They left us in tears, and didn't look back.

As like any other day, we rose, dressed packed, ate, loaded, cleaned, and formed a circle. Anyone inspired was allowed to share final thoughts. Sentiments were high and tears were shed. Everett closed with His Eye Is On The Sparrow. We prayed. We cheered "Oyee", and were off, but not so swiftly as previous days.

A rare shot of A.j.'s face

It was just a 37 mile ride; about 31 to the coastal point for our final destination ceremony. We set for a rendezvous a few miles before that, but riders, for the most part, stayed in a large group. We crossed marshland, through wooded trails, and along coastal roads. We closed ranks at our meeting point, and continued on as a single unit of just under 40 riders to the Portland Head Light on Cape Elizabeth. After entering the park we were greeted by families and friends of riders, and stopped at the lighthouse. Hugs and tears were all about, champagne sprayed, pictures and poses were taken; incidental tourists, curious about all the commotion, joined in our celebrations and we were able to share our mission. Down the rocky shore to dip our wheels, and one last group picture. Spirits, still high, pushed some deep into the water- personally, the North Atlantic and I go way back so just maintain a distant friendship on the surf line. I find her a bit cold. More folks approached us, and perhaps we found future Adventurers there.

We circled, we shared, we prayed. The final "Oyee!" Tears. We mounted for the quiet ride to our home here in Portland. We shared a meal last night- a table for 35 was difficult to find but the Ri Ra Irish Pub accommodated our mob on a moment's notice.

A few left before night. By this morning more were gone. Will led us in a "cinnamon roll" hug where we held hands and coiled around the center "hug-ee". Some slipped out quietly, and I missed their goodbye. It just got more excruciating as the day wore on. Thirteen were left, and we went for a lobster lunch, and shopping along the waterfront. Another departed.

Two leave early in the morning, and the remaining ten of us ride south in the van, hauling the remnants in the trailer. Coolers are washed, bikes are packed- bedding is padding them. The sun is setting on this day, and this odyssey.

This stepping-stone of life is dissolving into grains, and it is such bitter-sweet sorrow. Like a handful of gold-dust, sift falls away no matter how dearly you hold it.




The inevitable end is upon us. We each head to our new beginnings, destined to cross paths soon, or ultimately, for we are of one spirit.                                                                                                   Go with God, Adventurer.

Rutland VT to Rut-Land ME, then Kennebunk Port

The days are so full and run upon each other so quickly I don’t have time to give proper treatment to them. There just isn’t enough time to write, and then internet connections are usually sketchy, so just getting them out is a chore. Still, way back…what, three days ago we were in Rutland VT, where I left off writing last...it seems so distant.

I must say more about Rutland, and Vermont in general. Vermont is cool. Way more cool than I remember as a youth. Since I arrived at our church so late from my personal journey via Greenwich I missed the showers FCBA provided, and I was on my own. I was directed to the Yellow Deli, a local hostel that provides services to Appalachian Trail hikers. I asked the owner if I could “buy a shower” and he exclaimed “why buy a shower when they are free?” What a relief. After cleaning up I went downstairs to the rather rustic and eclectic restaurant where a group was playing dulcimer, flute, and drum for the diners. I restrain using the word “hip” or any variation of it, but for economy I add it to clear the picture. The food was economically priced, while all other services, including the Trail shuttle were free other than taking donations offered.

The next morning we set out for what was planned as a 92 mile ride, but I broke a spoke in my rear wheel before 20. I rode in the van the rest of the day. That is an interesting perspective; it’s much more relaxing, and at each 20 mile stop one sees how the riders fare. It was a mountainous day with marginal roads from Vermont into New Hampshire. Many missed turns added miles. The first stop was near White Raven Drum Works. They offer locally made musical instruments, including didgeridoos (or “didjeridus” as his sign read). It wasn’t open, but we saw the owner taking care of chores outside so he let us in. I was amazed at his work, and he let me try a couple out, so I demonstrated my talents for other members who were thoroughly impressed. Hell, it’s the most primitive and easiest instrument to play, not requiring much talent, but kids are easily entertained.

The day wore on, and along the road some riders found a rope swing into the river. Potential calamity is all I saw in this, but all had fun and nobody got hurt.

