The Heartrate of America

I have a fancy schmancy Vetta V100HR bike computer. I only bought this particular computer because it's wireless, and it was on sale for half price at REI so it seemed like a bargain. It came with three separate sensors, for speed/distance, cadence, and heartrate. The interface is so poorly designed and monstrously complicated that I have to refer to the manual for simple things like changing the time. I actually brought the manual on this trip. The irony is that I really only need the speedometer/odometer, and the cadence and heartrate sensors joined the landfill long ago. So I was amused when, during the climb up Washington Pass a week ago, the heartrate monitor began registering a pulse.

At the very top of Washington Pass was a tower tipped with a cluster of electronic monitoring equipment. I assumed that one or another of the devices was broadcasting on the computer's frequency. I saw this phenomenon repeated toward the top of each pass that followed, and occasionally in other locations. For the most part, it amused me to watch the rise and fall of heartrate of the land. It amused me until day 19.

On day 19 I was climbing a hill beyond Parma, Montana when the heartrate picked up. Only this time, the deviance spread like rot to the computer's speedometer/odometer functions. I watched my speed jump from 7 to 13mph, and then flutter between 10 and 20mph.

With tens of miles between food, water, and sleep, my odometer is a lifeline. I look to it for the hope I need to carry me through to the next oasis of services. Without it, I would be adrift in a sea of unknown bounds. When this happened near the end of my day, I nearly cried with frustration over the betrayal.

In hopes of placating the computer, I slowed, and I stopped. I cycled through its functions. I turned it off and on. I did the hokey pokey and I turned myself about. Anything to keep my precious miles. And eventually it calmed, returned to normalcy, and I went on.

As soon as I can find a decent replacement, I'm going to chuck the fucking heartrate of America into the next river I cross.

Seduction of the Innocent: how videogames warped my fragile little mind

The desire to bicycle three thousand miles does not arise without significant inspiration. If you've been following my blog, you've already read about the dad connection. But I count another, more insidious factor among my inspirations. I blame videogames.

I've been a gamer since I first plugged quarters into Space Invaders at age 9. My first home console was a Sears Telstar, which played four variations of Pong. By now, at age 40, I've owned over a dozen dedicated gaming systems. My favorite games have always been ones with big environments that reward exploration.

One of my very favorite games, just released a year or two ago, is a Japanese import called Shadow of the Colossus. In it, you spend most of your time on horseback riding peacefully through empty plains, lonely forests, remote mountain lakes, desert mesas, and the desolate ruins of the magnificent culture that once spanned them all. These long, contemplative rides are punctuated by brief, violent battles against creatures the size of megachurches, but that's neither here nor there. Really, the game is about riding the horse and enjoying the scenery.



I won't say that the game instilled me with a desire to travel, but it certainly raised my awareness of a deep seated need. During long car rides, I'd often felt the gentle tug of broad, expansive vistas, inviting me to explore them. And here I am, riding my horse and tilting my lance at windmills. The scenery is everything that was promised in Shadow of the Colossus: the endless grassy plains, the green rolling hills, the remote mountain lakes, even the desolate ruins. I haven't met any giant monsters yet, but my hopes remain high.

So the next time you hear someone claim that videogames aren't corrupting the fragile minds of our precious youth, you tell them for me how videogames turned me from a productive member of society into a seasoned vagrant, following the winds of chance wherever they may take me. In short, you tell them how videogames ruined my life!

Birds of Prey

One of the great things about this trip has been seeing wildlife that I've only otherwise seen in zoos. In particular, I've crossed paths with a lot of large birds. Sadly, they haven't often presented themselves for photographs, nor does the iPhone's fisheye lens well serve the subject, so you'll have to make do with my paltry words, which of necessity must include such cliched hyperbole as huge, enormous, gigantic, and holy shit.

I've routinely passed deer carcasses on the roadside, but on day 14 out of Ione, I startled several scavengers off of one. The flurry of feathers included several ravens, which are shaggier and twice the size of their urban cousins, the crow. Last to flee the scene was a turkey buzzard, which glared balefully at me before circling lazily to a perch in the treetops.


Srsly. There's a vulture up there.

