Day 66 - 0 mlies (2,555)

"Conservation is a state of harmony between men and land."

-Aldo Leopold

Today I hiked around Zion. It is a National Park where its biblical namesake is an accurate portrayal of what lies behind the steep cliffs. The large red spires and steep, all white rolling rocks and the reverence that they deserve has been distilled perfectly into their current name: Zion. A name that is anchored to the ideas of religion giving it a certain weight of respect in our souls. This naming convention delves deeper than just the park’s name. Many of the peaks, trails, spires, and such in and around the park have a religious denotation behind them; giving a sense of grandeur and respect that the canyon walls echo around your body that you can feel when standing on the dusty foot paths. Today, I was hiking to Angel's Landing. The most popular trail in the park that tops any websites numerous articles about trails to hike when visiting. Despite there being hundreds of people from all around the world visiting and hiking, the trail felt silent and alone. A weird spirituality seemed to insulate me as I walked the trails, only inches from fellow humans; yet I felt peacefully alone. As I passed by other hikers, it was common to hear quiet "wows" as they stare out to the White Throne while climbing up a trail carved into the side of a cliff. Zion itself felt as if it was protecting us.

Then the view at the top, a place where only Angel's can land, you witness an impressive artistic creation of nature. 

"The Lord God took the man and put him in the garden of Eden to work it and keep it."

-Genesis 2:15

It was awesome, in the truest sense of the word. The feeling of scale and the sense of awe that you get when quietly walking the trails or enjoying the vistas is wholesome. When I was sitting on the peak of Angel's Landing, legs dangling off the edge, I felt at peace with the world. There was no worrying about food, or water, or time, or mileage, or my family, or my brother, or if there is something more to the Universe, or any other thousands of questions that sprint through the mind at an exhausting pace. I just was. It was a quiet place where you can just catch your breath and feel rested. It reminded of how important it is to take the time to sit and enjoy things. Nature makes it easy, but I know that doing it of my own accord when I'm not outside can make it difficult. This is true of millions of others who aren't fortunate enough to have the ability to save up for a trip like this and take the time off like I can. But, being here and feeling this type of reverence that lives down in your soul is something I had not felt. It was like my thoughts were being consoled by some outside force--in this case that force being nature.

This is a point I often champion. Stacks of research show that being outside and being active, even if for a walk, has dramatic positive effects to our brains. However, new research has cropped up that shows a similar positive jump in monasteries. While the research can only speak to the benefits of monasteries, I do believe that that data can be extrapolated to our churches, synagogues, mosques, temples, or any other place of worship. Places that we as a people put spiritual and emotional stock in can potentially become a place of quiet reflection and healing. This has opened my eyes to not only talking about going outside for mental health help, but to also head to the places where we worship. While I view places like Zion or the Everglades as my places to worship and seek answers, others may find it better to head back to Church/Temple/Mosque and ask the big guy upstairs what (s)he thinks.

While I had done more hiking and exploring of Zion and nearby Springdale, Angel's Landing is what resonated most to me. It was this time of peaceful seclusion where I felt as if the existential questions that sit in the back of my head was not necessarily answered, but were being addressed.

Day 65 - 26 miles (2,555)

Today, I had the pleasure to ride into Zion National Park by bicycle. 

A fact that when I woke up and remembered, ignited a fire beneath me. I filled my cooking pot with water from the nearby stream and began boiling some water for breakfast. I quickly broke down camp, poured the now boiling water into a bag full of freeze-dried chili, and stretched while I patiently waited for my breakfast to cool down. It was 0630 and the air was cool. The sun had not yet popped up over the top of the mountains in the distance so the world remained asleep and silent despite the light. After exchaning some texts with friends back home, who chided me for my choice in breakfast food, I devoured my meal and mounted Kona. I ran through the typical start-up protocol that, over the course of this trip, I developed for an efficient morning:

⦁    Helmet on
⦁    Right earbud in
⦁    Cell phone on
⦁    Open saved map
⦁    Tap the three pockets on my jersey, left to right, for: phone, snack, and snack

With a flick of my foot, I was now rolling towards Zion. It was as if I could feel the magnetic pull of it on me. The ride began with an immediate ascent up. The road disappeared around a bend and into a canyon, making it hard to guess for how long I would be gaining altitude. I continued spinning my legs in low gear as I slowly rode up, trusting that the ribbon of pavement would lead me to an outdoor enthusiast's Eden. After the steep incline the road leveled out slightly, making it easier to shift into a lower gear; but I was still gaining altitude and headed towards a plateau in the distance. I hunkered down and patiently spun towards the horizon.

Looking back on the day, I tried to put myself into what I was thinking as I was riding. I tried to remember the texture and color of the emotions that I felt as I was moving. What I realized was that I didn't. Now, this wasn't like my period in Texas where I felt as if the world was in emotional greyscale. This was something that many people call a "flow state." It's a state of utter focus where your brain basically ignores everything else to work on a task and you feel satisfied while working. It's, what I argue, is a form of meditation. Looking back on this day, I realize that this state of meditation had been popping up on my trip. It started after a few days of riding and appearing in progressively larger chunks. I was starting to figure out the conditions in my head that would allow me to relax and work on a project. It was calming.

I continued my ride around the curves of the road, feeling the pull to Zion getting stronger. The hills that were on either side of the road began to grow steeper and steeper, and in the distance I could see the canyon entrance. Between two cliff faces was a hard line in the road where the black pavement ended and red pavement began, and just to the right was the familiar arrowhead logo of the National Park Service. I was crossing into Eden via the East Gate.

The pitch of the road was on a slight downhill, allowing me to stop working and truly enjoy the views.

