'just days left now.' My sister heard this and printed my blog posts to read to him, so he doesn't miss anything (he can't talk long on the phone anymore.) The time we've spent talking with him and about our family has mostly been omitted on this site, but affects us daily, so that's my update.
The 27 mile stretch of due South roads into headwinds made for the hardest afternoon we've seen. Our progress was comical and I could write a long time about it. I won't. But I will say that we enjoyed the company of eighteen-wheelers for the first time because their backdrafts afforded us a two to three second lull from wind. Backdraft? Is this the right word? Perhaps an air eddy? A wind alcove?
Cooperstown had a city park with a gazebo we set up in, since there were a lot of bored teenagers with their fireworks and mischief in the park, and we figured they couldn't get to us as easy in the wooden fortress.
We tried a 4 am alarm for Friday, since the winds tend to intensify with the day's heat. They hadn't lessened since the night before, so we trudged on. The winds were again straight southerly, and this route had only two direct south stretches, which were bookended by eastern, lean-and-fight-for-lane-positioning roads.
We met part of a team who had rented a car among three riders and alternated drivers, but still included 'out and backs' so each rider had their full cross-country mileage accounted for. I liked this idea more than convincing someone to be driver.
When we got to our last turn, which lead southeast into Fargo, my sister's friends met us in their truck. At 5 pm on a Friday of a holiday weekend, getting a ride through town to avoid everyone's trucks and boats sounded great, but our crossroad wasn't yet in the city proper. We had been looking forward to our arrival in Fargo through five days of wind, and at times considered going east, or northeast to just exit this flat state, so we didn't load the bikes.
Pointing to the next grain elevator, I asked if beyond it would be Fargo. Since this road lacked a "Welcome to..." sign, we decided it was. At only four miles away, it was the hardest 40 minutes I've seen. Yes, at 6 mph, we cricked our necks into a sad aerodynamic position and dug forward. With people watching who we almost knew, this was the best we could do, and the newsreport had the winds at 40 again. At about 20 minutes in, my chronically grimaced face confused my brain and I started streaming tears. I wasn't sad or angry, I had just exhausted what my body could do, and it was giving up. The lines on the ground turned magic eye. I was already riding in the dirt beyond the shoulder for my own safety, and it took no braking to stop for a bag of licorice and a liter. The fuel and the cowbell-like ringing of screwdriver on snow shovel got us to the end. Thank you for your spirited cheers, John and Amanda.
My dad was able to fall asleep in the ten minute car ride to their house. We ate home-cooked, and partially backyard-grown dinner. Stepping on a bathroom scale, we now had a goal for our day off in Fargo: eat and figure out how to eat more while riding the rest of the trip. My cognitive abilities returned the next day.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Picture Catch Up...2 Weeks of Driving Steel
All pictures can be clicked to zoom in.
We had recently changed our route to go to northern Wisconsin but we just switched it back again, for long-winded reasons. We will cross Lake Michigan on Friday. On a boat.
We laid down 370 miles in 3 days, so we're beat and I haven't been doing any late night writing. Tonight a local man strong-armed us into sleeping at his house. His shirt reads, "life is good."
______________________________________________________
The Clark Fork River @ the Idaho/Montana Border. Father's Day, 2010.
East of West Glacier, MT.
This might become a pattern, if the view is nice. Flathead River, MT.
Essex, Montana.
Read the sign, all down hill from here.
Working Man's wash.
Needs love, couldn't pull it. Montana.
Riding the "Hi-Line". Montana.
My mother would likely steal this, Montana.
Jump right in kids. (see the 'nowhere' montana post)
The crazy family of five and their machines.
Wandering from our map, west of Kallispell, MT.
The Glacier Buggy, Montana
Dave composed this one well. love the lines.
Stopped to Watch the USA lose out of the World Cup.
Near the Missouri River, Eastern Montana.
Three, oh three, it's the magic number.
Digging for Fire.
I want this building, Western North Dakota
Modelling the Wind.
Cheesy Sunsets, free camping in city park, North Dakota.
Lucky catch, I was just trying to shoot the bend of the reeds to show wind power.
HEY!
Cooperstown City Park, ND.
Sunrise from Highway 2, Cooperstown, ND. (We're already riding) July 2nd.
Creeper. July 2nd, somewhere in North Dakota.
Obligatory Fargo Pic, July 3rd.
Our gracious hosts for our rest day in Fargo, John & Amanda. July 4th.
One of those birds is real. July 5th, Minnesota
It tore through my brake pad too.
