Yep. We've made it. We're now officially at the Mississippi River. It's hard to believe that we've come so far. A month ago, Jamie and I stuck our toes in the lapping water of the Puget Sound and today we're going to do the same in the murky waters of the Mississippi. We've gone through five states, two time zones, over the continental divide, through two mountain ranges, across VAST, Vast, vast plains, and into the humidity of the eastern temperate forests. I'm sure all of you believed we'd get this far, but at times during this trip it's seemed completely overwhelming. The distances are so great and the heat and hills so oppressive that there are moments where one (me) is apt to doubt one's (my) own ability. But here I am sitting in the May Day Coffee shop off of Bloomington Avenue in beautiful downtown Minneapolis.
In my last post, I promised an update as to what it is like to drink across the country. Well, here it is in summation: Busch Light and Buds. I've never seen so many bars serving such crappy beer. I know, I know, some of you who read this (maybe all 10 of you) will come to think of me as a "beer snob." But I have to let you know, that that is not the case at all. I'm not a beer snob. I drank it. I drank it all. I think I've had more Budweiser on this trip--no, wait, in North Dakota alone--than I've had in my ENTIRE life (I know, it has only been 28 years). But trust me, it's a lot of Budweiser. Busch Light, too, seems to be an absolute favorite across the vast mid-section of this lovely country. Bars on the reservations sell Busch Light in 24oz. cans. Bars in Taylor, North Dakota sell Busch Light in bottles for $3 (!). Bars in Havre, Montana have Busch Light in boxes. Busch Light is everywhere. It's more ubiquitous than buffalo grass, than wildflowers, than broken glass along a highway shoulder. So I've indulged. When in Eastern Montana, North Dakota, and rural Minnesota, do as they do! Drink cheap beer. Now I'm sure all of you must be wondering, "How can you drink after riding ALL day?" That is a legitimate question. The answer is quite simple: I've become a REALLY cheap date. After two beers, I'm done. Through the sweat and sun--and inevitable lack of water--I've come to see my tolerance for alcohol absolutely plummet. There have been a few nights where I was "raring" to get the drink on, but was simply unable to do so. After the first can (because almost everything is canned) my head starts to pound and my eyes slide off of my face into a droopy, drowsy stupor. It's over for me at this point. I have to get into the tent and sleep. And yet I still come back for more. There are few things more appealing on this trip than pulling into a Podunk town, walking into the nearest watering hole, and setting down for a cold Bud. I never thought I'd write that, but I just did. It's funny what exhaustion makes one appreciate....
Now the bar is not only a place where a cyclist can get cheap beer for not-so-cheap prices, for it is also a place where a wayward traveler can hope to pick up 1) a girl (if you are not married) and 2) a place to stay. And there have indeed been a few times where I have shamelessly gone into a bar fishing for a place to sleep/pitch our tent. It normally doesn't work, but sometimes it works out EXTREMELY well. This brings me into my next topic: Accommodations!
For those of you unaccustomed to living off of a bicycle for three months of your life (which I'm assuming is most), there are a few ways to actually do it. There are those touring cyclists (that is what we call ourselves) who choose to travel "ultra light." These extreme riders only carry the bare minimum: underwear, socks, shirts, and NOTHING ELSE. They don't have a tent. They don't have sleeping bags. And they rarely carry food. For these velo-travelers, the name of the game is "motel-hopping." While this type of accommodation is indeed common along roadways and highways, motels on small country roads are a rare sight. What these type of cyclists make up for in speed and lightness, they lose in money-spent and in going out of their way to find the nearest Days Inn. A second type of touring cyclists are those riding on what are called "supported tours." Supported tours are rides where groups of cyclists put all of their belongings in a van. The van will then follow the riders along the entire route, picking them up when they are tired and giving them snacks and much-needed food at meal times. For these cycling travelers, their accommodations are simple: most are planned well in advance. A supported tour costs a lot of money, but is an excellent way for a family or a retired couple to spend a summer vacation. PLUS, they always have a meal and a comfortable place to sleep EVERY night, a luxury that we "self-supported" cyclists don't always have.
