Showing posts with label BALM. Show all posts
Showing posts with label BALM. Show all posts
6.08.2013
BALM: Week 4 Day 6
After 27 days of riding around Lake Michigan and all of its bays--Sturgeon Bay, Green Bay, Little and Big Bays du Noc, and the east and west arms of Grand Traverse Bay; after riding 1270 miles, always with the water to the right; after all of that, the BALM has ended.
The ending was sort of anticlimactic. The camp last night in Yogi Bear was uneventful. The ride out of Portage was dull. The lake had been absent since Michigan City yesterday. The traffic into Chicago was challenging in that the bucolic roads of the first 26 days had suddenly become all roads lead to Chicago. I bet for over three weeks we had seen maybe two MacDonalds, a Burger King, one or two Taco Bells, and several Subways. Today, in almost every mile were repetitions and duplicates of every fast food chain imaginable.
A remarkable thing about riding your bicycle for weeks at a time through remote territory is the appreciation you develop for cities. Cities give you comfort. They give you art and sports. They give you parks and barbecues and Fourth of July fireworks. They give you tacos, fried chicken, hot dogs, sponge candy, rock and hillbilly concerts. They satisfy the reptile brain that wants survival and pleasure.
Gary and I were lucky that we did the BALM from middle May through early June. We had cold weather, sleet, gusty wind, and hills. But we had most of the lake, its bays, its peninsulas, and roads all to ourselves. All of Wisconsin and Michigan that we biked through was not yet in season. For the most part, the land, the towns, the villages, the state parks: everywhere was mostly empty of the campers and RVs that come when the season starts in July.
This is what I was already missing for the forty miles today into Chicago. Then we biked around a bend in the trail and there, as far as we could see in three directions--west, east, and north--as far as we could see was water. Sometimes you do something, and when the realization hits you that you did it your spirit lifts. As mine did today when I saw all that water. As far as I could see I had pedaled: from Chicago northwest into Wisconsin, making a turn east at Escanaba into the Upper Peninusla of Michigan, the land of the UPers, then dropping south across the Macinaw Strait into the land of the trolls, lower Michigan, and then futher south into Indiana, and finally west back to Illinois, to this spot, Chicago, where the lake stretched out to the end of the world.
This was no great feat. Anyone with the time, the health, and the money can pedal fifty to sixty miles a a day. That might seem like a lot, but after a week or so the days become routine, as normal as getting up and going to work and coming home and going to bed. The difference is that your home is a tent and your work is the bike. You just do it.
I am so very fortunate. I have a family that I love, who love me. I have a profession that gives me summers. I live in a country with great cities and citizens who pay taxes to maintain rural roads, develop town, county, state, and national parks. They set aside wilderness spaces. Whether we like it or not, we all are environmentalists.
Praise cities. Without them, the wilderness areas of the United States would be devastated by an influx of people who would strip resources just to maintain simple comforts. Cities do all they can to preserve the wild spaces surrounding them.
Today began on an anticlimactic note. Then Gary and I biked around a bend in a trail into Chicago, and there, as far as we could see in three directions--west, east, and north--as far as we could see was water. And there, to the south, at the very end of this enormous body of water--we biked around it--was the city of Sandburg, the Windy City, the City of Big Shoulders.
Follow YOUR Balm
The ending was sort of anticlimactic. The camp last night in Yogi Bear was uneventful. The ride out of Portage was dull. The lake had been absent since Michigan City yesterday. The traffic into Chicago was challenging in that the bucolic roads of the first 26 days had suddenly become all roads lead to Chicago. I bet for over three weeks we had seen maybe two MacDonalds, a Burger King, one or two Taco Bells, and several Subways. Today, in almost every mile were repetitions and duplicates of every fast food chain imaginable.
A remarkable thing about riding your bicycle for weeks at a time through remote territory is the appreciation you develop for cities. Cities give you comfort. They give you art and sports. They give you parks and barbecues and Fourth of July fireworks. They give you tacos, fried chicken, hot dogs, sponge candy, rock and hillbilly concerts. They satisfy the reptile brain that wants survival and pleasure.
