Lancaster, OH to Connellsville, PA: Houston, We Have Hills

When we last left off, I was in Lancaster, OH, at a coffee shop using wifi. I had inadvertently biked past my host for the night, so I had to backtrack about 10 miles. I foolishly thought I could find a less hilly route than the one I took in, and ended up on rolling hills with no margin and cars rushing by at 50 mph... and also it rained... and also my chain broke.

There was much swearing.

However, my host that night was well worth it. Gloria had stories upon stories upon stories to tell. She had a farm just outside of town and I'll be sure to post at least some of her saga – between the rednecks and the Amish there seemed to be endless anecdotes. She also spent three years broke in Greece. It made me want to write a book about her life, but I think she had plans to do that herself. If she ever publishes it, I'll post a link here.

On Thursday, 5/11/17, I did not want to get up. Gloria and I had stayed up late the night before and I was tired from what would only be the beginning of the hills of the east coast. But, I had 85 miles to do. I clambered out of bed and sat down for breakfast. Gloria and I got to talking again when she asked if I wanted to see an old mill. I did, but I had 85 miles to do that day, so I was hesitant... but then I remembered, this trip was as much about seeing cool things as it was biking long distances. So I went, provided that Gloria could give me a head start afterwards.

It was worth it.

The mill had been under restoration for the past 12 years. They had just put the gears in, so I got to examine someone's fine handywork, and read a little bit about history. It was a nice recharge from being on busy roads or in a busy city, feeling like I needed to be somewhere... which is sort of the opposite of the point of cycle touring.

In the car on the head start, Gloria and I continued to have good conversation. She was truly a remarkable person and I'm grateful I got to meet her. I was her first Warmshowers guest and I hope I left a good impression because Warmshowers needs more people like her.

That afternoon was when the hills really began – I was, I had been told, now in the foothills of the Appalachians. I decided to take what I thought would be a shortcut instead of sticking along a windy river. The thing is, roads along rivers tend to be flat, and roads in and out of rivers tend to be... well, not flat.

I did run into this huge crane thing which was pretty cool:

Apparently it was once used to mine coal. As you can see, it's huge, and there was once (or is somewhere) a huge crane used to drag it along and pick up coal.

That tiny little bucket in the middle of the photo is what I'm standing inside of in the previous photo.

So, I didn't end up regretting the hilly route. In my last post I lamented the impossibility of getting away from civilization. I didn't quite do that (perhaps I never will as long as I am bound to a bike, and therefore the road), but I did come pretty close. After about three hours of climbing rolling hills, I finally summited what seemed to be the top of the world.

I eventually made it to Cumberland, OH, out of water. I didn't see a gas station or anything evidently able to provide water, and when I asked, everybody said the only shop in town was the gun shop, which sold bottled water. So there I went, and we had an interesting talk about how the well water in the city is non-potable, so everybody gets their water from out of town or from the gun shop. And they still have to pay their water bills, they just get a letter from the city every year saying if they drink tap water, they'll probably die... it made me feel I lived a very privileged life everywhere I'd resided, always able to turn on the faucet and drink whatever came out, often for basically free.

A few more hills and I made it to my host for that night, another one from Warmshowers. Craig biked across the US last year, and he, his wife, and I spent the night sharing travel stories and drinking bourbon. He rode out with me the next morning, which was an almost ridiculous morale boost – the first non-city cyclist I'd seen since the trail from Cincinnati to London, OH, and to have someone to talk to about seat height and skipping chains and hills and headwinds... it was glorious. I tried not to be overwhelming and just absorb the moment.

Craig rode with me about 15 miles, and then I was on my own again. It was cloudy that day, and a bit chilly. My layers came on and off, on and off, and the hills went up and down, up and down... and my chain broke again. When this happens, I'm able to fasten it back together with the broken link removed; but, every time I do this, it gets an inch shorter. It was now two inches shorter than when I left, and it had already been short to begin with. Aside from being too short, I was almost certain there was something wrong with it, being it had broken twice nice. So, I resolved that a new chain was in order.

A few poorly-chosen (read: hilly) roads later, I made it to Blaine, OH, and then it was about a three mile downhill to Bridgeport, OH, where there was a bike shop with a chain. The bike shop was up about a mile of flat highway that I could have ridden on if I'd wanted, but I didn't want to (because highway and I was mentally exhausted), so I opted for back roads instead... not expecting they would be as hilly as they were. This resulted in about 30 minutes of walking uphill, but by the time I was walking, I was already far enough up I would have only turned around begrudgingly. I was rewarded with a view:

Another descent back to the river, and I went into Quick Service Bicycle Shop and bought my chain. The store owner, Dave, quickly figured out I was on tour, and he immediately began regaling me with stories of his tour, which I'll add to the map when I have time. “How far did you bike today?” he asked.

“Sixty miles,” I guessed.

“Sixy miles! Come back and have a beer!”

So I spent the next half hour in the back of the shop, swapping travel stories with Dave and a pseudo-employee, Dan, drinking beer, and generally feeling right at home. Dan had done all of the ventilation system there; in exchange, Dave let him use the shop to work on his bike. “Give a little, get a little,” they called it. Just the way it should be.

I wanted to get to where I was going before nightfall, so I had to leave eventually. Wheeling felt a little sketchy, and was not the most bicycle-friendly city, but there was a bike trail that went around most of the industry. After another hour or so, I made it to a coworker of my mom's cousin, Dave, who had me on his couch for the night.

