I recall the eighth grade. Specifically, I recall the end of the school year. We were kings and queens of the windowless building that year, prepared fully, as we thought, for whatever was coming next. After our summer hiatus, we would be heading to that other brick fortress across the dust bowl, the site of football drills and "Let's take it to the dust bowl!" afterschool brawls to which I was never privy, to begin the end of our lives in involuntary schooling.
I was in the eighth grade. One might assume that after three years of middle school and two sessions of Sex Ed, I might finally grasp the full meaning of that popular rock hit "Cherry Pie" by Warrant. One might also assume that I might have begun to learn how to critically think and abandon the crutch of fact regurgitation before the final session of English that year. However, only one of these things would come to me, but only by receiving the first average mark of my career. And yet, as I sat in my final class of my final day in this school for which I was too cool (note: pegged jeans with silver zippered pockets) I thought there would be nothing left to learn.
One by one, we kings and queens were called to the front of the classroom to receive one final lesson that day. It was my turn to receive a personalized slip of paper from this teacher who I would not appreciate until years from then, when I would master both those lyrics and the gift of independent thought. Upon my slip was a single word that was to be a summons, a prediction, of what profession the future might bestow upon me. I felt confident that finally, this man who had caused me to take up nail-biting that year, and I, might finally come to terms with a peace accord on this our last day of school with one another. He however had other plans.
Halfway back to my desk, I unfolded my slip and had to stop strutting. My confidence evaporated into disheartened awe as I read, more than once, the word "salesman". What ever happened to "Artist" or "Olympian" or "Guy Who Saved The Amazon?" Never, I vowed, would I become that balding, greasy middle-aged man type, who knew the most about Ginsu knives and worried far too much about the bottom line to spend weekends at home or an extra few dollars on a suit tailored within the past two decades. I was confused and appalled and probably re-pegged my jeans as I quietly sat back down.
I have since doubled in age, and perhaps in wisdom. Although, I currently remain partially employed by a bike shop, where not only do I help fix things, I sell things too. Perhaps the instructor was correct. Perhaps his not-so-apparent-plan-at-the-time has finally backfired and I have not fully steered myself away from the mundane. Perhaps this scenario is all the impetus I need to recall how I, entirely naive and still in the eighth grade, wanted something bigger from myself. Perhaps the bicycle is what I need to help get me there.
6.28.2009
I work at a bicycle shop.
Nearly a month has passed since I have joined the ranks of "grease monkey". In part to the gracious social safety net I have performed my civic duty to contribute to for the past eight years, this position might be able to hold its footing for some months to come. And while it does not pay to support much of any lifestyle, this job has done its job of keeping my hands busy and my mind at ease.
The competently superior shop manager and his partner, a true mechanical monster, have dubbed the title "service writer" for me. And that is what I do. Mostly, I compose service work orders for customers needing piece-of-mind and assistance who find their way to the back corner of the retail store. What my title does not particularly afford me is the recognition that I also sell bicycles, and even fix a few of them. The service tasks that I do perform do not risk, so much, the life and limb of customers that trustingly return to their rides as if all is plumb and true. Mostly anything tagged with the words "rebuild" or "major" or "overhaul" get directly checked in and turned over to those dirtier and more capable hands through the swinging doors where the raucous sounds of clanking metal and incessant obscure punk rock are emanating. This is for good reason.
More than two months have passed since I was laid off from work for the first time. I was practicing a desk job as a salaried industrial designer, as I have been since my undergraduate schooling came to a close eight years ago. Then, the economy hit. And when it hits in the way it has, design gets shelved and often bears the brunt of a late-round knockout blow. There was sufficient worry then, as there still remains now, about keeping my funds and health afloat, but I am uplifted as I continue to climb out of reach of complacency. Most desk jobs are routine jobs, insulated jobs, and typecast jobs. I did not quite believe I fit the mold then, but as my latest reality of this fades, I have really begun to trust in this belief. My collar appears to be a bit bluer than once thought.
