Author: admin

When I think about this bicycling adventure across the United States, I feel as though I have been on three different epic quests: a quest to see and understand the world better, an internal quest to see what I am made of, and a parenting quest.

The first quest has been the most enjoyable; experiencing the deserts, the small towns, the magnificent rivers, the wildlife and the people, all strikingly different and strikingly the same.

I have learned how the land across North America is shaped and how this land holds different ecosystems that all encompass their own worlds, pressing up against each other and mixing together along the edges. There are little connections between them of migrating animals and flowing waterways, but for the most part they are separate and distinct and change from one hour to the next as we pedal through. There is a startlingly amount of variety in life and landscape in this country.

I have also been lucky enough to interact with all manner of people within this diverse landscape and have been able to see how people seem to mimic the land around them; the leathery, tough desert dwellers, the quiet, hidden people living in the hollows between shady hills, and the expansive warmth of those in the prairies.

I have found that most everyone is kind if given the opportunity, no matter what their ideologies or lifestyles. When we have needed help it has always been there. We have had lunch paid for by strangers, rides to bike shops when our bikes have broken down, ice cold bottles of water and snacks handed to us as we cycle by, offers of lodging, money given to us and countless cheers, thumbs up and friendly honks. It has been incredible to experience this support and generosity, both at home from friends and from perfect strangers. It really, truly does fuel us.

The second quest I have been experiencing is a personal quest. This trip has been incredibly demanding physically and at times emotionally. The hills have been huge, the winds fierce, the dogs scary, and feeling as though I don’t know what the next day may hold has been exhausting. I have had to push myself farther than I ever have. I have had to fling myself into the unknown over and over. I know a lot of people have successfully completed a bike tour across America with panache, but for me it has been deeply challenging. I have also been homesick and longed for my husband, my other children, my dog and the safety and security of my own bed. I am interested to see how it shapes me. I can’t tell you now because the challenges are still coming.

The third quest has been a motherhood quest. Spending 12 weeks with my 16-year-old son in such an intense way has been a psychological trip unto itself. I am often quick to brag about his physical gifts and at the same time disparage his behavior, but today I can wholeheartedly say that I think he is amazing. What he is accomplishing is nothing short of incredible.

For 70 days he has woken up beside his mother (hard enough in itself), packed up our tent on his own, and then hit the road for 6 to 8 hours of cycling, averaging 60 miles a day and carrying more weight than his dear old ma. He has climbed all the hills, eaten all the nasty food, traversed all the windy deserts, slept on all the concrete and sodden ground, all without bailing out on me or outright refusing to go further. He has told me endless stories (specifically, every single superhero movie in detail) to entertain us both. He has encouraged me when I despaired after losing our way again and again, once even taking us 20 miles out of our way. Most people would have brained me!

Sometimes, he loses his good humor and lapses into blaming me for all wrongs, but it is always short lived, and he always comes around quickly. He even apologizes. On top of all this he has been doing schoolwork, math, writing, and reading, and he has ended every single day by putting up our tent. That is a tremendous gift, trust me.

It is a great challenge to spend this much time with any one person, and he does drive me crazy. I know that I drive him crazy, too, but in this moment of clarity, I just can’t believe that he is doing this. That we are doing this. That we seem to have found a way.

A little less than two weeks left, if all goes well. Some big mountains, big dogs, and hopefully a big finish.

Oakley’s Perspective Week: 11

This week has a list of the three craziest things that have happened on the whole trip.

Number one: First the dog update. The dogs here in Kentucky can be really scary, but if you stop your bike when they start chasing they realize that you’re a human and not a deer or something exciting to chase. We have had a few scary moments where dogs have been pretty threatening to us, but we have never been bitten or had to spray a dog with our bear spray. Today we were going through a very quiet little town when a little party of dogs showed and followed us to the edge of town like dog parade. They were barking their heads off the whole time. We have also noticed that some dogs seem neglected and abused. People put their dogs in tight. stinky kennels and leave them there or on chains all day.

Number two: A couple days ago we took a day off in Berea, Kentucky. We camped out behind a fire station and the next morning we went to a lovely café in the morning and spent the rest of the day at the library and walking around. Berea has a lovely college where it was free for students, but they have to work for their tuition by making crafts and selling them. The money does not go to students, it goes to the school because they’re paying off their tuition. Berea College is a super wealthy school, they say it’s like Harvard.

Anyway, on the morning of our departure from Berea, we heard that there was a murder and kidnapping suspect at large in the next county that we happened to be biking through. They closed all the schools. My mom did not know what to, but we figured that the man would be hiding, not wondering around seeking bikers to kill, so we went for it. It was stressful.

