Some Final Words, for Now

Total number of miles: 5,209
Total number of days: 97
Total number of riding hours: 478


I arrived back in Eugene this afternoon (surprising my parents a good deal in the process, by showing up unannounced on their doorstep). There were lots of reasons for me to stay and continue to explore New York or the east coast at large, but ultimately, as my mind started preparing to go home, I found myself wanting to take the quickest trajectory possible. I drove from NYC to Milwaukee with a friend in an epic sixteen-hour marathon, and hopped on Amtrak's next "Empire Builder" from there, passing up the opportunity to stick around and explore Milwaukee or Chicago for a bit. I didn't even stop in Montana to visit my little sister along the way (sorry, Amy).

The solitary train ride was a fantastically appropriate way to end this trip: it directly retraced my ride through much of Wisconsin, to the point where I could see my ghostly self navigating paths from my window; it afforded me some much-needed time to catch up on sleep, as well as the first quiet solitude I've had in days; it chose one of the most heart-wrenchingly beautiful ways to enter the Pacific NW, by way of the Columbia Gorge; it gave me the blessed gift of slowing down my life once more, returning me to a frame of mind similar to riding, where I am content to arrive when I arrive, and time has little relevance beyond the position of the sun.

When I made the decision to be done, I knew it was the right one, and I still think as much. Passing through endless miles of wilderness and expansive plains filled with pronghorn and coyote on the train ride home, though, left me longing to be on the other side of the Plexiglas that kept me separated from the crisp air and the austere vistas of approaching winter. I think it's less the case that I'm ready to be done, and more that the rest of the world is ready for me to be done, but that's okay; I think it's more prudent to heed the season's warnings than to entertain my desires for movement. I started seeing snow on the ground as early as eastern Pennsylvania, and though the weather has been relatively sunny for the last couple of days, it hasn't gotten above 50 degrees, and has consistently dipped below freezing at night. Animals much smarter than myself are already starting to migrate or stow food in anticipation of hibernation, whereas I've spent the summer burning through most of the physical (read: fat) and financial reserves I have.

Finally, the recognition I deserve: a readerboard in Davis Square, Somerville, MA.

So what to make of all this travel? I've learned many a lesson this summer, both practical and existential; indeed, I think this much time for self-reflection opens the doors to an intense amount of personal growth, as long as one is open to such growth occurring. Unfortunately, I don't think I have any succinct pearls of wisdom to offer, except maybe to tell people not to doubt themselves; that I think everyone has the capacity to be stronger than they give themselves credit for. An open mind, an ounce of common sense, and a little humility will carry you far. Other than that, I think life lessons only carry lasting meaning in the context of direct personal experience, and not the vicarious word of another (with an exception to be made for basic survival, e.g., don't go swimming in the great grey-green, greasy Limpopo River). In the words of the great Levar Burton, you don't have to take my word for it; get out there and discover your own truth, whatever it may be.

Well, maybe just one. Traveling by train reminded me of something I experienced while heading the opposite direction earlier this summer. I've only ever carried a somewhat disjointed perspective of the country, climbing on a plane in, say, Seattle, and touching down in far off LA or DC, worlds apart from each other, with different people, different behaviours, and different expectations of life. To be sure, I've observed an astounding amount of differences in people across the country, but this summer I got to witness them with a continuity that only slow terrestrial travel can afford; I watched Oregonians turn into Idahoians turn into Wyomingites into South Dakotians, Minnesotians, Wisconsinites, Yoopers and Michiganers proper, Ohioers, Pennsylvanians, New Yorkers, Vermontonians, New Hampshirettes and Massachusettsers (my apologies for any made-up demonyms), comprising a pastiche of humanity the width of a continent. And though such differences abound according to the necessities or histories of a given region, in the end we really are all just people, with all the same passions, the same insecurities, the same needs, the same concerns, the same capacity to love each other, to sacrifice for one another, to give and to share even when it doesn't make sense to do so. As I traveled from state to state, and as the similarities began to stand out more than the differences, a very simple idea occurred to me: the only borders that exist between people are the ones we make for ourselves. To the extent that this notion applies not just to political geography, but to social interactions, and perhaps life in general, I think it bears repeating: the only borders that exist are the ones we make for ourselves.

And what now? What on earth follows almost four months of solitary travel? How do I fit back into the life I left behind? Do I even still fit?