Took some searching...one of ten thousand, minnesota.
Don't fall in love with every barn you see. west wisconsin. July 6th.
On the 12, a few miles from Eau Claire, WI. July 6.
Eau Claire, from the Cameron Street Bridge. July 6th.
Gizmo, my sleeping buddy, morning of July 7th. Eau Claire. Thanks Seth & Nicole!
Stopped for curds at a cheese factory, Wisconsin. July 7th.
We had recently changed our route to go to northern Wisconsin but we just switched it back again, for long-winded reasons. We will cross Lake Michigan on Friday. On a boat.
We laid down 370 miles in 3 days, so we're beat and I haven't been doing any late night writing. Tonight a local man strong-armed us into sleeping at his house. His shirt reads, "life is good."
______________________________________________________
The Clark Fork River @ the Idaho/Montana Border. Father's Day, 2010.
East of West Glacier, MT.
This might become a pattern, if the view is nice. Flathead River, MT.
Essex, Montana.
Read the sign, all down hill from here.
Working Man's wash.
Needs love, couldn't pull it. Montana.
Riding the "Hi-Line". Montana.
My mother would likely steal this, Montana.
Jump right in kids. (see the 'nowhere' montana post)
The crazy family of five and their machines.
Wandering from our map, west of Kallispell, MT.
The Glacier Buggy, Montana
Dave composed this one well. love the lines.
Stopped to Watch the USA lose out of the World Cup.
Near the Missouri River, Eastern Montana.
Three, oh three, it's the magic number.
Digging for Fire.
I want this building, Western North Dakota
Modelling the Wind.
Cheesy Sunsets, free camping in city park, North Dakota.
Lucky catch, I was just trying to shoot the bend of the reeds to show wind power.
HEY!
Cooperstown City Park, ND.
Sunrise from Highway 2, Cooperstown, ND. (We're already riding) July 2nd.
Creeper. July 2nd, somewhere in North Dakota.
Obligatory Fargo Pic, July 3rd.
Our gracious hosts for our rest day in Fargo, John & Amanda. July 4th.
One of those birds is real. July 5th, Minnesota
It tore through my brake pad too.
Took some searching...one of ten thousand, minnesota.
Don't fall in love with every barn you see. west wisconsin. July 6th.
On the 12, a few miles from Eau Claire, WI. July 6.
Eau Claire, from the Cameron Street Bridge. July 6th.
Gizmo, my sleeping buddy, morning of July 7th. Eau Claire. Thanks Seth & Nicole!
Stopped for curds at a cheese factory, Wisconsin. July 7th.
Monday, July 5, 2010
june 27-29North Dakota: One day of cruising, four days of wind. (Part One):
Day 14: Wolf Point, MT to Williston, ND 102.2 miles, 6:15 in the saddle.
Day 15: Williston to Bertold, ND. 109.2 miles, 8:08 in the saddle.
Day 16: Berthold to Towner, ND. 72.0 miles, 6:31 in the saddle.
Corresponding Quotations:
"I want wind to blow..."
"it was supposed to be so eaaaasy"
"Don't need a weatherman to tell which way the wind blows"
We planned on using ND as a chance to bring our average up as we'd read up on other riders' experiences of long, flat days with the occasional tailwind. What we received was different, and we've fallen back another half day on the 100 miles a day goal, despite pushing through the most difficult rides of our journey.
As I type this into my phone, it's a little unnerving that my left ring and pinky fingers have a constant curl and a disregard for functioning. It's due to the last five days of wrangling handlebars to steady the bike, and typing on a pda might exacerbate this. I keep pouring corn nuts and gummy bears into my hand and I just watch them fall through to the dirt. It's heartbreaking.
Six days back (Sunday) was the easiest of the trip: the day began with more downhill than up, and a steady, light tailwind through some Badlands-esque reservation land near the Missouri River. After shakes and burgers, we crossed into North Dakota and noted the changes in scenery; we now had more rolling hills (only on this edge of the state), nearly every farm had a small oil operation, and we could no longer find slot machines at gas stations. By four we were at a grocery store chugging caffeine, pleased to have 100 miles done so early in the day. Winds were hitting down from the north at this point, and our next 15 would get the brunt of it, so we were on the fence about our evening until an ex-Brit rolled up and convinced us to stay at the city park.
Dave and I have been talking about 'stealth camping' for some time (where you find a patch of trees and make it home for a night) but our excuses have ranged from 'probably bear country' and 'there's no trees' to 'it doesn't feel ethical to squat on a reservation.' But we'd find (for the next five nights) that most towns in ND approve and encourage camping by cyclists in their sole patch of community grass. Some even have showers.