Number three: On the same day we were worrying about the murder suspect, we were biking down the road and I passed a trashcan that had meows coming from it. I quickly turned backed and got off my bike to look into the trashcan. Looking up at me were too stupid-cute kittens trapped in a deep metal trash can. I could not believe my eyes. The two kittens looked at me with their beautiful blue eyes and meowed. I scooped them up and showed them to my mom. We couldn’t figure out whether the people were trying to get rid of them or they just got stuck in the trashcan. It was so heartbreaking to leave the babies behind but there was nothing else we could do.

Once we passed through the Ozarks we crossed the Mississippi and came into this town called Chester, Illinois. It happens to be were Popeye was “born”. The original creator was born there and the comic is based on the area and the local people. The town was filled of statues of all the characters.

That night we stayed this shack which was supposed to be the Bike Hostel for people biking through.We were grateful for the place to stay and the showers, but the spot was more like a little closet. We didn’t know that we were passing through Illinois until we actually got there, but other than the shack we stayed in, Illinois was really beautiful . We biked through lush tree filled forests and there were little hills that were not too steep.

A couple of days ago we got mixed up and kind of lost, we could not figure out were our campground was so we asked someone for directions and they sent us down this back road that went on forever. They had told us that it was “less than a mile down that road”. Five miles later we finally came across a little town which had a festival going on that night. We parked our bikes by the Ohio River and went out to the festival and ended up having a great time.We ate a dinner of all fried food.

The next day we crossed the Ohio river into Kentucky. At first I was dreading the shear fact of even biking through there because you know…the DOG thing. I didn’t realized Kentucky could be so beautiful That night we ended up staying in this nice church hostel. The people were really friendly and they had pool tables, air hockey and ping-pong tables plus showers, laundry and a kitchen. We found out the dreadful dogs are “friendly” and if you just stop your bike they will realize that you are a human not something to chase.

Tonight, I am sitting in the basement of a Baptist church in western Kentucky. I am reclining on a couch, full bellied, cool and comfortable and tremendously thankful for their hospitality. In this moment of repose, I am trying to pare down this week’s adventures into a short blog post, but when I begin to speak about our trip it feels akin to trying to cork a whistling kettle.

I could tell you about crossing the Ozarks in Southern Missouri. How the full-body exertion required to climb those acute hills felt similar to child-birth. While climbing them, I lapsed into Lamaze breathing several times. The sweat poured down my cheeks and hung, beard-like off my chin. I begged for ice chips. I became nonverbal. I did think the Ozarks were incredibly beautiful, but I never need to do that again.

I could tell you about descending onto the Mississippi River Flood Plain after the Ozarks. How the land flattened out before us, beckoning us to come, coast along and relax along the wide, muddy river. How we rode up on levees and looked down on miles of farm fields and flooded forests filled with frogs. How we idly watched 1/4-mile long barges slowly maneuvering up and down the river. The pull to continue south with the the Mississippi proved too much, and it put us into a contented, self satisfied stupor. We rode for hours with a glorious tailwind before we realized we had missed our turn to the east by 15 miles. The ride back up the river was not as much fun.

But instead, I will tell you about last night. Oakley and I were finishing up a 74-mile day. Evening was coming and we found ourselves on a back road on the Illinois/Kentucky border (the Illinois side of the Ohio River) with no idea where to go. The campsite that was supposed to be there wasn’t. We were exhausted and losing our good humor. I began searching for a house in the hopes of asking someone if we could stay in their back yard.

From up ahead I sensed activity and decided to push on just a wee bit more. As we rounded the corner we were met by the answer to our hopes and dreams. There before us lay the small town of Rosiclare, population 350, the entirety of which were out in the street celebrating Fluorspar. What is Fluorspar you might ask? I soon discovered that it is a mineral found in many important things, including fluoride, that it’s the state mineral of Illinois, and that the town had been founded on its discovery beneath the soil many years ago. Rosiclare was once referred to as the Fluorspar Capital of the World.

There, by the side of the Ohio River, we soon forgot our aches and pains and ate fried food, lemon shake-ups, and funnel cake as we watched the town’s bike parade, pet parade, golf cart parade, and street dance party, complete with red, blue, and green spinning disco lights. The party went late into the night. Way past our bedtime.

As Oakley and I crawled into our tent and nestled into our sleeping bags in the Rosiclare city park by the side of the Ohio River, in the midst of all the other Fluorspar revelers, we both felt tired and contented. This is what our trip is all about. Who knows what will happen tomorrow.

Oaks will write his blog in the next few days…he is tired!

This week my dad flew into Wichita, Kansas to bike with us for the week. While we were biking, my mother and I were annoyed to see my dad biking very fast on his not so heavily weighted bike. He barely carried anything, and he kept acting like it was easy!