Well, I don't really know the answers to any of these questions. I do know that being apart from my family (and friends) for this long has magnified their importance in my life, and I would like to be able to be closer to them than I have been for the last several years. I'm planning on applying to graduate schools for Fall 2010, and to that effect, it doesn't really matter much to me where I am over the next year, as long as I get to be close to my loved ones. If you want to find me, though, your best bet would be to look in Eugene, Portland or Seattle, or somewhere in between; I get the feeling I'm going to be doing a lot of floating back and forth.

But most important to me is to be able to maintain a sense of peace in my heart that I found in northern Michigan, and has stuck with me ever since. I have mild concern that that feeling may disappear in the hustle and noise of city life, but I'm not too worried. I think what I learned in Michigan was how to find peace in moments, not just places; if that is the case, then I've no cause for worry, because life is full of nothing but opportunities to find and recognize that peace.

A million thanks to all of you who followed me along on my travels this summer, who gave me support, company, food, housing, directions, wisdom, stories, laughter, and more; it's nothing trivial to say that I really couldn't have done it without you.

To the extent that I created this blag to communicate my experiences with bicycling, I don't think I'm going to continue with some mundane narration of my day-to-day life (lord knows the intertubes already have enough of that), unless something interesting happens to me that's bike-related. A lot of stories still remain untold: meeting Crash, the intrepid world traveler who trades everything he needs for custom jewelry, and was once attacked by pirates in the Carribean, whose current goal is to kayak down the Mississippi; cracking my rear rim beyond rideability in Middle-of-Nowhere, South Dakota; stealth-camping amidst one of the country's largest populations of law enforcement in Comstock, NY; that cryptic citation for public nudity in the Badlands; dissecting fruitfly ovaries at Brown University with my friend Alan; I guess at this point, you'll just have to come find me if you want to hear them. But! There will certainly be more bike trips in the future, so it might not hurt to check back in every few months or so, if'n
you're interested, that is. Until then, friends...

Love,
Scott

East Coast Shenanigans

Sorry it's been so long in writing; the last several days have been a nonstop barrage of music, gigs and travel. Not counting all of the impromptu jams with different musicians, or sitting in with other groups' sets, with the Yellow Hat Band I've played seventeen shows in seven cities in four states in ten days. It's funny to say, but three months of biking doesn't even come close to a week and a half of touring, in terms of the toll that it's taken on my body; in contrast to the ten or more hours of sleep I was getting each night on the road, I've averaged less than five since arriving in Boston; after a summer's worth of nary a health problem to speak of, I got sick as a dog from too little sleep, too much drinking, and too much sharing of food and water with other people in the exact same boat as me.

The variety of venues we've played in has been astounding: we did a workshop with a high school band in south Boston; we've played at several different bars in Providence, Northampton, Manhattan, Brooklyn and elsewhere; we took part in a multi-band performance art piece that toured Manhattan on the top of a double-decker tour bus in pajamas; a scenic ferry ride to Staten Island; a bowling alley in New Jersey; paraded around the Amherst campus; spontaneously crashed into subways and bars, horns blazing, to duck out as quickly as we appeared.

Playing on top of a tour bus in Manhattan.

And it's finally over now. Tonight was the last show, the celebratory dinner for the successful completion of Honk!, Pronk, Bronk, Bonk, and any other -onk that people cared to tack on to an already gratuitous list of music festivals. Tears were shed, toasts were made, Italians were hugged, but it's time for the bands to start heading their separate ways, at least til next April.


The last ten days has worn me out beyond all reason, and I know beyond any doubt that I'm not going to continue riding on from here. I never intended to have any milestones or goals along the way (except to get to Honk), but after more than a week on the east coast, I finally got to see the Atlantic Ocean last night. Walking along the New Jersey coast in a raging storm at 3am, salty spray and foam tumbling over me, the wind tearing away my warmth, I looked out into the black waters, and found a sense of completion and finality that I wasn't looking for, but that filled me with certitude, nonetheless. It's time to go home.

So! I'm catching a ride to Chicago with a person from Rude Mechanical Orchestra, and then figuring out my way west from there. I'm pretty romantically attached to the idea of traveling by train, so it'll still be a while til I get there, but look out, West Coast! Here I come!

