Bikemum

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.

It has been a little more than two weeks since Oakley and I returned from our bike journey across the United States. We are gradually re-assimilating into our community, our responsibilities and our routines. But we are not the same. Our bicycle adventure feels like it has changed the lenses through which we see. No joke.

Speaking for myself, I feel 10 years younger. I have energy and enthusiasm that I have not felt since I was 30. I feel as though, if you could peak beneath my skin, instead of blood and guts you would find the fields of Kansas with golden oats blowing in the wind under a clear blue sky. You would find the clear rivers tumulting down from the Cascade Mountains in Oregon. You would find the sound of coyotes yipping and yodeling under the Wyoming night sky. You would find a stranger, offering me shelter, a cup of coffee and a donut in Kentucky and warming up my heart, belly and giving me courage.

As for Oakley, he too is changed. He told me this weekend that he felt that people were treating him like a he was an adult lately, and it made him want to act like one. A neighbor stopped my husband and me on a walk this morning and commented that the biggest change she sees in Oakley, aside from his stature, confidence and strength, is that he doesn’t seem twitchy anymore. He is contained and relaxed and moves with ease and composure. It is true. There is an inner calm in him.

A few times since our return, Oakley has needed a reminder that his behavior was becoming too intense. I have separated him from others at these points and was able to have calm conversations with him. “Is this how you want to be?” Or: “Remember on our trip, how we did it differently?” And he does remember. And he does regroup without becoming deregulated. He wants this. He knows how good it feels to be in control and be granted adult status.

The other day Oakley and I went for a walk to check in with each other. We talked all about the trip. We talked about how being home is sometimes overstimulating. I told him I would do it again next summer if I could, and he said he would do it again when he was 30. I guess I didn’t scar him for life after all.

I wish everybody could have a reboot such as ours every once in a while. Now I face trying to recreate a career and find ways to dig us out of the financial pit that our bike trip created. Yesterday my husband and I sat down at the kitchen table and analyzed the train wreck of our finances. But I don’t feel overwhelmed. I feel like there are endless possibilities, and if I just stay open to them it will work all out.

This Thursday, Oakley and I are giving a slide show about our trip at the local community center. I absolutely detest public speaking, but it seems important to share our tale with everybody who supported us. I will be uncomfortable and a jittery mess, but if I can bike across the country, I can do this. I can do a lot that I never thought I could.

My husband Twain is driving Oakley and me up the New Jersey Turnpike towards home. A heavy rain is rattling against the roof of the car and every few minutes we hydroplane just a little. My knees and elbows ache, and I have callouses and some gravel embedded in my palms. I have lost 20 pounds. Other than that, there is no indication that Oakley and I have just completed a 4,329-mile ride across the United States.

It has only been three days since we coasted to a stop in Yorktown, Virginia, but already I ache to get back on our bikes and see what is around the next corner. Watching the land unfold before us, meeting kind strangers at every stop and focusing our days on the simplest of needs, food, rest, shelter and working together, which helped life make sense. Now these billboards I see out the car window, advertising XXX Erotica at exit 8 and the Honda Car Dealership at exit 7, seem especially crass and off putting.

Today, I feel pulled in many directions. I am longing to see my home and family, beginning to think about what the next phase of my life is going to look like, and already missing our adventure terribly. How is this possible?

Oakley has been very affectionate since we finished biking, and there is a deep feeling of camaraderie between us. I feel pangs that will soon become diluted when we get caught up in our respective lives, but maybe not. Maybe our bond will settle deep within and become the substrate for dealing with future challenges and teenage transitions that we will soon be facing.

This trip has taught us an incredible amount about ourselves, our abilities, the world, people and how they all entwine. It has taught us that the best things come from allowing ourselves to be a bit uncomfortable, a bit scared and a bit reckless. I will never be able to thank enough everyone who has supported us along the way, both emotionally and financially. The kindness we have experienced has been astounding.

On the last evening of our adventure, Oakley and I camped on the side of the James River, 30 miles from the finish line at Yorktown. We made a fire and sat up talking about our highs and lows and appreciating each other’s strengths on the trip. We slept under the stars next to the dying embers. In the morning, the sun rose over the river, turning the early fog pink. “Come on mom. Get up, let’s go!” called Oaks.

I sat up slowly and gazed about feeling quieted by the magnitude of this day. Suddenly, we both heard a roaring clatter coming toward us. Was it a military jet? A huge power boat? We froze and peered in the direction of the sound. “What the hell?” questioned Oakley, a little on edge.

All at once the sky filled with birds. Thousands of grackles descended on our campsite. Truly, thousands. More than I have ever seen. The cacophony they made was so loud that we had to shout over them, which we did, sharing our disbelief at their numbers and noise.

The grackles ousted a couple of hawks and a handful of turkey vultures that began circling overhead. A young raccoon went scurrying across our campsite and dove into a hole halfway up an oak tree right next to our picnic table. The grackle party went on and on. It was a madhouse. We packed up while this symphony was underway. It was like fireworks; it was like a party. It was the perfect send off, and I had tears again.

This trip was harder than I expected and more wonderful than I expected. I would do it again in a heart beat.

If there are any questions about our trip, please comment and I will be happy to respond.

Oakley’s Perspective:

Our last night on the road we stayed at a campsite on a peninsula on the James River. That night in some ways was really sad and and really happy. My mother and I sat by the fire and talked about our highs and lows of the trip and what we appreciated about biking across country. We both agreed that we appreciated how people were so nice and helpful to us. People would offer to fix our bikes. Someone paid for our meal one day. Everywhere we went people were always trying to help us in some way.

