Hometown: Boise, Idaho
Bike: A 1976 Sam Braxton (#23) refurbished for it's second cross country trip
Favorite piece of gear: B17 brooks saddle
Go-to road food:Corndogs
Best touring specific trick: Poppin curbs and riding wheelies
Last employment: Field leader for citizen science backpacking trips for wilderness character monitoring in the HPBH WSA just north of Yellowstone
Most anticipated destination: Austin, Texas
Best bike related experience: Touring the San Juan Islands with Alison E. Riley
Hometown: Longmont, CO.
Favorite piece of gear: spatula
Go-to road food:snickers
Best touring specific trick: on bike sunscreen application
Last employment: Denali National Park trail crew
Most anticipated destination: middle of nowhere mississippi
Best bike experience: first wheely
Hometown: Mt. Prospect, Illinois
Bike: Surly Long Haul Trucker (Fatties Fit Fine)
Favorite piece of gear: Bear Spray
Go-to road food: Jalapeno Cheddar Cheetos
Best touring specific trick: Limbo under gates of closed campsites....while riding
Last employment: Raft/Backpack Guide in West Glacier, Montana
Most anticipated destination: Beers on the beach in MIAMI!
Best bike experience: Cruisin' Avenue of the Giants in Nor Cal
Hometown: Corbett, Oregon
Bike: Surly Cross Check with a dented rear wheel and noisy brakes.
Favorite piece of gear: Michael Jordan tank top
Go-to road food: Corn doggies
Best touring specific trick: No handed jacket removal
Last employment: Wildland Firefighter for the State of Montana
Most anticipated destination: New Orleans
Best bike experience: Crashing so hard while dirt jumping that I shit my pants.
Saturday, December 24, 2011
After a failed attempt to treat ourselves to a final continental breakfast as a foursome, we departed Gainesville, Fl following a twenty mile bike trail through some of the hilliest and windiest terrain we had seen in the past thousand miles. The bike trail allowed us to ride side by side and added some needed variability from the weeks of straight, flat, road riding that had been accompanied by a persistent east wind.
After the trail, we spotted our first gators in a roadside swamp. I led the draft line for the next forty miles and received my first flat tire since Silver City, NM. Despite a calloused ass, and an increased level of fitness the rusty staple that punctured my tire and the prevailing headwind reminded me that the many new found perquisites of traveling by bike don’t come without a toll. I signaled to Kyle that I could use someone’s wheel to pull me through the current. Kyle led us through the last twenty miles and I could sense his anticipation through his cadence. I have ridden hundreds of miles inches behind Kyle’s rear wheel and we all have grown accustomed to his predictable trajectory and strong steady pace. This day, however, for these last twenty miles before completing a coast to coast to coast bike ride, Kyle’s tempo surged intermittently while his bike swayed fifteen degrees to the left and right of vertical as he pulled on the opposite side of each downward pedal stroke.
Upon arrival of St. Augustine Beach Kyle led a screaming charge, champagne bottle in hand, past bewildered bystanders straight into the Atlantic. We all high fived as many times as we dove back into the ocean as if the first four wouldn’t count. The champagne coming through my nose after celebratory swigs in between the dousing of my friends almost went unnoticed amongst the jubilee. After a half hour of body surfing in the turbulent atlantic on this blustery day, we were given a chance to reflect on our journey and accomplishment while poaching the hot tub of an adjacent beachfront hotel. The celebration continued into the night until we crept into the shadows of the Castillo de San Marcos, adding a National Historic Monument to our list of weird places slept at.
The following day I couldn’t help but reminisce on the early events of the trip while riding solo into Jacksonville, Fl. Our goodbye had consisted of overindulgent group hugs and high fives and we had avoided the emotional confessions of disbanding through jokes and sarcasm. I took the “don’t leave us Patrick” and fake sobs with multiple people clinging to my extremities as sincere goodbyes. I knew that I wanted to candidly discuss every incredible attribute of each individual and how each of them made the trip so memorable. I knew I wanted to confess that I couldn’t ask for a more amazing group of guys to spend ten weeks with while touring the country. I knew that I had had the experience of a lifetime because of these guys and I wanted to thank them. I also knew that they were thinking similar things but partaking in that kind of bromance just wasn’t our style. Instead, I laughed and said, “Have fun in Miami guys, see you in Missoula” then rode away.
While I was packing my bike up in Jacksonville, I couldn’t believe it was over. A dream of mine had become reality and a strong sense of accomplishment came over me. I remembered the first talk I had with Kyle about the trip almost a year before while in Missoula, Mt. The initial plan was to finish our seasonal summer jobs and ride across the country. This is an easy claim to make while jobless and drinking a beer in the dark depths of Charlie B’s on a cold winter night but as the months went on I always knew Kyle was definitely in. Three other people expressed interest 6 months before the trip but I wasn’t convinced that there would be more than two of us until Max and Vince both blew their first summer paychecks on new touring bikes. The new plan was more detailed, we would all finish our summer jobs, go to Kyle’s house in early October, ride the pacific coast and take a left to Florida and the Atlantic coast. There was virtually no correspondence between us while we all worked our sumer jobs but it only took a bike and one “I’m in” from each person to seal a commitment to this adventure. Everyone knew that jobs, money, girlfriends or other commitments couldn’t supersede that verbal agreement. As friends we simply wouldn’t let each other back out if one chose to try. As I traveled bike less through Jacksonville I was so happy I and everyone else had done what we had set out to do months before.
