By Cycling

A Journey Through The South

Sun, 10 Jun 2012 19:52:00 -0400

3.5 Months. 14 States. 3300 Miles. 1,000,000 Fun.

Huge thanks to the many friends we made along the way who aren’t featured in this video. (Pretty much everyone) We love you.

Music: Delicate Steve - Afria Talks To You

One Last

Sun, 27 May 2012 20:14:00 -0400

Alright friends, this is it. This is my last post.

We left the little town in New Jersey where we had been rescued and returned to the trail where I had suffered my crash the day before. You might be asking “why would they return to the very trail that led to the worst crash so far on this trip?” You’re absolutely right in questioning that choice because about thirty minutes after we started on the trail, Andrew’s bike sunk in the sand and he swerved once again. With the swerve I was hit and, this time, sailed headfirst over my handlebars.

It was awful, and it was the appropriate time for it to happen because, again, right after the crash it started to rain. However, this time it didn’t downpour, it just solidly rained. It rained all day. For the four and a half hours we spent riding through the rest of New Jersey. If the river had not left me soaking wet enough the day before, this rain was capable of doing just that to both of us.

The rest of the day the cities were left looking dreary through the rain and our spirits had been dragged to the gutter. Finally, after forty five miles of terrible weather we stopped at a dock to wait for the ferry we planned to take into Manhattan; the last thing we needed to do before we were officially on vacation from our trip. The moment we passed the gate leading to the parking lot of the dock the rain stopped falling. It didn’t come back for the rest of the day. It might have been a sign of positive change were we in the right mood, but we weren’t at this point, and it was just a weather change that no longer mattered.

We paid, we ferried, and then we got on our bikes and rode the last mile and a half to the Lower East Side apartment building where Andrew’s friend lives. We unloaded our disgusting gear from the bikes and brought them up the six flights of stairs to her apartment. When the dirty and wet stuff we had been carrying for over three months was resting against her wall and taking up a tenth of the square footage of her home, we came back down and locked our bikes to a tree. The rest of the night wasn’t much of an evening other than quiet contemplation and sleep.

The following morning brought a nail-in-the-coffin announcement from Andrew when he looked out the window and asked me in a panicked voice if I had moved my bike. I hadn’t. We rushed downstairs and found my bike lock cut and my bike gone. The shock of our discovery brought us to the rooftop for sparse, somber conversation. The trip had taken a sudden turn in the worst direction within a two day time span. We had no real time to consider what had transpired because there was a train we had to catch so we could get out to Long Island and meet up with Ellen, our friend Alex’s mother that we planned to stay with. We bungeed some gear together, threw my bags over Andrew’s bike and walked the two miles to Penn Station. It was a loud walk. The city is loud and crowded as hell, but we were quiet as we navigated cars and people.

We did make it out to Long Island and have been in New York for the last two weeks. Though we had toyed with the idea of figuring out ways to continue the trip, I made a decision for myself after a few days that I would not try to keep going. I’ve chosen to stop my cycling around the country for the time being and return home to Iowa until something else can be figured out. I’m financially broke and someone took the best quality bike I’ve ever owned at the lowest time of my trip, but I will say something to combat this being a remorseful end to an otherwise enlightening journey.

This trip: the places I’ve seen, the accomplishments achieved, the memories I’ve made, and the friends I’ve been graced with throughout are not now and will never be anything I wish to change. Things happen how they happen and though I’ve been moping plenty since all the shitty events suffered, I wouldn’t take anything back.

I want to personally thank each and every person we interacted with on this trip, even the douchey bros of Florida’s panhandle. Anyone that spoke with us or hosted us or gave us money for no reason is, in my eyes, a character in a story that I am happy to say I could never make up. I want to thank the friends that told us how amazing they think Andrew’s photos are or how fit they think we are or that they are inspired by us. I don’t think any of the flattery we received during this trip was truly deserved, but it was the encouragement we needed when times were tough or lonesome.

If you read this blog at all, thank you. If we heard from you in the comments section or on facebook, thank you. If you spent even a moment hoping for our safe arrival to our next destination, thank you so much. There was something that never once failed to be said to us by the people that chose to take us in, “stay safe.” No matter who it was that opened their doors to us, by the end they always seemed earnest when wishing us well for the future. Everyone we heard it from seemed genuinely hopeful that our trip would continue unimpeded. I’m sorry that it hasn’t, but thank you endlessly for the sentiment.

So, what is there to take away from all of this? I don’t know. Maybe I’ll never know. For now, I’m willing to hold on to a thought that may not seem encouraging to other people, but gives me a perspective I’m proud to have; this trip was not very difficult.

Any big hill, all the wind, any popped tube, any near crash or full crash or close call with a car was a difficult, but not impossible time. People regularly told us that they would never be able to do what we’re doing, but that’s not true.

We met a man that was finishing the last section of the perimeter of the country, something that became our goal over time. He had done it over several trips and years. He was also completing this trip with only one leg. He peddled slowly, but he kept pedaling. Together, he and his wife were creeping across the Southern United States with subtle determination. They were inspiring in a way I can’t picture myself being and that’s enough to keep me motivated to say I’ll return to this dirty fucking city at some point to continue and eventually finish my own perimeter ride.

It’s probably best that I stop going on about this and finish out in the style I hoped to finish out in, humble appreciation. This was a journey that will prove to be important even if I tried to deny it from seeming so. I’m thankful for an opportunity to have been a part of it and to have Andrew as my riding mate. I’m thankful for the experience, no matter the way the events felt during their time. I’ll end this post with a brief email conversation between myself and Jeff Vallee, a photographer who rode across the country with his friend Heath a couple years ago and created a blog that became an inspiration for this trip.

Hi Jeff,

I’m not sure how you feel about emails from strangers so I will say that I understand if you don’t care to read or respond.

My name is Caleb and I’m on a cycling trip with my friend Andrew. Our trip and blog were both encouraged partly from your own trip and blog and so I wanted to share it with you. Andrew does the photography and I write.

I also want to thank you for sharing what you saw and experienced along the way, it’s made an impact on plenty more people than us.

Bycycling.tumblr.com

His response that came about five minutes later:

Fuck ya! It never gets old to hear of unpretentious people setting out purely for the sake of adventure and new memories. You’re in a very very small club.

I’m not sure if you read the next thing Heath and I did, but we went up El Capitan with an amazing person named Timmy Oneill. Recently he sent me this:

“Life was meant to be lived, and curiosity must be kept alive. One must never, for whatever reason, turn his back on life.” Eleanor Roosevelt.

Heath and I will be rafting the entire grand canyon next winter. I hope you guys keep up the spirit of new experiences and DO NOT GIVE UP! And don’t forget to have fun. Go swimming, eat good food, get drunk, and if you’re single, find some ladies.

Jeff

They caught a bug for adventure that I intend to keep for as long as possible. I’m not sure if it will last or not, but his words and all the other encouraging words that strangers freely gave us will always be with me. I’m thankful beyond my rambling words, so I’ll stop them by saying one last time. Thank you all.

Precipitation

Mon, 14 May 2012 22:10:00 -0400

Way back a couple weeks ago, we left the grey sky and comfort of Washington D.C. for our next big stop, Philadelphia. Before getting to Philly, we ran into a little weather.

Just south of Baltimore, we found some rain, or rather it found us. The rain and no plan of a place to stay for the night stopped us in Lansdowne and kept us there for a couple hours while we attempted to wait the rain out. The waiting game was clearly in the rain’s favor as the light slowly faded from the day. We had made a desperate attempt to find couch surfing hosts in the area before nightfall and were still waiting in the dark when we finally heard back from someone.

Danielle was still working when she contacted us. She said we could stay with her for the night, but we had to ride to downtown Baltimore to meet her at work. When she was done, we would be able to ride over and get some rest. With a relaxed workplace that has a keg on tap at all times, she welcomed us to her town and warmed us up. We spent the rainy evening getting acquainted and utilizing said work-keg; juggling lessons may or may not have been involved. It was a long night for how tired we were when we arrived, but the fun balanced out the lack of sleep.

We woke late the next morning, ate pineapple, and rode north toward Pennsylvania. Rolling hills and small towns later, we found ourselves in yet another little town.

We set up our hammocks behind a billboard and went comfortably to sleep. The following day we rode rolling hills through small towns again until we were riding through the socially splotchy neighborhoods of South Philadelphia.

Our destination was the home of a good friend made in Costa Rica, Bill Bowman. Bill and his parents provided our welcome, which seemed endless throughout our long weekend at the Bowman residence.

As part of our welcome, Bill took us to one of the secret treasures of his city. The treasure was a cliff jumping spot on the river we rode along when we first came into Philly. Even though we wanted to see the downtown and get a feel for the history of Philadelphia when we imagined our time there, time playing a handball-like game Bill and his friends created and jumping into a river off a huge boulder were easily as memorable.

Time well spent with the good people we needed to meet rather than fancy photos of historical buildings served us well. We never made it back in to experience the downtown, but no regrets what so ever.

Shortly after we left Philadelphia we were in New Jersey. Trenton, the first city we passed through, was a bit rough. In a light rain we didn’t find ourselves appreciating it or much else in the little state. The city came and went without pause because we decided we would try to go the eighty miles from North Philadelphia to Manhattan in one day. Time was of the essence and we were happy to find ourselves on a bike trail off the highway that was headed immediately north.

It was starting to be all smiles while we shot footage of the beautiful scenery we were surrounded with until a bike accident sent Andrew swerving. He swung to his right and directly into me. I was then sent careening toward a tree, which I hit head on. After the hit I fell into the river along with my bike. Andrew rushed over to hoist both my bike and I out of the canal.