Where there once were soft keystrokes performed by soft hands on a keyboard beneath strained eyes fixed upon artificially illuminated screens, there now are wrenches and manmade torque and grease. And when I look up, I do not see virtual lines in virtual space that have no guarantee in becoming something corporeal someday. I see, rather, people I mostly do not know but people that I can directly help nonetheless. I am nowhere near becoming a mechanical monster myself, but I am learning new things daily about bicycles, people, and who I might rather be.
The competently superior shop manager and his partner, a true mechanical monster, have dubbed the title "service writer" for me. And that is what I do. Mostly, I compose service work orders for customers needing piece-of-mind and assistance who find their way to the back corner of the retail store. What my title does not particularly afford me is the recognition that I also sell bicycles, and even fix a few of them. The service tasks that I do perform do not risk, so much, the life and limb of customers that trustingly return to their rides as if all is plumb and true. Mostly anything tagged with the words "rebuild" or "major" or "overhaul" get directly checked in and turned over to those dirtier and more capable hands through the swinging doors where the raucous sounds of clanking metal and incessant obscure punk rock are emanating. This is for good reason.
More than two months have passed since I was laid off from work for the first time. I was practicing a desk job as a salaried industrial designer, as I have been since my undergraduate schooling came to a close eight years ago. Then, the economy hit. And when it hits in the way it has, design gets shelved and often bears the brunt of a late-round knockout blow. There was sufficient worry then, as there still remains now, about keeping my funds and health afloat, but I am uplifted as I continue to climb out of reach of complacency. Most desk jobs are routine jobs, insulated jobs, and typecast jobs. I did not quite believe I fit the mold then, but as my latest reality of this fades, I have really begun to trust in this belief. My collar appears to be a bit bluer than once thought.
Where there once were soft keystrokes performed by soft hands on a keyboard beneath strained eyes fixed upon artificially illuminated screens, there now are wrenches and manmade torque and grease. And when I look up, I do not see virtual lines in virtual space that have no guarantee in becoming something corporeal someday. I see, rather, people I mostly do not know but people that I can directly help nonetheless. I am nowhere near becoming a mechanical monster myself, but I am learning new things daily about bicycles, people, and who I might rather be.
Strip Mall
The sun casts its hue upon the front line of frail foot-soldiers. They stand slightly coated in a fine layer of plaster and one coat of discounted paint, their facades undulating in height and butchered treatment through the choked haze of a petroleum oasis.
They admonish that we enter and fight the good fight for that uncompromised cause unseen: "You needn't doubt the captain. Nothing will test this line. We live amidst placid times. Our walls of brittle green paper and words will still shelter you."
They admonish that we enter and fight the good fight for that uncompromised cause unseen: "You needn't doubt the captain. Nothing will test this line. We live amidst placid times. Our walls of brittle green paper and words will still shelter you."
6.24.2009
4.29.2009
the wetness
thick with a cool mist
the scent of countless things growing
and without permission
finds my palette open to the night air
i drink it in
the new life breathing utter honesty
of a tradition of renewal
its touch is just
wet enough just
cool enough to be just
suspended
between discomfort and bliss
it is earth
it is the sigh of a leaf just opened
of a bloom pedal just fallen
it is newness unmatched
i look up to be reminded of our company
but in place of the pinholed heavens
the wetness hangs low
and illuminated by the city's unchecked ballasts
orange replaces blue
but unlike the bees
i have not yet lost my way
the scent of countless things growing
and without permission
finds my palette open to the night air
i drink it in
the new life breathing utter honesty
of a tradition of renewal
its touch is just
wet enough just
cool enough to be just
suspended
between discomfort and bliss
it is earth
it is the sigh of a leaf just opened
of a bloom pedal just fallen
it is newness unmatched
i look up to be reminded of our company
but in place of the pinholed heavens
the wetness hangs low
and illuminated by the city's unchecked ballasts
orange replaces blue
but unlike the bees
i have not yet lost my way
4.10.2009
some deer
woods
today are packed with a monoculture
of hunters
hunting anything with a patch of fur
and a pulse
i've just cleaned my rifle
had a big breakfast
trimmed my beard
it's time to realize my father
today are packed with a monoculture
of hunters
hunting anything with a patch of fur
and a pulse
i've just cleaned my rifle
had a big breakfast
trimmed my beard
it's time to realize my father
2.23.2009
2.03.2009
when
when you find yourself at the go stillers! parade today, sipping wild
turkey from dunkin donuts styrofoam to lubricate your voice
still hoarse from sunday, think of me and yell an extra "i love you troy!" when
the hairy beast rolls on by. k, thanks. and don't forget to wear
your black and gold jester's cap made of fleece and bells.