A couple of days after he had joined us, we were biking along and I (of course) crashed again from hitting the back of my mother’s bike while trying to point out a big frog on the side of the road. I ended up sprawled across the ground and my bike wound up in a ditch in the bushes on the other side of the road.

While I collected myself, my dad offered to get my bike out the bushes and trade bikes with me for the last seven miles of the ride. He could barely pull my bike out of the ditch! He complained that it weighed as much as a tank. “Tank” is my bike’s new name.

Through the week of my dad visiting, he spent the whole time going really fast because he barely had any weight on his little ten speed bike. He also only liked to go 40-50 miles a day. It was an easy week.

Now we have reached the Ozark mountains and have quickly realized that as soon as my dad leaves my mom and I are going to hit the worst of them. He is so lucky.

The Ozarks are rolling hills that are absolutely straight up and down with no switch-backs again and again. They are the worst. Hopefully, we will be out of them in four days.

We only have about four weeks left and then we are done. I can’t believe our progress and I thank my mom for all the great adventures we have been through even though there is more coming our way.

Leah’s Perspective- There are Still Some Potatoes Left

This week, as we finished biking through Eastern Kansas and began our journey into the Ozark Mountains, I fell apart, physically and emotionally. I truly believe it is because I could.

The night before my husband, Twain joined us for a week of riding was like Christmas Eve. As I lay in my bed at the Comfort Inn in Newport, Kansas waiting for him to arrive on a 10:30 pm flight I was overwhelmed with excitement.

Finally, after seven weeks, I was going to have an adult partner to share all my responsibilities, decisions and parenting with. What fun we would have! How much I had missed him! Oakley and I had rushed to get here pushing ourselves through 3 weeks of 60 mile plus day and over the Rockies and we had made it. All there was to do was lie in this cozy bed and wait.

So I waited. Happy and content and…chilled?

Finally, Twain arrived. But, as he climbed into bed and cozied up beside me, rather than feel elated, I felt something was amiss.

It must have come from a combination of feedlot nasties blowing in the wind, wearing sweat sodden clothes for weeks at a time and exhaustion, but as he gleefully announced that he was here I murmured, “We have one small problem.” in reply and felt my fever skyrocket.

This began our week together. As strong as I have been, I was that weak. Twain cooked, set up the tent, bantered with Oaks and cleaned the dishes while I sat watching the goings on like a queen. All I was in charge of was pedaling.

Kansas and Missouri cooperated with my illness and all that fierce, hot, dry wind that had been plaguing us abated. The land became soft, and green filled with cows, turtles, frogs and beautiful horses. The small towns we we traveled through provided pie, Twain only wanted to do 50 miles a day. Perfect.

This morning as Twain and I biked away from each at the Fall Festival in Fair Grove, Missouri, he to the airport and Oakley and I into the heart of the the Ozarks, tears were squirting out of my eyes. It is not that I don’t want to be doing this, it is that I had a taste of comfort and care and it made me wicked homesick.

Oakley, was trying to cheer me. “We only have less than a month left! We are going to be fine!” Home feels like a mythical place at this point, but I am going to trust Oaks and rediscover my strength. Home will be waiting.

Yesterday a long, grey haired man leaned out of his old, Chevy pick up truck and called out a warning. “There are hills coming up, and some of them are going to be severe!”

We got this.

Since Oakley and I have descended from the Rocky Mountains we have been drowning in wind. It has been in the mid 90’s everyday, and the wind has been blowing a sustained 20 or more knots with gusts up to 50.

It has been hard to catch our breath as we slog across the plains. Dirt and dust blow up from the overcultivated fields and feed lots, and a haze of yellow grit has formed over the land, reducing visibility.

This grit burns our eyes, gets in our ears, parches our throats and covers our skin with a coat of grime. I have a sneaking suspicion that it is heavily laden with pesticides.

Our tent shudders and flaps in the wind all night long and does not lend itself to a solid night’s sleep. We have been sleeping in city parks every night in towns that feel ghostly because everyone else is hiding inside.

Oakley looks like he has a drug problem. His eyes have become squinty and red, and he refuses to wear his sunglasses. His bottom lip is split and swollen, and he is refusing to wear sunscreen on it. Why, you might ask? Because I asked him to. This brings me to my second vexation about the wind. It gets inside you. It tunnels in your ears and up your nose and wreaks havoc on your brain and your spirit.

Everyday that the wind blows, Oakley and I get a little more on each other’s nerves. I am annoying. I speak annoyingly, chew annoyingly and, according to Oakley, I have suddenly become deaf. Oakley is also annoying. He talks too much, steps on the tent and has bad manners. He is 100% 16 years old, which is annoying unto itself. I know this is just the wind working its wicked ways and, luckily, Oakley knows it too.

