Bikemum

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).

The sun is up, but it’s light barely penetrates the thickly moss-covered Spruces that our tent is nestled amongst.. “Oak’s, wake up buddy. It is show time.” With no hesitation he sloughs off his sleeping bag and begins to break camp. He is in charge of packing up the tent while I wrestle us up some coffee/hot chocolate and breakfast. Today is a big day and we both know we have no time to waste.

Today we need to get up and over the 5,320 foot McKenzie pass before noon because severe thunder storms are expected in the afternoon. It would be no place to be stuck.We are only at 1,000 feet this morning so that means a 4,000 for climb over the course of 24 miles. On steep hills we average about 4.5 miles an hour. I have been feeling shaky about this and Oakley has sensed it. The biggest hill we have climbed so far was a mere 1,500 and we were beat.

Quickly, we load up our panniers with our bomber, Coleman stove (to replace our melted stove) our cooking gear, groceries for a day or two, clothing, sleeping bags and pads, camping pillows and camping chairs, first aid kit, repair kit, toiletry kit, rain gear, tent and, believe it or not, math work books, journals and reading books (we are homeschooling). We top it off with four liters of water and we are off. All packed up, fed and on the road in 45 minutes.

By 6:45 we have begun our ascent. Oaks begins chattering on about all manner of middle school drama. He covers the basics of relationships, idiotic pranks, health class and hilarious feats that his friends have accomplished. I ride beside him. My breath is rhythmic and deep and I sound and feel very much like a freight engine. His talk actually helps and rather than tune him out I ask one word questions (about all I can manage) “Who?” “What?””Why?”, to try to keep us both distracted from the burning in our thighs.

We climb out of the dark forest at about mile 14. We enter an area that has experienced many forest fires so it looks alpine in nature. Blankets of beautiful purple, pink and blue flowers cover the ground and the trees are all stubby. We have risen into the clouds and the result makes the landscape seem ethereal.

Oakley is beginning to run out of chat. I worry we maybe losing his good cheer. He has already eaten 3 monster size protein bars, so I don’t think food will help his energy level. This seems to be a pattern to approaching exhaustion; chatter, quiet, irritation, fury.

When the occasional car passes us now, I worry about visibility. “Car.” I report to Oaks when I hear one approaching from behind.

“What do you think I am, deaf!”, he retorts.

“Just trying to keep us alive Oaks.”

“I am not a baby!”

“Nope, you are tough as hell.”

“My knee hurts!”

“So do mine.”

“Don’t say that! You don’t know how it feels!”

Thus we pass our next five miles. And then, just as we were sure to come to blows, we come around a switchback and rising before us are The Three Sisters. These three mountains are astounding. They have jagged, craggy peaks and wear skirts of glaciers. They tower off to one side of the pass. On the other side is a vast lava field. Who knew?

Oaks stops on the side of the road. He clambers up the sharp, porous lava boulders and surveys the land. He has never seen anything like this, nor have I. “This is amazing.” Oakley declares. We are truly awe struck.

“No more bad mood?” I can’t help but ask.

“No way!”

As we hop back on our bikes, the last four miles of the climb to the pass seem effortless. We ohh and ahh and exclaim at everything we see.

Then we are there. There is a tower constructed of volcanic rock with steps leading to the top. Oaks, ditches his bike and runs up the stairs. I hobble after him. And there, with a 360 degree view of the volcanic core of Mount Washington, Mount Hood, the Three Sisters and the Belknap crater, Oakley does a back flip.

We sit and eat cucumber and cheese sandwiches before saddling up and coasting 15 miles down the other side. We don’t pedal for 40 minutes. Nor do we speak.

