I live close enough to where I work to ride my bike in, and this morning was no exception. I was waiting for a light to change at an intersection when a cyclist rode by. The sleeves of the cyclist's jersey were poking out from under a fluorescent green vest, and I instantly recognized them as the 2008 Bike & Build jersey. The light changed about three seconds later, about a second and a half after I had resolved to chase this mystery rider down. I was already pedaling my heart out when I started to process it in my mind: it was definitely a dude I was chasing, and it wasn't Skip, Amol, or Oliver, so he must have been a rider from some other route. I still wanted to catch him just to say hello. I followed him over Longfellow Bridge, and the adrenaline was wearing off before I was halfway over. I didn't see where he went at the intersection on the Boston side, and seeing as how that intersection goes in about 6 different directions, I figured it would be useless to try to find him now. "Well I'll be damned if this isn't a metaphor for real life," I thought to myself as I pulled a U to go back over the bridge.
A few highlights between Bloomington and Potosi: in Lawrenceville, IL, we celebrated the birth of our nation by checking into the Gas Lite Motel. (Actually, Lawrenceville has no 4th of July festivities. WTF?) Butters and I were chilling in the first of the 10 rooms we had when KRud rolled up with 5 footlong subs hanging from his neck. He had gotten them donated. Butters and I sat in that seedy little motel room watching King of the Hill and munching on some subs. She didn't believe me when I told her that that was exactly what my life was like in Texas. Hilary and I were blazing the trail into Salem, and I wasn't holding anything back, but she stayed with me the whole time. The day we got into St. Louis, a few of us went to go see the arch. They have these little egg-shaped pods to shuttle people to the top, and they only seat five, and we were seven. By this time we had already formed close, personal relationships, so it was no big thing for the seven of us to cram into that pod.
One of the things we would always try to do on the road was get donations in any form we could. See, there's this big Bike & Build pot of money, and all the trips draw from this pot, and whatever is left over after the trips (usually around half) goes to affordable housing organizations. Monetary donations were always welcome, but we also welcomed donations of food. See, for every meal we can get donated, that's a meal we don't have to draw from the pot, so that means more money for affordable housing. Some of us really had a knack for getting donations. KRud made a name for himself that way. Skip worked his magic a few times. But Lenny was the king of getting donations. A few of us were already at lunch on the day into Potosi when Lenny rolls up in the van and presents us with a garbage bag full of food that he got donated. Apparently a local grocery store was about to throw this stuff out because it was approaching its expiration date, and he convinced them to give it to us. Going through that bag full of goodies, I felt like a kid after Halloween.
After lunch it was Jose, Jane, Butters and me in the front pack. Eventually Jose and Jane started taking it easy, so it was up to Butters and me to blaze the trail. We got a call from the leaders about three miles after a turn telling us that the turn was wrong on the cue sheet. I wasn't too happy about that, but then I knew if I flipped my lid every time something didn't go my way I'd never make it to the Pacific.
We were almost back at the intersection where we had made the wrong turn. Butters was in the lead, and a car turned right right in front of her. I remember that she came so close to hitting the car that I said, "Whoa!" And then she hit the car. She wiped out, landing on one side. Afterwards people would ask me why I hadn't chased down the car. I suppose I could have, but that would have meant leaving Butters alone. She instinctively pulled herself out of harms way, and I stopped to pick up one of her water bottles from the middle of the street. On initial inspection she seemed mostly okay except for a gash on her knee. She was also a little shaken. The sight of the blood coming out of her knee didn't help. "Oh my God! Oh my God!" she said over and over as she cleaned the blood off her knee with water. She asked me what she should do. We had about 10 or 15 miles to the campsite. I said if it were me, I'd tie a bandana over it and finish the day. But that's me. She called Jose, and it turns out he and Jane had stopped at a library a short walk away. There Butters washed her wound in the bathroom (She refused disinfectant.) while Jose expained to me the deal. The cut was pretty deep, she would probably need stitches, so someone would have to go with her to the clinic. I volunteered.