In many ways this is a more difficult challenge than the passes we have ascended. This is grueling, solitary, lacks glory and is boring. But, when I look up and see Oaks slowly, but methodically, plugging along through the wind and heat, alone in his thoughts hour after hour because the wind makes it too hard to talk, I am sure there is good in this stage, that this too is important.

We have taken to retreating to town libraries every afternoon and reading for hours. We fantasize about ice tea constantly. We seek out mom and pop movie theaters, and we go for walks when the evenings cool. And at least once a day we forgive each other for our snappy behavior and acknowledge that we are in this together.

The wind is supposed to quiet tomorrow, and I am hoping to be able to look out upon these beautiful plains without squinting. To absorb the incredibly wide expanse of land that is far larger and flatter than I have ever comprehended before.

Yesterday, I overheard a local woman in Scott City, Kansas, say as she blew into the library, “If there is one woman in Kansas who doesn’t use hairspray, I don’t know her! It is the only way to survive!” Maybe if the wind doesn’t die down we will try that next. It can’t hurt.

Post script- The wind has died down. Kansas is lovely after all.

Oakley’s Perspective-Week 8

This week we have been biking though the high plains of Colorado and Kansas. The landscape has gone from dry to really humid and we are surrounded by four kinds of crops, corn, milo (which is for feeding cows), soy beans and sunflowers. A day or two ago we passed by a bunch of feeding yards with tons and tons of cattle. The feeding yards are not the beautiful thing about Kansas.

When we were getting close to Alexander, Kansas, I got another flat. We stopped at a little rest area and tried to replace it when we realized that all of our spare tubes were popped (new out of the box), and we had to stay the night at the little rest area just off the highway. The next morning we had to hitch hike to the nearest big town to get my bike fixed. It turns out that my bike had a lot of problems. The sprocket was loose, one wheel was untrue, a brake pad was falling off and the gear shift cable was breaking. It was lucky I had that flat.

As soon as we passed this point in Kansas the landscape change for the hundredth time. It was the same corn, milo, soybeans and sunflowers except it was a lot greener and not dry.

We had gone off route to get the town with the bike shop, and we had to get back on route. This took a while. We took a long, back country road called Rattlesnake Alley. It is 58 miles long with no houses or shops. We ran out of water on the way. I was miserable. Finally, we came to a house, and we asked the nice people if they could give us some water. They gave us six bottles of ice cold water that they save for bikers.

When we got to a town that night we were exhausted and fell into our hot sweaty sleeping bags, which, I have to say, is not the most pleasant thing at all.

We have made the halfway mark of our adventure. We have ridden 2,100 miles (half of our total 4,200) in six weeks (half our intended 12). We have crossed the highest point in the Rockies (Hoosier Pass at 11,539 feet) and have now descended onto the flats of Colorado and western Kansas. We also did some math yesterday and figured out that we have climbed over 43,000 feet in elevation.

The truth is, I am amazed at our progress. This is hard. Our bodies are becoming machines, and food has truly become fuel, with no fuss. You should see the things we eat! Convenience-store living at its best–nothing highbrow about it. If it is going to fill the void within us and give our muscles and attitudes something to work with, it is going in.

We bike until we are exhausted and feel that there is no way we can continue beyond the next bend, and then we turn around it and meet a headwind that will stay against us for the next 10 miles, and you know what? We do it. Of course we do. And then we sleep. Just about anywhere. City parks, campgrounds under streetlights, with trains rushing past. We pay no mind, because sleep is like fuel, and we just take it. We have both found that we have more inside us than we see thought.

The challenges have only been partly physical. We have dealt with many mechanical issues and find ourselves working on some busted part of our bicycles nearly daily. This has made us come eye to eye with how we handle frustration. Oakley and I have had many conversations that begin, “Is this attitude helpful?” There is a lot of learning going on and truthfully, Oakley has become much more in control of his emotions then he ever has ever been before.

There have also been lessons concerning anxiety and living in the moment. If we look at the entirety of this trip, let alone what we may face in the next two days, it can seem pretty overwhelming. Chasing dogs, headwinds, tall passes, lack of services, busy highways, rain, and on and on. It can make us forget the joy of the pass we are whooshing down or the beauty of the evening sky as we sit by our tent. We have both learned that now is not worth sabotaging for the fear of later. Oakley helps me with this, and he often chastises me when I worry about what is to come.

After crossing Hoosier Pass and feeling mighty high in our socks, we were caught off guard by the beauty of the mountains — our confidence and our exhaustion — and we had our first near miss. I will not go into it, because I am sure Oakley will in his blog post. This trip is not foolproof, and it is dangerous. We were both very scared.