It was a horrible moment that was fortunately not ended in any real tragedy. I was not seriously hurt and the only item lost was an ipod that was well worth the trade. It was shocking enough to keep us in place, reeling. While I sat on the trail and recalled the events that had just transpired I looked at clouds that were dark and low. The rain started falling on us with nowhere to go, so we grabbed a tarp and threw it over everything.

While we waited for the pounding to slow down, we couldn’t help ourselves but laugh at how everything can be perfect then change so rapidly with one simple accident. It was the most miserable thing that we had experienced on this trip. It was terrifying. It was destructive. It was absurd, and no amount of anger could erase that. The bad parts of this trip had helped to make it memorable and that was more apparent then than ever.

The crash story does manage to have a semi-happy ending. Shortly after the rain finally let up, a cyclist rode up to us and asked how we were. He was just curious about our trip, as we found out he was a cross-country tripper himself. We told him about what had happened and he responded by offering us a place to stay for the night. Hesitant to give up on Manhattan, we debated stopping for the day, but chose to not ruin ourselves just for the sake of impatience. Jeff had given us his number to call him if we decided to stay. We called and met up with him again soon after.

It was a surreal series of events that led us to be at a table of a pizza place with Jeff, his children, and his son’s girlfriend. It was his son’s 21^st birthday and we were all celebrating together. It was strangely comforting to eat pizza and listen to Jeff acquaint himself with his son’s main squeeze.

After dinner, we came back to the house and made ourselves at home on the couches. Fast to sleep and early to rise, we took some photos with our serendipitous hosts then headed back to the trail we never felt like returning to.

DC

Sat, 12 May 2012 15:52:00 -0400

You haven’t heard? Well we came to the nation’s capital and saw a few sites, now you’ve heard.

After a long awaited arrival that was much delayed by lethargic protagonists and violent traffic, this story made its way into D.C. on no more unimportant of a day than Cinco de Mayo. We were greeted by my cousin, Jenny, in her quaint townhome, which sits a small stone’s throw by a weak arm from the National Mall.

Showers then story time, that’s how we do it. Post-story time, she walked us to a little party where we met some of the folks we would find ourselves spending time with for the rest of the evening.

Natural group-divisions in the party left us a tight-knit circle to fraternize with before leaving to form our own Battle of Puebla memorial party (Mexican-French war joke, don’t worry about it).

The other party, five of us hanging out in a living room, was complete with a bluegrass show and some old-fashioned street fighting between Andrew and the local neighborhood ninja, Clarence. We learned that no matter who Clarence fights, everyone wins.

D.C. was cloudy from the moment we arrived to the moment we left, providing exclusively chilly weather until it broke and rained. On the morning that it ended up raining, we went for a walk around the capital and mall area. Before we got rained out, we visited the memorials to take more tourist photos of buildings we had seen photographed several thousand times before.

During our time exploring the area, we didn’t find a new appreciation for our nationality or the bond we share as Americans, but we did have a somewhat enlightening moment behind the Lincoln memorial when a skinny, young man started talking to us. He didn’t show any real interest in us besides that we looked like people who might listen to him without interrupting.

He told us that he was meditating and he felt that he had chosen the appropriate place to do it. His perspective on the monuments was that they aren’t just buildings where we go to think about the men of previous times that helped shape our country’s social dynamic. He called it a “temple”. It made for the appropriate place to come and concentrate his thoughts. The temple where all the tourists come to stand reverently before a large carving of some man they will never meet. In a simple way, it made a lot of sense.

The young man, in his skinny jeans, DC shoes, tweed suit-coat, and fedora wasn’t the guy we planned to inherit philosophic concepts from. He stood comfortably in front of both of us though. He fingered a cigarette while he told us his thoughts, then turned away, hopped down off the giant, marble steps and looked out over the river while he smoked. We talked about other things and occasionally glanced at him, facing the water and concentrating on something we weren’t concentrating on.

We got up and walked away to finish the tour we had started that morning, the hipster’s take on the memorial building faintly lingering after he was out of sight. It started raining while we walked back to Jenny’s with the monuments in the background, sticking up taller than everything else in the city, better kept than anything in the city, and more attractive to strangers than anything else in the city.

Old Dominion

Sun, 06 May 2012 11:38:00 -0400

It’s been awhile, friends. We promise you haven’t been forgotten.

To fill you all in from the last post, we came up from Savannah to Charleston to visit our friend Margaret. She’s our first tour acquaintance that we’ve been able to meet up with further down the road from when we originally met her. We had a fun time doing a lot of nothing and the relaxation, as always, was needed before we took off across South Carolina. You may have gathered that we enjoyed ourselves in this state, but to clarify, South Carolina was a state where we immediately felt welcomed by the locals and the feeling continued on throughout.

In Spartanburg we took another day off to spend with family, Justus and Amy. Justus had been anticipating our arrival and gathered some ideas for activities while we were there. We chose a hike through the forest to a hundred foot tall waterfall that was cascading icy cold water down on us. An active, but relieving day after all the riding we had been doing. The next morning we took photos and left on our last day in South Carolina.

Kyle Shillington, a friend living and working as an AmeriCorps in Charlotte, had been on the list for reunions during this trip since day one. Kyle was our host for two days while we continued to recharge and prepare for the rest of North Carolina and Virginia, a leg of the trip that was bound to be a lot of riding before we took another break in D.C.

He’s an excitable guy and can be a handful, but he’s a very good friend to have, especially if you need an enthusiastic tour guide. We were fortunate to receive a Shillington tour of the city both in his cramped Ford Ranger when we first arrived and on bikes our third day. He fed us, played us in fifteen games of pool and made constant jokes for three days straight. Kyle also provided us one of our new favorite quotes which originally came from his roommate, “Kyle, there are two kinds of people who can’t grow beards: women and children”. On our final day in Charlotte we shared reluctant good-byes with him and rode out from the new-South city.

From there, we had nothing other than small towns to go through before Richmond, Virginia, which left us no chance to stay with couch surfing hosts. Not usually a big problem, but the weather was consistently clear skies with temperatures reaching the mid to high eighties. An impulse to take a break at one of the several reservoirs we passed over became a fantasy and then an obsession.

We walked past a “No Swimming” sign and jumped off the dock. The water was cool and the day was saved with the simple break. Signs rarely seem to have much weight in directing our off-road choices. In this case, like others, it was no harm, no foul.

The long, hot days through the rest of North Carolina on in to Virginia weren’t dragging us down yet. We were even comfortably stranded in a small town called Kenbridge early on in our travels through Virginia, where Andrew luckily had enough spare parts and four loko to repair his broken chain. While the repairs were in full swing, we were offered a yard to camp in by a man named David that took enough of an interest to stop and ask us about our trip, but not enough of an interest to leave his car while he did it. We thanked him for the offer that we planned to take him up on.

The night was clear and the weather was predicted to be similar to our previous summery days so we spread out our tarp and slept in the open air. Unfortunately, fog rolled in that night and soaked everything that wasn’t under a waterproof cover, which happened to be our sleeping bags, clothes, and bodies. The next morning, we lost some time to a stop at a laundromat. Warm, dry clothing is something of a luxury for us on the scarce cold mornings we experience these days, and that morning we were living in it up at only the price of change we found in our bags, bum life.

The series of seventy mile days was now starting to take a toll, though. The discomforts of riding a bike cross-country compound when the weather and terrain are less than agreeable. North Carolina and Virginia are not flat states and riding up the steep hills through occasional head and side winds was tiring us out. The foggy day did clear for us and left us looking at a beautiful, Virginia countryside, but every part of our legs were sore and we had another seventy mile ride to complete before meeting a new pair of couch surfing hosts in Richmond. The wind was minimal for the day and the trees managed to save us from the Sun while we partially suffered and partially enjoyed the remaining miles to the confederate capital.

When we came across the bridge over the James River into Richmond we found ourselves stunned by how gorgeous the view was. It was our first large city since Charlotte and the differences were quickly obvious. Richmond is a place with more history than some entire states. Between the architecture and monuments we passed as we rode toward our hosts’ home the town’s past shown as an obvious point of pride.

That pride was shared by our hosts, AJ and Sarah. They were a mixture of quiet and charming that made us nothing, but comfortable. After our ritualistic greet then shower routine, they took us around town to demonstrate that pride and fill us in on what living in Richmond is like. We rode around town, drilling them with questions as we passed interesting looking building after interesting looking building. Sarah, our guide, stayed on top of the answers while AJ did the racecar-style driving.

Our time with them and their inquisitive cat, Theo, was only shorter than we would have wanted, but our final days of the long stretch of riding were coming to a close and we didn’t have enough reasons to delay it further. Gluten-free crepes were eaten, hugs were forced on our hosts, bikes were packed, and we started on another hot-ass day of riding.

A hundred mile day to Washington D.C. was the plan, but flat tire, after flat tire, after flat tire, made the objective impossible to accomplish by the end of the day. Our fifth and final night ended up being our second to last night before a break. We camped in plain sight under an overcast sky with the brightest moon of the year hidden somewhere behind the clouds. It wasn’t the finale we had been hoping for, but it was cool, dry air and our ever-present company for yet another night, which, for your weary travelers, happened to be plenty.

Retrograde The Catholic astronomers claimed that retrograde of the planets in the night sky was an...

