Points of contact are the most vulnerable. In biking, its the tires to the road. And the road is rough: gravel and glass and wire and nails. I spy as a ride, looking for chips of renegade road and glimmering shards of glass. But no one's eyes are that sharp. Flats happen, and learning how to repair the bike is part of my "learn-as-I-go" education of the road. I've fixed a tire maybe twice in my life, and in the past three weeks, I've had three flats. I've needed assistance on each one.
First Flat: A puncture, the size of my small-toe nail bed. The blow was audible from a distance and a quartet of riders behind me from Ohio heard it, pulled over, and coached me through the flat. I write that I was coached, but, truth be told, they did most of the work. "We leave no one behind in our cycling club," offers one from the Cincinnati Cycling Club. Within minutes, the tube is changed and inflated, and the tire reinforced at its tear. 5 minutes off the road. New Yorkers would have left me in disrepair on the side of the road. People are just more helpful in Ohio, swing state be damned.
Second Flat: Just 10 miles later. Same day. Same place on the tire. Ohio is no where in site. I call the bike-ambulance van, and they bring me home. I buy new tires.
Third Flat: This time I thought I might be able to figure it out myself. I heard the hiss, that exhaust of air escaping, and pulled over. I set myself up on one of those Idaho fences that keep the animals penned or the people away and prepared for intestinal surgery on the bike. I lay out my jack-knife and inner tube. I deflate the tire, coax the tire off the rim, and score my fingers along the inside of the tube scavenging for detritus of the road. One, a second, and one more cyclist rides by, but I wave them along with an "It's all good" and "I've got it."
But, of course, I didn't "have it," nor was it "all good" at all. One helpful couple -- both practicing Buddhists -- knew better than to heed my dismissal. They turned about and returned my tire to its rim and the air to the tube. What goes around comes around -- for both my tire and karma.
No doubt some good will come around their way.
Tuesday, July 3, 2012
Tuesday, June 26, 2012
Gunshots and Headwinds
Day 11 of 64: 91 miles.
As I ride into Lincoln, Montana, I am suddenly aware that the tiny houses and cabins and buildings I constructed with my set of Lincoln Logs years ago actually have some reference to architecture in the Northwest.
Here they are -- larger versions of the green slat-roofed and redwood cities I constructed on my living room carpet. With the majority of the riders, I camp on the grass outside of Lincoln's High School, and the word quickly spreads that thunderstorms may cross our grounds. That night we are awakened twice to the sound of gunshots; I am baffled. Premature fireworks? A tire blown on the highway?
The next morning someone on staff mentions that in Montana residents venture out in the middle of the night and shoot their guns aloft to ward off bears. In the process, they may scare a camper or two, which, evidently, they not only don't mind, but somewhat enjoy.
The next morning, the 70 cyclists are forewarned that we may be cycling 90 miles into 20-35 mph winds and intermittent 40mph gusts. Headwinds, where you fight against nature to move forward. They predicted headwinds, but, at least for a key part of my ride, they were wrong. The headwinds we expected are tailwinds; and coming in out of Helena, I am moving without pedaling. Looking over the shoulder of the road, I see the knee- high grass gesturing in cresting, falling waves toward my destination. This moment is one I am grateful for: in part, because in the last 10 days of riding, my skin has been sodden, numbed, burned, blistered, peeled off, and burned again. I have pedaled uphill into gust after gust amid rain and snow and headfirst into caustic winds. After all such matter, the air carries me for miles. I no longer pedal. Chasing, catching, and carrying me is a wind of 40 miles per hour, pushing me along, easing the burden of forward motion.
Here they are -- larger versions of the green slat-roofed and redwood cities I constructed on my living room carpet. With the majority of the riders, I camp on the grass outside of Lincoln's High School, and the word quickly spreads that thunderstorms may cross our grounds. That night we are awakened twice to the sound of gunshots; I am baffled. Premature fireworks? A tire blown on the highway?
