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.
Sunday, July 11, 2010
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.
Monday, June 28, 2010
Long and filtered update from North Dakota
6/23: Day 10: Essex to Shelby, MT 105 miles (& continental divide)
6/24: Day 11: Shelby to Havre, MT 101 miles
6/25: Day 12: Havre to Nowhere, MT 112 miles
6/26: Day 13: Nowhere to Wolf Point, MT 110 miles
Corresponding Quotations:
"up and over we go"
"cause i'm a high plains drifter"
"and the heat goes on"
"i was born to drive steel"
My eyelids are far too heavy to be typing right now, but I've used this excuse for a couple nights already. I'm in day four of saddle versus host, but I've found that my chamois is to blame, so we'll be stopping soon for a new set of shorts. Being able to alternate is obviously important, and I intend on doing some sort of product review and 'list of essentials that weren't in our touring books' when this trip ends. Many of you will tune out more than usual.
We've put in a fair amount of miles on Highway 2, which you can imagine a majority of by doing these mental gymnastics: first notice how large the space is between horizon lines, somehow always 200 degrees. Yellow green or brown fields, repeating. A grain elevator. Silos. RVs passing. Look into distance for the next green mile marker. Look further along as two lanes converge on the next grain elevator. Move forward while nothing changes. Feel the sun burning, sometimes the wind.
I could stop there and completely belittle this state, because it does leave an impression at the end of the day that goes beyond the overwhelming yet monotonous landscape. And many of the locals I've met so far are perfect method actors for dark comedies, yet they're in a realm that wouldn't recognize this.
The first person I noticed to be riding a lawnmower oddly was barely clothed, barreling down the side of the highway to the local bar, with a fragmented smile and waving at us wildly like tom hanks from a shrimp boat.
Our barkeep in Harlem entertained us while we waited for a match to start by procuring a pick from nowhere and breaking into a 'jj cale song with a bo diddley backbone.' Although unfamiliar at first, I found myself singing along, "I just dropped in... to see what condition my condition was in..." About halfway through, an elderly man with a tarnished buckle and a ten gallon waltzes in doing a little a heel-toe jig. I thought my afternoon plans had just been reset, but this guy's entrance meant the guitar was put down so the old man could get a throat coolant. Oh well.
The second lawnmower abuser was last night, when we slept at the most depressing RV resort/campground we had both ever seen (and having now camped in the majority of the states, I count my dad as an authority on the subject). I never learned his name or why he was so fascinated with the machine, as he only stepped off briefly to get more gas, probably an hour into the three before I fell asleep to its hum. Even after the sun went down, he just buzzed around the 'campground' in areas that appeared to be sheared close already. Odd characters make the day more enjoyable. And this is just a sampling of folks that my dad and I rode away from, trying to pinpoint the details that made them memorable.
As for the grounds of the RV resort, I'm not ready to discuss the gag-inducing bathrooms, our theories on meth use, the eighteen horseshoe pits, the dilapidated water slides and drained pools, or the fact that we were the only paying customers on a Friday night and the proprietor still wondered aloud to herself if I was one of those tent guys when I walked by. The whole place reeked of a harmony korine film in ways Ill just keep in my journal.
And the mosquitoes. There was an argument at breakfast the next morning between a local and a North Dakota gentleman over where they were more rampant. I'll soon report back, but my summers at Camp Reed, which has a fair amount of stagnant breeding grounds for the beasts, never came close. We're talking a cloud surrounds you as you climb from your tent. And when you're inside it, the pitter-patter sound of rain is constant as they stubbornly smack into your rainfly. All today we had people in convenience stores or street corners laughing at us for camping where we did. I heard, 'that's the mosquito capitol of the country' by three people in towns spread across 100 miles. Some sort of warning would be nice. (If someone is reading this and potentially heading there: it's 10 miles East of Saco, near the reservoir.)
Going back to Wednesday, we traversed the continental divide after an early rise, snapped a few heroic pictures, bowled down to East Glacier for some coffee on the balcony of their grand lodge, and ate some pastries from the local Lithuanian bakery (I should have asked the wherefore).
The section of highway leading from Essex to East Glacier was the hardest hit by garbage we've seen. As there are now open container laws here, the common practice is to stock up on cheap beer, fill an unmarked container, and lose the shiny evidence. Bless their hearts for choosing cans. While they may be an eyesore to the national park, I prefer hitting aluminum to glass and the latter variety, or the remnants of them, were tough to find along the shoulder. I'd like to think these drivers who are getting a head start on their evenings are being conscientious about us shoulder machinists, but it's likely an issue of whatever's cheaper or the difference in trajectories at 70mph.