It isn’t very often I stay with people I don’t know personally or through Warmshowers (a reciprocal hospitality website exclusively for touring cyclists), so it was a privilege to stay with Dave and his family. Together, he and his wife orchestrate a demanding job, a house they sometimes make improvements to, kids in high school, the training of three dogs, and the most complete collection of Stephen King novels I have ever seen. I was impressed; on top of all this, that they took the time to invite basically a complete stranger into their home for a night was incredible. I was treated to dinner at a local restaurant, as Dave and I shared the sentiment that travel is about experiencing things you can only experience in the locale. Over dinner, we had some playful banter and genuine inquisitiveness on the topic of our differing lifestyles. It was a refreshing night for which I am incredibly grateful and impressed, and I hope it wasn’t the last time I get to spend time with Dave and his family.

The next day I took off for Pittsburgh via... mostly bike trail. There was a trail up the river, and I wasn't going to make the same mistake I'd made two days before. It did end just shy of the next one, however, and at that point even Google maps concluded there was less climbing to be done headed away from the river than up it. It was still, however, a lot of climbing.

I did have to get off the trail to get to my host for the night, a friend of my sister's who lived in a suburb just south of Pittsburgh proper.

Somebody should have told me how hilly Pittsburgh was. There were hills upon hills. I'd reach the top of one hill – or what I thought was the top – then turn and there would be more hill. This would ensue for half a mile or so, then there'd be a downhill, just to go up another hill of the same or greater magnitude. It took me an hour to go five miles, which is less than half the speed I try and average. Needless to say, my legs were very sore.

Finally, I reached... well, the end of the road for the day. You could say I completed my quest.

See what I did there?

Amy, my host, had a lot going on that night, but I was still very grateful just to have a place to stay. We did have a chance to talk briefly and she seemed like someone I’d like to get to know better given the chance. The world, it seems, is full of people like that.

Getting out of Pittsburgh was as much of an ordeal as getting in, and at one point I ended up on a road that was more like a cowpath.

Yes, Google actually told me to take this "road." I did.

Finally, though... finally, I made it to the Great Alleghany Path.

Distance to DC now countable!

The GAP runs along various rivers from Pittsburgh, PA to Cumberland, MD, where it becomes the C&O to Washington, DC. What does this mean...? No more hills for a week!

Although, I am told that the C&O is of questionable quality. Time will tell.

Along the GAP I met a wonderful trail volunteer by the name of Marei (“more-ee”). We exchanged contact info, I bought a really cool t-shirt, put my pin the map, and continued to where I'd heard there was free camping in Connellsville, PA.

Along the trail were waterfalls, old bridges, a cool graveyard from the 1800s only accessible by the bicycle path (all of which will have photos on the map or on Facebook at some point)... and, oh yea, other tourists!

I have seen in my travels so far a few people on bikes, maybe even a few people going more than ten miles by bike, but not a single pannier... until the GAP. It's full of them! I saw no less than eight people with panniers on their bikes yesterday. It was glorious. All, it seems, are taking a long weekend, or a week, or just a few days to bike the GAP or the GAP and the C&O. So the chance encounters have been plentiful. I haven't meant anyone doing a cross country or round-the-world, though by word of mouth I know there are a few out there.

In any case, I spent the night at the free camping site in Connellsville with four other cyclists. I wish I could say we all sat round the campfire singing songs and dancing, but three of them kept mostly to themselves. I did get to know and spend time with JT, an Army veteran who is kicking off his retirement by biking down the GAP/C&O. We played cards, talked about touring, he asked me if I'd met any hot girls yet... it was a grand old time.

The sunrise was nice too.

So, now we're at today, Sunday, 5/14/17. My legs are still exhausted from four days of hills, so I'm taking most of the day off. I didn't get up until 8 (usually when camping I get up at 5 or 6), though I hardly got any sleep because of the trains that constantly pass through Connellsville (one of the many reasons I am generally suspicious of free campsites, well-intentioned as they may be...). I spent about an hour this morning trying desperately to find a local coffee shop or, well, a local anything that would let me use their internet, but after a few places being closed on Sunday and a few places not having internet, I've relegated myself to the city McDonald's. I'm just getting coffee here so I don't feel too morally ambiguous about using their internet, but I've been recommended about three places to go for lunch.

Then I'll take it easy down the trail. It's stealth camping the next three nights before my next host in Shepherdstown, WV, a 190 mile ride from here. I should probably find a waterfall to bathe in between now and then... but, details, details.

Lancaster, OH: Musings from the Road

”Musings from the Road” is any post where the content is not constrained by chronology. This gives me more freedom to write about whatever comes to my mind, though the content will almost always be influenced by the tour in some way.

1. The Bike Shop Dilemma

I’ve worked as a bike mechanic before and I totally support bicycle shops, especially non-chain shops, but as a fixer and a tinkerer, I often feel coerced to spend money that I don’t really need to spend.

My bike is about half a size too small. When I bought it, it was just the frame: the Trek 520 frame costs anywhere from $3-700 new, but I found it used for $100. I usually ride a size 58 or 60, and this was a size 59. For $100? Heck yea!

So, I built it up and rode it off. Only, my neck started hurting. The frame was the “right size,” but it didn’t fit. Nuts.

