La Monteillet Fromagerie

Number of miles: 363
Number of flat tires: 228
Minimum number of pounds of goat cheese consumed: 3

Me and my big mouth. I had to go and say something about how I hadn't had any flat tires. As I rode out of Walla Walla, soon after writing last, a thunderclap announced the arrival of a storm that immediately started dumping down a slurry of frigid sleet and hail. And of course, about five minutes later, I got a flat. I fixed my tube on the side of the highway, drenched from the sleet and the passing trucks, fingers quickly freezing without my gloves. By the time I got on the road again, I could no longer feel my fingers, and didn't have much warmth left with which to heat them up. Looking up the road at the expanse of looming clouds, I knew this would be a long, cold, cold night.

But! Luck was no stranger that day. By the time I neared the end of my day, the sun had returned enough to dry me out some, as had the feeling in my extremities. As the sun was setting and I was looking for a place to bed down for the night, I passed a goat farm that looked inviting enough. I sallied up to the door, and was immediately greeted with an enthusiastic embrace, congratulations, cheese and wine, before I could even say who I was or what I was doing. I was given an AirStream to stay in, known locally as the KyleStream, which had been given to the farm by Kyle MacLachlan, of Twin Peaks and Sex in the City fame (apparently he grew up around here or something). I was stuffed to the gills with wonderful food and saunaed well into the evening.

What passes for dog food at a fromagerie (I'm not kidding).

Monteillet Fromagerie is a gorgeous farm, owned by Pierre-Louis, an endearingly charming Frenchman, and his equally gregarious wife, Joan. Goats, sheep, dogs, cats, geese, ducks and chickens all run under feet around a sprawling, lush tract of gently-wooded grassland in the Walla Walla valley, cut through by the Touchet River. In was an easy decision to stay an extra day to help out some, and get to know the place better. After a day of weeding, plowing, food and wine and playing with animals, several of us drove to the nearby town to what I can confidently say was the best bar I've ever been to in my life. jimgermanbar is the brainchild of its namesake, Jim German, a Seattle transplant who has shunned the city lights and commotion, in lieu of a more low-key and intimate setting, to bring his noble gift to all who seek it: Master and God of the Cocktail. I tried (note: tried) six or seven different drinks from him, and every. single. one. was without a doubt the best cocktail I'd ever had. After my first few tastes, it was clear this was a man who could do no wrong; I didn't even bother picking something from the menu, but just asked them to bring me "something". Wow. If you're ever in the neighborhood, or even if you're not, good lord. It's worth the drive to Waitsburg.

Hello, friend.

I set off the next morning well rested, showered, laundered, and laden with cheese. Monteillet would be an exceptionally easy place to get sucked into (they offered to keep me for the week, and then drive me to Missoula, and I don't think they were kidding), but I was ready to get back on my bike. I had a pleasant, if non-descript, day of cycling ahead of me.

But ugh, today has been the most trying by far. I woke up to rain this morning, and after wheeling my bike out of the field of grass I camped in, found both of my tires completely flat. I spent the next two hours pulling out literally hundreds (I counted) of vicious thorns from my tires, portaging my bike and gear to safer ground, and reassembling. I was lucky (or just smart) to have been carrying two extra tubes with me, because there aren't enough tire patches in the country to have fixed those poor shredded tubes. It's continued to rain nonstop all day, and though I've only made it about fifteen miles so far today, as I look out the window from the familiar comfort of a library, it seems a daunting task to head back out into the dreariness. It helps to look on the bright side, though; at least I have goat cheese.

La Furia del Viento

Number of miles: 254
Number of flats: 0
Number of bugbites: 0
Number of other touring cyclists: 0

Well, starting a bicycle trip in early May is not without its risks. Things started out quite pleasantly, as only a trip along the Historic Columbia River Highway can be. Carving its way along and through cliff faces, past countless waterfalls, and endless forest, this highway is a cyclist's dream; not only are there generous bike lanes abound, but significant stretches of the highway have been closed to cars for decades, leaving the road to just you and a few scattered pedestrians.

The Columbia River, gorge-ous as ever.

A section of the Highway, closed to car traffic.

I've wanted to do this stretch Oregon for quite a while, but after a previous experience cycling in the Columbia Gorge, told myself I would only ever do it from West to East, as the wind goes. And boy, does it go. I had been enjoying a pleasant tail wind, up until my the morning of my second day, which had me crossing the river from The Dalles to connect up to Hwy 14. By this point, the wind had picked up considerably, and continued getting worse as the day went on. I ended up having to walk my bike across the bridge, and for most of the three miles up to 14; when I tried to ride, it took all of my forearm strength to not be pushed off the road, and I had to lean against the wind considerably. Any time a truck would pass me, though, I would fall over, as though a wall I'd been leaning on had suddenly evaporated. Once I got to the highway, however, it was one of the exceptionally rare circumstances on a bicycle where the wind seems to work entirely in your favour. There was one particularly memorable mile-long uphill stretch where I kept a steady 17mph pace without pedaling. Of course, one of the downsides to all the wind was that it made any stopping/resting nearly impossible; there was nowhere to avoid it, nothing to hide behind, and it chilled to the bone, hurt the skin, exhausted the ears. (Lest anyone think I exaggerate, I will report, sans hyperbole, that the next day's Tri-City Herald reported that windspeeds of up to 102mph were recorded in the Gorge, sections of highway were shut down, more than one town declared a civil emergency, and a windsurfer met an untimely end out on the river.