The road weaved between progressively steeper and more beautiful hills and cliffs. The peaks of these formations were a stark white that lead down to a pink stone at the base. It was a clear sign of the age of the Earth, that the two rocks come from very different times, and those lines show how drastic the changes were over geologic time; to human time, the changes would have been barely noticeable. I rolled silently on a flat part of the canyon that had been eroded by an anciet river that was currently called "Pine Creek." I contined my glide down through Earth's history amazed by the sights. As the canyon tightened around me, the road was forced to cut through a tunnel. Despite the pleasant heat and sun outside, the tunnel--about an eighth of a mile long--was terrifyingly dark and cold. It chilled me to the bone immediately and reminded me how small I really was on my bike. I popped back out the other side where the canyon walls continued to grow taller and steeper, reminding me of some advice I had received from a local about traveling through Zion by bike. He mentioned that heading into Zion from the East required going through two tunnels. The first was safe and easy to ride through, the one I had just appeared out of. The second had been built in the last century so it was a tight squeeze to the point that when RVs rode through the tunnel, they shut down the opposing traffic to let that one vehicle go. He told me that I would have to dismount my bike and hitch a ride through the tunnel on the back of a pickup truck as the tunnel was closed to pedestrians. As the first tunnel disappeared behind me and I remembered this advice, I tried to prepare myself for what the second tunnel would be like as I continued to follow the weaving road curious as to where the valley floor was.

Then, as I turned a corner, I saw the relative location where the next tunnel was. The two opposing sides of the canyon walls had crashed together in the distance ahead. While I couldn't see the road from where I was, I figured that the tunnel was where the two walls would meet. I pushed onwards, the curiousity of finally seeing Zion was like a buzz. I was so eager to see what it would look like in person that I was only more and more dedicated to seeing Zion in its glory. Then, as I turned the corner, I saw a lineup of cars patiently waiting in the road. The tunnel was just up ahead. I hugged the side of the road as I glided past the long line of cars. I pulled up to a parking lot and had a short hike up a trail to an overlook. And the view was beautiful. 

At the time of seeing the main body of Zion via the overlook, I thought that the word "spectacular" was an aedequate descriptor. I was thrilled to see Zion and felt satisfied that it really was as beautiful as people had seen. I hiked back down to Kona and began the process of finding a ride through the tunnel. As I began my walk down the row of cars, a woman in an older GMC pickup truck waved me over. Her and her husband asked if I needed a ride and told me to hop in the back. I loaded Kona up in the back of a stranger's truck and patiently waited for the Park Ranger to wave us through. I talked with the wife and husband while also thanking them for the ride. They were ranchers who lived on one side of Zion but had a ranch on the other side. They drove through Zion nearly everyday and took whatever cyclists they could find with them. "We enjoy hearing the stories. Plus it's a beautiful park, we don't mind driving through." They seemed like a couple who was at peace with the world, that they knew their role in existence and were happy to play it. "Alright, here we go" the man announced as he kicked his truck into neutral and let it roll into the maw of the tunnel as the park ranger waved us on. And with a surprising suddenness, me and the truck were enshrouded in darkness as we silently rolled down the tunnel, following the line of tail lights in front of us. Every once in a while a hole was cut into the side of the tunnel that gave us a flash of light. After rolling along in darkness long enough, the end of the tunnel appeared as a white sheet that steadily grew in size. As we got closer and closer I was curious as to what the view would be on the otherside. While I had already seen the canyon, I didn't know what it would like up close and personal. As we traversed through the white sheet I found out.

It was beyond words. I stared in awe at the canyon walls and their beautiful hues cascading down to the valley floor below. 

The pickup truck quickly pulled over to the side of the road and the husband and wife wished me luck on the rest of my journey as I pulled Kona off their truck bed. A quick wave and a final thank you and I was once again back on my own. I mounted Kona, pushed off with my foot, and let gravity do the rest of the work. I was now gliding down to the valley floor in a place that felt less as if it formed by natural processes and was instead carved by an artist who knew exactly what people wanted to see. I had the amazing pleasure of drinking in this work of art.

I know I'm gushing about Zion, but I can't help it. It truly is a beautiful place. A place I know Cory would adore.

After my jaw dropping ride to the canyon floor, the realities of life caught up with me. I still had no campsite set up, and I wasn't sure where I would find one. I wasn't about to stealth camp in a National Park or Springdale, the city just outside of the park entrance, where there was really no room to camp. I knew I wouldn't be able to afford a motel in the area but I really, really wanted to take a day off and hike the area. As I turned the corner, beginning to stress about finding a place to sleep, I saw a familiar shape in the distance: an old school bus painted Bloo. As I rolled closer I found my friend's Tony and Ross hanging out, eating a lunch of ramen and beer. At the same time that I waved and called out to them they yelled out and waved for me to come join them and camp out with them for the night. I guess Cory had my back on this one. I rolled into Tony and Ross's campsite after a very short day of riding. It was only two in the afternon and I was already setting up camp, looking forward to wandering in the area. As I set up camp and talked with Tony and Ross before they headed out to explore Springdale, I began to reflect on my mental status so far in the trip.

As far as this trip goes mentally, it is extremely nice to have familiar faces. It has also reminded me what a cranky, up-my-own-ass kind of person I can be at times. I have found myself waving people off as they try to talk to me or coming back with snark remarks to comments. While these are generally inexcusable, I have to remember I'm only human. After 60 miles of headwinds (after already biking several hundred miles solo) and someone said something supremely asinine like "Windy today, huh?" I bet others would also respond with a dead stare. However, Tony and Ross have reminded me the value in just being kind and wholesome because it gets you much further than any amount of smart-ass comments.

Day 64 - 58 miles (2,529)

In the morning Tony, Lorena, Ross, and I all talked, shared breakfast, and detailed our plans for the remainder of our trips. Lorena was only visiting for a few days, but Tony and Ross were touring the West National Parks. They were headed to Zion and then were going to strike North through Utah to Idaho then Glacier National Park, Yellowstone, and back to Seattle. I told them of my hopes to head to Zion then West towards the Ocean and North until I hit Canada. We expressed that we hope to see one another in Zion and to keep the rubber on the road. I said goodbye to my new friends and pushed Kona and myself North towards Utah. As I weaved through the roads on top of the plateau and began my descent to the valley floor below, I reflected on my attitude from the night before.

I had gotten too into my own head and had become a major grump. I tried to avoid contact between people to a point that I felt truly alone. As cathartic as this is for me--because I really have been enjoying the silence--it's not conducive to this trip or even life in general. I want to raise awareness about mental health and meet people and locking myself away into my own head is hypocritical of that goal. And when I did open the gates to meet new people, I only had positive experiences as they either became good friends or good stories. At this point I heard a tired diesel engine working its damnedest to push a big, ugly Bloo Bus along the roads. And with a wave and a honk of the horn my friends in the bus passed and left me with a huge smile on my face. I decided it was in my best interest to talk to people and be friendly. I continued my ride down and was met with some spectacular views.