I stopped at a local bike shop (colloquially “LBS”) in Champaign, IL and had an excellent talk with someone who knows more about bike fit than me. I’m a mechanic, but bike fit is a world all of its own. They spent maybe an hour with me, discussing various options from a $65 stem (piece that holds the handlebars on, $65 plus the cost of install) to a new frame at around $600 (they lambasted the cost of moving the parts over from the current frame, not knowing that I could do it myself…) to an entirely new bike at around $1200. If I am going to bike around the world, I want a bike that fits, and $1200 to save myself from a year or more of neck pain is definitely worth it.

And yet…

We mourned the lack of standard sizing in the bicycle world: road bikes use centimeters; mountain bikes use inches; some companies just use small, medium, large; how even between bikes that use the same system, two bikes that are the “same size” (such as 58 cm) might fit entirely differently. This isn’t the shop’s fault, it isn’t my fault. It isn’t anybody’s “fault,” really. It’s the result of some manufacturers thinking their way is better and some not caring enough to get it right and probably some unintentional imperfections. But it’s annoying and it shouldn’t cost $1200 to fix.

So I went on Amazon and bought this for $12 instead:

On the one hand, I am incredibly grateful to this LBS for spending time with me, answering all my questions, and in general giving me great service and being very kind to me.

On the other, my neck doesn’t hurt anymore, and it cost me all of $12, much less $65, much less $1200. Does my bike fit perfectly? No, of course not. If I went in and asked to have it fit as is, would they recommend getting “a bike that fits?” Probably, yea. And to be honest, if I worked there as a mechanic, I would probably say the same thing.

It is a shortcoming of bicycles that finding the right one can often be such an ordeal. When you get in a car and the seat isn’t adjusted properly, the solution is… fiddle with the seat until it’s adjusted properly. Nobody ever gave up cars because they tried one that was uncomfortable. Yet when some people get on a bicycle and it’s the wrong size or not adjusted properly, the sad, too-often solution is that they conclude “bicycles are uncomfortable.”

I don’t know that I have a conclusion to this one -- it’s mostly about sharing the ambiguous feelings I have about spending money and a general wish that fitting bikes was less of a black box. I absolutely think it’s worth it to spend a bit more to shop locally (I could, and probably will at some point, detail why doing otherwise often hurts more than helps your wallet). Support your local bike shop. Get a bike that fits -- buy a fit if you have to. But also, sometimes there are drastically more affordable solutions than the ones suggested by professionals with the best of intentions.

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2. One with Nature

It goes without saying that when bicycle touring, you spend a lot of time outside. Yet no matter how far you bike, there is always some way (besides the road itself) that we seem to have polluted nature. There’s almost always power lines obscuring your photos, there’s trash in the most random (and sad) places. The two worst perpetrators, in my opinion, are lawns and noise.

Lawns? Yes. Why do we need so much finely mowed green? Because it looks nice? Seriously? There’s three times as much lawn in the US as corn, making it the most irrigated crop in the country. 9 billion gallons of water per day. PER FREAKING DAY. Not to mention the amount of time and gas we spend mowing. We spend more on lawn care than foreign aid.

Don’t get me wrong. I like having a nice, soft bed of grass to lie on as much as the next guy. Chances are if you’re reading this, I’m not talking about your lawn (but do you really use it enough to warrant spending 90 hours a year maintaining it?). There are some huge freaking lawns out there, and I’m sure all the action they get is the mower. Lawn space is nice. But we need a fraction of what we’ve somehow decided is necessary.

Then, there’s the noise. There’s nothing like escaping the city and highway sounds and just hearing wind and nature around you. This happens rarely -- less than ten times in the two or three weeks I’ve been pedaling. Most of the time I hear the low drone of a highway in the distance, as if mother nature is groaning beneath our weight.

And when you do escape the lawns and the noise (which you almost never do), there’s usually trash somewhere.

Cycle touring is many things. It’s been a great way to meet people, gather stories, and see places I wouldn’t otherwise see. It is also an expose into the omnipresence of humankind and our impact on the world. Often, our reach seems inescapable. We have become one with nature.

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3. Horns

On a bike, cars communicate with you in various ways. Most pass you with plenty of space -- four or five feet, much more than the legally required three. Some wait behind you if there is oncoming traffic. That’s awesome!

Some honk.

This musing isn’t to slander people that honk. I think, in fact, that it’s usually well intended: “I’m here!” I really think very few people that honk mean, “Get off the road, asshole!”

The problem is that regardless of the intention, it usually scares the living daylights out of me.

If you want to tell me to “get off the road, asshole,” then just roll down your window and do that. It’s less passive aggressive and less dangerous since you’ve slowed down to 12 mph to say it (I can’t hear you if you’re going faster than me). I’ll probably smile and wave, because I almost guarantee I know the bicycle laws better than you. My life depends on it, so I’ve made a conscious decision to be wherever I am in the road, despite the traffic or the presence of a margin or sidewalk (fun fact: riding a bike in the sidewalk is 25x more dangerous than riding a bike in the road. Visibility and predictability are my bets at why). If I’m in the road instead of on the white line, it’s to make you go around me, instead of thinking, “Hey, I can sneak by…” “Sneaking by” is how accidents happen. It’s annoying for both of us -- I’d rather there be a bike lane too! But for both of our safeties, please wait until there’s space (either in the opposing lane or via the appearance of a margin).

If you want to let me know you’re there… thanks, but no thanks. I probably already know you’re there, unless you’re driving an electric vehicle and snuck up on me at 15 mph. If I need to take the lane, I’ll check for cars first.

So whether you mean it maliciously or politely, please just don’t honk. I don’t know what it means and unless your intention is to scare the crap out of me, there are better ways to do it.

