Day 70: Beaver Creek State Park to Pittsburgh

Woke up in the morning three instead of two and no rainfly at all - no rainfall at all. I made myself coffee in my makeshift Maxwell can: grounds boiled straight in the pot. With leftover coconut milk and brown sugar, it was a pretty good brew for month-old beans. 

I packed up and headed out early. The Appalachians don't care at all for best laid plans. I started recording the grades of the big and little hills, mean slopes graded for Ford pickups: 9%, 12%, 11%. Maybe twenty minutes in, another two dogs broke the morning's humid calm, teeth bared in gleeful aggression. I am not a fighter. I ran. 

Eventually, the rollers led to one big downhill right into Fredericktown and a silver sedan pulls up right next to me and this older guy leans his head out the window and warns that the road after the bridge right in front leads straight to the heavens. I tried to slalom up but hitting that hill was like paddling a canoe through mud, like trying to mold play doh that sat out for too long. Make that two days now where I've had to walk my bike, grunting and sweating, triceps and calves strung out against the strain. By the time Rachel caught up (basically right away, walking is stable but slow like paint drying), I'd reached a breaking point. We'd climbed a thousand feet in five miles and had at least 2000 to go. We weren't going to make the camp we were supposed to teach at, thunderstorms were rolling in, and all I had left to eat was granola.

On the bright side, we reached Ohio. 

We decided to ride at least to Beaver, grab some food, and see if the Richard from the Materials Research Society (MRS), who had helped connect us with the camp, could give us a ride. The 15 miles there were tough but less demoralizing than the first five. We watched berets golf; they stopped midswing to figure out what (ie, us) was going by. We ended up at Cafe Kolache, where Rachel met Mark, a retired ballet dancer who's making a second career as a permanent cycle tourer (check out his blog here: lewisandclarkandmark.com).

I ran across the street to the bike shop to pick up some gu's and be advised on routes to Philly. When Rachel showed up, she figured out one of the mechanics was a good friend of a good friend in Penn's dental program. On this trip, the world has seemed very large, and very small. We bought the shop's growler, then Richard showed up, packed us up, and we headed to camp. We were expecting ~20 middle school-aged kids, but since it was pouring, the entire camp was packed into a single awning, the only dry spot on the grounds. So we presented to 200 4-14 year olds, fighting to be heard over the weather. Trying to keep that many cooped-up kids engaged, when they want to be running and chatting, made this afternoon our most difficult lesson. And in the middle of the lesson, a kid fell off the table he was sitting on and had to go to the hospital.

Charming the children at Winwood

After it was all over though, a couple of girls came up to us and asked all kinds of questions about 3D printing and solar power. And the the wheels started turning right there, and they were throwing out ideas for a solar-paneled, kinetic soccer ball, for other kinds of solar-powered transportation. 

(a real city!) 

Richard took us out to first dinner after we bundled back to MRS headquarters. We ate salads and fried things (balance is key in all things). Then he drove us to Pittsburgh - there wasn't any way we could've made it in daylight, with more and more Appalachians between us and our hosts for the night. 

For second dinner, we made custom pizza with Emilie and Daniel, Ellis' friends. Sun-dried tomato pesto with goat cheese and caramelized onions totally stole the show.

Plenty of wine, second helpings, and conversations later, we retired, Rachel to a bed, I to the hammock room, because the brilliant E+D have one dedicated as such in their classy, hip Pittsburgh home.

I stayed up late listening to the hum  of the city, the sirens, the banter, the clanging and whooshing and all the bits of collective living you forget when you're on the road and out of it this long. 

Day 27: There and back again (Payette to Boise)

At least it stayed dry inside last night. The rain and wind pounded the tent for a good eight hours, letting up maybe a half hour after I reluctantly awoke (that's the thing about staying hydrated). Slowwww start this morning too.. The carnival setting up next door started late too though so I didn't feel too bad. We each had 3 packets of half-cooked quick-cook oatmeal, pasty and sticky, for breakfast. I think this is going to be the last of the flavored packets. The more we bike, the less sugar we crave. And artificial sugar is worse. 

I just started reading Old Man's War by John Scalzi. Still working through Desert Solitaire. Abbey's writing (as long as it's not about women) throws me around every time I read him, but also on this trip I just want to read and not necessarily need to digest the literature every evening. Anyways I read while Rachel attempted to install a phone bike mount. We left around noon, a little later.

My knee started up right as we pulled out, which was unusual. Generally it waits, polite, until we start a big climb. But today it ached from the get go and plateaued right below the point of no-continue. I called around to Boise knee doctors and made an appointment for tomorrow, fingers crossed nothing's too bad. I thought five days of rest in Council would do more, but it's exactly as painful as last week, except the throbbing steadier.

