Tour de Tim

[Dwight Schr-ute]

“Thirty years from now, you will be more disappointed by the things you didn’t do, than by the ones you did. So throw off the bow line. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream.” Mark Twain

Last week I had the realization that August 1 was the 10 year anniversary of my solo transcontinental bike ride. This epiphany has caused me much reflection over the last week over those two months traversing the lonely roads of middle America. I called it The Tour de Tim. The reminiscence has taken me back to some of the journals that I kept while on the trip. In an effort to keep family and friends updated on my progress, I would try and duck into a public library once a week and shoot off an email of events. Partially due to the fact that I would write them on the fly, as well as being only a marginal writer, the end result was a pretty rough construction. I’ve been meaning to get back to these for well, about 10 years now to polish them up a bit. I’ve decided to use this anniversary to do just that.

Thus this thread. In an effort to keep me committed, I’m going to use the CUF audience (real or imagined) to hold me to my goal. Feel free to follow along, ask questions, provide comments, or ignore altogether.

With that introduction, a few points:

Motivation. Despite riding road bikes for years and years, including competitive racing for several of those, riding my bike across the country has been something that I always found intriguing. The idea of having no real compass or daily expectation and riding primarily for the experience. While serving in Southern California, I met a guy in one of the wards who had completed a similar expedition in his youth, which gave me the confidence that pretty much anyone could do it. I was about 4 years out of college and pretty burned out on my job. I had been practically bragging about the experience to friends and coworkers for a few years before they started calling my bluff. So I decided it was time to get pretty serious about it.

Route. Picking a general route was the first task. The only essential component was that it had to allow me to watch the sun set over the Pacific and rise over the Atlantic. I didn’t want to ride from one major metropolis to another, but it also needed to be sporadically populated so that I didn’t have to carry two months of supplies on my person. I had a sister that had lived on Whidbey Island, Washington so I was fairly familiar with the area and, technically meeting my sunset requirement, it seemed as good a place to start as any. I also had a friend whose parents lived outside Boston who would let me crash with them for a few days on the back side to get all settled up and shipped back to Salt Lake. With those two points in mind, it just made the most sense to stick around the boarder, jumping into Canada a couple of times.

Time. This was one of the things I fretted over most. I definitely needed to leave late enough in the season to avoid running into snow in the Cascades or Rockies, but early enough to where I was also avoiding snow once I got further east. August 1 seemed a little late, but once I got everything put together, it was the most reasonable date to start.

Planning. I’m not a planner. Just ask my wife. Again, I’d been riding my bike for years, so I was ever worried about “getting in shape,” but there were several arrangements that needed to happen. A bike. None of my road bikes were going to hold up through such a trip, so I started shopping. Ended going with a Bianchi touring bike complete with triple ring (had major ego about this) and about 8 extra lbs of who knows. I hated the idea of riding with weight on the frame with panniers, so I went with a Bob YAK trailer that I pulled behind me for company. Single man tent, pad, sleeping bag and whatever other essentials and non-essentials I could think of in the Dry Sak and I was set. I ordered the Bianchi, rode it MAYBE 10 miles to get a little wear and stretch on the cables, retuned it and stuck it back in the box. I guess I also assembled the Bob, put in on the bike, rode it around the block and then reboxed that as well. I had a couple of college buddies that lived in Seattle, so I shipped both boxes to their apartment and flew up there. Unboxed everything, put it all together, went for a quick little 30 minute ride and called it good. When I say I’m not a very good planner, that’s all I did. I had expectations that I’d probably ride ~75 miles a day and it would probably tike ~2 months to complete, that neither of those were based on anything quantitative. The morning that I pushed off from the ocean was the FIRST time I had even ridden with any weight in the trailer. That first morning, there was about a ¼ mile stretch of 10% grade that I thought was going to end my trip, BEFORE I even got out of the campground.

So yeah. My buddies drove me up to the Deception Pass campground and dropped me and my stuff off and wished me luck. I watched the sunset and that pretty much sets the stage for the first letter. I struggled trying to find the best way to describe the experience for people. The first one takes the travel log format and I literally just took pieces out of my journal to give people. I quickly realized that this wasn’t the most user friendly, nor the best way that I write, so the letters eventually take on a more essay oriented format, which I think worked better.