Now to us, the "self-supported" riders of the continent. We carry everything on or behind our bikes. We have food, tents, sleeping bags, compasses, maps, cliff bars, and clothes. The weight of our bikes are sometimes 5 times that of a normal, unloaded road bike. Most of us tent camp our way across the country and when we are in regions where camping is unavailable, we find the nearest town park and pitch our tent next to playgrounds and swimming pool (we always call the police, of course!). We all take "bird baths" or simply don't bath at all. We all ride in the same clothes for days consecutive and we always are told we look "rugged" upon pulling into a town or city. Our nails are dirty, and to be honest, our arm pits smell terrible. But, we're self-supported. We're simple. And we can literally go ANYWHERE. For Jamie and I, finding a place to sleep has always been an adventure. In the western half of the United States, we camped in state and national parks. We had to put our food in bear boxes and were often located at the foot of a beautiful mountain or along a winding river that was ALWAYS infested with about one trillion mosquitoes. When we reached the plains states, we were often forced to camp in tiny towns with public parks. Many of these hamlets welcome cyclists and will often keep the parks in good order in anticipation of the summer's travelers. Most public parks have a bathroom, a pavilion, and a large amount of sprinklers (which create mid-night havoc). In the 36 nights we've been on the road, we've paid for camping about 15 times and have been able to camp for free many others. And when there are no state parks, national parks, or public parks around, we jump on our phone and look for a welcoming host. The website
www.warmshowers.org has been a lifesaver on more than 10 occasions to be exact. Warmshowers is an online portal where cyclists are able to find the names and addresses of people who open their homes to cyclists. In most of the major cities, we have been able to find at least one or two. And in each instance, the experience has been incredibly enriching. In fact, I would have to say that the generosity of complete strangers has been the most inspiring and beautiful part of our entire journey. The hosts we have stayed with are all completely different. We've stayed with widows and widowers, living alone, in mountain valleys in Montana and Washington. We've slept in barns (clean and made cyclist-friendly) on the property of gracious and generous farmers in Minnesota and Washington. We've stayed in bicycle-only hostels, where we cooked group meals. Host families have given us sweet corn, beer, baked us a dozen cookies, and told us their life stories. We've been taken to a tiny pizza joint in the mountains surrounding Libby, Montana, and we were given free access to a county fair in Dodson, Montana (population 80). And in many instances, strangers simply came up to us and gave us money: In Glacier National Park on the tram, in North Dakota in a random gas station, and in Washington state.
A comment upon the body: My body, well, OUR bodies look ridiculous. Jamie and I have the darkest and most-absurd tan lines one can imagine. We have tan lines from our riding gloves, our glasses, the straps of our helmets, and of course, our EXTREMELY tight riding shorts. My thighs and chest are still white as snow. The border line between the skin exposed to the sun and that which is comfortably shrouded under my sweaty shirt is so stark that it looks as though I have a skin disease. Also, my beard is getting a little out of control. I never thought this could happen, but I do believe even my facial hair has a form of a tan, in that the hair surrounding my lips has morphed into a beautiful shade of blonde. I kind of admire it, but it looks rather "creepy" to Jamie. My friend Laura upon seeing me for the first time since we embarked didn't seem to like it too much either. Oh well. The aches and pains of adjusting to life on the road have slowly dissipated. Jamie and I have been riding at such a comfortable pace lately that my muscles have finally relaxed. My legs are very strong and I can tell the difference when climbing hills. My arms as well are used to balancing the weight on the front of my bike. I can now ride rather comfortably with one hand on the handlebars. I've been able to maintain weight (which is indeed a worry for cross-country cyclists) and haven't lost a single pound. My appetite is still voracious and my energy is as high as ever. Onto Maine we push!!!!
Well, my time in this coffee shop seems to be running up. In my next post I will talk about race and my reflections on that. I would also like to speak about the natural environment on the plains. But until then, happy travels!