When we recovered, we continued biking against a head wind for quite a while, still shaken and emotionally wrought. When we finally arrived at our designated campsite for the evening, a state park in Pueblo, Colorado, we were turned away. The next site was 10 miles away. It was the lowest we have felt.

I called my husband Twain to seek adult counsel, and he was fairly horrified about what our day had entailed. He said, “You can come home, you know…. You don’t have to do this… You guys have done enough….” I was shocked. Quitting hadn’t occurred to me. Later, I mentioned it to Oakley.

“Papa mentioned that we could quit if we wanted.” Oakley’s forehead wrinkled and he looked at me like I was out of my mind.

“We aren’t doing that!” he responded. “Papa’s crazy.”

So on that note, I would have to say that this trip is perfect. Sometimes it feels magical, and sometimes it feels grueling. We are both aware that we would never see the beautiful places we have seen; the tiny mountain towns; the clear tumbling streams; the bison and elk roaming the wilds; and the kind people, if we didn’t cart ourselves up these passes on our bikes. Equally important is the understanding that Oakley and I have that and we wouldn’t be learning these lessons if it was easy. We are so lucky.

Oakley’s Perspective: Highs and Lows

Ok, so my mom probably has told you guys about this, but on Friday the 13th I believe I almost died. We were biking down a fairly busy road when an overly loaded truck came up behind us. My mom saw the big truck and called to me, “Stopping!” so we could get out of the way, but she was not loud enough for me to hear. I had turned my head to look at what was hulking behind me. When I turned my head back around I crashed into my mom’s slowing bike and tumbled right in front of that giant over-loaded truck. THAT, my friend, was the scariest moment in my LIFE.

Anyway, now for the high. My high is getting out of the Rockies. We did our last huge pass a couple days ago right outside Breckenridge, Colorado, the pass was really hard, but it was worth it.

We are halfway done with this trip. In no time we will be across Kansas, and then into Missouri and Kentucky, which I’m not excited about at all. Kentucky dogs, here I come. I feel really happy that we have gotten this far, and I know that there is no turning back now that we have made such good progress.

It is twilight, and I am walking through the Wyoming desert alone. Oakley has chosen to stay behind and read his book. He is exhausted after another 65-mile day biking. Today we traveled through the Wind River Reservation to Jeffrey City in southwest Wyoming. I just feel the need to stretch my legs before calling it a night.

It is funny that Jeffrey City calls itself a city. It is a cluster of beaten up trailers, a rock shop, a gas pump, and a tiny motel, with us the only guests. Usually, the towns in this area are centered around a river or some sort of moisture that creates a green oasis, but not this one. There is no water here and no trees, just miles of sagebrush, dry prairie grass, and rocky promontories.

Through the encroaching darkness, a few miles away from this small cluster of buildings, deep in the vast desert dusk, I can see the distant glow from the light in a lone trailer, nestled under a rocky outcropping. What are they doing out there? I wonder. It is incredibly isolated. It must be lonely. What a different life from mine.

The wind seems to blow continually in this area, and, while biking, this is a huge nuisance. Tonight, though, as my hair whips around my face, I welcome it. It is cool and soothing. I stroll down a sandy road that seems to lead nowhere. The sand under my flip-flops pillows my feet.

After Oakley’s constant chatter, I embrace this moment of solitude. The quiet is a balm to a day that was filled with intensity: sweat, sun, wind, Oakley’s many moods, trucks whizzing by. I breathe in the silence.

It wants to rain, and the clouds filling the sky are dropping their loads only to have them evaporate before the rain reaches the ground. Huge curtains of rain cover the sky above me, but only a few drops make it down and tingle on my cheeks.

The air is heady with the smell of sage, and it seems as though the leaves of the plants are releasing all their fragrance in hopes that it will entice the rain to try a little harder to reach them.

Along the side the road, there is a herd of antelope. The males are standing proudly with their tall, black pronged antlers, looking at me quizzically and sizing up whether I am a threat or not. The females stand close by their young, also watching, some springing away as I approach, showing me their fluffy white behinds that seem to glow in the darkening night.

A fox runs across the road 10 feet in front of me. His eyes catch mine for an instant, and then he is gone.

It has become truly dark, and I should head back. Oakley will worry. Before I turn around, I peer once more out at the trailer set against the rocks so far from this little town. Someone is in there. They live here and can experience this every night. I think I do understand what they are doing out here.

As I walk back, I am filled with a deep calm and a longing to have more of this in my life. The next day we will be hammered by a swirling sand storm, winds gusting to over 60 mph, crushed by traffic on Interstate Route 80. Road construction will close the shoulder and force us to ride shoulder to shoulder with semis barreling along at 75 or 80 mph. This night, though, in this hardscrabble town, there is momentary peace in our lives, the kindness of a solitary motel keeper, and the comfort of a puzzled herd of antelope.

