Bikemum

Fields of wildflowers opened up on the sides of the road as we cycled by. Cornflowers, Queen Anne’s Lace, Indian Paint Brushes, Buttercups and Pink Clover all swayed in the breeze. Zippy, pert yellow birds darted ahead of us allowing us to give them chase.
We spent the day slipping between raindrops and sneaking under heavily laden clouds, that created a striking contrast to the colorful flowers and birds. When the heck did I get so corny? I must be getting old, but if this is what happens it is not so bad.

Or, it maybe because I am exhausted. We cycled 67 miles today, over rolling hills, around Burlington, Vermont and all the way to the Grand Isle State Park located on one of the islands in the middle of Lake Champlain. It was quite a ride.

Our appetites have kicked in and both of us are eating like bull dozers. We started The morning with an apple-pancake scrambled mash that never quite cooked, ( I think you can’t add hot water to pancake mix) Finding that wholely unsatisfying, we then stopped for custard-filled cinnamon buns and huge breakfast sandwiches on farmer buns. Then came ice cream. Oakley added 2 granola bars and a snickers bar and a coke, as well as, some chocolate covered pretzels. Now we are preparing beans and rice for dinner. The hunger we feel is vast. What a treat to eat with such reckless abandon.

Last week a client of mine and I were discussing her feelings of anxiety. She said she had come to terms with it recently, and almost felt grateful. “If it were not for my anxiety, I would not get to feel brave everyday.” It made her anxiety seem more like her superpower than her liability.

I think Oakley is my super power. Without all his crazy antics and restless energy, and even his misbehavior, I might not have an excuse to be out here. I am so grateful that I do. He is the best excuse ever. Now time to eat…again.

Vermont seems to have taken this adage to heart. Everything here seems to be a celebration of smallness. The towns pivot around independent general stores with hand-crafted signs and creaky floors. Many of the homes have tidy, family sized gardens. The farms are not industrial in size and the fields of corn, hay and wheat, fit easily between wooded streams, not forcing the land to do their bidding, but rather working with it. Many of the dairys have 10 cows or less. There are no billboards, few chain stores and the towns can easily be thought of as villages or hamlets without irony. Even the hills are small. The Green Mountains don’t pretend to be jagged and fierce, they just gently ripple.

(Okay, maybe Middlebury Gap missed the memo on the beauty of smallness with it’s shocking 12 to 15 % grade! That was a doozy!)

Yes, Vermont is lovely. The people are kind and all seem to somehow smile through their face masks. It is rubbing off on Oakley, who has been a shining star of a traveling partner. He is down right joyful and tonight made us dinner AND set up the tent. When I grumbled today about the heat and the hills it was Oakley that said, “Stop complaining. This is beautiful.”

Now, we sit by the side of Lake Champlain, planning our ride up through the chain of islands known as the Grand Isle, to the Canadian border. He is an incredible traveling partner; he will eat anything, is as strong as an ox, deals with druggery, and is a goof ball.

Short and simple tonight, maybe Vermont is rubbing off on me too.

Last night, Oakley and I hunkered inside our tent as lightening and thunder rolled over our heads. We tried to read, but the lightening was too distracting. We tried to play Uno, but it couldn’t hold our attention. So, we just lay on our sleeping mats, side by side trying not to clutch each other, because when you are 17, that would be embarrassing. Okay, I did clutch him ice or twice…

When we woke this morning, a soupy fog greeted us. Everything was wet; the grass, our shoes, the tent. We quickly ate banana pancakes and slurped down some coffee with hot chocolate. It was too wet to even sit down. Oakley wrangled the sloppy tent into it’s stuff sack without complaint, I sponged our the dishes under a nearby hose and we were off. It was as if we had done this 100 times before.

There was no time to waste anyway, because we had a 62-mile day to do to get us to Emma’s Vintage Trailers and tenting. It was the closest camping area and sounded pretty cool to boot.

Vermonters may not want to admit it, but their state actually has quiet a bit in common with Western Virginia and Kentucky; the hills, the hollows, the farms, the little country stores, the kind people. Both Oakley and I were struck by this as we sweated and grunted along and the fog was replaced by thick heat, also reminiscent.

