The Mongoose Flies

Roughing It in Potosi

2009-04-14T17:54:00.000-07:00

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.

Breaking Away to Bloomington

2009-04-06T18:49:00.000-07:00

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.

Picking Up Again: Rushville, IN

2009-02-28T19:59:00.000-08:00

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.

An Apology

2009-02-21T08:27:00.000-08:00

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.

Danielle Jahn, Warrior Princess

2008-07-03T17:15:00.000-07:00

Dani has been having knee problems from the very beginning.

I don't talk much around people I don't know very well. I am keenly aware of this trait, and yet I feel helpless to do anything about it. Usually the process of turning strangers into friends begins with someone getting curious and asking questions. On this trip it was Dani. On the 13 mile shakedown ride the day before the trip started, she tried her best to yank what she could out of me.

As luck would have it, I have turned out to be one of the stronger riders on this trip. I am not going to pretend that this is because of any amount of badassery on my part. Mainly this is because I was blessed with the right body type for this sport, and my life experiences up to this point have prepared me well.

I enjoy riding with the first pack. It's fun to go fast and be the first to arrive at the host. However, I decided that I did not want to spend most of the summer with the same few riders, so I would spend at least a few days riding with other groups. Maybe a week or so ago I rode with Lauren, Julia, and Meg. I did enjoy that, though somehow both Lauren and Julia accidentally spit a mouthful of water on me - at the same time.

On the day from Yellow River to Rushville, a 96 miler, I was one of the last to set out. The first group I met up with was Emma and Dani. Emma's elbows have been bothering her, and Dani's knee has kept her in the van for many a ride day. One thing must be made clear though: Dani would ride hurt. She has been injured.

We chugged along at an easy pace, enjoying the nice weather. Despite their ailments, the girls seemed to be doing well. Had I not known, I would have never guessed that they had been hurting. We came across a pretty challenging hill. I was the first up and waited for the girls at the top. Dani was next. "Nice," I told her as she came to a stop. She didn't reply. I just figured she wasn't in the mood to talk. Then she lowered her head to her handlebars and started to cry.

Not knowing what to do, I did nothing. (What an ass.) Emma soon reached the top and was able to comfort Dani. I eventually put together some words of encouragement. It was seven miles to first lunch. We asked Dani if she wanted us to call the van, and with tears running down her cheeks, she nodded her head "no."

We made it to lunch. Dani rode like a champ. She iced down her knee as soon as we arrived. After we'd had a while to rest, I asked the girls what the plan was. Emma was feeling sick and chose not to go on. I thought for sure Dani wouldn't want to continue, but she did.

Were I able to take some of her pain and give it to myself, I would have, but that not being the case, I did the best I could. I talked to her about everything I could to try to keep her mind off of the pain. We talked about all manner of things: college, sports, travel, jobs, family, relationships. Turns out Dani has had a very interesting life.

We reached second lunch without further incident. I was proud of Dani for making it that far, and figured that naturally she would take the opportunity to bow out. But she was ready to go before I was. We pressed on.

Around mile 80, the day gave us a hard one-two punch. We came across a nasty uphill that I was afraid of. Dani decided to clip out and walk it, and I walked with her. Earlier we noticed a typo on the cue sheet, and on the way up the hill Dani called one of the trip leaders to confirm it. One of the distances had been typed as seven miles when it was really 17. Had the distance been seven miles, Dani would have continued, but she didn't know if her knee would hold out for another 10.

Just as we reached the top of the hill, sweep pulled up, Allie and Johanna. They helped Dani realize what I already knew: that after riding 80 miles on a busted knee, she didn't have to prove anything to anyone. We called for the van, but Sophie was taking two other riders to the hospital. (Jess R. and Charlotte took a spill, but they were alright.) Instead, she sent a "nice young man" who had helped out at the scene of the accident to pick Dani up. This arrangement made us a little nervous, but everything turned out fine. The "young man" and his friend were volunteer firefighters. I rode the last 17 miles alone.

Dani was upset at not having been able to finish the day, but she shouldn't have been. She continued long after most people would have quit. Good riding, Dani. I'm proud of you.