[Dwight Schr-ute]

August 4, 2002

Dear Friends.

Greetings from Omak, Washington on this Sunday afternoon. I’m still struggling with the semantics of taking on such an operation as this. Do I give you a detailed travel log? Do I bore you with the incongruent philosophies as they race through my head while climbing long mountains? Do I lie and tell you that I’ve never had so much fun in my life? So many choices. So little feed back.

For starters, I’ll start at the beginning. The beginning was a little more rough than what I had hoped for so my Monday start soon became a Wednesday start. For those of you who aren’t aware, airport security tend to not like bicycles tools but friends and family and FedEx overnight can make big problems seem pretty small. I think what will work best for you is by transcribing from my personal notes that I’ve been keeping every night and giving you the somewhat relevant, somewhat interesting highlights. I make no apologies, this is a very honest look at life on the road. I’m not an artist and I won’t try and paint any pictures.

Day 1 Anacortes

So here you are. Lying in a tent, your ride has just left and is very suddenly 4,000 miles away. What are you going to do? You’re going to wake up in the morning and you’re going to ride. Just like you have been doing for the last five years. The only difference is that you won’t be home when the day is over. But you’ll do it again the next morning and you’ll keep doing it until you’re not afraid to anymore.

Day 2 Rock Port

It’s pretty surprising how quickly the build-up of anxiety and anticipation percolates when no one is watching, everything is packed and ready, but you just sit there. Why? For what? You can’t go back to the car; it’s gone. It’s as logical as contemplating “jumping in with both feet” when you’re already treading water, because buddy, you’re soaking wet. The time to think is over but there you sit and continue to think about it awhile. Just in case.

Finally made my way over to the beach and had some old guy snap a picture of the traveling circus. I was going to try and stick my back wheel in the water to make the coast to coast official, but there was too much drift wood to maneuver and even if there hadn’t been, I think that ol’ fat Bob would have just sunk and that really would have been an all-star beginning. Threw my leg over and started pedaling. I didn’t get too far before I realized that I wasn’t getting any reading on my cyclometer and stopped to check the alignment of the magnet on the wheel to the reader on the fork. It was an easy problem to identify, the magnet attached to the spokes was nowhere to be found. So here I am, embarking on the longest bicycle trip of my life and have absolutely no way of accounting for the mileage.

I’m camping across the Skagit River from an RV park that is charging $12 for a tent and after paying $16 last night at Deception Pass State Park to sleep on a patch of immobilized gravel, I’m a little reluctant to shell out any more. The point of this trip isn’t running water, fire pits and check-out times. There’s a nice open field on the other side of the river with really tall grasses but I’m a little worried about rodents, so I’ve picked another spot that looks a little shadier when it comes to private property issues, but I think worth the risk.

Day 3 Somewhere in the Cascades

The romance of this adventure is officially gone. This is work and life on the road is a little scary. I’m not afraid of getting hit by a car, or having bike problems, or even having everything stolen, those are inconveniences. What is terrifying is the idea that you’ve got this dream that you’ve been talking about for so long. And you can talk and talk and talk but it’s okay because there’s never any expectation. No cost and no consequence. But the moment you take that first step, that clipping into the pedals and push off; the moment you stop talking and start, is the scariest moment of your life. Suddenly you’ve begun to invest and expect a certain outcome, which is fine, but what happens if or when the expectations and the reality start to diverge? What happens if you fail at your own dream? Do you ever take that chance again?

That’s where we are today and I think that I’m just a little overwhelmed. I rode the 8 miles to Mablemount for some pancakes. You could order one or two. Being hungry and having a big day ahead of me, I opted for the two. When the woman brought them out, I couldn’t believe it. Each one was bigger than a normal sized dinner plate and they had to be served on what I’m sure were custom made platters straight from Mikasa (is this even a dinnerware company?). I only managed 2/3 of the first one. It made me a little mad. It must be the hippie in me, but this consumer mentality is out of hand. The drive for bigger and better when less is good enough. I mean, nobody should, and I’m sure there is someone out there that could, but no one should ever be eating this much food. So why make everyone pay for the “all” when only a little ever gets used?