Midway through the day, I called Emma’s Vintage trailers to make a reservation.
“I am sorry, but we are closed this summer.” said a sweet sounding woman on the other end of the phone.

“Even just for a tent?” I begged, as there was nowhere else to go.

“Sorry ma’am, we just can’t and there is nothing else I know of that is open either. Wish I could help more.”

I turned to Oakley expecting to see upset on his face, but there was nothing. “We will find something.”, he said. And that was that. No stress, no worry, no plan.

On we biked chattering about this and that when a car pulled into a driveway ahead of us. A woman from Sweden hopped out. Mask to mask we shouted a conversation. She too had biked across the country with her husband and we swapped tales enthusiastically.

I asked her if she knew of anywhere to stay in the coming miles and she said no, but to ask in the bike store in the town of Rochester, 13 miles farther along.

By the time Oakley and I arrived at the bike store, we were beat and had been eyeing farm fields and river banks where we might crash for the night. We masked up and entered the store. Standing behind the counter was a man wearing black shorts and short-sleeved T-shirt, wrap around sunglasses, a black face mask and was covered with tattoos from head to foot.

We told him of our plight and he immediately sprung into action.
“You could stay in the city park next door. It would be good if that thing got used. Or down the road a bit under the bridge. Or maybe even behind the store.”

“That sounds great,” I said, knowing Oakley would be psyched to call it a day, “but are we allowed?”

With that he reached into his wallet and flashed me a metal badge. It was a ring with a gold star in the middle. “Sure, I am the town constable, I don’t see why not.”

And this is why Oakley didn’t become anxious when our plans were changed. He knew that something would work out. We have learned again and again how kindness will save us.

Yes, I am naive. Yes, I am privileged. Yes, I might not always be so lucky. But the kindness we have experienced so often, gives me hope that humans can be pretty okay.

The dust from the dirt road that we trudge up, clouds around our ankles rising nearly to our knees. It is hot and dry. We had left the bike route to walk what we thought was a short jaunt, down to the Connecticut River to wiggle our toes in its waters, but the hike was far longer than I anticipated and now, I was having the pleasure of hearing all about it.

“Mom, you are crazy. You are always looking for perfect. There is no perfect. We should have stopped here on the route. I don’t want to dilly-dally! Now we are even hotter and we wasted our time.”

I had thought it was a beautiful walk, a stroll down a dirt country lane, lined with 8-foot-high corn stalks that stretched as far as the eye could see, ending at a boat ramp where I did indeed dabble my toes in the cool water, but Oaks was having none of it and was voicing it quite clearly.

His voice and the hill crescendoed at the same moment and just as we reached the top where we had stashed our bikes, I heard a mild voice weave it’s way through Oakley’s. I turned to find it’s source and standing on the front steps of a lovely farm house, replete with a long, wide front porch, swing, and hanging flower baskets, stood an older woman with white hair in a droopy bun and a welcoming smile.
“Would you to like some ice water?”, she called.
“Sure,” we called back, “that would be great!” We hustled on over to her shaded yard with the greenest of grasses and a huge Oak tree that offered us much needed shade and she handed us two frosty waters.

As we spoke of the heat and biking, flowers and corn I couldn’t help but notice her feet. She was wearing fresh, white ankle socks and no shoes. Here surrounded by all this dirt and dust, she had pristine feet. They glowed with freshness and purIty. I looked at ours by comparison and wondered if either of us would ever have a life that had room for socks that could stay white. I somehow doubted we had what it took.

Today started with climbing up and over Franconia notch, the last beautiful and punishing look we will have of the White Mountains. As we slipped down onto it’s western flanks, thick forest and jagged rocks gave way to rolling farm land.

We cycled along ridges and looked down across valleys of corn and hay, to hazy mountains in the distance. Tiger Lily’s, Golden Rod, Queen Anne’s Lace and Asters clung to the side of the roads and fields. We passed old farmhouses, barns and stables as the road gentled.

Now, after 55 miles, we have crossed the Connecticut River into Vermont. We are exhausted, but have just sucked down a can each of peaches packed in heavy syrup, pulling out the wedges with sticky fingers and drinking the juice. Normally, I would think of this as diabetes in a can, but today, I think it is just the thing to revive us, like Stanley Yelnats in the book “Holes”.