"Effy"

2008-06-27T20:04:00.001-07:00

It was a short day today, only about 41 miles. My body was still asleep when we first set out, but it felt good once we got going. For the first time since the Berkshires, I stood up in my pedals going uphill. I thought I left all the sprinting I had in those mountains, but I guess I just needed a little rest to build up my strength. Oh and I wore these new camo biking shorts that I got yesterday in Pittsburgh, they're like cargo shorts but they have the chamois built in. They look pretty badass.

As we would only be passing through it for about seven miles, we tried to do West Virginia shirtless, but after a mile or two we decided that the area was too populated and that it would be best to go ahead and shirt up.

Our destination for the day was Steubenville, Ohio. All of the bridges into Steubenville are highways, so we weren't allowed on them. The original plan had been to use the van to shuttle us across the bridge, but when we met up with the van just before the bridge, some members of my group complained that they did not want to do this because of something they called "Effy." I later learned that this was the name of a club, EFI, for "Every Freakin' Inch." As the name suggests, this club is reserved for those Bike and Builders who have ridden "every freakin' inch" of the way from Boston to Santa Barbara on their bikes. While a rider cannot be blamed if he has to ride part of the way in the van because of injury, dehydration, malnutrition, or bike problems, this disqualifies him from membership in EFI. We were all about disqualified because we weren't allowed on the bridges, and that was not acceptable.

Sophie called the local police to see if we could get an escort across the bridge. After she explained the situation, they sent out a squad car, and after some more explaining, five Bike and Builders crossed a bridge into Ohio led by a police escort. It was awesome. I got some footage while riding. (It turns out that traffic on the bridges wasn't half as bad as what we have already encountered, and subsequent groups crossed the bridge without any escort.)

Why go through all this trouble? What difference does it make if we cycle across the entire country less one or two miles? Why did we feel it necessary to get the police involved? Because some things in life are worth fighting for.

Aftermath of the Century

2008-06-24T20:43:00.000-07:00

The hardest part of the century was the next day.

Yesterday started off well enough. I rode with a fast group in the morning, and before we knew it we were stopped at mile 35 for lunch. For lunch I had some strawberries for quick energy, a PB&J for some longer lasting energy, and a Builder Bar for protein, so I had all my bases covered. After lunch I headed out with Jane and Sophie, and those girls can move!

Between mile 35 where we had first lunch and mile 70 where we had second was long, mostly flat road. Big open fields stretched all the way to the mountains in the distance. Farms and silos dotted the landscape. Sophie pointed out a sign while we were moving: a silhouette of a horse pulling a carriage and the words "NEXT 10 MILES." We were entering Amish country.

I saw their houses first. They actually looked pretty beaten up. But they do everything for themselves, right? Like if we need to reshingle our houses, we call a professional to do it, and he's got professional skills and professional tools, but if an Amish man wants to reshingle his roof, he does it himself with tools he made. This is just an example, because most of their houses had metal roofs anyway.

I saw two Amish men outside working on something, and they looked exactly like one would expect: short-sleeved button up shirts, black pants, suspenders, beards, and funny hats. I waved, and one of them waved back.

This modern town popped up all of a sudden while we were still in the Amish country, and that's where we had second lunch. I saw an Amish woman go cruising by on a scooter. She was in a dress that covered her from neck to ankle. It was at least 80 degrees out.

As an engineer, one of the things that I have learned is that, when you are bulding something, you can do all the research, solve all the equations, and run computer simulations till you're blue in the face, but when you get out into the field to test your creation, something completely unexpected will go wrong. Yesterday I was counting on my muscles giving out or my joints hurting or my bike breaking or the chafing becoming unbearable, but I did not imagine that my eyes would start bothering me. And around second lunch, that's exactly what they did. It's happened before. Sweat gets in them, they get irritated, and my contacts only make it worse. By the time we were leaving second lunch, I could barely open my eyes.