As the downhill leveled out, I found myself in a much more positive mood and with a goofy smile. I then began cranking on flat land across a dozen miles wide valley. I felt like a lone cowboy, slowly traversing the vast emptiness of the American West. I was heading towards the next plateau, where Zion should be hiding. I could feel myself growing anxious to see and experience this park. All the stories and rumors I hear of Zion only make add to its mystique. Along the way I passed a fellow tourer heading to the North Rim of the Grand Canyon. I smiled as we yelled to each other in shorthand of our trip. Without stopping we moved from strangers to comrades and then quickly disappeared into each other's horizon. After a short stop for water and food in Fredonia, Arizona, I crossed into Kanab, Utah and began my final push towards Zion.

I stopped in Kanab to resupply on food, batteries, and a fresh pair of headphones. I quietly rode through town with slowly mounting anticipation. Slowly the canyon walls began to climb around me as I began my trek into the Colorado Plateau. The entire time I craned my neck to try and see where Zion could possibly be. While I knew I was still a few dozen miles away and seeing any sign of the canyon would be impossible, I wanted nothing more than to see that it was real. I wanted to witness this mythical place people write and talk about in biblical terms. I was genuinely curious if it was really as beautiful as they say. I cranked on, eagerly searching for the East Temple or the Guardian Angel. And as I crested the pass by Red Knoll Mountain, I saw in the distance tall, unusually red spires peaking behind the jagged peaks and valleys of the plateau. I was close. And I began my descent towards the spires.

I flew down the mountain. The air was trying its best to slow me down but the weight of Kona and I were winning the war on speed. I hunkered down behind my handlebars in the attack position and said a quick prayer. I was going to see how fast I could get Kona and I wasn't sure that after over 3,000 miles of cycling, 2,500 of which in loaded conditions, if Kona's remaining stock parts would hold. I was going to see anyways.

And it's a religious experience.

I rolled into Caramel Junction, Utah happy. While I was behind schedule and was going to have to find a place to camp tonight, I was electric with anticipation for Zion and amped on energy after an amazing downhill ride. After a quick meal in a restaurant, I asked the waiter where a good place to camp would be for the night. He mentioned that the bridge I had rolled over  just up the road was technically on BLM Land. He mentioned that the restaurant often feeds cyclists coming through semi-frequently and it's a common question. He added that he himself has camped under the bridge when hiking the trails in and out of Zion. I thanked him for his help, paid for my food, and rolled back towards the bridge. Underneath was a nice flat stretch of sand, a small pile of rocks formed into a campfire ring, and a fast-moving creek that was flowing towards the holy land.

It was a beautiful night at camp.

Day 63 - 41 miles (2,471)

I started off today optimistic. I knew that an uphill battle was in store. I also knew that the mileage was low along with the wind speeds. As someone writing at the end of the day, I can tell you that I was not prepared. This once again has become a lesson in the difference between "knowing" and "understanding." To know is to have a general knowledge about an event, understanding is to have experienced it and its nuances. As an example, I know what not cycling is like. Currently, I don't understand it.

Today, I knew what was in store. I did not understand.

I started off today just north of 3,000 feet in altitude. The air is basically soup and I am utterly alone in my travels. The day went smoothly as I slowly lost cell service and any semblance of civilization. I rolled past some hotels, a road-side photo opportunity, and an ancient Native American building foundation. 

Then, I was alone. Utterly and completely. And this loneliness hit me all at once once I stopped and really took in the surroundings around me. I realized that I had not been passed by another person in a couple of hours. I stood on the shoulder of the road, on the crest of the hill. The long ribbon of the road stretch before and behind me, disappearing among the plateaus that surrounded me on three sides. I didn't see a glimmer of a windshield or hear the sound of any engines. I finally appreciated how utterly tiny I was as I looked at the Vermilion Cliffs that were a handful of miles to my right. Pink and yellow bands of rock reflected the long, deep reach of time that has carved itself through the valley. The cliffs, silently standing watch over the Colorado River. Even as I stood a few miles away on a small strip of road, they still seemed to loom over me. I decided the view was good as any for lunch.

Lunch was a quick, relaxing stop as I waved at the first person I saw in hours: a US Forest Service Ranger. He was heading into the back country, or that's what I assumed. His truck had two spare, full-sized tires, two Jerry cans, shovels, platforms, and tons of other gear to travel through the sandy terrain of the desert. He waved back and tore down the vague outlines of a trail. In the horizon a dot had appeared and was heading towards me and the truck now. It quickly approached releasing a loud whine that was the sound of a dirt bike. The dirt bike and truck passed before the dirt bike flew past me, turned left, and tore up the road. Lunch traffic was busy.

I returned to my bike and began my ride. Shortly after I noticed in the distance that a glob of highlighter yellow was slowly approaching me. After what felt like an eternity of slowly approaching one another, I realized that I was not hallucinating, that what looked like a highlighter was approaching me, and on bike nonetheless.

The highlighter had a name: Eleanor.

Eleanor was also traveling solo around the US. She had taken some time off her job in New York City to see the country before she returned home to Paris. Similar to me, she had grown tired of being away from home and, while she enjoyed her adventure, was ready to for something familiar. As we shared stories on our trip I began to notice something funny. We were both experiencing and understanding the strange microcosms of culture that the US had. The culture that not only makes places like Texas unique from Michigan, but also makes Houston different from El Paso. From the strange politeness that was the South to the ruggedness of ranchers in the West to the curious dialect of Midwesterners, we talked about the cultural oddity that was the United States.

She asked me about life as an American, my perceptions as a historian, and how my trip was going so far. I asked her similar questions. We often answered to one another in bicycle touring code and relating our extremely similar experiences. It was a comfortable form of shorthand that one has with their friend. Due to our uniquely similar experiences, we managed to shortcut straight to that level of understanding. It was refreshing. After weeks of the same five questions, having a real conversation with a stranger--and now friend--gave me a new mindset to look at this trip. The best advice Eleanor gave me was this: 

"On our bikes we don't get to choose who we talk to. In a car you choose, right? Doing what we're doing everyone wants to talk to us and we don't have many options to say no. So have fun with it. This is fun."