Back to riding, we descended on the fields of a reservation, and watched as a panoramic range from Utah to Canada dropped out of view in the west. The high plains were a slow decline with a touch of wind, no tree shade to rest under, and easy going.
The rest has been a blur, and my journal is too erratic to try and piece together, but I'll list some firsts. A bee sting (and I found I don't need to carry an epipen anymore), a spider bite that's still growing, our first 1000 miles down, and our first flat tire. I just met someone doing the same route, and she was on flat number nine, so we feel fairly lucky.
The flat fixing process was over surprisingly quick, as our hands moved with such motor memory and precision it felt like I was in my ventilated hood days, feeding my mouse cells without infecting them with my own skin critters. Since some roadsides have been littered with beer bottles, 1 cc "insulin" syringes, spent shells and other sinful ephemera, I was surprised to find a staple to be the culprit. It probably used to bind a lonely trucker's magazine.
We also got in our first dog chase. I mentioned early on that we would have plastic pellet guns to divert (and not maim) an attacking dog, but the cost of an automatic model and the logistics of re-cocking a regular one while riding meant we ended up ditching it in Sandpoint. We had read accounts of dogs attacking cyclists along this route in years past, so we wanted to be prepared. We've settled on having our 'click stands' as a weapon. An excellent, cheap product of aluminum that can bear the weight of a fully loaded rig, folds like a tentpole into a six inch bundle, and will snake itself out and lock into position by holding it it vertically, one-handed. This last part makes it a perfect choice for whipping a dog while continuing to ride.
As as we rolled down a reservation road, caged dogs were alarmed in succession as we passed a collective of houses. Thinking we were clear, we were shooting fake bullets from our fingers and laughing about our plastic handgun schemes. We were twelve again. Looking in our sideview, a dog of stealth was gaining on us. His gray coat, pointed snout and lack of barking tipped us off that this was more wolf than dog. At 18 mph, he was still closing in, so we took it up to 22, which kept him at bay 10 feet back so I could prepare my clickstand for action. He didn't surge again, and gave up after about two miles, but I wonder what would have been if our path was hilly. I also dreamt I rode this trip with a samurai sword strapped to my back, which would have worked too.
And I want to mention a few riders we've met. Yesterday we passed a family of five from Oregon, riding to DC. Mom steered the tandem with one of her nine year old triplets behind her (and a trailer) while dad maneuvered a three-seater with the other children plus trailer. I exchanged business cards with one of the triplets who was active as copilot and corrected me as I spoke of an upcoming mileage estimate. The way the kids hand signaled into a rest area was painfully cute. This was the mother's lifelong dream and the dad might not have a job when he returns, but he's given up fretting about such things.
A couple my age from Minnesota (and steering the same steel Surleys as Dave and I) were cruising West. We could tell that these guys just inflicted smiles as they rode, and we yelled back and forth as semis drifted between us until they joined our side and we did the inevitable 'gear assessment' that happens among loaded riders. They were documenting all the riders they met with a video camera, asking what propels them. I look forward to watching the finished piece when it eventually goes on his website (my dad has the address in his tent, but he's asleep right now). Also, I have to tip my cycling cap to those who ride West, as the prevailing winds move East across this part of the country. I was regrettably honest with them when they asked how our ride was going: I said, 'mostly downhill and with a tailwind' before thinking of their direction. Crushing news for an already sun-bleached afternoon (but karma came in the form of a staple a few minutes later).
And lastly John. Another Surly advocate in his Mid-sixties who would have crossed our path on the continental divide if he hadn't ignored the closure of the Going to the Sun Road. Just one day after a rider was rescued from the top last week because he snuck up, camped, and was buried in snow, John went for it. He was eventually tracked down by a ranger the age of his hypothetical grandchild and John set him strait: he would be continuing to the top and then he would go to Maine. The ranger conceded and told him to not do it again. A 6667 foot pass isn't something one typically repeats in this sport, they move on to the next hurdle. I like his gumption. The road ended up opening on Thursday, the day after we were slated to give it a go.