Speaking of hippies, while riding through Marblemount on my way out of town, I passed this couple that matched every stereotype of hippie. They each had these giant backpacks with a ton of random stuff tied all over and they were walking away from the mountains and were checking out some piece of crap car parked in someone’s front lawn that thought it would be a pretty good joke to stick a For Sale sign in the window. I couldn’t help but wonder if this is what I’ll be reduced to by the time this little adventure is over. Well besides the girlfriend of course. And maybe a dog.

I’ve been following the mighty Skagit River all day. Listening to it and my mind has been all over the place. Remembering the stories about the great Steelhead runs as told from friends, I found myself thinking like a fish. Salmon are known to head out to sea anywhere from 3-5 years where they eat and grow fat. Life in the ocean is relatively easy-high quantities of food and comparatively low currents to deal with. But then one year, something goes off in these little brains that says, “It’s time to spawn. It’s time to go home.” So they kick the olfactory into gear and start their adventure. There’s nothing easy about finding the exact river you swam out of 5 years before and there’s nothing easy about swimming upstream but to become a fresh water living fish after being a salt water living fish, that’s downright amazing. So here I am, some little critter swimming upstream. And it’s hard. I keep asking myself, “What are you doing?” And I honestly don’t know the answer to that question any more than I think the fish know why they’re swimming. There just that little thing that clicked in my brain, pushing me to find my home. Unlike the fish, not necessarily the home where I am from, but the home where I belong. But for now, the current rushes and unless you want to get washed downstream, you point your nose forward and just keep swimming. Maybe I’ll try spawning when I get done and see if that makes this more worth it.

As I rode through the town of Newhalem they have a big sign advertising it as “The Gateway to the American Alps”. I’ve never seen the French Alps or even the Swiss Alps, but these ones are pretty impressive. They’re only about as high as anything along the Wasatch Front, it’s just that these start about 5,000 ft lower. Riding into the belly of snow covered peaks in August is a little daunting.

I’ve misjudged my ability of getting over the 5,500 foot Washington Pass today and seem to be about 15 miles short of my goal. I passed my last water source around 2:00pm and won’t come across another campground until after I summit tomorrow. I still have one water bottle and 2/3 of my camelback but food is a more endangered commodity considering that I had two PopTarts for dinner tonight and have one left for breakfast, then that’s it. I was expecting to make it to Winthrop tonight but I rode until the two Tylenol wore off and my knee protested too loudly to ignore. My lack of training with weight has My knee has been an issue climbing all day.

Day 4 Winthrop

Started the day with two Tylenol and my last PopTart. Things went downhill after that. I’m not sure which wore of sooner, the PopTart or the Tylenol. The road goes left and right with the river. But always up.

When I got going this morning the air was still pretty crisp with overcast skies, but climbing first off and forever heated things instantly. I was glad that the weather was cool due to my water situation. But considering how quickly I began to drip, even the cool temperatures might not be enough. The scenery was absolutely incredible and the views of the surrounding peaks rather intimidating but one in particular stood out as it was right in front of me most of the day. Monstrous and serrated and exactly how I envisioned Tolkien’s Mordor.

This climb felt the way these peaks looked. Yesterday I rode through a one man town called Diablo and, at the time, guessed that was a fitting definition of hell. But today I realized that hell was further up the mountain. The air was now cold and considering that I had completely sweat through my long sleeved jersey, even colder. Soon the knee pain was full force while my body began searching for something else to burn.

These mountains are so incredible. On several occasions, I wanted to take a picture of the view but realized that everything was too big and too close to make anything seem representative. I finally summited Washington Pass at around 12:30pm and I was in a bad way. And still 15 miles from the next dot on the map. On top of the pass there was an overlook where I stopped to at least try and appreciate what I had been ascending for the last two days. The air temperature on top couldn’t have been much more than 45 degrees and I wasn’t looking forward to the numbness of the downhill. The first road sign I passed said 7% grade Next 7 miles. Brilliant. I went ½ the distance I had ridden that morning without even pedaling. I wasn’t complaining.

