Bikemum

Tonight, I stand in front of a room of twenty strangers who have come to hear me give a book talk. I am nervous, but excited to relive my adventure once again by telling tales, showing slides and sharing a chapter from my book “Changing Gears.” It is funny that I used to be so terrified about public speaking and now, it seems easy, playful even.

This is the first time I am presenting without Oakley at my side. Two days ago, we dropped him off to work as a maintenance assistant at a summer camp. True to form we decided to send him off with a long, 14-mile hike in the White Mountains, and today I am staggering around like a duck who needs knee replacements.

I am happy to have him off on his own. It is time for us to both work on our independence. The night we left him, we slept in a little cabin at the camp where he will be staying. I was more than ready to head to bed after our hike, but the moonlight was beckoning, so we ambled out to an open field to let it wash over us. At our backs, the woods rose up and Oak and Maple leaves rustled peacefully in the warm breeze. Before us, new hay stood at attention, seemingly in reverence for the rising full moon, so we followed it’s lead. Fireflies danced along the margin of the field and forest.

“I need this.” said Oakley “This is perfect.”

He is right, it is perfect. This summer he will eat healthy food, work hard, be outdoors and take a much needed break from social media. Yet, I worry. I have managed Oakley’s life so intensely over the last few years that I am full of “What ifs?”

That night, I slept on the floor of his cozy little cabin and in the morning, rose at five to head back home without him. I tried to quietly stuff my sleeping bag, but its crinkles woke him. He looked sleepily at me, then shucked off his own bag to walk my husband and I to our car. We bumped and bumbled against each other as we made our way down the hill through the dew-soaked grass.

“Brush your teeth.”

‘I will.”

“Take your meds.”

“I will.”

“Don’t stay up too late.”

“I won’t mom.”

“Be safe. No dare devil stuff.”

“Mom.”

My eyes filled with tears, but we laughed at my sentimentality. We showed each other our bike tattoos, more for my sake than his, and that was that. We drove away, leaving him to his own adventure and me to mine.

So, here I am, taking my show on the road solo. The folks at this library are a forgiving audience, so I try to crack some jokes (that aren’t that funny,) show some pictures and then open my book to read aloud. All is going well, even without Oakley to hide behind. I am a bold, independent adventurer, and so is he.

In my preparation for tonight, I have used a birthday card as a place marker in my book so that I can easily find the section that I want to share, but as I turn to that page the card tumbles out of the book and on to the floor by my feet. There is no podium, and the folks in the front row are only sitting a few feet away. They can’t help but glance at what I have dropped, and I do as well.

The birthday card has landed face down and with a flash horror, I see that I had written a list on the back. Not just any list, but a list of all the long, overdue medical appointments that I need to make while Oakley isn’t around and I have free time this summer. You guessed it, there in big, bold Sharpie pen, I can read Colonoscopy. Varicose Veins. Eye Doc. Teeth.

My swagger is gone. A blush creeps up my neck and floods my cheeks. As I continue reading, stumbling over a word here and there, I casually try to slide my foot over the card. Luckily, the front row is filled with children and I try to remind myself that, even if they read that list of atrocities, they won’t be surprised. After all, to them I am just a rather crinkly-necked lady, who may very well be of a different species then they. And if their parents read it? All the better. I like keeping it real.

In the end I am laughing and already thinking about who to tell the story to, and you know who I think of first? Oakley-he would think it was a hoot. I am looking forward to the stories he will have for me when we join forces again.

“I am beginning to smell bush pigs”

“No, you’re not.”

“Oh, yes I am, I have been on enough ‘adventures’ with you to know a bush pig when I smell one.”

It is Mother’s Day and I am taking a low-key walk on the sea cliffs in Scarborough, Maine with my family. Mother’s Day seems to be the only time I can really demand a Triple-F day anymore. Forced Family Fun. My adult children and their partners are willing to join me on an outing as long as I stay within certain parameters, which I am, but even so they seem to have a fair amount of trepidation.