Finally, I began reading 'Around the World on a Bicycle' by Thomas Stevens, published in the 1880s. Most websites on touring mention him because he's the first on record to cross the US, and he did so on a 50 inch penny farthing (the big wheel, little wheel combo). His excitement once hitting the eastern seaboard took him across to Europe and Asia, and finishing in Japan. Since the two volume set fetches high prices, I recommend downloading it free from Archive.org in the high-res pdf form that includes some excellent etchings (it has fallen out of copyright, so archive.org is legal). Many websites offer the text version for $10, so watch out. It can easily be loaded on your iproducts (this means you, Claire).
6/24: Day 11: Shelby to Havre, MT 101 miles
6/25: Day 12: Havre to Nowhere, MT 112 miles
6/26: Day 13: Nowhere to Wolf Point, MT 110 miles
Corresponding Quotations:
"up and over we go"
"cause i'm a high plains drifter"
"and the heat goes on"
"i was born to drive steel"
My eyelids are far too heavy to be typing right now, but I've used this excuse for a couple nights already. I'm in day four of saddle versus host, but I've found that my chamois is to blame, so we'll be stopping soon for a new set of shorts. Being able to alternate is obviously important, and I intend on doing some sort of product review and 'list of essentials that weren't in our touring books' when this trip ends. Many of you will tune out more than usual.
We've put in a fair amount of miles on Highway 2, which you can imagine a majority of by doing these mental gymnastics: first notice how large the space is between horizon lines, somehow always 200 degrees. Yellow green or brown fields, repeating. A grain elevator. Silos. RVs passing. Look into distance for the next green mile marker. Look further along as two lanes converge on the next grain elevator. Move forward while nothing changes. Feel the sun burning, sometimes the wind.
I could stop there and completely belittle this state, because it does leave an impression at the end of the day that goes beyond the overwhelming yet monotonous landscape. And many of the locals I've met so far are perfect method actors for dark comedies, yet they're in a realm that wouldn't recognize this.
The first person I noticed to be riding a lawnmower oddly was barely clothed, barreling down the side of the highway to the local bar, with a fragmented smile and waving at us wildly like tom hanks from a shrimp boat.
Our barkeep in Harlem entertained us while we waited for a match to start by procuring a pick from nowhere and breaking into a 'jj cale song with a bo diddley backbone.' Although unfamiliar at first, I found myself singing along, "I just dropped in... to see what condition my condition was in..." About halfway through, an elderly man with a tarnished buckle and a ten gallon waltzes in doing a little a heel-toe jig. I thought my afternoon plans had just been reset, but this guy's entrance meant the guitar was put down so the old man could get a throat coolant. Oh well.
The second lawnmower abuser was last night, when we slept at the most depressing RV resort/campground we had both ever seen (and having now camped in the majority of the states, I count my dad as an authority on the subject). I never learned his name or why he was so fascinated with the machine, as he only stepped off briefly to get more gas, probably an hour into the three before I fell asleep to its hum. Even after the sun went down, he just buzzed around the 'campground' in areas that appeared to be sheared close already. Odd characters make the day more enjoyable. And this is just a sampling of folks that my dad and I rode away from, trying to pinpoint the details that made them memorable.
As for the grounds of the RV resort, I'm not ready to discuss the gag-inducing bathrooms, our theories on meth use, the eighteen horseshoe pits, the dilapidated water slides and drained pools, or the fact that we were the only paying customers on a Friday night and the proprietor still wondered aloud to herself if I was one of those tent guys when I walked by. The whole place reeked of a harmony korine film in ways Ill just keep in my journal.
And the mosquitoes. There was an argument at breakfast the next morning between a local and a North Dakota gentleman over where they were more rampant. I'll soon report back, but my summers at Camp Reed, which has a fair amount of stagnant breeding grounds for the beasts, never came close. We're talking a cloud surrounds you as you climb from your tent. And when you're inside it, the pitter-patter sound of rain is constant as they stubbornly smack into your rainfly. All today we had people in convenience stores or street corners laughing at us for camping where we did. I heard, 'that's the mosquito capitol of the country' by three people in towns spread across 100 miles. Some sort of warning would be nice. (If someone is reading this and potentially heading there: it's 10 miles East of Saco, near the reservoir.)
Going back to Wednesday, we traversed the continental divide after an early rise, snapped a few heroic pictures, bowled down to East Glacier for some coffee on the balcony of their grand lodge, and ate some pastries from the local Lithuanian bakery (I should have asked the wherefore).