We had a good evening with Sam, the brit-turned-frenchman, especially because we could swap road hints and stories since he was traveling from Quebec to Seattle, and our next move was fresh in his memory. There's a possibility we'll catch up when he gets to Seattle after looping the Olympic peninsula (oh hey roommates: I've offered our place up to some folks...)
Ill also add a bit about Marvin, a soft-spoken fellow from the neighborhood who rolled up on a full-sized tricycle outfitted with a car's headlight and battery. In one of those 'small world' ways he knew the Saint family from Ecuador just as my father and grandfather did. (The background story is a long one...) Anyway, Marvin rode back to the park early the next morning to check on us or see if we needed anything. It wasn't until we were on the road again when I found out from my dad that the tricycle was his approach to maximizing his mobility while his Parkinson's was progressing.
And then Monday was the beginning of the hardest week of my life, physically. "At least Sam is having a good day," was my dad's thought early on. We didn't check the weather reports, but the wind was in our faces during half of our pedal time and the sun blazing enough to burn my back off in 30 minutes.
The wind hit us hard enough over the last 30 miles that I was eyeing every burm beside the road to see if we'd be noticed. My dad's desire for a shower kept us pushing (only roadside swamps and ponds were seen). Berthold had free camping, but no showers. My dad wandered the small town looking for outdoor public spigots, and ended up by the high school gym, where he was directed to one. Looking cold and homeless under a garden hose as dusk set in, a kid invited us over for showers at his house. During the nice chat with the family and their awesome springer spaniel, we caught the forecast: 10-20 mph from the SE (unusual for ND, the direction not the presence of wind).
Tuesday's ride to Towner was when we began laughing at the weather. 22 miles took up our first two hours, so we stopped for second breakfast much earlier than usual.
Somewhere during this day we started vocalizing the difficulty of the ride. We usually keep quiet about feeling weak and we agreed we'd rather take another day in the Cascades than another like this. At least with mountain passes you get the satisfaction of a downhill that you've earned. Cranking into wind has no reward: we cover less ground in longer days due to a pace slower than we'd run a 10k.
As the day wore on, our projected ending point for the night was perpetually moving west. We killed a full 90 minutes to catch a match, thinking the winds might die down (and met the owners of America's only albino buffalo, who met his demise by lightening, sadly). Towner's only grocery was closed, so we settled on hot pockets, dots, and chocolate milk from a gas station. They sounded so perfect that our choice would likely have been the same if the grocery was open.
Day 15: Williston to Bertold, ND. 109.2 miles, 8:08 in the saddle.
Day 16: Berthold to Towner, ND. 72.0 miles, 6:31 in the saddle.
Corresponding Quotations:
"I want wind to blow..."
"it was supposed to be so eaaaasy"
"Don't need a weatherman to tell which way the wind blows"
We planned on using ND as a chance to bring our average up as we'd read up on other riders' experiences of long, flat days with the occasional tailwind. What we received was different, and we've fallen back another half day on the 100 miles a day goal, despite pushing through the most difficult rides of our journey.
As I type this into my phone, it's a little unnerving that my left ring and pinky fingers have a constant curl and a disregard for functioning. It's due to the last five days of wrangling handlebars to steady the bike, and typing on a pda might exacerbate this. I keep pouring corn nuts and gummy bears into my hand and I just watch them fall through to the dirt. It's heartbreaking.
Six days back (Sunday) was the easiest of the trip: the day began with more downhill than up, and a steady, light tailwind through some Badlands-esque reservation land near the Missouri River. After shakes and burgers, we crossed into North Dakota and noted the changes in scenery; we now had more rolling hills (only on this edge of the state), nearly every farm had a small oil operation, and we could no longer find slot machines at gas stations. By four we were at a grocery store chugging caffeine, pleased to have 100 miles done so early in the day. Winds were hitting down from the north at this point, and our next 15 would get the brunt of it, so we were on the fence about our evening until an ex-Brit rolled up and convinced us to stay at the city park.
Dave and I have been talking about 'stealth camping' for some time (where you find a patch of trees and make it home for a night) but our excuses have ranged from 'probably bear country' and 'there's no trees' to 'it doesn't feel ethical to squat on a reservation.' But we'd find (for the next five nights) that most towns in ND approve and encourage camping by cyclists in their sole patch of community grass. Some even have showers.