Now the smart thing to do would have been to stop and say, "I can't see, somebody call the van." But I wanted my century, and so I long as I could still crack one eye open I was determined to get it. It was a miserable 30 miles, but I did it. We were actually only at 96 miles when we arrived at the host location, so we decided to ride around a little more. By the time Sophie, Jane, and I got back to the host location, my calves were shaking.

All things considered, I'd say the day went well. No equipment failure, body was mostly intact, and eyes were feeling better by dinner. But I, and indeed everyone on the trip, would not feel the full weight of the century until the next day, today.

It was 76 hilly miles from State College to Johnstown. There were some challenges before lunch, but things went smoothly. Muscles were weak, joints hurt, saddles chafed, but spirits stayed high. After lunch, though, there were some real heartbreakers. At mile 45 a 1700 foot climb started. I was with Lyndsay, Charlotte, and Katie, and normally they have plenty to say during a ride, but going up that hill, they were silent. Our pace slowed to a crawl. The pain and fatigue were really starting to set in. We stopped part way up the hill for a break, and I said what everyone already knew: "This group has zero energy right now." We were dying. Things were looking pretty dismal.

We did make it up that hill eventually, and a few miles later, we found an ice cream stand. After explaining what we were doing to the proprietor, the girls all got free ice cream. (I wasn't hungry.) I finished out the day with another group. There was still more climbing to do, most notably a 700 foot climb at mile 68. It was tough, but I took it one stroke at a time and eventually made it to the top. The final stretch before Johnstown was a 1.5 mile descent with a grade of 18%, making it easily the steepest descent we have encountered. It kind of took me by surprise and before I knew what was what, I hit 45 mph. On a huge, flat, country road I might have kept going, but those not being the conditions I started using my brakes.

We are now at the YWCA in Johnstown, PA. Our kind hosts prepared for us a feast of such magnitude that we will likely be enjoying it for days to come. We are tired. Aches and pains are setting in, saddle sore is getting worse. The smell of Icy Hot fills the air. But these are just challanges to be overcome, and we will take them on as challenges must be taken on: headfirst.

Fear

2008-06-22T22:02:00.000-07:00

The truth of the matter is, I am afraid. As much as I would like to say that the opposite is true, that simply isn't the case.

Tomorrow we are riding into State College, PA from Berwick, PA. The official distance is 96 miles, but after getting lost once or twice it is sure to become a full century. It will therefore be our longest ride by 20 miles.

I have already resolved to push myself for as long as I can. That's all I can do. But there are still a lot of unknowns in the equation. The mind can be strong, but at some point the body simply gives out. At one level of fatigue, pain makes it difficult for the mind to tell the body what to do. At the next level, the body simply cannot perform anymore. It is this that I fear.

I am afraid of accidents. I've had flats, and I've bombed down hills, and luckily these two events have never coincided. Going 40 miles an hour down a hill is fun, but what if I have a blow out? How horribly mangled would I be? I might be able to ride a bike again someday. And of course there is always the possibility that a drunk driver will plow into us, not unlike what happened in Monterrey a few weeks ago: http://www.cnn.com/2008/WORLD/americas/06/02/mexico.bikers.ap/

I am afraid of equipment failure. All I want is a fair chance, but sometimes the tools I am equipped with do not allow this. If my body stays strong but my bike should fail, I will have to call the van and ride around in it for the rest of the day. This is not acceptable, but it is beyond my control. I fear this.

But I am also glad for my fear, because fear triggers the fight-or-flight response, and me, I'm a fighter.

Our host location in Berwick is the Berwick Area Middle School. It reminds me of my middle school, only nicer. This got me thinking back to some of the people I knew when I was a kid and what ever happened to them. Usually when I go home to McAllen Mom gives me any updates she has. Some of them are good, some of them are bad. I like to think that if the other kids could hear about what I'm doing now, they would nod their heads and say, “Yeah, that sounds like Jorge.”

Trip Journal

2008-06-21T21:56:00.000-07:00

Fans of "The Mongoose Flies" may be interested to know its author wrote the June 16th entry for the trip journal, to which all riders contribute. It may be found here:

http://www.bikeandbuild.org/cms/component/option,com_wrapper/Itemid,262/

A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Port Jervis

2008-06-20T21:45:00.000-07:00

These girls continue to amaze me. (Just to set the record straight, there are 23 of them on this trip and only eight guys. So one could argue they have a presence.)

