'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.
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