We had a good evening with Sam, the brit-turned-frenchman, especially because we could swap road hints and stories since he was traveling from Quebec to Seattle, and our next move was fresh in his memory. There's a possibility we'll catch up when he gets to Seattle after looping the Olympic peninsula (oh hey roommates: I've offered our place up to some folks...)
Ill also add a bit about Marvin, a soft-spoken fellow from the neighborhood who rolled up on a full-sized tricycle outfitted with a car's headlight and battery. In one of those 'small world' ways he knew the Saint family from Ecuador just as my father and grandfather did. (The background story is a long one...) Anyway, Marvin rode back to the park early the next morning to check on us or see if we needed anything. It wasn't until we were on the road again when I found out from my dad that the tricycle was his approach to maximizing his mobility while his Parkinson's was progressing.
And then Monday was the beginning of the hardest week of my life, physically. "At least Sam is having a good day," was my dad's thought early on. We didn't check the weather reports, but the wind was in our faces during half of our pedal time and the sun blazing enough to burn my back off in 30 minutes.
The wind hit us hard enough over the last 30 miles that I was eyeing every burm beside the road to see if we'd be noticed. My dad's desire for a shower kept us pushing (only roadside swamps and ponds were seen). Berthold had free camping, but no showers. My dad wandered the small town looking for outdoor public spigots, and ended up by the high school gym, where he was directed to one. Looking cold and homeless under a garden hose as dusk set in, a kid invited us over for showers at his house. During the nice chat with the family and their awesome springer spaniel, we caught the forecast: 10-20 mph from the SE (unusual for ND, the direction not the presence of wind).
Tuesday's ride to Towner was when we began laughing at the weather. 22 miles took up our first two hours, so we stopped for second breakfast much earlier than usual.
Somewhere during this day we started vocalizing the difficulty of the ride. We usually keep quiet about feeling weak and we agreed we'd rather take another day in the Cascades than another like this. At least with mountain passes you get the satisfaction of a downhill that you've earned. Cranking into wind has no reward: we cover less ground in longer days due to a pace slower than we'd run a 10k.
As the day wore on, our projected ending point for the night was perpetually moving west. We killed a full 90 minutes to catch a match, thinking the winds might die down (and met the owners of America's only albino buffalo, who met his demise by lightening, sadly). Towner's only grocery was closed, so we settled on hot pockets, dots, and chocolate milk from a gas station. They sounded so perfect that our choice would likely have been the same if the grocery was open.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Small Update
Hello all,
A few people have asked where we are or if we're okay. We will hit Fargo, North Dakota tomorrow, after waking at four am here in Cooperstown.
The reason for the early start is that we have been punched repeatedly in the face by this fair state, and we are going to take it down as quick as possible before we let it ruin another afternoon. Tomorrow will be day five of the Fullers versus the wind, and I have plenty to say about the great little towns we've stayed at and the wonderful people we've been able to share a few words with, but this evening I must rest my mitts.
A preview: yesterday, Wednesday, my father declared "I have never done a more strenuous 8 hours of exercise than today. It trumps a marathon, it rivals doing a marathon and then running up a mountain (the Climb a Mountain solo race in Spokane), but it's less than going out for a 28 miler without training or proper hydration (he was 26 and naive)."
Gusts hit 40 mph from the Southeast. We traveled South, East or both, for the duration of the 8 hours of saddle time. (the top map is incorrect, we were in Rugby, the geographic center of America when we started down.)
Grandpa Fuller has requested more pictures, so I'll do my best this weekend!
Happy fourth.
A few people have asked where we are or if we're okay. We will hit Fargo, North Dakota tomorrow, after waking at four am here in Cooperstown.
The reason for the early start is that we have been punched repeatedly in the face by this fair state, and we are going to take it down as quick as possible before we let it ruin another afternoon. Tomorrow will be day five of the Fullers versus the wind, and I have plenty to say about the great little towns we've stayed at and the wonderful people we've been able to share a few words with, but this evening I must rest my mitts.
A preview: yesterday, Wednesday, my father declared "I have never done a more strenuous 8 hours of exercise than today. It trumps a marathon, it rivals doing a marathon and then running up a mountain (the Climb a Mountain solo race in Spokane), but it's less than going out for a 28 miler without training or proper hydration (he was 26 and naive)."
Gusts hit 40 mph from the Southeast. We traveled South, East or both, for the duration of the 8 hours of saddle time. (the top map is incorrect, we were in Rugby, the geographic center of America when we started down.)
Grandpa Fuller has requested more pictures, so I'll do my best this weekend!
Happy fourth.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)