Later in the same day, I passed by a utility pole atop which clung a five foot wide nest of woven brambles. Out of the nest there peeked three downy gray eaglets, chirping down at me.


Peep peep, dude. Now gimme a fuckin' cracker.

Days later, while following the Flathead River out of Paradise, Montana, I stopped for a dip in the river. I'd just parked my bike, changed my shoes, and walked down to the river's edge, when I looked to my right and there, not 30 feet from me, was a golden eagle the size and color of a chocolate lab. It was bent over something on the ground, but soon turned and saw me as well. For a moment I thought to run back to my bike for my camera; the idea passed just as quickly. The eagle and I stood still, contemplating each other. With not a trace of hurry, it raised its wings and hopped toward the water. It caught a low draft over the river's surface, then swiveled its wings slightly for a quick turn into an updraft, which carried it up and into the trees standing over the water's edge, where it disapeared.

That same evening, while preparing to bunk down beside a picnic table in Dixon, Montana, I heard a scrabbling noise in the tree behind me, and looked up to see what I believe was a barn owl glide silently by, and take up residence on a nearby fencepost.

Oh, and let me not forget the family of wild turkeys I saw grousing along the rode out of Colville, Washington, which quickly fled from me into the brush. I may or may not have seen turkeys in the zoo, but I've certainly seen enough of them on the dinner plate.

Day 21: Missoula, Montana

Crossing the Higgens Avenue Bridge

Missoula's a hard city to figure out in just a day. Nestled at the north end of the Bitterroot Valley and spanning the Clark Fork river, it's got an interesting frontier history and an active outdoor culture. It has the most robust bicycle use I've seen outside of UC Santa Cruz, and bicycle lanes are everywhere. The city's river still runs clean, and people swim in it right off the downtown parks. But, with a population of around 50,000, Missoula appears to be falling victim of its own success. Rather than promote urban density, planners have spun a growing web of new roads lined with generic townhomes. The city's historic downtown core shows a few remnants of pre-automotive urban density, and just a couple of new office towers; everywhere else is sprawl.


One of very few modern towers

I rode in to town during a jammed weekday rush hour, pleased to find well marked bike lanes, but surprised by the amount of car traffic. I had two things on my immediate agenda: finding a bike shop and a motel. I was going to take the following day off and enjoy Missoula while checking my bike in for a pro tuneup. I'd broken a spoke the day before. After last year's adventure, I was carrying spare spokes and tools, but I still preferred to have a pro tune.

I'd already called ahead and made an appointment with Open Road, listed on my Adventure Cycling map. Plan was to bring it to them first thing the next morning, but since I'd made it to town early enough, I stopped by to verify their location and see what was available in their neighborhood. They were located in the southside, Missoula's first wealthy residential neighborhood, which now borders Montana University. I cycled through blocks of leafy elms shading Queen Anne homes, crossed the Higgens Avenue Bridge, and checked in to the Bel Aire motel across the river in downtown, where my first act was to enjoy to take advantage of their hot tub.


Clark Fork River, between Downtown and Southside

I sat in the Bel Aire's sunken tub, relaxing my sore knees and watching the sky through the window that looked out over the parking lot. I noticed a shimmer of heat haze emanating from below the sill of the window, and sat higher to find its source. Beyond the window was parked a rusty, beaten, dark blue Crown Victoria LTD, with a device on its hood that I at first took to be a wind scoop. In a moment I realized that it was a small, propane powered barbecue grill, being tended by a snaggle toothed, scraggly haired man in a blue cap and blue t-shirt that said, "Got Roof Top?" I had noticed him when I arrived, and I had the notion that he was with the girl behind the counter who'd checked me in. I chuckled as he forked a half dozen sausages from his cartop grill, while yellow crickets climbed fruitlessly against the glass of the spa window.

In the morning, I prepared to take my bike to the shop. On the way out, I was stopped by a young woman in the alley behind the motel, who asked me, "Hey man, do you know what day it is?" I laughed, because I was so far off the calendar that I had no idea; and because I found it adorably cute that Missoula's young people still earnestly address people as "man". I checked my phone and gave her the date.