The Summer I Almost Rode my Bicycle from Eugene to Portland

Number of miles: 5,188

Number of days: 83

Number of days it would take me to pedal the circumference of the world, at this rate: 398

Percent likelihood of this happening anytime soon: 0

Oh, how dearly I wanted to be able to write that title without the inclusion of the word "almost", but alas, there simply wasn't time enough. I considered at least crossing the border into Maine, just to plant my foot down and say that I'd been there, but I guess that honour will be saved for another trip. But I won't leave yinz on tenterhooks, if you're wondering: yes, I made it to Boston on time (well, Cambridge, technically). Now back to where I left off:

I still haven't quite gotten used to the east's notion of national forests, with all of their grandfathered private property; here, it's commonplace to find outright cities well within national forest borders, along with all their requisite commercial amenities. Even stranger, though viewed as some sort of park, the Adirondacks are not national forest or national park or even state park, but rather a strange amalgamation of public and private lands that enjoy some kind of protected status.

Adirondack Loveliness

Fortunately, one does not need to understand their politics to enjoy their beauty, and beautiful they were. The weather has been fairly predictable, with rainy mornings burning off into blustery, crisp, sunny afternoons, which makes perfect weather for riding through the forest, passing through cascades of tumbling leaves. The thought has occurred time and time again over the last week: I've wanted to see the Northeast for several years now, but I don't think I could've picked a better time and a better way to see it.

Sunset over Lake Durant

And the states are getting so tiny! You mean to tell me that each one of these dinky little places has the same number of senators as, say, Oregon? I could eat Rhode Island for breakfast! I crossed Vermont in less than a day, and that was following a less-than-direct route through the mountains. Vermont and New Hampshire both share a quiet, unassuming dignity and splendor; rather than trying to charm with glitz and glamour, they tend to sit back and let you arrive at the ultimately inevitable conclusion that, yes, it really doesn't get much better than this.

My last night on the road before Boston, I stayed in the garage of an abandoned house. These types of houses are easy to come by, and I've stayed in similar places a number of times on this trip, but this place was a bit different, in how suddenly the family departed. My guess is that it was foreclosed upon; there was a lock box on the doorknob, but the house was still full of stuff. The fridge was mildewing and the toilet cracked from improper winterizing, but the house was otherwise frozen in time; a calendar on a door read November 2008. They took the furniture and whatever else they must've deemed important, but it was surprising to see what'd been left: I found two rifles, entire wardrobes (including a seriously snazzy suit that fit me like a glove), a motorcycle; I slept on a cozy futon, a pair of warm Sorels inserts on my feet. I sometimes wonder what the ex-owners would think of me lying there, enjoying the ghosts of their former lives, but I think it would be okay with them (inasmuch as losing a home can be okay); if I were in a similar position, I would like to know that it weren't all just sitting there unappreciated, for no better reason than financial disagreement.

Well, if you've been paying good attention, you may've noticed that I've started to talk as though my trip ends in Boston, which brings up the question: what now? While it's certainly true that I'm putting down my bicycle for a while, it's because I've got some serious fun to tend to (because, you know, my trip hasn't been fun enough): it's time for Honk! Fest, the rip-roaringest music festival of the globe.

Honk! Fest! Attracting over 25 different brass and percussion ensembles from around the country (and in a few cases, the world), we will together watch Boston crumble at our feet like the walls of Jericho, from three solid days of brassy madness. I have the good fortune to be reuiniting with my long-lost love, the Yellow Hat Band of Seattle, for this event. After Boston, YHB, along with several other of the bands, will embark on a weeklong mini-east coast tour, through Providence, Northampton, New Jersey, and NYC.

So, the real question is, what happens after NYC? In short, I don't know yet. There are still many places that I want go while I'm over here, and friends that I want to visit, but I don't know how much bike trip I have left in me; my body is holding out surprisingly well, but my bike needs some serious maintenance if I'm going to continue riding it any meaningful distances (I've just been sort of riding it into the ground, lately, knowing that it just needs to get me to Honk!, and that I can take care of the rest later). Moreover, there's only so long that I can struggle against the ever-worsening weather.

Most importantly, though, I'm missing home, wherever that is: I'm missing being settled, and I'm getting awfully strong urges to start settling down for the coming winter. I want a kitchen that is mine; I want to be warm, and have reliable access to electricity; I want to have more than one set of clothing at my disposal (even if I end up wearing the same stuff, anyway); I want to spend time with friends and family, people I've known for longer than a day or two (no offense to all the people I've met along the way); I want my cat on my lap and my magazine subscriptions. I want Northwest beer served in a 22 at 10% minimum, dammit!