One advantage of going through the Gorge is that it's the only east-west route that manages to avoid a mountain pass in the Cascades, but I was still surprised at how quickly the climate shifted right on cue; within about ten miles, the landscape changed from verdant, mossy firs and ferns, to the familiar and more subtle ponderosas, sage and burdock root of the eastern slopes.

Admittedly, not the best design for a bike path.

It's been pretty cold at night. Anticipating this, I geared up a bit heavier than my trip last summer: more warm clothes, a tent instead of my tarp, and a new sleeping bag rated 15 degrees lower than my old one. Last night was the first night where wind or rain didn't keep me huddled inside my tent all night, and I took advantage of the clear skies by finding a clear patch of ground amidst the sagebrush to unroll my sleeping bag, and got my first good view of the spring stars. It got into the mid-thirties, I think, but was snuggly warm all night long. I've been fighting off a bug that's been living in my sinuses and throat, but, this morning aside, I seem to be winning that battle.

Other than that, it's been a fairly uneventful trip so far. Water has been suprisingly scarce, though much of the dry spell was through a stretch of Washington that simply had nothing there. As I start climbing elevation through the Columbia Plateau, though, I'm sure that'll change. Fer chris' sakes, I can see snow en them thar mountains, I know there must be runoff!

Once More Unto the Breach

Spring has sprung! (Sane) biking season is (sort of) upon us once again! Betwixt the omnipresent clouds and drizzle of the Northwest, beautiful riding opportunities are beginning to bloom once more, but, much like the most precious and tender blossoms of this verdant season, will only be appreciated by those who actively seek them out. My little sister, Amy, is graduating from the University of Montana on May 15th, and I, quite naturally, will be there to cheer (read: taunt) her success, that much is certain. The paths between here (here being Portland, at this moment) and Missoula, however, are wildly unpredictable, stunningly gorgeous, infinitely alluring. In short, most everything one could possibly want in an adventure, and, given that nothing in my life is categorically prohibiting me from holidaying for a few weeks, the choice is clear: come tomorrow morning, I'm going to make like a tree and get outta here, pedal power-style.

I realize it's been several months since I've written here, but, as previously stated, I've only really ever intended this to be a blag about bicycling, reporting on the aspects of my life that pertain to the world of cyclery, and not much more than that; that said, there have been some very relevant happenings since last October.

When I last wrote, I was intensely pining for a home, for my home, and was ready to resume a more settled lifestyle. As it turned out, I had a beautiful home and situation waiting for me in Eugene upon my return, but I had a very hard time settling into it: I had established a fierce independence in being alone on the road for so long, and greatly struggled with the necessary compromises of a relationship; after the initial immediate pleasure of having consistent access to a kitchen, shower, and a roof over my head wore off, my life started feeling profoundly sedentary and muted (and, in retrospect, I really don't think it was); I've struggled through the letdown and depression that almost certainly and inevitably follow such an extraordinary experience. By the end of my trip, I craved reliability and ritual; how quickly that reality started feeling mundane and predictable. I've spent a substantial portion of the last six months traveling all around the Northwest, but it's never the same; an unfortunate consequence of car travel for me is how much the travel can only be about the destination, and never about the journey or process. I love spending time with my family and friends, to be sure, but in all the ways that bicycle travel is rewarding to me, my recent automobile-assisted sporadic and fleeting presence in any one given location has only led me to a more fractured existence. All of my most memorable experiences in the last six months have been found in stillness, in presence of moment, in awareness, but little of my time has actually been spent nurturing those moments. Even now, I have yet to allow myself to settle into the home that I so dearly wanted, and I still don't quite understand why.

But. There've been wonderful aspects of the winter, as well: lots of new music opportunities and involvement with bands (big shout out to my Crunchy Beets!), knee-quaking love, new friends, lots of time with family, and, perhaps most importantly, a concrete and ever-evolving plan for the future, which places more school (what else?) on my near horizon. It's an exciting time, rife with possibilities, as only possibilities can be.

As it stands now, I am positively champing at the bit for this trip to begin. I've spent the last two weeks solidly working at making this be able to happen, and now all that stands between me and the open road is a (hopefully) restful night's sleep.

The storm before the calm.

It's kind of funny how ill-prepared I feel for this trip, and yet how thoroughly unworried I am about any of it: I haven't so much as ridden a block on a bicycle in well over a month; I've put on more than a couple of winter pounds around the ol' midriff (I prefer to think of it as "increasing my dowry"); the daunting likelihood of rain and snow in the mountains; hell, even my socks are all full of holes. But as I packed my saddlebags tonight, an overwhelming sense of joy permeated my thoughts; I'm ready for this again. Now more than ever, the sense of peace, tranquility, and opportunity for introspection that I know awaits me out there will be thoroughly welcomed into my life, nay, embraced. So once more unto the breach, my friends, once more. In peace there's nothing so becomes a man as modest stillness and humility.

[Editor's note: I've embedded the map of my previous trip in this post, for the sake of posterity and continuity; obviously, as a new trip unfolds, a new map is warranted.]



View Eugene to Boston in a larger map

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.