turkey from dunkin donuts styrofoam to lubricate your voice
still hoarse from sunday, think of me and yell an extra "i love you troy!" when
the hairy beast rolls on by. k, thanks. and don't forget to wear
your black and gold jester's cap made of fleece and bells.
1.26.2009
and this music is free
like miniature glaciers sheets of median ice recede at first whisper
of spring and drop cinder grit for us randonneurs to kick up
to force us to find wider radii
as waves make quick work of a night shore we too
succumb to an unconscious repetition of cadence
of passage
the rush of cut air the soft click of the drivetrain these silent legs
as pistons of an antiquated steam engine all is lost in the deafening wind
in the music for cyclists
of spring and drop cinder grit for us randonneurs to kick up
to force us to find wider radii
as waves make quick work of a night shore we too
succumb to an unconscious repetition of cadence
of passage
the rush of cut air the soft click of the drivetrain these silent legs
as pistons of an antiquated steam engine all is lost in the deafening wind
in the music for cyclists
and this music is free
free of label of contract of culture divide to anyone who would
choose the union of metal grease leather rubber cork
and legs as the truer horsepower
12.30.2008
10.05.2008
The Long Ride
In just about eight days, I pedaled 349 miles on two wheels from M Street, Washington D.C. to Point State Park, Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania with many others from several states and a handful of countries. The trip took four pounds off my waist, mostly, made my soccer thighs, and beard, even thicker, and brought me home to clear blue October skies one day prior to turning the page on a third decade of life.
09.27.08It rained last night while I found a few moments to sleep and rest my nerves. They've been at it since I received my replacement bike frame, after returning the defective original, just eight days ago from California.
Jerry Kraynick, who modestly answers each phone call with the essential, "Bike shop …", graciously lent me some tools and a workstand and a wee bit of space, as he does for anyone that enters his bicycle haven. "It'd make my days easier of people learned how to maintain their own bikes," he often states, "and besides, I hope to retire in five or ten."
Two years before I was born, Jerry's father moved the shop after he inherited it from his father. He relocated from the Hill District to a spot tucked away under a few of the shade trees remaining along a stretch of Penn Avenue that is just beginning to see a few of those coveted beautification dollars. It'll be a sad day when he, a third-generation Kraynick's Bike Shop owner, takes down his rusted and faded sign and stores away his spoke wrench for good. Yet, there is something fitting to his leaving before the wave of gentrification swallows fully the East End of Pittsburgh.
My bicycle and I consider ourselves lucky to have discovered this three-story pot of gold and spokes and bolts. There, my Bleriot was assembled twice, mostly, and for what was remaining—tape, cables, fenders, rack—my living and dining rooms remain today in disarray.
It rained last night but so far this morning blue sky has accompanied final preparations and extended goodbyes. My lovely girlfriend had to cut her hair all cute and playful just before my leaving, didn't she…
•
I recall past summers in second-length flashbacks when my days had me perpetually out-of-doors before and after PB&J on enriched white bread, Cheeze-Its, and chocolate syrup mixed with 2% milk. On those days you would find me rearranging found patches of moss into swaths of carpet for miniature forts at the edge of the backyard's forest. I would set up battles between two and three G.I.Joe figurine battalions. The fights and intrigue would be elaborate and would last the day. There were guns and enemies, but oddly I do not recall anyone ever dying.