She was right, to a point. I had found myself waving friendly people away because I didn't want to talk at that moment; but, I was being the asshole in those situations. Eleanor had a great perspective and made me realize my error. At the core of her sentiment was this idea we were unique creatures people had never seen. Everyone's seen a car and people who drive cars. You never hear of anyone seeing someone on a bike just riding around a country as casually as they ride around the block. They wanted to know what made us tick. We could show them our inner mechanisms in conversations and potentially help them adopt these mechanisms into their life. And, who knows, maybe they had some mechanisms for us.  We talked long about this idea in many different ways. 

After a two hour conversation we parted ways. She was heading vaguely towards Denver via Monument Valley then New York. She was hoping to be done in the next month or so. I told her I was heading towards Seattle and who knows from there. And I waved goodbye to my new friend ready to tackle the plateau ahead of me. As I rode closer, the gradient began to grow steeper and steeper. I knew that my finishing point for tonight, Jacob's Lake, was at 8,000 feet above sea level. I had started the day at 3,000 feet. I was currently at about 4,500 feet and had about a dozen miles left in the day.  As I rode to the foot of the plateau, I was pushing away something that I'm sure the reader has already figured out: I was in store for a steep, 3,500 foot climb.

It was brutal.   

It was windy.  

The air got thin.

I got frustrated.

I rolled into Jacobs Lake sunburned, exhausted, and extremely agitated. Low blood sugar had sent me into a spiraling rage of resentment and on a desperate search for food. I then proceeded to walk into a weird, alternate reality where all the Mr. Hyde characteristics of my personality was filtered out. I was in a diner that seemed to be untouched by negativity. At the Jacobs Lake Diner, perched on a plateau with nothing but desert and hell surrounding it, existed a weird business model. There was a place, seemingly devoid of customers, with over nine people working, and cheerfully. They were acting as if they were the main ticket checkers at Disney World. Everything was a smile, a "yes sir" or "sorry sir", and nothing but a positive attitude. I rolled in like a bad thunderstorm.

I hated existence.

I hated the altitude.

I had almost gotten run over by a pack of deer.

And I was convinced my bike was falling apart beneath me.

It turns out that in a protracted battle of emotions, cheerfulness will utterly destroy negativity. The workers were extremely polite and cheerful and seemed genuinely interested in my trip by asking unique, pointed questions. As my attitude slowly keeled over into optimism and my belly filled with a large meal, three new friends appeared at my side. Three fellow millennials, looking cheerful and pleasant, asked how my ride up the plateau was.

I came to meet Tony, Ross, and Lorena. They were in a school bus turned RV travelling across the American West. They earnestly asked about me and my trip in ways that people at gas stations or pit stops seldom do. Beyond the typical "where ya goin', where'd ya start" questions laid a sense of community. An idea that we all had been through the similar battles of conversations regarding our existence at these moments on these unique trips. Then we said our goodbyes as they were headed to camp out for the night. I had yet to finish my meal and  told them to enjoy their journey. A moment after they left I began kicking myself. "You should've asked where they were staying" I thought to myself.

And a second later Tony offered me to come camp with them. I enthusiastically agreed. I inhaled the remaining bits of dinner and spent the night camping with three fellow adventurers. We sipped beers and told tales around the fire as it slowly burned into the cool night.

Tony regaled us about a harrowing tale of a backcountry California mountain road filled with burned out cars and particularly dangerous locals. He was terrified to leave his bus and dog behind to get gas. A saving grace in the form of a Eastern European man arrived with a few gallons of diesel and he was saved for the day. We all laughed at the ridiculous image of his wide bus scooting down coastal mountain roads, clearly out of its element. The group then turned and looked to me for a harrowing tale of my trip so far.

I told them of Jim.   

It was refreshing to be in wholesome company.  

Day 62 - 40 miles (2,430)

Certainly an easier day than yesterday.  And hopefully an easier night. 

Once I was able to get cell phone service again I received texts and Facebook messages wishing me luck sleeping in  a drainage ditch. Some people commented that I was so "strong." This was not a matter of strength or perseverance; it was necessity. I had run out of daylight and biking at night is exponentially more dangerous than cycling during the day, and a cardinal rule I am not willing to break. So the drainage ditch was a must. Plus, I wasn't too worried.  In the end, I was secure. At one point in the night though the winds shifted. So instead of being insulated from them, they were now blowing straight down into the ditch and knocking my tent into my sleeping face. It was less scary and more annoying. 

So I continued on my way towards somewhere that wasn't here. I eventually found myself entering into the far Northeast corner of the Grand Canyon. The Vermilion Cliffs. They were stunning. Coming over the crest and seeing these sheer rock faces painted in stripes of pink and red and grey was astounding.

And being able to drift into them without so much as a crank was also amazing. I also found myself crossing the Colorado River on a small pedestrian bridge. It's amazing to see how a river can cut through solid rock through what we humans call patience and perseverance. Something I know I am lacking in. 

I know people are quick to counter and point to this trip as an example that I do have these qualities. And I agree; however there's the question of my head space. I often get so frustrated with wind, sun, and the sheer number of miles that I am facing that I often scream at the landscapes around me. I pick up rocks and toss them into the vast emptiness or against other rocks because I am so frustrated that my speedometer reads "6.5 mph" when I know it should read "12 mph." 

I need to have more patience with myself and with this trip in general. I need to stop stopping to have my tantrums to just keep cranking. I will say though that today I had an eerie moment where in a stretch of vast loneliness and up hills I screamed out to whomever was listening a very loud "FUCK YOU." Nature responded by sucking all the air out of my voice and my proclamation went nowhere. It was as if my voice died right in front of me. I was humbled. I meekly sat back on my very small bike and headed towards the millennial giants known as the Vermillion Cliffs. 

Nature is in charge out here. I'm just a tourist.

Day 61 - 35 miles (2,390)

I slept like a baby last night. The winds were oddly comforting and my tent stood rigid against their attempts to move it and me. However, when I woke up the winds were still howling. And after packing up camp and beginning my ride I knew my original plan for today was not going to work. I set out to get to Marble Canyon from Cameron, a 77 mile ride. Instead, I was met with headwinds pushing into the 25 mph range with gusts topping 30 mph. I knew I needed to bring in my emergency plan, something I hoped I could abandon back in Florida. 

Illegal camping.  