Week Two-Oakley’s Perspective

This past week I have seen…

1. Cows in the field
2. Fossils
3. Lizards
4. Horses
5. Huge mountains covered with snow and glaciers
6. Llamas
7. Baby Alpacas
8. Miles and miles of marijuana fields
9. Too many cars
10. Deer with antlers
11. Two elk
12. Skeletons of animals that were eaten by coyotes
13. A hefty bald women rip off her wig and cannonball into a hot spring
14. Bear skeleton
15. A lava field that went on for many miles on the Mckensie pass
16. Aftermath of forest fires-acres and acres of burnt trees
17. 22 miles of straight up hill on the side of a mountain that we had to bike
18. Rainbow trout jumping out of the blue clear water showing all their colors
19. Cowboys in a Dairy Queen
20. Ospreys and American bald eagles

My first week of my trek across America has its ups and downs (ha, ha). The first day we flew from Portland, Maine, to Portland, Oregon, and the next day took a bus to Astoria, on the northwest tip of Oregon. We picked up our bikes and biked 18 miles from Astoria to our camp site in the middle of nowhere. Our bikes and bags were so heavy! When we finally got there, we set up our tent, started to make dinner, but then our camp stove blew up. It even burned the picnic table. What a great start to our trip, right?

The best part of the trip so far is that everywhere we go there is something new and amazing. The first night was awesome (besides our stove blowing up, but we just talked about that). The beach was really beautiful, and there were big sand dunes and an old shipwreck.

The low of the trip so far has been the hills and the traffic. It is horrible. On the fourth day we had to go over three huge mountains to get to our next camp site, and it was living hell for the two of us. By the end of the day we had finally made it, but we were sure to be severely sore the next morning.

My favorite thing that I have seen so far is the wildlife and the many beautiful views. Most of the views are on top of the tallest mountains, so they are pretty hard to get to. I guess that makes me appreciate them more. So far, I am having a lot of fun on this trip, but I met a man who was finishing biking across America, going the opposite way as we are, and he said that I am going love it for a little bit, and then, for the next one thousand miles, I am going to want to quit. I’m pretty sure I didn’t want to hear that.

Let’s Not Talk About Who Killed Who: Leah’s Perspective

Okay, so maybe our stove did blow up on the first night, and maybe that was because partly due to the fact that the print on the directions was very tiny and complicated and required more attention than I am willing to give. Let’s focus instead on the fact that WHEN flames began to creep out from different parts of the stove, and then fully engulfed the stove, and then leapt crazily out of control, and I had no choice but to scream for help. . . help came.

First, two fellow cyclists who were staying in the “Biker/Hiker Only” camping area came running. They were so nice! One of them tried to help by taking his life in his hands and trying to UNSCREW the canister of white gas from the stove to stop the flow. Let’s just say he had good intentions. Oakley was very excited as the inferno grew considerably, and the flames crept into the gas canister. The other cyclist also helped: by shouting at just the right moment, “It’s going to blow!”, and giving us the opportunity to run for cover.

I ran. To the ranger station, and as luck would have it, they had a fire extinguisher. It worked. My stove was melted beyond repair, but I did not burn down the old-growth spruce forests of Northern Oregon. And I made my first friends.

It is true that our learning curve has been as steep as the roads we have traveled. Whether it is learning how to cook responsibly, or the importance of showering immediately after every long day’s ride to prevent saddle sores, or how hills in the morning are a lot less arduous than hills in the afternoon, we are learning every second. Our brains are turned on and so are our bodies. Oakley has not complained once.

Oakley and I have been cycling down the coast of Oregon for 5 days. It has been spectacular. The landscape is dazzling. We have hauled ourselves up through mountains of dense, misty forests with tremendous trees that drip with moss. We have raced down these same steep hills and been greeted by broad beaches, sand dunes and wind- and water–carved caves and arches. It seems the views change by the minute.

The people we have met along the way have been incredibly kind. There was Anthony, who was cycling from Washington to Mexico with his surf board hitched to a trailer. He spent two nights sharing a tent site with us and swapping stories. There was Pete, who is cycling coast to coast with a boom box blaring heavy metal from his back rack. He offered us peanut butter tacos and a heavy dose of encouragement. There was Victoria, who had parked her car on the side of the road at a viewpoint on the side of the highway and handed Oakley $20 because he looked hungry, and she was impressed with our undertaking. And there was the blind farmer who gave us free cucumbers from his farmstand in the middle of the hot Oregon inland plains while laughing and shaking his head saying over and over, “You all crazy.”

I think we may be having the time of our lives.

Oakley with his best friend Scuppers, the day before departure.