That afternoon I experienced one of the most radical changes of emotion I have and most likely will ever feel. I felt like I was standing on top of the world, beneath me were mountains of accomplishments and memories, laughter and stories, and an experience that could never be recreated. The two sentences, “Kyle got hit. It doesn’t look good.” blurred my vision and stole my breath as the world crashed down leaving me trembling and completely lost. After several hours of feeling entirely helpless while anxiously awaiting phone calls, Kyle’s situation remained very scary but showed signs of improvement. From what I understand, Kyle received a serious head trauma and a bruised lung. Surprisingly, no broken bones resulted from Kyle getting hit from behind by a fast moving van. The swelling in Kyle’s head remained low and manageable during the critical first 72 hours succeeding a head injury. Although heavily sedated and unconscious, Kyle’s vitals have stayed strong. The doctors at Halifax hospital in Daytona, Fl are planning on keeping Kyle under at least through Christmas weekend. The hope is that by keeping him sedated, his brain will remain inactive and have a chance to heal. The extent of Kyle’s brain damage is yet to be determined until the doctors start trying to wake him up.
After our first week of the trip and five hundred miles under our belts, we pulled out the maps for the rest of the Pacific coast and the Southern tier of the United States. The remaining states, miles and passes ahead of us were too overwhelming to see, it seemed to far and too difficult when looked at all at once. From then on, we would only look at one map or a few days in advance at the most. By making small goals and achieving them, collectively our ultimate goal became more attainable. It is too early to tell how long Kyle’s road to recovery will be but I am confident that his predictable trajectory and strong steady pace will get him to his ultimate goal, even if he has to tackle one mountain pass or map at a time. Along Kyle’s road to recovery it is likely that he will need someone’s wheel to pull him through the current and Max, Vince and I are committed to helping him and his family through whatever obstacles come his way just as he allowed us to draft behind him through difficult times while riding across the country.
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
While at the DeRidder public library I was flipping through a local publication which in this particular issue was rating Acadian country's best meals and in particular Boudin, (a rice, pork, and liver filled sausage). The next day and 70 miles later I recognized a name that I had seen in the magazine; the rather unforgettable T-boys slaughter house. A dollar and change was all it took to get our hands on the savoury links. Like true Yankees we enjoyed them whole on day old white bread in the parking lot. We later learned you don't eat the casing and instead pull the filling out and eat it with crackers or all on its own. Pulling out of T-boys refueled by the boudin we rode through the rice fields till sundown arriving in the town of Opelousas. In search of a grocery store we came across a Christmas light celebration in the town park. The town welcoming committee invited us to indulge in the free red beans and rice and hot coco and we did so with vigor. After this we met with the mayor and he set us up with a place to stay in a historic chapel.
Two days and around 180 miles later found us in New Orleans. Three things happened in the big easy I will never forget; beignets, muffaleta, and mud bugs. Cafe Du Monde has been pumping out little powdered sugar coated doughnuts 24 hours a day for over a century and there's a reason. Go there. The central grocery down the block invented a sandwich called the muffaleta over a century ago and has had a line every day since. Go there. Big Fishermens on magazine street provides whole sale and individual orders of local sea food. Crayfish is the only hot food they serve. Go there. Louisiana and New Orleans is a whole sub culture of food, people, and music unlike any other. Imagine the best of Paris right on one of the most productive coasts in the world and trapped in a swamp for a few hundred years. Go there.
Thursday, December 1, 2011
From Marathon we burned east through rolling Texas desert in a blind push for Austin. With no big climbs to separate the group we generally stuck together in one raggedy, foul smelling pelaton. There are times when we've been riding for hours over mellow terrain that it feels like all of our minds are caught in the same groove, like separate needles finding the same track on a record. When you're drafting behind someone mere inches separate your wheels, and we're all tied together by the slipstream thats cut open by the lead bike and breaks around each of us like a rolling wave. When you're in that pocket of air its easy to think of us all as just parts of one vehicle: Some eight wheeled, mutant caterpillar of rubber and steel slinking its way east towards the Atlantic Ocean, leaving behind a trail of beer cans and greasy fast food wrappers.
Beyond showing us our longest ride yet, Texas also marked the first time on the trip we have paid for camping. This occurred near the Amistad Reservoir when a trio of Park Rangers, likely attracted by the smell of our recently barbequed venison cutlets, trundeled into the closed campsite we were poaching and ordered us to pay up. The only part harder then finally shelling out money for a place to sleep was finding close to eight dollars in change and fitting it into the drop-box slot.
