Bike to the Burn!

Greetings from Black Rock City

2007-08-24T21:27:00.000-07:00

So much to say, so technologically limited. Suffice to say for now - I
MADE IT!

Thanks to everyone who followed along with my adventure and lent your
support. It meant very much to me. Special thanks to my girlfriend
Mary, the constant cheerleader. While I might've managed it alone, I
couldn't have asked for a better, more supportive partner.

My hope is to fill in the blanks later on, so check back in again!

Ivan

We, who are about to dine, salute you.

2007-08-23T17:33:00.000-07:00

I'm so close now I'm vibrating with excitement (or maybe it's just the aftershock of the 30mph ride downhill). 17 easy miles to Eagleville.

More familiar faces here, too - Jesse and Allegra, in a truck I remember seeing half an hour back. We exchange hugs before they have to run - Jesse's got a medical shift on-playa.

I bound into the Surpise Cafe, the two year old coffee and lunch bar that's quickly displacing the Country Hearth as THE last stop before the playa, with better food, faster service, and free wifi to boot. I take my lunch ouside - partly because I don't like the indoors anymore, but mostly because, after ten days of aggressive exercise, my table manners are no longer suitable for polite at. I scarf down my mixed green salad and bean burrito. It's the last salad I'll see until I come off-playa, and I am pleased that it is suitably delicious, chock full of strawberries, cranberries, carmelized walnuts, goat cheese, and vinaigrette dressing.

Cedar Pass, elevation 6305 feet

2007-08-23T16:53:00.000-07:00

Now I know what it's like to get my ass kicked by a mountain in cold and in heat. Just as I hit the top, yards from the elevation marker, my left hamstrings start cramping, but that's ok - now it's 5 sweet miles of coasting, straight into Cedarville.

Recumbents saved my ass. Ask me how!

2007-08-23T16:49:00.000-07:00

Well, my most excellent girlfriend and partner, Mary, got on the phone with both my bike shop and the makers of my bike, learned exactly what spokes I need, and most comforting, heard straight from the horse's mouth that my wheel will likely survive my last few miles.

I'm currently taking a break from the heat halfway up to Cedar Pass between Alturas and Cedarville, so it's a good moment to extoll the virtues of both my bike and my bike shop.

I ride a Bacchatta Giro recumbent (the kind you sit back on, like a motorcycle, or a La-Z-Boy). Unlike the low-to-the-ground recumbents you may have seen, this is a touring bike that stands almost as tall as an upright, so it's visible in traffic. It's my first recumbent, purchased with this trip in mind, but now that I've been on it for almost a year, I will never go back to an upright.

My bike is easier on my body in almost every way over an upright. It alleviates numbness in my wrists, in my posterior, and if you'll forgive my momentary Brooklyn Italian accent, in my cock-and-balls. I've been sitting in the saddle for ten days with no discomfort. The only downside is that I put more labor into uphill climbs, because I can't stand up on the pedals to use my weight. The learning curve was not bad; I was able to ride it easily on the first try, though it took about a month before I was comfortable riding in traffic.

I bought my bike at Angle Lake Cyclery, near Seatac, the only shop in the Seattle area that sells them (there used to be two others shops that carried them, but they have discontinued sales). Angle Lake specializes in recumbents, has been in business continuously for over 50 years, and its staff are incredibly knowledgeable. Dale, the owner, is the Mr. Wizard of recumbents, though like many fine artists, he's a bit, eh... organizationally challenged. Be prepared to have patience with him. Fom my trips there, I've had the impression that he has a devoted clientele (me included).

I'll point you to Dale's website though, frankly, it sucks. Your best bet is just to wonder in on a weekday when he's less busy. He'll let you take anything out in the parking lot for a test ride. Tell him Ivan sent you.

http://www.anglelake.com

Honking is for haters.

2007-08-23T12:53:00.000-07:00

Unlike the often melodious human voice, car horns don't have a great tonal range. They can't communicate subtlety or nuance, mood or expression. In fact, there is really only one thing that car horns can do, and that is scare the bejeezus out of the person in front of you.