But. You never know. I know that all of these things will be waiting for me, whenever I decide I'm done, and it's hard for me to imagine not being on the move anymore. Before arriving in Boston yesterday afternoon, I spent a good amount of the morning walking around Walden Pond, and sitting on its well-worn but well-loved banks. Such treasured and tender moments seem to happen on a daily basis, and I know that there are a hundred more waiting just over the horizon for me. I think, though, that those same moments can be found in more mundane surroundings, and it's really more a matter of outlook than opportunity. This trip has certainly taught me, amoung other things, a deep appreciation for simple things, and I'd like to think I can carry that sentiment with me in whatever I do with my life.

Walden Pond

So. No answers as of yet. At this point, Honk! comes first, and then we'll see where my feelings and the weather guide me. Fortunately, I've been practicing that for three months, now...

It's a Hell of a State, too

[Editor's note: this entry was written last Saturday, Oct. 3rd. Evidently, the author has a hard time meeting deadlines, what with the scarcity of internet connections.]


Something happened while I was in Pittsburgh. I rolled into town with the sweat of several hot and muggy days clinging to my skin, but it's been almost nonstop rain and biting cold since getting on the road. The world must've decided that fall is here for good, but I don't think I've ever experienced such a discrete and sudden transition in seasons. Fortunately, as seasons go, autumn is far and away my favorite one, and October my favorite month; the weather has managed to dampen everything but my spirits, which have been soaring quite high.

In quite the unexpected turn of events, I met another cyclist on my first day out of Pittsburgh, Mike, who was also headed to Massachusetts, also in a rather roundabout fashion. We ended up riding together for a very enjoyable few days, as far as Ithaca. (Though we were headed in the same direction, he had a few more days than I did to get there, so we ended up parting ways as he took a more indirect route through the Finger Lakes region.)

The impossibly narrow gorge of Watkins Glen State Park.

I can't tell if I've actually gotten better at finding shelter at night, or if there's just more of it to be found, but I've been having enormous success at finding a covered, dry, secluded place to sleep every night; despite the inclement and steady rain, I haven't had to pitch my tarp since the beginning of Minnesota. The other night, Mike and I slept in a beautiful abandoned swan house, with sliding glass doors, a sunken (empty) pool, the whole building lined with fragrant cedar (I initially thought it was a giant sauna).

But oh! how cold it's been. I've been consistently wearing three or four layers on my torso, legs and feet during the day, and pretty much everything I have with me at night. My sleeping bag is only rated to 35 degrees, and I have a sneaking suspicion that the rating is equated with the temperature at which death occurs, not the cessation of comfort; either way, I'm pushing it to its limits. It's also been hard to stay properly hydrated, because my water is almost always too cold to drink.

But what a tradeoff! Through my shivering eyes, I've seen some of the most beautiful landscapes of my entire trip here in New York. I haven't even gotten to the Adirondacks yet, but I can tentatively say that New York has been the most consistently scenic state I've seen this summer. It's seems a pretty safe bet to just head down any road in any direction, and you won't be disappointed. Today was an uncharacteristic (and much appreciated) full day of sun, and I passed through mile after mile of burgeoning streams, waterfalls, gorges, all immersed in a rolling sea of hills set aflame by the fall foliage. I'm headed into a couple days of national forest tomorrow morning, and I can scarcely imagine how it'll manage to improve.

Chittenango Falls at dawn.

It is a bit sad, though, in having such a definitive deadline ahead of me; for the entirety of the summer, I've pretty much made things up as I go along, and explored places or stayed with people as much as I cared to, but that's no longer the case. I need to do at least 65 miles a day to get to Boston my Thursday evening, and I'm seeing a lot of things fall by the wayside as a result: I had the misfortune of missing a nonlinear dynamics lecture by math god Steven Strogatz at Cornell by just a few hours, and couldn't stick around for the next one; I stayed with a fantastic couple in Ithaca, who I would've loved to have gotten more time with (and who, amoung other things, sold me a new digital camera to break); a man I cycled past on a rural road invited me in to explore his land trust shared with twelve families, and to stay for a warm shower, food and laundry, but it was during the middle of the day, and I needed to cover more miles; the list goes on.

I think, though, in the grand scheme of things, that this phenomenon is a reflection of a broader truth, namely that there just ain't ever gonna be time enough in the world to do everything you want to. You just have to manage the best you can, and really, I'm managing pretty damn well. Minute by minute, mile by mile, I still pedal with a smile on my face, and that's plenty good enough for me.