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4. Dogs

This musing includes some graphic descriptions. If you’re queasy or would rather not see prose made out of tragedy, you can stop reading -- this is the last musing for this blog post so you won’t miss anything else. In short: I saw a dog get hit by a car.

One of the unfortunate and uncontrollable side effects of riding a bike is that dogs love to chase you. Indiana has been the most dogful state so far -- on one day I had at least ten dogs chase after me. Fortunately, almost all of them were stopped by leashes or invisible fences.

If you’re wondering, the best solution to being chased by dogs is to stop moving. This is the process I follow when I hear barking:

• Find dog.
• Assess dog: is he or she interested in and able to chase you? If not, continue biking. Else, continue to 3.
• Brake and dismount on non-dog side.
• Keep bike between you and the dog. Stop or walk forward until it’s safe to pedal again.

Almost without exception, once you dismount, the dog will immediately become uninterested. It’s almost like you were never there and they’re playing hide-and-go-seek -- “I’m not here!” They realize you’re just a person, and people are, well… uninteresting. I’ve never had a dog continue to chase me once I dismount. Follow me? Yes. Bark at me? Yes. But chase me, as if trying to catch me? No. If they do, that’s why you put the bike between to two of you -- no dog is going to bite a bike.

Unfortunately, not every dog barks.

It was in Indiana when a dog managed to sneak up on me. They have uncanny senses, dogs -- they’ll bark at you from behind houses, cars, bushes, sometimes from a quarter of a mile away. This dog had seen me from behind a bush and had run across the yard and into the road before I knew it was there. I heard the clack-clack of its claws on the pavement and turned my head to see it. I know what I would have done then: without time to stop, I would have had to lift my leg over my bike as it rolled, balancing my weight on the far side as I slowed down so the dog couldn’t bite my ankle. I didn’t have time to think this, though. Whoosh - thud a car drove by, and suddenly there was red in the air, and the smell of blood. The real irony blood smell, that you only smell when there’s been a deep cut.

I heard a yelp, turned my head again, and saw the dog lying in the road. Thankfully, it got up and limped out of the road, whimpering loudly. Dog alive!

I stopped and waited across the road, seeing if anybody would come out of the house. There were no cars in the driveway. I’m not sure what my obligations were at that point. I was, obviously, a little shaken. The car didn’t stop -- I’m not even sure they knew; they probably didn’t even see the dog as it had only popped out of the bush a split second before. It was, I’m sorry to say, probably better that way. Had the dog startled them, they could have instinctively swerved away from it -- and into me.

I felt bad, but I didn’t know what to do. I hope that dog is okay. And I hope they leash it from now on, or put up a fence. I used to have nightmares about terrible things happening to a dog I had once, who often got distracted by moving objects. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.

Zionsville, IN to Lancaster, OH: How strange, it's sunny...

The format of this update will be different than usual: I’ll do a drier, more event-oriented post first to give some context, then shortly after, a post with a little more musing.

After recharging in Zionsville for a day and being treated to my host’s excellent hospitality (10/10 would Warmshowers again!), it was time again to embark. This was Friday, 5/5/17 and something was different from the past few days...

Hint: it was sunny.

Sun, a tailwind, and rolling hills… it seemed karma, if there is such a thing, was finally catching up to me. Or I was catching up to it? You know what I mean.

I had 85 miles until my place to stay for the night, but given the 20 mph tailwind, I thought it was prime time to try out interval shooting on my camera for the first time. I think I did pretty good:

Something pretty cool also happened to my odometer that day:

I decided to celebrate by giving Louisa (my bike) a hug, but the winning photo ended up being an unplanned one -- the camera started shooting before I was even in position, and the result was a Newsie-esque photo of me going round the pole I head leaned her against.

Happy 1000 mile dance party? Open the gates and seize the day...

Otherwise, it was a pretty standard day. Rural Indiana, turns out, is much like rural Illinois. I did have the pleasure of having Bob and his wife Carolyn for hosts that evening, who have done many cycling trips of their own and had many stories to share. The evening including, but wasn’t limited to, curry chicken, a hike in the woods, discussing digital nomading with their son, dessert, dog petting, fresh eggs in the morning from the chickens down the road, and staying in a home built in the 1850s… there were some pictures taken, but I’m going to keep them to myself for now.

The next day (Sunday, 5/7/17) also had a bit of a landmark:

It feels like just yesterday I rained into Raindiana.

Again, a tailwind, and pretty nice roads for the first 30 miles or so. But it got hillier and hillier and the margins got narrower until I wondered if I would ever make it out alive. The last five miles, however, redeemed the rest of the day:

Again, I had a wonderful host that night, some friends of my mom’s from way back when. One of them was even kind enough to try and meet me on the road to ride in with me, but he was just 15 minutes or so too early. As a result, everybody was looking at me funny on the way in -- “is that who the other guy was looking for?”

Another evening with fantastic hosts, a bit of a throwback to my days as a swimmer back in elementary school…

I didn't even know they still made these.

...and off again, back onto the trail, which I would spend the rest of the day on.

Interval shooting +1.

It was nice not to have to worry about any cars, but since it was during the day on a Monday, I didn’t see much of anyone. There was lots of pedaling on straight, flat pavement, and as nice as that can be, for hours on end you start to wish for hills…

My goal for the day was London, OH, 70 miles from where I started. I didn’t have a host, so I planned to get water, then look for stealth camping just outside of town. Lo and behold, London has free camping, and it was actually pretty decent.