This afternoon, my riding group took a wrong turn and followed it for several miles. No biggie, when you're already going 60 miles, what's four or five more? So we head back to the intersection where we made the wrong turn, only we cross paths with almost everyone in the trip as we head back because we had marked the turn on the pavement and they followed it. As we crossed paths, they realized our error, turned around, and followed us back to the intersection. By the time we arrived at the intersection, almost everyone on our trip was with us.

Before we turned (again) at the intersection, Skip wisely advised us to go in groups of four to five rather than the entire pack moving out at once. I rolled out with the first group to turn, which also included Kay-Rud, Sophie, and Lenny. “Alright,” I was thinking, “Three people who will go fast and won't take breaks every 10 miles. We'll be at the host in no time.”

We flew through a long, winding, downhill road through the woods. I think that stretch right there was my favorite of the day. So the road levels out, we emerge in some town, and Lenny is way ahead of the rest of us. I see him approach another cyclist in the distance. I figure that since we were the first group to leave the intersection, and since there is no way that one of our people got ahead of us, that this cyclist in the distance must just be some random person. I get closer, and - “Butterfield?”

Lauren Butterfield is one of the young women on this route. I usually pass her in the morning then don't see much of her until she arrives at the host location that afternoon. She has thick, muscular legs, which definitely work in her favor on the bike, but she is also less than five feet tall, which definitely works against her. I always just figured she didn't go faster because she couldn't.

I noticed that she was not at the intersection when the rest of us were. I figured she hadn't gotten there yet. Imagine my surprise when, after tearing through the downhill stretch, I find her ahead of my group, on course, and not even breaking a sweat. Kay-Rud was as astounded as I was. He looked at me as if to ask, “What the hell?” We asked her how she got ahead of us. “I just followed the cue sheet,” was all she had to say.

Not bad, I thought. From there I figured Lenny, Sophie, Kyle, and I would leave her behind as we blazed the rest of the trail. We were going pretty fast, but here's the thing: Butterfield hung with us! I was having trouble keeping up at times, but Butterfield just chugged along, seemingly without breaking a sweat. We arrived at the church in Port Jervis without further incident.

Good day of riding, Butterfield.

Rain

2008-06-15T18:55:00.000-07:00

Conditions were lousy this morning. Rain. Not the cool, refreshing South Texas rains that serve as a relief from the heat. These were the cold, harsh New England rains that soak a body to the bone. And it wasn't just that it was cold and rainy. The roads between Andover and Fitchburg were awful, poorly marked, winding, and often uphill. And as a testament to how complicated the route was, consider that the cue sheet was a page long. Basically, it was the worst New England had to offer. It was a miserable ride.

But in a way I liked it. It was like New England was saying, "Well look at what we got here, little Mexican boy from Texas thinks he can handle my roads. I'll cut him down to size." And instead of getting discouraged I was just like "You want a piece of this, New England? Come get some!"

Despite the conditions, things went more or less smoothly for me. I cannot say the same for everyone, though. I passed several riders on the side of the road, kneeling next to their bikes. I heard that the grand total for flats on the day was 13. I also heard that Kay-Rud and Julia both got two.

Actually my group got lost for a bit and ended up doing about 5 extra miles. I started feeling that sharp pain in my side after we had been out there for a few hours, the same one that I feel when I run. I think it goes back to that damn neck injury from football. Just as it was becoming excruciating, we pulled up to an ice cream place on the side of the road where some B&B alums had laid out a feast for us. I helped myself to some fresh fruit, nature's candy. Our riders trickled into the stop a few at a time. It was always exciting to see who would be next and cheer them on as they pulled into the stop.