Some years later, when small groups of us neighborhood boys were old enough to explore deeper uncharted thickets of woods, we would take our fully articulated figurines along with firecrackers to see to it that death might finally come to any number of lesser troops. During that summer, little did we know how there was no turning back to those pure and infinite worlds of no consequence.
This ride, hopefully a respite from the world of news and war and consequence, should return me to this place, somewhat wild and mostly free. Taking a long deep breath of all the fresh air, if only for one week, may very well be quintessential.
•
Today was a light ride. First, my friend Bobby came with his friend Coco and a gal with fun hair to see me off before they continued on to shop and experience the Georgetown decadence. Then, I started off down the trail which began where M Street ended. Less than one mile into the trip, I hit my first snag and lost whatever patience I had left with the aluminum fenders mounted to my bike. Not only were they rubbing my tires, bent from the box truck ride down with dozens of other bikes, every piece of stone debris kicked up from the trail by wet tires, made an awful clang I could not tolerate for one mile, never mind hundreds.
I pulled off to the side of the trail, refused several offers for help, removed the fenders from hell, turned around, and rode back to Georgetown to locate a bike shop. I found one amidst the shops and there I found some trusty and plastic and German-made-and-engineered. The new, less-fashionable variety worked like a charm. With fenders mounted, I pedaled hard, stopping only a few times to shoot pictures in the beautifully waning daylight, to make up time and 14 miles of trail to arrive in time for my first cooked meal of the trip.
09.29.08Jerry Kraynick, who modestly answers each phone call with the essential, "Bike shop …", graciously lent me some tools and a workstand and a wee bit of space, as he does for anyone that enters his bicycle haven. "It'd make my days easier of people learned how to maintain their own bikes," he often states, "and besides, I hope to retire in five or ten."
Two years before I was born, Jerry's father moved the shop after he inherited it from his father. He relocated from the Hill District to a spot tucked away under a few of the shade trees remaining along a stretch of Penn Avenue that is just beginning to see a few of those coveted beautification dollars. It'll be a sad day when he, a third-generation Kraynick's Bike Shop owner, takes down his rusted and faded sign and stores away his spoke wrench for good. Yet, there is something fitting to his leaving before the wave of gentrification swallows fully the East End of Pittsburgh.
My bicycle and I consider ourselves lucky to have discovered this three-story pot of gold and spokes and bolts. There, my Bleriot was assembled twice, mostly, and for what was remaining—tape, cables, fenders, rack—my living and dining rooms remain today in disarray.
It rained last night but so far this morning blue sky has accompanied final preparations and extended goodbyes. My lovely girlfriend had to cut her hair all cute and playful just before my leaving, didn't she…
•
I recall past summers in second-length flashbacks when my days had me perpetually out-of-doors before and after PB&J on enriched white bread, Cheeze-Its, and chocolate syrup mixed with 2% milk. On those days you would find me rearranging found patches of moss into swaths of carpet for miniature forts at the edge of the backyard's forest. I would set up battles between two and three G.I.Joe figurine battalions. The fights and intrigue would be elaborate and would last the day. There were guns and enemies, but oddly I do not recall anyone ever dying.
Some years later, when small groups of us neighborhood boys were old enough to explore deeper uncharted thickets of woods, we would take our fully articulated figurines along with firecrackers to see to it that death might finally come to any number of lesser troops. During that summer, little did we know how there was no turning back to those pure and infinite worlds of no consequence.
This ride, hopefully a respite from the world of news and war and consequence, should return me to this place, somewhat wild and mostly free. Taking a long deep breath of all the fresh air, if only for one week, may very well be quintessential.
•
Today was a light ride. First, my friend Bobby came with his friend Coco and a gal with fun hair to see me off before they continued on to shop and experience the Georgetown decadence. Then, I started off down the trail which began where M Street ended. Less than one mile into the trip, I hit my first snag and lost whatever patience I had left with the aluminum fenders mounted to my bike. Not only were they rubbing my tires, bent from the box truck ride down with dozens of other bikes, every piece of stone debris kicked up from the trail by wet tires, made an awful clang I could not tolerate for one mile, never mind hundreds.
