Memoirous

I was in a pandemic. I was sad. I was all alone. I took off on my bike, to ride half-way across the country. A year ago, I was in Iowa fighting wind, a plague of moths, spokes breaking, a sore butt. I was lost. A lot. Thirsty, dehydrated. Caught in the rain. Climbing in my lowest chain gear. Meeting a Welshman in the middle of nowhere. Trying to figure out where I was—metaphysically, existentially, in a time/space continuum. I was eating breakfast sandwiches from Casey’s, Italian subs from Subway, ravioli from a can. I was looking for food after miles of nothing. I was talking a park manager into letting me camp as Covid had shut down everything. Basically I was living for miles and begging for a place to rest at night.   Fast forward.   I have a grandson, a new address, and 2 published essays from last year’s travels (the latest accept by The Account—stay tuned on when it will be available.)

Impossible First Colin O''Brady Scribner January 2020 I wrote earlier about the book The Impossible First by Colin O’Brady who wrote an account of his traverse across Antarctica in 2018. In the book he talks about a particularly hard day where he only made 3 miles. I had a similar situation on my Lewis & Clark bike tour last summer (—though to be perfectly clear it was no Antarctica). I had a day where I only made it 9 miles before the weather or threat of hypothermia shut me down. The day before had been beautiful following the Missouri River out of Great Falls into narrow canyons and the hush of high altitude birds gliding along. All day I was amazed by the ease of pedaling while knowing the Continental Divide was just around the corner. That evening I came into Wolf Creek, MT and looked for a campground or park, some place to pitch a tent. 1) the campground on Google maps wasn’t there and it all seemed kind of sketchy. There were old motels and gas stations boarded up li...

 Check out new work "Biking Through a Pandemic" at Quaranzine  (vever mind the subheading which states I cycled coast-to-coast. The UK doesn't realize 2,400 miles still is only half way across the United States. When Covid threw my life off-kilter and I lost my job(s) and all sense of routine I hit the road--" I knew my job: it was to pedal, to get somewhere. For 2,464 miles."

I read a NY Times article about languishing, the forlorn stepchild of depression. If depression is the valley then languishing is the Slough of Despond (see Pilgrim’s Progress) both are no fun. According to the article “languishing dulls your motivation, disrupts your ability to focus.” It is described as the absence of well-being. Last year around this time after 6 weeks of intense lockdown I was wading through that swamp. Aimless. Lost. Without hope. It was then I decided I would take off on my bike and ride to the Pacific coast in Oregon. People say: You’re so brave! So athletic! Little do they realize: I was so desperate. For something, out there, beyond my reach. I wanted to snatch back the year I couldn’t have and regain a sense of control, a bit of well-being. I needed to feel like me. More from the article: So what can we do about it? A concept called “flow” may be an antidote to languishing. Flow is that elusive state of absorption in a meaningful challenge or a momentary bond...

Sunday July 12, 2020, 54 miles (87 km) - Total so far: 2,464 miles (3,965 km) So many thoughts, so many emotions. I've never attempted anything this big and this far before, and it's a little too early to ask: Would you do it again? All I know is I finished and I cried. I left Clatskanie around 7:30, what would be a late start. I had to time the end to coordinate with a few schedules. I began in misty rain, typical for that elevation and biosphere, a Pacific Northwest forest. My rain pants and shoes collected road grit. I ate a small snack and continued on to Astoria--another biosphere now closer to the coast. I actually thought I'd made it to the ocean as I saw big vessels parked off the shore of the Columbia, but a 93-year -old walker told me we were only at the mouth of the river. The coast was further west. After passing under the impressive Astoria bridge I was on the famous highway 101 upon which I crossed over a long causeway to a point where Lewis and Clark had a ...

Saturday July 11, 2020, 60 miles (97 km) - Total so far: 2,410 miles (3,879 km) All the towns on my route today were either Indian names like Scappoosa, Clatskanie or names of mountains like Ranier, St. Helen's. Also majorly closed due to Covid. For example, finding a restroom. You can pass all the MacDonalds and Subways you want but they are only drive-thru. Gas stations for 10 miles had no public restroom. I left Portland around 9 a.m. under sunny skies and was passed by many day riders. Without my full load I was flying. About 16 mph. After St. Helen's the little towns got further apart. I ride almost 20 miles to Ranier, where I eat and drink up in anticipation of a big climb. It is almost 800 feet in 3 stages, so not too bad. Plus it is now overcast and temps are in the 70s. In fact with the leaden skies and cottonwood duff coming down, it looked and felt like snow. I made it to Clatskanie around 3:00, a little chilled, where--ta da--I've taken a hotel room. Not an em...

Friday July 10, 2020, 38 miles (61 km) - Total so far: 2,350 miles (3,782 km) So look . . .thank you to everyone following and commenting through the guestbook. Jonathan I did not see your input until now, after the fact. In fact last night the groundskeeper also said the same thing: historic route 30 AND Columbia River trail all closed. I kind of didn't want to believe it. So set out at 7, rode around the first barrier, a bit of caution tape already ripped. Then got to the stairs where I hauled everything up. Still on trail toAinsworth State Park, where the mother of all signs came out. Stop. We will shoot. Almost. The sign said you are trespassing, you will be evicted, you will have an ordinance written out. You are under surveillance. We have cameras. The law will find you. Again, I rode around the sign. But after a mile my heart was not happy. I turned around and got on Interstate 84, for 22 miles. I thought: I'm saving a stretch for the "next" time. I knew it w...

Thursday July 9, 2020, 70 miles (113 km) - Total so far: 2,312 miles (3,721 km) Today is why I tour. It was stunningly beautiful. But first, back to the guy I met on the road yesterday. I had just ascended a pretty rigorous up, maybe a 1,000 feet. It involved a switchback, hard to describe the terrain, but the roads are terraced out of the hillside and you just go back and forth on the brown, stubbled slope. So when we met at the top we had both come up, but his up could have been DOUBLE mine, as the descent into Maryhill was quite steep. The reason he was turning around and going back was because the day before had been windy. And, he'd met a lady at Subway who told him the winds get worse the more you enter the Columbia Gorge. It reminded me of that lady in Norway on my last day who tried to steal my victory. I went ahead and did the Lysevegen and had the best memory from it. So, yeah, I'd hated the wind the day before, and I'd also heard the wind is worse in the gorge,...

Wednesday July 8, 2020, 37 miles (60 km) - Total so far: 2,242 miles (3,608 km) What an incredible day of riding--maybe because a short day, maybe because no crazy wind like yesterday, maybe because--and this will sound counterintuitive, but the climbs were fantastic. First, I loved sleeping at my Covid campground last night. So peaceful. I literally had the whole place to myself. No concerns about food or water. The three nice fishermen guys handed me kind a quart of water as a parting gift. God bless them. In the middle of the night I woke up and saw a bright orange moon shining down on the river and the lights on the Oregon side blinking. Because of the water and fuel, I was charged up this a.m. I didn't have a lot of miles but I knew there would be climbing. The wind was more like 12-13, doable compared to yesterday. I did about 20 and felt like I needed to eat. I wanted to listen to that voice and not put things off. I was in one of those rock cut-outs, with rocks and rubble...