The beginning of the descent was feverish but as I continued to lose elevation, I would hit occasional warm pockets of air which were soon replaced by occasional cold pockets and finally warm sunshine. The dark blanket of clouds that had dominated the morning had turned into big fluffy whites in 15 miles and 25 minutes. I was finally able to get something to eat in the town of Mazama and my body was so used to digesting itself that the influx of new energy really confused things and I thought everything was going to come back up on several occasions.

Tonight I am awarding all the hard work by staying at the KOA in Winthrop. The kid behind the counter insisted that he was giving me a steal at $16. “But that includes showers and our heated pool.” Having a look around at some of my neighbors sporting swim suits, I concluded that whatever it is that is being washed off these bodies into giant warm culture, you’d have to have more chlorine than water just to keep even. So much for rewarding.

Day 5 Okanogan

Went over the Loup Loup pass today at a respectable 4080 ft. I started the day with 4 Tylenol and 5 miles into the ride, my knee was calling for attention. I heard it but wasn’t in a position to do anything about it. Tomorrow I will give it the day off and see if that allows it to heal significantly. I have been surprised at the number of passes here in central Washington. As far as I can see, I have two more coming up on Monday, one at 4300ft and one at 5600ft. After that, things look pretty level to downhill. At least until the Rockies.

This is a very distinctive valley and pulling into it I was reminded of a book I read a couple years ago about a doctor from Seattle who discovered that he had terminal cancer. Instead of wanting to burden his family with illness and dependency, he decided to go hunting for chukar in this very valley and shot himself during the process to make it look like an accident. As I rolled down and through the steep, rocky topography, I couldn’t help but agree that it would be a good place to hunt chukar and maybe even a good place to shoot yourself. As good a place as any. We’re in apple country.

Okanogan has a pretty good sized bike shop and I was actually able to find a replacement magnet for my cyclometer. So now I don’t have to drop down to Spokane to try and find something. I asked the kid at the bike shop if he knew of any place close that I could throw a tent without making anyone too angry. He directed me to the American Legion Park at the edge of town. Sure enough they allow camping. $3.00 for cyclists AND they have showers. There’s your screaming deal KOA. Okay, you’re about 50 feet from Highway 20 and the shower costs 50 cents but the sites sure are a lot bigger spaces, bigger tables and so far it’s just me and a nice couple from Quebec that speak English only a little better…okay, quite a bit better than I speak French.

The bathrooms are incredibly sketchy. I dropped my two quarters into the slot and went to adjust the nozzle and as I touched the metal shower head-VOLTAGE! What kind of place was this? As if the grime wasn’t enough to kill you, they have to pump electricity through the whole thing? Went to adjust the water temperature-CURRENT. The whole thing was rigged up. Like a bad horror movie. But I had paid my money and at risk of death, I washed myself. Thoroughly.

Day 6 Omak

I woke up this Sunday morning, loaded up and headed the 6 miles down road to Omak and found the local LDS ward house. After all, I’m a God fearing lad. There I met the good people of this valley. Simple, robust folk and I don’t mean that as an insult in any way. Good hearted people. The bishop’s wife invited me over to their place after the meeting for a great turkey dinner and I’m writing this letter from the house of a guy that offered me a place to sleep tonight.

I realize at the finish of this that this isn’t the best format and I will try and refine it as time goes by. Honestly I already have over 25 pages of hand written material and to try and synthesize that into bite size pieces seems difficult and unfair. As with everything out here, it seems far too big for short hand abstracts. As with everything out here, I can only hope to get better at it as time goes along.

The road is long and the road is unpredictable, but it’s good to be out here. Until next time…

[Dwight Schr-ute]

August 7, 2002

Greetings Friends.

I'm currently hanging out in the Colvile Public Library in the lovely town of Colvile. They were a little reluctant to have me clog up some computer time from their local citizens, but what can I say, I have a way with librarians. Considering that I showed up before it opened and there were 6 people milling about outside waiting for the big entry, I can understand the concern a bit. I'm not really sure how much time they are allowing me but I guess I will type until the uncomfortable glances begin. The gentleman sitting next to me just felt it appropriate to divulge his love for the band Kiss and showed me this great picture he just printed off. I was given a list of no no's at the initiation of this new freedom and although Kiss memorabilia is not on the list, I think it should be.