“Jonah, this is only a five mile stroll along the coast. Easy-peasy, stop fretting.”

My 24-year-old son Jonah, has come to use “Bush pigs” as short-hand for all the times I have led my family on what was promised to be a walk in the park, but somehow morphed into something far more challenging. It was born on a hike up Granite Mountain in Prescott, Arizona over 15 years ago. I had remembered a lovely boulder scramble up the back side that I had done in college many years before and thought my four young children, my husband and I could quickly reenact it; climbing to the top in an hour or two, where we would be rewarded by, what I remembered, to be fields of tall, golden grasses, snorting javelinas and enormous, gnarly, Live Oaks.

In short, the short scramble turned into bouldering. The bouldering turned into throwing children across deep, rock crevices that were far too wide for them to jump across. The sun set and a cold desert night air filled in, chilling our tanktop-clad selves and we became completely lost. We found absolutely no Elysium fields filled with golden grasses, or any bush pigs on top. Rather, just jumbles of toe-piercing cacti, and unforgiving jagged, granite ankle-twisters.

Luckily, in the final minutes of light, blistered, cold and exhausted, we found the trail and descended down the front side of the mountain. Of course I loved it because-what a story! However, I think that was the day I lost credibility as a tour guide in my family’s eyes. My dreams and reality don’t always jibe.

Anyway, the smell of bush pigs was present on Mother’s Day only because I was unaware that dogs were not allowed on this section of the coast due to nesting sand pipers, we left late and so yes, we were again racing the light, as well as our ferry home and maybe some of us had healing injuries that made walking on the uneven, loose coastal rocks a bit painful-but it sure was beautiful. It was no epic adventure, but I believe there is some mild form of PTSD in my children whenever I get over excited about being in the outdoors and it doesn’t take a lot for them to worry.

My son Jonah, who had first smelled the pigs this day, has an uncanny ability of seeing truth. He edits not only my dream-like outing plans, but he was also my first editor for my book, “Changing Gears.” When I finished the first draft, he plunked himself down on the couch and began reading with a proverbial red pen. (He is an excellent writer)

His comments written along side of the draft, steered me with both humor and intelligence. Much like his trailside comments.

“Mama, do we need to go over apostrophe use again?”

“Mama, too many exclamation points!!!!”

“Be more creative-don’t use cliches.”

“This is NOT a word, not now, not ever.”

“Spellcheck.”

I could not be more grateful for him and all he did for me. He is probably fairly responsible for getting this book published. He keeps me grounded in reality in a gentle, direct manner. Always has-and I hope he always will. My unsung hero. I hope we continue to chase many more bush pigs together.

Check out his current project-Rock Salt Journal. It is an online bi-annual magazine focused New England Literature.

Today is the day. My book “Changing Gears” is out. I feel like it is my birthday, graduation, anniversary and Mother’s Day all in one. I believe I am what some would call titillated.

Yesterday, I celebrated by taking a long, 70-mile bike ride through the White Mountains with only the company of chipmunks and Pileated Woodpeckers. It was a beautiful, warm spring day and I gulped in the smells of warm pine-needled forest floors, wet-mossy streams and the earth coming to life. The sights of bluets, forsythia and daffodils and the tenderest of translucent green leaves peeking out from their buds made the land seem to glow from within.

All through the ride my head was full of gratitude for all the people that have supported this journey. So many people have encouraged me and put up with my totally self-indulgent, self-centered musings that I am overwhelmed. I can only hope that I have learned through them how important support for each other can be. I came home exhausted, but only in body, inside I felt incredibly alive and awake.

This morning, when I mentioned to my son Oakley what was happening today he beamed. He is still so proud. We took pictures in the back yard with our book. I cautioned him that people might start taking to him about the ride again, and he said that he didn’t mind a bit. This journey has gotten us through a lot. It feels like it is the center of our compass and we still hold on to it and refer back to it again and again on good days and bad. “Remember how… remember when…remember who we are?”