When people seated securely in great crushing steel machines honk at people perched precariously atop spindly little spiderwheel machines, it's just terrifying to the latter, regardless of the intent of the former.

So this weekend, when you see me, please, don't honk. Slow down instead. Maybe even consider coming to a full stop. Offer me a juice box. But leave the honking to the haters. And the geese.

Thank you. This Public Safety Announcement brought to you by PETB, People for the Ethical Treatment of Bicyclists.

Desperate times call for desperate measures, or, I think it's time to eat the co-pilot.

2007-08-23T12:44:00.000-07:00

Hobbling along this morning from Goose Lake state park, imagining my rear tire growing further and further off true, I considered cannibalizing the spokes of my front wheel to shore up the sagging rear. I was held back by the fear of spending hours in a delicate operation, only to lose the donor as well as the patient. I did notice that the wheel had abraded the casing of my rear break line, and I pulled it out of harm's way.

While I was deep in this internal debate, a loaded pick-up truck stopped ahead of me. It was my friends Stuart and Julie! They'd been following my blog, and stopped to say hi.

This was a terrific comfort in my hour of doubt. I was particularly happy to see Julie, because she was one of the first people to get excited about my plan last year. She has a lot more bike maintenance skill than I. She looked over my tire and professed that she thought it would make it. Of course I realize it's just her opinion vs. my neck, but still comforting to hear.

We chatted a bit, I shared some sunblock with Julie, and Stuart dug out some zip ties for me, so I was able to tie down my abraded break cable.

I returned to the road considerably happier, and have since reached the junction of 299. 30 miles by noon! I'm getting good at this. With luck, I should reach Eagleville by this evening.

I believe in Yesterday.

2007-08-23T09:17:00.000-07:00

I race down the long straight stretch of 395 between Lakeview and Alturas, trying to incorporate my wobbly new danger into my worldview. This section has always been one of my favorite parts of the drive to Burning Man; the beautiful, serene countenance of Goose Lake, parallel to the road, but far enough off it to project an alluring sense of mystery.

My mind wanders down memory lane to previous trips. This time last year, I was barreling down this road in my trailer-laden tiger Saab, hot in pursuit of the London street bus in which the distraught, topless, champagne-drunk stripper in my passenger seat believed she had left her ID bag / drug kit.

Lost in thought, I wobble down the road singing "Yesterday," my voice oscillating as if I were singing into a fan.

Act three: the gun on the mantle.

2007-08-22T20:59:00.000-07:00

Disaster finally caught up with me today; as it must, since I've carried its seeds from my trip's inception.

It started as a minor nuisance: with the sloshing of my water jug and clanking of my carabiner-suspended brass knuckles (a souvenir of route 97 through the Yakama res). At first I thought my load was just out of balance. Soon I realized that what I had was a wheel out of true.

I'm not very mechanically inclined, and trueing wheels has always been something I thought best left to experts, so I rode into Lake View hoping to find a bike shop. In town, I spotted a man on a bike, and learned from him that there was no bike shop, but that I might find help at the True Value. At the True Value, I learned that the fellow in question was out, but would be in tomorrow.

Ridiculous, I thought. I have the world's accumulated knowledge at my fingertips, and if I can't true my own wheel, I shouldn't be out here. Google easily returned some simple instructions, and of course my multi-tool had a spoke wrench. I went to examine the wheel closer.

To my horror I found three spokes not merely loose, but snapped. There were no spokes to be had in Lake View, or Alturas, or anywhere between here and Reno. Help - in the form of someone who could bring spokes for me - was days away. And even if I had them, I'm not sure I'd have the expertise to apply them.

I did the only thing I could think of: I loosened the three opposing spokes, figuring to at least help balance the wheel laterally. I have disk breaks, so breaking is not an issue. I just have to keep the tire on the road for another 150 miles.

I will not stop here, I will not quit. Turning on to 395, in a moment of giddy loopiness, my mind offered up the theme from "The Greatest American Hero:"

Believe it or not, I'm walkin' on air,
I never thought I could feel so free...
Flyin' away on a wing and a prayer,
Believe it or not, it's just me!

The real reason why, or, the theft of the American Dream.

