the state of the union

No end in sight. The incline snuck around a bend, and then kept going. Lowest gear. Just put your head down and conquer one foot of pavement at a time. A car honked encouragement. Finally, reprieve. We rolled into the rest area at the top of the hill outside of Kerrville, TX. While gasping for air, a woman called out to us. "Hey, I'm a cyclist,too." She told us about a women's online athletic network of which she was a part. "You guys need food?" She returned to their van with her daughter and pulled out several bags of Cliff bars, nectarines, crackers, cookies, cans of tuna. Is this really happening? "Take as much as you want." I started to grab a couple of each thing. "Really, you can take it all." Our jaws dropped. They were on a cross-country journey themselves, yet gave us ALL their food.

We pulled into the only gas station in Gap, AZ. One-hundred and fifty miles left to Kanab, UT and one day until we needed to meet a friend. "You headed north?" Bree asked a man in a red pick-up. "Eighty miles," he said, "Hop in back." He slowed for pictures at the breath-taking views, paused in Paige to buy us ice cream, climbed to a look-out point, then dropped us at Lake Powell National Park and paid for our campsite.

Before crossing into Utah, we stopped for lunch near a line of roadside stands where Navajos sold jewelry and handicrafts. A grey-haired woman with turquoise earrings invited us into the shade of her next-door canopy. We pulled out apples, crackers, and tuna. No can opener. I inquired the elderly woman. She retrieved an old-school version from her truck and opened the can for us.

On a stretch of barren highway outside of Bryce Canyon, we needed water. At a road junction, two men sat in lawn chairs selling beef and bison jerky. "Are you selling any water?" Bree asked. "How much you need?" They filled our four water bottles and camel packs, then pulled out pomegranate juice and fruit snacks. "Here, load up for the road," they insisted.

A gust of wind and water nearly blew Bree across the shoulder. Rain, coming down in sheets, blurred my sunglass lenses. Forty miles through barren northern Utahan hills until the next town. Here comes another semi. Bree pulled over. No communication necessary. We stuck out our thumbs. Several trucks passed; then one stopped. A woman and her three kids. "I never pick up hitch-hikers," she said. "My kids were freaking out." We loaded up. "I usually take the suburban into town. I don't know why I drove the truck today." The rain beat down. She dropped us off at Snowville, UT's only campground. The proprietor pulled up. "We need a tent campsite." "Not in this rain, you don't," he replied. "Take cabin number 1 and I'll charge you just the same."

quibbler

Sept. 4, 2009

I broke the speed limit. It was posted 40 mph coming over the hill into Marysvale, UT. I hit 40.2.

It’s been downhill since Bryce Canyon. Bree met a woman, Maria, at the Laundromat in Kanab. She and her husband invited us to their mountainside home near the canyon. Fred has been creating their dream double-balcony cabin for the last eleven summers. We got the full tour. Then, Bree and I shucked corn at the kitchen table, while Maria prepared sloppy joes. Bree’s friend, Brady—who was going to meet us at Bryce—joined us at Fred and Maria’s for dinner. After dessert entertainment was quibbler. A word creation game. Bree surprised the house with a big win. Rather than continuing to Bryce, Bree, Brady, and I unfolded our sleeping bags upstairs on the guest beds. The only time I awoke was when rain pounded so fiercely, I could only imagine our tent being swept away in the downpour. In the morning, we got out our cameras and hugged our most spontaneous of new friends.

Bree and I continued our ride north on 89 towards Salt Lake City. “Look at the deer!” Bree pointed up ahead. I rolled my eyes, “Those are goats, Bree.” When they started Bambi-prancing across the field, I raced away from Bree’s inevitable ridicule, over a slight incline, then charged 40.2 mph into Marysvale.

the gear

Sept. 1, 2009

Four days without a conventional shower. Here’s how we’re getting by: the Sea to Summit Pocket Shower, the Pocket Rocket 4 oz stove, the ENO Double Nest Hammock, and the Voltaic solar-powered backpack.