First we went to what we thought was the clinic. There they gave us directions to what was actually the clinic. And at the clinic they told us they didn't take walk-ins and kindly directed us to a nearby emergency room. When they called her name, I gave her a hug and told her to be a big girl. I was actually a little relieved when Butters was gone because I could finally stop pretending like my eye wasn't killing me. (We had enough problems as it was; I didn't want to start up with mine.) The problems I had been having with my eyes on the day into State College didn't stop there. My eyes were constantly bothering me. Some days they were fine, but others I would have rather torn my eyeballs out than dealt with the pain. The day into Potosi was closer to the latter. I only had one contact in. (The other eye was so bothered that morning that I didn't dare put a contact in it.) I tried washing it out, to no avail. I was so desperate to make the pain stop that I just took my contact out and threw it away. I was blind.
Butters came back out with fresh stitches in her knee. She said she was good to ride, but we called the leaders anyway. They said she had to take the van in for the last few miles. Never before that day did I get the slightest hint that Butters cared about her membership in certain clubs within the trip, and nor did I ever get that feeling after that day, but in that emergency room in Missouri, Butters was seriously upset at the prospect of having to ride in the van. After we had called the leaders, Butters told me I could go, but I said I wasn't leaving until the van picked her up.
I gave Butters a hug and bid her farewell as she climbed into the van. 15 or so miles left in the day, it was about 5 o'clock and I hadn't eaten since lunch. I was tired, hungry, blind, and worst of all, alone. I can't emphasize this enough: I have really bad eyesight. Without glasses or contacts, I can't read road signs until I'm right next to them, and even then only barely. I have to lean over until my face is three inches from my handlebars to read the mileage on my cyclocomputer. Vehicles aside, riding blind and alone was scary because I could easily become lost and unable to find my way. I pedalled cautiously until I was out of the city, then easy once I was on open road. I'm pretty sure I was looking for a sign and a right turn onto a dirt road. I slowed down and squinted at everything that looked like it could have been a sign or an intersection. I started feeling weak, because I hadn't eaten since lunch no doubt. Eventually it got to the point where I had to pull over to collect myself. Even with only a few miles left, I took some Shot Bloks, knowing full well that they probably wouldn't start to take effect until after I got to the camp. I continued, and as my mileage creeped closer to the mileage for the turn into the camp, I started to get nervous. What if I missed the turn? How far do I go before turning back? What if I don't go far enough? A rush of relief came over me when a turn and the sign for the Boy Scout camp came into view. When I pulled up to the camp, people were taking down tents. Deep down I guess I was hoping for a hero's welcome, but most people didn't bat an eyelash.
I helped take down the tents. Apparently the plan had originally been to sleep in them, but we were supposed to get a thunderstorm that night, so instead we would hole up in this seriously creepy half-finished house next to our campsite. And there was, I kid you not, a graveyard right next to the house. Showers were a hose, dinner was burgers and hot dogs from I know not where, and I'm pretty sure it was somebody's birthday because we had like three cakes. A bunch of us were sitting at a table devouring the cake just as the light was starting to fade, and I remember thinking to myself, "It's just me and like seven girls at this table. This is awesome." The sky just before the storm was a sight to behold. We rushed to get everything inside, making it in a nick of time - Sophie, in nothing but a towel, was the only one left running for the patio when the initial cloudburst started. We watched the rain, discussed the day's events and the trip so far, wrote in our journals by flashlight, and were the best of friends.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Monday, April 6, 2009
Breaking Away to Bloomington
If I could have my way, I would do nothing all day but sit around commit to writing my memories of this most epic of trips. But, things being the way they are, I have been forced to get a job and acquire and furnish an apartment, and these, along with the relentless pursuit of my New Year's resolution, have been taking up the bulk of my time lately. But much like the climb into Mt. Pocono, I have no intention of giving up this endeavor.