We passed another cyclist going cross-country about an hour ago. He has just started his journey. He was walking his bike up the hills. We really should have given him one of our cans.

To our reader-please note that reception is scarce in these parts. I am writing on my phone with my thumbs, while Oakley paces around me, waiting for me to finish. My editing is non-existent and my photos won’t download. Thank you for reading none-the-less!

An Anaconda and the Kancamagus Highway are more alike than you think. I thought about this a lot today, as we sweated up a 2,500 foot pass on untried legs.

Both wind to and fro in the most discomforting manner. Both are beasts that are at once majestic and horrifying. They seem to go on and on, longer than anything ought. Both seem set on one’s demise, not caring that their victim struggles and gasps. Both are beautiful. Both have a hard C in the middle of their name. And luckily, both have a beginning and an end.

For Oakley and I, the beginning started with instant oatmeal, seasoned with fresh, Maine, low-bush blueberries that surrounded our campsite. We awoke early because we had no fly on our tent and the early morning sky does not stand for slug-a-beds.

The middle of the day was filled with mountains and forests in thick carpets that spread from horizon to horizon. Above them spread a startlingly blue sky with towering Cumulous clouds that fought to give us a break from intense sun. Yes, it was hard, but Oakley reports that we are stronger than last year and I think he is right. We pedaled for 54 miles and were cheered on by various passerbyers, from motorcycles, cars, RVs, hawking tourists and fellow bikers. Nothing boosts you up a hill like that.

And then it was over. Here we sit by another beautiful river, the East Pemigewasset. We have swam and now feel loose and relaxed. This river is not sandy like the Saco, but rather coated with stones ranging from egg size to elephant size. They are graphite,pink, lavender, burnt-orange and blue. The big ones and great for plunging from, the littles for rolling in your palm.

This morning, bright and early, Oakley and I boarded the ferry, leaving our Peaks Island home and headed west. We will bicycle through the mountains of Maine, New Hampshire, Vermont and New York and then circle Lake Champlain, right up to the Canadian border.The total should be around 450 miles.

As we headed out, I felt both excitement and pre-expedition jitters. Our last trip went so well that I feel a bit like we are tempting fate. I expressed my concerns to Oakley, but he would hear none of it.

“Oakley, there are going to be some huge hills. Did you see the elevation graph that shows the Kancamagus Highway? We are going right up and over the White Mountains.”

“Mom, you know nothing is ever as bad as you think it is going to be.”

“Oakley, I’m nervous, are you?”

“Mom, we will be back in 10 days. That is nothing. “

“Oakley, it is supposed to be in the 90’s all week!”

“Mom, we will be fine.”

This time, Oakley is excited to go on our trip. He would never tell you that, because he a 17-year-old boy, complete with a diamond stud earring, silver chain around his neck and floppy Covid-hair that shields his eyes like a permanent visor, designed to hide all emotion, but it is true. This is his idea. He is excited for the adventure, a break from the confines of Covid and something else. Hopefully, we will figure out what.

As we peddle away from Portland, Oakley settles in behind me. The shoulders of the roads slowly transform from narrow margins of trash and car parts to clear and wide banners that beckon us to follow them away from schedules, bickering and stress that have been chafing us both.

“If you want to go in front of me you can Oaks.”

“No, I am feeling really peaceful back here.”

These words are like nectar , a sweet delicious balm. We ride in silence.

After some time we begin to smell lake water wafting through the trees and see glimmers of blue water peeking through. The air is humid and thick and we are covered in sweat and grime. Both of us focus on our legs pushing up and down and our breath, rythmic and hard like primed bellows. We stop at a farm stand for lunch. We beg at a garden store for water. Memories from our last trip burble up and we laugh when we have air to speak again.

And now we are here. I am sitting on the side of the Saco river, drying after our dip in its cool tannin-colored waters that has made the sweat and grime nearly worth it.

Oaks has decided that he is not finished biking yet, and has rented a six-dollar-an-hour peddle car to explore our surrounding environs. Before he ran off to further exhaust himself, I called “Tomorrow will be big. Don’t over do it. We go over the Whites.”

“Don’t fret mom. You always fret. Live in the moment!” And he was grinning.