So, thank you. Really, truly thank you. When I listened to a bit of the book on Audible this morning, I am embarrassed to say that I cried a little. Not because I was sad, but because my heart was so full that it couldn’t hold any more. A little bit had to slip out of my eyes.

If you are interested in reading the book, please buy or order it from your local bookstore. If that is not possible, it is available for purchase on Amazon and Audible or you can order it directly through Familius Press at https://www.familius.com/book/changing-gears/

And lastly, please come celebrate with us! My book launch is May 26^th at 7PM at Lighthouse Bikes, 72 Ocean St Unit 106, South Portland, Maine 04106. Oakley and I will be giving a brief talk with a Q&A and a signing. Makes me nervous as anything, but I have definitly learned that being uncomfortable is often what growing it is all about.

For those eager to continue helping please consider:

-Share this title with as many people as possible. A quick note to friends and family can go a long way in getting it out there. If you are able-please spread the word.

-Sharing your favorite quote from the book on social media platforms with #(ChangingGears)

-Let me know which blogs, podcasts, and shows you think would enjoy my book! Better yet, give them a heads-up that they should read my work.

-Ask your local library or bookstore to purchase and stock Changing Gears

-Leave a review on Goodreads, Barnes and Noble, and Amazon- you can even copy and paste the review from one platform onto the other two!

 Please shoot me an email leahdaylcsw@gmail.com to let me know your thoughts about the book and to share your reviews, so that I may express my thanks to you, personally.

Please reach out to my publicist Jaiden at Jaiden@familius.com with any questions about my book. Okay, now I will pipe down.

Thank you for humoring me,

Leah

Warning: This post contains expletives.

The other day, I was walking through Portland with my dog Georgie. My head was in the clouds and I was in a stupor of exhaustion and smugness. Life has been busy-filled with new beginnings; my book “Changing Gears” is launching, my bike shop, Lighthouse Bikes, is going through its seasonal ramp up and it is spring. Green leaves poking out from their buds, longer days and wisps of warmth demand longer hikes and bike rides and attendant new sore muscles.

In my haze of self satisfaction, I crossed the road in front of me, ten-feet before reaching the crosswalk. I suppose I expected the sparse, lazy traffic to make way for my queenly self. How wrong I was.

“Use the fucking crosswalk, you old bitch!” I spun in my tracks-struck dumb to see a young man, lean out a passenger side window and flip me off. I wave of emotion swept through me.
I stood there, momentarily frozen, while I tried to make sense of what he had just said. He was right-I should have used the crosswalk. “Use the Fing crosswalk!”, that might have been appropriate. And calling me a bitch? Fine-rude but fine. My shock and indignation were really because he had called me old. I have never been called old before-well that is a lie-maybe by my daughter-but I thought she was joking in a teenagery way. His words washed through me. Old. Somebody viewed me as old. Was I old?

I walked the rest of the way home mulling this over and wondering why it bothered me so much and I realized that it was because comparatively, it is true. I am old and in our culture-for a woman especially, that is one ugly thing to be. Not to worry, hot on the heals of this realization I decided that there was only one thing to be done. I was going to reclaim it. Make it mine. Celebrate it for what it truly is.

I AM OLD, and smarter for it and braver, and more compassionate and worldly and eager to engage in life. I AM OLD, and I don’t want to waste a minute of it doing unsatisfying, unimportant things. I AM OLD, and my hormones no longer control the way my body feels and or my emotions. I AM OLD, and I can understand different views and opinions because life has proven to be complicated. I AM OLD, and I have deep and meaningful relationships. I AM OLD, and I am on fire-in more ways than one. And as for being a bitch? Bitches are tough and fierce! You don’t really want to mess with them.