The section of highway leading from Essex to East Glacier was the hardest hit by garbage we've seen. As there are now open container laws here, the common practice is to stock up on cheap beer, fill an unmarked container, and lose the shiny evidence. Bless their hearts for choosing cans. While they may be an eyesore to the national park, I prefer hitting aluminum to glass and the latter variety, or the remnants of them, were tough to find along the shoulder. I'd like to think these drivers who are getting a head start on their evenings are being conscientious about us shoulder machinists, but it's likely an issue of whatever's cheaper or the difference in trajectories at 70mph.
Back to riding, we descended on the fields of a reservation, and watched as a panoramic range from Utah to Canada dropped out of view in the west. The high plains were a slow decline with a touch of wind, no tree shade to rest under, and easy going.
The rest has been a blur, and my journal is too erratic to try and piece together, but I'll list some firsts. A bee sting (and I found I don't need to carry an epipen anymore), a spider bite that's still growing, our first 1000 miles down, and our first flat tire. I just met someone doing the same route, and she was on flat number nine, so we feel fairly lucky.
The flat fixing process was over surprisingly quick, as our hands moved with such motor memory and precision it felt like I was in my ventilated hood days, feeding my mouse cells without infecting them with my own skin critters. Since some roadsides have been littered with beer bottles, 1 cc "insulin" syringes, spent shells and other sinful ephemera, I was surprised to find a staple to be the culprit. It probably used to bind a lonely trucker's magazine.
We also got in our first dog chase. I mentioned early on that we would have plastic pellet guns to divert (and not maim) an attacking dog, but the cost of an automatic model and the logistics of re-cocking a regular one while riding meant we ended up ditching it in Sandpoint. We had read accounts of dogs attacking cyclists along this route in years past, so we wanted to be prepared. We've settled on having our 'click stands' as a weapon. An excellent, cheap product of aluminum that can bear the weight of a fully loaded rig, folds like a tentpole into a six inch bundle, and will snake itself out and lock into position by holding it it vertically, one-handed. This last part makes it a perfect choice for whipping a dog while continuing to ride.
As as we rolled down a reservation road, caged dogs were alarmed in succession as we passed a collective of houses. Thinking we were clear, we were shooting fake bullets from our fingers and laughing about our plastic handgun schemes. We were twelve again. Looking in our sideview, a dog of stealth was gaining on us. His gray coat, pointed snout and lack of barking tipped us off that this was more wolf than dog. At 18 mph, he was still closing in, so we took it up to 22, which kept him at bay 10 feet back so I could prepare my clickstand for action. He didn't surge again, and gave up after about two miles, but I wonder what would have been if our path was hilly. I also dreamt I rode this trip with a samurai sword strapped to my back, which would have worked too.
And I want to mention a few riders we've met. Yesterday we passed a family of five from Oregon, riding to DC. Mom steered the tandem with one of her nine year old triplets behind her (and a trailer) while dad maneuvered a three-seater with the other children plus trailer. I exchanged business cards with one of the triplets who was active as copilot and corrected me as I spoke of an upcoming mileage estimate. The way the kids hand signaled into a rest area was painfully cute. This was the mother's lifelong dream and the dad might not have a job when he returns, but he's given up fretting about such things.
A couple my age from Minnesota (and steering the same steel Surleys as Dave and I) were cruising West. We could tell that these guys just inflicted smiles as they rode, and we yelled back and forth as semis drifted between us until they joined our side and we did the inevitable 'gear assessment' that happens among loaded riders. They were documenting all the riders they met with a video camera, asking what propels them. I look forward to watching the finished piece when it eventually goes on his website (my dad has the address in his tent, but he's asleep right now). Also, I have to tip my cycling cap to those who ride West, as the prevailing winds move East across this part of the country. I was regrettably honest with them when they asked how our ride was going: I said, 'mostly downhill and with a tailwind' before thinking of their direction. Crushing news for an already sun-bleached afternoon (but karma came in the form of a staple a few minutes later).
And lastly John. Another Surly advocate in his Mid-sixties who would have crossed our path on the continental divide if he hadn't ignored the closure of the Going to the Sun Road. Just one day after a rider was rescued from the top last week because he snuck up, camped, and was buried in snow, John went for it. He was eventually tracked down by a ranger the age of his hypothetical grandchild and John set him strait: he would be continuing to the top and then he would go to Maine. The ranger conceded and told him to not do it again. A 6667 foot pass isn't something one typically repeats in this sport, they move on to the next hurdle. I like his gumption. The road ended up opening on Thursday, the day after we were slated to give it a go.
