Fading

Hello all,

Sorry I've been so long in writing again. Seems there's not much to write about on a blog about biking across the country when you've just finished biking across the country...

I've been home for 3 days now, after spending a week or so traveling w/ the fam: first up to Lopez Island in the San Juans, then through Seattle again (saw a Mariners game and then got to hang out w/ Terra and Erin one more time...), then to Mt. Hood for some hiking, then down to Portland, where we stayed with the Carrs, who may very well be the best hosts of all time. It was all fun, and I decided that I really (really.) like the Northwest, and will probably end up there at some point in my life.

Vermont is hazy, hot, and humid, although the thunderstorms crashing outside my window at the moment will probably pull all that from the air and leave everything refreshed, and a little bit deafened.

I miss all you B&Bers with an intensity and depth beyond what I was expecting. I've been thinking about you, and about the trip quite a bit, because there's not much else to do in Vermont.

I finally got my bike back yesterday, and put it together this afternoon in the yard. That fateful Puget Sound soaking wasn't the best thing I did to it this summer, but the briny crust came off easily enough, and it got me thinking.

As I pulled the last kelpy vestiges from my spokes, I considered the nature of reminders, of memory, physical and mental. This summer was, to use the cliche, unforgettable. That much is undeniable. But what do we have to remember it by? How has the trip marked me? How will it stay with me?

The ding in my downtube is from a wipeout in Columbus, on the way out of the JCC. It'll be there forever. The sand in my bartape is from the Golden Gardens beach, and it is somewhat less permanent. Marks on my flesh have been fading gradually since the 13th: the dull pain in my sit-bones was the first thing to go, thankfully. Scabs from wipeouts and construction mishaps have been flaking off of knees and hands, leaving a few scars but nothing else. My tan is fading, the stark lines on arms and thighs blurring perceptibly. The callouses on the base of my palms have withdrawn, and the tingling in my pinkies has subsided.

All of these were comforting reminders of a summer of effort, of hard work. I cherished each one, not because I have a morbid fascination with scars and scabs, but because they were physical links to the past, to a summer that seemed to stretch out to the horizon in June but ended, like all summers, much too soon. As they disappear, I fear, so will specific memories of the trip. Like bruises, the stories will fade, little by little.

I used to wish that humans were blessed not just with a cerebral memory but also a more physical one, so that certain sensations-- a great hug, a deep kiss-- could stay with us in a visceral sense. So that when they came to mind we felt them all over again.

I feel the same way now-- I wish that we could hold on to our scars and tan-lines, and with them hold on to our summer. I know that, through pictures and conversations and my own fickle, inadequate memory, the trip will live on forever. I just wish that I felt more confident in that knowledge.

More to come, I hope. Thanks for reading.

Love to all,

Sam

Narration

Our arrival in Seattle was the same as many other Bike and Build arrivals: late.

We left Everett, a sketchy little port town North of the city, at about 10:30 am, after dallying around the church eating pancakes and getting “Mocha Monday” coffees at the espresso shack across the street. Our crowd of 17 or so meandered down Route 99, the local business strip, blocking a lane of traffic and laughing and screaming and generally being ridiculous. Eventually the groups split for bathroom breaks, then split again, and all of a sudden we were down to seven people, at the very back of the pack. We (Derrick, Terra, Amelia, Terra, Emily, Whitney, and I) narrowly avoided missing the turn that everyone else overlooked and made it to the agreed-upon meeting point for our triumphant ride down to the park, and found out from Logan (who was waiting at the top of the hill, bum knee and all back on the bike) that everyone else had skipped the turn and would be arriving “momentarily.” Now, momentarily can mean anything from ten minutes to 2 hours, so we hunkered down to wait. Some time later—I’m not sure exactly how long, because my adrenaline was so absurd and I’d had a triple iced mocha—a group of stragglers showed up, and then a few more came in, and then a larger group, and eventually we were all there, together, finally.