Oakley’s Perspective: Best Day Off: Week 6

Today we took a day off in Saratoga, Wyoming. Yesterday was so stressful because of high winds and because my front wheel fell off. I wasn’t hurt, but we had to hitchhike to the nearest town for repairs. Once back on the road, we were hit by a powerful sandstorm while we were biking on the highway.

Saratoga is a cool town, though, and we went to the community gym to find people to hang out with. I met a boy named Seven. He asked if I could ride dirt bikes and ATV’s at his house, and in a moment of weakness, my mother said yes.

First we went to his house. We rode his ATV all over the hills of Saratoga, doing jumps and drifts and tearing it up. Then we had to check-in with my mom. We met her at a river that is fed with hot springs and has little rocky pools on the sides. We floated down the river and into the pools. One was 118 degrees!

My mom let us disappear again so we did. We went back to Seven’s house, and while I was making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich I looked down and a four-foot lizard was at my feet! (An iguana.) In his backyard was also a cage full of 10 two-week-old kittens. Seven locked me in with them!

After that he took me to his grandfather’s house where his dirt bikes are. His grandfather looks just like Gus McCrae from Lonesome Dove. We rode dirt bikes everywhere. They are not hard to figure out.

I asked Seven to get my gloves out of my bike bag, and he accidentally set off my canister of bear spray. That was exciting.

Before I left to go back to our campsite, Seven’s father came home from hunting. I was standing in the front yard, and he got out of his truck with a rifle. “Get out of my yard!” He shouted. Then he smiled. He was joking.

It was the best day off ever.

It has become too difficult to try and sum up all our experiences as my son Oakley and I bike across America, in a weekly five-paragraph blog. Every day is so rich with beauty, learning, and drama that it seems an injustice to shrink it down to a bite-sized chunk, but here are some observations, from where we sit at a campground on the shores of Jackson Lake in the Grand Tetons of Wyoming:

I have cried three times. Once when Oakley and I were finishing up a 68-mile day in the hot desert sun and my spokes broke. It was the second time this had happened, and my frustration got the best of me. We were 20 miles from the nearest town, and I was out of ideas and felt short on gumption. “What are we going to do, Oakley?” I asked sitting on a guardrail, my head in my hands, sweat running down my chin.

“Send me home?” He responded, equally worn out. And the tears came. I swallowed hard and decided to ignore him and stick out my thumb.

A logger picked us up. He drove us to a bike store in Hamilton, Montana, and reminded us all, apropos of nothing, that we are choosing the life we live every day. That we were lucky and made a good team. “You could catch a flight home today if you wanted,” he said. “But you’re here because you want to be here.” We both acknowledged the truth in this, and Oakley later apologized. It was the first time he has been able to say he is choosing this. It is not because I am making him but, rather, a challenge of his choosing.

The second time I cried was because I got two flat tires in an afternoon. (There seems to be a pattern here.) The first we changed, and then due to an unseen malfunction (later discovered as a metal burr chafing against the valve stem) it popped again. We were out of spares. This time an elderly rancher picked us up. We told him about our misfortune, and he responded that his dog was just hit and killed by a truck that very morning.

The third time I cried it was because I was homesick for the rest of my family. I was longing for a hug. I was longing to give a hug, and I was tired. I am human.

There have been many more times that I have been awestruck. A few stand out. The first was the day we rode through Big Hole into Wisdom, Montana. As we descended into the town, miles and miles of sagebrush of a color that can only be described as greenish-purplish-blue spread out before us, under the biggest sky I have ever seen. And there, 50 miles from any other town, was Wisdom.

It was comprised of maybe 10 buildings with a population of 91. We sidled up to a little cafe to see about some dinner, and as we ate (handmade, wood-fired pizzas, not pulled from a freezer) were joined by half the town, congregating to talk about the day. A little dog walked in through the cafe’s open door and peed on the floor. Everyone just laughed about the establishment’s open-door policy. Later, walking back at twilight to the town park where we could camp for free, we listened to coyotes yodeling and cows lowing as they bedded down under the star-filled night. I could live in Wisdom.

The second moment came when we descended out of Yellowstone into the Grand Tetons. The Teton mountains rise up majestically. They still wear skirts of snow and their jagged peaks hold court over beautiful Jackson Lake. Oakley commented that the scene reminded him of a screen saver for a computer. That is high praise from a teenager.