I pulled off to the side of the trail, refused several offers for help, removed the fenders from hell, turned around, and rode back to Georgetown to locate a bike shop. I found one amidst the shops and there I found some trusty and plastic and German-made-and-engineered. The new, less-fashionable variety worked like a charm. With fenders mounted, I pedaled hard, stopping only a few times to shoot pictures in the beautifully waning daylight, to make up time and 14 miles of trail to arrive in time for my first cooked meal of the trip.
The Potomac on my left and the long abandoned canal on my right have been the steady rails to this two-wheel journey northwestward. Besides this, I have found the only constants to be sleeping, riding, and the intake of calories. The relationship of food as fuel has been rekindled in my genes as filled plates–yes, more than one–are cleaned long before anything finds my stomach. How nice modern life is to be able to enjoy food beyond its strict utility.
Imagine having marched 17 miles in several hours without any break or wonder cake and be expected to stand attention, in front of a shower of lead, and beneath Shrapnel’s exploding ordinances. Today my idea of hunger was tested during a detour into the nearby rolling farmland hills of Maryland. Antietem, the battle named after a small tributary from the North which ran red with blood of some 23,000 who lost their lives in just 12 hours on that day, was fought by men, many without shoes and all without bananas or meal replacement snack bars or freedom from fear. Even after learning this and witnessing the hallowed and silent farmland, I succumbed to the irony of leaving the three-hour battlefield tour early to try to make up the next 16 miles in time for the next scheduled meal.
•
Mile 112 brought us past yesterday’s 33 locks in varying states of disrepair, through 6,284 puddles of rust-colored mud, and into an infinite amount of gnats, biting flies, mosquitos, and all other flying insects attracted to the scent of my sweat and sheen of my eyes. Today it brought some of us onto unfamiliar roads and past a historic battle site. And as I hit the unseen wall of fading calories yesterday with 10 of the 55 miles left to travel before Harper’s Ferry, West Virginia, I did again today with but two left. This time one bruised banana, tucked away in my black British saddlebag, was destined to be my savior, my wonder cake.
09.30.08Imagine having marched 17 miles in several hours without any break or wonder cake and be expected to stand attention, in front of a shower of lead, and beneath Shrapnel’s exploding ordinances. Today my idea of hunger was tested during a detour into the nearby rolling farmland hills of Maryland. Antietem, the battle named after a small tributary from the North which ran red with blood of some 23,000 who lost their lives in just 12 hours on that day, was fought by men, many without shoes and all without bananas or meal replacement snack bars or freedom from fear. Even after learning this and witnessing the hallowed and silent farmland, I succumbed to the irony of leaving the three-hour battlefield tour early to try to make up the next 16 miles in time for the next scheduled meal.
•
Mile 112 brought us past yesterday’s 33 locks in varying states of disrepair, through 6,284 puddles of rust-colored mud, and into an infinite amount of gnats, biting flies, mosquitos, and all other flying insects attracted to the scent of my sweat and sheen of my eyes. Today it brought some of us onto unfamiliar roads and past a historic battle site. And as I hit the unseen wall of fading calories yesterday with 10 of the 55 miles left to travel before Harper’s Ferry, West Virginia, I did again today with but two left. This time one bruised banana, tucked away in my black British saddlebag, was destined to be my savior, my wonder cake.
Today was the first day that my legs began to ache. Fort Frederick to Hancock to Little Orleans where, despite our being perched atop a modest mountaintop and away from the standing pools of the old canal, we are still experiencing swarms of small things that like to bite and sting.
Rain is forecasted for tonight. So instead of occupying the large sloping lawn, I’ve opted for some throughfall protection of an old oak canopy and erected my tent in the shade next to a patch of large orange mushrooms.
•
My bowels keep reaping havoc. I overheard someone speak of how, on a few of the days with more hills and more mud, we’ve burned an average of 1,000 calories for every 10 miles of riding. With us commonly reaching this mark five times over daily, filling our plates to fill our bellies never quite seems to happen, despite the number of trips back to the tin trays and sturno. With so much more going in, you would expect the same in excess going out, but that has failed to present its case. Perhaps this is what has been ailing me tonight–my system has yet to figure out how to process all of this food which I have all but neglected as anything but fuel.
