A little while back a friend and I set off on bicycles. I met up with him on the 25th of January in Monterey, CA. With everything clipped on and pulled tight we saddled up to head South. My legs were not prepared for that day, in fact I had done very little training and had never ridden a fully loaded bike. I remember the delirious exhaustion of that first night, fiddling around with the camp stove for a while before lighting the entire rock on fire. We laid our bags on the sandy banks of the river and fell into a scattered sleep. The challenging reality of the journey began to take shape between fragmented dreams. Luck had it that a roadblock held back the usual stream of cars on Highway 1, and we simply snuck over the pile of ruble when the workers went home. This was some of the most incredible riding of the trip with the epic scenery and an entire road to ourselves. We continued down the California coast, picking up a few friends along the way who rode with us to San Diego, where we dove one last time into the Pacific. They split off down to Baja and we turned East to climb up the winding mountain road towards Campo. The peaks gathered dark heavy clouds above us that unleashed a torrent of rain in the fading light of dusk. Emerging from a narrow rocky gulch on the eastern slope we caught our first view of the dry expansive desert. There, stretched before us, was a thin grey line through the creosote and tumbleweed. Train cars rumbled by, their engines huffing in the hot dry air. My legs spinning in a constant cadence, sore but unrelenting. The boarder fence stood tall and imposing to our right, a Mexican goat herder shuffled by just on the other side of the rusted metal slats. In Phoenix, the desert city, we found refuge in a styrofoam igloo and stared mesmerized at the glow of a barrel fire. Back into the emptiness, the odd gestures of Seguaro cactus captured my wandering eye. They appeared as large men with their arms thrust skywards in reverence. We climbed again over a chain of mountains and down the other side into the reservations
and mining towns. Glinting Apache gardens of broken malt liquor bottles surrounded
sun bleached trailers. Hills slashed bare and cut in-half looked naked in the daylight.
With stomachs full of cheap waffles we reached the steepest and highest range, our first assent of many was blessed by a slight tail wind. There, just beyond the continental divide among the mountain junipers, we found Silver City. The colorful buildings, fresh air and friendly folk suited us well. We stayed for a few days absorbing the peace before heading on. We fell into a steady, straining cadence up to the snow capped Emory Pass at 8228 feet, the highest point of the journey. We flew down the other side with incredible speed, leaning into
turns, our beards blasted by the gusting wind. Down in the flats again following along the sand trench that once was the Rio Grande. Cotton balls clung to chili pepper plants and the bare branches of walnut trees shuddered in the dusty wind. Feeling a bit frayed, we entered into a state that should be a country: Texas. El Paso rose precariously from the broken landscape, its wig shops and car mechanics coated with grime and sand. The redundant bump of ranchero music shook through passing car windows. The city was a gateway to a vast parched landscape; we shifted into gear and worked into the nights. Brilliant beams of sunlight burnt the stones of west Texas and illuminated fields of flowers in the East. In the midst of the conservative cowboys there is a hipster oasis. I nearly spent my savings on beer and health food in Austin. Saw the masses, heard the haunts blasting with bands. The heavy thrum of the base drum mixing with the sound of a thousand foot falls and voices.
The south was hot and humid and partially submerged in swampy bayous. From the flooded rice fields of Louisiana we ate a harvest of crawdads with a family of Creoles. Ended up over at T-Boy's place drinking Bud lite, listening to Blind Willie Johnson and playing pool. A few nights later we were in the backyard trailer of a postal worker whose name was Randa. Further down the road we crossed over the Atchafalaya and the mighty Mississippi, stopping mid bridge to stare down at the muddy waters. The white spires of the ubiquitous Baptist church cast shadows on the roadways. Signs spoke desperately to passersby, trying their best to make you think about Jesus. Chased by dogs and skimmed by trucks we labored our loads into Florida to finally be embraced by the warm waters of the Gulf. I was astonished that we had ridden to an ocean so different from the Pacific. Continuing down the Gulf side of Florida, finding shelter in odd places: A mobile home in the woods, a house of hippies and chickens, a metal bench by the fish market. Took a short ride on a boat to Key West, the southern most point of the US. We had no choice but to force our way into brutal head winds over huge stretches of exposed bridge. Up the Atlantic side through Miami, shocked by the strip mall monoculture. People clothed and fed by chains, something lacking in their eyes. Then gems appeared from the common crud; old beautiful buildings and young creative people. The warm curling waves of the Atlantic washed my tensions away, happily lost in the play of the tides. Then back into the rush of traffic again to swallow diesel smoke and splinter my nerves with car horns. Into Georgia, sleeping behind the church or on the couch outside a second-hand store. Brown recluses watching from their holes. We woke with one dangling huge above our faces, while just down the road two cyclists were killed by a car. Death just a shadow's length away, stretching across the thin white line into rushing traffic. My will firmly attached to the next town. "If you just keep pedaling you'll get there" a mantra to recite when my inner resolve was crumbling.