2007-08-22T20:15:00.000-07:00

I have plenty of time out here to meditate on the real reason I took this trip, and it comes down to this: I want to do things my own way, make my own choices, blaze my own trails.

There's precious little room in this world anymore for a man to walk alone, stand proud, and live according to his own beliefs, when everything comes neatly prepackaged for his convenience. Packaged meals, packaged media, packaged vacations, packaged homes, packaged lifestyles, packaged LIVES.

First off, anything that's mass produced is by it's nature inferior due to the demands of efficiencies on a scale for mass production.

But the real problem with all these predigested choices is that they're a soporific, an illusion of choice meant to lull us to sleep and keep us from thinking, sold to us by the keepers of what was once the American Dream. That dream is no longer a populist one. It belongs now to those savvy enough to understand that finite resources can not be shared infinitely; who have the merciless will and temerity to hoard that dream, by keeping the majority of the population fat, stupid and complacent with fast food and cable television.

Well, I will not play. They can keep their condos and their new cars and their 60 inch televisions. I will be out here, where I can stand tall, think for myself, and live my own god damned life.

Mommas, don't let your babies grow up to be cowboys.

2007-08-22T19:53:00.000-07:00

After a quick supply stop in Paisley this morning, I ride down into my first real patch of desert, all blasted sand and scrub brush. I spend over an hour on one endless patch of road so long and straight that receding vehicles disappear into the distance before I can see them turn. The distant heat shimmer reflects the sky as clearly as a deep mountain pool.

Screaming hawks ride the air currents above me, their enormous shadows sometimes crossing my path. I once startle a desert hare and watch it lope off at twice my speed. Flocks of small black birds scatter in my wake, trailed by that electric blue aura superimposed my glasses.

The emotional roller coaster and physical sufferance of the first few days have settled into a calm confidence and steady routine. My legs have been retrained to the constant pedaling; they feel best when I resume riding after a good stretch. The travel has become not only survivable, but sustainable, emerging into not merely a trip, but a lifestyle.

The solitude, the bare elements, the glorious, unimpeded views of the road all give me the room I need to think. I know it's cliche, but I feel like this is the life I was born for. Guess I shoulda been a cowboy.

Contact

2007-08-22T09:40:00.000-07:00

The Summer Lake hot tub is actually more of a pool; a rough cement
tank, five feet deep, sunk in an ancient, crumbling, wood beam and tin
roof bath house. Soaking in it last night knocked me right out.
Afterwards, I stumbled drunkenly back to my tent. I got up once during
the night to pee, and stood amazed by the clear wash of stars above me.

In the morning, I found that more campers had joined me, including
some familiar faces; Fremont artist Rodman Miller and his partner
Leslie, of Glass Blowers camp, and several others. By funny
coincidence, I'm on the Glass Blower's early admission list; covering
my bases in case I reach the burn early.

Bug Spray

2007-08-22T09:22:00.000-07:00

Rolling around Summer Lake last night, I finally encountered a weather
pattern that I was not prepared for; the plaque of bugs.

As the sun dipped behind the rim of the lake bed's bowl, putting me in
shadow, I found myself riding through thick clouds of gnats and flying
ants. It was literally (and I do not say 'literally' when what I mean
is 'figuratively'), literally a hail of insects. They were thick as
snow as I ploughed through them at 22mph. They hit my face, clung to
my torso, were trapped in hundreds by the thick hair of my legs.

The bug spray lasted about half an hour, while I brushed the largest
offenders from me and struggled to keep my lips pursed shut. The
assault petered out, but not before leaving me coated with a grime of
the dead and dying.

Blu-Ray

2007-08-22T09:09:00.000-07:00

After three days of clouds, the sun returned in full force yesterday,
and as it did, my new polarized sunglasses evinced a curious property.

Around noon, I started seeing other worldly patches of luminescent
blue haze, hovering just above the road surface. Anything on the road
that was black and reflective - oil stains, tire tread marks - was
appearing holographically through my polarized lenses. I was riding
through a 3D movie world.

Once, I was startled by a bird that appeared to be an out-of-place
blue Macaw. At second glance, it was an enormous crow, its black, oily
feathers projecting the same blue haze, giving it a shimmery blue
second skin.