Thu, 26 Apr 2012 21:08:00 -0400

Retrograde

The Catholic astronomers claimed that retrograde of the planets in the night sky was an elaborate loop-de-loop motion. They made graphic representations of the celestial tracks to better explain the geocentric system their math was meant to preserve.

The math was false. No planet circles the Earth. What the difficult astronomer Galileo knew, that no one else seemed to believe was that we are on a course that no human being can change. Graphs couldn’t reverse the track our planet carried them along.

Those men tried their damndest to explain that we are the second most important thing in existence. Those men that wanted to be the center, as much as they wanted the safety of the Catholic church’s approval, went out at night to look at the stars and assign them meaning.

Galileo stood at his window under arrest, gazing at the same sky. The billion speckled lights reflected in his pupils. The lights that wouldn’t stay put within the little meaning they had been given.

South Carolina

From moment one,
you were fine
as the narrow pines.

To Charleston,
then Columbia,
then Spartanburg
You brought friends
and you brought family
like mosquitoes
to my blood-warm skin.

South Carolina,

I would have never
given you the credit,
to be the relief
from the heat.

Your breeze falling
down the hillside
to fight me, delay me.

I thought you
another state
on a long list, but

now I’m thankful
for the land
between visits.

The wind that cooled
me all the way through.

Now I’m thankful
for you, South Carolina,
my link
between friend,
family, and land.

Fine as the narrow pines,
and warm as the Sun,
on my wind-flushed cheeks.

Waterfall or Poem About Nothing on the Behalf of Carley McKee

Brown water rushes down the rocks to the lower pool.
It’s swirl and churn is visible on the surface;
the formations of circles and half-circles on the water
pull further apart as the flow picks up speed and falls yet again,
this time over a series of boulders more than ten meters tall.
The weight and momentum pours the water down upon itself
and drags deep into a second pool. White cascades
back into the dull, post-rain brown then moves toward
another fall. Twenty five meters or more down.
Mist flows off the wall as a cloud and wets the surfaces
in every direction. The water collects in a wide, shallow
pool before continuing as the river. The river that will flow
back into the ocean where it will be taken in as though
it were never a great, raging waterfall.

Low Country

Sun, 22 Apr 2012 11:16:00 -0400

Georgia, we barely got to know you at all. We’ve come and gone now, but, as it is at every border, we have a new state to find our way through and get to know before we prematurely leave.

Across the Savannah River is South Carolina, but first is the Talmadge Memorial Bridge, which, for cyclists, is a lot like climbing a mountain to get across a river. The view of Savannah from above helped us to feel less disappointed by the beginning of our exit.

South Carolina, as the sign declares, is apparently full of both smiling faces and beautiful places. We hadn’t seen much terrain, but early into our first day we were already seeing the smiling faces. The road problems that Florida and Georgia had given us were still present, little space on old roads or maybe a tiny shoulder, but we were encouraged when we noticed a change in attitude of the first few locals we came in contact with.

They weren’t really into it in Florida. There were a few military enlists that were excited in Savannah. They said the words “no homo, but you guys are looking really fit.” which felt good, but the reviews from either state hadn’t been overwhelming. Then we started riding through South Carolina.

There isn’t much in the way of sizeable towns between the border and Charleston, but people questioned us about our trip every time we stopped at a highway gas station or new, beautiful place.

So far, we haven’t stopped moving without having someone tell us they like what we’re doing and that they hope we stay safe. We’ve been pulled into conversations that we had no idea were coming and learned more than we planned to know about a few complete strangers.

The weather was cloudy for the most part as well, which was a relief after the heat and sun exposure in the Gulf. Unfortunately the clouds came with a forecast of rain on the one night we were definitely going to be camping before making it to Charleston.

It didn’t even take positive thinking or serious thought before we found a place that seemed fit to cover us from rain. We weren’t sure what the structure used to be when we first got there, but we realized after trespassing that it had been a motel. “Had” being the key word in the sentence. Luckily for us, this building had been out of commission for awhile and we were left with a roof over our heads and a surface to cook ramen on.

The surprise in the morning was that no rain ever came and the sky looked a little clearer than the previous day. We had one new reason to like South Carolina indiscriminately.

That same morning we stopped to fix a tire in front of a Baptist church and had a man park there and welcome us to anything the church could help us with. He said that he felt it was what really being a Christian is supposed to be.

By the time we made it to Charleston that afternoon we were feeling the good vibes and chose to soak it in by getting off the busy road and taking a greenway path that ran to the downtown. Along the way we met a few cyclists that took special interests in our trip. One of which, was a man named Matt who was planning his own short bike tour and offered any help he could provide.

The others were a married couple that showed us the way from the greenway to downtown. With traffic and limited time, we never got their names, but they certainly made the ride more enjoyable.

We ended the day’s ride in to Charleston by immediately riding out of Charleston across another enormous, Southern-city bridge. The town across the river is Mount Pleasant and we had a friend waiting for us on the other side.

This time our ride up the mountain bridge wasn’t devastating, it was more of a triumphant feeling. It was our first site of the town we came to see, and it came complete with a separated bike path, Kony propaganda, confused smiles and a promising aerial view of that new, beautiful place in South Carolina.

North

Wed, 18 Apr 2012 21:28:00 -0400

By the time we made it to Jacksonville we had already been over Florida for a few days. Lucky for us, we weren’t actually done with the sunshine state and had one last stop before we headed up the Atlantic coast.

Colton, our host, gave us the excited-local tour when we came in to town. This is a greeting that has never and will never get old. Our first night, we tried a good beer from his favorite neighborhood bar. The following morning, we were taken to get some of his favorite coffee in town. Colton fancies himself a bit of an expert when it comes to beer and coffee. We do not. However, we enjoy both drinks, especially when someone with good taste recommends them. After both beverage suggestions, he’s batting a thousand.

Soon after, the coffee jitters pushed us into action. We had a growing list of things we needed to take care of. First on the list was to replace the back wheel on the Giant, which had a broken rim from a spoke pulling out. A few visits to bike shops of varying pretense and I finally ended up at the right place.

Scott (the fella on the right) was the kindest of kind bike shop owners, aside from his razzing of anyone he came in contact with. He not only did some searching around to other shops in town for a back wheel set up for a freewheel instead of a cassette, he also didn’t show how disappointed he was when he figured out I didn’t know what I was talking about when I told him it wasn’t a cassette. He had the wheel to replace it, he had tires that he could donate, and he had old tubes to go inside of those tires which sealed a deal that in no way was in his favor.

The wheel upgrade completed around the same time as the laundry that Andrew had been taking care of across town. We chose to meet at a park near the St. John’s River to celebrate an altogether fulfilling day. There were stories being told about our respective shop owners while we climbed a perfect tree then watched the sunset. Our favorite kind of farewell evening.

Colton continued the tradition we have in staying with talented people. He shared his interest in photography when we were parting and also rewrapped my handlebars to a better state than I have seen them before. Along with the tradition of being talented, he’s also one more person we could have had more fun with if given time to stay idle. However, this was one more time that we would be saying goodbye after our brief introduction.

In the week that we had been there, Florida had been a beautiful place that didn’t want company, and now it was sending us away confused about how happy we were to be leaving. We were now set in every way we could think to be set in, with only good people from Florida to thank. That being said, we were finally riding North and anxious for the change that was sure to follow.

Thirty miles into our last day, we were out. Georgia became the fifth state line that we shot awkward video of ourselves dancing on. Cars whizzed by at speeds that can’t be legal while we smiled and took the dumbest pictures we could manage without it being a felony. It didn’t matter that we looked like smelly, homeless clowns, we were moving North toward Savannah and Charleston and D.C. and New York and Montreal. We were finally passing the point where it’s cute to be on a bike trip into the time where family members start feeling serious concern for us. We were doing exactly what we didn’t think we were possibly going to accomplish. We were finishing one leg of a cross-country bicycle ride that has three more legs to go. We were accomplishing something completely unnecessary with help from a bunch of strangers. So we danced and laughed at ourselves while we were stared at by a new state’s inquisitive drivers. It was thirty more miles into Georgia before we stopped for the night in Brunswick.

Outside of the Ole Times Country Buffet, we were greeted by a man that couldn’t have been a day under ninety. He was our first real Georgian that we had met, and he told us his name was Chestnut, we didn’t get his wife’s name, but she called us brave. It’s possible that they were senile, but we enjoyed talking to them and Chestnut gave us a suggestion for a place where we could set up our tent without having any trouble. Where he sent us, through the blackness of unlit Brunswick roads, ended up being a wooded area near a construction site that was exactly what we wanted. Besides some night owl teenagers that came to swim in the pond, we were left alone to enjoy the peace and quiet.

Seventy five more miles and we were going to be in Savannah. Seventy five uneventful miles later, we were in the city that was reminding us why we’re on this trip. Savannah, at first, was a long stretch of what we expect from the highway leading into a small town in the South. We rolled by the usual auto shops, liquor stores, and gun and ammunition depots before our surroundings quickly became a city with grandiose, French architecture and obvious charm. This one isn’t a cyclist town, but it’s the first gem of our Northern route and it made for a great place to get our bearings before we start going through states where our childish sense of geography might finally catch up with us.

Before we move on and have the rest of the Southern states treat us however they please, we found a few opportunities in Savannah to treat ourselves. One being our first successful dumpster dive while riding. We were on our way to get something to eat when it donned on us that little caeser’s prepares pizzas before they are ordered and we may stand a chance to recover some that were made, but never sold. We were close enough to their closing time that we felt comfortable pulling intact cheese pizzas out of someone else’s dumpster and eating it like vultures on roadkill. If we get parasites, you’re welcome to criticize our choices, but we’ll wait and see if any aliens come screaming out of our abdomens.