I want to state for the record that it's not just the illegality of this camping that deters me from doing it. It's the fact that you can't really get a good night's rest as you worry about people or animals coming into your site. Waking up to the police, a bear, a coyote, or an angry land owner are not good ways to wake up at four in the morning. However, this is a matter of necessity and out in the desert there's a few points that lean in my favor.  

The thing to remember about the desert is how utterly empty and huge it is. In between towns, no one owns the property really. Most of it is Bureau of Land Management (BLM) property. It's not owned by any one person, but is in the hands of the federal government for public use. People use BLM land for camping, thru hiking, off-roading, shooting, hunting, photography, climbing, research, and tons of other reasons. I knew that BLM land rules for camping could be boiled down to "you can stay here for two weeks then you gotta go." Secondly, out West there are a lot washes. These are river and creek beds that are only flooded from snow melt and rain on the handful of days during the year that those events happen. Neither of those have happened recently so they are very, very dry and open for camping. A significant amount of these washes also have concrete drainage ditches, and a number of these are about six-and-a-half feet tall by eight feet wide. Meaning, a tent and a bike will easily fit in them.

Home for the night.

After watching the sun descend further and further in the sky, I decided to finally get off the road and head into a concrete sanctuary. After carefully lugging my bags and bike down the steep slope and into the wash, I set up camp. Despite the day being long and painfully slow, it ended with a good view. 

These days cycling through the desert are so remote, red, and difficult that I feel as if I might as well be on Mars. Isolated and alone like Matt Damon in "Saving Private Martian."

Day 60 - 59 miles (2,355)

Isn't it beautiful?  

Downhills. Miles and miles and miles of downhill. It was so beautiful. It also included some nice snow covered peaks with nice vistas. 
 

I zoomed out of Flagstaff at a good clip and headed straight towards Cameron. Rumor was that the gas station in town had a patch of dirt sprinkled with grass to camp on. I couldn't pass up that opportunity and rolled North, worried about the ever-increasing speed of the wind. While the wind was currently coming out of the Southwest, rumor had it that it was going to shift and Arizona would be a major fire danger for the next week or so. I was in that region of the state. I only packed water proof clothes, not fire proof. The only thing I could do was continue on and keep my ear out on the local weather and fire reports.

At around 5pm, I rolled into camp. I checked into the "campsite" at the gas station's counter. From there I hustled over to my campsite and took note of the wind as I did. It was now coming out of the Northwest at speeds of over thirty miles per hour. I could hear it slamming into the buildings and trying to rip the flag off the flagpole. I knew my tent securing skills would be tested today. 

Fortunately, there was a picnic table at the site. I carefully tipped it onto it's side with its bottom facing towards the source of the wind. I then sat behind the top of the table, in a little pocket that was protected from the wind. I quickly assembled my tent and tightly secured it to the ground. I crawled inside, arms loaded with food, and hunkered down for the evening. And in all honesty, it was comfy in the same way a log cabin with a roaring fire in the middle of winter is comfy. Despite the howling wind, I knew I was going to sleep soundly tonight.

Day 59 - 30 miles (2,296)

Back in the saddle.  

The weather has tempered a bit, coming down to a high of 65 with relatively low winds. It was the perfect temperature where I was sweating with my light jacket on, and shivering without out. An awkward median like a movie that has too quiet dialog and too loud action. However, that became the least of my worries. 

I had to battle a lot of up hills. Specifically, to get out of Sterling Canyon, I had to follow a two mile switchback with no shoulder and busy traffic. I'd like to say I did it, but I'm not a liar. I walked my bike up most of it. I even ran across a fellow tourer who was also heading to Seattle, but was doing it by going South through Phoenix then West to San Diego and up the Pacific Coast. At that moment, I really envied her and her lack of pedaling. But I also knew that I definitely didn't want to be here and go the entirety of California. I pushed Kona onwards, to the top of the canyon.

Finally, I made it to the top and was "rewarded" with a nice view. I put rewarded in quotation marks because while it was pretty, I still had some more riding. And as I sat on the edge of the cliff, I realized that I had zoomed past "tired" and was now heading into "exhausted." The next stretch into Flagstaff was going to feel longer than it was. Still, the view wasn't bad.

I decided that it might be in my best interest to lie down for twenty minutes and just relax. Maybe a quick nap would refuel and refresh me. So I put my helmet down as a pillow, set a timer on my phone, zipped up my jacket, and put my legs up on Kona; And, what felt like a second later, my timer went off. I can't say I felt more rested, but it was time to move.
I got back on Kona and trudged North, into constrcution. The section of US 89A I was going to be on the for the next few miles had been torn up. There was still asphalt, but it was roughed up to a sandpaper-like texture of 1 grit. The road was also reduced to a one lane road with shoulders that were cratered like the surface of the moon from the treads of heavy equipment. And on top of that, Coconino National Forest was having a controlled burn today. I was quickly becoming a liability on the road. But, I had no other options but going forward. And after some well-timed breaks between passing groups of cars on top of hill crests, I quickly pushed through the construction and to a frontage road into Flagstaff.

I also want to apologize for the lackluster quality of writing lately. There aren't many calories left for creativity after long days of biking. As much as I hate my sub-par writing recently, I don't really have a solution to it beyond just getting it done and probably editing it when I get home. (Editor's Note: Yup).

I'm also surprised that people are still reading this blog. And I'm thankful you are. It's nice to know people are interested; though I think it's much in the same way I'm in interested in NASCAR: I'm not there for the racing, I'm there for the crashes. 

Days 54-58 - 0 miles (2,266)

A wonderful break with a wonderful person among wonderful views.

Day 53 - 88 miles (2,266)

That's the elevation profile from today's ride.

Sure, I had a nice downhill for a portion of the day, but that second half was pretty hellish. All-in-all, I dreaded today so much I over prepared. That, in turn, made today not too bad. I got up early and ate a decent breakfast of Clif Bars and peanut butter bread balls. I began my ride at 7am when there was no headwind and stayed plenty hydrated. I also had a slew of podcasts and songs ready to ensure my attitude stayed afloat. And sure enough, today was gorgeous. 

I actually had some fun today.   A conversation with some pleasant people, consistent food and water intake, and the knowledge that tomorrow starts a stretch of a few days off kept me smiling and spinning. I even managed to get some footage.