•
Today, also, my bicycle met with another mishap. Day one had me returning to Georgetown for better fenders. This foggy morning of day four found me briefly turning my back on the bike rack where I left my blue beauty. For the moment I turned to fetch water to brush my teeth, I turned around to find the elder man from Ontario bending over to pick her up. There is a reason signs posted nearby such bike racks read “Back Wheel In First…” So, I took her from Pat, without saying much except something like “Everything is fine.”, got back on to ride off with toothbrush still in mouth, but did not move. The front wheel was bent and so was I. Yet, I could not unbottle my frustration upon a man more than twice my age riding a budget bicycle more than half my age all this way.
I decided to take my anger out on the trail. I opened up my front brake to avoid rubbing and make my diligent way twelve miles down the path, past arcane centuries-old cemeteries along highways, to Hancock and the C&O Bike Shop where the day and my ride were salvaged. Afterwards, almost everyone moved indoors to Weaver’s Restaurant to fetch a famous piece of pie while Pat and I occupied a bench along Main Street, ate my two PB&J sandwiches, and chatted about the weather.
10.01.08Rain is forecasted for tonight. So instead of occupying the large sloping lawn, I’ve opted for some throughfall protection of an old oak canopy and erected my tent in the shade next to a patch of large orange mushrooms.
•
My bowels keep reaping havoc. I overheard someone speak of how, on a few of the days with more hills and more mud, we’ve burned an average of 1,000 calories for every 10 miles of riding. With us commonly reaching this mark five times over daily, filling our plates to fill our bellies never quite seems to happen, despite the number of trips back to the tin trays and sturno. With so much more going in, you would expect the same in excess going out, but that has failed to present its case. Perhaps this is what has been ailing me tonight–my system has yet to figure out how to process all of this food which I have all but neglected as anything but fuel.
•
Today, also, my bicycle met with another mishap. Day one had me returning to Georgetown for better fenders. This foggy morning of day four found me briefly turning my back on the bike rack where I left my blue beauty. For the moment I turned to fetch water to brush my teeth, I turned around to find the elder man from Ontario bending over to pick her up. There is a reason signs posted nearby such bike racks read “Back Wheel In First…” So, I took her from Pat, without saying much except something like “Everything is fine.”, got back on to ride off with toothbrush still in mouth, but did not move. The front wheel was bent and so was I. Yet, I could not unbottle my frustration upon a man more than twice my age riding a budget bicycle more than half my age all this way.
I decided to take my anger out on the trail. I opened up my front brake to avoid rubbing and make my diligent way twelve miles down the path, past arcane centuries-old cemeteries along highways, to Hancock and the C&O Bike Shop where the day and my ride were salvaged. Afterwards, almost everyone moved indoors to Weaver’s Restaurant to fetch a famous piece of pie while Pat and I occupied a bench along Main Street, ate my two PB&J sandwiches, and chatted about the weather.
At the beginning of this trip, I weighed options that would determine how organic it might pan out. I considered modern comforts: music to have in my ears to take me beyond pain or boredom; sunglasses to avoid changes in daylight brought on by passing clouds or cold drops from an autumn shower; clipless pedals to help climb the rare hill; or a wristwatch to help measure the pace cadence or the rate of my heartbeat or just to anticipate the next snack or meal. I did not mull and decided these accouterments would be serve me sitting idle at home in the city where life runs on tighter schedules and demands comforts to offset the bustle and shameless inconveniences.
I wanted to exist within the natural pace and experience the elements as they were dealt, just as those did who gave original reason for this path. For those who came generations before me, neither life on the canal nor life on the rail ever stopped for the elements save the snow and ice brought on by the Easter months.
10.03.08I wanted to exist within the natural pace and experience the elements as they were dealt, just as those did who gave original reason for this path. For those who came generations before me, neither life on the canal nor life on the rail ever stopped for the elements save the snow and ice brought on by the Easter months.
