bike trippin’ — love/hate

I’ve been “on the road” for eight days now, of which four of those have been actual touring days.

In Athens, I engaged in my first experience as a couchsurfer. Having done a fair bit of hosting in Gainesville, i was interested to find how the other half lives :) And Ayla and Alise…sisters…took me in for the weekend. I’m not sure if they know just how helpful they were to me…i learned on my arrival from Decatur, GA that my panniers, while doing their job mostly as intended, were not quite as waterproof as i’d hoped. They gave me the space to >dry off< (for one thing), and amend my gear to seal the little remaining spaces that water could slip through. And they were great guides around Athens–i hope that when i have a couch again someday, they will come stay with me!

I am currently harbouring a love/hate relationship with my bicycle and my whole touring setup in general =)

In Toccoa, GA i was looking for a place to stay. The first i asked for advice was the pastor of a church (and his wife?) where i had stopped for a break on the south end of town.

Stephanie and i once stopped at a church near Jacksonville Beach and asked to camp on their expansive lawn and were shutdown. Her comment on the situation was something to the effect of having never been well received at churches, or having never been offered help from the same.

And this situation was no different. Ha, and i wasn’t even asking to stay there…instead i asked "do you have any ideas where i could stay". Both of their eyes glazed over as they mildly shook their heads "no".

In town i looked for a single open restaurant or coffee shop so i could check my email (i had found one available couch for Toccoa on couchsurfing.org and wanted to make a last-minute check to see if my request had been read). No.

About 8p, i was directed to a place called Perk Up Cafe where the employees and i chatted…and they knew the guy who i had couchrequested! But couldn't help me beyond that. No.

Having learned from the same people that the roads to Curahee (the feature that brought me to Toccoa) were washed out, i made a mental note to title this day's crazyguyonabike.com journal entry “No!ccoa”

No no no! All day, it seemed, even from the weather. I finally take refuge on the raised steps of a church several miles north of town, heading in my next general direction (Bryson City, NC)

The reason i am headed toward Bryson is because some fellow touring cyclists who live there spotted my crazyguyonabike journal and kindly offered, should i care to slightly alter my route, that i could stay with them (Bryson City is only 16 miles from the southern terminus of the Blue Ridge Parkway situated in Cherokee, NC).

But i don’t even have to wait until then for the universe to balance against the palms of rejection that flooded my direction.

The next morning i wake up and start to situate myself. Next door to the church (a residence), a man is helping his children into his truck to take them to school. I ask to use his tap, and he grants me a spin of his faucet. We talk a bit about where-i-am-going and what-i-am-doing and say our goodbyes.

I’m heating a can of lentils on those same church steps when Chris pulls back up bearing some hot food for me! Before i left Gainesville, i had conversations with friends about my dietary choices (which are most closely aligned with veganism) and how travelling might affect that choice. The perception is that quality vegan foods might be difficult to come by, or that it might not be healty/enriching enough to allow me to sustain the kind of energy expenditures that daily touring requires?

I’m certain neither of these are true, but what has occurred to me is that i perhaps should not refuse a free meal offered in good spirits. And accepting a “more vegetarian” diet versus a “more vegan” diet is almost not a question–an easy leap.

I recognize that there *is* enough food in the world, but i also recognize that our current food culture doesn’t encourage people well enough to provide for themselves, and that our educational system doesn’t include critical life-basics like tying knots or identifying local edible flora. Because of this, i can’t bear the notion of wasted food…if for no other reason than the sheer amount of energy that goes into its production.

So i had to ask myself, in the back of my mind, what i would do the first time someone freely and willingly offered me something made from the flesh of an animal. None of my friends asked this question–perhaps it seemed, as you might guess, out-of-bounds. I’m not wondering anymore.

What kind of message would i reply to the universe, if in the face of genuine generosity, i said “no thanks”.