So I'm stuck in this little town of Colevile. Yes, stuck. It's 11:30 a.m. and I'm in a library, not on the road. That's a good indicator of stuckness and suckness. I had a great day on the bike on Monday and had made some adjustments to the seat position and deep down had hoped for a cure all. Well, yesterday I summited the highest maintained pass in Washington and having not started the day with pain killer and only suffering from slight knee discomfort, I thought that the worst was behind me. Turns out the worst wasn't behind me, but below me. Coming down the 20 mile descent on the other side into Kettle Falls the high speeds and cold temperatures quickly froze my legs up, especially my knee, absolutely crippling me. It isn’t supporting weight well, and a revolution around the pedals is masochism. So I'm stuck. Frozen really, because of the knee. After meditation and discussion with what I would deem, qualified individuals, I stayed in a hotel room last night due to the lack of camping near the town and won't ride any further today nor tomorrow and decided to go from there. Here's irony. I'm supposed to keep the stupid thing on ice. One of the instigators in the first place. The glances have begun. More later.

Tim

[creekster]

I hat eto interrupt but wanted to say that these are very good. I have read a bunch of these type of journals on Crazyguyonabike.com and alwayw enjoy them. If you haven't, you shouold post these at that site as well.

[Dwight Schr-ute]

Please interrupt. My "plan" is to post each of these on their anniversary date, so now that I'm caught up, they'll get posted somewhat weekly. Not familiar with the site. I will definitely check it out. Thanks!

[PaloAltoCougar]

Sorry to interrupt the narrative, but I'm curious how you, or anyone who does this amazing trip, does this with familial and occupational obligations. Any insight you can share in that regard would be interesting. I'd like to do it, but I don't see how that's even possible.

[MarkGrace]

Damn...that's a serious bike ride! Forget a journal, you should take a cue from Kerouac and write a book!

[mtnbiker]

That's pretty cool. I've sometimes wondered about doing a ride across a state and wondered how long it would take. But to go across the entire country... wow, that's a looong ride. I'm enjoying the narrative and looking forward to future installments.

[Omaha 680]

A guy visited our branch last week who was doing this. He was a recent convert and he started in New York and planned on finishing in Los Angeles. he was hitting all the church history sites along the way.

[bluegoose]

Great reports, Dwight. I look forward to today's installment and the rest of the upcoming updates.

[RC Vikings]

A guy visited our branch last week who was doing this. He was a recent convert and he started in New York and planned on finishing in Los Angeles. he was hitting all the church history sites along the way.

Wouldn't a west to east trip make more sense because of the wind.

[creekster]

Wouldn't a west to east trip make more sense because of the wind.

Absolutely. Almost all of the people that journal at crazy guy on a bike go west to east.

[Dwight Schr-ute]

Sorry to interrupt the narrative, but I'm curious how you, or anyone who does this amazing trip, does this with familial and occupational obligations. Any insight you can share in that regard would be interesting. I'd like to do it, but I don't see how that's even possible.

Obligations. I had the luxury of having few of those. I was 26 years old, I was still at a point in my career where I was working "fun" jobs and could step in and out without much difficulty. Because the job I had at the time required so much travel, all of my stuff was stored at my parents house and I'd sleep there about a week a month, so there were not rent checks or mortgages to fret over. I traveled on the company dime and made good money with over time and Per Diem, so the finances were pretty easy.

Having said that, I would definitely like to do something similar in the future. Not really "similar" but smaller scale trips. I think you could do some really cool week long tours that would still be very memorable and practical.

A guy visited our branch last week who was doing this. He was a recent convert and he started in New York and planned on finishing in Los Angeles. he was hitting all the church history sites along the way.

I had made a somewhat informal promise that I would keep the Sabbath day holy, if possible. Sure enough, towards the end of every week when I could start predicting where I'd be at the end of the day Saturday, there was always an LDS church, which given some of the areas I was in, was pretty remarkable. I had a pair of khakis pants and a polo shirt that I would attend church in and without fail, the members would reach out and extend dinner invitations/laundry/spare bedrooms. Extremely humbling experience.

[Dwight Schr-ute]

August 12, 2002

Friends.