Exhausted, everyone eventually arrived in Franklin NH. A small town, without a bike shop and I was in dire need of a wheel repair, as was another rider. Our shower shuttle dropped us off miles away at an old ski resort that has been converted to the Highland Mountain Bike Park. They don’t normally accommodate road bikes, but managed to find a spoke for me and make the repairs. The manager then gave us a ride back to the church. A great dinner was waiting, laundry was done, and then sleep.

We always get up too early. Off the floor, roll up the bedding, pack our stuff, load the trailer, have breakfast, clean up, circle for devotion and prayer, and we were off on today’s ride from NH to ME. We are in the Port of Kennebunk (ok, Kennebunkport).

Rut-land

It was a 76 mile ride that included craters and ruts not fit for road bikes; it was a good thing I had that new off-road spoke in my wheel. All agreed these were the worst roads in the entire 4000 miles. Glad I could experience it. Don’t take these roads, ever, with anything but a bulldozer.

Before realizing we were so close there was a blast of cool air, and I immediately knew we were near the ocean. We reached the coastal highway in Wells ME, and headed north to our destination. We are guests of Village Baptist Church, who arranged a shuttle to showers at Bentley’s Saloon and Campground not far away. They provide that shuttle, and offered to shuttle riders back later to enjoy this biker paradise. Ok, a different kind of biker joint, but that’s where the bus goes. I have no business in a saloon other than getting thrown out, so will just rest here. But really, how cool is it that a church partners with a saloon toward a common cause? I think I’ve slept in 100 churches over the past three years while participating in these rides, and this is a first.

Spirits and emotions are high, especially for the whole way riders who have participated for the past ten weeks. Being a “veteran” of these rides I know the feeling. It seems almost unimaginable that in just 30 miles, at this time tomorrow, many will be leaving, and by Monday all will be going to their respective lives. I had an incredibly difficult time adjusting a couple years ago, but not last year, and will be fine this year. I just hope that sharing my experience with others will help them. 

Drinking from the fountain of (my) youth.

Just a woodshed

I had second thoughts about taking my own route Wednesday. The extra miles, the possibility of rain, and really, what difference would it make? All the difference in the world, it turns out. I’ve cycled a lot of miles, the best of which have been on the Fuller Center Bicycle Adventure, and this has been the best of all.

I had a rough time following my own directions out of Saratoga Springs. I just put my cue sheet aside and got out of town working from memory and help of Saratoga’s finest. Approaching Schuylerville I stopped at the Saratoga Apple market (formerly Bullard’s Orchard) where I held my first job, and bought an apple. I crossed the Hudson and was on my way.

I took a couple extra miles to ride into Greenwich (for my route was skirting north of town), stopped at Stewart’s (one of the few landmarks I recognized) and “checked in” on Facebook. I posted “In Greenwich, headed to Spraguetown”. Spraguetown isn’t a town, but the name of the road I once lived on. Perfume of silage, manure, wildflowers, hay; all that which prime the canvas of life as we paint today, and fire the memory when rediscovered. Then I arrived at our old home not as I remember it.

We lived in a “trailer”, the vernacular for what is called a manufactured home now. It was replaced with another, and apparently some time ago. As I approached I announced with successive “Hello(s)!” my presence to anyone who might be home. There was no answer, so I closed in to take pictures.  What I was most interested in was the woodshed we built 42 years ago.   Hewn flat with adze from felled logs we’d then chisel to mortise the green foundation log to receive tenon of a dry upright; as the green wood dried it would shrink to hold the dry- old barn building techniques that pass the test of time. I felt the logs, remembering when sitting astride as we made the cuts, Dad teaching ancient methods of joining timber. The stones lay under them, placed so long ago; I imagined us hammering the nails now barely holding boards that came from a barn that, before recycling, already lived a hay-full life from the beginning of last century.