The only stressful counter to this notion is the ideal that i am what i eat, and that in any diet there are good choices and bad choices, and i care to consume only the highest quality foods. This is my vessel, i feel compelled to care for it so long as it shall be mine to traipse around this earth–so that i may use it for its intended purpose…to ask those questions…to get those answers…

But i am only one cell in the organ called humanity. and perhaps some small leaps or compromises can create space for greater contemplations. I like that i can change my mind and my self according to what life/the universe/everything asks of me. Flexibility. Good.

I am in Bryson City now, staying with Raquel and Jack. They tour by bicycle whenever they get the chance. They are also foster parents, and are currently providing house and home to two bright teenage boys, Jacob and Brad. Both of these fellows are intelligent, respectful and interesting. I’m not entirely sure what their backgrounds are, but know they can see they have been given, as i have been given, an opportunity to experience the real meaning of human spirit through Jack and Raquel. They give so openly, and willingly! New friends, indeed. Seems they might have some west coast action next year much like myself. Sounds like an opportunity to coordinate =D

So my bicycle is working out well. I set out to create a bicycle with trailer-like capacities but without the trailer. Two wheels is easier to move around than three or four! And i was successful! And the long wheelbase makes the ride smoother. And it just looks so weird and this gathers some positive attention.

But having trailer-like capacities doesn’t mean you have to fill up all the space, and i’m finding that (while i am more nimble than with a trailer) i am not nimble/light enough. What i mean to say is that i think my ideas about touring, and the way i want to go about it are changing. That i want to be ultra-light and super-minimal, just because it occurs to me that it might be the way i want to be.

But i am happy up high on my monster mountain masher, and will happily ride it so long as it will carry me.

To Ayla & Alise, Chris, and Jack and Raquel–i offer my gratitude, for their openness, for their inclinations to share and to trust…for being positive cells in the organ called humanity, making this world the world it has the potential to be. And shoring up my faith that it is possible yet.

bike trippin’ — getting started

My red 1994 jeep cherokee settled down next to the curb in front of Kathryn’s house–a friend of Sharon’s who lives in Decatur, GA, who agreed to let me park at her house as a starting point. Got the bike off the roof and packed up without delay or incident.

A neighbor strolling by with his dog made some comments and light conversation about bike touring (seems i have run into a lot of people who have done this in their lives…) and he grants me directions to the Freedom Park Trail.

This trail is part of my choice to start in Decatur, having learned about it only last night from Kathryn. That, and Decatur lies East of Atlanta, saving me the grief of pedaling through metropolitan traffic.

The trail takes me east and slightly north, terminating at Georgia’s Stone Mountain Park where i pause for a few pictures of this seemingly out-of-place behemoth of stone. But today is about biking, not climing, so i swing a leg back over the top tube and plant my butt in the saddle for roads ahead. At this point i have only traveled about 8-9 miles!

Its another 10, moving on US-78 toward Snellville before the skies open up, and on my first day of touring, i’m already donning the raingear. I’m wet for the rest of the day. Too bad too, because some picturesque scenes that graced my retinas would no doubt have enjoyed the CCD of my camera as well. Oh well.

I was on a road called Punkin Junction. Hah.

And then hill after hill. And I’m too heavy. And too top-heavy, introducing an unnerving wobble in the steer tube as the bike shimmies back and forth a bit according to the whims of the wind. I’m going to have to lose some stuff. Funny…before i left Atlanta, i went through my things and set aside a fair number of things which i thought i could do without, thinking i had fairly minimized the load. Also funny is how many additional things you think you can get rid of when you’re walking your bike up a hill. Regardless, Florida boys have much to learn about northern Georgia hills.

My panniers are not as waterproof as i’d hoped, despite being constructed with an inner layer of tarp material. I think a bit of seam seal will rectify that. But this is minor…i love them…they’re working out well!

Getting into Athens, i let myself into my couchsurf hosts’ house (according to their insistence), soaked to the bone and feeling very worn. 60 miles was perhaps too many miles out of the gate, having not done much distance riding in a while, especially without this kind of weight.