If Disneyland really is the happiest place on earth like they advertise, surely Colvile, Washington County Fairgrounds should be in the running for the saddest. There is no place for proper grammer within the grounds and there is no place here either.The Colvile Fairgrounds is fairly typical among my growing obsession with fairgrounds. Concrete architecture inspired by necessity, not irony sprinkled with the mustiness of lingering grasses. An arena for horses and other rodeo activities, exhibition centers and animal houses and tucked behind the main entrance, just south of the main arena dotted by large poplars and a dozen grass plots that allow for camping and other closely related activities.

The campsite itself resembles that of most campgrounds. Single units reaching out from the central hubbed restroom. (When I was young, I always confused the terms “lavatory and “laboratory” but either would be appropriate for this structure. New diseases and cures in every other corner.) A handful of tents spread across the lawn mixed with a few run down trailers, and finally an RV or two. Upon my arrival, I found a spot underneath a few big trees close to the entrance, behind the big sign announcing the dates of this year’s big fair celebration. If the size of sign has any relation to the expected level of jubilation then this should not be a fair, but a grand. A week from now.

There is a stark difference between the fairgrounds proper and our little living quarter...and that of most campgrounds. The people around me didn't appear like they were on vacation. This was life. A rusty sign detailing the occupancy rules listed a maximum stay of 14 days unless permission given by site manager for exception. It appeared that save for me and the wandering elderly in their giant RV's, that all were the exception. The evidence of life was scattered across the grounds, but except for a few kids running around, things were pretty quiet.
The quiet ended shortly after 5:00 pm. This town is in the process of what appears to be repaving the whole town in one grand effort. Every street is either rutted and dusty or steaming with fresh tar. After 5:00 pm, the campground came alive. A line of men pulled up in worn out trucks and suddenly there was a line for the showers. I've seen many showers of variable quality the last two weeks, but these were the worst I have experienced. Poor quality cross pollinated with high traffic is an equation that doesn't interest me all that much.

The players: There is a tent next to me that belongs to a young kid that is about to start his second year of college in Portland. He’s Native American and grew up on the reservation in the mountains across the river from us. His sister lives in Colvile who agreed to let him live with her for the summer while he worked for one of the nearby lumber yards. He moved in and her boyfriend decided that they didn't get along so he was asked to leave. He's spent the remainder of the summer at the fairgrounds. I never got his name.

Next to him is Ulysses, Kristina and their little Pomeranian, Ginger. They are from Spokane but are in town for the summer for the road project. They live on the grounds Monday through Friday and make the drive back to Spokane every weekend. Kristina is a student in Spokane studying social work and for some reason their living standard seems to parallel what I imagine that of most of her future clients. She is susceptible to seizers and Ginger is a licensed service dog which really doesn't fit into my paradigm, but I'm not a professional. Unless that tiny tongue getting dragged all over someone’s face had medicinal capabilities, I can’t imagine what sort of service such a creature could offer a human being, but once again, I’m not a professional.

Further down the lot is a large man in his maybe forties that is living out of a maroon colored station wagon complete with wood paneling and a full sized spare tire lashed to the roof of his car. I lovingly refer to him as Strong Sad (if you're really curious as to the naming you can look him up at homestarrunner.com but I'm afraid this will disturb more of you than it will help). Strong Sad sits in his car all day, staring forward towards the big arena. All day. I suspect that he must be listening to the radio because about once an hour he will start up his engine, rev it three times, then turn it off. Nothing but his right hand moves in the process.
Across from me is a collage of trailers that appears to belong to a family of road workers. The father drives a small blue old Toyota truck that for some inexplicable reason, has a duel exhaust system. Easily one of the loudest vehicles I've encountered in my life. Which wouldn't be such a problem if he didn't leave for work at 5:45 am. Atomic morning would come more gently than these mornings.

On Thursday afternoon Ulysses came home from work early while Kristina had gone for a few vegetables at the market for dinner. The paving crew had caught up with the tearing crew, so for the next two weeks, Ulysses was out of work. He was in good spirits as he waited for Kristina to return and talked about how excited he was to go back to Spokane while taking down the tent and packing up their life. Kristina didn't seem to be as excited to get home and I guessed that their need for a vacation simply wasn't as strong as their need.

