Blog By Bike

TGIT

2010-12-31T11:21:00.084-05:00

It’s December 31, 2010. The last day of the year in which I turned 30 years old and spent my summer cycling across North America.

A lot of my friends have lamented turning 30. And it had me wondering: when did getting another year of life become a bad thing? Even if it's the aging process that we specifically dread, I could bet that anyone who dies young would gladly trade wrinkles and grey hairs for extra years.

There’s a feeling I had on the roads between Astoria, Oregon, and Portsmouth, New Hampshire. It was a sensation in which the days were undefined, separate, distinct. I didn’t think in weeks or months, but solely in “new days”. Our routes took us out of blurred hotel parking lots and into unfamiliar territory. There was no doubling back to a point of origin. Every length of road and approaching bend was a blank canvas, drawing itself ahead of us in rays of color and light.

That was exciting.

There was no empty feeling that sometimes lingers on Sunday evenings as another weekend winds down. It was not a cycle of inconsequential, sluggish Monday mornings, followed by a week mirrored in monotonous routines. There was no TGIF.

That was refreshing.

Time had no symmetry on the road.

That was nice.

How do I get that feeling back?

That's the million-dollar question.

I received an email from my friend Monique recently. It read: "Katie, do you still enjoy your days instead of rushing through them? I know that was an important key on your cycling tour."

"I'm trying," I wrote back, to which she responded with a sad emoticon.

"That's life," I replied. I paused and stared at my fingers resting on the keypad and then I typed: "It's hard to hold onto."

Some of my fellow cyclists from the America By Bicycle "Across America North" tour mentioned gloomy notions of returning to our separate realities. But while our extended vacation from the normal day-to-day was a fully-supported cycling utopia of sorts, I try not to let myself view the experience entirely euphorically. The elements were not always pleasant. My body developed a variety of chronic ailments. The hotel beds were not always comfortable, and since I was sharing triple-room accommodations with two other cyclists, I was on a creaky rollaway every third night. It was the hardest, most physically demanding and muscularly excruciating thing I’ve ever done in my life.

And it was the best.

Now that it’s over, I feel myself lingering on good memories, like watching soft breezes roll fields of wheat in glistening waves or listening to a lone hawk cry majestically as I reached a mountain summit. But I have to purposely recall the difficult moments, like the sudden hailstorm in Rapid City or the sweltering heat on the day we rode into Sioux Falls or the torrential downpours the morning we cycled into Minnesota. Or the way my leg muscles burned on mountain ascents in Oregon, Wyoming, South Dakota, New York, Vermont and New Hampshire. I don’t want to unrealistically romanticize the overall experience because the beautiful moments strengthened me spiritually and the hard times strengthened me mentally. Both have equal value.

And since it’s been over, it has been a whirlwind trying to re-settle into my "real life." I returned to New York City in the best physical shape of my life, yet the emotional disorientation left me feeling unsure of myself. We had been prepped by the ABB staff to anticipate some mild depression associated with the readjustment of endorphins when we suddenly stopped cycling 60-100 miles a day. However, I was caught off guard by the amount of anxiety I felt in returning home. It was even slightly overwhelming to look into a closet and have to think about what to wear instead of just throwing on padded lycra shorts and a jersey.

I’ve been at work for several months now, and it has been harder to transition back into a role as a proficient executive assistant than it was it become a capable cyclist. Returning to the office, I was rusty. And it showed. Lots of little mistakes and more than just a few big ones. It's not that I could no longer see the value in my role at the company, I just see so much more beyond that now.

When I arrived 20 minutes late to the office one morning, rushing along the congested streets and into one of Manhattan's high rises, I glanced nervously at my watch. It was 9:20am. I suddenly felt a lump rising in my throat and felt my eyes misting over.

On the road, 9:20 meant that I had been cycling for three hours, watching a golden sunrise paint the horizon in dramatic layers of yellow and orange. Sunrises lasted longer on the road.

Here, in the “real world,” 9:20am meant that I had raced out of my apartment without eating breakfast, scrambled with a disgruntled mass of commuters through the subway tunnels and city streets like a ping pong ball, and was feverishly checking voicemail and skimming emails for anything that might have required attention 20 minutes ago. There was no sunrise.

Yet my cycling tour had been a “real world”, too. A very real one that was beginning to feel more and more like a fantasy every day. Returning to my New Yorker life, I felt buried in a mass of metal and concrete in my beloved city. While standing at the copier machine, I often glanced out of our office’s sprawling windows and looked for flags lining the Hudson River so that I could gauge the wind direction and speed. I snuck peeks at my fellow cyclists' tour blogs and online photo albums in between assignments, reminiscing about the summer in between phone calls and emails. Whenever I was a passenger in a car, it took awhile to stop staring at the edge of the road, assessing how I would navigate the potholes and debris on the shoulder if I were on a bicycle. I yearned for the click of cranksets and the hum of spinning tires. I missed the unfamiliar road. I missed the thrill of the unknown. I missed my roadmates. And sometimes I wondered, “Did I really do it?”

I still look at Maddy, idling in the hallway closet for the winter, and it's incredible to realize that I crossed North America on those two wheels. When I first got home, the achievement seemed to cast a lackluster across the other areas of my life that had previously held more significance.

New Jersey Mark alleviated some of the commuter stress in a place where I had once delighted in the New Yorker cliché of pounding the pavement in stilettos, dark glasses shading my eyes from the sunrays bouncing off the steel towers of Midtown, a Starbucks latte in one hand and a designer handbag slung over my shoulder. He drove into the city one day and brought me a used cruiser. An old, rusty, clanking bicycle that I absolutely adore. Within 24 hours of receiving it, I was cycling over the Brooklyn Bridge and into the streets of Manhattan, transforming my morning and evening commutes into my favorite parts of the day.

I could have created an entire blog featuring cycling commuters. There were men in three-piece suits, women in wool skirts and knee-high boots. Baskets, baby seats, brief cases, messenger bags and bells. I even saw a man in a pinstripe ensemble, toting a woman in a blazer and pencil skirt. She was standing behind him on rear axle pegs with her Louis Vuitton purse hanging across her back. The novelty of my transformed commute lasted until mid-November when the winter temperatures made it inconvenient and uncomfortable to cycle 4.5 miles in office attire.

However, my love affair with the city was firmly rekindled as the winter months approached - thanks largely in part to the cruiser from New Jersey Mark. That and the fact that simply living here increases the likelihood that old friends will be in the city at some point - and often sooner rather than later - just because it’s New York. In the last three months alone, in addition to New Jersey Mark, I've seen Toronto Mark, Joe, Canada Jeff, Andrew, Sandy, Leo, Margot and Gary - some of them more than once. And not all of them live in the northeast - or in the country for that matter.

For all the things I love about New York - all the things that brought me here on a whim and that I hope will keep me here for many years to come - there is one aspect of the energetic, fast-paced city that drove me to find an adventure like cycling across North America. Or - really - it was the final straw in a driving force that was propelled by the passage of 30 years that have gone by in a wink.

Time.

I don’t want it all to be over so quickly. I don't want it to pass insignificantly.

And time is not more fleeting anywhere else than in the hustle and bustle of New York. The day after I dipped Maddy's front wheel into the Atlantic, I could feel the seconds hasten as soon as I caught my first glimpse of the city skyline. I hadn't seen its bold, jagged outline in nearly eight weeks, and I'm hesitant to admit that I was slightly intimidated by the sights and sounds that had only ever electrified and comforted me. I knew I would not - and could not - retain my renaissance of routine life here, but there is one thing I won't do ...

I will never again grumble about long days as if having a long day is a bad thing. Hard days, sure. Those are inevitable and shamelessly “admit-able”. But I'll never respond to inquiries on my emotional state with: "I had a long day."

Similarly to lamenting birthdays and aging, when have we ever really yearned for short days that fast-forward the moments of our lives in a blurred, speeding reel? Especially for those in nations of privilege - where so many illusions of entitlement exist - time is entitled to no one. To not take advantage of the opportunity to simply enjoy the time we have is the biggest waste of all, particularly if we are blessed enough to live relatively comfortable lives. Whether we recognize that fact or not, boredom is a choice. We - especially Americans - essentially must choose to be bored. And I choose not to be.

In high school, I spent a semester volunteering in a nursing home in Weaverville, North Carolina. I have a vivid memory of an old woman laying in her bed, staring at the ceiling, laboring to breathe. As vivid as the image is, it had been nearly forgotten until I was cycling alone and letting my mind wander on a road in Wyoming over a decade later. And suddenly, I imagined myself in her place, a prisoner in my aging body, perhaps recalling a lazy afternoon 40 or 50 years earlier in my life. And I swear that I nearly felt myself yearning for some generic, lazy, boring day as if I could no longer experience the comfort of it.

It was an epiphany.

I don't actually know if that old woman in my memory was harboring such regrets, but I know that I don't want to near the end of my life and realize that I did it all wrong. Some of it - sure. But not all of it.

Before I chose the manner in which I would honor my 30th birthday - and long before that Wyoming ephiphany - I only knew I wanted to start filling my life with things I wouldn’t normally do. Things that are a little nuts – like skydive or swim with sharks or move to New York City without an apartment or a job or, say, try to cross North America as a novice cyclist with minimal training.

Even then, I prepared as much as I could in the year leading up to my 2010 transcontinental journey (as I had also done in the year leading up to my 2006 move to New York) because I choose to seek thrills as often - and as responsibly - as possible. Responsible thrills may seem like an oxymoron. Monique calls me a calculated risk taker. Let's face it, I'm not going to "live everyday as if it were my last". That's just not realistic. And that's how some people lose everything.

But my desire for thrills was most clearly defined on day 23 of the tour when I was browsing a rack of greeting cards at the famous Wall Drug in South Dakota. From that day forward, the words of Neale Donald Walsch etched themselves into the fabric of my journey and the very essence of my existence: “Life begins at the end of your comfort zone.”

That sentence essentially summed up exactly what I had gone out there to do. Thrills - even the responsible ones - don’t frequently reside where it’s comfortable.

The conclusion of my cycling journey - and even the self-reflection and personal insight I discovered along the way - did not bring all trials and suffering to a final resolution. There are still anxieties. Discomforts. Cranky mornings. Rough days. Sleepless nights. Worries. Dilemmas. Obstacles. Heartache.

The pattern of my life will not likely circle back in agreeable symmetry the way it often does in movies and novels. Unlike a great story, it's not the ending that is the most important in a great life, but rather it's the fact that we existed at all.

This isn’t “Eat Pray Love”. I didn’t sail off into an Indonesian sunset with Terrence in a happily-ever-after moment - though he did propose along a rocky shoreline in Portsmouth about five hours later (I said yes).

And at the end of my cross-country cycling tour, America By Bicycle's mantra proved right. The worst day on my bicycle was better than my best day in the office. It made me more aware of what's valuable and what is not. Even as I concluded my long days by bicycle and rejoined the fast-paced corporate world, it's important to resist rushing through my days and weeks and months and years. Queue another cliché: begin each day as if it were on purpose.

Well, try anyway.

At the uncalculated risk of sounding like a self-help guide to finding inspiration and motivation: seek pleasure when appropriate, relax and reflect when you can, try not to fear failure, recognize mistakes as soon as possible, and appreciate the days you are granted regardless of circumstance. Ninety-nine percent of the time, bad times could always be worse.

Find something that lengthens your days. That makes you savor time. That lets you feel moments. Find a way to Thank God It's Today. Even if it's something small and only lasts for a moment. Take that moment to recognize that you exist - even when battling frigid winds on Eleventh Avenue during the weekday commute to the recesses of Chelsea or facing a barrage of unending emails in a sterile cubicle.

And sometimes when I’m in the crowded subway, trying to turn my face as far from a stranger’s armpit as possible, or I’m arguing with Terrence about trivial couple’s woes, or I’m tackling a mountain of paperwork on my desk or standing on a 60-person checkout line at Trader Joe’s, an image from my cross-country journey or a funny moment with my roadmates will sometimes emerge in the chaos. And I smile.

Maine Dedication

2010-08-10T13:51:00.012-04:00

Before this journey began, I had hopes of what I would find on the road between Astoria and Portsmouth. Challenges. Personal fulfillment. Adventure. Extraordinary moments.

I tried to keep my expectations of the tour very vague with the overall goal to just be. Just be for 50 days and see what happens.

"You came out here to just be," Mike Munk said to me on Day 47, "And somehow, you became."

But there was something else that I would find that I had never even expected.

Somewhere between Oregon and New Hampshire, I forgave myself.

Day 50: Manchester, NH, to Portsmouth, NH

2010-08-09T23:27:00.340-04:00

Today's Mileage: 61
Average Speed: 13.5 mph
Maximum Speed: 32.6 mph
Moving Time: 4:29

I thought this blog was going to be more about what I saw along the way, but it ended up being more about the people who saw with me along the way. Fifty days ago, there were 50 people whose existence was irrelevant to my life. Now I can't imagine not knowing them.

When I awoke on day 50, sixty-one miles from the Atlantic Ocean, a montage of memories began running through my head as I performed my morning hotel rituals for the last time. Dressing in cycling attire. Applying sun block. Filling water bottles. Loading luggage. Checking tire pressure. Securing my route sheet to my handlebars.

Maddy and I glided leisurely through the hotel parking lot and joined our fellow cyclists for the last 61 miles of our 3,690-mile journey. There was no urgency. No stampede for luggage load. A longer break at the SAG stop and an even longer one at a bakery another 15 miles up the road. There was no rush since we had plenty of time to cycle 50 miles to the "staging area" in a high school parking lot, where we'd wait for everyone to convene before storming the beach.

But even beyond that, we were savoring our pedal strokes, our conversations, our laughter. Mike Munk had said something at the banquet the night before that had resonated with all of us: "This entire group will never be together in the same room - or on the same road - ever again."

I simultaneously felt present and absent. The only way I can hope it makes sense is to describe it as an out-of-body experience. I was there, cycling alongside Andrew and Sandy between Manchester and Portsmouth, but I was also on all of the other roads and miles between Oregon and New Hampshire.

I was timidly pedaling out of Astoria on a cool, foggy morning, trying to keep the 3,690 miles ahead from psyching me out of my saddle. I was wobbling over my first suspension bridge, my heart pounding in my chest, chills tickling the bottoms of my feet. Sandy and Leo were passing me on an Oregon road, and Sandy was chanting, "Gears for Katie! Gears for Katie!" I was making a left at the top of a mountain ridge, marveling at the terrain's immediate transition from pine forest to high-altitude dessert. I was gripping my brakes, feeling my braid whip my back on the twisting descent into Kah-nee-ta. I was balanced on my bicycle, mouth half-open, staring at 62-year old Ellen as she rocketed past me on a screaming decent from Ochoco Pass in The Cascades. I was pausing at the top of Keyes Summit, looking back at how far I had climbed and letting myself cry. I was ascending roughly 2000 feet to Oregon summits at over 5000 feet ... three times. I was watching other cyclists slow down so that Carl could finally have a chance to yell "on your left"; if there was one memory along this trip that should be set to enchanting music that tugs at your heartstrings, that was it. I was looking up at an enormous Idaho sky. I was cycling back to Shoshone Falls with Andrew. My teeth were chattering behind a UHaul truck during a chilly morning luggage load. I was exploring Register Rock. I was cycling in my first paceline with The Thoroughbreds. I was standing along a fence with Alex and Helen, watching a mare give birth to a dead foal in a pasture. I was laughing through swollen eyes at Jay and Billy Bob Nana after my Achilles Tendon became too inflamed to finish Day 15. I was staring up at a road sign for Hot Springs: Population 1. I was nearly falling off my saddle with hysterical laughter over the tale of Featherlegs and Dangerous Dick. I was looking up into the stone faces of our former presidents at Mount Rushmore. I was ducking for cover from a hailstorm with Andrew. I was dodging grasshoppers and shivering with disgust as a South Dakota road began to sound like a bowl of Rice Krispies. I was braving 20- to 30-mph headwinds along a 20-mile stretch of highway with Toronto Mark, Canada Jeff and Joe. Alison and I were singing on a rolling back road half way between the Pacific and the Atlantic: "Oh! We're half way there! Oh! Living on a prayer!"