I was suddenly brought from reminiscing by a disturbed voice challenging me; the current owner. I suspected she had her gun at the ready below the window sill. That was how we greeted strangers in our day; Dad had a past he feared so shared his paranoia with us. I explained myself to her, offering to leave immediately. She calmed, but seemed a bit distressed living there alone, and I got the impression she was a shut-in. She started sharing openly with me, compared her suffering to that of Job. A bit of hem and haw led to questioning whether the land was cursed, for the stories she heard of the last owner, retelling the hearsay of my Father. I whole-heartedly assured her that it was not; to the contrary, if anything the land is blessed for it nurtured our family back to a semblance of normalcy. I bragged of the gardens providing abundantly for the four of us who tended them, the chickens, firewood- the years prior when it was a playground, perhaps a training ground, for a man and his sons. I needed to hear my words as much as she did, for a healing came over me. I gave her hope, she gave me grapes, and I drank the water. She absent-mindedly boasted the water was excellent; I told her I know- my roots are in it.

I stayed too long and she wanted me to come back, but I told her I must continue on my bicycle so that couldn’t be. I gave her my card and insisted she call in a couple of weeks when I return- she doesn’t have a computer so I promised her I’d post letters if she did. I know her address.

As I was leaving Shirley Dewey and Mr. Dewey drove up. Smiles and hugs from my old classmate and friend- I don’t care how we age, the spirit shines through the years. I hadn’t seen her in 40 and it felt wonderful. We chatted there in the driveway for a while, and then parted. As I progressed I photographed a deer and her fawn fleeing ahead of me. Funny- all the years we lived there I never saw a deer near the house.

A truck slowed behind me, and a smile out the window was just as I remembered it from 30 years prior, when I saw it last. My friend Neil- hunter, fisher, trapper, and partner in crime when we were teens. I saw him ten years after I left, but not since, but still, some people you just fall back into step with. Since Facebook we’ve kept in touch and it was good to hug him and share a bit of time. How the heart lightens at the honor of having these two come out and catch me. I really wasn’t expecting that at all.

I continued down the road, down the hill, around the lake, then another on roads that weren’t even a dim memory anymore, into Vermont. My directions were important now, “make a left on East 153”. The sign indicated only North or South were options and there was another road to confuse me. Nobody was in the post office; nobody was in sight. I flagged down the first car that came along. They gave me a map, and I learned they were from Mt. Dora FL, not far from my home. They called later to check on me.

I don’t ask God to make things easy for me, but I give thanks when He touches my day.

Without support I had the luxury of not being on a schedule, so meandered at a casual pace, arriving in Rutland at 4:30 with 84 miles total. I had traveled only 12 miles more than the group. I was on my own the rest of the night to find a shower and meal, and that was a yet another adventure. The days are too full to live and write about- and I’ve gone on long enough to bore even me.

Turning water into whine

Morning circle and devotion

It was raining when we awoke. I hate riding in the rain. Some riders just didn't bother to suit up, and rode in the van all day. I was so tempted to join them. Did I mention I hate riding in the rain?

Every morning we assemble, have a devotion, say a prayer, thank the church, and we're on the way. Sometimes these can turn into 15+ minute sermons, and standing there in the rain (I hate standing in the rain) I know I certainly wasn't in the mood for it. Lydia kept it short, reading from John 2:1-11 and I found my inspiration for today's blog. I really don't know what her message was meant to be, for I get a bit distracted. SKWRL! (As I mentioned in yesterday's blog, I'm feeling a bit squirrelly.)

Starting in the rain

We set off promptly. It was raining more lightly, but steadily. Water kicked off my rear wheel and up my back, wetting my butt, then off the front wheel, wetting my wool socks. Thank God for wool socks- they stay a bit warmer than cotton when wet. It started raining more heavily. My feet and butt were soaked. I had a flat tire at 7 miles. A few riders stopped to help, including Lydia, who lent my her tire levers for I left mine behind when I had a flat 10 miles into yesterday's ride. The sweeps arrived, I finished, and we last riders were on our way.

It rained harder.
The billboard brought a smile.

 It continued to rain despite my objections. Actually, once soaked to the skin, not feeling every bit of dry getting wet, it all became quite acceptable. My temperature was stable and I started picking up speed, getting my rhythm. I thought of rainy days of my youth; how weather in these parts doesn't really change as radically as it does at home in Florida. It will be overcast for days. I debated whether I'd take my intended route on Wednesday.

Then it was beautiful, though still raining.

The miles melted under my wheels. I passed other riders, rode with some others, some would pass. Gradually the rain lightened, and then stopped. At the 60 mile break I was able to shed my windbreaker and continue. It was a bit cool, but not cold, and it felt good to dry out just a little.