I registered with the local PD, then went into town for dinner. When I returned, I found a couple sharing the camp, Chris and Christine. They had both quit their jobs to drive around the country, visiting national parks and deciding where they wanted to live next. We were, quite clearly, kindred spirits, so we spent some time getting to know each other and playing cards (by which I mean I beat them at Gin… shots fired).

As much as I wanted to see them again in the morning, I realized, upon waking up, that I would have a chance to see the sunrise if I pedaled hard enough out of town. I waited as long as I dared, hoping I could ambush them with a hug if they left for an impromptu bathroom visit, but the sky never stopped getting brighter. To the Chrisses… if you’re reading this, know that it was you or a sunrise. No hard feelings. Also, I totally found a place for you to stay tomorrow night, so you’d better legit e-mail me (why didn’t I just give you my number?).

I stopped at a gas station to pick up some biscuits, then pedaled and pedaled out of town, looking for a farm with a view… as I pedaled, the sky and woods around the trail changed color constantly: first they were black from the night, then grey, then green as the light gave them color, then everything would shift to red, orange, and purple… just in time, I found a spot to sit, have breakfast, and watch the sun rise.

The rest of today was, for better or worse, pretty non-eventful. Having left so early in the morning (I was pedaling by 6), I made it into the town where my host is by 12:30, so I’m spending the next few hours updating the blog and making sure people know I’m not dead (please note, however, that five days between updates will likely not be unusual!).

Now, let’s see if I can crank out one more before it’s time to head out of town and meet my host for the night.

Champaign, IL to Zionsville, IN: More like Raindiana...

This post won’t be a soap opera; however, I feel there is some necessary context, as I like to post about the mental implications of cycling as opposed to the just dry facts of what happens (if you are interested in my thoughts on anxiety and depression, I keep another blog to explore those). As always, expect me to be forthright and not sugarcoat things: if you want buttery, smiles-only travel stories, you’re reading the wrong blog. If you want to know everything that happens, the good and the bad, then keep reading.

I often struggle with anxiety and depression. Mostly it manifests as being hyper-aware of what could possibly go wrong and getting lost in thought (often negative thought) instead of getting lost in the moment. I’ll find myself uncontrollably exploring the fictional minutiae of having a loved one die in my arms or being arrested for something I didn’t do -- things that have never happened and are extremely unlikely to happen, but that my brain forces me to worry about all the same. This brain of my has the best of intentions, I know. So I’m usually polite when I try and steer myself away from them, but inevitably, five minutes later, there I am again, and I’ve lost a few miles of road to a fantasy of feeling.

It is with this context in mind that we’ll embark on the story of the past two days. I left Champaign after taking two days off to avoid the 20 mph headwinds that the midwest seems determined to force me to endure. I also left Rachel, who had acted about like this when I arrived:

...and who acted about the opposite when I left (thanks again for letting me stay with you, Rachel).
I left with a light breeze that was undetermined about what it wanted to do, and the sun, again, was feeling shy:

There is a saying in the cycle touring world that if you are biking by somewhere with wind turbines, you are probably not having a good day. I had biked by some on my way into Champaign, on the last day, when I’d had the 20 mph headwind:

...and I biked by some on this day, when the wind was more or less complacent. I should have taken it as an omen all the same:

I also biked by this llama.

I'm not sure why, but I think his name is Bradley.

And then I got to Indiana, and it started to rain.

It hasn’t stopped since.

I had to camp in the rain, and then yesterday, I had to ride in the rain with a 17 mph headwind. On a highway with a narrow shoulder.

Let’s back up a little. When I woke up that morning, I was warm and dry, which was a nice change from the last time I tried to camp in the rain (I’d like to thank Alps Mountaineering for giving me a discount on their one person tent, the Lynx 1. I might write more about this in a later post). Suspecting a headwind, I had ridden 80 miles of the 120 to my next host in Zionsville, IN, meaning I had only 40 to ride in the wind instead of half the distance, which would have been 60 miles. So I could kill some time. I dozed in my tent, enjoying the comparative warmth of my body to the cool breeze over my nose, poking out of my cinched sleeping bag; checking my watch periodically and hoping the rain would let up.

It didn’t.

9 AM rolled around and I concluded there was only one thing to do: grin and bear it. I mentally planned the order of operations: change out of dry sleeping clothes into cycling clothes still wet from yesterday, then into rain gear to attempt to keep myself from getting more wet, pack tent, load bike, be on my way.

Goodbye, safety and security.

I had intentionally stopped just a few miles outside the next major town, hoping that in the morning I might pass by a McDonald’s (I’m generally not a fan of fast food, but McDonald’s does breakfast pretty well, especially when one needs carbs) or a gas station with warm biscuits.

I did not -- I didn’t even pass so much as a restaurant, not that they would have let in a dripping cyclist anyways.

At the last gas station in town I stopped and settled for gas station quality coffee and tornadoes, which are basically Americanized enchiladas. I hinted at this in my food post, but one of the benefits of cycle touring is that your body so craves things like carbs and salt (and, in this case, anything warm), that otherwise lower quality food tastes a little bit like heaven.

I meandered inside the gas station taking up as much heat as I could and trying to stay out of the way before finally working up the courage to head out again. The wind and rain were progressively unforgiving as the day went on, and as I never found an Indiana road map I had settled for an easy route, not a quiet one -- a state highway that went straight from where I was to where I was going. Every few minutes, sometimes more often, a semi would pass me going the other direction, and I’d get a slap of wind and rain in the face from the current of air behind it. Every few minutes, a semi would pass me going my direction, and I’d get a brief reprieve from the wind and the ability to go faster than 8 mph for a few blissful seconds. I’d pedal, pedal, pedal, and then wham, the wind would return, as suddenly as it had disappeared.

