Companionship, solitude and loneliness

In writing this blag, I have consistently shared my experiences in the first-person singular, because this blag is meant to be just that: a first hand account of my experiences and interactions with the world at large as I pedal my fool self through it (with me pretending all the while that people care what I think). There have been times, though, where it has been a stretch to maintain this singular account of my journey, because in truth, I often am not cycling alone. I have ridden with friends (both new and old), lovers, strangers and acquaintances, other cyclists out for a dayride or in it for the long haul, a priest, children, turkeys and more. My path has intersected many a time with that of another traveler, all the better when we happen to be headed in the same direction for a spell. It gives us all an opportunity to share and contrast information, stories, warnings, and I've often learned something invaluable, such as the existence of a spectacular bike path that parallels the route I was planning to take.

My most recent traveling companion was Shannan, a friend from Seattle who has spent the summer (more of it than me, actually) on a bike trip of her own. We had the good fortune to rendevous in South Dakota, and the better fortune to be headed in the same direction for a spell. She recently ended her trip back in Stevens Point (alas, graduate school beckoned). I mention her specifically because I found her story to be inspiring (certainly more so than mine), given that she had never ridden a bike much more than around the city before hopping on and pedaling for a good 3,500 miles or so. Good job, kiddo.

Shannan was headed to Stevens Point for a friend's wedding, which I was fortunate enough to be invited to last minute (literally the day before), when it turned out I'd be in the neighborhood at the right time. I was planning on going to the wedding ridiculously underdressed in my Chacos, a longsleeve plaid shirt and a $1.50 pair of Goodwill jeans I had just bought for the cold. (They were both dirty, rumpled and smelled of campfire.) In fact, the groom himself lent me a decent change of clothes to wear. All I did was fashion a highly unfashionable belt from the shoulder straps of my saddlebags, and I was ready to go to the first Catholic mass of my life (at least, that I'm aware of).

The wedding itself was very, um, Catholic, to say the least. But! It was also very Wisconsin-y; at the reception, the bride and groom were playing a game of corn hole before a toast was even made. The opulence of the reception, the four-course dinner and free-flowing booze, the music and the shaking of my behind and the fancy hotel room (albeit shared with five other people, and me on the floor) all stand in such stark contrast to the minimalism and simplicity of biking that it was a bit jarring to my system. It was fun, and great to be welcomed by such warm and inviting people, but also good to be back on the road the next day.

It's getting late in the season now, though, and I'm seeing fewer and fewer people on the road in non-car form; I'll probably be riding alone from here on out. I haven't seen another cyclist for a week, and I haven't even had so much as a conversation with someone in three days (to be fair, I haven't seen many people at all), excepting a cop last night who asked me if I was planning on sleeping where I was. I enjoy the solitude, but the loneliness that can often accompany it is hard to bear. The rural isolation here coupled with the ever-shortening days, and I'm suddenly finding myself with hours of free time every evening between when the sun goes down and when I'm ready to sleep (hence, for example, this overly long post).

Well, enough then. I squandered my extra hours this evening running around town trying to accomplish things I never got accomplished, and lost a biking glove in the process; I'm just grumpy and feeling sorry for myself, and ready for this day to be over.

Happy 60th anniversary, G&G! Happy 21st birthday, Amy! It's about time. Love to all...

A Slight Change of Plans (with hyperlinks!)

One evening as I was on my way to Milwaukee from Madison, I found myself in a fantastic brewery (a 9.5 on the Rinnan scale) in Middle of Nowhere, Wisconsin.  Leaning back in my chair with my paws wrapped around a pint of bourbon barrel brown, I reflected upon the days ahead of me, the roads yet untraveled, the cities yet unvisited, the untold opportunities that will inevitably grace my path, and I arrived at a simple and unassailable conclusion: fuck it.  Ain't no reason to battle the sprawling 'burbs of the Windy City when I have the time and ability to explore the U.P., everyone's favorite non-Olympic peninsular region.

So!  No Milwaukee.  No Chicago.  No Three Floyds brewery.  No brassin' it up with Environmental Encroachment (at least, not till Boston).  No Bean.  And a hearty yes! to autumn-coloured deciduous forests aplenty, isolation and funny accents.

I've spent the last few days taking a ridiculously circumlocutious route through Wisconsin, in a brazen attempt to hit every bike path and brewery between Madison and Michigan.  I'm resupplying in Stevens Point, and then headin' out to the nether regions of the Midwest.  Sorry, Chicago, maybe next time.  Frostbite awaits!

Changing seasons, changing landscapes

I've begun to feel the summer transitioning into autumn. It can be subtle sometimes, piercing others: a flaming red tree contrasting with the foliage of its neighbors; shade, once so vital for cover, has become chillingly cold, even in the high afternoon sun; the noticeable loss of precious minutes of daylight. Last night the temperature got down to 36˚. I feel positively jubilant about the onset of fall, but a little worried, too; in terms of time, my trip is barely even half over (if that), and in the waning hours of light and the growing cold, I fear I have a hard month or so ahead of me.

Wisconsin has udderly (yes, udderly) stolen my heart. Every facet I've seen of this state has been something to love. (Well, last night I was disappointed by a locked Trader Joe's dumpster, but that's really my only complaint.) I entered Wisconsin from the outer suburbs of the Twin Cities, and wended my way along the Mississippi river. The land was unexpectedly and uncannily similar to how I imagine the river's delta region: warm, boggy, slow and expansive; an alligator would not have been out of place. At some point I serendipitously happened upon a bike trail that split off the highway and into rural marshland. This one trail ended up connecting to a whole network of rails-to-trails bike paths that I've been able to follow for almost the entirety of the state. By the time I leave Wisconsin, I will have spent more than half of the miles here passing through back-country forest and w

etlands. The Sparta-Elroy trail passed through three ancient train tunnels blasted from the hillside, the longest of which was three-quarters of a mile long, freezing cold and containing

nary a photon of light, save for the pinpoint exits at either end.

Entrance to the world's coolest bicycle tunnel

I was hoping to make it to Madison for critical mass on Friday night, as I previously mentioned. Didn't happen, not by a long shot, but arriving Sunday morning proved to be magnitudes better. The city just happened to be throwing their first annual bicycle celebration day (I'm sure it had some more official and impressive sounding name), with giant swaths of city streets and highways open only to bicycle traffic, and replete with street bands and a procession of species and food and bike booths, and much more. I met a couple of other cyclists who have done long-distance tours before, including a great guy named Scott Stoll, who rode more than 25,000 miles circumnavigating the globe, and wrote a wonderful book about it. Another fellow, Keri, rode the Trans-Am route with his son a few years ago, and most graciously shared a round of beers and stories with me, and even showed me around campus.

Penny-farthings owning the streets of Madison

Madison is a beautiful town, strangely sandwiched between two lakes on an isthmus the width of my forearm. It has something of a reputation for being the Eugene of the Midwest, or, as my Couchsurfing host put it, "seven square miles surrounded by reality". I'm beginning to realize that Seattle is not really a bike friendly town at all; sure, it has gobs of cyclists, but is almost totally lacking in supportive infrastructure. (To any of you who defend Seattle by pointing out the existence of the Burke-Gilman trail: boooooo.) This whole damn state seems stitched together by well-maintained bike routes, both in and out of cities. I've really only ventured through the southern parts of Minnesota and Wisconsin, which are not exactly renowned for their aching beauty, but from what little I've seen, I am already planning my next trip to come back and explore the northern lake regions and into the U.P.

Enough. To Milwaukee! I am determined to find some good beer in that city, and salvage its reputation in my mind.