Our home tonight

Saratoga Springs has grown up in the past 40 years. Of course there is the historic city and all the fine architecture Disney modeled it's resort after, but on the outskirts there is much development. Currently the town is at the peak of horse racing season, so is overrun with high rollers. I was hoping to hit the track and place a $2 bet, but not this trip. I lost last time I bet here, 40 years ago.

Though I had doubts while in today's rain about undertaking my own route tomorrow, I've had enough time off the bike and dry to reconsider it, and it's on. I will be without any vehicular or rider support, going it solo. Onward!

History: NY's and mine.

I'm feeling a bit squirrelly

From Niagara Falls, through Rochester and then Syracuse we spent many miles along the Erie Heritage Trail. Though ground stone, it has a very good surface and out of harm’s way. Though mostly recreationally used now, the 363 mile construction was quite an engineering feat that opened the region up for agriculture and industry, resulting in New York surpassing Philadelphia in commerce. Riding along the way one can imagine its heyday, and be inspired to research more history.

Mid Upstate NY is vaguely familiar to me. At a young age, while living in Illinois, we’d all pile into the car and drive cross-country to Greenwich, where my Father had purchased 20 acres of land we’d camp on. I suppose we pretty much followed this route. Then later, when we lived in Massachusetts and “downstate” we’d travel there to spend a week or two camping. It is where we city kids were first exposed to rural life, for the land originally was owned by a local dairy farmer. Dad taught us to shoot, burning through bricks of .22 caliber ammo. Then he took us out to kill woodchucks, or down to Cossayuna Lake to go fishing, and evening’s we’d cook over a Coleman gas stove. He’d tell funny stories about his war before we’d sleep in a tent, and later a lean-to. He’d dig a latrine, and eventually we had an outhouse. Our water was carted up from Connery’s farm in old milk cans loaded on a wooden flatbed trailer behind a 1952 International Farmall Super-C tractor. Those summers I’d sit in his lap and he’d let me drive, and push the throttle levers up…

Suddenly our world fell apart. My executive father and his wife divorced, he fell from grace in the corporate world, the family collapsed, and he almost went bankrupt. That “funny” war always haunted him, and I later realized greatly influenced how he raised his 4 sons. All he had left was a new wife and those 20 acres of land. He sent for me and my younger brother. We lived in poverty but I didn’t quite realize it; we subsistence farmed that land, cut wood, built a chicken coop, did odd-jobs, trapped fur, hunted, fished, and survived and thrived. It was so hard. I got the hell out of there 10 days after I graduated high school 40 years ago, and have only visited a handful of times. Eventually Dad was granted a full medical disability for his war wounds, sold that land and lived 30+ years more RV traveling the country, eventually settling in a Florida home his widow lives in today.

During those hard years I did earn enough to buy a $40 ten-speed bicycle via mail order from Montgomery Ward. What a tank that thing was, but I didn’t know that as I flew down North Road, clocking speeds up to 60 mph (according to my cable drive dial speedometer) and smoking the breaks trying to stop at the bottom. I was young, immortal, the son of a soldier that grew up knowing all about WWII and Vietnam, destined to be my generation’s fodder. I had no future other than the military.

I’m going back soon. Not home, for it isn’t home for me. Our travels take us to Saratoga Springs tomorrow, and the next day, Rutland VT. I don’t know what route the FCBA is taking, but I’m going down memory lane. I’ve found a route about 10 miles longer that will take to put all behind me. I’m going down the hill on North Road, and not at 60 mph because I’m no longer immortal. I’m older than my Father when he left that place. I doubt I have 30 years. I do have today, and today I’m happy, so all the miles getting here were worth it.

Time is precious. Today’s is running out, so I’m just going to toss this out there without so much as an edit. Sorry for any errors, but I don’t have time to correct myself. I gotta go. Things are happenin’ in Herkimer.

I woke up in church

If you sleep in enough churches, you’re going to get some church on you. If accomplishing nothing else, the Fuller Center has been my salvation. After seeing the beauty of humanity unfold from the hands of God as a witness while being a guest in so many of His houses along this road I have taken Him to heart. I have a church at home and in recent years made great strides in understanding His mystery through study and devotion.