How lucky I am to be both,! I should really be thanking that gentleman for the reminder. I suppose he was really just trying to keep me safe, and shouting out to me of some of my finest assets. He also helped me come up with the title for my next book. I have been ruminating on it for quite some time. It will be about female adventures, midlife changes and aging without shame. A book about many things we never talk about, but it sure would help if we did.

“Old Bitch!” What do you think? I am excited to get started.

My dog, Georgie, is leaping in corkscrews, thundering his paws against my hips again and again as I swing the gate open and enter my front yard. I try to pull my bike in behind me as quick as I can so that he doesn’t escape. ”No, Georgie.” I scold, “Don’t jump up.” but I am a bad puppy trainer and I give him kisses on his forehead as I chastise him. He is too cute, with his big floppy paws and overgrown teenage exuberance, for me to ever really be angry with him.

I start up the front steps, thinking about what to make for dinner, while trying not to trip over his puppy love when I see a telltale box on the front mat. I know instantly by both its physical heft and its attending emotional weight that it is my new book, Changing Gears. I wasn’t expecting it quite yet, but there it is, surprising me in its solidity.

I pick it up, brush Georgie to the side with my new myopic focus and carry it in to the kitchen counter. There, I quickly grab a long bread knife and slice through the packing tape along the sides, breathless and a little …afraid?

Sure enough, when I unfold the box there are ten copies. My heart beats crookedly as I stare at the cover. Here is the fruition of so much; the bicycling adventure, the writing and the parenting of my rascally teenage son, Oakley-who comes running.

“What did you get?” he elbows in, always eager to get front row seats on all incoming packages. He is not all together unlike Georgie, both in his teenage exuberance and his lack of spatial awareness. ”It is the book! Let me see one.” He rips one from the box and flips through the pages. He reads the cover. “A desperate mother and a distant teen? That is you-desperate!” and he laughs.

Immediately, his phone is out and he is taking pictures and instagramming about it. He posts to the world about how proud he is, and he grins from ear to ear. I grin too, but what I am feeling is a lot more complicated than pure excitement.

I realize, really for the first time, that while I wrote this book about Oakley and I, I was writing a letter, or telling a story to my best friend. It was an intimate tale about the love and challenge of parenting my child, and now, here it was, for the whole world to see; the two of us-splayed wide open. I realize that I had not only invited the world into my heart, but also gave it front row seats to my and Oakley’s struggles. I feel queasy. Would Oakley ever forgive me? Was it okay to share so much? He had known the book was coming and we had discussed what it was about, but it feels so difFerent to hold it.

Oakley takes a copy, plunks himself down on the couch and begins to read. As I watch him, my breath catches in my chest. All I can do is hope that he can understand what my intentions were.

I do believe that sharing is how we support each other. How we learn from each other. How we connect through our mutual humanness. Isolation is a killer and connection can save lives, right? Oakley’s eyes are riveted to the page and mine are riveted on him. Concern wrinkles his brow and I am sure my brow mirrors his. “Mom, why did you say that I have severe ADHD? Why did you say that I have academic challenges?”

“Because you do, and that is okay. It is nothing to be embarrassed about. You are the hero of the book. It says right on the cover that I am the desperate one. I was trying to share our truth and I couldn’t lie.”

“It makes me uncomfortable.”

“Me too, this feels really exposing.”

“Yeah. it’s weird.” he says. My queasy feeling becomes more like a roiling in my guts.

I continue watching him read. Have I made a mistake? But a moment later he smiles, then he lets out a chuckle. “This is funny, you remember that crazy bike stop owner?” He doesn’t wait for a response, just keeps reading and I watch his eyes begin to light up and to dance from word to word.

“Oaks, are you okay with it being about some hard stuff?”

‘Yeah, it is fine. I really like it. I sounds just like me.”

He reads it that afternoon and takes it to bed with him that night and finishes it the next day. He voices no more concerns, only points out a discrepancies, “It was not ten miles…it was eight!” and in the end he announces that it was a great book and that he loves it.