Besides eating trash, we also got a second day in Savannah to explore more of what the city had to offer. Being on a river gives it the advantage of being naturally appealing, but the cityscape was much more interesting to us than the water around it.

The buildings showed old world influence and there was a new park square every block with another statue commemorating a part of American history that we were too impatient to read about. We followed the roads to narrow walkways and alleys.

The time riding around town was enough to put Savannah on the imaginary list we compile for people when they ask us what our favorite places have been. At some point, either of us may come back, if we ever finish the rest of our trip that is.

New Route

Mon, 16 Apr 2012 09:44:00 -0400

It’s time for an announcement to all those interested in the route we’re taking.

We updated our About page a while back to clarify that we plan on riding around the perimeter of the country and ending our travels in Los Angeles. Still, we’ve received a lot of questions from people regarding our final destination. That’s the word for now. Until twenty five miles outside of Perry, our plans were to ride along both the West and East coasts of Florida then up to Montreal and back across the country before heading South again along the West coast. The plan has changed slightly from then. Our route will no longer include the majority of Florida and from Jacksonville we’ll be riding North.

Our welcome to Florida has been rough at times, and the distance we saw ourselves trying to cover was looking more unreasonable as we again came closer to turning South and traveling nine hundred more miles through one state. We loved Texas, but we also spent nearly half of our time so far riding through it. The prospect of repeating this again and putting the trip on a tight schedule later toward the colder months seemed unnecessary and less than helpful. We’re sorry Florida, but for now you are going to have to wait for us to return. Don’t wait up, we’ll be awhile.

That said, we got a little silly with glee after our decision and have had a great time the last couple of days. Florida was feeling a lot more like a good time than a long time, so we have been slowing down to smell the flowers recently. The landscape has transitioned from the white sands and dense forest to farm land and the familiar pines more sparsely and uniformly planted for future lumber. Along the road were patches of pink and red wildflowers.

We were reminded of the wildflowers that Texas preserves for drivers to see, instead of mowing along the highway to keep a clean look. The sight also brought to mind that we hadn’t taken any good photos in Texas amongst the flowers. We owed it to ourselves and Florida to make up for the mistakes of the past. We didn’t have a concern for ants or allergies or thorns at all while we lay in our senior picture poses and watched the wind cause the flowers to bob around us. It was tranquil and no one was yelling at us from their speeding truck, we were finally having a moment to enjoy Florida unimpeded.

Our destination for this day was Lake City. There wasn’t much in the way of cover to camp out until we found a Dollar General building that wasn’t fully constructed. The trash enclosure had already been built, but there were no dumpsters to fill and stink up the spot. This left us with a place out of site to sleep while still located right in the middle of town. We made a little home out of the dump-to-be and comfortably slept after the parking lot lights from the neighboring Home Depot went out.

The next day we set out for Jacksonville. We were under no stress to book it anywhere since we had an arrangement to stay with a couch surfing host there and plenty of time to make the trip. A little bit of pollen in our brains and we can’t help but feel lighthearted and/or fancy free.

We passed by a state forest reserve on the location of a civil war battle. Above the trees was a forest fire watchtower. Like I said, we were still high from wildflower poison, and it was Sunday on an underutilized highway. There didn’t appear to be anyone willing to turn us in for trespassing so we decided to take a look at the view from the top of the tower.

The forest is scenic from the ground, but Florida is a flat place and there are little to no lookout points for us to take in the view from above. This wasn’t about us lawlessly disregarding the signs, but rather our attempt to take a moment to appreciate something rare in the wilds of the state.

We stood there for a while quietly. The view was an unadulterated look at the canopy we otherwise would have missed without this opportunity. Some officials would frown on what we did, but it might be safe to say that such people might frown at other actions we’ve taken in the last three months, as well.

Our climb back down was as safe as the climb up. The view from below was put in perspective and the distance ahead wasn’t much more than a few hours of work. Our next stop was Jacksonville and our next host was Colton. Other than that, we didn’t have a set plan. As we know about this trip, plans can completely change quicker than they were made initially, but that gave us no reason to doubt that things tend to work out one way or another.

Panhandling

Fri, 13 Apr 2012 11:22:00 -0400

Reader, we blogged for you when we woke up in Alabama, and because of that we left late, too. It wasn’t far to Florida, though, and we were taking our cliche state-line photos in no time.

As luck would have it, just as we were standing there wishing we had a way to take a photo of both of us, a man driving an enormous white pick-up turned around on the road and stopped near us on the shoulder.

“You want a photo of both of you?”

“Yeah, we want exactly what you just predicted, complete stranger.”

Snap.

He was in his truck then gone as quickly as he had shown up, and we went back to riding. This seemed like a good showing from Florida already, but we had just arrived.

A few hours later we rolled into Pensacola, still without a place to stay. Couch surfing had so far turned up nothing so we started considering alternatives. However our attention quickly changed from where to stay that night to the crowd of people walking around downtown and a big bus with tinted windows that was parked nearby. Something was going down, but we didn’t know what that something was. A lady with a headset answered the question.

“Daniel Tosh is performing at the Seanger theater tonight.”

Oh he is, is he?

Our plans changed from looking for a place we could sleep to finding a way into the performance. Forty five minutes of sleuthing later and the conclusive information we had found was this: The shows had sold out within a few days of sales opening, there were no cancelled orders or open seats, and the only remaining ticket on craigslist was priced at twelve hundred dollars, roughly the cost of a good touring bicycle.

We took a moment then admitted to ourselves the dead-end this had obviously become. We asked a local woman outside the theater about bars with drink specials. The cheaper of the options, she told us, was also closer; a no-brainer, really.

With a pool table in the back of the bar and nobody to talk to, we grabbed some change from our bags and killed time. Our plans were morphing as we shot and talked alone. The decision was that we were going to try to get extroverted and meet new people that might have something in the way of a place to sleep.

Three games of pool and two comedy shows later, we hadn’t been able to get anyone in the crowd of strangers to talk to us more than a few sentences. We were left with the option of staying or going and we decided going was the cheapest and most productive.

Sleeping on the gulf sounded like the right kind of finish to a day like the one we had been having. We found a stretch of land on an isthmus South of Pensacola that looked good on a map. It was tough to know we hadn’t accomplished any of the goals we wanted to achieve for the night, but the moonlight reflecting on the water as we crossed the bridge out of town made it feel acceptable to be unwanted. We found a stretch of beach that felt right and didn’t seem like it would bring us a police visit. A late night swim and a few photos later, we lay down on a couple of beach chairs and slept out under a growing number of stars.

We both woke up less than fully rested, and ready to leave Pensacola. We decided to ride the hundred miles of coast line it would take to get to Panama City in hopes we could find somewhere indoors to sleep that night. Again, we went without any contacts and we rode the whole way without a place to sleep at the end of the day

Around nightfall, we made it into Panama City and stopped to eat at a Chinese buffet. While there, we grew comfortable enough with the owner and, and possibly desperate enough, to ask if she would be willing to let us camp behind her restaurant for the night. We found out she wasn’t comfortable and that they were also closing soon. Again, we were riding into a darkened town with no place in particular to go.

Not long after setting out we found ourselves in a neighborhood with little activity and an open cemetery. Though we had heard of other cycle tourists sleeping in graveyards, we hadn’t been put in the position where it was the most accessible option. This time it was, and we quietly laid our tarp out in a clearing away from the clusters of tombstones. Strange dreams followed, but our rest was undisturbed through morning.

The nights outside hadn’t been entirely unappealing, but we hadn’t showered after sweating for two days and started to crave a place to sleep without fear of zombies or police. We left Panama City a little more tired than the previous day. A few miles out of town, as we were passing an air force base, my front tire went flat. It’s never a welcome thing, but tubes are routine now (not bragging). Routine or not, we had another two flats on the same wheel before Andrew finally found the tiny piece of glass that was ruining our morning.

It didn’t seem worthwhile to ride the ten miles we had already come two more times so we kept moving forward. Our hope was that in one of the little beach communities we were set to ride through, we would find a bike shop. We found no such thing all day. We were surprised by the stores that did carry bicycle tubes, but the size we needed was the only variety none of them had.

The prospect of being stranded, on top of the previous two nights of sleep was compounding as we considered the rest of Florida possibly a thousand miles more of what we had been through so far. After a while we found ourselves stopping just because we had little motivation to be on our bikes. The scenery was beautiful, but the days didn’t feel as though they would ever even out in our favor.

After one of the stops, we brought back a practice we had started in Texas. We listed three things we were thankful for that day. It turned out we both had more than three things. The brief reflection didn’t make it easier to be on the bike, but it put any complaints in perspective for the remainder of the day.

The last two towns we could make it through for that day were Apalachicola and Eastpoint. The former was eventful when we met a man named Albert who gave us a vague history of himself and his hometown, which he had never strayed far from his entire life.

After the chance encounter we went to Eastpoint to see if the cycle shop google told us about was real. It was not, but there was a lodge where it was supposed to be and, after talking to the innkeeper, we were told that her husband would be back soon and we could talk to him about our predicament.

When he arrived, he heard our situation and offered a place on the property where we could camp for the night without charge. He said the building supply store in town had bicycle tubes, but they wouldn’t be open until morning. We were more than content to set our tent right near the water and watch the sunset, but the deal was sweetened when we were offered a shower with all the amenities needed to wash off a few days worth of sweat. The balance seemed to be shifting toward optimism by the time we settled in to read and pass out.