I keep this blog, so when informed that today was my turn to do so for the FCBA site, I thought I could get by with regurgitating some of my incredibly clever and entertaining ruminations already published. Then I went to services here in the Syracuse Plymouth Congregational Church, a congregation of the United Church of Christ. How humbling. I wasn’t crying; I got some church in my eye.

Instead of my words, I share those of Jim Vedder’s “Call to Worship”:

“Gather us in,

the lost and the lonely,

the broken and breaking,

the tired and aching

who long for the nourishment

held in your hands.

Gather us in,

The done and the doubting,

the wishing and wondering,

the puzzled and pondering

who long for the company

held in your hands.

Gather us in,

the proud an pretentious,

the sure and superior,

the never inferior

who long for the leveling the

held in your hands.

Gather us in,

the bright and the bustling,

the stirrers, the shakers,

the kind laughter makers

who long for the deeper joys

held in your hands.

Gather us in,

from corner or limelight,

from mansion or campsite,

from fears and obsession,

from tears an depression,

from untold excesses,

from treasured successes,

to meet, to eat,

to be given a seat,

to be joined to the vine,

be offered new wine,

become like the least,

to be found at the feast.

Gather us in!”

You can count me in.

Niagara Falls

(Written 08/06- published 08/08 when internet available)

99th St. and many futures ended here.

Today’s ride was 16 miles from Buffalo to Niagara Falls. Along the way I took a detour to the infamous Love Canal area of this town. This is where my wife was born and raised into her teens. The “no-man’s land” of ground zero is between 95th and 100th streets . Here is where Leslie went to primary school and splashed playground's puddles of toxic waste.

Looking N. from 101st street.

I recommend reading the article but here's my synopsis: In the early part of the 20^th century the Hooker Chemical Company disposed of extremely hazardous waste in the area. The land was poisoned, and worthless as a result. Hooker reluctantly sold it to the City of Niagara Falls for $1, clearly stating the hazards of the land. City Fathers then proceeded to develop it despite Hooker’s warning. Citizens for decades were experiencing serious health problems (33% of the population suffered chromosomal changes) and it was later revealed why. The “hot zone” was abandoned; our host lived on 97th St. and said her family and most others just left everything behind. It was bulldozed, "cleaned", buried, and remains fenced off to this day. Surrounding streets are abandoned with a few houses remaining. Three hundred houses nearby were “renovated” and re-sold with the new owner’s knowledge of the history. Some of those residents are experiencing health problems today. Leslie had to have a hysterectomy at 32, and her older sister died of ovarian cancer. One blessing came from this; to have a child, we adopted. Cherisse has made the greatest impact on so many in our family.

The place we are staying is a former Catholic church and school built by the Polish community. It was established at the turn of the 20^th century, and was sold by the Diocese to a private foundation that now uses it to support community. They gave us a home tonight, and serve the needs of many other charitable organizations as well as the general welfare of all around.

I pedaled to see the falls. Along the way I ran into Arron, and we proceeded to the “Cave of
the Wind” tour. Flip-flops and poncho are included for the $14 admission fee. Two elevators built in the 1920’s take tourists down to a cave dug out to the edge of the river to a wooden walkway. Eventually one can arrive at the Hurricane Deck which allows the slightest edge of the falls to cascade over those who choose. At times it is actually as pounding as a hurricane, and I took off my poncho to rinse off my smell, trading it for the smell of the river. It’s actually a lot of fun and a bargain if you don’t buy the
$32 photo package they force you to pose for in line.

Maybe I should have
stood on the railing.

After returning to our home a real shower was available, and then dinner for us and the rest of the community and visiting mission groups. As mentioned above, this isn’t for our sole benefit, but something that is continuous here. Everyone is having a lot of fun, with kids running around playing, while Kert, Kelly, and others fire the grill.

Really, even if you are familiar with the Love Canal tragedy, read the article.

Thank you for your support of the Fuller Center for Housing.

Buffalo buffalo buffalo buffalo Buffalo buffalo buffalo.

You can't buffalo me.

This heading actually forms one of the most complex grammatically correct sentences, and a fun example of how difficult English can be.