I'd unloaded my bike of all my bags, and in honor of Montana's bareheaded cyclists, I went native and rode without my helmet the twelve or fifteen blocks to the bike shop. It was freeing to ride sans helmet and bags, and it felt good, like skinny dipping or bare backing, but also a little precarious. I reached the shop intact. I've known shops that wouldn't work on recumbents, and I was pleased, when I showed my bike to the shop jocks, that they were unafraid of it. I left them with my spare spokes in case they didn't have the right ones available.


Southside

After settling affairs with my bike, I gravitated immediately toward the closest indy coffee shop, Bernice's Bakery, where I chatted with a friendly counter girl about cross country bike trips. She'd recently done a 500 mile loop around Montana, and we shared stories. Incidentally, the pastries there are excellent, and I highly recommend their spinach croissant.

After a relaxed breakfast, I went looking for a laundromat. I take an almost obscene pride in wearing the same set of bike clothes every day, rinsing them by nights, and machine washing them on days off. I have a clean set that I wear during washing days, preserving their virtue for my theoretical interviews with the press. (I also carry a pair of comfy yoga pants and a t-shirt in case I need to appear slightly more presentable.)

I settled on a place called SPARKLE!!! (3 exclamation points or 4? I can't recall.) It was a cheerful spot with a soda counter and free wifi, run by a neat, mustachioed gentleman of about 50 - whose name I later learned was Paul - with whom I shared a few words. I spun up my filthy bike clothes and sat down to work, occasionally getting half drawn into running conversations between Paul and visiting friends. At one point, Paul stopped by the table where I was transferring photos and asked, "Are you working?" He had a phone in his hand, and I thought he might need to cut me off, but no, he was there to gossip. He'd just heard from a friend that Tonka, makers of Tonka Toy Trucks, had released an actual truck. He invited me to google it up. We spent several minutes looking for it; this was the best match we found.

With still the better part of an afternoon to kill, I wandered by the boutique shops of the university area - like Seattle's U-District, but so clean! Everywhere I went, I saw bikes leaned against racks, while cyclists rode by engaged in habits usually reserved for motorists, including smoking cigarettes, talking on cell phones, and playing air guitar.


The Boutiquey part of town

Later, I wondered through downtown, and found my way to the offices of Adventure Cycling. AC is the non-profit org that publishes the maps I'm following, and they have an open offer of free ice cream for visiting cyclists. I stopped by to claim my ice cream. I was shown around their offices by a young male staffer, in a somewhat awkward presentation. It's understood that visiting cyclists are important guests, but really, the staff do have jobs apart from playing concierge. I took my ice cream, posed for a Polaroid, accepted a brief tour, and left, but not before the blue ink from the ice cream wrapper ran all over my hands, and from there to my laptop, which I'd been showing off. I felt slightly insulted.


The Wilma Theater

I made my way back to Bernice's for lunch. I find that one of the best ways to get comfortable in a new town is the repeat visit. My massage school psych teacher, Marv Thomas, said in his book Personal Village that it takes, on average, seven visits to a new place to be recognized as "a regular". I find that the process can be dramatically accelerated by walking in with a big personality.

Eventually, the shop called. My bike was ready. In order to silence the chorus of Russian crickets performing in my brakes, they'd replaced the steel pads with resin. I had mixed feelings about the durability of resin vs steel, but at that point, I was happy of anything that would free me from the agonizing cacophony. They charged me less than the cost of my motel room for the service, which seems unbalanced, but there you are.

I rode back to the motel well fed, with clean clothes, on a quiet bike with all spokes intact. I visited the Bel Aire's hot tub again, and watched the scraggly man, today wearing a different blue t-shirt, cooking steaks on the Crown Vic's hoodtop grill. All in all, a good day.

In the morning, I visited Bernice's again, chatted with the same counter girl, and bought extra pastries for the road. On the way out of town, I also stopped at SPARKLES!!! I needed an ATM, and I recalled that they had one. While there, I showed Paul my bike, and pointed out my route out of town. He dug in his wallet, and came out with a $10 gift card for a local supermarket that he "never gets to anyway". As I'd suspected, Paul was sweet on me. The card came with one string, he said, which was that I had to buy sunscreen. It was a touching gesture; the card covered my lunch.