The truth is, I still think about the trip a lot. I've been working for about two months now, and the work is satisfying, the pay significant, and the people nice. But there have been so many times that I have been sitting at my computer, reading documentation for some random component of our software product, and I will think to myself, "This is soooo boring." And slowly I find that I become lost in my thoughts until I find myself seeing Vegas with Dani or riding sweep with Butters or making PB&J out of the back of the trailer or reliving any one of a million other priceless memories that I have of that summer. But a reminder for a meeting pops up on my monitor and I am back in my office. A hint of sadness lingers as I start to get my things together. But there are worse tragedies in the world.
I digress. I was flipping through my little black journal, looking for the next epic to tell, when I decided, Bike & Build wasn't just about epic adventures. It was also the smaller happenings that took place every day that kept things interesting. And maybe such enterprises didn't seem too unusual within the context of Bike & Build, but having rejoined civilian life for almost a year now, I can say with absolute certainty that every day on the road was an adventure. And the day into Bloomington was typical of that, I feel.
I should begin by saying that most of the food that was provided to us by the places we stayed over the summer was pretty good, but the breakfast in Rushville was legendary. We wouldn't have eaten as well if we had gone to a restaurant. What must have been half the congregation turned out at 5 in the morning to make us breakfast: oatmeal, pancakes, quiche, bacon, sausage, fresh fruit, OJ. We ate like kings and queens. To the parishioners of St. Paul's United Methodist Church of Rushville, IN: you have our eternal gratitude.
Amol and I were sweep that day, so we rode easy. It was a pretty standard day of sweeping, I believe we encountered a flat or two during the day, but nothing any more serious than that. So sweep has the added responsibility of cleaning up and loading the trailer after lunch. This I didn't mind so much, but just as we were about to head out, one of the leaders (Kyle Magida, I believe) said, "Someone needs to finish this milk or we're gonna throw it out." There was easily a quart left.
There aren't a lot of things in this world that I hate, but I hate hate hate seeing food go to waste. I was a busboy at a Chinese restaurant for a little bit, and every time I took away someone's half-full plate and tossed it in the garbage my blood would boil. I will eat food well past its prime before I will let it go to waste. One of these days that's gonna get the best of me, but today I'm still standing.
So of course no one else wanted to drink all that milk, no one even wanted to help me, so even though I already eaten a full lunch, I drank about a quart of milk right before hopping back on the bike. It's a good thing I was sweep that day, because if I wasn't then whoever was probably would have caught me. Naturally I felt horrible as my body struggled to digest that Thankgiving dinner inside me and fuel my working muscles. I just kept telling myself to survive the next few hours. Little by little I felt better until Amol and I stopped at a McDonald's to lay some cable, and with that I was 100% again.
Amol and I were riding with Jane and Emma when Butters and Kester passed us. Apparently they had stopped at a charming little antique store and went antiquing for a few hours while Amol and I passed them. I cannot even begin to tell you how typical this was of Butters and Kester. (Butters says she called out to Amol and I as we rode by, but I'm not sure I believe that.)
So Amol and I are about 3 miles from the host. It's been a long day, but I figured, whatever, everyone's gotta sweep, it's no big deal. But I was definitely ready to get to the host. And what do Butters and Kester do, they stop at an ice cream place. I honestly did not understand everyone's obsession with ice cream. I can say from experience that riding with large amounts of dairy in one's belly is not fun. But Butters and Kester didn't care. They were gonna order some big-ass ice cream cones and take their sweet time eating them, and there was nothing I could do about it. I tried to hurry them along but Butters just laughed at me. Tenfold, Butterfield.
The next day being a build day, a few of us decided to go out to a bar. A good time was had, we pretty much had the place to ourselves. I guess the usual Wednesday night crowd isn't there at 8 o'clock. We sat out on the patio, drinking beers and shooting the breeze. Right then and there I was perfectly content, but I was also very... tired. I fell asleep sitting up at the table and was only awakened by the flash from Erin's camera. Tenfold, Rice.
The truth is, I still think about the trip a lot. I've been working for about two months now, and the work is satisfying, the pay significant, and the people nice. But there have been so many times that I have been sitting at my computer, reading documentation for some random component of our software product, and I will think to myself, "This is soooo boring." And slowly I find that I become lost in my thoughts until I find myself seeing Vegas with Dani or riding sweep with Butters or making PB&J out of the back of the trailer or reliving any one of a million other priceless memories that I have of that summer. But a reminder for a meeting pops up on my monitor and I am back in my office. A hint of sadness lingers as I start to get my things together. But there are worse tragedies in the world.