I was chatting with Margot and Margo about life on mile after mile of a golden prairie. I was struggling in sweltering heat, praying for my rear end and my saddle to come to a comfortable understanding. I was dressed like an employee in a meatpacking plant, braving miles of torrential downpours in my rain gear. I was achieving a personal best as we cycled into Mankato - 100 miles in five hours. My muscles were straining and my bones were creaking after back-to-back centuries. I was trying to get creative with my handlebar positioning when the craggy roads in Minnesota felt like they were chipping away my bones. I was crossing over the Mississippi River, awed that we had cycled there ... from Oregon. I was coasting through small towns and exploring old train tunnels. Maddy and I were boarding a ferry at Lake Michigan. I was giggling as Alex rapped 'Slow Motion' at a SAG stop. I was rolling along a back road, chasing the shadows of clouds, watching the ribbons of sunlight and shadow pass over me and slide up the road, enveloping the adjacent fields and the other cyclists ahead. I was cycling over the bridge to Canada. I was crossing the 3000-mile mark with The Bad Pennies. I was listening to Canadian crickets start their day. I was laughing hysterically with Beth and watching fireworks with Joe and Gerard at Niagara Falls. I was remembering Rickey. I was cycling along the Erie Canal and hugging my parents in Liverpool. I was shooting photos in the rain with my new waterproof camera. I was pedaling through Latham, NY, already missing my fellow travelers. I was ascending picturesque summits in Vermont and laughing at "FM" with Texas Tom. I was standing on the side of the road, watching ABB Jeff, Canada Jeff and Joe fix my first flat. I was listening to Andrew tell the Shakespearean tale of the day during empty segments of lonely roads.

And suddenly, there was an enormous blue ocean dominating the horizon.

Kim told Beth that he was cycling across North America for the third time because of the incredible high he gets when the Atlantic Ocean appears after pedaling nearly 4,000 miles to see it.

"When you see that ocean," he had said, "It's unlike anything you've ever felt. It's a high ... And it lasts for years."

This was the second time in 50 days that we had all cycled together as a group. Our collective mass of red, white and blue America By Bicycle jerseys, led by a police unit, drew spectators. Many stood at the road's edge, to watch and applaud.

And when I saw it - when I saw that ocean - something that I've never felt before filled my entire being. Just like Kim had said, it was unlike anything I've ever experienced. It simultaneously consumed me and set me free. Imagine heart pounding, goosebumps, chills, calm, serenity, peace, noise, silence - all at once. It was such an overload to all of my senses that I felt everything and nothing. I think I caught a glimpse of true, raw beauty. Can something be so wonderful that it hurts?

Pedaling the final mile to the beach, I was looking out over the shimmering waves, watching my entire journey condense on top of itself. All of the long, hard, intense, spectacular days became a flip book of memories. I tried to process that I was staring at an ocean that I had cycled 3,690 miles to see. That I had cycled here from the Pacific. Through Oregon. Idaho. South Dakota. Minnesota. Wisconsin. Michigan. Canada. New York. Vermont. New Hampshire. It was too much. My breath caught in my chest. I cried silently as we pedaled along the coastline.

My mind thinks in logic. Grasping the enormity of this feat is like trying to believe in an afterlife, which is already a tough notion for me to process. But the moment like the one I experienced when I arrived at the Atlantic Ocean made me wonder ... where do all of these emotions - all of this energy - where does it go?

There has to be a place where you can take it with you.

As we rounded a bend and entered the parking lot to the beach, we began to hear cheers. There they were. Family and friends, many holding signs high over their heads or waving flags excitedly. And there was Terrence, arms poised with his camera, capturing our final pedal strokes to the water.

We removed our cleats, sinking our toes into the warm sand as we carried our bicycles to the water's edge and dipped our front wheels into the surf. Matt, our youngest rider at age 17, was selected to pour the ocean water we brought from the Pacific into the Atlantic. Hooting, hollering, laughter, tears. Euphoria.

Ankle-deep in Atlantic Ocean water, I leaned on my bicycle, watching Beth and Teresa splash and play in the surf, diving under the waves, jumping up and down and hugging each other over and over. I was too far away to hear their screaming, but their mouths were open, an expression that accompanies the sound of blissful, wailing joy. I was unaware that as my mind took its own mental snapshots of their moment, Terrence was capturing my moment capturing theirs.

If I can find a way to hold onto it, it will be one of the moments I take with me.

Along this journey, I had hoped to slow down my mornings, lengthen my afternoons and feel moments while I am in them. I did achieve that. I had long days. Refreshing moments where I looked at the time and it was only 9:30 in the morning. Excruciating moments when I could feel every muscle fiber in my legs. Exhilarating moments when I looked back and saw how far I had come. Peaceful moments, where I was all alone, cycling under a huge sky, letting my thoughts fill the enormous landscape around me.

Yet time does not let you hold onto it.

Even as I attempted in vain to stretch moments by realizing them, those moments still passed. Somehow, 50 days has managed to fit into one, long blink of my eye. And then it's gone. Time is fleeting, no matter what you do to fill it. And that's what ultimately becomes important. How you fill it.

There is a huge world out there. Wide, open and beautiful. Bigger still than what I saw on one route between Oregon and New Hampshire. There's even more to see and so many different ways to see it. It's a shame to spend your life passing it all up. Exploring, marveling, laughing, crying, seeing, hearing, feeling, believing, becoming, living.

Whatever those ways may be, sign me up.

We only get to do this once.

Day 50: In Photos

2010-08-09T23:01:00.028-04:00

Click here to view my entire photo album of Day 50 [TBA].

The Ride Leader's Official Report:

Portsmouth, Day 50!!! We're Here!!!

Across America North:

Portsmouth photos

Day 50: The People

2010-08-09T22:57:00.030-04:00

New Hampshire Dedication

2010-08-09T00:01:00.090-04:00

We entered New Hampshire, the final state that we would cross on our transcontinental cycling tour. Before we even cycled over the border, I already knew who it was for. New Hampshire is dedicated to Terrence.

The tumultuous, emotional rollercoaster of a relationship that Terrence ended up having with me is not what he signed up for when we became friends in 2002. It began innocently platonic - I mean, he's two days older than my younger brother. Even though our age difference is less than three years, the sibling age reference created little foundation for intimacy.

As a member of Rickey's former college basketball team and a good friend of mine, Terrence held fast in his vigil by my side when Rickey died in 2003. On that first night of the rest of my life without Rickey, Terrence sat in the living room with my roommates all night long while I laid motionless in my bed between brief fits of tears and even briefer moments of restless sleep.

That day, after I received the devastating phone call from Rickey's father and news spread across campus, Terrence was at the foot of my bed immediately after basketball practice. Unlike everyone else who tried to touch me, hug me or offer consoling advice that day, he sat quietly in the evening darkness of my room for what may have been an hour. I can't remember how long. I know that he listened to me cry. That he listened to me breathe. And then he listened to me cry again. I know that just before he left my room and joined the growing group of friends and a few university staff gathering in the living room that he said something I will never forget. I have carried it with me ever since.

The next morning, he peeked into my bedroom just before he left for the team's Canadian basketball tour and continued to check in the entire time he was gone. He called every morning and every night. He sent letters and postcards. And when the team returned a few weeks later, I could feel him reading my moods. He and I still wonder how that innate need to take care of me sprung out of nowhere.

In the years that followed, Terrence willingly made himself my sandbag, and tried to catch me every time the storm of regret sent me careening headfirst. I'm sure there were many eyebrows raised when people perceived that he was filling Rickey's shoes. I never actually heard what words may have churned through the gossip mill of that small college town, but I knew what it looked like. Here was an apparent replacement. The check lists matched. Student-athlete. Basketball player. Tall. Black.

Check. Check. Check. And check.

They even look alike. Not as much in physical appearance as in expression. They have analogous mannerisms. Similar swagger. Down-south Georgia boys with their baseball caps turned back or loosely propped on top of their heads and cocked to the side. College-educated, with the ability to switch between street lingo and classroom vernacular with ease. When Terrence walked around a corner wearing a black wave cap, I often saw Rickey for a split second. And as much as it could sting in those first milliseconds, it was immediately soothing. I found it so comforting that I didn't care what anyone thought. Everything hurt. Bad. I sought relief. Terrence was relief.

Terrence's hero badge and white horse didn't come without burdens. He was often weighed down by my panic attacks, mood swings and misdirected verbal lashings. Over the years, I began to exalt Rickey's memory, glorifying him into a faultless version of selective memories, making him falsely perfect. Erasing his mistakes and the decisions he made that would eventually take his life. As a result, Terrence often endured heated episodes in which he had to firmly remind me that he wasn't Rickey.

Admittedly, our relationship began blindly, hastily. My closest friends warned me that I was jumping in too soon. That I needed to take time to deal with myself. That I could end up hurting Terrence once the sting of losing Rickey subsided. I ignored the risks. So did Terrence.

I was dealing with my own demons and in no realistic position to contribute positively to someone else's life. When faced with the challenge to be there for Rickey at a time when he needed me most, I had failed miserably and finitely. When acknowledging his problems, I had offered flighty ultimatums. It's not that I feel responsible for his actions. It's that I regret being embarrassed by his addiction. I regret not doing more. Even if nothing had worked, at least I could live with knowing that I had really tried.

For me, failure is not in lack of success, but in lack of attempt.

And thus, Terrence has had to deal with my often overbearing, aggravating, unsolicited need to try to help him with any challenges or fix any hardships he faces, no matter how small - lest I face the remorse of immutable failure again.

But through the storm and against all odds, Terrence gave me the space to find myself so that I could eventually see him for who he really is and love him for the sake of love and not the sake of comfort. And - together - we've found good times, joy and laughter. I have a support system to realize my goals. To move to New York City. To cycle across North America. To wake up each day and rejoice in its existence. To find humor in the smallest of places. To remind myself that there are certain things in life that weren't my fault - no matter how hard it can sometimes be for me to believe it.

And Terrence has given me someone to cheer on as he pursues his dreams. To look forward to the future. To love - not with the blind, reckless abandon of two naive kids, but with experience and wisdom for purposeful growth and poignant perseverance. It's often the timing of things that can make all the difference.

Regret leaves a bruise that is slow to heal, but Terrence helps me live through it and love my loved ones better. Is he my crutch? Maybe. If I'm going to be fair and truly introspective, I have to admit that. But he helped me move forward so that I could walk on my own. And now that I can, I prefer to walk beside him.

So while some may have perceived that Terrence stepped into Rickey's shoes, I know the truth. That he simply picks up the shoes and shines them when they're dusty.

The last state on my cycling tour is for you, Terrence. You've been at the end of everything for the last seven years. I'm on my way. On my own. Glad you're here. Love now and always.

Vermont Dedication

2010-08-08T23:14:00.008-04:00

Vermont is a small state and quite possibly the nation's best kept secret. It's a place of natural beauty and unexpected splendor.

Authentic. Unassuming. Sincere.

Kevin, you once said that we would be the couples who go the distance and have a great time the entire way.

I believed you then ... but I know it now.

Brody, I don't think of you and Kev as two of Terrence's best friends. I think of you both as two of Terrence's brothers.

It is rare to find friendships that behold the levels of authentic character, genuine camaraderie and sincere pride that the three of you share. When I think of you - and the few other men you keep close - I am reminded of a famous quote by Oscar Wilde:

"Anyone can sympathise with the sufferings of a friend, but it requires a very fine nature to sympathise with a friend's success."

But selfishly, I delight most in the fact that you both found your matches in two incredible women that I absolutely adore.

When I think of the six of us, I think of one of Dr. Seuss' rhymes.

Oh, the places you'll go!

And I went through Vermont for all of you.

Day 49: Brattleboro, VT, to Manchester, NH

2010-08-08T22:45:00.033-04:00

Today's Mileage: 81
Average Speed: 15.4 mph
Max Speed: 39 mph
Moving Time: 5:23
Blog & Ride Details

Joe recently passed the "no flats" torch to me and Gerard ... and then he blogged about it! The biggest "Sports Illustrated Cover Jinx"! The ultimate flat faux pas! If you haven't had a flat by Day 30, 40 or 47 of your cycling trek across North America, you don't say it out loud! And you don't write about it, Joe!

Individuals or teams who appear on the cover of Sports Illustrated will subsequently be jinxed. It's scientific fact.

And for those cyclists who haven't had a flat by Day 47 of their 50-day tour and are featured on Joe's blog ...

Day 49:

Day 49 also included an optional climb up Sullivan Road, a 10-25% grade mountain road between Brattleboro and Manchester. Sullivan Road used to be part of the route, but ABB recently rerouted the trek at the base of the mountain.

There was a lot of talk about climbing up Sullivan this morning and even more chatter about bragging rights. I can't believe that we are now seeking out mountains to pedal over. If any of the climbs in Oregon had been optional, that would have been a no-brainer for me. A "hell no" brainer.

But now I feel like a cyclist - not just somebody who rides a bicycle. During this morning's ride, Sandy said to me, "As you flew by me on that hill back there, I thought ... New York City is going to be too small for Katie and Maddy ... That was the exact thought that ran through my head."

It was a reminder that my return to New York City was eminent. However, cycling out of Brattleboro, the mountainous terrain kept me in the moment, considering only that which was 10-20 feet in front of me.

As I pedaled along, I was trying to determine if it was even really that important to me to "conquer Sullivan Road". Terrence was waiting for me to arrive in Manchester and veering off route for the climb would add extra time in the saddle, especially since I'd have to turn around at the top and cycle back the way I came to get back on route. Did I truly want the personal achievement and thrill of reaching the top or did I just want to be able to tell other people that I did it?

After all, when something is truly just for you, there is no need to tell others about it.

As I approached the turn-off to Sullivan Road, I made my decision.

More images from Brattleboro to Manchester:

Click here to view my entire photo album of Day 49 [TBA].

The Ride Leader's Official Report:
Manchester, Day 49
Across America North:
Manchester photos

New York Dedication

2010-08-07T21:14:00.008-04:00

How could I dedicate New York State to anyone else

but my New York City girls?

There are two movies in which I will readily admit to crying. Steel Magnolias when I was 9 years old and Sex and the City: The Movie when I was 28.

In 2008, Sex and the City: The Movie was everything I thought it would be in a New York that is almost everything I had hoped for. I know that sounds incredibly corny, but there's a reason why Hallmark has become the most popular way to show you care. Hallmark sells corny almost as good as Carrie sells cliché.

Our plan was to avoid the larger opening-weekend crowds by purchasing advanced tickets for the 10am showing on Saturday at Loews 84th Street 6 on the Upper West Side. To secure good seats, we arrived early just in case, but we discovered that even 40 blocks north of Times Square was not a haven from the masses. At 9:15am, there was a line for the ticket counter and a line for the cinema. Groups of girls, who all had the same idea. Some prepared better than others, unpacking bagels and cappuccinos as they took their seats.

Ready and willing to overlook any of the movie's flaws for another chance to watch the next chapters of the characters' lives unfold, my eyes began to well up as soon as the familiar theme song announced the opening credits. I looked around, feeling embarrassed in the darkness and saw the silhouettes of other 20-somethings wiping their eyes. A remix of the show's theme song continued, and the voiceover of Carrie Bradshaw reintroduced each of the characters one by one. All of my friends were crying by the time she got to Miranda.

Even reviews by male critics were giving the movie its share of kudos:
"You want to know about “Sex and the City: The Movie”? Here’s the bottom line: It’s going to be a very, very big hit. I saw it on Saturday night at a private screening. Women wept, cheered. It’s the Neiman Marcus catalog on steroids ..." [Read more]

Sure, the SATC lives are not exactly the lives that my friends and I currently lead and had once imagined before we arrived in New York. But we see versions of ourselves in them. And though our realistic visions are not entirely adorned in Gucci or Chanel (but rather sprinkles here and there), our relationships are mirrored just as richly. For our clique and hundreds of cliques all over Manhattan, this is our New York. As the movie ended, Ra stretched her arms around us and cried, "I love you girls." I began to ball, but tried to disguise it in the darkness by laughing.