I headed out with a few from my original group after a while. I was glad to. I was getting antsy just standing around. We stuck together for a while, then I believe Jane, Lenny, and Oliver pulled ahead while I stayed with Jess Robertson and Amol fell back. Now I knew there were a few cycling black belts in our group, but beyond that, I did not have much of an idea of anyone's prowess. Black belts aside, I fancied myself one of the better riders. Now just looking at Jess, I would not have placed her at the same level as myself, but after today's ride I know that she may even be better. I could not believe how hard I was working to keep up with this girl. I kept thinking to myself, Where is she getting all this energy? Hats of to you, Jess.

So here we are in Fitchburg. This time our host is the First Church Parish. After most of us had arrived, Sophie led another 8 minute abs. Most of the group participated. I imagine that this occurrence will become so commonplace in the future that it will not be worth noting. Sophie also wanted to go for a run, apparently she is interested in competing in a triathlon in the fall. Dave, Jane and I went with her.

Our hosts cooked dinner for us: pasta, meatballs, sausage, baked ziti, salad, ice cream... Once again our hosts have proven to be kind, caring people who show us the same warmth that they would their own family. I can only hope that we are lucky enough to have hosts this wonderful at every town we stop.

31 Strangers

2008-06-13T19:14:00.000-07:00

Three days ago, 31 strangers met for the first time in Revere, MA.

Or perhaps they weren't all strangers. A few of them might have lived together, 2 or 3 might have met at a build site, but by and large, their knowledge of each other up to that point had been a picture and a paragraph. It was a strange relationship. They knew they were bound to become friends, but for months they only knew each other by a few short introductions.

Bonds were quick to form in Revere. Pictures had become flesh and blood human beings. Static paragraphs gave way to warm personalities. Though they hailed from all different backgrounds and walks of life, they quickly realized what they all had in common: they cared about more than just themselves.

The next two days were used to bring these individuals up to speed on everything they would need to know to cycle across the country: nutrition, hydration, hygiene, stretching, technique, gear, safety, and responsibilities on the road.

This morning, 31 acquaintances cycled out of Revere and headed for Andover. Their ranks were bolstered by friends, family, and sympathizers for the Cause. It was not uncommon to see 15 cyclists stopped at a red light. A few wrong turns were made, but they never strayed too far from the true path.

And now we are here at the Pike School in Andover that kindly agreed to host us. The bond between us grows with each passing hour. After we made it to the school, Sophie led us all in an 8 minute abs routine. A few of us heard that there was a lake in the area in which we could go swimming. Our thirst for life being as unquenchable as it is, we mounted our bikes again and headed out for the lake. The family of Chris Webber had our entire group over for dinner tonight. A warm summer night with good food and good company - there was nowhere I would have rather been. I look forward to a summer with these...acquaintances?

Hopefully, we will ride into Santa Barbara 31 friends.

Declaration of Intent

2008-06-12T17:49:00.000-07:00

This is a declaration of intent. It is my intention to aid the affordable housing cause in this country and to raise awareness for said cause. To this end I have pledged my summer to Bike and Build, Inc. As part of this pledge, I have raised over $4,000 from various donors on Bike and Build's behalf. I have also volunteered my time at a Habitat for Humanity build site in Virginia and done research on the history of housing practices in this country.

These prerequisites having been fulfilled, it is now my intention to ride my bike with 30 other young people from Boston to Santa Barbara. As I have not trained for this endeavor nearly as much as I would have liked to, I intend to suffer a lot. However, I do not intend to quit.

En route to Santa Barbara, I intend to stop at several Habitat for Humanity build sites and volunteer my time there. Just like the paladins from the days of old, at every township I stop, I will spread the Word - the Word of Affordable Housing. And with the proper humility I will ask the townsfolk if they would care to aid the cause in the form of a monetary donation.

I intend to ride into Santa Barbara content with the knowledge that I have aided the cause - or not at all.

I'm not doing this for fame or fortune. There isn't much of either to be had. Cycling across the country is an exciting challenge, but that's not why I'm doing it either. I'm going to get in shape and learn about cycling. Surely there are friendships to be had and wonderful and beautiful things to be seen along to way. But these are all just fortunate side effects.

I am doing this because sometimes, doing the right thing is its own reward.