And so, dear reader, with all due respect, I don’t care what you think, because the most important critic has given me his praises. I do hope you like it, I do hope you enjoy our journey and I do hope you laugh, cringe and hope along with us-but his review will always matter the most to me.

It will be available for purchase on May 10th. Thank you.

My mid-western roots are firing shaming pistons into my heart as I write this, but it is true; I just went biking in Cozumel, Mexico. There is no denying it—it was over the top, perfect.

As many of you know, I live on a small island off the coast of Maine. There is a four-mile loop road here that follows the shore and is beautiful for biking—most of the time.

In the summer wafts of beach rose and sea salt fill the air, and translucent waves crash against the jagged coastline. Beautiful. In the fall, the sky is a rich blue, and the golden beach grasses and tangles of yellow and crimson bittersweet rustle in freshening wind. Invigorating. In the winter, the trees, rocks and waves stand up starkly—refusing to bend to the weather and remind me that I shouldn’t either. I love it all.

But then comes the spring or should I say, the non-season in Maine. The playful ice and snow are gone, yet it is far too cold for anything to grow. It is a long, long pregnant pause that lasts from March to late May. That is not to say it doesn’t have its beauty and fun; maple sugaring for example and…and…you got me.

So, recently when we were told by the airlines that our pandemic-era travel vouchers were about the expire, making a trip to another island possible–a tropical one—I didn’t mind a bit.

Upon arriving, we played in the water, snorkeled and burnt our ghost-like northern skin, but when I heard that I could rent a bike to ride around the island, I couldn’t resist; this was my kind of early spring biking.

Early the next morning, I snuck out of the house while the heat of the sun had not yet gathered its full force to radiate not just down from the sky but up from the pavement creating its daily heat sandwich and climbed on to my lovely,  rental, 7-speed, Specialized beach cruiser. A beauty that I had for the day at $15.

I quietly pedaled through the cool, sleepy streets of the town, seeing few people other than a couple of bleary-eyed school children  locking the wrought iron gates to their yards behind them as they sallied forth into the day. I called out a few tentative “Holas!” and “Buenos Dias!” and received sleepy grins and waves. Before long I found myself leaving the residential area behind and heading out on a bike trail that circles the island.

Cozumel’s ahead of its time. Not only have they chosen to protect 70% of their island, making a choice to only develop 30 %, they have also turned an old road around the island into a 40-mile, car-free bicycle loop. As I cycled along the eastern side of the island, I was surrounded by thick jungle on both sides that opened occasionally to give access to the white beaches and turquoise waters of the Caribbean. Not a house, not a billboard, not a bit of industry. The water here was the clearest that I have ever seen. It did not have the commanding waves like the Gulf of Maine, rather just a gentle, lulling pull that begged me to swim again and again. On I pedaled dipping in and out of the shade of palmettos, monster leaf plants and other solidarity giants, flirting with the shadows as long as possible.

Eventually, I left them behind and popped out on the western side of the island. Here the sun reigned. Instead of the gray rocks of Maine, there were miles upon miles of uninterrupted sand interspersed between points of pitted limestone. There were no tall trees here, but rather hardy shrubs like sea grape, with their vivid green, wax-covered leaves that have evolved to hoard all the water they can. It seemed like light and saturated color radiated from every direction. I played a game with myself, trying to name all the colors, but I lost. Giant iguanas and their smaller cousins crossed the road fromtime to time, but they were my only company, the only traffic.

20 miles further on I turned from the beach and headed back towards town. Here I passed a bee sanctuary for the endemic Cozumel honey bees that have no stingers and create the famed Mayan Melipona honey. I passed Mayan ruins and then a few ranches and small farms that gave way to small tiendas and tequila tasting tours. The bicycle trail ended, but the bicycle route continued on the road. A whole lane was given just to bikes and as the the road became busier I was struck by how much respect cyclists where given. Maybe it’s because grandmothers cycle here, and families with kids riding double and triple, and workmen hauling the tools and wares on cargo bikes. It is not a leisure activity—it is a necessity—and so it is treated as such. Cars give cyclists ample room. They do not crowd you or even pass you, but rather drive at a reasonable bike-friendly speed. They are also prevented from traveling too fast because of frequent speed bumps.  They do not honk at you, but always seem to cede the way, acknowledging that we are all in this transportation thing together, and why rush?