So I will. It is beautiful here and we are incredibly lucky. Tonight we will eat way too much macaroni, because we can. We will read out loud and listen to the waters sliding by. Oakley has left his phone at home. We will sleep under the stars. What could be better?

For those of you needing to stay at home during this difficult time, I invite you to come with us and read our story over the next 10 days. It will be true.

• 

There are caves along the side of the Ohio river near Rosiclaire, Illinois that penetrate the sandstone bluffs for over 100 yards. They have wide mouths and tapering long tunnels that open up into ball room-sized cathedrals with vaulted ceilings and wide flat floors. Bank robbers and pirates used to hide out in them, I am sure. We could picture them with stashes of gold and banknotes, counting and calculating their next heists, peering out through the dark, cool hideouts to the bright, swiftly moving current of the Ohio River, waiting for the next ship, or barge to slip unsuspectingly into view. I often have a way of making everything seem more romantic especially the past.

Oakley and I spent an afternoon in the caves before passing into Kentucky. We didn’t find any hidden treasure except for the caves themselves, but none-the-less felt wealthier from the experience. It has been eleven months since our bicycle ride across the United States and every day I work to keep our experiences alive.

I have just finished writing a book called Cycle Back. It is about our cycling adventure as well as what it has been like to navigate life with a wild, impulsive, joyful son that has not always been able to fit in with mainstream society. He has taken me on a journey far further than just our three-month bike ride. One that I would never trade a minute of, despite the challenges and obstacles. I have spent my life chasing him and I will continue to do so, not only because I love him, but because the run continues to keep us both alive and awake with our eyes wide open. We are both extremely lucky.

Now we have been isolating on our island home for nearly 100 days. Our adventure has had to change shape and instead of traveling the world, we travel our yard, the beaches, and the coastal rocks, but now, it is becoming too much. Without enough stimulation, I become dull and Oakley begins to create stimulation in less than desirable ways. He is up to many of his old tricks. So, we will strike out again.

In two weeks we will bike from Portland, Maine to Ticonderoga, New York. We will cross the White Mountains and the Green Mountains, sally through New Hampshire and Vermont, and just see what happens. This time Oakley is excited. He knows when it is time to go. We will be collecting new stories and using this trip as a reboot.

I remember when we made it over The Ochoco Pass in Oregon when it was 104 degrees and we wore sweat like a blanket. God, Oaks was so mad at me when I wouldn’t stop for lunch until we made it to the top. Nothing could have been harder. But then we came down the other side into the basin-like desert where the stratifications in the rocks striped the land with ochre, mustard yellow, rust, and dusky blue. We sped down and down the serpentine mountain highway, the wind drying our sweat, cooling us, and making us grin with triumph.

Oakley does too. “That was crazy. It was like two different worlds.”

I remember when we ate nothing but peanut butter taco’s, Pringles and salad in a bag for a week and Oakley was wasting away, his eyes wan and cheeks gaunt. We were so hungry! And then we got to Breckenridge, Colorado, after an 80 mile ascent and found an upscale Thai restaurant. We waltzed in there, despite our grimy, stained, neon-yellow bike shirts and padded britches and ordered two Drunken Noodle meals. We ate them in rabid silence. They were the best Drunken Noodles ever, anywhere.

Oakley agrees, “They were so good, and the people were so nice. I think they gave us extra.”

And now this is hard too. But we will get through it. We both know it.

It is all about expanding and contracting. Everything does it. In and out then in again. From small to large to small. From seed to flower to seed. The speck of an egg swelling to rounded middle age and then reduced to a speck of dust. The Universe for God’s sake. Sound. Everything. It all comes and goes, grows and shrinks and we dance between it all.

When Oakley and I pedaled across the United States this fall, the world was big and bright and the land lay out before us calling and limitless. The sun softened our backs and turned the prairie grasses golden and red. The mountains reached up into the sky, often spiking up through the clouds. The waters of the rivers were startingly cold, the midday heat oppressively hot, making us run for shelter. Canyons were maze-like and farm fields extended beyond the horizon. People opened homes, churches, fire stations and city parks with welcoming warmth.
“Come in,” they said. “Rest.” “You are safe here.” The world was like an open flower.