Savannah was a turning point, my traveling partner's bike stolen, I had to continue North alone. No more company, just me and the road and maybe a map if I could find one. Guess work and the glow of library computers aiding me as I picked my way through the rain soaked roads of the Carolinas. Lost my composure a few times, throwing my bike on the ground and cursing at the SUV that nearly killed me or the gravel truck who laid on his horn. Lightning bolts struck close, flashing white and clapping loud with thunder. The torrential rain turning my shoes into sponges. My pen written directions bleeding into incoherent blotches. Out of the delirious exhaustion, moments of euphoria would oddly arise. The tobacco plantation and distant trees gaining a supernatural glow. Those moments held me captive and kept me upright. In some towns I was fortunate to find folks who came to my aid, who provided me with a shower and a place to stay when I wasn't expecting it. My faith in humanity was slowly restored in their company.
On a ferry I crossed the James river in Virginia which landed at the birth-place of America. There I walked among the ruins of Jamestown, where we had first claimed the country for ourselves and suffered many hungry winters. In nearby Williamsburg I walked into a bar, sat down and asked who's couch I could sleep on. A couple directly to my right offered up their spare bedroom and a place to stay in my next destination, Richmond. From there I pedaled hard into the capitol of the nation where imposing monuments stood tall against the thundercloud skies. I crashed on the way in, going a little too fast on the wet winding path. In Pennsylvania I thanked the Amish, their old-fashioned buggies make for wide shoulders, however covered with crap they may be. I found good folks in Philadelphia who came riding up alongside me and offered me their home to stay in. I stuck around for a memorial day gathering at their house and became part of the family, square dancing on the lawn. I rode along the mule paths beside the old canal out of Trenton, imagining the beasts roped to river ships, forcing their hooves into the dirt. And the callused hands of the Irish immigrants who dug all sixty 60 miles of it.
Found a familiar face in New Brunswick. A friend from the tree-sit days, an epic well behind me now but of no less impact. He and I hitch-hiked on the West Coast for a good stint. I remember the time with a glow of unusual quality. Luckily he hadn't lost his sense of humor. It was a nice break from the growing madness of my solitary roadside existence. New Jersey turned sour North of Brunswick. Immense industrial stench and traffic chocked me as I struggled. I was feeling toxic when I saw at last the bridge to Jersey City where the Ferry to New York was docked. When at last I boarded the bobbing craft my body relaxed to a level I hadn't expected. I knew that finally I had made it and could stop pedaling that damn bike for a while. The Statue of Liberty and the dramatic skyline came clear into view as we rumbled over the deep Hudson. Stepping off on the threshold of the city I was greeted by a familiar face. We walked up Wall Street, a giant pharmaceutical banner was stretched across the front of the New York Stock Exchange. The great concrete canyons of the big city rumbled with activity. Beautiful women and well dressed men, mixed with the grime covered and mentally deranged. I was somewhere inbetween just observing and feeling lucky to be alive.
A little while back a friend and I set off on bicycles. I met up with him on the 25th of January in Monterey, CA. With everything clipped on and pulled tight we saddled up to head South. My legs were not prepared for that day, in fact I had done very little training and had never ridden a fully loaded bike. I remember the delirious exhaustion of that first night, fiddling around with the camp stove for a while before lighting the entire rock on fire. We laid our bags on the sandy banks of the river and fell into a scattered sleep. The challenging reality of the journey began to take shape between fragmented dreams. Luck had it that a roadblock held back the usual stream of cars on Highway 1, and we simply snuck over the pile of ruble when the workers went home. This was some of the most incredible riding of the trip with the epic scenery and an entire road to ourselves. We continued down the California coast, picking up a few friends along the way who rode with us to San Diego, where we dove one last time into the Pacific. They split off down to Baja and we turned East to climb up the winding mountain road towards Campo. The peaks gathered dark heavy clouds above us that unleashed a torrent of rain in the fading light of dusk. Emerging from a narrow rocky gulch on the eastern slope we caught our first view of the dry expansive desert. There, stretched before us, was a thin grey line through the creosote and tumbleweed. Train cars rumbled by, their engines huffing in the hot dry air. My legs spinning in a constant cadence, sore but unrelenting. The boarder fence stood tall and imposing to our right, a Mexican goat herder shuffled by just on the other side of the rusted metal slats. In Phoenix, the desert city, we found refuge in a styrofoam igloo and stared mesmerized at the glow of a barrel fire. Back into the emptiness, the odd gestures of Seguaro cactus captured my wandering eye. They appeared as large men with their arms thrust skywards in reverence. We climbed again over a chain of mountains and down the other side into the reservations
and mining towns. Glinting Apache gardens of broken malt liquor bottles surrounded
sun bleached trailers. Hills slashed bare and cut in-half looked naked in the daylight. 