With this travesty still fresh in our minds, the posse rolled into San Antonio on Thanksgiving evening and sniffed out a small bar for burgers and beer. Then it was time for a little stickin' it to the man at the Occupy movement's San Antonio camp out. The occupiers were stationed in a park downtown and happy to accomidate a few more folks if we didn't mind a little drum practice they had planned for later. We chose to occupy a small tree on the far side of the park and drifted off to sleep while some moron beat out the bass line to various Metalica tracks on what sounded like the underside of a plastic bucket. Those fat cats on Wall Street had better be shaking in thier penny loafers.
After the bright lights of San Antonio we cut north to Austin, which we had all been looking forward to since the beginning of our trip. As a heavy rain fell in the state capitol, we cruised some bars on sixth street and found ourselves denied entry for a host of reasons (baggy pants, flip-flops, general drunkeness). Despite these setbacks we found our way into several bars and even wrangled a living room floor to crash on from a warm hearted bike mechanic named Sterling. Some highlights from our remaining rest days in Austin were lounging at the downtown Marriot's pool, catching the premier of Empire BMX's "Bad Idea" video, and the minting of an ass tattoo on one member of the crew.
Thats all for now, check back as we dive into the deep south on the final leg of our journey.
|An all too familiar view|
|Thanks, friend...had a blast.|
|we may look like bums...but we don't have to eat like em'|
|That was a very funny joke!|
|They start em young in Austin.|
|The hot tub's too hot!!|
Saturday, November 26, 2011
Monday, November 21, 2011
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
It could be the automobile itself that's to blame, when you can go a mile a minute its hard to justify taking a few off for a trivial matter such as taking a leak. Better off just throwing an empty Pepsi bottle into the back seat and hoping your kids got good enough aim to keep it off the interior. When progress is defined strictly in terms of mileage, the journey takes a back seat to the destination. Gas stations and fast food joints are constructed with this in mind; bland road trip pit stops pumping enough nacho cheese and unleaded gasoline onboard to get travelers on their way in the least possible time.
Our journey so far has run in direct opposition of this mindset. On a bicycle there is more of an interaction with the scenery. With no air conditioning to tame the dry desert air or radio to drown out the bleak stretches of nothingness, there is little choice but to let the landscape in. We have slept amid a crumbling desert foundation, in front of a church and behind a bar; out of the way places chosen as our energy and the day's light fades. When miles are not measured in minutes there is time to scamper across sand dunes, jump in rivers and hunt for scorpions. Should the need to relive oneself arise we merely drift over to the ditch and deliver some hydration to the parched land, all the while hoping the cars and RV's lurching by on the freeway get to their destination on time.
|Mission Trails State Park just east of San Diego|
|I have no idea where this picture was taken...in the middle of the desert somewhere in AZ|
|A perfect storm|
|top of the hill|
|New Mexico chillin'|
|All downhill from here!|
|At times, besides the persistent roadside litter, there wasn't much to look at on the San Carlos Apache Indian Reservation. Then the Sun set in Bylas, Arizona.|
Saturday, November 12, 2011
Thursday, November 10, 2011
From Santa Monica we pretty much followed the beautiful SoCal coast all the way to Dana Point, California. Lukcy for us, Pat's family friend and surfing sensei, Chicago Steve, was in town and took us out for a massive feast at a local burger joint. Steve treated us to burgers, fries, 6 appetizers, beers and great company. Since Steve couldn't join us for breakfast, he took it upod himself to give us a little something so that we could buy some breakfast burritos in the morning...turns out it was enough for some more beers AND burritos in the am...Thanks, Steve, you don't know how much we appreciate it.
From Dana Point it was only a short 60 miles until our final destination on the west coast, San Diego. The sun was shining way too bright and hot for us to just ride the stretch straight through. Just outside of Carlsbad, a beautiful white sand beach with some tasty swells was calling our name. We parked our rigs next to some Cali surfer dudes that happend to have a few extra stand-up paddle boards and some time to show us the ropes. After some epic body surfing and catchin waves on paddle boards (or tried to), we couldn't leave them empty handed so we helped em out with some dollar fish tacos at their local fish taco spot. Thanks, guys. Needless to say we rolled into San Diego a bit later than expected. Thant didnb't matter though, we had a 30 ft. sailboat to sleep on and Pat's high school buddy Danny Thuerer flew down to chill on the boat and join us for the southern tier of our journey(his bio will come soon).
The next three days on the boat in San Diego proved to be exactly what we needed. We were in super Cali chill mode with some Simpler Times(terrible beer), whiskey gingers, hot tubs and sun (with a bit of rain). Pat's Dad, Steve(owner of the Wild Rose...the boat) even drove over from Tucsan, AZ to take us out on the high seas of the Pacific Ocean. Everyone was a sailor this time, and we even got a show from a pod of dolphins. 2 awesome dinners (one at the hotel where the Green Bay Packers were staying to get ready for the big game against the Chargers), breakfast, boat to chill on with a ride included...Thanks, Steve, for hookin it up with an awesome 3 days in San Diego. I even got to meet up with a Cali Roubitchek...my cousin, Rachael, who I haven't seen in like 7 years. Thanks for an awesome dinner and drinks, Rachael; and thanks, Mitch, for that comfy couch and the good company!...and the JD.