Now that flower has contracted. The pandemic sweeping the world has shrunken it. Oakley and I stay on our rocky island in Maine walking, running, rollerblading, and biking around and around looking out at the horizon with longing and some fear. A friend likens me to a caged, crazed fox in the zoo pacing back and forth, rubbing against its bars. Perhaps she is right. I feel like there is no telling whether I rub against the bars because I need someone to pet me, because I want to bite or because I just want to run. Homes cannot open their doors now, playgrounds are closed. It can even be hard to find a smile because of the masks we must wear. It is time to stay safe. Stay home.

Oakley and I live in a house with seven others. We walk the same paths and trade spots on the couch. We know exactly what each day will entail, and what each week will bring. I run my counseling practice out of my bathroom. He gathers his education from the dining room table, learning from a screen. Our world is small.

On good days, I can understand that there is beauty in this. As Walt Whitman says in The Leaves of Grass: “The narrowest hinge on my hand puts scorn to all machinery.” It seems time to find adventure in the little things and to be amazed by the everyday. I admit that this is hard for me and for Oaks. We are thrill seekers and struggle with focus and stillness, but maybe with a little enforced practice, we can begin to try and do it with more grace. Maybe, with all this stillness we can look inwardly with less distraction.

And when I do, I can see that I am not just full of blood and guts, but full of all the adventure I have had and people I have known and beauty I have seen. It is still there, right beneath the skin. The man we met, standing in the middle of a hollow in Kentucky, with his grey t-shirt stretched taut across his little pot belly, his hair hanging limply down around his shoulders, wondering aloud where the black goat that was here a minute ago could have gone to.

The crickets in Idaho that were as big as our thumbs that covered the road in a feeding frenzy, cannibalizing each other, jumping up against our legs and crunching under our tires as we careened down hills and mountain passes.

Bedding down under and beside fire trucks on scrubbed clean cement floors and reading out loud to each other. Feeling filled with delight that we were safe from the cold rain thundering outside because of the trust the small town had in us to stay unwatched with their millions of dollars of equipment.

Hiding from the wind behind scarce buildings on the Colorado plains and eating Pringles and cheese sticks. So tired and sweaty that we could not speak and noticing prarie dog noses popping up out of holes all around us. One barked, and then another. Then they turned into a bunch of chatterboxes and still we just sat. It is all still there.

Once a week, I do escape the island and bike with two friends. I insist that Oaks come and I beg my husband to join us. Things seem to be finally waking in Maine. The daffodils are up and the azaleas are starting to pinken. On every ride, there is more green on the branches. And the sun’s warmth is returning. This week I wore shorts for the first time. We bicycle about 25 miles, just a little bit, but I feel my legs and lungs open up. We go to the beaches and I see the waves rise up and fall.

I know everything will open up again and there are endless adventures ahead of us-all of us. This contraction will expand.

The water of the McKensie River is a translucent blue. It runs down the flanks of the Cascade Mountains, collecting water from snow-capped peaks and glacial run-off.  Its clarity creates a porthole to an underwater paradise. Oakley and I stop again and again along the banks and on bridges to ogle at the fish and plants under the water that sways them gently to and fro. Today there is no rush.

As we stare down into the water, we can see the pink sides of trout as they nap in the calm eddies, the weightless plant fronds in the current and bubbles tumulting down from small waterfalls. The rocks on the bottom are smooth due to the endless sanding of the river’s flow, and every cove is filled with rounded pebbles of pastel hues: blue, pink, emerald and graphite. For 56 miles we slowly climb up and away from the Oregon coast through verdant trees dripping with moss along the river’s side.

We continue on to Belknap Springs, a natural hot spring and campsite at the base of a mountain pass. It is a treasure. The area is covered with huge, old-growth trees, and the tent sites seem minuscule in comparison, making us feel like hobbits in an enchanted forest. 

As the sun begins to set, we soak our weary muscles in one of the peaceful, naturally-heated swimming pools, supposedly infused with healing minerals and properties found deep beneath the earth. What could be better?

