One month out...

Well, the title of this post tells it all-- we arrived in Seattle a month and 4 hours ago, and, frankly, I've been trying to remind (okay, convince) myself that it happened, at all.

And that's hard to do.

Sure, I can feel the physical difference; my legs feel stronger than they ever have, and when I've played tennis or gone for shorter bike rides (i.e. 30-35 mi.) I recognize that my stamina is greatly improved since May.

But another part of me feels like it was a fleeting dream, an insurmountable, ridiculous flight of fancy that came and went like so much else in life. My duffel bag's still sitting on the floor of my room, half-packed; my Thermarest's still snugged into one side, and my Camelbak has a stack of B&B business cards that I didn't get around to handing out. Bike jerseys and spandex are scattered about my floor. But these relics have no visceral connection to the summer that we all shared-- their presence is arbitrary, unrelated. I know it happened, and I'm so grateful that it happened, but I could very well have heard about the trip from a friend. Even when I see a picture of my face grinning idiotically out at me from the top of Teton Pass, it seems like the face of a stranger.

I think that's what was at the crux of my last post-- I want something to hold on to, a reminder that will stick with me. I need another way to remember the trip. And I don't know what that might be.

Lately, when people ask me about my summer I say that it was "fantastic." And each time I'm more deeply aware of the word's root:

Fantasy.

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.