I digress. I was flipping through my little black journal, looking for the next epic to tell, when I decided, Bike & Build wasn't just about epic adventures. It was also the smaller happenings that took place every day that kept things interesting. And maybe such enterprises didn't seem too unusual within the context of Bike & Build, but having rejoined civilian life for almost a year now, I can say with absolute certainty that every day on the road was an adventure. And the day into Bloomington was typical of that, I feel.
I should begin by saying that most of the food that was provided to us by the places we stayed over the summer was pretty good, but the breakfast in Rushville was legendary. We wouldn't have eaten as well if we had gone to a restaurant. What must have been half the congregation turned out at 5 in the morning to make us breakfast: oatmeal, pancakes, quiche, bacon, sausage, fresh fruit, OJ. We ate like kings and queens. To the parishioners of St. Paul's United Methodist Church of Rushville, IN: you have our eternal gratitude.
Amol and I were sweep that day, so we rode easy. It was a pretty standard day of sweeping, I believe we encountered a flat or two during the day, but nothing any more serious than that. So sweep has the added responsibility of cleaning up and loading the trailer after lunch. This I didn't mind so much, but just as we were about to head out, one of the leaders (Kyle Magida, I believe) said, "Someone needs to finish this milk or we're gonna throw it out." There was easily a quart left.
There aren't a lot of things in this world that I hate, but I hate hate hate seeing food go to waste. I was a busboy at a Chinese restaurant for a little bit, and every time I took away someone's half-full plate and tossed it in the garbage my blood would boil. I will eat food well past its prime before I will let it go to waste. One of these days that's gonna get the best of me, but today I'm still standing.
So of course no one else wanted to drink all that milk, no one even wanted to help me, so even though I already eaten a full lunch, I drank about a quart of milk right before hopping back on the bike. It's a good thing I was sweep that day, because if I wasn't then whoever was probably would have caught me. Naturally I felt horrible as my body struggled to digest that Thankgiving dinner inside me and fuel my working muscles. I just kept telling myself to survive the next few hours. Little by little I felt better until Amol and I stopped at a McDonald's to lay some cable, and with that I was 100% again.
Amol and I were riding with Jane and Emma when Butters and Kester passed us. Apparently they had stopped at a charming little antique store and went antiquing for a few hours while Amol and I passed them. I cannot even begin to tell you how typical this was of Butters and Kester. (Butters says she called out to Amol and I as we rode by, but I'm not sure I believe that.)
So Amol and I are about 3 miles from the host. It's been a long day, but I figured, whatever, everyone's gotta sweep, it's no big deal. But I was definitely ready to get to the host. And what do Butters and Kester do, they stop at an ice cream place. I honestly did not understand everyone's obsession with ice cream. I can say from experience that riding with large amounts of dairy in one's belly is not fun. But Butters and Kester didn't care. They were gonna order some big-ass ice cream cones and take their sweet time eating them, and there was nothing I could do about it. I tried to hurry them along but Butters just laughed at me. Tenfold, Butterfield.
The next day being a build day, a few of us decided to go out to a bar. A good time was had, we pretty much had the place to ourselves. I guess the usual Wednesday night crowd isn't there at 8 o'clock. We sat out on the patio, drinking beers and shooting the breeze. Right then and there I was perfectly content, but I was also very... tired. I fell asleep sitting up at the table and was only awakened by the flash from Erin's camera. Tenfold, Rice.
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Picking Up Again: Rushville, IN
Where shall we resume this tale? I think where we left off is best.
Anyone who has checked this blog for an update since July has had to be content with the story of "Danielle Jahn, Warrior Princess." However, they may be interested to know that Dani's legendary ride was not the only event of note on the day into Rushville. July 1st was also the day the Ass-Slapping Game came to a climactic end.