Rather than allow ourselves to be completely taken in by the fairytale of happy endings, where all of us achieve everything we've ever wanted, we enjoyed it for what it was: a movie. We knew that the reality of New York City waited just outside the cinema doors, but we had to let ourselves be swept up in the moment, and we embraced it.

A new line had already formed outside of the entrance as we emptied the theater, crying and laughing and temporarily seeing New York through Carrie-colored glasses. There were a few sprinkles of men gazing about reluctantly and obviously bewildered by the effects of estrogen mixed with SATC. But mostly, there were women huddled together, anxiously anticipating their own moment with Carrie, Miranda, Charlotte and Samantha. On our faces, they could see that the movie was going to be everything they were hoping it would be.

And so we left the theater and walked out onto Broadway, proud to be the ultimate cliché. Spring in New York. Cliques of girls leaving Sex and the City: The Movie. Heading to brunch. Arms linked. Laughter through tears. Friendships in full bloom.

[Continued from Roger Friedman's review]

"... But “SATC” is also not a pratfall comedy. It has nothing in common with “The Devil Wears Prada,” for example. While the caricatures in that film were hilarious, the people in “SATC” are drawn more seriously, perhaps more richly. Also, we know them, and they know each other. They are not competing among themselves for anything. Rather, they are moving forward as a single organism with four personas, for survival.

What’s kind of interesting in “SATC” is that no villain is set up for the women to overcome. No one is standing in the way of each woman’s happiness except themselves. I kind of liked that. The formula is gone. Carrie is not vying for Big’s attention with a rival. Samantha is not shooing off Smith’s girlfriends. The problems are in the relationships, not outside of them. It’s refreshing."

Day 48: Latham, NY, to Brattleboro, VT

2010-08-07T20:26:00.005-04:00

Today's Mileage: 77
Average Speed: 15.8 mph
Max Speed: 43 mph
Moving Time: 5:02
Blog & Ride Details

I really felt incredible today. Maybe because seven years ago today, I was attending a funeral. Anything feels better than that.

Sometimes I would enter Rickey's dorm room in Leatherwood Hall at Western Carolina University, see him laying motionless on his bed, know he was pretending to be asleep. I'd walk over, flick his ear, insert the eraser of my No. 2 pencil up one of his nostrils, tickle the bottom of his feet. No response.

One time, I leaned over and whispered, "The water softens up the dirt."

It was a line from the movie Stir of Echoes that we used to rewind over and over, giggling hysterically, sharing an affinity for arbitrary non sequitur. The corner of his lips curved and slowly melted into a smile. He reached up, laughing, and pulled me downward in a gentle, playful headlock - one of his signature moves to show affection.

His laugh. Sometimes I can't remember what it sounded like.

When I first saw Rickey in his casket at the wake, his family allowed me a private moment. I stood over him, wishing that he was just pretending to be asleep. Silently begging him to be pretending. Demanding that this be some sort of cruel joke.

It didn't look like him. It was clear that he was no longer here, but I still made two last attempts of desperation. I just couldn't believe that this is how it ended.

I touched his hand. It felt like cold clay, but I still squeezed it three times. It's how he would spontaneously say "I love you" when he wanted to share a private moment in dense crowds. I waited for him to squeeze back. The only sound in the room was my shallow, opened-mouth breaths. It felt like there was an anvil on my chest.

Ok, I thought, I get it. You win. This is stupid and you know it and if you'll just get out of this box right now, I promise I'll never again say another thing I don't mean. I'll be whatever you need. We'll work together to get your life back on track.

I wiped away my tears, feeling defiant. This is not how this ends - it wasn't a conscious thought in those exact words, but looking back on that moment, that's how I felt. Disorientation and nonacceptance of what was really happening. And some sort of ludicrous belief that I could make this right again by willing him - daring him - to sit up and argue with me. I leaned over and whispered, "The water softens up the dirt."

And then I waited. Silence. No feeble attempt to mask a smile. I closed my eyes. No arms enveloped my head. No laughter.

Someone had to lead me out of the room. There was a sound coming out of me that I didn't recognize. I couldn't see through my tears.

The hill index along today's route kept me very much in the present. I began riding with The Swiss Train somewhere around mile 10 and strained to keep their pace on the mountainous countryside. On a long, steep climb, the gap between me and them began to widen, and I had to settle into my own pace. But I didn't feel defeated. Instead, I felt powerful. I continued to push the pedals up the incline.

Rounding a bend, I saw them waiting for me at the summit with huge smiles on their faces. I raised my fist and hollered.

It was a nice ride down the other side.

Vermont is a beautiful state. It definitely wins the award for the most adorable towns. Due to harsh winters, however, its roads leave much to be desired. Jim, who is from Vermont, announced at rap this evening that he will be running for governor. His platform will be paving.

"I'll pave everything!" he said, sweeping his arms wide like a politician expressing emphasis.

There was so much along today's route that was "classic New England" - that elegant, sophisticated architecture that is characteristic of the pre-war northeast. You won't find quirky construction out here ... like, say, a barn on top of a silo.

Seriously.

As we stood on a Vermont hillside, staring in wonder, I posed a basic question to Texas Tom: "How?"

And he bestowed on me the simplest of wisdom: "When you don't know the answer, it's FM."

"FM?"

"Fucking magic."

I still find laughter.

More images from Latham to Brattleboro:

Click here to view my entire photo album of Day 48 [TBA].

The Ride Leader's Official Report:

Brattleboro, Day 48

Across America North:

Brattleboro photos

Day 47: Little Falls, NY, to Latham, NY

2010-08-06T20:23:00.000-04:00

Today's Mileage: 74

Average Speed: 14.7 mph

Max Speed: 37.9 mph

Moving Time: 5:10

Blog & Ride Details

Last week, Margot asked me what I'm going to miss about this tour. I didn't have a specific answer for her, just a medley of basics that I'll miss. The obvious things, like riding my bicycle every day instead of going to the office. Or the different people we meet along the route, especially the eccentric travelers - like the unicyclist we passed in Wyoming or these guys that we met today.

Yes. It's both a bicycle and a hammock.

But today I realized what it is that I'm really going to miss.

As Alison and I cycled along a ridge line this morning, pedaling upward, straight into the sunrise, I began to make out the silhouette of a fellow cyclist, haloed by the light on the horizon. Within moments, I recognized Ian by his cadence and the outline of his steel bicycle. I suddenly felt a small lump in my throat as we approached and announced that we were on his left. And something inside began to ache.

After this tour is over and I've returned to my regular routines and daily life and I take Maddy out a few times a week for a bike ride, I'm going to miss knowing that all of these people are somewhere on the same road as me, pedaling in the same direction, with the same destination in mind.

When I clip in my cleats and turn onto some avenue in New York, cycling through the busy streets in the city of eight million people, I already know that there will be a part of me that will always feel a little bit lonely.

More images from Little Falls to Latham:

Click here to view my entire photo album of Day 47 [TBA].

The Ride Leader's Official Report:

Latham, Day 47

Across America North:

Latham photos

Day 46: Liverpool, NY, to Little Falls, NY

2010-08-05T21:12:00.004-04:00

Today's Mileage: 78
Average Speed: 15.3 mph
Max Speed: 30.7 mph
Moving Time: 5:05
Blog & Ride Details

When you're cycling in torrential downpours, it requires a little more effort to remember that you chose to take this tour. In an effort to maintain a more positive mindset in the pelting rainfall, I began thinking of all the things that could be worse than cycling in tropical storm conditions.

Humidity. We've dealt with some sticky, muggy days over the last week. Menstrual cramps. Daytime talk shows. Pink slips. Root canals. Unanesthetized amputation.

With my new FujiFilm Finepix XP10 waterproof, shockproof, freezeproof, dustproof point-and-shoot camera*, I was able to catch a few rainy day action shots. I really should have invested in a more sports-amenable camera before the tour.

*I dropped my old Canon point-and-shoot camera along the Erie Canal and broke the lens. Along with 12 megapixels, a 2.7" LCD screen, 5x optical zoom lens and digital image stabilization, my new FujiFilm camera is waterproof up to 10', which will not only be ideal during inclement cycling weather, but will prove useful in Playa Mujeres when my girlfriends and I celebrate our 30th birthdays over Labor Day Weekend. It is also shockproof (or "droppable") up to 3.3 ft - convenient for when it bangs against my handlebars while dangling from my wrist ... or when I inevitably drop it. Freezeproof and dustproof will be beneficial when I cycle across Alaska and Africa.

Alex noticed that Andrew had worn an appropriate cycling jersey to honor the weather. Here is a closer look at the fabric design.

When the rain stopped and Andrew and I were able to ride side by side on a remote backroad, he told today's Shakespearean-type tale. After this tour is over, I'm going to make him call me everyday with a new story.

More images from Liverpool to Little Falls:

Click here to view my entire photo album of Day 46 [TBA].

The Ride Leader's Official Report:

Little Falls, Day 46

Across America North:

Little Falls photos

Day 45: Henrietta, NY, to Liverpool, NY

2010-08-04T19:26:00.236-04:00

Today's Mileage: 93

Average Speed: 16.3 mph

Max Speed: 32.0 mph

Moving Time: 5:45
Blog & Ride Details

As we rode along the Erie Canal at sunrise, passing local cyclists on their morning rides, I thought about how we could easily be mistaken for any of them. Or be any of them. Exercising before work on the old towpaths where horses and mules once pulled canal boats from lock to lock. The only difference between them and us was that we had cycled there ... from Oregon.

I've been trying to wrap my mind around the "from Oregon" since we cycled through Boise. As we get further and further from our point of origin, it becomes less easier to comprehend. We cycled here from Oregon. We've spent the last 45 days out here, pedaling, and we're just as amazed as the wide-eyed responses we receive when people ask where we came from.

Forty-five days later, as I cycled along the Erie Canal, I began thinking about how I've changed since I timidly pedaled out of Astoria.

The physical changes are most obvious to me - though they're likely less apparent to anyone who isn't me - since I know me and look at me more than anyone else knows me and looks at me.

I'm probably in the best shape I'll ever be in my life right now. I feel stronger on the bicycle. Toronto Mark told me that I should have my legs insured like Betty Grable. I was even more flattered once I googled her.

I think he was referring mostly to my tan, which may look nice with my cycling attire; however, I have ridiculous, not even remotely enviable tan lines that look absurd in civilian clothing.

While my face, arms, fingers and legs are golden brown, my torso, upper thighs, hands and feet are pasty white. My Oakley sunglasses, with their powerful polarized protection, have imprinted a ribbon of pale skin across my nose and around my eyes. Raccoon eyes, some call them. Andrew says I look more like a panda. There is also a line along my jawbone from my helmet's chin strap.

Alison has lines on her forehead from the design of her helmet. She doesn't typically wear a cycling cap or a do-rag underneath, and I've been calling her a Klingon.

[Standby for photo of Eileen's chinstrap line, courtesy of Leo
- once I ask him for a copy]

At least I'll be going home to New York City, where weirdness is the norm rather than the exception - though I expect that I'll have to answer curious inquiries regarding the distinct variations in skin tone more than once.

I do gross things now, like pee in a cornfield and wipe with a leaf from a cornstalk or walk barefoot in the hallways and lobbies of hotels. Regardless of the fact that I've stayed in 45 hotels in 45 days, I've always been attentive to the condition of my feet, as well as the conditions to which they're exposed, but when your big toes start to look like this ...

... you begin to care a little less.

I'm astounded at what I can put my body through and what I can make it do when I don't think it can do anymore. Though I still have much more to learn about the various techniques of cycling, I feel comfortable on my bicycle. Maddy and I find a rhythm together more often. My ass can still hurt, but it hurts less. I've overcome challenges. I feel more confident, more able.

I like climbing now. I hated pedaling up mountains in Oregon, but as I've become more able on the bicycle, I feel anticipation, not dread, when approaching inclines. I didn't know that I don't like the flats until I found out in Minnesota that I don't like the flats. Hills, peaks and summits give you a sense of thrill and achievement. Maybe that's why the Tour de France isn't in Kansas.

Thanks to frequent heat rash, I use hydrocortisone like it's lotion. I ice my knees and my left Achilles tendon more often than I brush my hair. My eyebrows haven't seen wax or tweezers in nearly seven weeks, the result of which could justifiably ban me from most nightclubs in New York City. And the muscles and joints in my legs are so tight, I'm not sure that walking in stilettos is in my immediate future. I've gone days without wearing makeup or carrying an overpriced handbag. I haven't had a manicure. I can survive on a few changes of clothing. I don't know the latest celebrity gossip.

And I see North America differently. I see it in lengths of roads, in patches of sky, in tones of sunrise, in blurry images of towns and villages. I see it in the faces of my fellow cyclists.

You'd be amazed by all the ways that more than 3,000 miles and 45 days on a bicycle will change you.

But then your family surprises you in Liverpool, and you realize that you're mostly still the same.

More images from Henrietta to Liverpool:

Click here to view my entire photo album of Day 45 [TBA].

The Ride Leader's Official Report:

Liverpool, Day 45

Across America North:

Liverpool photos

Day 44: Niagara Falls, NY, to Henrietta, NY

2010-08-03T19:44:00.156-04:00

Today's Mileage: 82
Average Speed: 16.9 mph
Max Speed: 33.0 mph
Moving Time: 4:51
Blog & Ride Details

One of the cyclists on the tour celebrated a birthday today. While I, of course, wished him the best on his day, it made me think about how certain days hold entirely separate meanings for different people. It reminded me of a conversation that I once had with Rickey about birthdays and deathdays.

I made a conscious effort to have a good day, a good bike ride. I didn't want my positive effort to feel trite and contrived, but I also didn't want anyone to sense my mood and assume the burden of psychotherapy when they should be enjoying their tour. Underneath my attempts at genuine smiles, there were particular scenes from my life replaying in my mind. They replay with more frequency during this time of year.

Seven years ago. Cullowhee, North Carolina. Rickey and I had not spoken in two weeks. Following a fight over his attempt to illegally fill a forged prescription for pain medication, I had been ignoring his phone calls from Augusta, Georgia. I wanted him to feel like he was losing me, like his behavior was destroying all we'd ever had. And if he didn't get his life together, there wouldn't even be a friendship left. I wanted to make him suffer a little. How immature it seems now. How stupid it seemed immediately after the phone call.

When his father's name flashed the incoming call on my cell phone, I assumed it was Rickey. That his cell phone had been turned off yet again. That he was using his father's phone as he had numerous times before. I remember the last thought I had just before I heard the Earth crack in two: "Ok. I'll talk to him now."

The thing that perplexed me the most after Rickey died is that no one else's world came to a deafening halt. The Western Carolina Men's Basketball Team still left for their WCU Canadian Tour a few days later. My best friend still left North Carolina shortly thereafter for her role in "Mother Divine," which WCU was producing in New York.

After the funeral in Augusta, our friends went back to their lives, and much to my amazement, life went on around me. And my mother temporarily moved into my apartment to fully devote her time to helping me get on with mine. Brushing my hair for me or running my baths whenever the simple act of looking in the mirror would bring me to tears. Giving me pedicures while I stared at the ceiling. Finding shows on television when the remote in my hand idled listlessly on the TV Guide Channel. Forcing me to eat when I actually valued the sharp hunger pangs that dulled the intense pressure crushing my heart. It's like my mind could only accept so much anguish at one time. As if soothing the throb in my stomach, allowed my mind to fully bear the agony in my chest. I preferred to feel hungry.

Much of the day after - and the days in the wake of - his death are blurred in my mind ... and dark. But some moments are clear, defined in the creases of my memory. I remember laying in the bathtub, listening to a repetitive drip ripple on the surface above my feet. If I focused on the tiny sound of the drip and magnified the echo in my mind, I could make the bathroom tiles stop spinning.