I’ll spend a few days here, checking out the town, and hopefully letting this weather pass before heading out again. Next stop…Curahee!

mad about madison

mad as in happy like a lunatic. its beautiful, bikes everywhere. monumental architecture like an old european city. the air has a slight chill, and the yellow-tipped leaves of the trees around the capitol building suggest that photosynthesis is losing ground to the changing seasons. its delicious.

departures

I drove North from Gainesville today. Seems like every song on the radio was about traveling or saying goodbye.

And so i’m off! The only plan, thus far, is to leave the plans open-ended. But I have good ideas. I’m in Atlanta now, staying with my sister Sharon and her husband Adi. Tomorrow, we’ll pile in a car with their friends and head North to Madison, WI where she and Michelle will compete in Ironman.

We’ll return to Atlanta on the 15th, setting me up to pedal back out on or around the 17th. I’ll end that first day in Athens where I may stay for a few days before making my way to Cherokee, NC and the Blue Ridge Parkway. Stops in Asheville and D.C. before making my way down the East coast in time for the Horrible Hundred with my parents in Orlando. All of this is subject to change, of course, at a moment’s notice =)

I left many things behind in Gainesville, but one thing I did not leave is my relationships. I have many loving friends in town and though I feel a strong pull to make this journey, similarly I am drawn to them. To quote myself, “I think we come to know ourselves best through our relationships.” That is to say, each friendship may be a part of myself that is dying to express, or a part that is well expressed, and better with company.

In short, I have learned a great deal from them, about life, the universe, and everything. And I have so much yet to learn! And I love them.

<3

here goes…everything :)

Satya (the Scarlett Avenger) and Sydney Elizabeth Nightengale Rothschild

Seems there’s only one way to go from here…

record

My girlfriend and i are in the ocean; we are receiving instruction from a man intent on teaching us to kayak against the currents. We are up to our waistlines in swirling, salty water. The wind defies the sun with its cooling whip across our backs.

Our teacher looks over his bare shoulders from time to time, eyeing the clouds on the horizon which hang low and darkly. I sense his concern, and within a few minutes, he’s inistent: “Ok, we have to get out of the water.”

We head up the dunes to find higher ground, and looking back over the horizon, i see the hurried advance of the stormfront. It had descended upon us much quicker than i thought possible, winds whorling in that frantic way that often predicts an impending hurricane.

We pitch my tent, and as we do so, a Jamaican family paddles to shore nearby in a small, wooden boat. They don’t even have to ask–they will be riding out the storm with us in the tent, our common desperation to survive binding us. Mother, Father and their child (Boy or girl? I can’t be sure) clamor into the tent, my girlfriend and i right behind them.

They’ve brought with them a small, portable record player. The exterior of its suitcase-style enclosure is that avocado green that bled from the 1970s, its texture one of burlap. Inside, a marigold deck supports a gooved, black turntable. Swing arm to match.

The interior of the tent is surprisingly spacious! About 20′ by 20′, i guess, and with plenty of head room. Quite comfortable, actually. We feel warm, dry, and secure, despite the distant-feeling sounds of the storm, which is (no doubt) right on top of us.

I’m talking intently with my girlfriend. She has brown eyes and hair, shoulder-length, and wears a salmon-coloured sun dress over her black bikini, tanned skin and bare feet. We’re discussing life, the universe, and everything. The other people in the room–our teacher, and the Jamaican family–have faded from each of their respective corners into non-existence.

But the record player remains, sitting between her and i, in the centre of the tent, turning constantly, but too slowly to play and 33s or 45s. I fumble with a switch on the side of the machine. The record comes to a stop and then begins to move in reverse.

As the record player spins backwards, so does…time.

I hear our conversation in reverse, and flipping the switch, I hear it forward for a second time. I feel my lips moving and hear the words come out. I see her lips move and make the same sounds i heard earlier…only this time i know in advance what will be said. She is aware of this phenomenon as well.

Both of us appear to be “aware” of time, observing these events as they occur, and unable (or not even wanting) to change them. And so as the record player goes back and forth, nothing changes save our perspective.