As we float, struck dumb with exhaustion, we are joined by a group of adult siblings who are here for a little healing as well as a little party. There are six of them. I groan as they come galumphing into our quiet space. They enter like a circus parade, shouting and cannon balling and guzzling beer (all of which was very much against the rules, and all of which makes Oakley love them even more). Their bodies are beautifully fleshy with full, rounded curves, barrel chests and round bottoms, much like the rocks we had seen all along the river. I can feel Oakley watching them intently and longing to be invited into their reverie.

One of the sisters has a long, thick, red braid curling around her shoulder and down below her waist. She appears more demure than the others and gives herself the task of judging the family cannon ball contest. I think it is because she doesn’t want to get her fancy-schmanchy hair wet, and I inwardly roll my eyes. Oakley and a few other children seize their chance and enthusiastically join in. 

The sister sits on the side of the pool and assesses each performance,

“What was that? Put your bum into it!” and, “That was a 3 out of 10! You need to commit!” She grows increasingly agitated. “Do you need me to show you how to do it?” Huge splashes cover the surface of the pool and the surrounding deck, but apparently, they are not good enough. “Goddamn, you all have nothing!” she shouts.

“Oh yeah, why don’t you show us!” yells her brother, “Knock yourself out, you think you are all that?” She hesitates for an instant and then springs to her feet.  

“Okay, you asked for it!” With that she reaches up and grabs the top of her head. For one pregnant moment, she stands with her hand grasping her hair and then draws it up, in one motion pulling off her glorious wig and throwing it onto a deck chair. And there is her head, as bald and as round as the rest of her. “Watch out!” she screams and with that she launches herself off the side of the pool and hurls her mass into the air, grabbing her knees and plummeting—beautiful, big round bottom first—down into the water.

The splash she makes is magnificent, and when she comes bobbing to the surface there are cheers all around. She definitely wins. 

It is the most beautiful thing we have seen all day.

I had to get a TB test for a new job today out by the mall. It is about five miles from my home. The road there snakes through commercial strips, congested roadways, car dealerships, and other detritus. Not a beautiful ride, but at a balmy 35 degrees, it was unseasonably warm for February 2nd here in Maine, and I couldn’t bear getting in my car. Within a mile or two I warmed up and took off my down jacket, wool mittens and pom-pom hat (I irresponsibly had forgotten my helmet) and the cool air tickled my scalp as it blew through my hair.

Lately, my 16-year-old son Oakley and I have been struggling to reintegrate into life at home after our bike trip across the United States this fall. He has returned to some of his mischievous ways and I have been spending more time plotting adventures and dragging my husband up mountains than I have looking for and committing to a job. Certain people have been reminding me kindly that vacation time is over.

I made it to the mall far too quickly and after the TB test, turned towards home to continue working through my list of chores and HR hurdles, so that I would be ready to begin working on Monday. But, I couldn’t.

As I straddled my seat in the parking lot of the Quick Care Medical Center, I felt all the restlessness of being home well up inside me and I rebelliously turned the wrong way. Instead of heading back to the ferry, I just started riding, away from the cluster of shops and parking lots, traffic and litter, responsibilities and lists and towards the forests and beaches and rocky promontories found along the Maine coast.

The winter wind whistled in my ears, my fingers grew numb and I became hungry and thirsty. I had no water or food because I hadn’t been planning on going for a real ride, but I couldn’t stop. At every turn that could bring me back towards the city, I turned the other way. I rode for hours. I could have ridden for days. I rode until I was ready to be still, which was a very long time.

I heard a quote the other day that sums up how I feel about this year. “This adventure has ruined me in the best way.” If I was irresponsible before, I am more so now. If I was chafing at the bit last January, now I have worn it right through. I live close to the EastCoast Bike trail that journeys from Bar Harbor Maine to Key West Florida, and when I see the signs marking the route, I feel a growl welling in my chest and demanding to be released.

I miss the crickets in Idaho that are as big as a grown man’s thumb. I miss the coyotes that are circling the cattle in Wyoming. I miss the bears, snuffling along the bases of the Grand Tetons. I miss the kind man offering us a ride to the local bike shop even though it was 30 miles out of his way. I miss not knowing. I miss the wide open. It is hard to turn away. The world is out there just waiting.

I am writing a book about all this. Adventure, longing, parenting, kindness, and hope. It is the only way I can think of to keep the trip alive and feed whatever little beastie has awoken within me.