The hardest thing about leaving tomorrow on my bike ride across America is that I am going to be thinking about my friends all the time. I won’t be seeing them for three months. My mother and I decided that I will be able to call them once a week, on Wednesdays. If I were to talk on the phone every day it would be a big problem, and my mom would be mad at me all the time because I would never get off the phone. I also know it would just make me miss them more. I am also worried about having to be alone with my mother for three months.

The best thing is that this trip is going to be a really good experience. When I get home I will be able to look back and know that I did a really cool thing. I think I am going to look like a frog when I get back. I will have huge thighs (but hopefully not a potbelly). I will probably see a lot of cool and historic things. Maybe grizzly bears, elk, and bison. I know I am probably going to hate pedaling over the Rockies at first, but I will get used to it, and going down will be super fun.

I am excited. I am looking forward to seeing all my friends when I get back. I hope the mountains don’t kill me. I hope my mom and I don’t get in a fight every day. We probably will, but we will get over it. I hope we don’t get eaten by bears in Colorado. And I hope that three months doesn’t feel like three years. I will try not to think of the day we get back, but instead think of the day we are on.

Leah’s Postscript: We are flying to Astoria, Oregon, today. I am incredibly grateful for all the encouragement, support, and contributions that Oakley and I have been lucky enough to receive from friends, family, and the world of bike nerds. They are the fuel that will carry us across the country, over the mountains and through swamps of self-doubt and fatigue. I can’t thank everybody enough. Here we go.….

There are several cucumbers that will need to be picked next week. The blueberries are just turning blue. The tomatoes are still green with just a shade of crimson. The carrots are coming along, but not quite. There will be peaches on the tree this year, and plums.

Our bee hives are brimming with bees, and the honey will need to be harvested in a little more than a month. The irises have come and gone, but not the gladiolas or the sunflowers that ring the garden–they are just budding.

What tastes better than the promise of a cucumber that isn’t quite ready to be harvested, or the new potatoes left undug? Nothing, I think.

Yesterday, as I drove Oakley home from his job as a junior counselor at Broad Turn Farm Camp, I found myself distracted. My head was full of lists and longings, and I was feeling homesick even though we have not gone anywhere yet. Maybe if I leaned on Oakley a little, he would lean back and it would make us both stronger.

“Oaks, I am really nervous about this trip. Are you?”

“Yes,” he admitted, shifting in his seat.

“Which part?” I asked

“The whole thing.”

“Oaks, I am too. I am going to miss Papa and Raven and Jonah and Finn and Cricket.”

“What about Scuppers?” (our cat)

“Him too. I am also going to miss my friends.”

“Yeah, me too.”

“I am going to need you, you know. It’ll be just the two of us out there.”

Oakley looked out the window, and I thought that my words had fallen on deaf ears. After a long pause he sighed.

“We will be okay.”

It was the first time he has tried to reassure me about this hare-brained idea of biking across America, and I felt my anxiety decrease by just a fraction.

“You think?”

“Yeah, we will just get homesick sometimes.”

The air in the car felt topsy-turvy with anxiety, excitement, and a new feeling of camaraderie, and I was reminded again of all the reasons why we are going.

There has been a poem bashing it’s way through my life since I was a teenager that says it far better than I ever could.

“A Summer Day”

Who made the world?

Who made the swan, the black bear?

Who made the grasshopper?

This grasshopper, I mean the one who has flung itself out of the grass,

the one who is eating sugar out of my hand, who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down,

who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.

Now she lifts her pale forearms and throughly washes her face.

Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.

I don’t know exactly what a prayer is.

I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down

into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,

how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,

which is what I have been doing all day.

Tell me, what else should I have done?

Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?

Tell me, what is it that you plan to do

with your one wild and precious life?

-Mary Oliver

I have purposely built a complicated life that is bursting with fullness. Stepping away from it is startling. I hate missing. I have never looked at a baby cucumber with more longing. I have never stared into my dog’s eyes with such adoration. I have never craved being surrounded by friends and family more. It is in the leaving that I am reminded of its worth.

While I am gone, I have a favor to ask of everyone. Please eat the cucumbers and the blueberries. Don’t let them rot.