It’s funny, you might think as a cyclist I’d be scared of semis, but I actually quite like them. They are the most experienced drivers and thus give you the most space and are the most likely to wait behind you for a safe moment to pass. You’d actually like the least space from them because of the drafting effect, but I’m not about to tell that to the next driver I meet (if there are any drivers reading this, please give as much space as possible -- you are required by law to give at least three feet, but we appreciate the whole lane if you’re willing and able). The worst are RVs: people who don’t often drive big vehicles and are usually going too fast and underestimate their margins. Any idiot can kill you, of course. But let’s not get into that.

As the day went on I became progressively wetter and wetter. I’d left my tent that morning with soaked socks and shoes. My pants are a very thin material made to get wet quickly and dry out quickly; as your legs are doing all the work, they are never cold. My torso started dry, but the rain crept in up my sleeves, down my neck, and by the time I’d ridden about 30 of the 46 miles for the day, the windy side of me was wet and cold. I was often shivering and from time to time a few choice words would leave my mouth, directed mostly at the state of Indiana and whoever thought to welcome people this way.

I was so miserable that I actually tried hitchhiking for a bit. First I hopped off at promising-looking driveways or spare lanes for passing left-turners, but as soon as I stopped pedaling the cold would creep in, so that never lasted long. For about an hour I tried sticking my thumb out while riding when I didn’t need both hands to combat the wind (I did get blown off the road twice; thankfully, the not-always-headwind was coming from the far side of the road and thus blew me off the road, not into it. I’ve noted not to ride in the opposite case). I was hoping a gracious pickup truck would be curious about my story or think, “gee, that guy must be soaking wet, and thus in need of a ride more than anything;” but, I think most people probably didn’t want a soaking wet cyclist in their car, and think more about their upholstery than the fact that being wet means I’d appreciate a heated seat that much more. I can’t blame them, and I acknowledge it’s my fault for being out there. I didn’t expect anyone to stop, but it would have been nice if they had.

I chose not to stop for lunch, afraid that if I did, I would be too cold to continue -- not that I was sure anywhere would even let me in. Instead, I would hop off the bike for a few seconds to retrieve a Cliff bar from my bag, then hop on again as fast as I could, rip open the packaging with my teeth, and eat it while pedaling.

After 42 miles of highway, I was able to turn onto a side road and enjoy little wind for the last few miles. I found the house of my host for the night, but they weren’t home yet. I spent a good 20 minutes on the porch coaxing my half-numb fingers to change me into dry clothes and settled into my sleeping bag (thankfully quite dry) on their porch to wait for them to get home from work.

Now what you’re probably thinking after reading all that is: How terrible! Yes, objectively and considered alone as a single day of pedaling, that was probably one of the worst days of the tour (he said, before even entering Africa…). But to be honest, now that I’m warm again, there was a sort of peace in it.

On my mental health blog I once wrote a post about how having a purpose tends to make people happy. On this blog (Cycle Humanity) I’ve even cited being engaged as more important that being happy. Personally, I believe that happiness is a symptom of engagement, which is a product of purpose. I have never experienced happiness as something you get by looking for it -- I’ve only experienced it more like a butterfly in a field of flowers: chase it, and you’ll never catch it. Sneak up on it, and in your zealousness you might damage its wings. In my experience, happiness is something best left to its own devices: enjoy it when you have it, and let it go when the time comes. Get lost in the moment and happiness will settle on your shoulder for a while, but as soon as you notice it’s there, it will flutter off again. The more gracefully you can let it go, the more likely it will be to come back again.

I would never opt for another day like yesterday or wish it upon anyone. But the funny thing about it was, I was so engaged in getting through it, my purpose was so clearly defined (get somewhere warm) and the actions I had to take to achieve it (pedal harder, dammit) that I wasn’t anxious at all. The only enemies were wind, rain, and trucks coming the other way. I wasn’t imagining loved ones dying in my arms or surviving a nuclear apocalypse or my bike getting destroyed on my flight to Europe (a dream I’d had that morning). I wasn’t imagining anything. I was just…

pedaling.

Now, of course, I’m here writing about it and my mind is starting to find ways to entertain itself again. Yesterday, after the ordeal, from the comfort of a bed and a few blankets, I recalled a journal entry I wrote about how hard it was to leave my friends. I’m wondering if what happened constitutes temporarily forgetting about them, and if that’s an okay thing to do: if people, like happiness, can be left for a while, if you can return to them and have them not be insulted by your engagement elsewhere. Maybe being fully engaged in surviving a windy shit of a day now means you can be fully engaged in spending time with them later, and there is less anxiety in that than in the romance of always holding onto things.

I’m taking a break day today to avoid the wind and the rain that’s still out there (seriously Indiana, this is some welcome), but I’ll pedal again tomorrow. I am most grateful to my hosts for letting me stay with them an extra day, and experiencing their personality and kindness is some of the best kind of engagement. They’ve even helped me find creative ways to hang my things to dry:

Hope no one rings the doorbell.

I guess you could say, despite the uncompromising weather and heartache, that I’m finally getting into the swing of things and feeling like I made an not-entirely-wrong choice in quitting my job and leaving my friends to meet new people every day and sleep in a new place every night. Yesterday was, in a way, fortunate. But... let’s not overthink it.