By 4:00, the effect had dissipated. Aparrently the angle of light's
only right when the sun is at its peak.

I haul some mighty big ass.

2007-08-21T20:29:00.000-07:00

I rose this morning in La Pine to a fog so thick I couldn't see across
the street. But I could make out a wisp of blue up above, so at least
the clouds had finally cleared. Figuring that the fog would burn off
soon enough, I made slow tracks to Cindy's, the little diner next door.

Stuffed, watered and caffeinated, I set out on route 31. After four
grueling days on 97, 31 was a godsend. Immediately the traffic thinned
out to perhaps two cars per minute. By the end of the ride, as I left
ciclvilization further behind, I was seeing perhaps two cars in a half
hour.

It was a peaceful ride through the Deschutes forest, down on to the
Oregon outback scenic byway, past Fort Rock and Christmas Valley,
through Silver Lake, over Picture Rock Pass, and finally down into
Summer Lake, where I have finally settled at Summer Lake Hot Springs
RV park, a perennial burner stop. All told, I racked up a monstrous 92
miles today.

And now, I go to descend into the pool of hot! Don't cry for me,
Argentina.

Disaster, narrowly averted.

2007-08-20T22:17:00.001-07:00

Leaving Bend, I approached La Pine at about 6pm, while I considered
whether to stop there or continue on to Gilchrist, the next town. A
Best Western billboard promising a pool and spa sold me. I could
already feel the hot water on my poor tired legs.

The Western, a rather upscale one with a conference center, was
booked. This was rather shocking, as La Pine is a town of 1585 people
and this was a week night. Hotel #2 (of 3), also booked. (It's too
soon for burners, so Shriners must be in town.)

Only the Westview Motel had any vacancy. I balanced the Westview vs
Gilchrist; 15 miles, could be one hour, could be three, depending on
conditions. I chose the Westview, as the day had been windy and rainy.

I was checked into La Pine's last vacant room (a charming 70s era
kitchenette with green shag) by a socially awkward, stuttering teen
named Reno.

Afterwards, I chatted with Reno and another guest about my bike, which
had caught their interest, and my trip. I was talking routes with
Reno, specifically mentioning how I was headed on along 97 for
Klamath, when he observed that 31 was a better route for me. I
consulted my map, and realized that I had jumbled the 3 Wally Glen
approved routes in my mind. I had actually reached my turnoff, but
was preparing to continue along 97 to Klamath, which would've put me
100 miles off course.

Whew! So let me just recommend the Westview Motel in La Pine. Charming
70s decor, and friendly owners who know their neighborhood.
541-536-2115.

My own personal Jesus.

2007-08-20T21:21:00.001-07:00

I rolled into Bend this morning with some errands in mind. Wall charger for the iPhone, better sunscreen (my face is a ham, as my new friend Tony would say), a replacement for my punctured 5-gallon water cube (can't pass the desert without it). I located a big box strip mall that met all my needs.

As I approached the mall from the road, I spotted a guy loitering by the roadside with an overladen bike. Another distance cyclist! I rode over to him and shouted, "Where from, where to?" I am so glad that I did.

This was Ken Bettencourt. Ken is riding from New York to Alaska to San Diego to Key West, back to New York. Ken is already 16 months and 13,000 miles into his trip. By the time he's done, he'll have clocked 20,000 miles over two years. Ken has a stage three cerebral cancer. He has already outsurvived all predictions for his longevity.

When Ken was diagnosed, he went through surgeries and chemo. One of his surgeries left him temporarily unable to talk, and it took him a year and a half to recover his full mental faculties. The chemo devastated him, and he knew that it would kill him along with the disease. He set out to do something more with his time than rot in a hospital.

The first time Ken set out for Alaska, he got about a thousand miles from home before a recreational vehicle hit him, totalling his bike, and hospitalizing him with smashed ribs and a broken knee that required the insertion of four pins. He set out again as soon as he was physically able, four months later.

Ken survives on odd jobs that he picks up along the way. Whem I met him, he was out with a cardboard sign, looking for work. His wealthy family doesn't support him in his endeavor, either financially or emotionally.