The third occurs nightly as I look up into the sky. Montana and Wyoming have more stars than I have ever seen. The truth is, it scares me. It reminds me how small we are, how insignificant. I feel like I could fall off sometimes. Oakley says he feels the same way. As we work our way across the country, the vastness of the stars seems to remind us of our vulnerability. This isn’t necessarily a bad thing. It is humbling. It help us remember how much we need each other, how we have become each other’s home no matter where we lie.

Oakley’s Perspective- Things to Fear-Week 5

In Yellowstone National Park we were told that the bears were really bad this year. The ranger said it would be the best idea to buy bear spray, which is a really strong version of pepper spray, since people have died from getting attacked by bears. If encountered by a “big ole griz” we should spray it. In case y’all don‘t know, Bear is my middle name, and I’m not scared of a grizzly. Actually, I’m terrified.

Other people have told us all kinds of other things to worry about. We should be careful of bison and moose. I have never heard of anyone being attacked by a moose. We were told to be aware of rattlesnakes. We have been told about hail being the size of grapefruits, lightning storms and 40 mph headwinds.

The landscapes that we have passed are amazing. Today we entered the Grand Tetons, and the view is something you would use for a background for a computer screen. We have passed through tiny towns (like Wisdom, which was our favorite) and Virginia City (an old gold mining town). I can imagine my life if I lived there. It might be cool.

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Okay, so maybe that is a gross exaggeration, but we have had our challenges and have not been defeated yet! Oakley, my 16-year-old son, and I have now completed 1,000 miles (out of about 4,200) of our bicycle tour across America. We started in Astoria, Oregon, and have now reached Missoula, Montana, where we will enjoy a much needed day off.

Every day we have encountered new and exciting adventures that have tested us in myriad ways and rewarded us with beautiful sights, interesting people, and growing strength. It has become a running joke between Oakley and me that we have not yet come upon a Cyclops or the Land of the Lotus Eaters, but we know they are out here and we won’t be surprised. They would fit right in.

We have averaged between 40 to 70 miles a day, depending primarily on vertical feet climbed and weather. We have encountered 100-degree-plus temperatures in the Idaho deserts that have stopped us in our tracks due to heat exhaustion, as well as cold, pouring rain and low cloud cover on mountain passes that have stopped us because of the low visibility…okay, and low morale.

We have developed a fear of trucks that is similar to that found in a predator/prey relationship. I have nothing against truckers, and I firmly believe that no one is really trying to kill us, but when we hear a trucker bearing down on us from behind, and I am screaming to Oaks to get out of the road, or to pedal harder to get to the safety of the other side of a tight spot, it feels very similar to what I imagine fleeing with young from a pterodactyl might feel like.

We have had our first crash, of which I have previously written and from which I am still healing. We have ridden 20 miles on a bike with four spokes missing (That was slow and wobbly.) We have eaten a great deal of peanut butter and tortillas (“peanut butter tacos”). We have been passed by 900 Corvettes on a winding mountain pass heading to a convention in Kentucky. We have camped for free in city parks under sprinklers that automatically turn on at 2:00 am. We have swum in three hot springs-fed swimming pools. And we have encountered endless incredible people and places.

One day this week, we spent the night in White Bird, Idaho, population 91. It was 99 degrees, and the next feature on our journey was a 4,500-foot desert pass. No thank you. We stumbled into a bar called the Silver Dollar Cafe to get a little sustenance, as it was the only establishment in town, and we needed our spirits lifted by something more than peanut butter.

As I opened the door to this tavern, five patrons turned in their seats and squinted at the light and heat coming in from behind us. It was dark and smoky and definitely not a family establishment. There Oakley and I stood in our tight biking shorts and neon yellow shirts and whistles (to warn against pterodactyls). There was a very pregnant pause.

“How old is that kid?” asked the tired-eyed bartender.

“16. We just want something to eat.”

“He can’t be in here.”

We turned to leave, shoulders slumped envisioning our unappealing peanut butter tacos and the hot night, feeling and looking bereft, when a question beckoned us back.

Haltingly, the bartender asked, “Do you like meat lovers pizza ?” Anybody who knows me knows that I am a die–hard vegetarian and have not eaten meat since I was 12. I have also raised my children as vegetarians. I hesitated. Oakley looked at me with a pleading expression.

“We do mom, just this once, we do.”

“Do you have plain cheese?” I stammered.

“What?” Asked the bartender. Oakley’s whole body begged. He is so skinny. We had been working so hard. It was so hot and our options seemed even more unpalatable.

“Yes, we do.”I responded. I could feel a jolt of electricity run through Oaks.

“We could hide you in the back room if you want, and I could heat you up a Tony’s Frozen Pizza in the toaster oven.”

“That would be great.” I responded. We dutifully followed that kind man to a storage room of sorts and waited quietly for 20 minutes. Glad just to be out of the sun.