The ride downhill to Golden Gardens park was exhilarating and gorgeous. The weather was warm, breezy, and as we wound through dappled forest we caught glimpses of Puget Sound laid out like a red (okay, blue…) carpet. Our screaming grew more pronounced as we reached sea level, and when we rounded a corner to see our family with banners and bunting and champagne and clapping we sped up, hearts and lumps in throats. My family was front right, beaming like a beacon, and we could all pick out other parents from their incredible resemblances to their progeny. It was a spectacular moment, on par with the first time I really kissed a girl and getting in to college and graduating from said college, but it was so much more. We’d accomplished an immense physical feat and this was our reward; a visible boundary, a tangible experience, the counterpart to our “wheel dipping” ceremony in Providence some 2 months and 3 days earlier.

So what did we do?

We ran screaming, fully clothed, shedding Camel Baks and helmets and shoes (some of us…) in our wake, into Puget Sound, like four-year-olds.

It was cold.

But we were full of adrenaline and love and joy. And that canceled all of the cold out, at least for about thirty minutes.

All of the shrieking and champagne-tossing and jumping and hugging portrayed below happened, and gradually the realization that we’d accomplished what we set out to do so long before sank in. And then we pulled our bikes out of the salt water (I’m terrified to think of the ramifications of that dunking) and rinsed ‘em off and pulled the kelp from the spokes and hugged families and hugged each other and ate too many hamburgers and drank more champagne and grinned like idiots at the world.

And it was cold. Like, hysterically cold, teeth-chattering like maracas and huddling together for warmth in the burger buffet line cold, seeking out sun and Dad’s jackets and little brother’s sweatshirts cold. But we got over that, too, because we’d gotten to Seattle on our bikes and nothing, not even the Pacific Northwest’s finicky, salty breezes and bone-chilling water temperatures, could quell the fiery pride that sang in our hearts that afternoon.

Biked and Built, baby.

More soon. Stay posted.

ARRIVAL

Golden Gardens, Seattle, an hour late but right on time in our books. Sorry 'bout the shaky camera work, I blame my brother (Joey "Blair Witch" Carmichael)...

WE MADE IT!!!!!

I mean, what, you didn't think we would?

Rode into Seattle on the 13th, an hour behind schedule. Lots of amazing things happened, all of which I'll write about very shortly. For now, internet access is spotty, and I'm traveling w/ the fam, so it'll be a lil' while. But I assure you, the next post will be extensive, nostalgic, and full of inspiring photography.

Love to all, and thanks for reading,

Sam

Reality sets in...

Well folks, we've got four days left till we reach Seattle. Time really has a way of catching up to you when you're blissfully unaware that it's been passing.

I've had a few conversations about what other riders think about when they're on their bikes. I've already talked about Terra's random mantras. Bronwyn says that she prays a lot. She also spends a lot of time thinking about farting, judging from the many conversations we've shared on that topic. Nate said "I don't think about anything. No... I take that back. I actually spend a lot of time thinking about what I've been thinking about." Candace sings selections from "Oklahoma" at high volumes, leading me to believe that she's not thinking about much at all.

Lately, I've been thinking about how bizarre the transition from fantasy to reality is going to be. Or, rather, from one reality to another. It's amazing to consider all the things we've come to accept as mundane, everyday occurrences. Before this trip, my earliest class was at 1pm, a pleasant fact that allowed me to wake up at about 12:30.

PM.

On B&B, there have been days when I've ridden 103 miles before noon. We get up at 5, or 6, and promptly rub any number of the following substances on our bodies:

-Butt-Butter/Chamois Cream/Vaseline/Gold Bond Cream on to the most private places you can imagine, in staggering quantities.
-Deodorant for the most considerate riders.
-Gold Bond Powder for those who prefer the "dry" solution to chafing.
-Sun-Screen, anywhere from SPF 15 to SPF 50 (for Emily and Greg, whose shared skin tone falls somewhere between alabaster and eggshell).
-Moisturizer/Aloe Lotion for those who have forgotten the above step and wish to retain their outermost epidermis.


We also pray to all that is holy that our spandex and jersey have managed to dry fully overnight. Putting on wet spandex, over cold (sometimes mentholated) butt-butter is second only to vicious plaque scrapings in my list of the most dreadful physical sensations I've ever experienced.