Using my hand i spin the platter with vigor–a thousand spins forward, two-thousand spins back, and we watch–unharmed–as the word rises and falls around us, never losing the safety of our spacious tent.

I begin to wonder how my manipulation of myself within the timeline affects my own timeline. Or how it could be possible?

–

Man, i really want that record player =)

om

We are riding on a smoothly-paved road near a lake. The grass between us and the water is crisp and uniformly green…a park perhaps. The temperature is that perfect balance between hot and cold–no matter that we’ve been biking for some distance–i don’t feel even a hint of perspiration or fatigue. “We.” I am with friends–not sure who, but i sense their smiles and playful attitudes as we meander down the street. The sky is greyish but not gloomy–a uniform blanket of cloud diffuses the sunlight evenly throughout our field of vision.

Our bikes are older, as is the timeline. It may be somewhere between 1982 and 1986, and the bikes we are riding feel about 10 years old–mine might be that 1970’s dark brown with a couple tomato and marigold rings around the downtube. They a little clunky, heavy and fendered, but well maintained and performing well.

The road we pass takes us past a structure–not unlike a pole-barn–something you might see in a park, but usually with picnic tables underneath. This one, however, contains a large group of people engaged in yoga asana practice. Standing close together, they contort into poses that are familiar but not–variations i’ve never seen. The instructor calls positions one after another, in a very “flow-y” manner. Positions are held only long enough for the practitioners to chant (in sanskrit) the name of the pose, as though they were chanting “om”–and do so with perfect precision and harmonics–nothing short of angelsong. I cannot help but crane my neck around as we pass–I’ve already slowed myself down to elongate the experience.

Shortly thereafter i’m standing at the edge of the front yard of a ranch-style house down the street from the yoga practice–it looks very much like the one i grew up in on Hornbeam Drive in Longwood. Bikes are strewn around the yard and people are sitting on the grass, talking jovially, or tossing a frisbee. Everyone seems satisfied–or rather, happy.

I have a pillow wedged between my knees and i’m hugging it with my legs as though to afford myself a certain stability, and with a crouch i jump up into the air. And again. And again. Each successive jump is a little higher, each time i hang at the top of the arc a little longer, and each time i land as softly as a feather, barely bending the grass blades below.

On my last jump, i’m hanging at the top of the arc and it suddenly dawns on me that i can choose whether or not to stay in the air. My past experience tells me that after hanging at the top of the jump, i should begin to fall…and this is still in mind, but i am also working with a new understanding of a new moment.

I choose to remain in the air. And i do.

My mind wavers a bit, between confidently embracing this new understanding (and staying aloft, if not rising more) and the past experience, which wants to pollute my current understanding (and causes me to wobble in the air and perhaps descend a bit).

I said yes.

man-of-granite

I wake on the couch where i had fallen asleep, the red-shaded lamp still glowing steadily.

It is dark out but the sun is just beginning to diffuse the slightest light throughout the sky. I am startled into an adrenaline rush by a man outside the window who keeps approaching the glass…his face wearing an eerie maniacal smile.

I swing around to the front door which he is coming through, to block his invasion. I can see him better now. He is dressed humbly, in clothing that has probably been on his back for days. He is a bit weathered too, likely not having seen the hot side of a shower for days. His hair might be shoulder length and straw like in colour and fray. His demeanor is calm and his behaviour suggests that he thinks he belongs here–that is, he doesn’t think he’s invading my space, but i feel very uncertain and defensive. And, still calm and smiling, he’s trying to push his way past me, affecting his presence into my space. I am holding him off with pushes of forearm and fist. A couple more guys show up, similar in presence.

I am obviously uncomfortable with these guys trying to get into my house, objecting with screwed up facial expressions and increasingly wider limbs, somehow managing to keep them at bay. Finally i gain ample control over my limbs, and subsequently theirs, and push them out the door. Once this happens, they seem “defeated” and no longer try to come in. Over my shoulder, however, i see a fourth man, standing on the other side of the room, almost statue-esque, and having a skin tone of dusty granite. He is very tall and dressed only in a cloth, appearing very ancient and tribal. He seems to be holding his ground, and certainly he has the physical advantage over me–I’m beginning to anticipate an evictive struggle with him–which may not succeed.