I listened to a great episode of This American Life. A rerun from last year, called Superpowers. Well mostly one segment stands out, on this lady named Zora (sp?) who decided to become as close to a superhero as possible when she was 13 - made a list of essential skills like explosives and piloting an airplane and hunting/gathering, etc. And she did! Her goal was to learn all those skills by the time she was 23 -- by that time she had her masters and was in the middle of a PhD program. Now she's an international private investigator. Anyways, it was interesting how much she valued herself based on her skill set -- I think I do the same to myself, it's a big part of why I'm going to graduate school. And I began thinking more seriously about what skills I want to end this trip with: bike mechanics, of course, but I really want to learn to both fish, and gut and clean a fish. And to harvest five edible plants. Dinner in the woods and such. 

I also listened to the first ever episode of TAL and one of the features is a guy who rode his bike across the country. Well. He had it in his head he was going to die in six months so he rode around and visited all his siblings. He didn't die at the six month mark. It still felt significant somehow. 

I just took it real real slow all day. Rachel was way ahead. It felt good to ride alone, the pavement and the red and white mountains to my left and the farmland all there to drink in. In this last year especially, I've come to really appreciate solitude. I'm definitely tour on my own after we finish the big kahuna. 

That's one fresh baby

Things I saw: a horse that had just been born, placenta still attached to the goal; a newly dead ginger housecat, just passed the veterinary hospital. An unexpected side of this trip, I've seen more death and decomposition on this trip than ever before. In the suburbs and the cities, the unsightly dead get scooped up. Out in the desert and along these game roads, the game die and return to the earth. The meat goes first, and most of the corpses I see are fur and bones, animal shape still distinctly outlined, but massless. Then after its just bones, bleached white or still with some marrow and I don't have the training to identify those remains. They remain unknown, intact, at peace. 

Later in Emmett, an old guy with oversized sunglasses and a real bandana idled along with me on his motorcycle. He said he was going to ride from California to New Orleans and beyond but ran out of money, ended up staying in town for 10 years. We keep hearing stories like those. 

The one hill to climb wasn't bad, as the day moves on, the pain was easier to ignore. I counted 11 dirty diapers. No more onion trails to follow I guess, just human trails.

Maybe the drought in California has gone on so long I can't remember, but the lawns in the suburbs outside Idaho are unreal. I'm not a huge fan of covering the ground in inedible grasses but these were works of art. Never seen lawns so green, full and trim. It was concerning. Also the communities had names like "Covenant Hill". 

Stacy, Shannon and their two girls, Megan and Shelby, hosted us tonight. We met Stacy and Shannon last week at the coffee shop next to George's. Great, open people. Last summer, all four of them rode their bikes across the country. We don't meet a lot of tourists since we're not on the popular routes, so it was great to have a chance to hear their stories. Stacy and Shannon remind me physically and in spirit of two of my favorite family friends, to the point where it's difficult to separate them in my brain. We're in Boise for three more days, teaching on Friday at Neal's daughter's school. 

Day 19: Two little hills (Burns to the Juntura hot springs)

Most mornings I have it together but this morning I'm a mess. My gloves and glasses have disappeared into the dark and foreign depths of my panniers. At least with a real stove, Rachel cooks up some real protein for breakfast, maybe the eggs and sausage will jumpstart some neurons. 

It doesn't. I walk to Safeway across the street and it takes me like half an hour to pick up hot chocolate and pick out some ziplock bags. 

On our way out of town, I see a sign for peach pie and can't help myself. I love pie. This is also the pie tour of America and the limp pumpkin in Alturas was a bland disappointment. 

The lady at the pie shop says we only have two little hills to worry about. Douglas and Lowenda, a couple in their eighties, finish off cold coffee in ceramic mugs and shake their heads about how burned out Burns has become since the mill closed in 1980. Then they tell me the story again.

Right out of Burns we're sailing (we must have had a tailwind, we averaged like 18 mph) and see a red outback with a bunch of bikes on top. 

At this point we haven't seen a floor pump since Sacramento three weeks ago, so when we see it pulled up ahead, we figured we stop and asked. Mmm we rode up all excited to say hello but then they're making out in the front seat and the guy looks up at us kinda horrified. We sped off feeling pretty red in the cheeks too. 

At the first rest stop into Stinking Water, though, there's a car with a pretty-looking bike mounted on top so I dropped in for take two. Turns out, Colin had taking Adventure Cycling's Northern Tier across the country a couple years back. So we talked for a good while and he was kind enough to donate his mini pressure gauge to the cause. 

My knee started acting up for the first time the whole trip. Just a pain on the inside of my right kneecap. We'll see. 