Please feel free to comment and let us know what you think we are forgetting or what we should leave behind.

The yard is strewn with socks, toothpaste, a solar charger, flip flops, pots and pans and bike shorts. It is reminiscent of what remains in the aftermath of a tornado. Oakley looks at the piles with concern. “Why are we bringing that?” he asks. “I hate those shorts. Can I test the stove? Where is my flip phone?” It is a humid, 82-degree day, and I am feeling a bit wilty. His questions rattle me.

“Oaks, where are your sunglasses that I got you for your birthday?” I ask.

“I lost them. I need new ones. ” Of course he did. “I am not wearing that shirt. Can I sleep in the tent tonight?” It is at this point that I decide to send my little whirling dervish away while I complete the task at hand. “Go find friends, Oaks, I need to pack.”

So here it is. We will be hauling the following items across America with us.

Clothing

Baseball hats and helmets

Rain pants / rain jackets

Down jackets

Long undie tops and bottoms

3 pairs cotton socks, 1 pair wool socks

Winter hats

Bike shorts

Fluorescent tank tops

Fluorescent long-sleeve biking shirts

Safety vests

Bathing suits

2 pair shorts

2 t-shirts

1 cozy long sleeve shirt

3 pair underwear

Flip-flops

Sneakers

Camping Gear

20-degree sleeping bags

Camping pillows

Travel chairs

Thermarest sleeping pads

Nemo 3 person tent

Tent footprint (to protect bottom of tent)

2 headlamps

Cooking equipment

1 cooking pot

1 frying pan

2 mugs

2 bowls

2 sporks

1 stirring spoon / 1 spatula

2, 2-liter water bladders

1 Primus multi-fuel stove

1 scrubbie

1 coffee filter

1 fuel bottle

2 lighters

First Aid Kit

Bandaids

Advil

Benadryl

Neosporin

Tylenol PM

Tweezers

First Aid Tape

Electronics

My iphone

Oakley’s flip-phone

Solar charger

Foldable key board

Wall charger

Toiletries

Sunscreen

Hairbrush

Deodorant

Hair ties

Toothpaste

Toothbrushes

Bike Repair Kit

2 bicycle tire tubes

2 levers for changing tires

Allen wrench set

Patch kit

Bicycle Pump

And…

2 knives, Pepper spray, a math workbook, a journal and a reading book for each of us…and some pens, for drawing. And 144 maps.

This will all fit in eight saddle bags-four for each of us and a front handle bar bag. Leaving room of course for food and specifically, all Oakley’s snacks.

Who is going to be so strong? We are. I am ready to go.

Tonight, I sit surrounded by family, 29 of them. Sisters, brothers, nieces, nephews, spouses, partners, great-nephews, my children, my husband, and my mother. The evening is warm, and we are all covered with a patina of butter, beer, smoke and lobster guts from a lobster bake on the back shore of Peaks Island.

My nephew and his girlfriend are singing and playing a miniature guitar. We are swapping stories of memories and mis-memories. My mother has been carried out and over the shingled beach in her wheelchair to sit by the fire. She is wrapped in a Mexican blanket and looking rather queen like.

Oakley and his cousin are building a sculpture with drift wood. He has been difficult lately, probably due to the unstructured summer we have been lolling about in. I know for him, we can’t leave soon enough. Unstructured time unmoors him. His squirrelly behavior and emotional upsets are on the rise. I have no doubts at all that this trip is what he needs, when he needs it.

Our bikes should arrive in Astoria, Oregon, tomorrow and hopefully, barring disaster, will be put back together by the good people of Bikes & Beyond. My husband Twain, quieted my most recent fears when I couldn’t find one open campsite in a 20-mile radius of where we land the first night by calling this bike store and asking for an insider tip of where we might stay. The bike store manager told him to ask for him by name, and if we can’t find a place to camp while we orient ourselves we could, if worse came to worst, stay with one of his many friends who accommodate cross-country cyclists.

We leave August 1st. There is a lot to do before then, and my wheels are spinning dangerously close to skidding out. The idea of just pedaling our bikes day after day is becoming ever more appealing.