Finally, I began reading 'Around the World on a Bicycle' by Thomas Stevens, published in the 1880s. Most websites on touring mention him because he's the first on record to cross the US, and he did so on a 50 inch penny farthing (the big wheel, little wheel combo). His excitement once hitting the eastern seaboard took him across to Europe and Asia, and finishing in Japan. Since the two volume set fetches high prices, I recommend downloading it free from Archive.org in the high-res pdf form that includes some excellent etchings (it has fallen out of copyright, so archive.org is legal). Many websites offer the text version for $10, so watch out. It can easily be loaded on your iproducts (this means you, Claire).
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Catching Up: June 21st & 22nd
Day Eight: Libby to Marion, MT, or, "people tell me slow my roll." 70 miles.
The only day of this trip that I want to redo. It was supposed to be a shortcut from our map, but didn't end up getting us where we wanted. Our alarms forgot we were in Mountain Time, our tents had puddles indifferent to the trenches dug around them, my driest top layer was getting soaked as I packed it up and the freaking bunnies just pranced around to mock us in their simple contentment. We grabbed enough BenGay at the Rosauer's grocery that I now have more 'pain relief' lotion than all of my hygiene products combined. I finally ditched my deodorant because bicycles don't have the aura of a motorcycle that magnetize women; I don't foresee impressing anyone. And anyway, one man tents have never been successfully incorporated into pickup lines.
20 miles of shoulderless road and a stormy headwind later, my speedometer dial fell and broke (which prevented me from knowing how terribly we rode, pace-wise). We struggled the next 30 miles to keep a decent gait, and wondered if it was a deceivingly long hill. When we hit a campground at mile 70, my knees wouldn't unlock (front of knee this time) and I moaped about because we weren't making the time we wanted. Dave was okay with the decision to cut the day early, as he worried how the next day would go with me having just spent the last five miles grunting.
Why the pain? Likely because I was favoring my big chainring over the last couple rides, never bothering to gear down for a stopped start or a bigger climb. Rookie mistake, I'm sure. I never said I was a cyclist, I just got strong-armed into this trip, I know so little about this sport it's pathetic.
We bear-bagged our food, ate pesto'd rice and spam with a round of checkers, and turned in early.
I should add a highlight: while riding in that shoulderless patch of road, some movement in a pasture to the left caught my eye: two whitetail deer had caught up to me and matched my speed. I kept turning towards them and back to steer my course; they were doing the same, trotting along and keeping us neck and neck. It only lasted 400 meters before they peeled off to go back and entertain the next sappy sucker, but I'm pretty sure one of them smiled at me.
Day Nine: Marion to Essex, MT, or, "It is happening. Again..."
94 miles.
I was cooing the above words to my knees early on in the morning, as they tend to take a couple hours to realize that I need them to cooperate. Since my right knee, below the cap, was worse and likely quad-related, I kept this foot unclipped while my clipped-in left overcompensated with its upswing. I love that I get to experiment on my body over the course of a few days and act like I know what's going on.
We were correct about the previous day's apparently endless uphill (I only had two elevation points on the map to work with), since we got a solid 15 of cruising before meeting up with a 'rails to trails' section (a movement in Montana that my dad donates to). Because he also went swimming with his cellphone a few days prior, we wasted some pedal time at Verizon in Kallispel. To get even, I convinced him to catch half of the greece/argentina game in Whitefish, a town that I could probably describe by copy and pasting my thoughts on Sandpoint. I could see myself living there, for sure.
As my knee was showing improvement with less stinging and tweaking, my dad stopped for an A&W float as I stretched outside. A man small-talked about my trip and in a matter of 90 seconds we had a mental treasure map to get to his property on the Flathead River and the hide-a-key should we need a shower in the cabin he was finishing. His hands were full of meals for his family so he was slowly backing towards his truck. It was a tad awkward, because we were too tired and slow to show our gratitude, but we did manage to slip him our card with info about our trip and FHSSA. His name is Henry, and we're pleased that he'd try to support us, even before he knew why we're doing this. Do we look THAT dismal and dirty? Perhaps.