Then things changed. 

About seven miles from my stop for the night some pain struck. My right Achilles Tendon began to hurt, pretty badly. Sharp pain punctuated with a sudden feeling of over-hearing knocked me out of my comfortable head space. The worst was that I was so close to my stop that I just wanted to stop and rest, but I was running out of daylight. I downshifted and carefully pushed myself through it. It was tortuous. On top of that, some of the steepest inclines were in this final stretch. I kept downshifting to find a comfortable cadence and power output, but I quickly ran out of gears. 

I had to resort to taking a break every mile. After doing 80+ fairly effortlessly this was monotonous in addition to the pain in my Achilles. It was also becoming a mental battle as I tried not to think about the consequences of what would happen if my tendon were to snap. The trip would be over on the spot and I would spend the next few months in surgery, then healing and having to do therapy just to walk again. An old boss of mine went through it and it just looked like hell. Eating pain medications like candy to survive the pain, lying in bed all day staring at screens and walls, and having to end this trip sounded like a recipe for a downward spiral back into mental instability. I began to remember what cyclist Mark Beaumont says. He's cycled around the world in under 100 days and was going to be embarking on another global trip to try and beat his own record. When asked if he fears he'll be injured, Mark responds with: "You have to know the difference between pain and injury. Push through pain, heal injury."

I carefully pushed on.

Finally, I made it to Globe. I pushed my bike to my stop and called a good friend and doctor of physical therapy. The diagnosis was inflammation from over-use. "Max out on dosages of ibuprofen, ice it, and really cut down your mileage. You should be fine if you take it easy." I could hear the concern in his voice underscoring his professional advice. A reminder that as much as I was enjoying this trip, I needed to remember that I'm not invincible. I took his advice to heart. I need to be very patient when listening to my body. I can't afford cyborg parts (yet) and I want to keep climbing and cycling after this trip so I need to be careful. I have a bad habit of trying to race from point A to point B and I need to slow my pace down from "quick" to "steady." 

Thankfully, I have my girlfriend coming in tomorrow and I have the next four days off so I can most certainly do that. Plus, it'll be nice to talk to someone and not a collection of steel tubes and two wheels. Plus, as many people in my life have been saying, I should really enjoy this trip and not race by it. I'm bad at listening sometimes (read: often), but I need to listen to them.

They're right.

Day 52 - 40 miles (2,178)

The good news about being in the absolute middle of nowhere is that I don't have to worry about any turns. I'm on one road. All. Day.  

More good news is that I had a slight downhill all day today.  

The bad news was that there was nothing but insane headwinds. I was constantly plagued by dust devils, tumbleweeds, and bugs slamming into my face. Not to mention I have some saddle sores forming.   

 Fortunately today was another low-mileage day; however, the reason for two shorter days has reared its head. Tomorrow I have a long day with lots of up hills and few breaks. 

Hooray.   

Day 51 - 35 miles (2,138)

I've reduced the mileage for the next few days because I've had a realization.  

Pushing myself out here is dangerous. I am overly-exposed, often without water or food stops for dozens of miles. I'm also getting into elevation profiles that mimic some stages of the Tour de France--or at least they feel like it. I've also been having a hard time really forcing myself to stop and enjoy the views, even if they are barren mountains and cacti.  

There's a strange beauty and desolation in the desert. It's extremely rare that there is a building of any sort between cities. I have large periods without phone service or seeing another car. For instance, today I had a realization that the last time I saw a car was before I turned off one desert road for another, my only turn for the day. I checked my GPS to see how many miles back that turn was. Twenty-five miles. In terms of time that's three hours. There are instances where I am the biggest living thing for miles around me. It's a thin line between peace and terror. The only thing keeping me at peace is how much water I have. Fortunately, I have other things to distract me in this vast openness; like figuring out what time it is.

I'm currently in the Mountain Time Zone (two hours behind EST); but, Arizona has, smartly, opted out of Daylight Saving Time (subtract another hour from EST). So I'm technically three hours behind folks back home. However, in Arizona certain tribes of the Navajo Nation do follow daylight savings time (add an hour from EST); however, tribes of the Hopi Nation, that live within the geographic borders of the Navajo Nation, don't follow daylight savings. And as I ride across Arizona, my phone will inevitably jump between towers. So when someone asks me what time it is I like to look at the sun in the sky, think for a moment, look back at them and respond: "No clue." Because I really have no idea what time it is. As long as I'm in a tent before the sun sinks, I'm not too concerned what time it is.

Still no cloud sightings.  

Day 50 - 60 miles (2,103)

This but un-ironically.

Day 49 - 55 miles (2,043)

Wind sucks.  

Uphill sucks.  

The desert sucks.  

No shade anywhere, ever, really sucks.  

I miss clouds.  

I miss cold.  

I miss rain.  

But everyone in their car has been pleasant today and I got a free water refill from a Border Patrol stop.  

Otherwise, today was a lot of cranking across the barren landscape

Those mountains in the distance were my destination for the day. Woof.

Day 48 - 66 miles (1,988)

Kona lives.  

After waiting and doing nothing besides watching woodworking YouTube videos and "Parks and Recreation," I'm finally back on the road.  And I'm really regretting two things: 

• How much crap I have on me
• Begging for the mountains  

The first is something I knew was going to happen. Having gone on supported tours before, I knew that I was ignorant to the consequences of having approximately fifty-five pounds of gear. I mean I had an idea, but I didn't know. I also managed to bike nearly 2,000 miles without much issue. But that was the much flatter eastern United States and in cooler temperatures. Starting my ride today, on the front knife-edge of the desert Rockies, I learned my lesson. And the first was a reminder of how beautiful mountains are. While these may not be the tree-lined peaks of Colorado, they still have this quiet majesty about them. Their bare faces have a similar siren song to snow topped peaks. It was beautiful. However, mountains also meant frequent elevation changes. Here I learned about an extension of Newton's Third Law: no downhill goes unpunished. So I spent a portion of today in my granny gear, cranking fast to go up hill slowly.  Sweating and swearing for most of the day. 

This trip isn't getting any easier, but the views are improving. 

Days 42 to 48 - 0 miles (1,922)

Got in a car, drove to El Paso through a whole lot of nothing. From this point on my bike and this trip are in the hands of the bike repair gods.