Our morning was cheap, delicious breakfast followed by the familiar scenario of bike tubes that mean nothing to us. There was one small town in our future called Perry that was going to have a wal-mart, but it was a hundred miles away from Eastpoint. With all the desperation we had built up in the last few days, we decided that because we felt physically up for it, we might as well do it and try to get out of the sticks. For eight hours we rode head first into winds faster than we often go with no obstacles. Our strong cycling along with our bikes holding up made for a good day.

About halfway through the day we stopped at a spring-fed river and watched a manatee swim out from under the bridge.

About three-quarters of the way through we stopped at the last gas station for the next twenty miles and ate our first boiled peanuts. We felt like we were getting what we needed of Florida, but not much more. Our conversation while we sat and ate the snack left us relaxed and ready to finish the last section of our ride before all the problems we had accumulated were made into distant memories.

Our host for the night, Richard, was surprised to meet his first couch surfers. He welcomed us in a fashion we felt we had left behind in Alabama. We ate pizza and talked about traveling. He told us about the places he had been and his distaste for the general redneck attitude he felt dominated in the area.

The common ground we found with him had become unusual during our time on the panhandle and was all the more welcome for that fact. The night ended when neither Andrew nor I could stay awake for the movie we had chosen to watch with our host. Eventually, we stood from our comfortable chairs and walked through his quiet house to our separate bedrooms. Florida had taken a lot out of us, but now we were finally getting it all back.

Gulf Coast

Mon, 09 Apr 2012 11:39:00 -0400

A month of Texas made for our appreciation of the short time we had in Louisiana, but our short time there did not prep us for how briefly we would stay in Mississippi.

We set out from New Orleans after our time off and made progress toward the border with little to no problems, despite the strong winds hitting at our side.

A few tall and long and a few short and shoulderless bridges later we found ourselves crossing the inconspicuous border between the two swampy states.

At first, we were actually uncertain as to whether or not we missed the border crossing and had just ended up there unannounced. Soon we realized that we had not and we were excited to see the new state sign like a big, metal checkpoint for our trip. We felt encouraged by the new surroundings, even though they were similar to the previous landscape of Louisiana. Something about being in a place that has its own history and pride gives us a revitalized enthusiasm for what we are doing.

So enthusiastic that we decided to do a little shirtless riding, which ended in a couple of ugly sunburns that did not fit the amount of sun exposure that preceded them. We’ve been well covered this whole trip and the pale backs being warmed by the mid-day sun were in fact being baked to a warm, painful mistake we would be dealing with for the next couple of days.

However, sunburn or no sunburn, if someone is riding a bike through the desert for a thousand plus miles in late winter, they are sure as hell going to visit the first ocean beach they see. We had been doing the former so we decided to take part in the latter and stood for a short while shin-deep in shell filled water before taking the bikes back up the street and pushing on toward Gulfport/Biloxi area and trying to find a place to sleep.

We hadn’t planned for much and we finally chose to find a spot between the two towns to set up our tent. We were assisted by the light of the full, orange moon that we had had the pleasure of watching rise over the ocean earlier that evening.

Our morning in Biloxi was one of the first days that we have chosen to implement healthier eating on our trip. Something both of us have come to terms with recently is that we are definitely getting more exercise daily than we ever have consistently before, but we have been eating more junk food than either has before, as well. Our mid-sections may have actually softened at times on this trip.

In an effort to feel confident about our insides as well as our outsides we are looking to eat some vegetables that haven’t been vaporized and scattered onto corn chips. Tomato, avocado, green onion, and bell pepper sandwich? Yes, we’ll take two each. Much of the rest of the day was spent working on a blog post, which is becoming both repetitive and post-modern to tell you about wthin the very blog we were working on. This blog within a blog business brings Inception to mind.

We left the library and set out in the late afternoon to put a few more miles in before dark. We continued the trend of riding massively vaulted bridges over gorgeous bays into mid-sized towns that were common enough that we never took much time in them. By nightfall, we were using our lights to guide ourselves along the highway and finally came to a decision to find somewhere, really anywhere, we could immediately set up our tent and pass out.

No more than a mile after the decision we passed a sign that said boat ramp and an arrow to our right, we figured it would lead to something close to what we needed and it certainly did. We couldn’t make out the purpose of the small overgrown road we turned on to soon after leaving the highway, but by morning it was clear it had been an RV camping space before Katrina came through. It had a quiet and peaceful feel to it, being untouched by people for as long as it had.

We had made it to within ten miles of Alabama that night, so one of the first things we did that morning was cross another state line. Texas made us respect the size of this country and passing through the next few states has reminded us to appreciate the finite time we will have in the others. Though we didn’t spend any significant time in Mississippi it was a beautiful ride that gave us no trouble to speak of, besides the ever present mosquitoes.

Lucky for us we continue to get tips from people we meet. One such tip came from Neely, Krista’s roommate and our new friend in New Orleans. She had told us about Dauphin Island that lies on the Southwestern end of Mobile bay and also has a cheap ferry that runs across the bay, saving us a days ride around the area.

Not long before we turned on to the road to get to Dauphin we noticed a cyclist working on her bicycle along the road and no one assisting her. We stopped and asked if there was anything we could do for her. Marsha, the cyclist, had been out for a day ride on her own and managed to get a flat tire and pop her only spare. This seemed like a good chance for us to reverse the flow of generosity that we have been receiving in our travels and we offered our tube to her. It held and she rode off until she was a tiny speck in the distance. We had already been riding pretty high since passing through a state in a day and a half without issues and this left us feeling a bit like the Good Samaritan from one of Jesus’ parables. It being Easter that day we felt it was only right to do some secular representing of Christian values. Something to please the parents back in the Midwest.

Our plan after the ferry was to head toward Gulf Shores and meet up with an old college/ultimate friend, Josh Smith. Again, another contact that was out of contact and had found out we were in the area. He invited us to stay with him without us ever asking about it. The catch was that he wouldn’t be in town until a few hours after we would.

We took our time riding to Gulf Shores along the peninsula which was at times less than a half-mile wide. It was a beautiful ride with tall pine trees to one side and white sands on the other.

With all our beach-driven anticipation leading into town and a little free time before Josh arrived, we chose to spend that time finally immersing ourselves fully in the ocean water then lying in our hammocks with little more ambition than to possibly even out the awful tan lines we had acquired over the last two months.

NOLA

Sat, 07 Apr 2012 14:16:00 -0400

Two days before we left Baton Rouge we hadn’t known where we were going to stay until an old friend from high school, Krista McGrath, came to mind. After contacting her for the first time since graduating she was excited to hear about the trip and told us we should stay with her. Not being stupid people, we took her up on the offer.

We had stayed in loose contact with her to make sure there was some plan. Then on the bus ride a message from Krista came in on facebook stating the following,

“okay so i lost my purse and my lyyyffffffe last night. phone is dying. call me when you get in but if my phone is dead call my friend mary at 361 793 3029 or aly at 703 507 0023. we are going downtown to a free black keys show, so you should tots meet up if you are here by den kloveyoubye.”

Though this seemed like a message with only one unfortunate fact, Krista’s purse going missing, it turned out both phone numbers were incorrectly typed when she sent them. Krista’s phone, as well, rang indefinitely when attempting to call her. With no one answering us, we decided that if there was a Black Keys concert for free in town we would be idiots to miss it. As mentioned before, we are not stupid people.

The concert was a part of the festivities surrounding the NCAA basketball tournament that was in the midst of the final four when we arrived. There were drunk people covered in Kentucky and Kansas’ similar shades of blue walking everywhere downtown. We sifted through them and made our way to a comfortable space in the crowd to wait for a call that seemed like it was not going to come.

Nearing the end of the show we did finally hear back from Krista, whom told us she had fallen asleep for hours and just recently woke up with an empty stomach. The plan became for us to meet her at restaurant near her house for a lunch so late we should have called it dinner.

We got the address and headed over. We arrived first and waited for a little while before Krista came in with her friend Mary Catherine. They were both as good looking as we were terrible looking, but they welcomed us to New Orleans with hugs and fast paced conversation. The mix of talk was made up of old stories from when Krista and I were both fourteen, tales from the road, and the predicament Krista had now found herself in by losing her purse. Catching up was interrupted by sandwiches and soon afterward we were setting out once again, but this time was to finally halt traveling for a few days, a pause we were ready for.

Krista, being a seasoned veteran of New Orleans style partying, wasn’t as phased by her recent loss and was amped to show us a good time that night when we were showered and ready for it. By nine, we had made it to that point and set out on what was a night full of her favorite dive bars in the area. For a grown woman of barely five feet Krista is a wonder. She schooled both of us in drinking while dragging us from one unfamiliar space to another before the night ended around four o’clock, not a late time for her, but somewhat unbelievable to her guests. She had mentioned an abbreviation earlier to us in one of her first messages, HAM, meaning hard as motherfucker. This seemed like the perfect example.

Thankfully, the following day was a Sunday and the only goals we were left to accomplish were to get our bikes from outside one of the bars we had visited and to find a way to get a replacement key for Krista’s car. Her car keys being one of the small tragedies that came with her purse being lost. We slowly accomplished these goals throughout the day along with meeting several new friends and seeing another free concert, yahtzee. With our vehicles all back at Krista’s, we got a chance to meet one of her roommates, Jessica, and spend the rest of the evening watching a Louisiana staple, a big-ass thunderstorm. Somewhere during the show, Neely, the final roommate, came home and greeted us with equal excitement to her counterparts. The storm rolled on as we all chatted and then went to bed.