I've already sketched out the ridiculous amount we eat in numerous postings. Coming down from our carbo/calorie-loading high will be tough, too. I think we've all got the metabolisms of gerbils by now. Save Logan, whose energy consumption is probably on par with most of the towns and cities we've visited. Combined.

I won't get into the initial crotchety creaking and cranking it takes to contort our bodies onto bike seats and into clipless pedals at 7am. The sounds that come from 30 people doing bike/person origami are often funny, and sometimes heartbreaking.

At some point in the day, we reapply gels and creams and lotions and ointments to our nether-regions, and often top it off by ingesting other similar substances, called "GU" or "Hammer Gel," or "Honey Stingers." These have the consistency of motor oil or whale snot. I would imagine. But they sure getcha up the hills.

When we reach our host site, we explode the contents of the trailer into the most sacred spaces of whichever church is generous enough to host us, and a fine mist of bike grease and butt-butter-vapor settles delicately over every surface. As soon as showers are located, we rush off, dropping socks and twice-worn boxers in our wake. These showers are usually communal, and Greg usually does something ridiculous. We've all become more... open? comfortable?... with our bodies and those of others on this trip, as seen from previous posts. After all, we've all got 'em, right?

After we've eaten about 3 gallons of food each, we fall asleep at 9:30. Now, I haven't fallen asleep at 9:30 since I was 8. But I sleep like a baby every time. And then we get up and do the same thing the next day.

It's bizarre to describe this insane routine and feel nostalgia, but that's just what it provokes in me. In all of us.

As I said before, time oscillates on the trip-- when on bikes, it passes incrementally and then, all of a sudden, the day's over.

Okay, in Nebraska time passes at the same lethargic pace no matter what you're doing.

Lately, when friendly strangers ask where we're coming from, I tell them "Providence. We left yesterday morning!" It usually gets a laugh, but for me that answer tells it all. That's how it feels.

We left yesterday, and tomorrow's here.

The many faces of Bike and Build

So, turns out that many of the people I'm surrounded by on this trip are ridiculously funny, and often make great faces in random pictures... witness below...

This is just thanks to Apple's "PhotoBooth" app. It's amazing. We were all slightly delirious, and laughed for about 25 minutes about the different faces people made.















This is a 6-scoop, 6-topping ice-cream sundae on a bed of caramel and brownies called the "Supernova" at the Big Dipper in Missoula. Terra and I ordered it, and when the scooper asked how many spoons we needed, I replied "two." Her eyes about bugged out of her head, and our fellow line-standers (there were prolly more than 30) all ooh-ed and aah-ed like circus-goers. Apparently no-one here has heard of the Vermonster. We polished it off handily, like most food that ends up around B&B'ers. And that was 30 minutes after a huge taco dinner and 6 popsicles. Mmmmm, I'm gonna miss this sort of overindulgence.















This is our dollar bill from the "Steak/Coffee/Bunkhouse" that saved our lives on that fateful century day. In the bar, it was customary to sign a buck and tape it somewhere. Most of them were marginally offensive. Ours sez "Buck The Headwind-- P2S 2007" and has a house around George's head. It's near the jukebox, look for it if you're ever in the area.
















And this one? This is just funny. It was in Targhee National Forest, at the "Lower Mesa Falls" info station. I like this picture a little bit too much.




















Also, for all the fam, this is awesome. I've never heard of this chain, but apparently they're all over the Northwest. I was a lil bit excited, and hoped they'd give me a free ticket, or at least a discount. No such luck, but it was still funny to see my name in lights. However abbreviated.

Goodbye Montana

I'll miss you so, Montana.

The headwind seems like a trifling memory, a brief squabble, a lover's quarrel. Your hills, in retrospect, seem like minute rumblestrips on our State Route to love. Your locals, two of whom flicked off members of our group, must have just been having bad days. Your rodeo patrons, many inebriated, possessed their own rugged, rough 'n tumble charm.

Because, in the end, you were a beautiful, rewarding state, and we've all left you for Idaho. Even its name is less appealing than your Spanish-derived syllables. In fact, according to historians, it's totally made up. Just look!