When I finally reached the western side of the island, I wiggled a little while further down to the north because I can’t seem to stop looking around corners, rounding out my ride to 50 miles. 

This island is not as different from my island up north as I might have thought. A different color palette maybe, a little bigger and warmer perhaps, but the elements are the same. The sea, the sun and the life, all doing what they can to make their way and find harmony in their interweaving.

On this week-long bicycling adventure, I encountered all sorts of obstacles-real and imagined-and I just need to say it doesn’t need to be that way. I am prone to being a little disorganized, pushing things a little too far and throwing caution to the wind. You can do this trip and have a very relaxing and enjoyable time without all my angst. Here are some tips:

1. If you need to do a ride in a bite sized chunk like I did-give yourself an extra day or two for bad weather, bicycle repair or just for fun rest days. Or just decide to do the whole damn Southern Tier if you can.
2. 50 to 60 miles a day will give you time to enjoy the local area, speak to the locals or do a watercolor. If you don’t need to push it beyond that, why do it? There is a lot to see off your bicycle.
3. Plan ahead for long stretches without accommodations by using Warm Showers (a group that offers cyclists free accomadations), or calling up local towns for suggestions.
4. Going solo is great. People seem to be especially open to conversation and help. Also, you spend more time interacting with locals rather than your cycling companion. However, if you chose to bring a buddy along, nothing ever seems as threatening.
5. Take the time to learn to do straight forward repairs on your bike and to disassemble and reassemble it. It will give you a great sense of self-sufficiency and is not hard at all. I am all thumbs and I can manage it.
6. Look at prevailing weather patterns and plan accordingly. Not all weather is predictable, but you can definitely play the odds better than I did.

I am sure there is a lot more, but I just want to make sure that my blog doesn’t disuade anyone from going out there and seeing the world by bicycle. It really is life changing.

I have spent the last 24 hours in Phoenix. I biked into the hills, lapped up the flowers, climbed Echo Canyon and sat with my feet in a pool sipping a margarita, and I can’t stop thinking about Danielle, the Apache women who helped me get to Globe.

Today is her 90-year-old grandmother’s funeral. They are bringing her home for a traditional ceremony before bringing her to a church. She showed me pictures of her grandmother wearing traditional dress and said she was one of the last in her community that spent her life wearing it. This world is changing so fast. Get out there.

My ears are ringing, pulsating actually, to the beat of high-decibel music and the cacophony of a sports bar, full of people trying to speak over it. My eyes are burning from the lights of twelve, big screen televisions playing nonstop videos, sporting events and celebrity interviews simultaneously. Too much-it has made me feel like a deer in the headlights and I have retreated to my hotel room.

Despite all the struggles with wind and cold and fatigue that I have experienced over the past week, and as much as I am looking forward to seeing my family, I am sad it is over. Am I crazy?

I had to finish my trip today, because there was no safe way for me to get to Phoenix, by bike in time for my flight home. The short cut from Globe to Phoenix is too dangerous-even by my estimation.

This morning, as I sat in the sun at the Besh Ba Gowah ruins, eating a bag of Bugles and drinking yesterdays Gatorade, I tried to really pay attention to what it is I love about bike touring, before I went home and got distracted.

The truth is-all this makes me feel alert, alert and fully alive. The working hard physically, the chasing of beauty, the close to the earth living-it all makes sense to me. I like being dirty. I like being exhausted, I like wondering what is next, and next and next. People have told me that I am naive and fool hardy to take such chances, but to me, that is living. I am not a thrill seeker-really, It is more that I am just curious.