Ken is a survivor. Through it all, he has remained determined and buoyant, laughing at the odds to keep himself in good spirits while he uses whatever time he has remaining to experience life in a way that most people will never know. He is the single most inspirational person I have ever met, and I am better for it.

You can learn more about Ken on his own blog:

myspace.com/biker4000

The Other Redmond.

2007-08-19T20:10:00.001-07:00

You, that one in Oregon, 15 miles north of Bend? I'm there. I pushed
over 60 miles today, the first few hours of it through rain. I'm beat!
I holed up at the first crappy over-priced motel I spotted,
conveniently located two blocks from pizza, of which I am about to go
partake.

Funny thing; on entering the dark hotel room, I had to open the door
and windows. After all this wide open space, I can't stand being
indoors anymore.

So, so very much more to say, and oh so little battery power. The
solar charger has turned out to be a dismal failure.

On the bright side, I've gone back to good old fashioned paper, and
this trip has given me the inspiration for a novel. I'll have to do a
full cross-country trip to research it, but plenty of time now to
start planning for next year.

Sunrise to sunset.

2007-08-19T08:05:00.001-07:00

Got up with the sunrise on Saturday, and crossed the gorge. The view
from the bridge was glorious.

It was a mostly uneventful day, with lots of mild to moderate climbing
through broad, rolling hills of grass. I reached the top of the Oregon
plains, where the golden land seems to spread out infinitely in all
directions.

I passed through Biggs, Moro, Grass Valleu, Kent. In Grass Valley the
local market bore a sign reading "last groceries for 67 miles." And it
was boarded up. Oh, well.

I made my big mistake on Saturday evening. I reached Shaniko at 6pm,
and though I was unlikely to make the next town - or anything - by
night, I stubbornly went on, with the wind growing and the skies
gathering for a storm. For the next 3 miles I was filled with
conflict. Why am I doing this to myself, I asked. Do I really want to
spend the night in the rain by the roadside? In the end, sense won out
and I turned back for Shaniko.

I spent the night at the Shaniko Hotel, a classic old place with
stories of its own, with a shower and a warm bed. I also enjoyed
dinner with a lovely couple from Portland, Tony and Paris, who drove
out with their bikes to do a loop around the area. Tony lamented the
paucity of cycle travelers; I was the only other cyclist they'd seen
today.

More to tell tommorrow.

2007-08-17T20:52:00.000-07:00

For now, suffice it to say that I made it to the Columbia River Gorge;
and that coming through Klikitat Valley and then descending into the
gorge was the finest moment of my life. This morning I cycled through
hell. Well, this was heaven.

Satus Pass, elevation 3107 ft.

2007-08-17T20:42:00.001-07:00

That's right, you flabby little bitch headwind. I made it ANYWAY.

Whose house? Ivan's house!

That's right, I said, WHOSE HOUSE?

What? No, that's just a little water in my eye from all the wind you
keep blowin' in it. So whynchou just get down off my grill and go make
me a sammich?

Beyotch.

Fuck you, you fucking, fucking, fucking headwind.

2007-08-17T20:39:00.001-07:00

Today I gazed into the twisted visage of my own true nemesis: a
twisted, god-forsaken headwind that steals 15-20 mph from me, actually
prevents me from rolling downhill, and leaves me swearing oaths of
rage and despair. Instead of enjoying a leisurely afternoon of
coasting after my morning climb, I am now CLIMBING DOWNHILL. The most
frustrating thing is its absolute capriciousness - if I had merely
come on another day, I might have made four times the speed with half
the effort. It slmost seems personal in its targeted whimsy. Curse
you, you fucking, fucking, fucking headwind! I'll see you in court - I
mean HELL!

And tomorrow, the world!

2007-08-17T20:32:00.001-07:00

I passed, on blasted, inhospitable route 97, a bag man: a grizzled old
black man pushing a shopping cart full of bedrolls and plastic bags.
You know, that same guy you see outside the supermarket or in front of
city hall. Only here, 20 miles from nowhere! WHAT ARE YOU UP TO,
SHOPPING CART GUY? Just imagining it gives me chills. Brrrrr.

Life in the fast lane.