Gary and I were lucky that we did the BALM from middle May through early June. We had cold weather, sleet, gusty wind, and hills. But we had most of the lake, its bays, its peninsulas, and roads all to ourselves. All of Wisconsin and Michigan that we biked through was not yet in season. For the most part, the land, the towns, the villages, the state parks: everywhere was mostly empty of the campers and RVs that come when the season starts in July.
This is what I was already missing for the forty miles today into Chicago. Then we biked around a bend in the trail and there, as far as we could see in three directions--west, east, and north--as far as we could see was water. Sometimes you do something, and when the realization hits you that you did it your spirit lifts. As mine did today when I saw all that water. As far as I could see I had pedaled: from Chicago northwest into Wisconsin, making a turn east at Escanaba into the Upper Peninusla of Michigan, the land of the UPers, then dropping south across the Macinaw Strait into the land of the trolls, lower Michigan, and then futher south into Indiana, and finally west back to Illinois, to this spot, Chicago, where the lake stretched out to the end of the world.
This was no great feat. Anyone with the time, the health, and the money can pedal fifty to sixty miles a a day. That might seem like a lot, but after a week or so the days become routine, as normal as getting up and going to work and coming home and going to bed. The difference is that your home is a tent and your work is the bike. You just do it.
I am so very fortunate. I have a family that I love, who love me. I have a profession that gives me summers. I live in a country with great cities and citizens who pay taxes to maintain rural roads, develop town, county, state, and national parks. They set aside wilderness spaces. Whether we like it or not, we all are environmentalists.
Praise cities. Without them, the wilderness areas of the United States would be devastated by an influx of people who would strip resources just to maintain simple comforts. Cities do all they can to preserve the wild spaces surrounding them.
Today began on an anticlimactic note. Then Gary and I biked around a bend in a trail into Chicago, and there, as far as we could see in three directions--west, east, and north--as far as we could see was water. And there, to the south, at the very end of this enormous body of water--we biked around it--was the city of Sandburg, the Windy City, the City of Big Shoulders.
Follow YOUR Balm
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| Road in East Chicago |
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| Road in South Chicago |
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| US 41 Detour |
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| Over the Bridge |
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| Pretty church |
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| Lake Shore Trail |
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| View of Chicago |
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| Coming into the city |
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| The Palmer House! |
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| Nearing Union Station |
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| Bikes in station |
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| The end of the BALM |
6.07.2013
BALM: Week 4 Day 5
A couple of hours ago I cleaned and oiled the bike's chain. I checked the bolts to make sure they were tight. I wiped dirt and grime off the frame. I pitched the tent, fired up the JetBoil to boil water for my freeze dried dinner of chicken and rice.
I mention these things because tonight is the final time I'll do them on the BALM.
Even before I started this ride around Lake Michigan I had been thinking some about final things. The last time we do things. Ann and I had a new fence erected in the back yard. The fence is treated lumber, six feet tall. A privacy fence. Gauranteed for 20 years. The last fence we'll see put up.
Our house is brick, some upper sections with siding. The house is old, built in 1925, so the siding is most likely asbestos. We had it abated and covered with high end vinyl that's guaranteed for the life of the house. Ann and I both mentioned that this fence is the last siding we'll see put up.
The same goes for a new concrete driveway we're thinking of having poured. Do it now. Never again. The last time. Another final thing.
It's so very odd to think you're doing something for the very last time. It's like crossing a river, and afterwards the river disappears. It's like a field of strawberries, you pick one, it's tart and sweet, and all the other strawberries disappear. It's like watching the full moon fade to new and you sit there for months on end and the moon stays black.
It's so very odd to think that I have lived for far more years than I have remaining.
Life is so very full of awe and wonder. Who would not want to live all over again? If not just to live better? My first tour years ago ended with me a physical and emotional wreck at the foot of Wolf Creek Pass in southern Colorado. Even last summer I was blackjacked by a hill south of Galena, Illinois, the birth place of U. S. Grant, and by a series of hills in a stretch of land between the Illinois and Mississippi Rivers. But from all touring disasters I have learned to do better. I have learned to be a better organizer and planner, I have learned that sometimes it's good to forget the map and to wing it instead. I have lost weight. Big Shark replaced my crank sets with gear ratios that enable me to ascend hills far more easily.