Stinking Water and Drinking Water are definitely not two little hills. They are very large, very steep ones. The views of the valleys, their perfect rows and pristine tractors, those were good though. The downhill was almost worth it. 

Despite the winds/grades, I signed a lease in Ithaca along the way! Finally have my own apartment, so if you're ever in the area, come hang out.

It was getting late in the evening when we pulled up to Juntura to fill up our water and find out directions to the hot springs. The last two miles were all headwind and no fun, and we took the wrong turnoff the first time so we ended up going on this dirt road all the way around the outside of the river.

I bumpy road kicked a shirt I had hanging off the back of my bicycle, so I ran to go grab it while Rachel went to find the actual entrance. On my way back, I ran into Tom, an older, fit guy who crossed the cracked and blocked off concrete bridge we were avoiding. He helped me carry my bike across and then Rachel and I played tag trying to find each other, but eventually got all the bikes and gear onto the correct side of the river (future campers/ hot spring goers, take the highway exit furthest from Juntura, it's a gravel road). 

A real iron skillet! 

Tom offered to cook us dinner and we were a little wary but are learning to accept the abrupt kindness of strangers. And he had an incredible bounty in his camper van. He was on his way home from a tour of Oregon and California, and the ex-heart surgeon-turned-distiller was something of a foodie too. So he fed us dried meats, pungent cheese, raw almonds, fresh bread and then fried up some home-grown potatoes. Plus he had some of the best lettuce I've ever tasted. I don't know if I've been starved of vegetables or something but this lettuce tasted sweet and full, texture soft but still with some crunch. It was perfect. We stayed up until 1 am with him, talking and talking about politics and his kids and food. The moon rose and lit up the whole inlet. 

Rumor has it, the hot springs are haunted, but bellies and hearts full, we slept easy and late. 

Day 18: Never want to give you up (somewhere in the desert to Burns)

Out of every kind of environment, deserts set me most at peace. They seem to absorb chaos and turn down the pace of life a little, each plant and animal balanced precisely in the scheme. And it's quiet, quieter than forests and oceans. (Except for the cars rumbling by). 

The Oregon outback is an especially full one: cows graze and wild antelope startle amid (relatively) dense shrubbery. It's not as open or sparse as Joshua tree or the Mojave. I prefer my deserts emptier, but still I took today slow. Watched a hawk for a long time floating up and forward on thermal currents, seemingly effortless looking, though I'm sure it was hunting. 

Just past the alkaline lake, I saw Rachel stopped ahead. The side of the road had just turned to sand dunes. Turns out, a lady we had found on couchsurfing but who hadn't responded in a couple of days recognized us. She was headed out of town, but offered her home as a place to stay, the key hidden in the yard so we could get in. It was one of the first - but definitely not last - moments of serendipity and kindness on this adventure. 

As I got closer and closer to the end of the desert, closer to water and to civilization, I slowed down even more. I was so reluctant to leave this place that I had been so afraid of. And three miles from the border I'm pedaling 7 miles an hour.. Half my usual speed.. And Rachel is ahead eating lunch at the one-building town at the border, and these frantic antelope bound past me on the outside of the barbed wire fence that lined the roads to keep the cows in. They looked ethereal and worried when they turned back to watch what I would do with my camera. I saw four antelope in the distance, behind the fence; no doubt these two were trying to rejoin the herd. 

Eventually hunger bested me and I met Rachel at the picnic benches in Riley, right below a big sign that says "woah you missed Riley". It's a two building town - the post office is across the street - so the self-deprivation was well-received.

Marc Delval, Riley just a smidgen in his roll around the world 

But then up rolls this older guy and he's got the telltale load, four bags and a sunburn, and he sees us and stops too. His name was Marc Delval and he was just a few months away from finishing a world tour. He didn't speak much English but he showed us a book with all the different tours and paths he'd taken. He reminded me of Peter Smokka, who I met and took on a bike ride and wrote a feature on at the Davis Enterprise. And now that I'm on this tour I am horrified I insisted on that bike ride. The last thing I want on my day off is to have to talk to someone for three hours *on my damn bicycle*. Oh well, live and let live.

The rest of the way was just shoulders filled from white line to dirt with rumble strips. So we had to ride in the road, and it was two-lane highway, lots of semis, hit it right and rush hour. I tried to listen to Startup but couldn't hear much.

At Kelly's house in Burns that night we tried to set up some hammocks but it rained. I got really homesick. Reminded me of summer camps wen I was little. I loved the idea of leaving home but hated being away from it. It hurts right in my primal gut. See I had three weeks at home before leaving and hadn't lived at home for years before and I'm leaving in a rush right after this for grad school and I love being home. So I cried a little and looked up flights from Boise and slept badly. 

Listening to: Startup