Marshall (old friend, new roommate!) swings around the corner and approaches the statue-man from behind, only revealing his stealthy presence when he had descended upon the intruder, placing himself at a vantage point. The man of granite, with a wizened look upon his face, observes the new odds, and seeing himself overpowered, allows us to lead him out of the house without contest.

i

not I

brown

My friend Matt Brown is missing and presumed dead as of this past Sunday.
http://www.cbc.ca/canada/british-columbia/story/2008/08/10/bc-us-kayaker-missing.html

Matt was a bicycle advocate and an all around-swell guy. He was a part of the band “Loyal Frisby” with me, between 2000 and 2002. Matt was in the middle of a bicycle tour through Canada–on his way to Portland to begin a Nursing career with his newly-earned degree–and had reached a point of rest when this seemingly innocuous afternoon of kayaking took a turn for the unexpected. Matt planned every step of his trip meticulously. He knew when he was going to be where, with every road charted and every accommodation arranged. Tricky are these souls of ours that weave the universal web we walk. Scottish poet Robert Burns comes to mind, “best laid plans of mice and men often go awry…” and Lennon, “life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans…”

My personal philosophies preclude that birth should be the beginning or that death should be the end of life. To that end, i am confident in the notion that the soul/consciousness/life-force/(call it what you like) i knew as “Matt Brown”, with an agenda borne of love, has fulfilled its purpose in this venture–has learned what it has come to learn, or taught what it came to teach. But, it does make you stop and think about the “plans” you’ve made for yourself–be they for the next 5 minutes or the next 5 years. Perhaps in this way, Matt, though “gone” can still teach us–to plan, but to remain unbound by those plans. For some, his failure to wear a life jacket will remind us that the tightrope between relative safety and adventurousness is hairline-thin. Perhaps others will find inspiration in his adventurous spirit, realize that life is too short for “should’ve, would’ve, could’ve”, and shed the fears and false-securities that prevent them from tackling those pursuits that really allow them to flourish and feel alive. Matt answered to none save himself.

As such, my thoughts turn to those who love him, and how i can help to ease their pains.

Culturally, we do little to understand and accept death, and so when it darkens our doorways, we feel the pang of loss and the tear of attachment, as though (perhaps honestly) that we have not expected this event–which has been a part of life since the dawn of time. Even my own statement, “darkens our doorways”, associates a degree of negativity with death.

Personally, i am coalescing some ideas, or “plans”, that seem interesting to me, and which have “called” me into momentum. But who can say why i am here, or for how long…? Perhaps the entire purpose of my emergence onto this plane will realize itself in a very unexpected way, at an unexpected time. What am i here to learn? Who am i here to inspire? I may be playing a supporting role in a much larger scheme. Getting to the point–for all my “plans”, for all of “our plans”, the universe will continue to spin, positrons plummeting towards electrons.

I could be dead within 5 minutes of publishing this post, for any number of unquantifiable reasons. I may not ride a motorcycle anymore, but bicyclists get hit from time-to-time. I could be the victim of a crime, in the wrong place, at the wrong time. Whatever the case, it might seem senseless, or like “a waste”. How does this make you feel? Culturally, this is a taboo subject! But it doesn’t have to be. I’m certain: there are no coincidences, and nothing is random.

These thoughts are not born of some morbid obsession with death, but of a fascination with life–for which birth and death are integral parts. I’m moving forward with my ideas, with only the best of intentions. Should i fail to create a vision for myself, i would miss the whole point of this hilarious tango–and that is to come-to-know, or to realize, myself. But I can’t do it alone–everything is relative, and accordingly, i will come to know myself best through my relationships to others. And i’m so glad you’re part of this stellar equation!

Thoughts?

Peace, and bicycle grease,
and much, much love!