God speed Kona.

Day 41 - 24 miles (1,922)

I woke up today feeling more of the same nothing I felt yesterday. I got on my bike and accepted my fate for the day: biking through more nothing. And as I began my ride I realized a major flaw in my cycling clothes: the back of my neck and top of my head had no sun protection. While I have a very thick head of hair to mostly block the top of my scalp, the back of my neck and my hairline were greatly exposed. I was forced to adopt a more "desert-chic" look.

I guess that makes me Joshua Lawrence of Arabia.

After stopping to take my helmet off and rigging up my half-baked neck curtain, I remounted Kona and my bike felt...wiggly. My rear tire seemed too low, and my front tire, even when tightly locked down to my frame, wobbled laterally. Now, in the average functioning of my brain, this is annoying but nothing major. In normal situations, I'd probably just swear quietly under my breath before quickly doing the repairs. My brain felt the need to want to have a meltdown. I was boiling over with frustration and anger. An anger that I know is not rational and comes from the more animal part of my brain. It feels different physically than rational anger because it doesn't come from a place of reason. It's visceral.

As I took my bags off Kona and flipped her to begin repairing her, I could feel this irrational anger boiling up. I appeased it the best way I could: I yelled out a very big, very hearty strings of curse words in a style similar to Clark Griswold in National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation. All the while quickly changing my tire, tuning up my derailleurs, and tightening up the front cones on my front wheel. A short, ten minutes of maintenance. It was a bit therapeutic but as soon as I finished the repairs my brain snapped back to a state of emotional nothing. 

And even as I remounted my bike and felt the wind at my back I felt nothing. And as I was rolling along at a quick clip of twenty miles per hour, I still felt nothing. And as I rolled into Eldorado, Texas I still felt nothing. But, Eldorado wanted to make sure I did feel something. As I entered into the downtown portion of Eldorado I tried to hype myself up by imagining myself tearing into the American Southwest like the forefathers of these areas.  Speed and solitude my only companions in the vast space that is Texas. Instead of galloping through a barren landscape on a horse, I was following flowing stripes of cement on a steel bike. In the distance, among the mirages rising up through the road, I saw a long narrow piece of...something...in the distance.

I assumed it was the cover over a drainage ditch. Something I've run into plenty before, especially in cattle country. They allowed the water, and the manure they carry, to safely divert away from the ranches and town without flooding into the road and stinking the next few counties up. I continued pedaling, swiftly closing the distance without giving much second thought to the ditch. At fifty feet I get closer and see it has a grate as a cover, and not a plate. I can't quite see everything, but assume the grates are running perpendicular to me, as all the other grates were.

At twenty feet I realized the grates are running parallel to me, not perpendicular. I begin to tense, but know that the gap between the grates shouldn't be wider than my tire.

At ten feet I realize how big the grate was. The gaps between the grates is roughly six inches. A tire eater. Me and Kona, all 250 pounds of us, are still moving fast. I begin to panic as the distance closes, realizing the predicament I'm in.

At five feet I understand the damage the grate can do.

At two feet from the grate my brain finally kicks into gear and hits the brakes, but it's too late. I tried to align my tires to ride the steel and avoid the cavernous gaps that will ruin my bike. I pull the brakes harder to reduce speed but they're not responding. I line my tires up as a Hail Mary to minimize damage. At this point, I'm on top of the grate.

In this moment, I like to think I understood what 250 pounds of gear, machine, and man really weighs when travelling at 22 mph. That I somehow understood or thought of the physical forces that are exerted on the frame, the rims, the joints, everything when moving so quickly. I like to think that I have a basic understanding of physics and the power such knowledge holds. Instead, as I rolled over the grate, I only thought one thing to myself: "Oh shit." 

Kona's front wheel rides the grate safely. The rear wheel misses and slams into the far side of the grate.

I come to a screeching halt in the middle of the road in the middle of nowhere.

I quickly picked my bike up and awkwardly shuffled her over to the curb. I hadn't yet seen the damage; I just knew that asphalt wasn't safe territory anymore and I needed to get Kona and myself off of it. And after I got on the curb I carefully lowered Kona to the ground and saw the damage. 

My rim should be round. My spokes straight. My derailleur under tension. None of these were true. My wheel had nearly fully tacoed into itself from the impact and had ripped my derailleur hanger off and pulled my derailleur up and around my cassette. My entire rear wheel was totaled. Without question today's biking was over and I began to worry that the trip was over. I hadn't even made it coast-to-coast. I was just shy of 2,000 miles. Emotionally, I was still living in grey scale. I honestly felt nothing when I realized the trip was ending. I just knew I should be sad. As I sat staring at my predicament before me, I remembered some stories I had read online of some "horror stories" that other long-distance cyclists had encountered.

One guy had his bike stolen a few hundred kilometers into his Europe tour. He just bought a crappier bike off of some guy in Amsterdam and kept going. Another guy had a broken chain in the Rift Valley of Ethiopia and forced a small motorcycle chain to work with his backpacking setup. A woman had broken her front rim in Singapore and made the wrong-sized rim and tire work for the remainder of her trip in Southeast Asia. One of my favorite cyclists, Mark Beaumont, was cycling around the world when his bike succumbed to unknown stress fractures and damn-near broke in half. He found a small shop in Colombia with a "welder" (car batteries hooked up in series) and had them repair his bike. He completed the trip with big, ugly welds on his bike. He didn't seem to mind. And slowly the gears in my head began turning. Instead of being upset, which I was incapable of feeling at that moment anyways, I began to get to work.

"I can salvage this," I announced to no one. I called home to bounce around some ideas. I wasn't seeking any help or any ideas, I just needed to talk the problem out and get back on the saddle. And after a very brief call, I had a new idea. I had declared that I was "Seattle or Bust" for this trip. I was determined to get to at least Seattle. And the first step in doing so was the most important: getting Kona repaired. So I made a few phone calls looking for parts and quickly hit a roadblock: there were no bike stores nearby. Eldorado is the type of town that makes my hometown of 4,000 people seem like a metropolis. And the bike store in San Angelo, the nearest city at 45 miles away, wouldn't be able to get any replacement parts for nearly two weeks. The shop owner gave me the number of a bike shop in El Paso that would be more helpful and he wished me luck. I called the shop in El Paso and they said they could rush order the parts and have them within four or five days. They said that I'd be back on the road by Friday. Not ideal, but doable. The new problem was now getting to San Angelo.