Yesterday we rode on a far more superior surface of crushed limestone and tallied our first miles of the GAP, the Great Allegheny Passage. Sixty miles, plus a few more, took us from the terminus of the C&O Towpath in Cumberland, Maryland to another river town–Confluence, Pennsylvania. We climbed the modest Savage Mountain for twenty-four miles, never descending, and near its peak, crossed the Mason-Dixon line. Here, as snow melts and rain falls, the inevitable flow of water makes its choice to travel at gravity’s and time’s pace to arrive either at the Chesapeake Bay or the Gulf of Mexico before returning to the ocean.
The Big Savage Tunnel at the peak of Big Savage Mountain was one of many unlit passages that would bring us from one threshold to another. This tunnel also brought the temperature down past thresholds familiar with hypothermia for the first time this journey. I stopped to unpack and put on my jacket, which would not end up leaving my body for days to come. No longer were my fine layers of merino enough.
Despite having also learned my lesson about proper fluid and caloric intake, I was still exhausted when I finally rolled into a town with no cell phone reception, plenty of passing freight trains, and a ball field. Here I set up camp behind the dugout after consuming two bowls of warming curried carrot soup.
•
I feel I might have gotten used to the gypsy cyclist lifestyle. Last night I slept unabatedly without the aid of earplugs to drown out the thunder of the rails. I awoke in the darkness just before dawn, dismantled and packed my tent, ate ravenously again, remounted, and rode onward with the thin sunrise at my back. No matter what the routine, it apparently becomes second nature and adopts ease with the passage of time.
10.04.08
“Railroading… Settlers Life… Sand Mill… Concrete Factory… A Coal Mining Town… ” read the titles of interpretive signs that I would pass at 15 miles per hour throughout this trip. The moment's glance would be just enough to acquire a greater sense of what shaped these pockets of densely forested land before nature decided to reclaim it. These were rails built for efficiency and for industry and now are trails, built for leisure. And it was an odd sort of leisure that brought me along side them.
As I have passed through each tired town and along this pastoral route, I have wondered how much time we have left before we need the rails back. There are things in and about this world so much greater than me, or this ride, colliding with an unstoppable mass as I write this. I am both terrified and enraptured, and yet I hold on to hope that the future indulges me with the leisure I was able to rediscover during this brief journey.
The Big Savage Tunnel at the peak of Big Savage Mountain was one of many unlit passages that would bring us from one threshold to another. This tunnel also brought the temperature down past thresholds familiar with hypothermia for the first time this journey. I stopped to unpack and put on my jacket, which would not end up leaving my body for days to come. No longer were my fine layers of merino enough.
Despite having also learned my lesson about proper fluid and caloric intake, I was still exhausted when I finally rolled into a town with no cell phone reception, plenty of passing freight trains, and a ball field. Here I set up camp behind the dugout after consuming two bowls of warming curried carrot soup.
•
I feel I might have gotten used to the gypsy cyclist lifestyle. Last night I slept unabatedly without the aid of earplugs to drown out the thunder of the rails. I awoke in the darkness just before dawn, dismantled and packed my tent, ate ravenously again, remounted, and rode onward with the thin sunrise at my back. No matter what the routine, it apparently becomes second nature and adopts ease with the passage of time.
10.04.08
“Railroading… Settlers Life… Sand Mill… Concrete Factory… A Coal Mining Town… ” read the titles of interpretive signs that I would pass at 15 miles per hour throughout this trip. The moment's glance would be just enough to acquire a greater sense of what shaped these pockets of densely forested land before nature decided to reclaim it. These were rails built for efficiency and for industry and now are trails, built for leisure. And it was an odd sort of leisure that brought me along side them.
As I have passed through each tired town and along this pastoral route, I have wondered how much time we have left before we need the rails back. There are things in and about this world so much greater than me, or this ride, colliding with an unstoppable mass as I write this. I am both terrified and enraptured, and yet I hold on to hope that the future indulges me with the leisure I was able to rediscover during this brief journey.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)