Lauryn likes animal crackers. Just the
ones shaped like buffalo.

Oh, by the way; we're in Buffalo, 67 miles down the road, north-east from this morning's Westfield. Along Lake Erie, a few hills, wind with and against favor, metropolitan traffic; blah-blah-blah bike trip stuff. Read some of my co-riders blogs for all the gear-jamming details.

Kristine on the brink of Buffalo

Anyway, back to Buffalo buffalo. No, I haven't seen any, but I hear they are wily critters that may try to confound or bully you. Hence, the expression "to buffalo" as a verb. So A Buffalo buffalo buffalo is a Buffalo bison with questionable motives.

Fortunately, they tend to just pick on others of the same ilk, "buffaloing" one-another. So you follow now? Buffalo buffalo buffalo buffalo Buffalo buffalo buffalo, or in more words: The bison native to Western New York who tend to confound or bully, tend to confound or bully other nearby bison with similar tendencies. Look it up; I'm not buffaloing you. Ok, maybe I am, but now that I've done my best to make it clear it's your own fault.

You'll thank me one day for this. Maybe when you want to get your mind off getting your teeth drilled or you can't get wi-fi, or you just want to annoy that chatty passenger on the window seat. Just think of 7 buffalo. If you master that, try this, but I can't go there- it hurts. You're welcome. Oh, and thanks again for supporting my fundraising efforts and reading my blog. I promise both will end soon.

Irie Lake Erie

"Irie"

We have been so blessed with tail winds and (mostly) good roads the past two days. We exited Ohio, entered Pennsylvania, and entered New York today along Lake Erie. "Irie" is a Rasta word for "good", and I marked the occasion by wearing my Rasta hat for a helmet cover. I found it back in Florida along the road, cleaned it up, and just brought it for fun. Today was fun.

"Mostly good roads. We're stopped for
construction. Wicked surface!

This is a beautiful area when it isn't covered with snow. I suppose it's beautiful when it is covered with snow, but I don't think we'd make the 76 miles we did today. We are approaching the area of my wife's family, where she grew up, and some still live. Things have changed much since she left 40 years ago, and from my first visit probably close to 50 years past. This used to be a heavily industrialized area, and from it's beginnings until the 1970's it was pretty much a dumping ground for those industries. That environmental disaster resounds in Leslie's and my lives to this day; I'm thankful Industry is so much more responsible now. I wonder what gave them the change of heart?  It couldn't have been governmental regulation, for I hear that is a really bad thing.

Lauryn: bananas
over corn!

So this is grape country. Miles of grapes, and then entering town we got wind of Welch's. Of course there is plenty of other agriculture as well, and with it the roadside stands selling today's pick. We stopped to sample some of it. Northern fruit, grown in milder climate, just seems a bit better. Perhaps I'm drawing from my Yankee roots.

Thanks for your support.

Leave 'em in tears, and don't look back

No, I'm not crying; the wind makes my eyes water.

That heading seems rather cold after such warm hospitality we received this past weekend. So many of us expressed our joy of being in Aurora that we kidded “ok, trip’s over; we’re staying here for two weeks!” knowing we were leaving this morning. Laughter is a good dam against tears. It’s amazing how attached we can get with the locals, and we always part with promises to meet again. I’m fortunate to have an added draw in that I offer Disney to many, so maybe…

I am in the company of good people who rely on good people along the way, and stay out of the way so good can come of it despite this sinner. This is an intense experience so full of love that it actually hurts to move on- we are so inspired by America and some say we inspire them. Neat.

A legend on the wall of Jewels Dance Hall

Today’s ride was wonderful. First of all being rested is great, but north-east Ohio is beautiful. The roads are pretty good, and the rolling hills make for quite an enjoyable ride. Just enough uphill to provide a downhill to gain speed for the next uphill. I was able to average over 20 miles per hour in the first 40 miles, and in some spots, with today’s tail-wind, able to maintain close to 30 and even reached 40 along a stretch of good road. Then the last 15 miles were along shaded “rails-to-trails” path, so traffic wasn’t an issue. I took those at a leisurely pace.

Tomorrow is from here in Ashtabula along Lake Erie, across the NW corner of Pennsylvania into New York, and we’ll be crossing the state the rest of this week.  