Soon they were gone and I was left at the picnic table to my lonesome, trying to catch up on a little writing. Meet George and Daniel: The cousins grim. George lived in Colvile while his cousin Daniel had recently been “rescued” from the reservation. In his new found freedom, Daniel had an appointment with the county judge in the morning for some recent delinquencies. They figured that this would be a good excuse for a shower, so they had made the voyage from a block in a half away to the showers. George was in his early forties but Daniel was more difficult to calculate. He didn't look too much older but was exhausted with life. They stumbled up to my bench and made themselves comfortable for a quick rest before the strains of showering. We made introductions and conversation and before long, the plastic bottle of whiskey made its way out of the backpack. 2/3 of a pint of Black Velvet, one swallow at a time. My stuckness in Colvile and suddenly reduced itself to stuckness at a picnic table in the saddest place in the world.
Over the next few hours I was educated in the woes of reservation life, the Vietnam War, government, and all subjects illogically connected, one swallow at a time. I had all of my belongings spread out over the lawn and wasn't in a position to excuse myself. So I sat and tried to perfect not listening and nodding my head with a soft smile. After three hours, and nearly 2/3 of a pint of Black Velvet later we were no closer to the end of the discussion and no closer to making it the 80 more feet to the shower. A new voice broke the incessant babbling. Saved by Strong Sad. Seeing my trailer and my travelings he began to ask me about maps. He had a "large collection". Seeing a change of fortune, I defied reason, jumped up and headed towards the maroon station wagon and left my two Indian friends to themselves.

Strong Sad and I discussed my tentative route over the next couple days. All the information that Strong Sad shared with me were areas that I could camp for free with long incubation periods. After our meeting, I would have to ride 500 miles for every 50 miles of actual progress eastward. It would be long, but it would be free and I would have plenty of time to recuperate. I made a comment about staying in White Fish and he laughed in a horrible hacking combination and spat, "Do you think I could afford this trip if I stayed in places like White Fish?" I couldn't help but wonder what kind of trip he was undertaking. And what year it officially began.

In my absence, Robert and Daniel had grown restless and began making unkind comments towards Strong Sad. Offended, he grabbed his thermos of questionable beverage and walked over to make amends. One drunk trying to commune with two others. This was beginning to remind me of a day at the office. (Sorry guys, just a joke.) Not a recipe for quick discussion. I was worried.

More good fortune in the sea of sadness. The conversation quickly turned into a debate over Black Velvet or Porter's, two "fine" Canadian whiskeys complete with their own plastic bottle. The discussion turned ugly and the parties took their own ways.

This is how the day ends. As I was setting up my tent for the night, the skies turned pink above me and in perfect Hollywood cinematography suddenly the quiet broke with Natalie Merchant's "Because the night belongs to lovers..." coming from Strong Sads speakers pushed out through cracked windows. Eerie and sad.

I awoke the next morning and as I was taking down my tent, Strong Sad started his engine, revved it three times, and drove away. Ulysses and Kristina had left, the only evidence of Robert and Daniel was a lingering smell of cheap whiskey, and I was there for the most part alone. As I packed, I couldn't help but project forward to that big night when the flood lights shine on the center arena. Just outside the shadows, just outside of the life that most of us know. A car starts, revs three times and the bottle gets tipped.

I'm rolling. I pedal on, dragging behind me a trailer full of stuff. But I also drag behind me the experiences that I continue to have daily. And I also drag behind me a touch of guilt. Some would call it survivor’s guilt. The handicaps of this last week have caused me concern about being able to complete this journey. But, I have the benefit of knowing that if the bottom were to fall out, I’d have to pack everything up and find a way home. Inconvenience and disappointment is my worst case scenario. Many of these people that I meet don’t hold such a card in the pocket. My bag gets heavier with each experience.

By the end of the day, I should be in a new state (Montana) and a new time zone. A clean palate. Life is good. The knee is better every day. Lots of love.

[FN Phat]

My bike has a flat, a rusty chain and enough dust and cobwebs to scare Frakenstein. I am out of shape (round is a shape right ), lazy and too comfortable with the above.

I am subscribed to this thread. Good idea, great story and a better experience!