Now I'm probably not the best person to ask about the game because I was not an active participant, though I still some how managed to get sucked into it. Anyway, it officially began on the day into State College, but really it began before that. Now I really can't tell you exactly how it began, but early in the trip everyone thought it was just so freakin' funny to slap each other's asses while on the bike. It is a lighthearted but still slightly demeaning gesture. It's like saying, "Not only am I going faster than you, but I am doing it so easily that I can momentarily take one hand off the handlebars, reach out, and smack you right on the derriere." There was never any bad blood, but it still smarts to get slapped, especially when you don't see it coming. Personally, I thought this practice was incredibly childish and, more importantly, unsafe, so I never partook. Well, almost never.
The practice of ass slapping came to a head on or around the day into State College. Now I'm not sure if this happened on or off the bike, but apparently Butterfield got this legendary slap in on KRud. So harsh was Butterfield's abuse of KRud's hiney that it left a distinct hand print on said hiney. The participants did the right thing and immortalized it with a photo:
It was clear that something needed to be done. And this is how the Ass-Slapping Game was born. Our host in State College was the former president of the Penn State cycling team. Not only did he open up his house to us, but he and his teammates made us a dinner so grand that even after our century, we could not polish it off. We are in your debt, good sir. As the 31 of us sat and ate in our host's living room, which could comfortably seat 10 people, KRud announced the Ass-Slapping Game. He had drawn up some formal rules and read them off to us. Basically, you could get points for slapping another rider's ass, and the points awarded varied based on the conditions of the slap. For example, I believe a surprise slap was worth less than one that was announced, but I could have that backwards. Bonus points could be gotten for "chaining" slaps. (Passing two or more people in a pace line and slapping all their successive hineys.) There were certain rules for safety, no slapping going up or down hill or above a certain speed, for example. And finally, anyone could opt out of the game for a day for any reason by simply chalking an "X" on their left cheek. And not the one on their face. KRud volunteered to keep score.
As I said, I find the practice of ass-slapping childish and unsafe, so I had no desire to participate in this fiendish little game of KRud's. So as soon as he finished with his announcement, I made one of my own: "Two things, everyone. First, I'm not playing. [Awwww! Boooo! Hisssss!] Second, anything you give me you will get back tenfold!" Uproarious laughter was the result of these words from the rider who had said so little up to that point in the trip. (As an interesting aside, "tenfold" as a trip meme lasted longer than the game that gave rise to its use. At first I would use it whenever anyone would cross me: "Tenfold, Butterfield!" Then other people started using it, mainly to mock me: "Tenfold, de la Garza!")
And so it was on! As we finished up Pennsylvania and crossed through Ohio and into Indiana, ass-slapping was more prominent than ever now that it had been institutionalized. Some took it more seriously than others, but we were all affected by it. Kyle and Skip decided they would tempt fate and slap my ass anyway. I made good on my word to get them back, but believe me when I say I did not enjoy it. Butterfield also couldn't resist. I kind of enjoyed getting her back.
This only went on for a few days until the game came to a climactic end on the day into Rushville. As we showered at the local YMCA, I noticed KRud was scraped all up and down one side, and I asked him what happened. The situation was this: apparently KRud made a rule that slapping Jose's ass would net the slapper some exorbitant amount of points simply because it was a rare day when anyone could keep up with him. So on that fateful day into Rushville, KRud and Lenny actually were keeping pace with Jose. They waited until they were coming off a downhill, so they were already going pretty fast. KRud and Lenny gave it a little more gas on top of that, and apparently just enough to pass Jose and finally slap his ass. They both got him, only KRud did not make a clean getaway. You'll have to ask one of them to find out exactly what happened, but basically KRud lost control and ate pavement at high speed. He cracked his helmet (Hey, better that than his skull.) and got all banged up on one side of his body but was otherwise fine. And with that, the leaders officially put an end to the Ass-Slapping Game on the grounds that it was too dangerous. I think the game was called a draw.
And so ended that chapter in our trek across the country. We were all a little shaken from KRud's accident as well as Jess R. and Charlotte's (see entry from 7.3.08), but we pushed on.