2007-08-17T20:25:00.000-07:00

The ascent out of Yakima valley into the Yakama reservation was the most harrowing mile of the trip to date, a slow climb with narrow shoulders and fast, aggressive drivers. My mirror is a blessing and a curse here; I can see when vehicles behind me are hugging the line. In one instance I saw a truck that I thought would approach too close and threw myself against a guardrail. I expect he would've cleared me, and the odds of me getting killed throwing myself off the road are far greater, so that was the first and last time.

The north end of the reservation has suffered terrible fires at some point in the not too distant past, and its hills are charred black, barren and devoid of life. I might have been cycling through Mercury, or hell.

The road eased up past the climb, though I soon approached a sign reading "Rough Road." Translation: "Crumbling road last paved in the 50s with no shoulder - your tax dollars hard at work!" The sign also bore an orange safety pennant, which I seriously contemplated stealing to mount on my bike (all the while fearing that Carol Peterman would not approve). Instead I found that a second pennant lay on the ground nearby - presumably clipped by a sloppy driver, which did nothing to assuage my fears - and made good use of it. I have also slung my Teva's over the left saddle bag, following the convention of smaller animals who bristle to appear more formidable in the eyes of dangerous adversaries, I have slung my Tevas over my left saddle bag.

I have developed an intimate relationship with the BRMRMRM sound that cars make as they glide over the graded medium into the oncoming lane; it means they have moved aside to give me room. As with the V2 bombings over England in WW II, hearing the sound of it means that I have already survived the assault. Worst are the drivers who not only do not move aside, but actually honk at me as they pass.

Yakama with an 'A' are AOK.

2007-08-16T21:48:00.001-07:00

I rode south from Yakuma for an hour with an eye toward camping out.
The valley outside the city is a patchwork of commercially cultivated
fields, small farms, and impoverished trailer parks where live,
presumably, the pickers.

Something about the quality of this disparity made me nervous about
approaching people for permission to camp on their land. Fortuitously,
I soon reached the Yakama RV park, a sort of Indian-themed KOA,
attached to a fancy pants Yakama cultural interpretation center.

After registering, I came out to find a flat tire on my bike. A quick
inspection turned up a small thorn. I don't know WHOSE ancestors
guided me here, but the timing could not have been better.

Setting up camp, I got lucky again, arriving just in time to watch the
slenderest crescent moon descend between two giant teepees and sink
into an adjacent field.

Who you callin' a Yakima?

2007-08-16T19:26:00.001-07:00

I roll into Yakima at rush hour, and I can't tell you how thrilled I
am. 410 has turned into 12, which is an actual, real freeway. Common
sense tells me to GET OFF THE FREEWAY, STUPID, even though I can see a
sign for my next connection, 97 S, coming up in 3/4 miles. But I do
the sensible thing and exit.

And maaan, Yakima is a HOLE. Everywhere broad decaying streets, single
story buildings, and cars, cars, cars. It's the worst case example of
car culture sprawl. This once beautiful empty valley has had inflicted
upon it a real live Grand Theft Auto set. It'll be the first place to
go when the oil starts to trickle out. (Incidentally, I've started
laughing when I ride past gas stations.)

The only good thing about my visit to Yakima is that it comes still
early enough for me to get the hell out before nightfall. Of course,
by this time, I've lost track of 97. I work my way back to a highway
entrance.

While I'm contemplating returning to the freeway, a yappy 'hua gets
all up in my grill (if I may attempt the local patois). I see that the
dog belongs to a young Latino guy tinkering with a weight bench in his
front yard, which is literally at the foot of highway 82. I ask him if
82 turns to 97, as I suspect. He has no idea, then turns away and
shuts his door on me. The dog chases me to the end of the street.

I try another couple, a middle aged woman and her 20ish son. They
share a dismayingly long whispered huddle before admitting that 82
MIGHT connect to 97 past Union Gap.

At this point, I'm ready to return to the highway, because anything's
better than BEING IN YAKIMA.

My eventual connection takes me up and around a bend, where I catch a
glimpse of the sun setting over the green valley Yakima once was. God
bless its soul; that oil shortage can't come soon enough.