I believe in the goodness of people. Meeting them when you have nothing, but a bike and your open mind breaks down many preconceptions and barriers. Yes, there are some unsavory types out there, but they are so few compared to the good. In all my touring, I have never had anyone try to cause me harm.
It is through interacting one on one with people, away from my normal life, that I blow up every stereo type that I didn’t even know I had.

The dangerous reservation? I passed a school there where everyone was on their way to lunch laughing. and pushing and shoving each other. It was there that I was scared that I wouldn’t make it out of the reservation by nightfall, yet their giggles and laughter sounded like birds.
In the poor reservation town of Bylas, where I ate my lunch standing up, astride my bike because of the same fear, every home along the main road had paper cups stuck in their chain link fences in the shape of their child’s name as a sign of support.

El Paso? Border town full of baddies? The first person I met on the corner spent 10 minutes telling me about what kind of bike he had and how he wanted to go on a tour. The second gave me a sports drink.

I also think people really enjoy helping. I am not using their goodwill, or taking advantage of it. I am letting it show-at least it seems that way. Just one person helping another-it does both parties good. Bike touring can really restore your faith in humanity.

And that wonderful feeling of knowing that you have everything you need is incredible. It all fits in a few panniers- food, a tent, a sleeping bag, pad, clothing and tools. If I had gotten stuck anywhere, I would have been fine. There is incredible freedom in that, It is just hard to remember sometimes, but then you get to remember again and again-I have everything I need, I can do this.

And the things you see. Every mountain range is different, every turn in the road, every sky, every ecosystem. As I pedal along I devour it all, like I have been starving and my eyes gulp it all in.

So this morning I held a rock in my hands that had been placed in a wall probably 800 years ago, and I took the time to pay attention and look across the wide open desert. Now my ears ring and I am in a high rise hotel in Phoenix and it his hard to make sense of it all. I just know I love my life of adventure and this won’t be the end.

If you enjoyed reading this blog-there is more. I have a book coming out on May 23rd, 2022, called Changing Gears, published by Familius Press. It is a story about biking across the United States from Astoria, Oregon to Yorktown, Virginia, with my teenage son and how it changed our lives-mostly for the better.

Today is hard to write about because it was a bit intense. I like to sugar-coat things and I have been called a toxic optimist, but today, I cried. It didn’t help much, so it didn’t last long, but there were tears.

I woke up cranky because my tent fly was STILL flapping in the wind. I knew a head wind today would be rough because I had to go 74 miles across the San Carlos Apache Reservation with limited services AND it was hilly. It deserved an early start to say the least.

I broke camp in the predawn and quietly wheeled my bike past the still sleeping RVers that had hung F**k Biden and F**k everyone that voted for him flags. I felt a bit like I was escaping some stronghold.

Once I hit the road I tried to bike quickly, knowing it was to be a long day. The landscape was lovely, but the wind was not. To make matters worse, 15 miles into the ride my seat post bolt suddenly sheared. I was sitting on it one second and on my panniers the next. It could have been much worse, I could have been badly hurt, but as it was I had to use quick-ties to temporarily hold it back on and wobble my way back the way I had come. The seat shimmied and leaned and I had to perch with one cheek and one cheek off for six miles back to a garage.

Luckily, there was a lovely man who had a bolt that would work, so before long I was ready to try again. As I got on my bike to go he looked concerned. “You aren’t still going to try to get to Globe today are you? Last thing you want to do is to get stuck out there on the res at night. People disappear out there.”
I pride myself on not stereo typing people, so I told him that they couldn’t be all bad and sallied off.

It was a slog, I was only able to make about eight miles an hour and it wasn’t long before I did the math and realized that there was no way I would make it, I had lost too much time. So big liberal me, was terrified.
I went to grab my map and triple check how far I had to go and realized it was gone. Lost. I turned off my phone to conserve batteries in case I needed it later for the map and feeling very alone, decided to go even faster.