On Monday, the ladies of the house being working women took off early and left us to find whatever fun we needed to have. Part of that fun ended up being a bike accident between the two of us outside of their home after returning from errands. The accident didn’t leave either of us with any injuries, but Andrew’s back wheel looked a lot like it was never bouncing back from this one. Solemnly, we set out to fix this.

It took a couple of stops and some help from a monotone bike mechanic named Steven, but we found a new wheel. Though the way it happened wasn’t the best, the wheel had needed replacing as much as the trailer had, which was also usurped by a rear rack. The change ended up being a good one for us both and was a story to tell the girls when we joined them in taking Jessica to airport.

Tuesday was a similar scenario for us as Krista and Neely both worked all day, but this time we weren’t busy with maintenance of any kind and we had a chance to leisurely spend time in the French Quarter with an old friend of Andrew’s, Mary-Beth.

Our day accomplished two of the important goals we had made in visiting this city 1) see the part of town everyone and their mother told us to see and 2) eat some delicious confections we are likely to miss out on for a long time. We ended our day back at the house in our regular company and made plans for the following evening, since it was the girls’ last before they all left town for brief vacations of their own.

Wednesday was not a big day until the aforementioned festivities took off. A dinner had been planned for us with a few friends before the rest of the night erupted into another New Orleans free-for-all.

The dinner was as calm and fun as the night was intense and fun. Several other friends made their way over and names were learned and forgotten. Festivities included, but were not limited to: a small choreographed dance video, a machete being brought out, a late visit to a pool, and an even later visit to a bar still soaking wet from the previous activity. There is nothing taken more seriously in this group than not being serious about oneself. Party animals is cliche and alcoholics is premature, but these people are definitely HAM.

Along with a night like this, it ought to be mentioned that Krista had a nine o’ clock flight to catch the following morning. With her luck from the last weekend it wouldn’t be a bad idea to assume she wouldn’t be testing it, but you would be real, real wrong about that one. She made it on her flight though it wasn’t without a mad dash to get there. Simply astonishing.

That afternoon, all the rest of the friends were headed out on a trip to Denver and we were left alone to do what we do, blog about stuff we’ve seen and done on this trip. Our heads hurt, but we’ve learned this is a temporary thing so long as we keep it in moderation. The last night in New Orleans was a domestic one with dinner and a movie in the pleasant and quiet company of one another. A city that everyone couldn’t stop talking about was out there, but we had seen plenty and weren’t down to pursue more with as little energy as we had. On Friday we packed up what we had, turned off their air conditioner as was the request, locked the house, and returned to the Eastward movement we’ve grown accustomed to.

Cajun Country

Thu, 05 Apr 2012 20:44:00 -0400

We left Lake Charles in high spirits, but we were immediately met with a flat tire before getting completely out of town, not the best sign of things to come. A few hours later, after some early showers, Andrew’s bike slipped from underneath him and he fell off. He caught himself, but catching oneself on asphalt with a loaded bike doesn’t go without injury. Fortunately it wasn’t serious. The next big event came when my bike as well slid out from under me, but this was a larger and faster moving crash. I was thrown from my bike and fell into the ditch. Again, fortunately there was no serious harm. I had fallen onto grass and what turned out to be the largest ant hill in existence. I stood up immediately and brushed myself off. Andrew asked “are you alright?” which was met with a glance at my body and a response of “…yes.”

The finale came about fifteen miles outside of a town called Opelousas, which had been our destination for the evening. The trailer ran over a softball sized chunk of concrete and flipped over. It was dragged about ten to fifteen feet and then righted. It seemed, for a moment that nothing had been seriously damaged, when we started up again the right wheel was wobbling like it had been knocked loose. Upon closer inspection we found that the axle rod had snapped exactly like the left side one had in Hondo. We now found ourselves stranded fifteen miles from a town that wasn’t going to have the right parts to fix it.

Stranded makes for a direr sounding situation than we quickly realized we were in. The trailer had flipped and broken right in front of a campground. We walked over to see if we could still find a spot to set our tent up and hoped we wouldn’t have to pay too much. The first person we encountered was a man standing next to a black pickup truck and looking at the campground pond. He asked if he could help us with anything and we told him the quick overview of our lives currently and about the accident. He introduced himself as Francis Charles and said he owned the campground. He also told us he would let us stay on his campground for free that night. We were stunned.

Francis showed us where we could set up our tent and then bid us farewell. It wasn’t much later that he was being called upon again to see if there were any spare parts that he might have that could be used to rig the trailer back together temporarily. He did. There was a shed where he had parts for general maintenance. He allowed access to it and again for the second time bid a good night.

After an hour or more of scouring and contemplating, hardware came together to allow the trailer to once again do nothing it was ever intended to be used for.

The fix held and joined a growing list of makeshift fixes including one Matt whipped up before we left Lake Charles for Andrew’s broken handlebar bag with some military tethers he had left over from his service. We set out the following morning with a reckless hope that it would make it to Baton Rouge. The trailer did hold, but we ran into other issues. We hadn’t been having flat problems for a while and our guard had been let down some, but we were in rural areas without bike shops or department stores now and when we both got flat tires and didn’t have any spares that would hold we were stranded on the wrong side of the second worst bridge we’ve encountered on this trip. We stopped in at some nearby stores and found the same answer, no bike tires. So Andrew asked the only logical question that could come to mind, “do you have a piece of cardboard and a marker?”

They did, and within about thirty minutes of waiting with a sign that gave an indication that we did in fact have a place we needed to go and we were in fact not going to kill the person that picked us up, we had a ride to town.

His name was Russ and he was the most Cajun thing we never knew existed. He was a good guy, but what we didn’t realize at first is that he didn’t see both of us when he passed the first time. So when he came back over the bridge to pick up the sorry looking cyclist he found himself picking up two sorry looking cyclists which didn’t seem like something to worry about to us, but he was not so sure about us not being murderers. He actually asked us a few times if we were sure we were not murderers. We responded as pleasantly as we could that we had no plan of killing him, but he seemed less than comfortable. He appeared to relax more when he was able to focus on driving and play his music louder than is necessary to cause permanent hearing loss. He was nice enough to buy us drinks at the gas station before finally dropping us off at the walmart near the highway.

With some new tubes our plan was to ride to John and Brenda’s house. John and Brenda being two people we had never met and did not contact through couch surfing. We didn’t know anyone in Baton Rouge, but we do know someone from there. Caroline Bolter came through in a pinch in bringing us to the home of her father, John, and step-mother, Brenda. We contacted them and got their address, then set out for the last five miles of the day.

About one mile from their home a thunder storm broke and it began to downpour on us. We managed to get under an awning to wait it out. We stayed there for about forty five minutes before the rain was weak enough for us to feel safe in riding into their neighborhood.

When we came to the address we were given we found ourselves greeted by two, mild-mannered, well-dressed, and sweet people. They were welcoming though they didn’t know anything about us and had some of the most posh accommodations to date. Our first night we went through our usual line of conversation where we explain why it is we’re doing what we’re doing and it seemed to bring our hosts to a place where they felt completely comfortable with the strange men they had in their home.

We were offered a second day with them and it didn’t take long for us to agree. During our time with them we were treated to their collective generosity with what they had in their home, pizza they ordered when we got in, and dinner at a restaurant near LSU that is apparently a must if coming in to Baton Rouge. During our second day, we blogged pretty hard for you, readers and we couldn’t have asked for a more comfortable place to bring you our story from. On our third day, we said good-byes and set out with hopes to catch a bus that goes directly to New Orleans and is friendly to smelly cyclists taking up seats.

Lake Charles

Sat, 31 Mar 2012 11:30:00 -0400

A few miles outside of downtown Lake Charles we saw the most intimidating and dangerous road either of us has considered riding during this trip. The I-10 bridge is more than a hundred feet tall with no shoulder and has construction limiting two lanes. We shrugged and decided to get a closer look. After seeing it up close, we decided neither of us wants to die a miserable death on the highway. We eventually agreed to hitchhike.

In about ten minutes, we had two men in trucks that were driving home from work stop to take us over the bridge. They were familiar with the problem and didn’t seem surprised by what we were going through.

In the mix of deciding whether to go or try another route fifteen miles North we were contacted by Jennifer, a couch surfing host we had unsuccessfully tried to call earlier. Her timing being the worst possible, we tried to negotiate being picked up by her, but the men in the trucks interrupted the idea. After several phone calls, it had been decided we would go to the Wendy’s downtown and wait for Jennifer to come pick us up. She was coming from South of town by about fifteen miles and would be awhile. We posted up and ate the frosty and french fries combination neither of us used to believe was good.

At this point we were already done with Lake Charles. The night was going to consist of showers and sleep with no celebration due to our anticlimactic ride over the bridge. We were happy to have been helped across, but the stressful feeling that came with talking a stranger into coming to get us from fifteen miles away was overwhelming. We weren’t really pumped about the idea at this point.

“Excuse me, I know you might find this kind of weird, but are you two on a journey?”

“Umm, yeah we are.”

Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Matt Gaspard.

We raised our heads to see a short statured and sharp dressed man with his hair swept back, but left sort of unruly. He was being followed by a small dog named Lola whom he addressed like a person. She was equally responsive.

“I saw you when I was walking by the lake and I thought to myself, man they are on a journey.”

“Well…yeah.”