I fought sleep because each time I awoke, I had those first fuzzy moments where I had to realize he was gone all over again. There are few things worse than having a dream where everything is alright and waking up in a reality where everything isn't. And then more tears. I cried so much that I began sobbing to my mother about how I didn't want to cry anymore. It is a painful thing to cry because you haven't been able to stop crying.

Present day. Somewhere between Niagara Falls and Henrietta. I was alone, pedaling from the first SAG stop. Just as I was thinking about how there are people who can continue to impact your life long after they are gone, The Swiss Train rolled up and asked if I wanted to hop on. I enjoy cycling with them and always appreciate their invitations. As I assumed my spot in the paceline, I hoped that the opportunity to study their cycling form would provide the mental diversion I needed. It didn't.

Rickey's death defines me. Partly because I'll never get over it ... and mostly because I let it. Because if I don't let it define me, it feels like I'm letting him go.

It seems like events that occur or choices that are made branch our lives toward this direction or that, slightly varying our plans or wildly veering us off a previously envisioned course. These branches add new meanings - no matter how subtle - to our core ... but few single moments define all of the big and little parts that make up our entire being.

His death - seven years ago today - was my defining moment, in which my life currently exists in two parts: everything that happened before he died and everything that happened afterward.

It has created this vendetta with time that I am always battling, causing me to ironically seek ways to fill my days with ultimate highs, which can leave me feeling equally low when those highs pass. Like withdrawal.

The passage of time has a way of simultaneously fulfilling you and creating voids. Three years after Rickey died, I began having an urgent need to fill those voids. Pursue big goals. Move to New York City. Travel. Make more goals. Cycle across North America. Feel like I am living my life to its absolute fullest ... since I have gotten to see years that Rickey never will. It's the creation of my own internal heavens and hells.

There's another moment in Forrest Gump that has been replaying in my mind since Toronto Mark's initial movie scene reference.

Jenny: Were you scared in Vietnam?

Forrest: Yes. Well, I-I don't know. Sometimes it would stop raining long enough for the stars to come out ... and then it was nice. It was like just before the sun goes to bed down on the bayou. There was always a million sparkles on the water ... like that mountain lake. It was so clear, Jenny, it looked like there were two skies one on top of the other. And then in the desert, when the sun comes up, I couldn't tell where heaven stopped and the earth began. It's so beautiful.

That's what moments have been like on this tour. There have been so many places where I couldn't tell where heaven stopped. My hell drifts away, and then the rest of the scene plays in my head ...

Jenny: I wish I could have been there with you.

Forrest: You were.

More images from Niagara Falls to Henrietta:

Click here to view my entire photo album of Day 44 [TBA].

The Ride Leader's Official Report:
Henrietta, Day 44
Across America North:
Henrietta photos

Day 43: Rest Day

2010-08-02T21:58:00.154-04:00

Niagara Falls. The Un-authorative review.

I didn't think I was going to want to do "any of that touristy shit" (to quote Beth) when I arrived at Niagara Falls. I thought a quick glance and a few photos would satisfy any initial curiosity about the tumbling water, but as we coasted down the hill of the tacky tourist mecca that leads to the falls, I quickly discovered that I was going to need a closer look.

I had planned to use today's final rest day of the tour to ... rest. Instead, I set my alarm for 7am so that I could handle personal business on my laptop before venturing out early. And I wasn't the only cyclist with plans to head back over to Canada for the day.

I bought the Niagara Falls Adventure Pass, "four top attractions at one low price", and walked around with a large, doppy plastic badge holder and lanyard around my neck that screamed, I've been had!

I was pleased with the Journey Behind the Falls, an opportunity to walk under the gushing water and "feel the thunder". And I enjoyed the ride on the Maid of the Mist that allows guests to "explore the roar".

However, Niagara's Fury was moderately entertaining and incredibly disappointing. In the "4D" theater, which was primitive in comparison to attractions at Disney World or Universal Studios, they bump you around, drench you and subject you to loud noise and bright lights, but the educational value barely surpassed that of a third grade level. Unfortunately, I ran out of time and energy for the White Water Walk, which I later heard is far more authentically and naturally scenic.

I had hopes that Niagara's Fury would provide a little more substance than the poorly produced and absurdly theatrical Legends of Niagara Falls, the 3D/4D feature on which Beth and I wasted $10 the night before. The best part of sitting in that theater was the photo we took just before the lights went down.

I was also disappointed by the tasteless urban planning surrounding Niagara Falls, on both sides of the border. If I wanted to gamble in a Mini Vegas, I would go to Reno. If I wanted to enter a wax museum or see two-headed animals, I'd visit Times Square. And what the hell is Shamu doing between Lake Erie and Lake Ontario?

In my opinion, there should have been stricter commercial zoning. No structures above tree level. More refined regulations regarding building design. The Grand Canyon and Yellowstone National Park have been able to generate revenue while maintaining the general dignity of their natural habitat.

But Niagara Falls, one of the most awe-inspiring, nature wonders of the world has been over-processed into a dry, tourist trap of corny architecture and crude marketing. The community that exists takes so much away from the natural splendor of the falls, and - as it is now - I have no desire to return here in the way that I might wish to revisit the Grand Tetons or Mount Rushmore.

Make no mistake, however. If you block out the architectural profanity around you and look over the edge, the falls are spectacular.

Canada Dedication

2010-08-01T23:44:00.160-04:00

A few months ago, while eating lunch at my desk in the office, I happened upon a cycling blog - Fat Cyclist - that actually made me chuckle as I chewed my sandwich. One particular post "How to Use 'The Secret' in Cycling" was so clever and witty that I copied the link and posted it in an AOL instant message to Terrence, who was still in the middle of a bj League season in Japan.

I continued to peruse the blog, and as Terrence was typing, "Fatty is not anywhere near close to funny as I am," I was coming across this section of Fatty's bio:

Besides being a middle-aged guy who loves cycling, I'm also the father of four kids (2 boys, identical twin girls). Until August 2009, I was also the husband of a woman - Susan - who passed away after a five-year fight with breast cancer.

"August," Terrence typed. "That's pretty recent."

And because I have a morbid curiosity of comparing how someone else has dealt with death in relation to my own experience, I clicked on the link to the August 2009 posts in the archive and read:

I did a lot of grieving in the month before Susan died. More than I talked about here, it was clear she was slipping away. She was sleeping almost always, and only rarely did she remember what had happened the last time she had been awake.

It was genuinely more painful to have her present, but be in terrible pain and not lucid, than it is to finally have her be released from what cancer did to her.

But there are definitely times when things get bad for me. Like going into the now-half-empty closet. Or when phone solicitors call, asking for Susan.

Those kinds of things I expected.

What has caught me off-guard, though, is that a lot of the time it’s when something funny or good or interesting happens that I get spun around. Something interesting will happen and my twenty-plus-year-old habit of thinking, “I need to remember to tell Susan about that” will fire, immediately followed by the thought, “I can’t tell Susan about that.”

And that hurts. Bad.

Worst, though, is when I accidentally start thinking about the future. Not the near future; I have an idea what that will be like: school, work, bike rides.

It’s the distant future that gives me what feels like a panic attack. The future was something I thought I had figured out, at least generally, and I was really happy with that future. Now, though, I have no idea what the future looks like.

It’s like when I’ve written something I’m happy with, and then I lose the document without saving.

But those moments are just that: moments. And then they pass and I’ve got plenty to do, and a lot of really great friends, family, and readers to help me get through this.

And that makes a big difference.

"Real thoughts," Terrence typed into AOL Instant Messenger as we were both finishing Fatty's blog post.

"That's the exact feeling I told you about once." I typed back, "That instant, irrepressible urge to tell Rickey when something cool happens."

"I thought about that," Terrence responded.

"It made me cry," I typed, leaning even further forward into my cubicle so that my hair would conceal my face in profile from my coworkers.

"I thought you might have," he replied, not realizing I was talking about now.

"He's a good writer," I wrote back before swiping my finger below my lash line, checking for smudged mascara.

"It hits close to home for you ... Wait. Are you just reading this now for the first time ... at work??"

"Yea, I just took a break and googled 'cycling blogs' and I started reading Fatty's blog. It was so funny. But it's my fault. I read his bio and saw that his wife had died recently, and then I looked up his August 2009 posts."

"You looked for the worst part, baby."

I glanced at my half-eaten sandwich. I wasn't hungry anymore. "I just wanted to see what he had written about it. I didn't think he was going to say something that I would actually relate to."

"Of course, you would relate."

"Cancer and a prescription drug overdose are two totally different ways to go. One way provides an option to say good-bye and seek closure. And cancer is not something you do to yourself and is often unpreventable. It's the noble fight. And your loved ones fight with you."

"True, but death is death. Every time."

I can't tell Susan about that ... I know about that, but I don't know what it's like to have comfort in knowing that I was everything I could have possibly been for Rickey. Instead I was embarrassed. That's my secret. I know that I didn't do enough because I was ashamed of his addiction. It often makes me wonder if I could have saved him. But I can only let myself wonder about it briefly; otherwise the thought eats me alive.

My heart is always ripped to pieces when I watch movies like A Beautiful Mind (even though the plot is stretched) or hear something like what Oprah once said to Chaz Ebert, the wife of cancer-survivor Roger Ebert: "I would just like to say this to you, Chaz, as one woman to another ... you are incredible ... this woman refused to let him die. She refused to let him die. Years ago, during the first operations when everybody was saying, 'it's done, it's over,' Chaz called me and said, 'I refuse to let him die.' And she stood by him and has been with him and taken care of him and shown what true love is."

When faced with the ultimate challenge to be there for someone I loved, I failed. Miserably. Tragically. Irreversibly. In less than a year, I reached a threshold in which I felt that I could no longer deal with the person Rickey was becoming.

That previous sentence alone is the mistake I made. The prescription drug addiction didn't define him. It simply masked the boy I knew. I didn't probe and investigate long enough to determine the reality of what it was doing to him. I couldn't see the college sweetheart I had fallen in love with, and what's worse - I stopped trying to see. When confronted by adversity, I was not strong where he was weak. When the road got rough and he got lost, I hid behind ultimatums and threats, as if halfheartedly attempting to coax him back, rather than grabbing his hand and relentlessly dragging him the rest of the way. I wish I had dragged him.

My Tita Cita was right - the loneliest words in the world are "if only ..."

I hope Fatty finds comfort in knowing that he did everything he could do for Susan. That he stayed by her side until the very end. That Susan knew she was loved and had someone who'd walk to hell and back with her.

I seek solace in many places - lest I allow myself to spiral again and again into inconsolable depression. Maybe because my own self-pity won't bring Rickey back so I do the only thing I can because I can. Live. Maybe because my will to live and live well is strong. Stronger still than I may even realize now.

I search for refuge in realizing that I am not the first to suffer these consequences or feel the things I feel. There are others who have suffered like me, more than me. Tragically. Miserably. Irreversibly. And the real tragedy is not that I suffer now, but that Rickey is no longer with us.

Maurice Maeterlinck, a little-known author, summed up my biggest mistake and lifelong regret in one sentence: "When we lose one we love, our bitterest tears are called forth by the memory of hours when we loved not enough."

And dammit. That shit hurts.

Canada was for Rickey. I wish I could tell him all about it.

Day 42: Brantford, Ontario (Canada) to Niagara Falls, NY

2010-08-01T23:14:00.238-04:00

Today's Mileage: 72
Average Speed: 13.5 mph
Max Speed: 36.2 mph
Moving Time: 5:15
Blog & Ride Details

Just as the "lasts" of this tour are passing by one by one, a personally sensitive time of year looms. Each year, as August 3rd approaches, I become consciously aware of a particular last. The last month, last week, last day, last night. Even though I feel stronger as each year passes, the thoughts are always the same. This year, the thoughts are preceded by seven. Seven years ago right now, Rickey was still here.

I feel his presence everyday. I don't hold onto his presence because I believe that he is actually around, but because I'm afraid that I'll forget what he feels like if I don't. In some ways, the spirit of his presence is here because I keep it alive. The part of me that aches to embrace the impossible wants to believe otherwise, but the part of me that clings to logic reminds me that - seven years later - I am still vainly searching for some sort of connection with him because I hate how much further away my memories of him feel as time moves on.

It's like when my mom - a devout Catholic - found me a few days after Rickey's funeral, sitting at my brother's computer in their Asheville home, crying and googling psychics who claim to communicate with the dead.

"Oh, Katie," she said softly as she touched my shoulder, "I know you want to believe in things like that right now, but they are taking advantage of people who are hurting like you are."

I knew she was right, but it made me angry that she said that. I wanted someone to tell me that he wasn't gone forever. That there was still some way to reach out, to communicate, to right our wrongs, to say all the things I should have said. Do the things I should have done.

In that way, the spirit of memory is a double-edged sword. It can be maddening to realize all the things Rickey will never know. And to re-realize them over and over again. And to know that the presence of him that I feel is one that I create in my mind; it's not an authentic, tangible comfort that will ever materialize. Sometimes I'm not sure if that makes me feel more lost.

How can I explain what I mean?

I hate the idea of believing that he knows how I feel, that he can see all that has happened through some sort of cosmic eye, that I'll one day see him begin and be able to relieve all of my emotional burdens by talking to him. I hate believing those things because the more likely reality is that he doesn't know how I feel, he can't see all that has happened since he died, and I will never see him again. It hurts even more to allow myself to spend my life believing in and hoping for something that - I know in the back of my mind - probably isn't real. It's probably not unlike the mentality of someone who is serving a life prison sentence. They have to cut off the worldly desires that they'll never again be able to see or have outside of the prison walls. I can't let myself hope for absolution that I'll never receive. I'll never hear Rickey say that he forgives me.

So I have to focus on forgiving myself.

I tried to focus on taking photos of the scenery between Brantford and Niagara Falls, but the project provided little distraction from memories that tend to consume me once the flood gates are opened. Even as the morning hum of the crickets scored the sunrise, I couldn't make the sounds of nature drown my thoughts.

I rode alone in the early part of the ride until Toronto Mark and Joe appeared on my left and began talking to me about hermaphrodites. They're comic relief was perfectly - albeit inadvertently - timed.

And as The Swiss Train glided by, proudly donning their Swiss jerseys in honor of their national holiday, Daniel was pedaling with one hand on the handlebars and the other over his heart, singing his country's anthem. I couldn't help but laugh.

Later, it was Sandy, Andrew and New Jersey Mark, who unknowingly added much-needed entertainment value to my day. Andrew is a library of Shakespearean tales and has mastered the art of great storytelling. He tells a story a day during laid-back segments of the route. And during a chocolate milk stop at a gas station, we discussed the differences in American and Canadian products.

Notably, there are the cars ...

... the candies ...

... and the product design.

Pringles markets a variety of snacks in Canada that we don't have in the United States, but Trojan has kept it basic.
Sensual O must be a Canadian thing though.

Sanitation appears to be more willfully enforced ...

Ellen's quest for world domination graced the Canadian dairy cow population ...

... and Niagara Falls.

And, most personally fulfilling of all, I entered my current home state.

But in the back of my mind, my private thoughts were always just below the surface.

It seemed ironic - or timely - later this evening when Joe said something that was more poignant to me than he may have realized. We were watching the fireworks over Niagara Falls, sparsely chatting with other cyclists about sore, aging joints and muscles, and Joe said, "Enjoy being 30, Katie. It all goes by too fast. It's ok to look forward to something, but don't ever say that you wish it was Friday or next weekend or next summer."

I guess I had never specifically thought about it in that way before, but as the fireworks exploded over the river, splashing our darkened faces with momentary flashes of luminous colors, I realized that I had stopped doing that seven years ago.

More images from Brantford to Niagara Falls:

Click here to view my entire photo album of Day 42 [TBA].