Missoula was a delight, full of cultural events, coffeeshops, ethnic food, and even The Simpsons Movie. Even Superior, despite its tiny population, was welcoming and intriguing, throwing in some local flair with a durn tootin' real rodeo and a "Milk Can Dinner." And our rides the last few days have been picturesque (one local described them as "panoramic, causing a bit of head-scratching from my fellow riders...) and lenient w/ the hills. Yesterday featured a 2-hour swimming-hole lunch stop and some hysterical riding maneuvers (more on that later, if you're lucky), and today's ride featured a gradual 40-mile uphill and a gratifying 20-mile downhill into Idaho, along a beautiful (and I mean beautiful) bike path. I'll post pics soon...

But for now, here's a little teaser. I don't know who took it, or who's in it, or where it is, but I've got a few guesses...

A view from the top of Teton Pass

I'll write more about this shortly. This demonstrates the exhilaration and exhaustion we all felt. What a ridiculous day...

And now, to parrot my good friend Bridget's tactics, I'll be excerpting part of her blog, on mine. It's partly because I so greatly respect her writing style (and sense of humor) but mostly because I'm, well, lazy. And I think she captures the "Teton Pass Day" so succinctly.

From http://bridgetbikesacrossamerica.blogspot.com.

30 bikers. 3000 feet. 5 miles. 10% grade. 5 mph. 6am. Arm Warmers. Leg Warmers. Clouds. Fog. Sweat. 55 Minutes. One Motorcycle ride. Success! Tetons what?






When we finally all got to the top a bunch of us decided we hadn't done enough exercise so we took a hike to the top of the mountain. We were 9,000 feet up but the clouds kept moving in and out so we had to rush so we could actually see once we got to the top. Rushing and hiking wasn't really in Derrick's vocab however, as he is afraid of heights. When we finally did make it to the top luck was on our side because the clouds cleared and we could see for miles. It was gorgeous.

After our hike more bikers arrived and we all decided we would wait for everyone to get to the top before we descended the mountain. Everyone arrived in their own style. Sarah by motorcycle. Brianne in tears of joy and our sweeps Tommy and Eric sprinted through our victory line. Actually making it up the pass and then watching everyone else make it up, made what we call "Teton pass day" the best day of the trip for me thus far.

Thanks Bridget!

A Ride to Remember

Courtney, cruising through the Targhee National Forest.

This State is Montana, M-O-N-T-A-N-A

Okay, okay, okay, Montana's not actually THAT bad. It's been beautiful, and, yes, one of the hardest states we've ridden yet.

Montana's given us:

1. Two trips over the Continental Divide
2. 158 miles over two days of the heaviest, most consistent headwinds we've seen so far
3. Just to clarify, that includes a 55 mile ride in which we went down the West side of the Divide and encountered downhills on which we were pedaling vigorously to reach the thrilling speed of 12 mph.
4. One-foot-wide shoulders and double-long logging trucks-- that's a semi-truck, a 17' tall trailer full of trees, and then another trailer attached to THAT one whistling by behind it.

Despite all the above bitching, Bozeman, Helena, Lincoln, and Missoula have all been awesome towns (okay, small cities...). The ride into Bozeman from West Yellowstone was stunning-- 90ish miles up into Yellowstone Park (the only time we got to head through it, unfortunately, due to miscommunication...) and then down along the Gallatin River on rt. 191. For a better concept of just how cool this was, check out this Google map. The whole road was along the Gallatin-- we saw its headwaters up at the top of the pass near West Yellowstone, Idaho, and by the time we hit bottom in Bozeman it had widened and deepened substantially. The narrow, winding road was a bit sketchy, but nothing we hadn't seen before. And it was simply gorgeous. I kept saying "Wow" aloud and under my breath, until I got sick of it and had to switch to "Gosh." And Bozeman was a blast, too-- beautiful religious center on campus and one of the best Co-ops I've ever seen (it almost gave the Brattleboro Co-op a run for the money, and that's saying a lot!...). And, as described below, a great little cafe, where I think Marie and I convinced the barista to do Bike & Build next year. Montana blows me away because it's a gorgeous place full of beautiful, active people, and seems less overrun by tourists than, say, Jackson or West Yellowstone.