The next morning at our lovely campsite we were eating breakfast of granola and milk and coffee when a huge swarm of grackles flew into the trees above us and all started chirping to each other. It was so loud that they started to stir up other animals such as a raccoon, some hawks and some other creatures.

I didn’t really accept that we were done the trip until the next morning, the day after arriving at my grandma’s house. When I woke the next morning I got up and thought to myself, “I really just biked across the country.” Even in the car right now, two days later and on the way back home to Maine, I still can’t believe it.

Now that am literally on my way home I think about all the adventures that I had, and I would like thank my mother for making me bike across America and go through all the hard times together. I wouldn’t have been able do this on my own.

Thank you, mom.

I awake to a deluge of rain hammering on the roof of the camping pavilion that we have set our tent up under. “Oh God,” I think to myself, “I need to put on my cheerleading hat for this one.”

Today is what some cross country cyclists call our last big challenge.* We need to climb Mount Vesuvius, a steep four mile ascent of 3,500 feet. Then we will follow the Blue Ridge Parkway for 35 miles and descend out of the Appalachians and towards the coast of Virginia..

I sneak out of the tent and rustle up some coffee before Oaks stirs, hoping it will help me put on my happy face. The rain is coming down in torrents making the metal roof hammer above me. Needless to say, I have really come to appreciate campground pavilions.

After two strong cups of coffee, I am ready to try my best to put a shine on the day and I wake up Oaks with a promise of hot chocolate. He takes one look around and lays back down. “You have got to be kidding me.”he mutters.

Nevertheless, we persevere through a gloppy breakfast of apple-spice instant oatmeal and pack up our gear. We dottle a little wishing the rain would let up a bit, but this doesn’t seem to be the case.

Just before we head out into the storm, a pick-up truck drives across the lawn and pulls up beside us. It is the owner of the campground. “You all are crazy,” he shouts. “Put those bicycles in my truck and I’ll drive you up that mountain. Nobody should be biking up there in this.” He climbs out of his truck and runs over to our little shelter. “Listen, I done took eight bikers up this hill before. It isn’t anything to be ashamed of. Come on!”

The rain seems to intensify as if on queue. It would be so nice to get a ride. I am so tired and another wet ride up to a cold ridge line sounds torturous. “Thanks, but we can’t,” I say, “that would be cheating.”

“Come on now, it’s not cheating. Your bikes would still be going up that mountain and look at your son.” I look at Oakley and his eyes are bright with hope. He is positively taut with it.

“Mom come on, it is awful out there. Please. No one will know.” I hesitate. It is so cold and wet. “Please.”he begs.

In that moment I waver. I am no Odysseus on a heroic quest. I am much more like Frodo, the Hobbit, a reluctant adventurer. I would like to stay dry.

“This man wants to help us, it would make him feel good.”whispers Oakley. A battle rages inside me. Is the campground owner the devil or an angel? I feel myself waffle.

Then Oakley puts on his bike helmet, and I realize he is expecting me to say no. He needs me to say no. He is leading me with no intention of doing so and has made up my mind. “Thank you so much,” I tell the man, but we have to do this.”

“You all are crazy.”the man mutters as we saddle up and head out into the wet, cold morning. Within minutes my sneakers have become sponges my gloves are sodden and my bangs are plastered to my head.

After a punishing climb, in which I questioned what the chances of a 50-year-old woman having a heart attack were several times, Oakley and I make it to the top. We are cold and wet, but the last climb is behind us. Triumphant, we stand in unison gasping for breath. I meet his eyes and can’t help, but ask, “Do you wish we had gotten that ride?”

“Yes!”he answers grinning ear to ear and I grin back. I would say we both follow our roles very well.

Post script-Although we did make it up Vesuvius Mountain, we didn’t make it down! The rain and the fog and the cold on the Blue Ridge Parkway caused us both to become hypothermic and put us in a dangerous situation. After 20 more miles, a bear hunter rescued us and drove us down the hill. So, we did rely on the kindness of strangers after all. I can’t thank them all enough.

*Thank for all your support Roderick!

Oakley’s Perspective-Week 11 and 1/2. What I Will and Will Not Miss About This Trip.

1. The beautiful landscapes and passing fields of cows over and over.
2. Sleeping outside and hearing everything outside the tent, such as the bone chilling cry of a lone Coyote.
3. Camping in random places such as, city parks, fire station, etc.
4. Passing over a mountain or state line and seeing the whole landscape change in front of my eyes.
5. Looking at the map of the United States and marking off the places we have gone through and seeing how much more we have left.
6. Staying at city parks and meeting other teenagers my age to fool around with and cause trouble.
7. Riding up alongside endless freight trains…unless we are sleeping next to them and then NOT enjoying them at night coming and going every 5 minutes.
8. Going to bed under the night sky full of stars.
9. Scaring the heck out wildlife while I bike by.
10. Chilling at my campsite after a big day of riding.

Things that I am not going to miss from this trip:

1. The headwinds in Kansas and the Rockies.
2. The worries about bears in Yellowstone.
3. The intense Rocky Mountains and Ozarks that just go up and up, over and over.
4. People in cars slowing down when we are riding up a big hill and telling us that it is all up hill from there.
5. The over-loaded trucks that seem to just about almost kill us every time they pass.
6. People trying to tell us we are too late in the season to try to bike across country.
7. Missing home.
8. The DOGS in Kentucky that chased us!
9. Roads that go straight up and don’t have switch backs.
10. Only talking to my mom for three months straight!

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!