Rain Break: Albion, Indiana

We've finally entered into Indiana. Travelling from the Upper Peninsula down to Kalamazoo was quite a ride--one that was MUCH longer than anticipated. It's a funny thing, really, for when we don't ride East, I get impatient. The 536 miles we rode South challenged my focus and drive. Knowing that we still had 1,500 miles to go until Maine kept playing over and over in my head, reminding me that my pedaling over the stubborn Michigan hills was all in vain. Or, if not in vain, at least NOT in the right direction. Thankfully, we're heading east...again.

A trip across the country endears one to many things. There are the people, of course, who offer up their stories and hospitality. There is the scenery: Rocky mountain streams that cascade down granite embankments; high plains grasses that sway in the wind, looking like gentle ocean waves. There is the wildlife: The birds, the mountain goats, big horn sheep, and sand hill cranes. All of these elements coalesce to create an environment that is exhilarating while tranquil, challenging while comforting. Yet, out of all elements, one stands alone: the bike. After 3,o00 miles, I'm still in awe of its rugged simplicity and utility. While on the trail, many bystanders ask if I've had any problems with my ride. I often tell them, much to their consternation, that I have had hardly any and that in fact, I've only had ONE flat tire. I've never had to change a battery, add oil, fill up on gas, or cool an engine. Nothing. I simply get up, load the tent on the back, repack some panniers, check my chain, and hit the road. Every 300 miles or so, I clean and lube the drive train so it doesn't gunk-up or creak, and then I'm good to ride for another 300 more. The bicycle itself has to be one of the most perfect ergonomic contraptions, as it literally becomes a part of my body when I clip my shoes into the pedals. When I sway to the left or the right, the bike comes along with me. When I lunge up a hill, with each muscle fibre at full-tilt, I can hear the strain in the grind of my cassette. The pedals transfer the energy of my legs into a highly-efficient rotating motion that can, with minimal pressure on joints, enable the body to travel at speeds of up to 25, even 35 miles per hour. It can't be beat. There are few feelings more addicting than making a sharp turn while travelling at 18 miles per hour. When it happens, I lean the bike over, descend into the bend of the curve, and feel weightless as the momentum of the rapidly rotating wheels whip me forward into the straights. It feels as if I'm in flight.