The day was grueling. I felt like I couldn’t stop for lunch or take more than a two minute rest. I told myself that at five o’clock, an hour before dark, I would get a ride if I needed one.

After many exhausting and tense hours, I turned on my phone to check the time. I saw that it was time to make a plan AND, I realized I had no cell reception. Hitch hiking without a phone was too much. That is when the tears came.

Ten painful miles later I got to San Carlos. A town! I limped my way to the tribal police head quarters and stopped an man outside. With my voice wavering I told him that I was biking, there was no way I could go twenty-eight more miles to get to Globe, and did he have any idea of how I could get there. “No,” he said, ”There is no way.”

So, shaky and exhausted, I moved on. I saw an Apache a woman getting gas and thought in times like these, it is always better to go to a woman. I rode my bike right up in front of her Bronco. “Are you going to Globe?” I asked.

“No,” she said, ”but I will take you there.” And she did. She helped hoist my bike and panniers in the back, telling me that of course she wanted to help, that we all need help sometimes.

On the way she told me about her seven kids, Hoop dances and funeral rites. We talked about racism and climate change and the constant wildfires in the area. And she brought me here. The ugliest and most wonderful RV park that there ever was. Safe.

I love bike touring, and the truth is, sometimes there are just days like this. The thing that bums me out the most is that the ride was so beautiful and I was stuck in my snarly head of fear the whole time.

Last night I slept in the town park of Duncan, Arizona. It was more than sufficient, but the restrooms were quite tragic. Seems like most park restrooms in this country are. Not to worry. Right across the road was the Road House Restaurant, and so this morning, bright and early, I scurried over to partake of their facilities, as well as breakfast.

There was nobody else there except for one table of cowboy-hatted, elderly gentlemen. The waitress brought them coffee. “Don’t you want to know what we want for breakfast?” asked one.

“No.” she said. “You will have the quesadilla, Steve will have the Four on Four, Barry will have the oatmeal and Mike will have two with toast.”

“Awe shoot.” sighed one. ”Anyways, what are you guys doing today?”

“Irrigating.”

“Why? It’s going to rain.”

“It’s just gonna blow and spit enough to get the windows dirty”

“I saw a nice Gila monster yesterday. A two-footer. Once I saw a three-footer. When I was a boy I had one for a pet.”

“Did you cuddle it?”

“Nah, you ever seen one of those things whip their head around?”

“Haven’t seen many lately, they used to be everywhere. Seems like they come and go.”

“What you do see are rattlers.”

“No kidding, too many.”

“I used to work at some archeology restoration site. Girl there heard I killed a rattler and she comes to me, and she says, ‘We need to relocate those, not kill them.’ Rest of the time I was there, I relocated them alright. Right off a 200 foot cliff. Maybe they lived. She could have gone and checked on them if she wanted.”

“Oh look, something new, looks like we have blueberry jam now.”

“I don’t care for that. I like strawberry. My mother, she made jelly from pyracanthas, prickly pear, blood oranges, just about anything. She didn’t let anything go to waste. Couldn’t around here.”

Needless to say, I was riveted. This guys mother must have lived here one hundred years ago. What a world it must have been. All along this ride there are memorials to settlers that died during conflicts with the Native Americans in the late 1800’s (no monuments to the Native Americans though). These men’s parents lived here not long after. My ears strained to pick up every little nuance of their conversation. What I really wanted was to sidle up to their table and start asking questions, but I thought I was already freaking them out-the dirty, eaves-dropping girl, sleeping in the park and all.

So, I finished my breakfast, practically gave myself a tub bath in the restroom and was off. The rest of the day involved so much wind that I don’t even want to talk about it, lest I have PTSD, but I made it. 38 miles was literally all I could do and that was a stretch. Now I am killing time in the library-my go to windy-day spot.