The next morning someone on staff mentions that in Montana residents venture out in the middle of the night and shoot their guns aloft to ward off bears. In the process, they may scare a camper or two, which, evidently, they not only don't mind, but somewhat enjoy.
The next morning, the 70 cyclists are forewarned that we may be cycling 90 miles into 20-35 mph winds and intermittent 40mph gusts. Headwinds, where you fight against nature to move forward. They predicted headwinds, but, at least for a key part of my ride, they were wrong. The headwinds we expected are tailwinds; and coming in out of Helena, I am moving without pedaling. Looking over the shoulder of the road, I see the knee- high grass gesturing in cresting, falling waves toward my destination. This moment is one I am grateful for: in part, because in the last 10 days of riding, my skin has been sodden, numbed, burned, blistered, peeled off, and burned again. I have pedaled uphill into gust after gust amid rain and snow and headfirst into caustic winds. After all such matter, the air carries me for miles. I no longer pedal. Chasing, catching, and carrying me is a wind of 40 miles per hour, pushing me along, easing the burden of forward motion.
Sunday, June 24, 2012
Of Rain, Snow and Sun; Of Bavarian Cities and Apple Capitals
June 18th, Day 3 -- from Skykomish to Wanatchee, WA
We begin in the rain with an upward ascent. This means you bear down in low gear going very little distance again and again over a long period of time. And you are wet. Many are in raingear of many colors: acid-orange, shrill-yellow, neon-green. One couple ties plastic bags over their footgear. The wet gets everywhere, soaking your socks, thickening your gloves. My glasses need wipers. I reach the summit and see the snow of the ski-lodges of Stevens Pass. When I descend from that peak, I speed -- free miles in which I barely pedal. But the acceleration makes the wet wetter and the cold colder. When I dry, I come upon a Bavarian village -- the town of Leavenworth -- whose government leaders chose to create an Alpine tourist attraction in Washington state. I ride past the umpapa of sound and hotels like gingerbread houses. Soon I pass the signage of Wenatchee, which makes claim to be the apple capital of Washington. I wonder if Wanatchee apples will be crisper, wetter,and colder than the apples back east.
We begin in the rain with an upward ascent. This means you bear down in low gear going very little distance again and again over a long period of time. And you are wet. Many are in raingear of many colors: acid-orange, shrill-yellow, neon-green. One couple ties plastic bags over their footgear. The wet gets everywhere, soaking your socks, thickening your gloves. My glasses need wipers. I reach the summit and see the snow of the ski-lodges of Stevens Pass. When I descend from that peak, I speed -- free miles in which I barely pedal. But the acceleration makes the wet wetter and the cold colder. When I dry, I come upon a Bavarian village -- the town of Leavenworth -- whose government leaders chose to create an Alpine tourist attraction in Washington state. I ride past the umpapa of sound and hotels like gingerbread houses. Soon I pass the signage of Wenatchee, which makes claim to be the apple capital of Washington. I wonder if Wanatchee apples will be crisper, wetter,and colder than the apples back east.
Of Boys and Men
June 17th, Day 2 -- from the Pacific to Skykomish, WA:
The first day of riding is manageable, but all is new. We gear up and get out on the road in fits and spurts. From age 17 to 75, hailing from Australia, the UK, Quebec, the Netherlands, and across 4 corners of the US, we begin together, though the group quickly spreads out according to cadence. By the end of the day, many know who the "riders" are, those who power up hills, those who manage their bike with grace, those who can fix a flat and, well, those who cannot. I ride somewhere in the middle, unaware of how ill-prepared I am for the coming days.
We arrive in Skykomish, with a total population of 198 -- just under the student population of the school where I teach. On Day 2, we sleep in the local school and from what I can glean from the framed photographs on the wall, I deduce that one teacher teaches across 5 grade levels and each graduating class is 12. We dine cafeteria-style at the end of the ride. No one knows each other yet -- but we will in the coming days. I excuse myself to the restroom and realize that the facilities are scaled to boys not men. I remember the porcelain of lower school restrooms and how small I once must have been. I return for dinner, tray in hand, looking for an open seat amid a table of strangers.