Courage is not the absence of fear. It is the presence of fear, but the will to continue.
Anyone who has checked this blog for an update since July has had to be content with the story of "Danielle Jahn, Warrior Princess." However, they may be interested to know that Dani's legendary ride was not the only event of note on the day into Rushville. July 1st was also the day the Ass-Slapping Game came to a climactic end.
Now I'm probably not the best person to ask about the game because I was not an active participant, though I still some how managed to get sucked into it. Anyway, it officially began on the day into State College, but really it began before that. Now I really can't tell you exactly how it began, but early in the trip everyone thought it was just so freakin' funny to slap each other's asses while on the bike. It is a lighthearted but still slightly demeaning gesture. It's like saying, "Not only am I going faster than you, but I am doing it so easily that I can momentarily take one hand off the handlebars, reach out, and smack you right on the derriere." There was never any bad blood, but it still smarts to get slapped, especially when you don't see it coming. Personally, I thought this practice was incredibly childish and, more importantly, unsafe, so I never partook. Well, almost never.
The practice of ass slapping came to a head on or around the day into State College. Now I'm not sure if this happened on or off the bike, but apparently Butterfield got this legendary slap in on KRud. So harsh was Butterfield's abuse of KRud's hiney that it left a distinct hand print on said hiney. The participants did the right thing and immortalized it with a photo:
It was clear that something needed to be done. And this is how the Ass-Slapping Game was born. Our host in State College was the former president of the Penn State cycling team. Not only did he open up his house to us, but he and his teammates made us a dinner so grand that even after our century, we could not polish it off. We are in your debt, good sir. As the 31 of us sat and ate in our host's living room, which could comfortably seat 10 people, KRud announced the Ass-Slapping Game. He had drawn up some formal rules and read them off to us. Basically, you could get points for slapping another rider's ass, and the points awarded varied based on the conditions of the slap. For example, I believe a surprise slap was worth less than one that was announced, but I could have that backwards. Bonus points could be gotten for "chaining" slaps. (Passing two or more people in a pace line and slapping all their successive hineys.) There were certain rules for safety, no slapping going up or down hill or above a certain speed, for example. And finally, anyone could opt out of the game for a day for any reason by simply chalking an "X" on their left cheek. And not the one on their face. KRud volunteered to keep score.
As I said, I find the practice of ass-slapping childish and unsafe, so I had no desire to participate in this fiendish little game of KRud's. So as soon as he finished with his announcement, I made one of my own: "Two things, everyone. First, I'm not playing. [Awwww! Boooo! Hisssss!] Second, anything you give me you will get back tenfold!" Uproarious laughter was the result of these words from the rider who had said so little up to that point in the trip. (As an interesting aside, "tenfold" as a trip meme lasted longer than the game that gave rise to its use. At first I would use it whenever anyone would cross me: "Tenfold, Butterfield!" Then other people started using it, mainly to mock me: "Tenfold, de la Garza!")
And so it was on! As we finished up Pennsylvania and crossed through Ohio and into Indiana, ass-slapping was more prominent than ever now that it had been institutionalized. Some took it more seriously than others, but we were all affected by it. Kyle and Skip decided they would tempt fate and slap my ass anyway. I made good on my word to get them back, but believe me when I say I did not enjoy it. Butterfield also couldn't resist. I kind of enjoyed getting her back.
This only went on for a few days until the game came to a climactic end on the day into Rushville. As we showered at the local YMCA, I noticed KRud was scraped all up and down one side, and I asked him what happened. The situation was this: apparently KRud made a rule that slapping Jose's ass would net the slapper some exorbitant amount of points simply because it was a rare day when anyone could keep up with him. So on that fateful day into Rushville, KRud and Lenny actually were keeping pace with Jose. They waited until they were coming off a downhill, so they were already going pretty fast. KRud and Lenny gave it a little more gas on top of that, and apparently just enough to pass Jose and finally slap his ass. They both got him, only KRud did not make a clean getaway. You'll have to ask one of them to find out exactly what happened, but basically KRud lost control and ate pavement at high speed. He cracked his helmet (Hey, better that than his skull.) and got all banged up on one side of his body but was otherwise fine. And with that, the leaders officially put an end to the Ass-Slapping Game on the grounds that it was too dangerous. I think the game was called a draw.