I am feeling confident and ready. Oaks is feeling unnerved but ready. I know we will be held wherever we go by kind people. Tonight, though, we are not going anywhere.

“Mom, we are out of tape.”

” Let me look in the…”

“Mom, pass the bubble wrap.”

“Here.”

“Where are the scissors?”

“Um…I saw them…”

“Mom, did you get that tape?”

“I am going to look in the…”

“Mom, what is Oakley doing? He has his seat in, like, six pieces!”

“Oaks, what are you doing? Hands up! Stop disassembling everything!”

“It needs to come apart.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“Yes, it does!”

“No, it doesn’t. Why don’t you cut some more bubble wrap?”

“I am out of here.”

“Where are you going? Come back and help!”

“Mom, tape?”

“Yes, I am on it.”

“These bikes are not going to fit in these boxes.”

“They have to.”

“They won’t.”

“Will Scotch tape work?”

“Whatever it takes.”

Last night, my two sons Finn and Jonah came to my rescue and helped me box up our bikes. I thought it would be fairly simple, but like most things about preparing for this bike trip, it took on a life of its own. We went through three rolls of tape and three rolls of bubblewrap, and used three bike boxes for our two bikes. We dismantled all the racks, fenders, pedals, lights and odometers that I have painstakingly assembled over the last several months. I cringed with every part that was removed, feeling that it was unfathomable that I would ever get them together again.

When we finished, we were all sweaty, and a bit anxious. Even the boys seemed genuinely concerned about the bikes and the idea of me trying to tackle bike maintenance on my own in the future. I found myself trying to reassure them that it would all work out, that people would help me, and that I am cleverer than I let on. Inside, I was already exhausted and overwhelmed at the prospect of remembering which bolt went with which nut.

Ready to start fresh today, I got up and energetically lugged the bike boxes onto my garden cart and pushed them through the streets to the ferry. I shipped them across Casco Bay, manhandled them into the car, drove them across town, dragged them down the sidewalk from the parking garage to UPS, and deposited them in the not-overly-caring hands of a bored UPS worker. I had thought this would be a moment of triumph.

The UPS worker was young and seemed a bit too vacant to be handling something so precious to me. But, to be fair, I probably looked a bit like a madwoman. My messy, ponytailed hair was sticking out in odd tufts and wisps a little like a halo from driving with the windows down; my shirt was clinging to my sweaty back, and I am sure I had a look of desperation on my face. The young woman helping me was a bit more put together than that.

“Hi there. Could you help me? Do you think that I have used enough tape on these boxes?” I inquired

“Uh-huh,” she replied without looking at them or me.

“Can you read that the boxes say ‘1 out of 3, 2 out of 3, and 3 out of 3’ clearly enough?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Do you think they will get damaged because they are packed too tightly?’

“I don’t think so.” Her lovely pink nailed fingers pecked away at her keyboard in a most disinterested way. She avoided all eye contact.

“I am riding across the country with my son. These are our bikes. I am really anxious about them. Sorry I am being so high maintenance.”

No response.

“Okay, that will be $671.47.”

“Excuse me?”

“$671.47, because you are shipping them so far.”

“That is more than I spent on the bikes themselves. That is more than I paid for our airfare.”

“It is because Oregon is so far.” Now she met my eyes and gave me a lazy blink. Maybe, she had her own worries filling her head, because she was certainly not taking on mine.

I felt trapped. I had thought they would cost 1/3 of that, but what could I do? I reluctantly handed over my credit card, feeling my stomach flip.

As I watched this woman drag the boxes away, filled with our disassembled bikes, 10 pounds of bubble wrap and various unidentifiable bit and bolts, I picked up my cell phone and called “Bikes and Beyond” in Astoria, Oregon, the bikes’ final destination.

“Hello there. . . when my bike boxes arrive, would you be willing to put them together before I pick them up, no matter what condition you find them in?”

“Absolutely.”

“Down to the fenders and odometers and racks and everything?”

“Absolutely. We do this all the time.”

He even offered to call me when they arrived. I may not love him as much as I loved my sons when they helped me take the bikes apart, but if he can pull that off, it will be a close second.

I am looking forward to rendezvousing with our bikes again when they are in better shape and all we have to do is pedal.