A brief discussion later and we had found out that Matt, too, will be on a journey of his own soon. He is going to hike the Appalachian Trail with his close friend, Troy Wainwright. The introduction was enthusiastic and he decided on the spot to welcome us to stay with him at his loft two blocks away. We called Jennifer back and found out she had not yet left; golden like grahams.

Now, we aren’t psychopaths, therefore, we have trouble distinguishing if anyone we meet first hand is going to turn out to be the type that will not only murder us, but won’t tell anybody about it. When we are invited into a strangers home without even provoking the invitation, it leaves us with the option that we will in fact run into such a person.

The moment we walked into Matt’s loft and saw how exotic and eclectic the decoration was we figured we were either dealing with the classiest murderer we’d ever have the pleasure of being strangled by or we had just won the lottery (we’re aware it’s over five hundred million now).

Matt gave us a tour, on both floors, of his well furnished, well kept apartment. The upstairs being more like the captain’s quarters of a seafaring vessel and the downstairs more like the inside of Matt’s head.

He also told us he was having some friends come over soon. We were told they were good people, but at that point neither of us cared how good they were, we were busy celebrating.

Showers later, we met Matt’s friends. The apartment had left us with questions of who Matt really was, and his friends started to give us a better idea. The first visitor was a man named Tim. He’s an optometrist, recent divorcee and easily forty years older than any of the guests that came after him. The rest were mostly eighteen year olds that were off the following day from high school because the teachers in the area were protesting.

Once we got past the mix of company we were pulled in easily by getting to know all of them. One girl, Garrants, had lived in France. Another, Mike, seemed much more interested in what we were doing than he did in college. It was the most inquisitive of any age group that we’ve explained our trip to. We received recommendations from them about where to go and what to do while in New Orleans. Eventually, the group left and we were three again. Soon after, we were joined by a friend from the building whose name wasn’t as catchy as his nickname, Red.

Red and Matt explained how they will often climb to the top of the tallest buildings and look out over their city. It was an open invitation for us to join them that night at the top of the county court house. Photos from the top of the city at night? The answer is yes.

The next morning we decided we would take Matt’s new invitation to stay a second day. It was too good to pass up and it had pretty much always worked out for us before.

We all spoke of our backgrounds and our lives currently. We talked about the people we had encountered last night. Matt asked us questions about our trip and we responded with questions about his. Even though Matt described himself as manic, a fitting word for his frantic nature, there was no questioning his sanity any longer, he was clear.

We took our time getting motivated, but eventually made it down to a restaurant owned by one of Matt’s numerous friends. After some green smoothies, we were given Matt’s personalized tour of Lake Charles. He showed us historical buildings downtown, an ex-governor’s house, and the lakefront. The tour ended on an old World War II tank where Matt told us more about his service in the Marine Corps.

Of all the mysterious qualities that Matt had, his tact in speaking about the military was the most intriguing. He was calm when he talked about being deployed and involving himself in war. He seemed effected, but not destroyed. Neither of us being friends with many military service members we felt happy to round out our perspective on that crowd. Story time was over though, and we all split to take care of different things. Plans to reconvene and have another little party were spoken of.

Later that night we did in fact reconvene and we were soon joined by Matt’s “brother”, Troy Wainwright. We’ve noticed people in the South will introduce themselves with their full names. It’s so classy we can’t help but try to join in.

Troy was a marine with Matt, though they weren’t in the same platoon (forgive the possibly incorrect military jargon). Troy is the perfect foil for the compact, fast-paced Matt. He’s as steady as Matt is jumpy and the two made for a great pair to spend our night with. There were a few more friends that came by, including Red from the previous night, but nobody stayed the entire time. We got to know Troy better through the night and coincidentally we got a better understanding of Matt through our interactions with him. Troy was the first to chide Matt for anything and it showed a charming quality of their friendship.

Like us, they are investing in each other’s company when they take off into unknown territory. They were as drawn in to our story as we were with theirs. Now they were all connected and everyone seemed aware of that. One highlight for the night included having conversations about how Matt was nervous that we would assume he was a serial killer when he originally approached us. We claimed that we had safety in numbers. Another highlight was late night pizza, a staple of this trip.

Our final morning with the guys we packed, exchanged information, snapped photos, and then shipped out. Troy made reference to how it felt when fellow soldiers were being sent out on missions. Though our trip isn’t as intense, the feeling of brotherhood that both men exuded was infectious and we talked about seeing each other again when their path crosses ours.

Lake Charles was the worst welcome possible followed by the best possible. What started out as a city neither of us planned on caring about, turned out to be a lesson in optimism. Something that Troy and Matt talked about briefly while helping us with our gear was that marines are taught to adapt to their surroundings. It was the kind of mentality that implies if you have nothing, you aren’t trying hard enough. We often feel overburdened and undersupplied, but then again, we’ve never been under fire. Troy had words of encouragement that were suitable to the very situation we were in before we were approached by a curious stranger “the worst times make for the best stories” and “you got to keep on moving, because if you’re standing still you’re just dying.”

Farewell Texas

Fri, 30 Mar 2012 12:40:00 -0400

That’s right, we’ve left Texas. We are no longer in the largest of the contiguous states.

Before we crossed the border, we shared loving good-bye hugs with Valerie, easily our most mom-like host so far. After just two days, we were like family, but just like the families we said good-bye to when we left on this trip we said our thanks and hugged her before we got on our bikes.

Houston is the fourth largest city in the country and land used to be cheap, so the metro-area is a bit sprawling. We rode for around twenty miles before we really felt like we weren’t in Houston-area any longer.

As stated before, there have been some serious pains on this trip, knees, hands, asses, etc. Even though we rested for two days, getting back on bicycles wasn’t the most comfortable thing to do with a triple digit day recently behind us. The other thing about biking East of Houston is that it starts to seem a lot like the rest of the gulf coast, humid, hot, and mosquito infested. Our day lasted until the light was gone and we found an abandoned looking home.

The thing about abandoned looking houses in the middle of nowhere is that they are almost definitely abandoned. We set up our tents quickly as the mosquitoes were growing to be more of a cloud than a swarm. The night was uncomfortable and didn’t allow for a fulfilling sleep.

We set out the next day with Lake Charles, Louisiana in mind, but realized by the time we made it to Beaumont that we were gassed from the heat and sleeplessness. On our way to leave town, we stopped to wait for a train and didn’t feel like being on the bikes. We took shelter in the shade and realized we were definitely not going to ride to Lake Charles by the end of the day. We contacted couch surfers in Beaumont and went looking for Mexican food.

On our trip to find a good place to eat we were hollered at by a man on his porch, we assumed it was his porch. When we finally submitted and came over to talk to him we realized we were meeting a real character. His name is Lewis and he’s a talker, and a bit of a close talker at that. This ended up being an interaction that not only lasted for twenty minutes or more when we first stopped, but for another twenty minutes when he met us outside of a failed visit to a Mexican restaurant (all-meat menu). Lewis talked about God, family, homosexuality, age, and anything that seemed to cross his mind. His was a friendlier disposition than that of the average stranger. We did eventually convince him we had to go and took off without too much more chatter.

During dinner we were contacted by Steven Palmer, a couch surfing host that said we were cool to stay at his place. With burritos in our past we headed to his house. Steven turned out to be a well equipped adult that was only two years older than either one of us. He had a house that seemed to have everything a motivated and well-paid chemist could want. Luckily, it also had everything we wanted: a shower, a bed, and a host who’s willing to watch Red Dwarf episodes before going to sleep. In the morning, we found a note from him wishing us well and allowing us access to his stocked refrigerator and pantry.

Full bellies make for happy men who are ready to cross state lines. Before we could make it much past Beaumont we were flagged down though and forced to stop by a smiling stranger.

This time, instead of a single color wearing man of fifty we were faced with a beautiful, older woman standing next to her escalade waving frantically. We found out that Charlene Babineaux had also cycled across the country and that she was very enthusiastic about us and our trip. She took lots of photos with us and gave us some cash that she had, apologizing for it not being more. She actually apologized.

If the unexpected generosity and enthusiasm hadn’t been enough the first time, we were flagged down again a few miles later by Charlene and given an envelope of cash she had just gotten out of the ATM for us. She said one thing in regards to the money, “pay it forward.”

Riding high doesn’t quite describe how we were feeling after the onslaught of good tidings that had come our way in the last seventeen or so hours. When we finally made it past state lines we were feeling so good that a complete flat that delayed us about forty five minutes didn’t hurt much.

We had done something that seemed impossible when we rode face-first into fifteen mile per hour winds in West Texas, we made it out. We had ridden across the biggest unfrozen state there is and didn’t have any new enemies that we were aware of. In fact we had made friends we now genuinely miss being around, and found some benefactors along the way.

The trailer tube was repaired and we looked to finish the last few miles into Lake Charles, a city that wasn’t going to be a stop until it became one.

100 Miles of Shoulder

Fri, 30 Mar 2012 11:20:00 -0400

We made it to Houston after one short day and one very long day. It went like this:

Day 1,

Leave Austin after three weeks of not riding bikes with gear and feel good about ourselves for not hurting too much. Stop in Bastrop, a town thirty miles outside of Austin. Talk, briefly with a train kid (freight train hopping young person) in a walmart parking lot. Stop in at walmart. Meet a small group of train kids after coming out. Then meet more train kids, including one guy named Zach that loves both of the states we hail from (Iowa & Michigan). Kid is also not the most appropriate title for him since he was in his mid-thirties, but the mentality is similar. Waste too much time in town and lose daylight.