We arrive in Skykomish, with a total population of 198 -- just under the student population of the school where I teach. On Day 2, we sleep in the local school and from what I can glean from the framed photographs on the wall, I deduce that one teacher teaches across 5 grade levels and each graduating class is 12. We dine cafeteria-style at the end of the ride. No one knows each other yet -- but we will in the coming days. I excuse myself to the restroom and realize that the facilities are scaled to boys not men. I remember the porcelain of lower school restrooms and how small I once must have been. I return for dinner, tray in hand, looking for an open seat amid a table of strangers.
Friday, June 22, 2012
On the Connection between Bikes, Buddys, and Bullying.
Someone yesterday asked me what the connection was between biking and bullying. And I thought, nothing, nothing at all...and then I thought, everything, or well, realistically speaking, something.
I thought back to when we first get our bikes -- lower school? 5th 6th 7th grade? We knew what a bike meant then -- it meant the flight after school, the getaway after dinner. But to where? I never really biked AWAY. I always biked TO. To a friend's house. So off I went by bike to see a buddy. The bike helped me forge that important connection outside of my immediate family, outside of school hallways. Aren't buddys made after school? And don't our bikes carry us there?
So as I am biking across the country, sleeping in one Middle School after another, I wonder, to what extent do friends, real connections at this age, help kids cope with harassment, torment, and bullying?
Monday, June 18, 2012
From NYC to Seattle: A Starting Point
Part 1: From the brownstone floors of the Upper West Side, Manhattan.
I cleaned my apartment until 2am. I cleared paper like brush, scrubbed the basin of mildew and water spots, swept under a bed where I had not swept for a very long time -- and still there was dust, and still there were chores undone. I leave and lock, knowing some parts of my life are always undone while I live it.
Part 2: From the gymnasium floor of the Boys and Girls Club In Everett.
40 of the crew sleep in the gym like middle school summer campers. There are ladies conversing in French in corner, a man with apnea taking in oxygen, another with the largest air mattress I have ever seen, and still another who sleeps in his cycling shorts. I imagine he'll wake with his shoes on and just clip on a go. It's 9:45pm and its lights out. Tomorrow we will ride 64 miles, the greatest part of which will be east. But first we will ride west for 8 miles -- to the coast -- to dip the back wheel of our bikes into the pacific. Peaceable: It's in the name of those waters and reminds me so often of how anyone must make my way in the world. This summer I ride against bullying -- and the west coast waters remind me to go forward gentle and steady -- they remind me how often I do not, like so many angry, outraged, vengeful. Tomorrow I anoint my back tire in Pacific Waters.
I cleaned my apartment until 2am. I cleared paper like brush, scrubbed the basin of mildew and water spots, swept under a bed where I had not swept for a very long time -- and still there was dust, and still there were chores undone. I leave and lock, knowing some parts of my life are always undone while I live it.
Part 2: From the gymnasium floor of the Boys and Girls Club In Everett.
40 of the crew sleep in the gym like middle school summer campers. There are ladies conversing in French in corner, a man with apnea taking in oxygen, another with the largest air mattress I have ever seen, and still another who sleeps in his cycling shorts. I imagine he'll wake with his shoes on and just clip on a go. It's 9:45pm and its lights out. Tomorrow we will ride 64 miles, the greatest part of which will be east. But first we will ride west for 8 miles -- to the coast -- to dip the back wheel of our bikes into the pacific. Peaceable: It's in the name of those waters and reminds me so often of how anyone must make my way in the world. This summer I ride against bullying -- and the west coast waters remind me to go forward gentle and steady -- they remind me how often I do not, like so many angry, outraged, vengeful. Tomorrow I anoint my back tire in Pacific Waters.
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