Thank you for your fundraising support.

Rest for the weary

Build days are a luxury for our legs and butts, but keep us busy. Our team of 45 joined with 40 local volunteers to work on 12 separate locations here in Aurora, Ohio. The group I joined had the good fortune of working with Nick Iafigliola and his brothers, (Ryan’s Dad and Uncles). We repaired fire damage, plumbing, and electrical, along with yard improvements on a local home.

Afterward we were hosted by the Rotary at Sunny Lake Park for dinner and fellowship, where some played horseshoes, volley ball, corn hole, or relaxed like me. We then broke up into our groups to be hosted by local families in their homes, and 12 of us are the guests of Sandy and Josh, their children Jesse and Charlie, and Auggie, their dog.

Cap'n Josh

Today we enjoyed our second waking from sleeping in beds with a nice big breakfast provided by Sandy. Our group split up and attended three local churches, and for some afterward going down to the lake for a day of boating, followed by a big cook-out with another host. The day is once again too short for all the life in it, but tomorrow we have the luxury of rising at 6, and only a 60 mile excursion. This is our third night in one location. Tomorrow we start the 9^th week of the trip, my second week. The first week's mileage for me was 350+ miles.

Thank you for your support of fundraising toward this mission.

Pink Elephant to Recovery and beyond

This week, along this road trip I saw a pink elephant. Wearing sunglasses. Drinking a martini. I took a picture of it.

The next day I spent some time in Recovery. I took a picture of it.

Fort Recovery was a tough road I rode 100.65 miles. It was only supposed to be a 97 mile ride, but with any job I aim to give 110%. I got off track again later- I have no idea where; I was lost. No big deal.

Riding alone is very meditative; I so enjoy where I am I lose track of where I’m supposed to go. After my detours I decided to just follow the written list of directions; Turn left on Hwy X, travel Y.z miles, turn on Q. Miles of nondescript corn and soy. I half consciously watch my numbers and not look at the total mileage left for the day, trusting instruction to achieve the goal without a worry. Not a worry of where I’ve been, where I’m going; just pedal a comfortable efficient pace, drink regularly, sweat, breath, turn on cue. As I stroke the miles my body moves in a linear manner while my spirit grows infinitely, with exaltation. No worries. Just follow ordered direction and let it flow. That’s what I’ve found in scripture; a path on which I follow to discover a space beyond the place I am in, while enjoying that place. The bible is a book full of mystery constantly revealed I don’t think I’ll comprehend until life’s last page, but it certainly helps me understand the here and now.

It’s taken my life to get here, and all the struggle I’ve made of it is good, for here is good. I wish I had followed instruction earlier and not been so lost for so long. I don’t say that with regret so much as a suggestion; not a single thought I’ve had is superior to those of “illiterate shepherds” recorded a few millennia ago. 

Mud, sweat, and tears.

It was the first day of riding for me. I didn’t have high expectations for setting any records. So, when Lydia asked the dreaded question after our daily devotional and instructions- “Who wants to sweep?” all remained typically silent. It’s a strange tradition I have yet to fully understand. Nobody wants to sweep, meaning nobody wants to volunteer to be the last rider in for the day. The “sweeps” attend to the slowest riders, or flats, or whatever situation causes a few to fall behind.

I volunteered. Arron, another first day rider and my riding buddy from last year opted to join me. Trail conditions were so bad, and some riders so green, it took three hours to go the first 20 miles. The trail had been under water in spots, so was covered with a slippery silt that made it necessary to walk the bikes on higher ground (if there was any). We we had to ride through a lot of the slurry, so everyone was fully muddied.

The day grew hotter. The general “requirement” of riders is to maintain a minimum average of 12 miles per hour, and many times we were under 10. Arron and another rider had to drop out at 60 miles. Conceding "defeat" can be an emotional moment for some. I was left with Diane to sweep with, and at the 71 mile point was about to collapse from the heat, so had to drop out. Diane is hardcore, so insisted on finishing. Our support stalwart, Tom Weber, being the gentleman he is, insisted Diane not ride solo, so pedaled my bike the last 20 miles while I rode in the support vehicle. Yes, you read that right- Geezerman rode my bike! Ok, for those of you not veteran riders of the FCBA that might not mean a lot, but the value of a bike graced by his derriere is double! No matter that it's virtually worthless and not at all likely to even be stolen (I’ve “tricked” it out into a rolling joke, and not really a funny one at that), I'm honored. Then again, Tom has a pink bike, so obviously he’s not too particular.