When the pizza was ready the man brought it to us with a flourish. He had a pronounced limp and shaggy black hair that he swept to the side as he placed it on the small table before us. “I put some extra cheese on it for you since you didn’t seem big on the meat idea.”

We devoured it. Then we ordered another. He charged us 5 dollars a pizza. We were so content. (I picked off the sausages and pepperoni and give them to Oakley, though.)

Tonight as I lie in this cozy bed in the Shady Spruce Hostel, loving the crispness of the sheets, I am struck by the craziness of this adventure. All the unknowns, all the unpredictables, all the elements and characters of our saga which continually unfold as we bike along. What comes next? It will be something we never dreamed of, I am sure.

Oakley’s Perspective

It is week four and personally, I think we have completed the hardest of our trip. We have ridden over huge passes and gone over never ending hills. We have been camping in town parks under sprinklers that turn on in the middle of the night and drive you crazy .

A couple days ago we stayed in a little desert town called White Bird. It was the real Wild West. We got up early before the sun was up and set out to climb the deadly White Bird pass. It was 13 miles of straight up switch backs. I think we are getting pretty strong.

On the way up we saw coyotes and deer prowling the plains spread out below us. Once we got over the pass, the whole landscape changed from dry desert to farm lands. That seems to happen every time we cross a pass.

Yesterday, we had long and gradual climb up the Lolo pass to get to Missoula. On the way over we hit one thousand miles. We are making really good progress. In a week we will be in Yellowstone. I can’t believe we have finished 1\4 of this trip.

Lord God, is it hot. Since leaving McKenzie Pass of the Cascades and the coast of western Oregon behind, Oakley and I have bicycled deeper and deeper into the high desert of Oregon and Idaho. We have been riding for 16 days, averaging about 50 miles a day and have covered over 700 total. This week has taught us a lot. Here are some of the key points:

1) Nobody likes anyone when biking up passes over 4,000 feet when there is no shade, it is over 90 degrees, and it is the end of a long day. This is not a character flaw. It is normal.

2) Desert sunrises are the most beautiful in the world. And the most silent.

3) One should not race down the far side of a pass with so much glee that one doesn’t notice the gravel on a curve when traveling 24 miles an hour. One will crash. It will hurt.

4) Oakley is wonderful in a crisis. He will bring you gauze and Neosporin and offer you sympathy and support. He will also not let you forget — ever — that you dropped the “F” bomb repeatedly. He will gain much pleasure from it.

5) There is nothing sweeter than descending into a place called “Hell’s Canyon,” full of worry about the forecasted 110-degree temperatures, and the certainty of heatstroke and finding, instead, an oasis of green and cool on the banks of the Snake River. One with swimming holes, soft grass, deep shade and all the smart people living in the area enjoying long respite from the canyon’s unrelenting, simmering August heat.

6) The space in the sky and the land of the desert is humbling in its size. It can cause vertigo.

7) Bushes seem to grow from rocks. Turkeys jog down highways, high stepping to keep their feet cool. Coyotes chortling at night will command your full attention. Hawks make a cry that is just like in the movies. Life can happen anywhere.

8) Bodies do get stronger every day. It is amazing to watch it happen to skinny, 16-year-olds and chubby 50-year olds.

9) Skinny, 16-year-olds biking over passes in the desert need more food than one can imagine. Food becomes the focus of every hour, every day. All rules about junk food and soda need to end.

10) We are entirely capable of this and make a good team .

Oakley’s Perspective-Week 3

This week we were in what I call HELL. That is actually also what the name of the area is. We went up and over passes that were straight up and all switch backs. One day, we were going down a pass and we were turning onto a gravel road and my mom bit it, HARD, and there was blood, like, a LOT of blood. She is okay now, though.

Yesterday, we went through a place called Hell’s Canyon. We started on one side of the Oregon border, up above the canyon in Baker City. We woke up at 5:30 in the morning and had to cross the border into Idaho, because we had to get across before the sun got too hot. The border is the Snake River, and it can get up to 110 degrees this time of year. The day was so hot when we were there, it is no wonder it is called Hell’s Canyon. By the time we climbed up and out of it, we were exhausted. Luckily there was a town (Cambridge, Idaho) with a campground that had natural hot springs and a pool.

Today was not that bad of a day. My mom let us we sleep in for once, but that made it a very slow day. The ride was a gradual UP, UP, UP, 48 miles of UP. You have no idea how sick of hills and mountains we are. It’s crazy. We call them all “hells” instead of hills. Tomorrow we are going to climb a hill or pass called White Bird. It is crazy huge. My mom misread it and thought it was called White Fang because she was so scared of it. I hope there are not more accidents, and I hope there are no more hills (after the Rockies, of course).