And so ended that chapter in our trek across the country. We were all a little shaken from KRud's accident as well as Jess R. and Charlotte's (see entry from 7.3.08), but we pushed on.
Courage is not the absence of fear. It is the presence of fear, but the will to continue.
Saturday, February 21, 2009
An Apology
And then seven months passed. Michael Phelps won more gold medals than anyone ever has, the country elected and inaugurated a new president, and I finally entered the working world. But what ever became of Boston to Santa Barbara 2008?
When I first started this blog, I just sort of assumed that I was talking into the wind. I didn't actually expect anyone to read it. It was more for me than anything else. But it turns out you really are out there. Or at least you were. My fellow riders would hound me for updates. I got word the several riders' parents were fans of my blog. One of our hosts even knew my name before I introduced myself because he was a fan. He said I had some really good lines. But however many of you there were, there can be little doubt you are all gone now. Maybe you kept checking back as late as the end of August, hoping that I would publish one last update. But I never did, and for that I am sorry.
The truth is that time became a very precious commodity later in the trip. Wake up before dawn, ride all day, wait for the van, shower, eat, fix bikes, and maybe, just maybe, have a little fun before going to sleep at 9. Blogging just didn't make the cut. But I make no excuses for my shortcomings. A better rider would have figured out how to do all that and update his blog.
I did, however, keep my own personal journal. It is a small, black book bound in faux leather with maybe a hundred lined pages. Black stitching lines the cover, which bears, in elegant script, the word "Journal". I picked it up at the Dollar General in Port Jervis. Everything that happened up to that point in the trip, save what I have included in this blog, is lost to the ages. But everything after that is recorded in painstaking detail. As I flip through the pages of this elegant little tome and recall what it was like to be on the road, it becomes clear to me what I must do.
The world needs to know. The world needs to know what went down on Boston to Santa Barbara 2008. Even if no one is listening I must shout from this mountain top about second lunches and saddle sore, eating challenges and the Death Climb, Roswell and Vegas, flat tires and warm Clif Shot.
So, dear readers, if there are any of you still out there, I promise to go through the pages of this journal of mine in the coming weeks and months and tell the stories of Boston to Santa Barbara 2008.
When I first started this blog, I just sort of assumed that I was talking into the wind. I didn't actually expect anyone to read it. It was more for me than anything else. But it turns out you really are out there. Or at least you were. My fellow riders would hound me for updates. I got word the several riders' parents were fans of my blog. One of our hosts even knew my name before I introduced myself because he was a fan. He said I had some really good lines. But however many of you there were, there can be little doubt you are all gone now. Maybe you kept checking back as late as the end of August, hoping that I would publish one last update. But I never did, and for that I am sorry.
The truth is that time became a very precious commodity later in the trip. Wake up before dawn, ride all day, wait for the van, shower, eat, fix bikes, and maybe, just maybe, have a little fun before going to sleep at 9. Blogging just didn't make the cut. But I make no excuses for my shortcomings. A better rider would have figured out how to do all that and update his blog.
I did, however, keep my own personal journal. It is a small, black book bound in faux leather with maybe a hundred lined pages. Black stitching lines the cover, which bears, in elegant script, the word "Journal". I picked it up at the Dollar General in Port Jervis. Everything that happened up to that point in the trip, save what I have included in this blog, is lost to the ages. But everything after that is recorded in painstaking detail. As I flip through the pages of this elegant little tome and recall what it was like to be on the road, it becomes clear to me what I must do.
The world needs to know. The world needs to know what went down on Boston to Santa Barbara 2008. Even if no one is listening I must shout from this mountain top about second lunches and saddle sore, eating challenges and the Death Climb, Roswell and Vegas, flat tires and warm Clif Shot.
So, dear readers, if there are any of you still out there, I promise to go through the pages of this journal of mine in the coming weeks and months and tell the stories of Boston to Santa Barbara 2008.
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