So, it was my first time ever not finishing. I’m good with that.

Thank you for your support in my fundraising efforts. 

Bike lag

I arose at 0500; I work late so usually when a clock reads that it’s because I’m struggling to fall asleep; now I’m struggling to wake up. I could have stayed in bed a few more hours, but my world is about to turn upside-down.

Last night I got word from Kert that they are anticipating my arrival and that they’ve picked up my bike from the mail drop already. I joked with him to go ahead and open up my box and assemble it. Man, that would be nice. As it is I have that to do tonight, as well as install a new crank/chainring set that I ordered to replace the nubby-toothed old rings I shipped it with. I was hoping to get one more trip out of this bike, but during one of my last rides in preparation for this my chain slipped every time I put any real pressure on the down stroke. I’ve been shopping for parts a long time, hesitating making any investment in ASsTROBLASTER, for a set of rings can be costly. Well, God smiled upon me and during my last shopping session a week ago presented to me a direct replacement part from some overstock jobber; three chainrings with crankset offered at $34.

I really try to keep expenses on these trips to a minimum, minding the Fuller Center motto “Living simply, so others can simply live.” This is my first year actually conforming to the suggested list of gear. No blender. No spyglass. No tools, no formal attire for the captain’s banquet. Ok, so I’m trying to conform. I did pack an air mattress, for these old bones leave dents in the church floors if I use the pads provided. I did splurge and buy a replacement rolling duffel bag, for while (again) mending the seams on my old one I just thought it worthwhile. So off to Walmart I went and found the same model that has served me so well. The old one was branded “Jeep” but now it’s “Coleman”, and obviously made in the same Chinese sweatshop. For $42 it fulfills my purpose of being my home for a spell. One nice feature they include with Walmart luggage purchases is pre-TSA screening: first, the cashier rifled through every cranny before approving the purchase, and then Charley (you know, “Checkpoint Charley” as you try to leave) looked through the nooks. I don’t know what the TSA pays their lackeys, but Walmart is thrice thorough for a third the price. Fortunately I was spared the “please follow me” into a room as the guy snapped a blue glove on. Walmart is tough.

My flight leaves before noon and takes another five before destination. It’s going to be a long day. I have a lot of long days, and short nights, ahead. It reminds me of going to China, when I turned my clock upside-down and it took three weeks to adjust. I should be used to this about the time I get back home.

CRANKY!

At MCO: Did I mention I’m not a morning person? I haven’t even boarded my delayed flight and they’re announcing another delay, waiving the cattle prods to remind us to be ready to board at their whim. I’m feeling cranky. It’s probably good my crank is in checked luggage, or it could get ugly.

Purpose Quest

This is my last hour at DisneyQuest until I return a month from now. Monday I will leave for Indianapolis where I will join my FCBA family. They have completed 7 of the 10 weeks of this year’s cross-country adventure. I’ve been following their blog  and Facebook posts, and they have had quite a time of it. It isn’t outwardly apparent from the writing, but my FCBA veteran eyes can read between the lines to see the mountains and valleys of chronic fatigue and pain the elements inflict on the body, as well as the overwhelming joy of camaraderie, hospitality, and beauty this experience has to offer.

Many express their initial motivation for such an undertaking as purely selfish, but in short order find impetus from the essence of the cause. What starts as a personal quest to traverse the continent by bicycle suddenly becomes a much greater purpose. Despite meticulous, almost infinite planning, we experience far beyond anything anticipated. Not so much from the endless miles, but from going into the communities along the way to lend help, only to find we receive more than we can ever give.

My bike I renamed "ASsTROBLASTER" in reference to Buzz Lightyear's game, and the pain I typically experience during these long rides. Asstroblaster has been shipped ahead, with a bit of "Toy Story" paraphernalia. I'm not sure what theme I'm going for here, but to quote Buzz, "To Infinity, and BEYOND!"
       Ok, so it's just Indianapolis to Portland.

Thank you for your help toward my fundraising goal.