Jackson isn't overthinking it.

‘Till next time.

Madison, WI to Champaign, IL: People, Rain, and Wind

When I last left off discussing my travels, I was in Madison, WI, spending the week with friends. I left Madison on Monday, April 24th, headed for Chicago to visit my cousin.

Thanks, Mandy, for the photo.

Wisconsin was mostly kind to me on my way out, despite the rain and headwinds on the way in. Just outside of Madison I met another cyclist who had just gotten a flat tire. He was commuting from around Lake Mills, WI into Madison, a 30 mile commute. This, he said, was his race training, as he didn’t have time otherwise (my applause to him! We could all save a lot of time, not to mention gym fees, if we combined our exercise routines and our commutes…). He’d looked down to read a text from his wife when he hit a bolt in the road and blew his tire. I lent him my tire iron to get his tire off since the one he had wasn’t working so well. Coincidentally, his wife worked for Trek, the company that made the bicycle I’m currently riding.

These ducks said goodbye to me when I left Madison.

Most of the day was fairly non-eventful. I was self-navigating on county roads through small towns, and stopped for water a few times. The last town I passed through for the day was La Grange, which consisted of a combination bike shop and cafe. The bike shop, I believe, got most of its business from the hundred or so miles of trail just up the road at Kettle Moraine State Forest -- many cars with bike racks were seen that day.

I stopped at the cafe to get water and was approached by Jacob, a graduate student from Racine who had been out mountain biking for the day. He was interested in touring one day and offered me dinner in exchange for touring advice -- okay! He had done tours on the order of a few days before and someone once bought him dinner, which was, in his words, “awesome,” so he was passing it on. I hope to pass it on one day, too.

It’s harder to find stealth camping in areas that are mostly farmland, but I did find a thin strip of trees off the road just south of La Grange.

The next morning I headed off towards Kenosha, where my Warmshowers host was for the night. Again, fairly uneventful: lots of farms and small towns. About 15 miles out from Kenosha, however, I didn’t find a city on the map that I expected to, and as a result, ran out of water. I resolved to stop at the first house I saw with someone in the yard to ask for water. Thus I met Dave, who gave me more than that: he invited me in and gave me an orange, and a slice of banana bread made by his girlfriend. Turns out he was also into biking, but just as a medium to get out on the lake to go fishing. He seemed like someone I would’ve enjoyed getting to know better, but I didn’t want to take up too much of his time, and I already had a place to stay in Kenosha.

Getting into and out of Chicago proper was surprisingly easy. Less than a mile from my host in Kenosha was the Kenosha County bike trail, which at the state line to Illinois became the Robert McClory bike path. Of the short 45 miles I had that day, about 35 were covered by trail. The weather was indecisive -- the forecast had called for rain the night before, which didn’t happen, then rain by noon, which didn’t happen, then when I arrived at my cousin’s, rain 30 minutes later, which didn’t happen. It would sprinkle at times, as if saying, “I could rain if I wanted too…” and I was enticed to put on my rain jacket unnecessarily, but it never came down at any meaningful rate. I was, however, unnerved by the amount of broken glass on the trail. I was fairly confident in my tires (Continental Touring Plus) as I had used them cross country, but still wanted to ride over as little glass as possible. I did end up getting a flat that day, but it was due to a random piece of metal, not glass.

Turns out pollution affects more than just the environment...

I foolishly thought I was only going to spend the evening there, but I was enjoying seeing my cousin and her housemates so much that I stayed an extra day (the headwind might have had something to do with it, too).

On Friday the 28th I left Evanston and, thanks to the low wind, was able to get on the lakeside path and take it all the way past Chicago proper down to the southern suburbs.

The bicycle path is beckoning...

The rain was, again, undecided about what it wanted to do, and it never did more than sprinkle. I met Chip, who was riding along the lake as well, and was interested in touring himself -- we rode together for a while before reaching his turn off, and then, I waved goodbye to tall buildings and headed again into the suburbs…

That night I stayed in Chicago Heights with another Warmshowers host, Chris and Danielle, who were… well, frankly, wonderful. We bonded over cats, Disney, Harry Potter, and video games, and had a very close, 100+ point game of Ticket to Ride. Chris got the 8-train tunnel, and that was what sealed his victory, though by just a few points.

They shared cycling stories of their own, and frankly, a lot of their story in general, which was wonderful to hear. I felt, again, we would have been good friends if I lived nearby, but this was a one night stay.

Shortly after leaving Chicago Heights I got into farmland again -- even more boring than Wisconsin’s farmland though, Illinois farmland is almost perfectly flat, and all the roads are in compass directions in one mile squares… but, I did have a tailwind, so it wasn’t uncommon to find myself at 18-20 mph with very little effort, which is saying something on a fully loaded touring bike. Also, it rained. Finally. The sky seemed to let it out slowly at first, as if exploring something it had wanted for a few days (...), and then it came down hard. At first I was peeved and worried about getting wet, but after a while the rain sort of became normal, and at times it was rather peaceful, just floating along in the middle of nowhere.

That night I stayed with yet another gracious host, Doug, who, among other things, collects Christmas decorations. His house had at least 12 themed Christmas trees and 3 giant santas. It was really quite impressive. Usually at this time of year everything would have been in storage, but he got tired of paying for storage and was building a shed, but the shed wasn’t done yet… so I slept in a room with a cardinal-themed Christmas tree, a tree with only metal ornaments, two Santa Clauses, a model house, and a collection of ornaments that… well I don’t know what they were called, but there were a lot of them.