The Ride Leader's Official Report:
Niagara Falls, Day 42
Across America North:
Niagara Falls photos

Day 41: London, Ontario, to Brantford, Ontario (Canada)

2010-07-31T21:15:00.024-04:00

Today's Mileage: 66

Average Speed: 15.0 mph

Max Speed: 29.7 mph

Moving Time: 4:31

Blog & Ride Details

Will the real Canadian please stand up?

Can you spot the real one?

Tonight is our last night in Canada.

The "lasts" are starting to come in full force. We've begun our last ten days. The last rest day is coming up on Monday, along with our last week, followed by our last weekend. Yesterday, we crossed our last 1000-mile mark.

I couldn't bear to crop this photo of us at 3000 miles - it might be the last time that Leo's finger partially covers my iPhone's photo lens.

This picture was actually taken closer to mile 3010, but it didn't stop us from celebrating once we realized it. We were so busy goofing around along the route, we forgot to pay attention to our odometers. It makes me wonder what our last laugh on this tour will be about.

We had a good laugh in London outside of the the Ambiance Adult Entertainment XXX Massage parlor, which was just steps from the front door of our hotel. Upon arrival yesterday afternoon, Beth and ~~Chuck~~ Kim entered to inquire a bit further about their services. The receptionist went into detail with an upbeat and friendly tone: "Well, we have a single's massage or we can do a couple's for the two of you, and you both can get off. You are allowed to touch the massage therapist, and - if you want - we can schedule you with two girls."

Somewhere in the above description of services, Beth was unable to hold back her laughter, which included her customary snort. After explaining that they were on a cross-country cycling tour and looking for sports massages, the receptionist said, "Oh no, honey, we don't have what you need here. We specialize in sensual, erotic massages."

Kim suggested that they walk out of the building smoking cigarettes.

According to the native Canadians on our tour, these massage parlors are not atypical for their nation. While such practices are largely illegal in the United States, further Google research revealed that "Canada, depending on province, allows certain forms of prostitution and erotic massage. One can find any number of 'massage parlors' licensed or unlicensed in Canada. The unlicensed parlors, as they typically do not employ licensed therapists, offer specifically erotic massage [read more]."

Our group could not make enough jokes about the massages last night. Daniel asked if there was a discount for men over 50, Kim said it probably costs more, and Beth added, "Yea, because it takes longer."

The gags and puns continued well through the evening and into this morning, when Andrew and Beth posed outside of the parlor before we pedaled out of London and into quaint Canadian backroads.

I have a feeling that the London sensual massage parlor jokes are going to follow us all the way to New Hampshire. They made it to Brantford. Beth arranged to give Kim a quick yoga lesson this evening, and he showed up at our door in a towel (over his shorts, of course) - a segue between earlier jokes that had been made about erotic massages and yoga. Beth erupted in a screeching fit of laughter that sent her sprawling to the floor.

Meanwhile, Helen and Alex coincidentally arrived at the same time for a magic show that Gary had scheduled to put on in our room. At the sight of Kim in a towel, Helen asked, "Is this the magic show?"

The laughs. That is what I'm going to miss the most about this tour and this group. I wish I could have written down all of our arbitrary discussions and ridiculous antics. Today alone, there was an impromptu cherry pit spitting contest during a stop at a farmer's market, which was judged in categories of distance and accuracy; we reunited Shrek and the donkey at the fence of an old pasture; we played another round of Teresa's song game in the shuttle from dinner.

And I can't think of one dinner that didn't involve giggling hysterics, like the gastric bypass/Big Mac conversation with Beth, Daniel and Bruno or any number of the hilariously absurd things Andrew can say at any given moment - all made twice as funny by his British accent. I had to establish a no-talking clause on intense climbs to keep Andrew from saying anything that could possibly make me fall off my bicycle. Even at tonight's restaurant, Andrew and Beth created a dessert ranking system that began with an innocent 1-10 scale and evolved into a remake of Meg Ryan's "I'll have what she's having" scene in When Harry Met Sally.

There is so much that this blog doesn't tell about the people who made this journey with me. Even the scope of the things I've seen and felt have been recorded in comparatively minuscule amounts. I don't know that I've ever made so many rich memories within a 50-day time period. So many that I have to strain to try to remember them all.

I suppose this might be how it feels near the end of a life. That bittersweet sensation. Knowing there was just no way to capture it all.

More images from London to Brantford:

Click here to view my entire photo album from Day 41 [TBA].

The Ride Leader's Official Report:

Brantford, Day 41

Across America North:

Brantford photos

Michigan Dedication

2010-07-30T22:38:00.046-04:00

Returning to Western Carolina University was like going back in time. A group of us planned a trip for the 2008 Homecoming Weekend in a year that marked 10 years since we were freshmen.

I hear ghosts on that campus. Not necessarily of those who have died. But the sounds of our pasts. The ghosts of the younger versions of ourselves. We came face to face with memories from our college days and were intensely reminded of how much the university shaped the versions of ourselves that now exist.

I saw the younger me there. Sitting at "The Bricks" between classes and sometimes skipping lectures on exceptionally beautiful days. Pretending not to see Rickey, the attractive new junior college transfer, walking down the street while I strategically sat where he would be sure to see me among those who congregated there daily. And then trying to appear nonchalant as I waited for him to walk up behind me and gently tug on my hair or tickle my side. Racing with him to step on the small plaque below the Alumni Tower. Seeing him saunter up the steps to the second floor of the University Center (UC) to visit me while I worked at the Student Information Desk. Photocopying our hands on one of the Xerox machines in Hunter Library. Opening a greeting card card while we ate Wendy's takeout on his bed in Leatherwood after he took me to see Hannibal for Valentine's Day. Refreshing the university's live web cam over and over again in my dorm room while he made different, silly poses in the shadow of the Alumni Tower.

I saw the younger me laughing at my best friend when she split her jeans while performing her trademark impersonations of Michael Jackson in Illusions; making silly videos while we were on RA duty in Scott Hall with "Ms. Sue Ella" and "Bernie Mac"; cheering for Monique during halftime of a basketball game; playing pool with Jessica in the old UC Game Room; going to Reid Gym after dinner to watch the football players play basketball; sitting at "The Bricks" with Shameika, Tosha and Dominique; waving at Toya and Kori passing by in his truck; asking Daphne for her "excess cheese"; cooking out during Valley Bally Hoo or Spring Fling; giving tours to new students at Orientation; watching hours of SportsCenter and learning everything I never wanted to know about sports from Jon, Pat, Dunstan and BJ; water gun fights in the summer; stomping through piles of leaves in the fall; sledding on Dodson Cafeteria lunch trays in the winter; accepting flowers that Rickey would pick off the UC Lawn in the spring.

The memories were all around us despite the vastly changing landscape of the campus. Helder Hall, where I lived my sophomore and junior years, is gone. A landmark of my past erased and replaced by a state-of-the-art cafeteria - complete with Starbucks. There is no where to relive my memories of Rickey sneaking a bowl of Tokii's cereal or diving into my closet in his boxer shorts. Or Tokii dancing in her bathrobe. Or Jonas and Jarvis, before they transferred to UGA, bench pressing and curling Kamata in the hallway or asking a muffled, inaudible question and then yelling "Heeeyyy!" in your face. Or surprise birthday parties in the study. Or taking group naps. Or the night I stuck some forks in the third floor microwave. Or the snowball fight in the lobby. Or photo shoots in the hall. Or Kevin driving through the Helder parking lot in his tiny car, giving Terrence his debit card and telling him that under no circumstances was Terrence to allow him to spend the remainder of his refund check.

Those versions of all of us are there in Cullowhee, wholly defined by slices of time that exist one on top of another and are buried only by the passage of itself. Even if you weren't mentioned, you know who you are. Michigan was for you.

Day 40: Port Huron, MI, to London, Ontario (Canada)

2010-07-30T22:28:00.039-04:00

Today's Mileage: 81 (90 including Canada Jeff's detour tour - sometimes referred to as Connecticut Jeff, where he now resides)

Average Speed: 15.2 mph

Max Speed: 31.0 mph

Moving Time: 5:44

Blog & Ride Details

On the road, we are cyclists. But when loved ones drop in along the route, our fellow cyclists transform before our eyes into husbands, wives, fathers, daughters ...

Today, I watched Canada Jeff turn into a son.

His mother met us this morning, with treats for the SAG stop, right after we crossed the Blue Water Bridge that connects the United States and Canada over the St. Clair River. She received the official ABB group greeting: "Hi, Mom! My name is [everyone states his or her name in unison]!"

She seemed a bit overwhelmed by the size of our red, white and blue gang and the nearly simultaneous, collective greeting as cameras emerged from jersey pockets and cyclists began to pose next to her. So I was surprised when she asked for me.

"Katie!" a few people began to shout, "Jeff's mom wants to meet you."

"I really enjoy your blog," she said to me. Camera flashes. Smiles. Quick pictures. Fifty people all trying to meet Canada Jeff's mom at once. I didn't get to thank her. So if you read this, Canada Mom - thank you.

I've been staring at my laptop screen for a few minutes now, trying to describe what it was like to cross over into Canada via the Blue Water Bridge. Words like amazing, incredible, staggering just don't create the vision I have in my mind of 50-some odd cyclists, dressed in matching America By Bicycle jerseys, rounding the entry ramps and gliding to the summit of a massive cement and steel structure, bathed in golden rays of sunrise, and descending into another country. It was the first time we had departed from a hotel together and pedaled as a cohesive unit.

On a bridge that is normally closed to bicycles and pedestrians, all of the Canada-bound lanes were momentarily shut down so that we could cross. We hooted and hollered as the bridge authorities gave our group permission to proceed.

"Enjoy the ride!" I heard one of them yell. I felt a rush of adrenaline and a chill ran down my spine. Other than the hum of wheel spokes and dispersed, excited chatter, the world was quiet.

Canada Jeff took video of the St. Clair crossing. I appear on the right at the 2:40 mark and the tandem shows up at 3:05. Ohio John is largely seen on the far left in the earlier parts of the segment beginning around 0:30. And Dave appears at 2:19. Most of the other riders are not readily identifiable.

I'm glad I'm not the only one who hears random movie quotes in their head at generally relevant moments - though they can sometimes be irrelevant as Alex once witnessed when I was packing my suitcase in Sioux Falls and suddenly blurted out, "Stuttering Stanley! Stuttering Stanley!" I hadn't consciously realized that I had said it out loud until Alex looked up from the strawberries she had brought to share with me and Beth and said, "Is that from The Sixth Sense?"

This morning as I looked out over Canada from the top of the bridge, I kept thinking of Toronto Mark's reference to Forrest Gump sitting at a bus stop in Savannah, Georgia, describing Vietnam: "It's this whole other country."

A cheer erupted from the group as the Canadian officials cleared us through customs on the other side. And there were more cheers roughly 30 miles later when Toronto Mark's wife The Duchess arrived at the first - and only - SAG stop of a relatively easy 80-mile day with Toronto Mark's parents and more treats in tow. As I was reaching for more fruit and nuts, I heard a voice say, "Where is Katie?"

Then, a hand reached for mine and pulled me through the parting crowd of cyclists. On the other end of that firm grip was was Toronto Mark's dad - the most lively, energetic 91-year old man I have ever met. Within minutes of meeting each other, we decided we were kindred spirits. Two souls, decades apart, who have a common vision of living, see the beauty of aging, and aren't afraid to set goals they might never reach. The pursuit. That's living. Have you ever looked into someone's eyes and just know that they get it?

"I've been following your blog. I can feel what you write. And I just want to tell you that I'm right there with you." he said. "But I have to ask you ... are your ass and your saddle back on speaking terms?"

I thought back to what one of the Blue Water Bridge authorities had yelled as we began to cross over to Canada. Enjoy the ride. And then I remembered one of my favorite quotes: "Life should not be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in an attractive and well-preserved body, but rather to skid in sideways, chocolate in one hand, martini in the other, your body thoroughly used up, totally worn out and screaming, 'Woo hoo!' What a ride!'"

Toronto Mark's dad is having a good, long ride. I guess my biggest goal has always been to have a good, long ride. My last goal will be to scream louder than he does whenever it's my own turn to skid in sideways. Until then, skidding by bicycle is not recommended on this tour.

More photos from Port Huron to London:

From the cornfields of Minnesota to the tobacco fields of Canada,

Ellen DeGeneres' quest for world domination continues.

My mother, who regularly checks my blog for grammar and spelling errors, emailed me today with some revisions: "'Too' instead of 'to' in regard to the song Alex mentioned" [She was referring to Juvenile's hit rap song 'Slow Motion'; Thanks, Mom, but whatever you do - do not read any of the other lyrics to that song].

Click here to view my entire photo album of Day 40 [TBA].

The Ride Leader's Official Report:

London, Day 40

Across America North:

London photos

Day 39: Birch Run, MI, to Port Huron, MI

2010-07-29T20:26:00.008-04:00

Today's Mileage: 87

Average Speed: 15.0 mph

Max Speed: 29.7 mph

Moving Time: 5:49

Blog & Ride Details

Since the last 10 days of this tour will begin their countdown tomorrow, it's time for me to start scaling back what I eat. After August 9, I will no longer be burning an extra 2000-4000 calories a day.

Margot has determined that she burns approximately 40 calories per mile. She is older than I am [Side Note: Can you believe this woman is 50? (Side Note to the Side Note: Not that 50 is old by any means, but she makes it look damn good)]. We are about the same height, but she is in better shape and cycling condition than I am; however, assuming that I burn calories in roughly the same range, my heart monitor and calorie counter under-recorded thousands of calories through Oregon, Idaho, Wyoming and South Dakota! It died somewhere between Sioux Falls and Worthington and probably just needs a new battery, which I have no motivation to make an effort to replace, especially if it's jipping my stats.

Margot's calculations estimate that I burn 400 calories every 10 miles or 4000 calories for every 100. This is great news for me! Cycling into Sioux Falls from Mitchell, my heart monitor recorded a calorie burn of 1995 over the 72-mile trek. If I use the 40-calories-per-mile equation, I burned 2880 calories during that ride. I like Margot's math better!

I began scaling back my food consumption today, which is a tricky process since proper fueling is still extremely important over these long distances. I am unable to eat large meals during breakfast and lunch so that wasn't too difficult. The heavy, satiated feeling does not sit well with me on the bicycle. But I had to make a conscious effort to control my snacking choices and portions at each SAG stop. And I need to stop the mindless shoveling of food into my mouth at dinner. I've also decided to cut back to just one dessert each night and make a valid attempt to not eat dessert at all. We'll see how that goes.

In comparison to some of the overwhelmingly striking terrain we've seen over the past month, the last few days of riding have not been visually spectacular. Many cyclists are beginning to put their heads down and pound out the miles through most of this flat farmland, but if I can prevent myself from zoning out on white and yellow traffic lines, there is still quite a bit of beauty to behold.

I love the country roads with evenly spaced, old trees lining the street. I love passing through small forest groves with delicate rays of sunshine poking through lightly waving leaves. I love the artistic value of decrepit barns against the blue, green and yellow backdrops.

I love rolling along a back road, chasing the shadows of clouds, watching the ribbons of sunlight and shadow pass over you and slide up the road, enveloping the adjacent fields and the other cyclists ahead. That's not something you can always see when you're pedaling under dense tree cover, climbing rocky mountain passes, or zipping along the bottom of a canyon. And then there's Lake Huron. It's turquoise. It's an odd thing to be cycling in the Midwest and suddenly pedal into the Caribbean.

There are a few things I don't like about Michigan. Just when I was beginning to praise eastern Michigan's smooth roads this morning, the even pavement dimpled into uncomfortable dips and cracks.

I've been nicknaming various road conditions along the route. Thumper Roads are the ones with the rhythmic, irritating thump ... thump ... thump. Sometimes it's thump-thump ... thump-thump ... thump-thump. Then, there's the Dried Up Salt Lake Roads with craggy surfaces. Or the Rattle Roads that make your entire bicycle clank for miles. Waffle Roads are not a good place to grit your teeth if you value a chipless smile. Gravel and dirt roads vary in their levels of ride-ability and comfort. But I'm nearly convinced that prolonged exposure to chip seal will drive you criminally insane. There are Holy Roads, and I do not call them that because of their deep relationship with God. And then there are the roads I love but less frequently find along the route - the Butter Roads, smooth like butter.