Choose to find a place to hang our hammocks in the state park and plan on leaving the following morning. Get gently rained on several times throughout the night, get very little sleep.

Day 2,

Wake up because the state park police are telling us to. Head out politely. Pay way too much money for the hospitality (author’s opinion, not actual official rate description). Meet a couple that are also riding across the country and also stayed the night in the park. Ride with them for about ten miles or so then take a break to charge our phones. Commit to riding over a hundred miles in one day in a text message before mentally committing to oneself. Ride. Ride all day through pain and heat and dozens of overpasses that nag at our knees.

Feel like passing out, but continue riding because there is a home at the end of the ride. A home with a shower, a meal, and friends. Arrive at the edge of a large suburb at night and realize there isn’t much safety in riding the shoulderless roads. Stop at a gas station to ask someone for a ride closer to the place (desperate move). Have a man pull out his wallet as a means to get rid of us quickly and then recommend we keep going because he was a cyclist once and he knows what we are going through. Ignore this response and ask a few more people. Get nothing. Ride on the roads with no shoulders. Get to that home with the shower and the meal and the friends. Feel better instantly. Forgive the guy with the wallet. Forgive the other strangers. Forget the state park and it’s big policemen and it’s high prices. Eat too much. Laugh at bad photos taken by a new friend. Go to sleep.

Day 3, (not a riding day)

Wake up to breakfast being made for us by Haley, our friend that we made in Austin. Reminisce a bit. Get ready for the day. Head out to see the city everyone told us not to go see. Take the tour from a local and hear about what goes on that isn’t motorists and oil companies.

Lunch it up at a restaurant called Brazil that was filled with what one could only assume were the most attractive and interesting people in the area. Meet up with Valerie, Haley’s mom and our new friend.

Go to a museum to see the King Tut exhibit, paid for by Valerie.

Go out to eat at this restaurant that is at the top of a medical building in the medical district of Houston, paid for by Valerie. Eat and drink five star ish while laughing at just about anything.

Step out onto the balcony of the top-floor restaurant and, if you are Haley, spit over the edge.

Walk back in, eat dessert, if you are Caleb you don’t because you are going to die from everything else you’ve consumed. Head to Target for supplies. Drop Haley off so she can go see Hunger Games on opening night. Ride around with Valerie for a little while and blast ODB amongst other tunes that fill up the last hours of the night with more joy. Arrive at the McMichaels’. Go to sleep.

Day 4,

Wake up. Blog. Hear about how the Hunger Games premier was when Haley and her friend, Summer, come back. Receive an invite to hang out with Summer later that night. Blog. Eat. Do nothing. Ride on shoulderless, overcrowded streets for a few miles to Summer’s. Eat chips. Go buy the new GoPro. Come back and eat dinner. Get beaten at Settlers of Catan by our new friend Summer. Ride home through the fog with no cars on the roads that don’t have any shoulders.

Until Next Time, Austin

Fri, 23 Mar 2012 15:56:00 -0400

Toy Golfer

Jude swings his plastic golf club poorly
like a two year old.
Maybe by his third birthday he’ll have
his dad’s technique in mind.
When he draws back, he’ll plant his feet
and hold his knees in position.
Twisting at the waist could come
after he’s eaten his cake.
After he fills up with sugar and runs
like a fat kid;
his new legs that don’t coordinate perfectly.
He might, by chance, square
himself to the ball and tightly
swing like a grown man.
Dad watches him intently,
but feigns interest in his conversation.
The ball flies past the other children
and Jude wobbles across the yard after it.

Missed

Don’t whisper into my ear that you’ll miss me,
I’m too busy with your sight and feel.
Don’t whimper to me that you’ll be seeing me,
that we’ll stay in touch.
We are touching right now.
Don’t shake from sobbing. Don’t tell me
anything about how you’ll see me.
You see me right now.
Your quiver won’t keep me here
wrapped around you forever. So don’t try.
Don’t try to make this moment last.
Give it up. You don’t have control of me
and you, or anything else for that matter.
You’re best left alone sometimes,
to better enjoy the next time you have something
you’ll eventually whimper about
into some ear that won’t hear any of it.

Josh’s Good-Bye

Josh said, “hey, saying good-bye, that’s a poem”
and I mumbled, “yeah.”
He’s all smiles always. He’s right.
Good-byes do make for poems.
Poems about what people say
when they don’t have much else to lose,
about encouragement.
I didn’t give him credit for it then,
but Josh made our good-bye a poem
out of his smiling, confident suggestion
that a good-bye can be more than two people parting
and never looking back.

South X

Fri, 23 Mar 2012 01:14:00 -0400

We had already been smitten with Austin by the time South By South West rolled around, so the week and a half long festival was icing.

The first five days of SXSW is the interactive conference which is mellow for business hours and free parties afterwards. There were hundreds of well-dressed European computer-nerds meandering through town during the day and schmoozing at the open-bar dance parties at night.

Our first few nights we pretty much controlled every dance floor we were on. The Dutch are a good looking people, but they can’t hold their own against a double fisting gang of twenty somethings with nothing to lose. Thanks for the parties Netherlanders and you’re welcome for the show.

Then comes the music and film portion of the festival which brings a whole different crowd of people. There are fewer sleeves, more facial hair, dreadlocks, and tall bikes all day everyday for five days straight.

Sixth street is the party section of downtown and the epicenter for the mess that South By becomes when the music starts. We found ourselves there or close to there most nights at least. We took the good with the bad because the pungent smell of sixth accompanies free music both in the venues and outside.

For those ten days neither of us paid a cent to see the live music we were witness to. The opposite actually happened for Andrew as he found a photography gig through craigslist working with a photo booth company that posted up at venues and took photos for festival goers. Good shows, a new pair of all-stars, and fun people to work with, boom.

The final night was coincidentally St. Patrick’s Day. By then, the entire downtown, as Andrew put it best, becomes one big bar. There were thousands of people stumbling through one another to get home.

Despite the overwhelming nature of South By we had a positive experience and didn’t really feel as though we had missed out on anything, even though there were literally hundreds of shows including artists we both love.

The festival, like our trip, is a mixture of opportunities that’s most agreeable if taken in stride. The entire experience we had with SXSW was coincidental. We never planned on being in Austin during the festival, but we managed to stumble into some of the most fun we’ve ever had. The time we have is our own and wouldn’t be any better if we tried to maximize it and cramp our schedules. We never have a chance to do everything and we’ve found that “whatever will be, will be” is a good motto to live by in that regard. So we’ll stick to that and hope for something memorable.

Austinitis

Fri, 23 Mar 2012 01:08:00 -0400

If the kite festival isn’t a wholesome and welcoming enough event to win people over then there happens to be more in Austin that could reel them in.

Our host, Kadi, told us about an organization called Food is Free, which a good friend of hers is one of the leading members. They were having a volunteer day where they were placing and filling garden beds in the front yards of an entire neighborhood. When we showed up they were hustling from one yard to the next with more volunteers than they seemed to be prepared for.

Though they were organized and knowledgeable, they weren’t equipped to host fifteen to twenty volunteers at once, a problem that didn’t seem like much of a problem. We helped carry boxes, shovel dirt and glass, and fill the beds until it seemed like we were more in the way than in the mix. Overall the morning of work was a positive experience, but it didn’t seem necessary that we stick around for the rest of the time. We wandered around the house that several members live in to see their garden, compost bin, and chicken coop before taking off to see something else new. foodisfreeproject.org

That’s not enough you say? You think that Austin needs something for the whole family, huh?

Quit talking for a moment because we haven’t told you about Barton Springs.

Another Kadi recommendation, Barton Springs is a natural spring pool that’s been concreted in and made into a public swimming area. We put it off for a while, but we did eventually make it to the park on a warm sunny day. The place comes complete with a diving board, living and fake ducks, a sun-bathing hillside, and a vantage point to see the skyline of the city in the distance. You’d love it if you gave it a try.

Still not convinced? You’re a tough sell, that’s for sure.

Do you cycle like us?

Well than maybe you would want to know about the Austin Yellow Bike Project. A local non-profit that helps people build and repair bicycles.

With a half-working trailer and other little problems on our bikes we felt it was the right place to go. What we found: A quick release skewer for the axle of the trailer wheel, a nut for the other axle (which had come off on the way into Austin and had been replaced by a random nut on the road), a pair of shoes that clip into the pedals on the Giant, and a new acquaintance named Tyson.

Tyson helped us put everything together and told us about the apprenticing program that the AYBP has for people who want to learn more about maintenance. He already seemed well-educated on bike work, but he said he had learned plenty from volunteering there.

What’s that? You don’t like community based volunteer programs? You don’t swim and you hate big, public spaces? Wow, have you thought about Alaska? It might be the right fit for you, reader.

None of those things may appeal to you, we understand. We don’t consider our tastes to be the tastes of the masses all the time. We are on a cross-country bike trip after all, something most people are surprised anyone would do.

You could sit down on a warm day when the rest of the country is suffering the late-winter blues and relax with friends. That was another practice of ours’ while we were in Austin. Sit down, relax, and enjoy the people we’ve immediately made close friends with. Kadi and Anslee, our hosts for three weeks straight, were those people for us. They took photos like us and sang songs like us. They made for good company, which in no way made them unique amongst the rest of the people there. Austin isn’t just a town with a lot to do, it’s a place where you don’t have to do anything at all to know your day isn’t wasted. A town full of people with nothing better to do than to help one another and welcome strangers into their lives.

We ask you this reader, what could be more welcoming and wholesome than that?