The cardinal tree.

The next day (Sunday, April 30th) I left with wind from the east, but it would shift to come from the south, and at times, I had a 17 mph headwind. Those times, I got off and walked. If I didn’t, my speed was reduced to 6 mph, sometimes 4 (walking is 3). More than once I found myself in the lowest gear on flat road. The wind was not gracious. Nor was the rain -- whereas the day before, it had made up its mind, on this day, it was on and off and on and off, at least four or five times.

I recalled more than once that I quit my last tour about 200 miles early because of the weather in the rural midwest. I wasn’t about to quit before even making it out of the country, but it took a lot of grit to make it through that day. I also had 80 miles to do -- I’d only done 50 the day before, choosing to stay with Doug at low mileage instead of outdoors at medium mileage because of a storm during the night. I was glad to have stayed indoors (during the storm, the wind gusted up to 33), but needless to say, I would have rather done 80 miles with a tailwind and 50 with a headwind than vice versa. The only good thing was since the roads were all exactly a mile apart, I had constant reassurance that I was making progress.

Finally, I made it to Champaign -- and Rachel! Rachel is a friend from college I stayed with on my last tour. She now holds the record of having hosted me on every tour. I’m writing this from her apartment. I’ve been well fed (on Sunday we went to an all-you-can eat… they didn’t know what they were getting into… or maybe they did: by the third helping I was getting mostly rice), well entertained, and well hugged. It will be a shame to go back out into the wind, but adventure calls. Indiana is less than a day away, and I’m sure it’s not quite so windy or rainy there… right?

Entertainment on the road.

Champaign, IL: The Bosnians

On Monday, April 24th, I left Madison, some of my closest friends, and a romantic interest, headed southeast towards Kenosha. I still had plans to visit friends in the coming weeks, but it was after departing Madison that I really felt I was "on tour." Leaving Minneapolis the week before felt more ceremonial than anything else, as I knew I was headed straight for Madison to see people I love.

Bicycle touring is more psychologically challenging than anything else. Unless you have a serious physical ailment, you can probably pedal 50 miles a day. Sure, without training, you'll be extremely tired and sore afterwards, but get on a bike and pedal for 8 hours a day and you'll end up far from where you started no matter how "in shape" you are. The trouble is not knowing where you're going to sleep every night, if you'll run out of water far from any civilization, and if you'll have anyone to talk to. In the US, anyways, the first two are rarely difficult – it's the third that, for an introvert anyways, can sometimes be difficult.

This is my second tour. My first tour also had a psychological hump: I spent much of day 5 on the beach in Oregon, waxing poetic about the waves and the sand and wondering what I was doing with my life.

On day 6, I met the Bosnians.

Sandro and Sead were tourists from Bosnia (Sandro is from Bosnia, but lives in the US; Sead lives in Bosnia) who were doing a border-to-border from Vancouver, BC to Mexico. We had passed each other at least twice in the past few days, so I knew there were other cyclists around, but it wasn't until I pulled over to heed nature's call and they pulled into the same alcove shortly thereafter, hoping for chain lubricant, that we became friends.

This is how I rode up hills.

They took me under their wing, if you will, helping me find a place to stealth camp that night, even cooking me dinner, and offering me advice (they were the ones who instigating my first weight-purging ritual) and – most importantly – companionship. From meeting them onwards, I was almost never alone: first it was the Bosnians, then Ken, a cyclist I had arranged to ride with via a bicycle touring forum. Once I headed east from San Francisco, I met Tim, from Germany, doing a coast to coast. When I hit St. Louis and headed north to Minneapolis, I was joined by my girlfriend at the time.

At which point my photos all became 10% more rediculous.

Additionally, I was mostly taking a popular touring route created by Adventure Cycling Association, a nonprofit that promotes bicycle touring and bicycle touring routes in the United States, so I had chance encounters with countless other tourists – at grocery stores, coffee shops, and (mostly) on the road. I was often alone, but I was rarely lonely.

Me and three other groups of cyclists who didn’t plan to meet but were all on the same route.

When my girlfriend joined me, she also had a psychological "hump" of sorts, and she got over it when we met Gene, an Illinois local who introduced himself at a gas station, invited us to stay on his property, let us use his fishing poles, and taught us to filet and cook fish. We decided Gene was her "Bosnian," and thus the term was coined.

Bosnian: A person who helps you overcome a mental hurdle, often during a major life change.

This tour has been a bit different. Indeed, I have met new people every day of the tour. I even had the good fortune to be able to stay in Madison for a week after just five days of pedaling. But maybe staying in Madison created a sharp contrast for me: where I was once surrounded by friends, I have yet to meet anyone else on tour, living the same life as me. I have met cyclists! And through Warmshowers, a reciprocal hospitality site like Couchsurfing but exclusively for touring cyclists, I have met many cyclists who have been on tour or who plan to go on tour. But except for the first 15 miles which I rode with my mom, every other pedal stroke has been taken alone.

Ask anyone with a military record and they will almost certainly insist that shared struggles are a social glue (and here is a study that substantiates that statement). I have been fortunate enough to meet many fine people since having started the tour, many of whom I could even see myself becoming friends with if we lived in the same place. But I haven't met anyone who I can share my struggle with. Leaving my closest friends and having comparatively brief, intermittent social contact has been by the far the hardest part so far.

Where are the Bosnians?