Beyond eastern Michigan's roads, there are the drivers who ride on them who are even worse. I wasn't sure if they were purposely crowding us off the road until the profanity started. One driver yelled at Sandy, Andrew and I as we pedaled immediately adjacent the white line: "Clear the f***ing road!"

I looked to my right. There was nowhere to go. No shoulder. Only loose gravel and dirt. Where did he expect us to go? Not only was he inconsiderate, but he was ignorant of the law and the equal privilege of cyclists to use the road. In an area that is so intolerant of cyclists, I am surprised that we rolled across these words spray-painted on the pavement.

After taking photos, Todd said to Sandy, "It's sort of fortuitous that you rolled up as I was stopping to take a picture of it."

A lot of moments on this trip feel as if they were written.

Later, I learned that obscenities were screamed at other cyclists along today's route. Beth had a discussion at lunch with a waiter who cycles in Port Huron regularly, and he said [and I paraphrase] that if he wears casual clothing on his bicycle, then drivers likely assume that he had his car impounded because of a DWI and that's his only form of transportation so he needs a break. If he's in cycling attire, then he has free time to enjoy himself instead of working ... and people in eastern Michigan don't like it if you don't have to work your ass off at two to three different jobs and you have time to relax or enjoy extracurricular activities.

I thought of Beth and the waiter's conversation when I was in an elevator at our hotel this evening and one of the housekeepers frowningly said in response to a question regarding the length of this tour, "Wow. You people have 50 days to kill?"

Even though Beth's waiter was not referring to us specifically, I would contend - for the sake of argument - that the majority of the people on this tour are not from the super wealthy ranks of upperclass America. Many of us made countless sacrifices to be in a place with 50 days to kill. Some spent years planning this tour, striving for a time in their life when such a feat would be possible.

The Cumberland Times-News featured Beth in a recent article about our cycling tour.

"Everybody has their own story for doing this trip," [Beth] Laber said. "It really touches your heart to see people fulfilling their dreams and are not afraid to give it a try. People realize life is worth living and not just hoarding money and stuff. You gotta take a chance and go out there and do something different. The scope of this is overwhelming."

You can't expect anything less than overwhelming from a bike ride that takes 50 days.

More images from Birch Run to Port Huron:

Ellen DeGeneres' quest for world domination

is mere hours from conquering Canada!

Click here to view my entire photo album of Day 39 [TBA].

The Ride Leader's Official Report:

Port Huron, Day 39

Across America North:

Port Huron photos

Day 38: Mount Pleasant, MI, to Birch Run, MI

2010-07-28T19:41:00.047-04:00

Today's Mileage: 74

Average Speed: 14.9 mph

Max Speed: 27.8 mph

Moving Time: 5:01

Blog & Ride Details

Toronto Mark, Canada Jeff, Joe and Dave went to a diner called Tony's Restaurant in Birch Run. I had planned to write about convenient rain jacket storage in threatening weather, recount our chocolate milk fest outside of a tiny corner store in a town so small that we would have missed it if we blinked, and introduce my photo essay of Michigan barns ...

But The Geldings' experience at Tony's trumped all the cycling notes that I made today. An excerpt from Toronto Mark's blog first peaked my interest this afternoon:

"It seems Tony's Restaurant is to bacon what the Carnegie Deli is to pastrami. Legendary purveyors of bacon, in portions that are, in a word, comical. No more government research is needed to determine the root of America's obesity problem. America's obesity problem starts and ends at Tony's Restaurant in Birch Run, Michigan."

So when Margot suggested after dinner that we drop into Tony's for dessert, my curiosity led my already full belly by the esophagus into the fat pit of the Midwest.

Margot, New Jersey Mark, Todd and I attempted to eat this:

We never made it to the banana.

While a trip to Tony's will ultimately rank highest among the memories of Day 38, the game of musical bicycles that Andrew, Leo, Nan and I played over roughly five miles of today's route was a highlight. If you want to learn the art of entertainingly stretching 5-10 miles over two hours, ride with us one day. Even with all the horseplay, we still arrived in Birch Run by 2pm. We may have lingered out on the road even longer yet but the heat and humidity were escalating.

Also, kuddos to ABB for drawing little attention to the fact that we are currently in a suburb of Flint, Michigan, though it might have been prudent to at least suggest bulletproof vests over our baselayers.

Bianca, who I still refer to as "my roommate" even though she moved to Los Angeles the same day I arrived in Oregon, has been sending me greeting cards along the entire transcontinental route. Today's card received in Birch Run noted tips from her new roommate Max regarding the immediate area:

A. They have really great shopping [Appropriately, the only information about Birch Run cited on ABB's state and town profile for Michigan was "This town is best known for its large outlet mall."]

C. Don't go to Flint, MI ... you'll get shot!!

Not might, but will. Is carbon fiber bulletproof?

More images from Mount Pleasant to Birch Run:

Click here to view my entire photo album of Day 38 [TBA].

The Ride Leader's Official Report:

Birch Run, Day 38

Across America North:

Birch Run photos

Day 37: Ludington, MI, to Mount Pleasant, MI

2010-07-27T20:11:00.018-04:00

Today's Mileage: 113

Average Speed: 18.5 mph

Max Speed: 32.4 mph

Moving Time: 6:10

Blog & Ride Details

Today was our last century (100+) day. While many are rejoicing - including my legs - my heart is a little sad. It's the first of the "lasts." As a military brat, who moved every 2-3 years until I was 16, I have become acutely attune to "lasts." Soon it will be the last Sunday, Monday and Tuesday (not that I even regularly know what day of the week it is anymore). Last mechanics hour, last RAP, last SAG stop.

All I kept thinking today is that I owe Michael more money. There would be no way that I could have had a good day like today if he hadn't worked his magic on my Achilles Tendon. The back of my ankle is still crunching when I flex or point my foot and it sorely swells occasionally, but there is no searing pain. It looks like it'll make it through Day 50.

I didn't feel like I had cycled 100 miles today. That may be due in part to the fact that this was labeled our easiest century on paper, I've been cycling for 37 days, and I took another ride on The Swiss Train - except this time I got my fair share of pulling over the 113-mile route. And Daniel and Bruno had time to rest when the train inevitably got slower with me in the front. I kept apologizing for lowering their ride average, but they kept insisting that it was a relief to get a break. So we hammered when either of them pulled, and we cruised when it was my turn. Well, they cruised behind me. Even though pacelines are incredible energy savers, I was straining the entire way.

I initially hopped on around mile 15, after Alison and Alex flew by on Daniel and Bruno's wheels. Just as I was watching them disappear around a turn about half a mile ahead and thinking about how much Alison and Alex have improved in 37 days, Ohio John appeared next to me and said, "Let's go catch them!"

Pedaling with Ohio John made me think about my own physical progression as well. A month ago, I would never have dared to even attempt to catch speeding cyclists. And as Ohio John and I joined The Swiss Train and pounded up short, steep hills, I realized that Alison and I are now climbing over twice as fast as we had back in Oregon, where we had averaged between 4-8 mph on most grades. Later, Alex said to me, "You know that song 'Slow Motion' by Juvenile? I think it's in my head because of that part that goes 'slow down for me, you moving too fast'" and then, on beat she continued rapping: "'My fingers keep slippin', I'm tryin to grip that ass' ... Ah! Such a good song!"

"I'm putting that in the blog," I said.

It was a fun ride into the first SAG stop, with all four of us in The Swiss Train's draft. But there were no more free rides after that. We each pulled our fair share to the second SAG, where Alex switched gears and jumped on with Jeff (ABB staff), who has two speeds: fast and super fast. I continued with Daniel and Bruno in a three-man paceline to the end, carefully studying their form whenever muscle fatigue wasn't causing my eyes to cross.

Daniel and Bruno are - in my novice estimation - two of the strongest cyclists on this tour, and by far the most humble - the latter of which, to me, equates to the utmost in self-confidence and self-assurance. After 37 days, I've started to recognize that the most talented riders on this tour are the ones who do the least amount of self-PR ... because they don't have to. You'll never notice Daniel or Bruno finding subtle ways to drop their average and maximum speeds or ride time into an irrelevant conversation, and they don't make condescending remarks if you just so happen to pass them. It's that kind of gracious demeanor that I aspire to genuinely attain though I admittedly haven't always succeeded in all areas of my life.

As a rookie among a wide range of skill levels on this tour, my personal observations of the attitudes and behaviors of the other cyclists has had me doing some soul-searching of my own in trying to determine what type of cyclist I want to be "when I grow up". I try to be as nonjudgemental as possible when observing the actions of individuals around me since it's presumptuous and unfair to assume that you know exactly what someone else is thinking. However, if you pay close enough attention, you can develop an awareness about the character of others and make an educated guess about what their actions or their words are really saying. Just don't always expect to be right.

And that is where my personal progression has continued to evolve. In an attempt to develop a more reflective awareness of self, I've tried to pay closer attention to the kind of energy that my actions and words project. Before this tour, I read an article in a recent issue of Bicycling Magazine about rookie mistakes - one of the biggest of all was being an arrogant beginner.

Cycling is a sport, in which dedicated individuals can enjoy rapid improvement. In a place where confidence in a new skill quickly builds, arrogance can easily be bred from a deep-seeded insecurity and thus nurtured on the road, especially with a good tailwind. Because of that, this is a suitable atmosphere for me to do a little self-exploration of my own. We are, after all, products of our environment, experiences and choices.

I'm nowhere near being one of the best cyclists on this tour - nor is it a conscious aspiration of mine. My primary goal between Oregon and New Hampshire was to discover more about myself. Embrace the things I like about my personality and change the things I don't like about my character. An equally valuable goal was to slow down my days and feel moments. There is no better way to feel time slowly passing than when your lungs are bursting and your thighs are burning. Trust me.

My goals as a cyclist are secondary on this tour. And they run a long second. Solely to soak up as much bicycle knowledge as I can from those around me. And have fun.

As a continuously evolving individual and as a beginner cyclist, I have the privilege of learning a lot out here about me and Maddy ... cycling across North America.

More images from Ludington to Mount Pleasant:

Disclaimer:
Hopping on The Swiss Train is not highly conducive
to an abundance of photo opportunities.

Click here to view my entire photo album from Day 37 [TBA].

The Ride Leader's Official Report:

Mount Pleasant, Day 37

Across America North:

Mount Pleasant photos

Wisconsin Dedication

2010-07-26T21:15:00.037-04:00

As I crossed into Wisconsin, I began receiving random text messages from my "Fabulous Five" - five of my closest college girlfriends who have seen me through the last 10 years. Each text message began with "doitfer" and was followed by an arbitrary predicate. No amount of coaxing would get me an explanation. Several days later, my best friend sent me an email to clear my confusion:

I'm here to clear up some of those confusing text messages you received. Me and the other four beautiful ladies that make up your Fabulous Five are kicking off your DOITFER series [pronounced Do it fer (for)]. Each day you will receive a message of encouragement from one of us giving you suggestions as to what you can dedicate your day. You may not need it, but just in case you do, it'll be there. We love you dearly and are more proud than you'll ever know.

Wisconsin. I "diditfer" my Fabulous Five.

Bobbi Baker-James. Monique Douglas. Jessica Neal.
Shameika Corbin. Daphne Moore.

P.S. Wisconsin is "The Cheese State", Daphne.

Day 36: Manitowoc, WI, to Ludington, MI (Ferry Ride)

2010-07-26T20:32:00.177-04:00

Unofficial Rest Day.

Today's Mileage: 7 (10.94 including light exploration of Manitowoc)

Average Speed: 12.0 mph

Max Speed: 23.3 mph

Moving Time in the Saddle: 00:54
Moving Time on the Ferry: 4:00

Blog & Ride Details

Today I "doitfer" Nathaniel Drake James III, my godson in Durham, North Carolina. He'll be a year old just before midnight tonight. Since we didn't do much cycling today, I'll do 113 miles tomorrow for him, too.

We rode three to four miles to the ferry dock in Manitowoc for the cruise across Lake Michigan and another three or four to the hotel in Ludington. Since we had time to kill before the SS Badger's 2pm CT departure, we spent our morning in various ways.

Mine began with a grande skinny vanilla latte and an egg white, spinach and feta wrap at Starbucks, where I sat to write a few postcards to family and friends. Immediately after placing my order, my mind blanked and I said to the cashier, "Wait. What did I order again?"

She repeated my order and said, "It's ok. It's Monday."

Is it Monday? I thought. It really has not been occurring to me to consciously determine what day of the week it is. It's simultaneously shocking and pleasant whenever I happen to inadvertently learn what it might be.

During a little exploration in downtown Manitowoc, I recognized some familiar bicycles outside of Beerntsen's Confectionary. It is an adorable candy and ice cream cafe. How could any of us resist?

After morning ice cream and chocolate (it's ok when you're cycling an average of 70-80 miles a day), we gathered at the ferry dock to await the SS Badger, the vessel that would take us across Lake Michigan.

I took Maddy to dip his front wheel in the lake, which Mike Munk said does not count. Regardless, I cycled to Lake Michigan ... from Oregon. I believed that deserved a ceremonial wheel-dip.

Once onboard the SS Badger, Andrew and I did a little exploring of the ferry, which included a run-through of safety equipment and photo documentation of another triumph in Ellen's quest for world domination (included below). Afterward, I focused my primary activity toward an attempt to even out my cyclist tan. By the way, that's not black nail polish on my big toes. What you see pictured immediately below is severe cycling-inflicted nail bed bruising. I really need to dedicate a blog post to all of the things that have become decidedly amiss with my body since Astoria.

Upon arrival in Michigan and Eastern Standard Time, Helen and Alex treated me to a wonderful dinner. We were joined by Baltimore Mark, New Jersey Mark and Canada Jeff at P.M. Steamers, where I read a lovely quote on their menu. Having an affinity for beautiful wording, I took a picture to conclude today's blog post.

"Say that I love old ships - write nothing more upon the stone above my anchorage. And they who read it will know I loved the roar of the breakers in by-gone sailing days ..."

- Capt. W.H. VanDyke, Steamer PM 22

More images from Manitowoc to Ludington:

Click here to view my entire photo album of Day 36 [TBA].

Lake Michigan and its adjacent states have been claimed in the name of Ellen DeGeneres' quest for world domination.

Day 35: Fond Du Lac, WI, to Manitowoc, WI

2010-07-25T20:37:00.006-04:00

Today's Mileage: 56

Average Speed: 13.1 mph

Max Speed: 29.2 mph

Moving Time: 4:21

Blog & Ride Details

A sort of inane fad briefly spread among a few people to be the first to initial the sign-in sheet at each SAG stop. And apparently, you're not officially first unless you get someone to take your photo to prove that you were the first to sign in. I used to play a game like that. It was the daily race after lunch to get the best mat before nap time in kindergarten.

It's pretty humorous when you take into account that the cyclists on this tour don't begin each day's route all at once. Some of the last cyclists to depart each morning can leave as much as 30-45 minutes after some of the first pedal out. A lot of people stop often to take photos or sample the local culture. Some take longer breaks at the SAG stops. Some are enjoying the day and paying little attention to those who overtake them. The sillier part of the whole thing is that 90% of the people following don't know who was first to a SAG stop or a hotel unless that particular person does a little of their own PR. So I made it my goal today to be the last person to sign the SAG stop sign-in sheet. And I had my picture taken. And I made sure that I told people.