After pedaling up a tree-lined highway, we reached a look-out point and there it was: the Grand Canyon. The Southern Rim. Sun rays cascaded through the clouds like a waterfall into the abyss of layered rocks and sheer cliffs. We continued our ride around the rim. Biking until night neared. After picking a dense area of trees off the highway, we found a flat spot to pitch the tent. Time to make house. I pulled out the pocket shower (a compressible bag with a shower head), dumped in two water bottles, then heated a pot on the stove to add to the mix. We put down a tarp to keep our feet clean and used biodegradable soap to bathe. With the remaining water, I washed my biking shorts and shirt, then hung them on the line to dry. After taking down the shower, I strung the hammock between two trees and Bree and I swayed with the breeze. Once thoroughly relaxed, Bree made us tea on the stove, and then we combined our kitchen skills to rehydrate black beans with cheese quesadillas and tobasco sauce. Meanwhile, the solar-paneled backpack recharged our cell phones in time to text our mothers our whereabouts before crawling into the tent.

A word from Bri

Leaving Taos via the "high road" we peddled 20 straight miles up windy roads. At every crest, our minds hoped to see the slight bend that would signify the massive downhill we were hoping for but alas, time and again we were disappointed. The afternoon heat crept into our every pore, my muscles, swollen and fatigued begged for reprieve. The temperature began to ease as the wind rose and we witnessed thunderheads form before our very eyes. As quickly as the rains came, it was over. We continued, slowly, gradually putting distance between the valley, civilization and ourselves. At last the sun began to set and our eyes pealed for a tent sight. The break in the barbed wire fence along highway 76 was our saving grace. We wheeled our bikes into the forest, stealthily covering our tracks lest someone come looking for us; wolfed down the stale bagels, soft cheese and creamy avocado before pitching tent and falling prey to the dark night.
Shoes. If I had a rucksack a mile high and wide, it wouldn't serve to shelter the many shoes strewn 'bout the roadside between Louisiana and Utah. Against the wind we rode for sixty miles, climbing the summit of southern Utah. We climbed and climbed and when finally, the land appeared to level, Lyndsie quite rightly stated "I think we've made it to the top of the world." If there ever was a top of the world...it had to be there. When our eyes caught sight of the sign that read "summit, elevation 6,000" we began to whoop and holler, making more ruckus than any two biking girls have ever made before. My quads are bulging...at least my spandex shorts feel tighter...perhaps it's muscle or maybe due to the free pastries at the hostel in Santa Fe!
You ask "what sort of folk live in Kanab Utah?" I pondered the same thing myself. A quaint town inhabited by many dog-walking men is my conclusion. We will set out for Bryce Canyon today I hear another stretch of uphill awaits us...my oh my!

buzz

Aug. 28, 2009

Bees swarmed my face, the occasional flying kamikaze into my head net. Our Albuquerque hosts through warmshowers.org—a bicycle touring organization—raise honey bees. Bree and I took turns helping Andy tend the hives. We removed one wooden slat at a time from the top of the boxes and monitored the state and size of the combs adhered to each one. Our reward: a golden dripping slice of heaven straight from the source.

In an attempt to skip the desert between Albuquerque and Flagstaff, AZ, I posted a ride share notice on Craigslist. Though I’m a connoisseur of online networking sites, I’d never crossed the line of “getting into a car with a stranger (online-style).” A man taking his motorcycle to the West Coast left me a voicemail. Bree and I both listened. Our intuition said: ok, go with it. Judging by his accent, I thought he was a middle-aged Native American. When he was late picking us up, Bree joked he must be Latino. The truck and trailer pulled up to the house. A slightly less than middle-aged, sandy blond, stunt double with dimples emerged form the cab.

Along the ride, our conversations ranged from traveling mishaps to how to relate to the respective people in our lives. It was a one-at-a-time therapy session. Had I not spotted our dinner location, we might have blown by it. But at Cracker Barrel we partook in smothered potatoes and beef, before heading to Dairy Queen for Derrik’s first blizzard (which his sophisticated palate had no appreciation for).

Pulling into Flagstaff after dark, our Couchsurfing hosts were at a concert and said to let ourselves in. Thinking we’d found the house, we approached with flashlights. Nope, wrong one. We got away before the cops showed up. A couple blocks down, at the correct house, Derrik helped us unload our things. We gave him our blog address, and said “until next time” to the Native/Latino/middle-aged stunt double.