So we booked it through West Glacier, which I don't recommend. One could spend weeks along the trails of this national park, but our entire goal of going to this region was to ride up Logan Pass (the going to the sun road) which is still snowed in from winter. I've been lucky to visit in winter and summer, and my dad used to coach a running camp here, so please don't blitz this park if you get the chance.
Essex lies at the chain-up area for Marias Pass.
The unfinished cabin was a mile down from the highway, the water that cloudy glacial aquamarine. Our tents were set on the porch, and the shower was glorious. I wore everything I had to bed (except my extra skivvies). We didn't freeze.
The only day of this trip that I want to redo. It was supposed to be a shortcut from our map, but didn't end up getting us where we wanted. Our alarms forgot we were in Mountain Time, our tents had puddles indifferent to the trenches dug around them, my driest top layer was getting soaked as I packed it up and the freaking bunnies just pranced around to mock us in their simple contentment. We grabbed enough BenGay at the Rosauer's grocery that I now have more 'pain relief' lotion than all of my hygiene products combined. I finally ditched my deodorant because bicycles don't have the aura of a motorcycle that magnetize women; I don't foresee impressing anyone. And anyway, one man tents have never been successfully incorporated into pickup lines.
20 miles of shoulderless road and a stormy headwind later, my speedometer dial fell and broke (which prevented me from knowing how terribly we rode, pace-wise). We struggled the next 30 miles to keep a decent gait, and wondered if it was a deceivingly long hill. When we hit a campground at mile 70, my knees wouldn't unlock (front of knee this time) and I moaped about because we weren't making the time we wanted. Dave was okay with the decision to cut the day early, as he worried how the next day would go with me having just spent the last five miles grunting.
Why the pain? Likely because I was favoring my big chainring over the last couple rides, never bothering to gear down for a stopped start or a bigger climb. Rookie mistake, I'm sure. I never said I was a cyclist, I just got strong-armed into this trip, I know so little about this sport it's pathetic.
We bear-bagged our food, ate pesto'd rice and spam with a round of checkers, and turned in early.
I should add a highlight: while riding in that shoulderless patch of road, some movement in a pasture to the left caught my eye: two whitetail deer had caught up to me and matched my speed. I kept turning towards them and back to steer my course; they were doing the same, trotting along and keeping us neck and neck. It only lasted 400 meters before they peeled off to go back and entertain the next sappy sucker, but I'm pretty sure one of them smiled at me.
Day Nine: Marion to Essex, MT, or, "It is happening. Again..."
94 miles.
I was cooing the above words to my knees early on in the morning, as they tend to take a couple hours to realize that I need them to cooperate. Since my right knee, below the cap, was worse and likely quad-related, I kept this foot unclipped while my clipped-in left overcompensated with its upswing. I love that I get to experiment on my body over the course of a few days and act like I know what's going on.
We were correct about the previous day's apparently endless uphill (I only had two elevation points on the map to work with), since we got a solid 15 of cruising before meeting up with a 'rails to trails' section (a movement in Montana that my dad donates to). Because he also went swimming with his cellphone a few days prior, we wasted some pedal time at Verizon in Kallispel. To get even, I convinced him to catch half of the greece/argentina game in Whitefish, a town that I could probably describe by copy and pasting my thoughts on Sandpoint. I could see myself living there, for sure.
As my knee was showing improvement with less stinging and tweaking, my dad stopped for an A&W float as I stretched outside. A man small-talked about my trip and in a matter of 90 seconds we had a mental treasure map to get to his property on the Flathead River and the hide-a-key should we need a shower in the cabin he was finishing. His hands were full of meals for his family so he was slowly backing towards his truck. It was a tad awkward, because we were too tired and slow to show our gratitude, but we did manage to slip him our card with info about our trip and FHSSA. His name is Henry, and we're pleased that he'd try to support us, even before he knew why we're doing this. Do we look THAT dismal and dirty? Perhaps.
So we booked it through West Glacier, which I don't recommend. One could spend weeks along the trails of this national park, but our entire goal of going to this region was to ride up Logan Pass (the going to the sun road) which is still snowed in from winter. I've been lucky to visit in winter and summer, and my dad used to coach a running camp here, so please don't blitz this park if you get the chance.
Essex lies at the chain-up area for Marias Pass.
The unfinished cabin was a mile down from the highway, the water that cloudy glacial aquamarine. Our tents were set on the porch, and the shower was glorious. I wore everything I had to bed (except my extra skivvies). We didn't freeze.
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