And I HAD to get to San Angelo. There, I could at least get a rental car and push to El Paso. After a few calls, I found a fellow Michigander running a taxi service in San Angelo. He answered saying that he hadn't seen an 810 area code in nearly a decade. His voice was thin with the Michigan accent, but regardless it was there. As we talked about familiar road intersections and what parts of the state we were respectively from, A fellow Mitten native. He agreed to come to Eldorado from San Angelo, and for a reasonable price (thanks again Andrew). While waiting for him I coordinated places to stay and got new parts ordered in for Kona. 

Kona, and this trip, are on life support but I can salvage both. As long as my legs still work and my bank account doesn't read $0 I'm pushing forward. 

Seattle or bust.

Day 40 - 67 miles (1,898)

After that short vacation with my parents, I'm back in my tent. They dropped me off in Texas Hill Country in a small state park. While the area is no doubt gorgeous and has great rolling hills, there is a noticeable change in the climate. I wouldn't say I'm in the desert yet, but the humidity in the air has dropped and the trees have gotten noticeably shorter. And through the night I had the pleasure of being surrounded by nearly a dozen armadillo--as they say 'round here, armadilla--with the stars above spinning. It was a beautiful night.

This song is accurate.

This morning I took off from South Llano River State Park, looking to tread deeper into the nearly-desert. And I was granted a taste of what the desert would offer. No cloud cover, blaring sun, dry air, and in between towns there is a whole lot of nothing. And I mean nothing. 

This is what I saw for the most of today.

Same stretch of road zoomed out to to an altitude of a few hundred feet.

And stretched out to satellite view. Note, Roosevelt is not a city but a general store and a barn. Those were the only things I saw between South Llano and Sonora.

Texas is big.

Very big.

It is one of three states that I plan on being in for more than a week. I already conquered one such state, Florida, and California was going to be a bit of a treat with all its parks; but, Texas is going to be different. Texas is big. Not Alaska big, but it's big. Dave--the friend who lives in Houston--informed me that he has driven twelves hours from Houston heading West, and ended up still in Texas. He then began to rattle off the different regions of Texas I'd be rolling through: "There's East Texas, Central Texas, Hill Country, Oil Country, Cliff Country, West Texas, and then the Desert. Anything past Hill Country is going to suck dude." This falls in line with a lot of what other touring cyclists have said and the languish they have for the vast emptiness that is Texas. Today, I'm getting a taste.

And I'm not liking it.

But here comes the problem. As I rolled along the soft hills and rocky cliffs parallel to the expressway, I should have been elated. It was a nice day, the hills were keeping me moving at a good clip, there was no wind, and I had passed nearly zero cars today. But my brain just didn't care. Not in a negative or positive way, it just could care less about anything really. And this becomes draining because I want nothing more than to stop biking, lay down, and let the Universe do what it will to me. An active act of giving up. But this is illogical. My brain doesn't care, but me, as a person, does. Therefore, I have to put mental exertion in so I don't fall into that mental trap. Despite doing what I love most, traveling on a bike, I was feeling nothing. And around mile thirty, as I sat on a small berm overlooking the expressway eating a lunch of random bits of food, I had to ask the question: am I currently depressed?

And once that crossed my mind the mental gears shifted. And I began looking through my brain in search of evidence that I was depressed, and evidence that I wasn't. I very well could just be bored. And I know the immediate reaction is "you're biking across the country! How could you be bored?" And the answer is that after about two weeks of cycling, this trip became familiar. It has become my new "normal." And when something becomes normal, it can become boring. On the other hand, I had no emotional desire to have fun or to quit or to bike faster or to bike farther. Everything was just the emotional equivalent of grey-scale. There was no texture, no color, no sense of reality to my surroundings. This is a symptom of depression for some, including myself. And as I got up from my lunch to finish the second half of my ride, I came to a conclusion: I don't know.

I'll have to keep an eye on myself tomorrow. How I talk to myself in my own head, how I react to seemingly mundane things, how I process challenges. All these will betray more clearly if I'm depressed or if this day was just an emotional anomaly.

Days 36-39 0 miles (1,817)

For the last few days I've been seeing the sights of Texas with my parents. And it's been interesting being off the bike. Though I'm not complaining. I've gotten to see and do some neat stuff.

Day 35 - 14 miles (1,831)

Last night on Facebook I made an announcement to my friends and family. I told them that I was ending my trip prematurely and that I would be heading home with my parents. While I didn't complete my trip, I was immensely proud of what I had accomplished so far. I was ready to come home.

Zero percent of that is true. 

As the storm outside was raging, I was sitting in my tent having a riot of a time. I submitted the post and within minutes I started getting Facebook comments and messages, texts, and even a phone call or two. People wanted to know what the hell was going on. I told everyone that I was fine physically and mentally, that I was just ready to call it good and head home. Everyone was so incredulous, but accepted what they were reading. To me, it was hysterical. I laid in my tent giggling every time my phone vibrated. Around midnight I tuned my phone off and fell asleep listening to the storm wail into the night.

This morning I made this announcement.

Most people saw the humor in my harmless fun. Plus, it was a good way to kick off the day and beginning of my extended break from cycling. It put me in good spirits as I broke down camp and headed towards the city of Bastrop, Texas. The overcast skies threatened rain at any moment but the rolling hills and strong tailwind kept me at a good pace to outrun the storm. Then I received a call. Unusual for this early in the morning. It was Buescher State Park. One of the ranger's had found a cell phone in the bathrooms that were near my campsite. They were worried that it was mine, so they called me up--on my cell phone--to make sure I returned and got the phone--that was in my hands--from their office. They were so damn polite I just mentioned that I had mine and thanked them for looking out for me though. I hung up and chuckled as I rolled into Bastrop looking for some breakfast. And I rolled in at the perfect time.

After some breakfast, I chose to wait the storm out in the only other open business in the city that was open at ten in the morning: a bar. I patiently waited for my parents while talking to the bar tenders about my trip. After a few free beers, and a shot from an overzealous patron, my parents found me in the bar among my new friends. I paid for my food, eager to start a few days off the bike and to see my lovely parents.