A word from Bri

As the wheels go round, my mind goes on an exploration of it's own! Ventures of the past replay themselves as the scenery brings up different memories. The tar-bubbles making snapping sounds under my tires remind me of hot summers spent roaming the neighborhood streets with Cory, looking for telephone poles to play beneath, sticking our toes and fingers in the tar. Riding in the back of a pick-up truck (on a dirt road, a short distance I assure you) beer in hand, cushion under fanny, hot wind fiercely playing with my hair, I think of my Guatemala backpacking trips and hitch-hiking extravaganzas.

At times it is clear that I am part of the food chain...buzzards literally circled me...probably expecting me to keel over at any moment as I slowly made my way in the blistering heat. My father correctly stated "there's gods' country and then there's hill country"... if ANYONE tries to tell me that Texas is flat, they'll have a battle to fight I assure you! I haven't bothered with deodorant (much to the distress of Lyndsie) while within minutes of riding, my entire body is glistening with sweat. The tan-lines I must say are horrendous. Lynds is a big fan of tan lines...but having a white strip under my chin where my helmet strap lies, a distinct color differentiation between my wrists and hands where my cloves reside, long white thighs and stomach against dark brown knees and arms...and worst, blackened shoulders...that no amount of sunscreen will keep from darkening...in my opinion is not exactly easy on the eyes.

When it comes to food, whether cooked by our hosts, given to us by strangers (which happens) or even in a restaurant, we've been told "you ain't shy!" We're not picky either...much to the disappointment of my father who's joining us for 10 days...he tired of our split-pea soup and dried beans and tortillas early on...so now we make accommodating stops...and frequent the dairy queens along the route...I'm not complaining yet!
I've had some enormous belly laughs at the expense of others...watching Lyndsie try to jam her newly purchased helmet on...wondering why it wasn't fitting...when she had it facing backwards (twice mind you)...and observing my dad adjusting to his "clip-in" biking shoes...first I see the top of his helmet fly to the ground, then the bushes shake and a string of @#!#$@#$ follows.

Strangers continue to become friends...and my preconceived ideas about what I "know" continue to shift. I've come to learn that anyone can peddle, it's the mind that has to stay engaged. 2 more days until New Mexico...hurrah!

Loads of thanks for your thoughts and prayers! Much love!

enchantment

Aug. 24, 2009

We biked Route 66 to Santa Fe’s Old Plaza. Along one side of the square, Native Americans sat on blankets hawking their turquoise jewelry, glass earrings, leather belts, and metal guitar picks. The colonial-era adobe chapel beckoned from up the hill. I bought Agua de Jamaica from a street vendor. Then, Bree and I made reservations at “The Shed,” renowned for its New Mexican cuisine; at 5:30 p.m. we returned for green chile burritos and blue corn tortilla enchiladas. Since we couldn’t peel ourselves away from Santa Fe, we returned to the hostel for another night.

In the morning, we started our ride towards Taos (off the route, be we heard it was worth it). Following the Rio Grande, we ascended 2,000 feet toward the mountain town and the Ashram someone said allowed camping. As the sun lowered and the mountain rose, it wasn’t clear if we’d make it before dark.

We stuck out a thumb.

A New Mexican woman with shiny black hair and piercing eyes pulled over. She said her youngest daughter rides, and helped us load our bikes in the back. We cruised the last 15 miles and on to her house—an adobe cottage on a sunflower-lined lane named after her family: los Ortiz, who trace their lineage directly back to the colonial Spanish. After viewing her metalwork creations, we googled the Ashram and she dropped us off.

Chai simmered in a silver cauldron. We sipped, set up our tent and joined the devout for meditation. In the town plaza the next morning, a middle-aged group of women performed Tai Chi. We didn’t need an invitation.

Leaving Taos, locals suggested “The High Road” for a downhill route back to Santa Fe. No one mentioned the road GAINED elevation for 20 miles before its decent. As we inched up hill, I glanced at the odometer, looked back down 10 minutes later and it hadn’t moved. Tears! Going “down” the mountain took two days, but we logged our 1,000th mile at Dairy Queen before rolling back into Santa Fe.