But, even as I obnoxiously poke fun at harmless absurdity, I have to remind myself that everyone has different reasons for making this journey and very few of those reasons deserve judgement. Though there are a few (very few) egotistical remarks made here and there that make me cringe only slightly - which I have been told can become inevitable among those who are competitively-driven cyclists, I am not at all offended by the varying speeds of other riders. In fact, I relish the variety. When I desire conversation or company, I can easily find someone who is going whatever pace I might feel like riding each day or I can find a barren gap to ride solo when I want to be alone with my thoughts. I don't actively make note of who has passed me and who hasn't, but I absolutely love to ride fast on some days ... for me. Pacelining with The Geldings is incredibly fun. Riding with The Swiss Train is a great way to challenge yourself. A few cyclists are training for triathlons. However, today was not one of those days - at least on my pedals. Mike Munk labeled today a "rolling rest day", which struck me as an oxymoron. Even Joe wrote:

"Back home, I consider a 56-mile bike ride a full-fledged workout ... a 56-mile rolling rest day? Can that be possible? It's true [that] we have 2600 miles of riding behind us and have been [averaging] 90 miles a day for the last several days. But 'rolling rest day'? Ok, it was an easier day's ride than we've had in awhile, but it still required over three and a half hours of pedaling and the burning of 2600 calories."

An even more shocking revelation is that I am functioning in a world where setting my alarm for 7 o'clock means that I am sleeping in.

Most of the tour group took it easy today, recovering for more tough days that still lie ahead. Someone brought up a good point as we cruised along though. We have all day to enjoy the routes on this tour. If you're riding fast for the wrong reasons, plowing through each day, focusing on who you overtake in order to beat everyone to a hotel, where you just sit and wait until it's time to unload luggage, you only beat yourself. You miss the bigger picture of the world around you and a lot of really great moments when you forget that this is a tour, not a race. But this isn't a new phenomena; the ride leaders have openly mentioned that they see the same cycling behaviors, patterns and trends every year.

If you ever make a cycling tour of America into your own personal journey, enjoy the thrill of speed for your own reasons. After all, your reasons are the only ones that ultimately matter to you. Otherwise, it could be Day 35 and you still don't realize that you have no idea what the roses smell like.

More images from Fond Du Lac to Manitowoc:

Click here to view my entire photo album of Day 35 [TBA].

The Ride Leader's Official Report:

Manitowoc, Day 35

Across America North:

Manitowoc photos

Day 34: Wisconsin Dells, WI, to Fond Du Lac, WI

2010-07-24T22:24:00.103-04:00

Today's Mileage: 83

Average Speed: 15.8 mph

Max Speed: 31.1 mph

Moving Time: 5:17

Blog & Ride Details

This just in: The tandem has officially been named. It was dubbed "Badass McDempsey" or "BAM" for short. Emeril might like that.

One of my favorite things about this journey is cycling through all of the Small Town U.S.A.'s. I often wonder about the dynamic of each town as we pass through. Does everyone know everyone else's name? Where do the locals hang out? What do they do for a living? How do they pass the time? What are their stories?

On a tour like this, you don't often have time to ask those questions. We signed up for more of a ~~point~~ cycle-and-shoot environment. You take a picture and ride on. There is so much to see in 50 days and there's even more that you don't see. Some days you would swear that we all took a different route; everyone sees something that no one else saw.

But everyone saw the Brat Fry when we passed through Princeton. It was an option highlighted by the ride leaders as a "must taste."

I have really been loving these small towns, even though our observation or sampling of their culture is often short. Each sight, sound, smell and taste remind me of the many spices of life.

That theme carried through the evening to ABB's annual T-shirt swap. Not everyone participated, but many cyclists brought T-shirts to exchange. The activity included short presentations by each rider with regard to their T-shirt; where they got it and how it came to be included in the T-shirt swap "pot". Can you guess which one I contributed to the game?

The undisputed highlight of the T-shirt swap was when Shirley (of "Howard and Shirley" - the quietest couple on the tour) stood up to present her shirt for the pot. It featured an image with the label "Iowa's Biggest Nerd". As she stood before the group and unfolded the shirt, she said, "I bought this shirt for the biggest nerd in Iowa ... and he won't wear it."

She was referring to her husband Howard (of "Howard and Shirley").

After dinner, several of us set out in search of dessert. The result? A pint of ice cream. Each. One sitting. Sinful. Guiltless. Bliss.

The spices of life. Random T-shirts. Pints of ice cream. Can you ever really get enough?

More images from Wisconsin Dells to Fond Du Lac:

Click here to view my entire photo album of Day 34 [TBA].

The Ride Leader's Official Report:

Fond Du Lac, Day 34

Across America North:

Fond Du Lac photos

Day 33: La Crosse, WI, to Wisconsin Dells, WI

2010-07-23T18:42:00.127-04:00

Today's Mileage: 90

Average Speed: 12.0 mph

Max Speed: 47.4 mph

Moving Time: 7:34

Blog & Ride Details

Mike Munk gave us triathlon credits for today's route, which followed the Elroy-Sparta State Trail in the Wisconsin Rails-To-Trails system for a majority of the day. Each pedal stroke was like swimming in the thick Wisconsin humidity. We cycled nearly another century. And we "hoofed it" through thousands of feet of old train tunnels that had been blasted, dug and constructed in the 1800s.

There were three tunnels along the section of trail that we cycled. The ride leaders instructed us a few days in advance to purchase small flashlights. I downloaded a flashlight app on my iPhone, which worked pretty well; however, I plan to include a comprehensive shopping list at the end of this blog, which will note all the things that ABB failed to include in advance but instructed us to purchase later, like a flashlight and a bandana. You can put ice in a bandana and tie it around your neck so that the ice melts slowly on your back during long, hot rides. It really works well to keep you cool in the dry heat out west. But I digress.

The tunnels were so long and so dark that there was absolutely no riding. It was eerie how dark darkness really is. It would have been incredibly creepy if I had been alone. In fact, I'm not even sure I could have entered any of them on my own. As we exited one of the tunnels though, I watched my fellow cyclists walking ahead of me and wondered - if there is a bicycle heaven - this must be what it feels like to walk toward the light. I found something peaceful in it. Others, like Gerard, lingered within and took extra photos with beautiful angles.

This was our fourth high-mileage day in a row, and my body is definitely starting to feel it. We have 83 more tomorrow and then a short day of 57 before our next rest day. Mileage-wise it has been a tough leg along the journey - not that any leg has been particularly easy. Even after a day's route has been completed, you often can't just lounge. Whether it's cleaning your bicycle or finding something else that needs to be fixed or adjusted during mechanics hour, there's always something to occupy your time outside of the usual stretch, shower, laundry, RAP, dinner. Trips to the local bicycle shops when available. A run to WalMart if there is one in town. And if you're trying to keep a blog of your experience, that's the biggest "time suck" of all (to quote Jim).

But as the days become a blur, I'll have a condensed way to look back on this journey and remember what I can. I just wish there was a way to remember it all.

More images from La Crosse to Wisconsin Dells:

Click here to view my entire photo album of Day 33 [TBA].

The Ride Leader's Official Report:

Wisconsin Dells, Day 33

Across America North

Wisconsin Dells photos

Minnesota Dedication

2010-07-22T20:22:00.013-04:00

During a weekend in 2006, I was sitting on a bench on the elevated subway platform of the 61st Street Station in Woodside, Queens, with my Tita Marie (one of my mother's four sisters). We were on our way to see a movie at the AMC Theater in Times Square. Amidst our random topics of conversation while we waited for the train, she briefly mentioned Tita Cita.

Tita Cita had died - too young and too soon - in the Philippines a few years prior, but she had lived in New York City numerous times before her fight with breast cancer made it impossible to continue traveling and working.

"You know," Tita Marie said, "Your Tita Cita loved Times Square. Sometimes after work, she would get off the train at 42nd Street just so she could walk around and look at the buildings, the billboards and the lights."

I tried to picture my aunt, before she was sick, taking a detour after a long week of work, exiting the subway and ascending the stairs into the crossroads of the world. Surely she had been tired and ready to get home after a six-day stretch as a live-in housekeeper, but undoubtedly she was often lured from the tunnels by the excitement of the place where 42nd Street crosses Broadway and Seventh Avenue. And surely she was smiling as she strolled about under the blanket of lights that keep Times Square from ever knowing darkness. She had probably watched artists paint or performers dance and politely turned down solicitors for live comedy shows. She had smiling eyes - the kind of eyes that always looked like they were attempting to conceal an inside joke or a funny secret.

It was so hard for her to die from cancer - not that it's ever easy for anyone to let go. But I knew exactly what Tita Marie meant as she quietly said, "Your Tita Cita really wanted to live."

One evening a few weeks after that chat with Tita Marie, I made a failed attempt to leave the office in time to meet my best friend at a spinning class. It was an ambitious endeavor because I hadn't left work before 7pm in almost two weeks. When I finally passed through the revolving doors that spit me onto 42nd Street, it was too late to make it to the class.

Randomly recalling my conversation with Tita Marie, and since the afternoon's earlier downpour had reduced itself to a light evening drizzle, I decided to walk down the street to Times Square. I opened my umbrella and settled into the customary New-Yorker-with-a-purpose stride until I turned the corner and the signature billboards loomed overhead. Then I slowed down, stared up into the lights that will continue to mesmerize and dazzle the world long after I am gone and took a stroll for my Tita Cita.

It was raining when we cycled into Minnesota and it was raining when we cycled out, but I know that Tita Cita would have loved to have lived and felt it all.

Minnesota was for my titas.

Day 32: Rochester, MN, to La Crosse, WI

2010-07-22T18:47:00.145-04:00

Today's Mileage: 90

Average Speed: 13.4 mph

Max Speed: 43.0 mph

Moving Time: 6:40

Blog & Ride Details

I cycled to the Mississippi River ...

... from Oregon!

Willpower will get you over mountains.

Our final morning in Minnesota began with 30 miles of torrential downpours and blistering headwinds. As I trudged along, sealed within my rain jacket, rain pants and shoe covers, I couldn't help but think of all the things I'd rather do than cycle in the rain. Lay in bed under a downfeather comforter in my old apartment on West 51st Streeet listening to the tink-tink sound of raindrops on the aged, rickety fire escape just beyond the exposed brick walls. Curl up on the couch with a cup of tea watching beads of rain stream down the 31st-floor windowpanes of my new apartment overlooking Downtown Brooklyn and Lower Manhattan. Sit in an over-sized chair in a dim library with a good book. Lounge in a stable while raindrops tap on the wooden shingles and horses stomp softly in their stalls. But I wasn't in any of those places. I was maneuvering over slick road surfaces, being slapped in the face by pellets of water and straining to see the road through foggy eyewear, which Oakley told me would not fog.

As the cyclists began to arrive at the first SAG stop, the cloud cover was starting to clear. I tossed my rain pants in the SAG bin and shed my rain jacket. Aside from clammy sweat, I was still dry! I decided against removing my shoe covers; even with clearing skies, I was expecting a lot of road splatter. And with the help of the rolled-up rain jacket stuffed in my back pocket - just in case the rain returned, I could have an ass like J.Lo's all the way to Wisconsin. I was pretty excited about it.

The highlight of the day - aside from riding over another state line - was seemingly endless miles of gorgeous bike paths, winding through the Minnesota countryside. If I'm ever wealthy enough to own a second home, I'll purchase one along the Root River Trail so that I can cycle to Barista's Coffee House on summer mornings. Best white chocolate and raspberry scones ever!

The terrain in southeastern Minnesota was an unexpected surprise. Throughout the day, anyone could have told me that I was in a Midwestern cornfield, the jungles of Costa Rica or the foothills of The Appalachians, and I would have believed all three. There was even a curve and a bend, where we were overlooking fields of crops, and the mist-covered hillsides in the background could have been lightly stretched into a believable backdrop of Vietnam.

After a one-mile, 10% grade climb and a screaming descent into the Mississippi River valley, we had officially crossed over into eastern United States territory. I still can't believe we began ... in Oregon.

More images from Rochester to La Crosse:

The Ride Leader's Official Report:

La Crosse, Day 33

Across America North:

La Crosse photos

Day 31: Mankato, MN, to Rochester, MN

2010-07-21T21:26:00.011-04:00

Today's Mileage: 99

Average Speed: 14.8 mph

Max Speed: 32.2 mph

Average BPM: Heart monitor is still not working

Max BPM: Or my heart has stopped

Calories Burned: A lot; see previous caloric burns

Moving Time: 7:07

Blog & Ride Details

Back-to-back centuries. To partially quote Beyonce - it's a cyclist's worst dream or beautiful nightmare. I'm not sure which.

I cycled my fastest century yesterday, finishing in just under five hours, immediately followed by slowest century today. I wasn't exactly high energy, but I didn't feel like I had ridden 100 miles when I arrived in Rochester, which I think is a sign that I am becoming stronger and more able on the bicycle.

Our day began early, as usual. After we pedaled up a 10% grade hill - straight out of our hotel - we only had 98 1/2 more miles to go. Two of Leo's sisters, who met him in Mankato, wrote messages in chalk from the entrance of the hotel to the top of the hill. So when we got to the top, we all saw this.

Other highlights of the day:

Ellen's quest for world domination reached the cornfields of Minnesota.

Maddy and I played on a slide at the first SAG stop.

And Beth discovered that reefer grows freely in the Midwest.

Sandy, Leo and I sort of milled around the route this afternoon. My days are sometimes more fun (and funnier) when I take time to view, smell, feel, taste (and smoke) the world around me.

More images from Mankato to Rochester:

There is a corn tower in this picture.

Click here to view my entire photo album of Day 31 [TBA].

The Ride Leader's Official Report:

Rochester, Day 31

Across America North:

Rochester photos

Day 30: Worthington, MN, to Mankato, MN

2010-07-20T21:32:00.028-04:00

Today's Mileage: 103

Average Speed: 19.9 mph

Max Speed: 33.8 mph

Average BPM: Heart monitor is still not working

Max BPM: See above

Calories Burned: Plenty, I'm sure

Moving Time: 5:10

Blog & Ride Details

Today I rode a century in five hours! So did Alex - the other honorary filly of The Geldings! Well, 4 hours and 58 minutes to be exact. Granted, it was with the aid of The Geldings' paceline, combined with optimal riding conditions. Good roads, no wind and rolling hills with overall declining elevation.

It was not an official personal best authentically achieved by completing a century in five hours, riding solo, without the energy-conserving power of a paceline, but considering that this was the fourth century I've ever ridden ... ever, I was pretty darn proud of myself.

Toronto Mark shot some video footage of the terrain while we were cycling more casually on a Minnesota backroad.

But the achievement was not without incident. An unfortunate incident that diminished the sparkle of the triumph. There were a few others who joined The Geldings today for an impromptu attempt at a five-hour century, including Edward (name changed because to protect the identity of the fallen).

Update: Edward wanted a cooler name so he has heretofore been re-dubbed Clint Eastwood.

We all learned an important lesson on when pacelines are appropriate and safe. A desolate backroad, like the one in the video featured above, is appropriate and safe - although at that point, we were riding more in a casual peloton. A busy highway with a shoulder littered with shreds of tires is not appropriate and safe for a fast paceline. In fact, if we wanted to make better and safer use of our time, we should have been pacelining on that back road and later spread the group out on the highway, but I think the video was shot before we realized that we were making good enough time to cycle 100 miles in five hours.

With less than 20 miles left on the day's route, we were pacing along at 23-25 miles per hour on the shoulder of a busy highway, pointing out upcoming road conditions at the last second, using tight, quick maneuvers to dodge debris, and a little voice in my head said: "Katie, the other people around you are more advanced cyclists, who might be more comfortable with these road conditions. You are not seeing some of this stuff until it's practically underneath you. There are eight cyclists in this paceline and your novice participation is adding to the group's overall risk. You are a beginner and barely know what you're doing. You might be in over your head and should probably pull out of this line."

Then, the Type-A personality that occasionally emerges from amongst a few multiple personalities that exist in my head said: "A century in five hours! Weeee!"

I didn't listen to my gut. Just minutes after my cycling angels of good and bad argued on my shoulder, a shout came from behind me, followed by the sound of crunching, skidding metal. The paceline immediately broke apart as we all slowed to look over our shoulders and pull off the road. ~~Edward's~~ Clint Eastwood's bicycle was in a crumpled heap on the pavement. I could see Dave, already off of his bike and running back to where ~~Edward~~ Clint Eastwood lay hidden in tall grass, nearly 15 feet from the road. As I turned around, I could feel my body purposely pedaling slowly. My heart was pounding against the sides of my helmet. I was so afraid of what I might see.