The next day's ride, from Bozeman to Helena, was our last, grueling century-- 103ish miles over tough, dry terrain in 100ish heat. Marie and I rode into first lunch--32 miles-- in about an hour and a half. That was great.

And then we tackled Montana's high desert. Or, more accurately, it tackled us.

There was a deadly climb up to a plateau that we managed just fine, but the 10-mile downhill was probably the most difficult bit of cycling I'd ever done. I called it "Teton Pass upside-down" because we were pushing 13 mph at the end of our wits. We ran into Amelia halfway down, stretching, and all teamed up to run a paceline against the wind. When we hit the bottom, we were thrilled to see a "Bunkhouse/Steakhouse/Bar" with a few locals hunkered down inside.

Wilma, our bartender, served up ice-cold fountain sodas for all three of us, and when we'd been adequately revived enough to tell her about our trip she gave 'em to us for free. It was the best possible experience given our mental and physical state. Second lunch came just after that, and then a long haul into Helena. We played the 3-mile long question game, in which one rider asks a question (ideally an open-ended one) and the others have 3 miles to think about their answers. It makes the time go downright quickly. Even WITH the 3-mile-Q game the ride was tough-- we saw forest fires and were passed by a house on a truck, and we got rained on and hit by a 30mph broadside gust and damn near hit the wall a few miles out of the city. But teamwork and adrenaline got us through and to a beautiful little church on top of Helena's hill-top downtown. Here's a pic. I've gotta run to dinner here in Missoula, but will be back with much more after the jump. Love to all.

Epistle

7/29/07

Dear Montana,

I’ve only just met you and I think I’m in love. We first saw each other this morning, somewhere between West Yellowstone and Bozeman, and it was (forgive the cliché) love at first sight. You were cool and curvaceous, laying out lazily all along the Gallatin. We got along immediately, and all my friends liked you too—at first lunch everybody was talking about your looks and your style. I couldn’t believe my luck.

You’ll be in my dreams tonight. I can’t wait to see you again tomorrow.

xoxo,

Sammy-poo



















7/30/07

Dear Montana,

The day started with coffee in Bozeman: a great beginning, or so I thought. The Rockford Café was a great little place, and with a belly full of French roast and our friend Marie tagging along, I knew that the next 100 miles with you were going to be unforgettable.

But then you totally dried up on me.

You blew a bunch of hot air in my face, something about the weather changing in our relationship, and then left me hanging. I felt like the rest of the day was interminably long—I had to struggle uphill against you and then when that conflict was resolved the decision was totally dissatisfying. Even when the fight leveled off I felt like it was an uphill battle, the same thing again and again.

I don’t know what to say, Montana. I had such high hopes yesterday, and things feel… different. When you’re not spitting wind and heat at me you’re cold and distant, desolate and teary.

I’m worried.

Sincerely,

Sam
















7/31/07

Montana:

This is the last straw. I thought today was going to be short and sweet. I knew that there was a tough pass to navigate, but I thought we’d make it through unscathed. Little did I know that with you, even the easiest days can turn out deadly. We started the morning in a fight—that hot air from yesterday was even worse than before, and I was looking at a long uphill battle all day. You were beautiful as always, but inconsolable. I had to gaze upon you from afar. The distance was unbearable.

Even after the rough section I foresaw had passed, the conflict wasn’t over. It only got worse, because the end was in sight but I knew we had a long ways to go before we would rest.

I also heard a lot of nasty rumors—that a lot of cowboys have… ridden… you before, and that you’d even sheltered the Unabomber at one point. Now Montana, I’ve seen states with some pretty crazy exes, but that guy takes the cake. I don't want to think about what could happen if he gets out of jail.

Don’t get me wrong; you’re hot. Really, really hot. On fire. Literally. And you’re cool. Sometimes downright chilly. But I just don’t see this working out, for now or in the long-term. Besides, I was just out to get some tail. Wind, I mean.

All best in your future endeavors,

Samuel Cummings Carmichael

PS—I’ve been cheating on you with Wyoming.