~~Edward~~ Clint Eastwood was alright. Relatively. A large rock had been kicked up by another bicycle and had wedged perfectly and inconveniently under his front wheel, catapulting him over the handlebars. Luckily - if anything was lucky about the accident at all - he tumbled along the shoulder and into the grass, instead of into the vehicular traffic zooming by on the left. The sleeve of his jersey was torn to shreds. He was splattered with blood and clumps of dirt. His bicycle was practically mangled. Most noticeably, he needed new handlebar tape and a new saddle. Toronto Mark watched out for oncoming traffic while Jeff and Joe did what they could to straighten out Clint Eastwood's bicycle and make it rideable.

When we resumed our pace, it was not in a paceline. The group spread out, riding in twos. And somehow, ~~Edward~~ Clint Eastwood rolled onto the next SAG stop and then cycled the last 10 miles to Mankato on a broken saddle. Like a champ - even still making a five-hour century. The ABB staff was also incredibly efficient in their response to his injuries and the condition of his bicycle. He should be able to ride tomorrow.

Although ~~Edward~~ Clint Eastwood continued to insist that the accident was no one's fault, I could not stop replaying the sequence of events over and over in my head. What could any of us have done differently, I wondered. What could I have done to prevent the accident or lessen the risks? But ~~Edward~~ Clint Eastwood was right. It was no one's fault. It was everyone's fault. The most important aspect of a successful paceline is knowing when it's safe to use it.

We may have achieved a group-ride best today, but living to cycle another day was worth 10 five-hour centuries and all of their weight in gold.

More images from Worthington to Mankato:

Click here to see my entire photo album from Day 30 [TBA].

The Ride Leader's Official Report:

Mankato, Day 30

Across America North:

Mankato photos

South Dakota Dedication

2010-07-19T20:55:00.006-04:00

I could not have made it half way across North America if the company for which I work had not allowed me to go all the way.

I am incredibly grateful to work for a multimedia organization with forward-thinking Human Resources staff and progressive departmental leaders. The corporate approval of my eight-week leave of absence by my superiors and the emotional support from my coworkers were the initial catalysts in making this journey a reality.

South Dakota was for my colleagues.

Thank you again and again.

Day 29: Sioux Falls, SD, to Worthington, MN

2010-07-19T20:30:00.019-04:00

Today's Mileage: 70

Average Speed: 14.2 mph

Max Speed: 24.4 mph

Average BPM: Heart monitor stopped working

Max BPM: No heartbeat recorded

Calories Burned: If I had no heartbeat the entire day, I probably didn't burn any calories either

Moving Time: 4:49

Blog & Ride Details

We're in Minnesota. We cycled here from Oregon, don't cha know.

We commenced departure from South Dakota at dawn - or what we assumed to be dawn from underneath all of the cloud cover. Before we cycled off into soggy oblivion,Toronto Mark, who nicknamed me "Katie Scarlett" so that I could have a cool nickname like his wife's, took a photo of me reenacting a scene from Gone With the Wind below a sign for Scarlett O'Hara's Lounge. The sunlight on my backside is the last we saw of it until later in the afternoon.

And not only did Philip - who, by the way, has written like five books - discontinue the tour because of a wrist injury (we're all going to miss him), I learned that I can make the face of a pre-pubescent boy when I'm sad.

I haven't figured out though what this facial expression is that I'm making on Helen's blog; I'm taking suggestions. Charades, anyone?

I also did not realize how ridiculous I look in my rain gear until I had this photo taken at Sioux Falls, the waterfalls in - you guessed it - Sioux Falls. I look like I should be working in a meat packaging plant.

Today was our first really rainy day. We've had to deal with a few overcast skies and misty weather over the past three weeks, but today I was soaked anywhere that was not covered by my "screaming yellow" Pearl Izumi Women's Elite Barrier WxB Jacket.

The weather began to clear by early afternoon, but there was still water sloshing around in my cleats since my shoe covers were neatly - and inconveniently - packed away in my suitcase. After being waterlogged in my shoes for nearly five hours, I was unable to determine the odor coming from my drenched socks after the ride.

But are we still having a good time? You betcha!

More images from Sioux Falls to Worthington:

Click here to view my entire photo album of Day 29 [TBA].

The Ride Leader's Official Report:

Worthington, Day 29

Across America North:

Worthington photos

Day 28: Rest Day

2010-07-18T17:32:00.053-04:00

Today's Mileage: 0

Last night, Alex, Andrew and I experienced Saturday night in Sioux Falls. We went to Borrowed Bucks Roadhouse, the nightclub voted "Best Dance Floor in Town". And I guess it was the best in town, if you're able to find (and keep) your groove during a DJ set that included "Too Close" by Next, a forgettable Mariah Carey Song, a throwback hit by Salt-N-Pepa, and "Winds of Change" ... in that order. I was sure they were going to pull out "The Thong Song". It wasn't exactly my scene, but with a tendency to compare all things that are New York to all things that aren't, I tried to to be nonjudgemental.

Alex and I had been hoping to learn how to country line dance and do si do with some old men in cowboy hats; apparently that might only be on Monday nights. I have to admit, it took me awhile to shake my disappointment. However, Alex and Andrew made the evening fun. They're the type of people that you could take anywhere. I tried to feed off their energy even though I was sleepy, my knees were sore and my Achilles Tendon was stiff. All in all, absolutely no regrets.

More loved ones joined us in Sioux Falls to spend time with their cyclists on the rest day. One special guest in particular was Huey, Todd's six-year old son. Todd adopted him in Singapore - and with his partner Patrick - has been raising Huey in Hong Kong, where Todd works for one of the most influential companies in media. On the way to Chamberlain, Todd told me about his experience with the adoption process abroad. His story warms the heart. Throughout the rest day, I kept thinking about how Todd and Patrick have completely changed Huey's life. And how Huey has undoubtably changed theirs.

Huey's varieties of smiles have solidified my desire to adopt at least one child if I ever have a family of my own.

More Rest Day Debauchery:

Day 27: Mitchell, SD, to Sioux Falls, SD

2010-07-17T20:27:00.025-04:00

Today's Mileage: 72
Average Speed: 12.9 mph
Max Speed: 25.9 mph
Average BPM: 126
Max BPM: 156
Calories Burned: 1995
Moving Time: 5:34
Blog & Ride Details

I must begin today's post with highlights from The 40th Corn Palace Stampede Rodeo, which I attended last night in Mitchell, South Dakota. My first rodeo. I need to preface my opinion and review of the festivities with a note that I did enjoy myself overall. The cowboys were incredibly skilled horsemen. It was quite a sight to see. An entire culture, way of life and style of dress that is completely removed from my life in New York City - or any other life I have ever known for that matter. As the competitors went forth boldly into each event, I found myself doing my own private behavioral study from my seat in the stands.

[Photo from Andrew's blog]

However, I was unable to maintain my non-bias review of the setting and scene when the rodeo announcer projected (what was in my opinion) misguided patriotism across the grand stands. His voice boomed with declarations of the greatest country on earth created just for the American people by a Christian God. And the seemingly little more than verbal support of the current American wars reminded me of a chapter about patriotism in Bill Maher's book, When You Ride Alone, You Ride With Bin Laden: What the Government SHOULD Be Telling Us to Help Fight the War on Terrorism.

The danger of patriotism is that it allows one to claim to be a patriot by pinning a red, white and blue ribbon on a lapel or placing an American flag bumper sticker on an over-sized, gas-guzzling GMC truck and doing little more than that to truly support one's country. I doubt the rodeo is sending a percentage of its proceeds to fund the U.S. troops' needs, organizing volunteer efforts or encouraging its patrons to conserve gasoline for the war effort - at least they make no mention of such endeavors on their website. In fact, in the United States, anybody can be a patriot without doing anything at all!

And the jokes made by the rodeo clown about President Obama's health care plan, which resounded with laughter, brought the irony home: Taxes for wars over fossil fuels and irrational politics (and death), but no taxes for health care (and life). And with regard to issues of life (sparked by the numerous pro-life billboards in South Dakota), I find it incredibly ironic that the same party, who wishes to deny a woman the right to choose whether or not to continue her pregnancy, is simultaneously unwilling to help support the life after its born with universal health care coverage. If we don't want to help take care of each other once we're here, why would we want to force each other to bring more unwanted people in?

But I digress. Regardless of your opinion of how taxpayer money should be spent, there is a fine line between patriotism and nationalism, which is just as dangerous as narcissism in religion or faith without questions.

[Above photos by Leo - as well as a few of the others below;

he really needs to create a photo blog
for all his excellent cycling tour photography]

Today was supposed to be an easy 71 miles, but after the past two days of bumpy South Dakota roads, my ass and my saddle were not on speaking terms. You know that old African proverb, When the elephants fight, it's the grass that suffers?

Well, when my ass and saddle go at it, it's me who suffers. My legs actually felt fine, but I could not have ridden fast even if I wanted to. I could not find a comfortable position on the bicycle. Thus, I couldn't find comfortable gears on the hills or flats. Every pedal stroke created another argument between the seat and my derriere.

All of the miles of posterior pain were magnified by the 90-degree temperatures and humidity. Let me follow that up by saying that I generally prefer hot conditions to cold, but heat can have a way of intensifying discomfort if particular situations are less than favorable.

I mean, it was this hot ...

As a result of the above factors, I did not stop often for photos. And even though everyone on today's ride also seemed to just want to get the miles over with, we all piled into every desolate convenience store along the route, in search of air conditioning and ice water.

Most of us found the terrain a bit monotonous. Wheat stalk after wheat stalk. Cornfield after cornfield. But there was a major landmark today. We cycled our 2,000th mile across North America.

By the time we arrived in Sioux Falls, we were fairly delirious and exceedingly prone to giddy laughter. A lot of crude happenings and sayings often result. It becomes the alternative to yanking your hair out and screaming at the top of your lungs. Besides, it's too much effort to stay uptight when your entire body is limp from exhaustion. This is definitely not a tour for the faint of heart or faint of humor. And how many monkeys does it take to change the world's smallest flat tire less than two miles from the hotel?

Our hotel rooms were not ready and we could not immediately shower away our delirium so we made a rare stop at McDonalds for lunch since the blaze of the sun was becoming too intense to cycle further than the next street corner. Within minutes of commencing consumption of high carbon footprint food items, my knees began to cramp, which had nothing to do with the elevated caloric and fat content of my meal and everything to do with the extreme mileage and daily overuse. I stood up and began to stretch, completely forgetting that Gerard was sitting at an adjacent table right behind me.

Jokingly, he shot a picture of his view before I realized what was happening. When he showed it to me, I heard Tom Skerritt's voice in a scene from Steel Magnolias: "Aww thanks, Ousier. Nothin' like a good piece of ass."

You'd think that was one of my favorite movies by the way I often force relevance out of quotes from that film, but it was full of such great one-liners. It's a sore piece in this case.

Gerard is also taking some great photos in his series of shots of other riders. He has another one of me doing what I do best. I know that Jessica will really appreciate that one. And we've completed Leg 3! Rest Day tomorrow!

More images from Mitchell to Sioux Falls:

Click here to view my entire photo album of Day 27 [TBA].

The Ride Leader's Official Report:

Sioux Falls, Day 27

Across America North:

Sioux Falls photos

Day 26: Chamberlain, SD, to Mitchell, SD

2010-07-16T16:56:00.036-04:00

Today's Mileage: 71
Average Speed: 17.1 mph
Max Speed: 28.4 mph
Average BPM: 130
Max BPM: 171
Calories Burned: 1592
Moving Time: 4:12
Blog & Ride Details

I rode the last 15 miles to Mitchell, South Dakota, with The Swiss Train and Jeff (ABB staff). I think I can finally say that I have hammered. The Swiss Train is Bruno and Daniel, buddies from Switzerland that I rarely see during the day. When I do see them, it's usually flashes of smiles and waves of hands and then dust. Today, as they passed with Margot in their paceline, I asked Daniel if I could hop on. I tried my best, counting down the miles, striving to convince myself that I could hang on for just one more mile.

I've heard one or two people on this tour pass subtle judgment on those who try to cycle fast or try to keep pace with the better, more experienced cyclists. Of course, I don't actually know if - nor am I even assuming that - I am one of whom this judgment has been made - particularly with regard to the latter of chasing the faster cyclists. But I am finding personal fulfillment in using some of my days on this tour to push myself to cycle as well as the more talented riders. We have the privilege of getting to know them out here. Why not take advantage of studying their form and drawing on their expertise?

I can understand why competitive and non-competitive egos can rub each other the wrong way on a tour like this. This isn't the Tour de France after all; it's not like there are any legitimate bragging rights for being the fastest cyclist on America By Bicycle's 2010 Across America North tour. Who would you tell who cared anyway? But I see absolutely no shame in setting new goals for yourself and pushing yourself to be better. It reminds me of a poem by Marianne Williamson that was used by Nelson Mandela in one of his famous speeches:

"Your playing small
Does not serve the world.
There's nothing enlightened about shrinking
So that other people won't feel insecure around you."

Ever a source of wisdom, my roommate Beth is always telling people, "Just ride your ride. Whatever it may be that day."

So charge after those high pacers if you want to, my darlings, charge! Or take your time if that's your goal for the day, my dears, take your time! Or leave early and race yourself for your personal best, my sweeties, race yourself!

It's your ride.

However, I was so relieved as The Swiss Train rolled into Mitchell; my legs were nearly gone. As pleased as I was to achieve my goal, I was also a little embarrassed that I didn't pull since I'm learning that it's bad etiquette to "suck [someone else's] wheel" without putting in any work toward the overall benefit of the line. The guys reassured me that I did a good job for my "first ride on The Swiss Train". I took that and thanked them for a great ride.

I had interesting and enlightening conversations with Margot and Margo earlier in the morning along rolling backroads in South Dakota. The first conversation with Margot revolved a lot around career, love, marriage, children and life expectations. The feelings she had when she was my age are a lot like the ones I am having now. It is always reassuring to know that others have felt like you at one time or another and eventually found their way.

As we crested a hill, I was glancing at Margot, who was mid-sentence, and caught a glimpse of Rick over her shoulder, overtaking us and crouched in a racer's tuck, preparing to pick up speed and coast the descent. He was looking straight ahead with an open-mouthed grin on his face. Pure bliss. Click. Mental snapshot. I added it to the montage of memories I'm creating on this trip right behind the image of Carl yelling "on your left" and pulling his first paceline with a huge smile on his face.

A few miles later, Margo and I chatted briefly about preparing for a cycling tour like this one. We all did what we could do to prepare with the resources and time we had available. I knew I was physically ill-prepared for this tour when I arrived in Astoria, Oregon - as were a few others - but I kind of have a mantra about not letting fear of failure stop me from pursuing goals. It goes back to those few, subtle judgements I've heard about those who try to keep up with the faster cyclists. Why not try? What's the worst that could happen? That you fall off their pace? That you can't keep up? So what?

I have a bit of an "if not now, when?" attitude about a lot of things and often think that if I wait until I'm ready to do everything I might never do anything. There are, of course, exceptions to that rule, but Margo nodded and said, "You know that saying? Anything worth doing is worth doing badly."

It reminded me of one of my favorite quotes by Teddy Roosevelt:

"It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust & sweat & blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again & again, because there is no effort without error & shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold & timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat."

At Nike, they said the same thing, only shorter: "Just do it."

If your best is badly, do it anyway and have a ball.

And it wouldn't have been a [corn]ball out here without a stop at the World's Only Corn Palace.

More images from Chamberlain to Mitchell:

Click here to view my entire photo album of Day 26 [TBA].

The Ride Leader's Official Report:

Mitchell, Day 26

Across America North:

Mitchell photos