In the morning, I'll take the tent down, load all the gear onto the bike, turn on the Garmin, and secure the hammer while saying, "Hammer." Tomorrow morning will be the last time for doing those things.
But the last time just for the BALM. Later this summer I'll be biking with thousands of others (yes, thousands!) across Iowa. And next summer there'll be a bigger tour. Wouldn't it be wonderful and beautiful if life itself was a tour, the ultimate tour? And after doing one, there is always another? Always a better one?
Keep on pedaling.
Follow the BALM.
I mention these things because tonight is the final time I'll do them on the BALM.
Even before I started this ride around Lake Michigan I had been thinking some about final things. The last time we do things. Ann and I had a new fence erected in the back yard. The fence is treated lumber, six feet tall. A privacy fence. Gauranteed for 20 years. The last fence we'll see put up.
Our house is brick, some upper sections with siding. The house is old, built in 1925, so the siding is most likely asbestos. We had it abated and covered with high end vinyl that's guaranteed for the life of the house. Ann and I both mentioned that this fence is the last siding we'll see put up.
The same goes for a new concrete driveway we're thinking of having poured. Do it now. Never again. The last time. Another final thing.
It's so very odd to think you're doing something for the very last time. It's like crossing a river, and afterwards the river disappears. It's like a field of strawberries, you pick one, it's tart and sweet, and all the other strawberries disappear. It's like watching the full moon fade to new and you sit there for months on end and the moon stays black.
It's so very odd to think that I have lived for far more years than I have remaining.
Life is so very full of awe and wonder. Who would not want to live all over again? If not just to live better? My first tour years ago ended with me a physical and emotional wreck at the foot of Wolf Creek Pass in southern Colorado. Even last summer I was blackjacked by a hill south of Galena, Illinois, the birth place of U. S. Grant, and by a series of hills in a stretch of land between the Illinois and Mississippi Rivers. But from all touring disasters I have learned to do better. I have learned to be a better organizer and planner, I have learned that sometimes it's good to forget the map and to wing it instead. I have lost weight. Big Shark replaced my crank sets with gear ratios that enable me to ascend hills far more easily.
In the morning, I'll take the tent down, load all the gear onto the bike, turn on the Garmin, and secure the hammer while saying, "Hammer." Tomorrow morning will be the last time for doing those things.
But the last time just for the BALM. Later this summer I'll be biking with thousands of others (yes, thousands!) across Iowa. And next summer there'll be a bigger tour. Wouldn't it be wonderful and beautiful if life itself was a tour, the ultimate tour? And after doing one, there is always another? Always a better one?
Keep on pedaling.
Follow the BALM.
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| 'Anders rear |
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| Backroad bikeways in Michigan |
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| Last stop' Michigan |
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| Bye bye Michigan. Hello, Indiana |
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| Sandy beach in Indiana |
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| Indiana sand dunes |
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| Eats in Porter: great catfish |
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| Rolling in |
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| Last BALM camp |
6.06.2013
BALM: Week 4 Day 4
This morningn we found a sign near our campsite warning of the use of DEADLY FORCE to protect a nearby nuclear power plant. Don't you think that the humming of that plant all night probably harmed us and other nearby campers? That the plant was more of a threat to us than we were to it? What would those authorized users of deadly force do to an army of campers marching through the woods to demand the closing of the atom splitting radiation making reactors? Probably shoot us.
Several years ago I was biking from Kansas City to St. Louis. I had stopped on HWY J in the western part of Missouri to take some pictures. Almost immediately, a certified badge carrying federal security officer stopped me, demanding that I identify myself and show him the pictures I took. Evidently, my photographic moment had been near a high security ammunition site on HWY J NEAR INDEPENDENCE MISSOURI, and I was a potential terrorist. He sat in his car with my wallet and phone, punching numbers I suppose in his computer, doing a background check on me, checking federal and state terrorists databases, and I was clean! He didn't seem pleased.
I'm not an activist, I keep my politics private. I'm not an evangelist, religion is personal. I'm not a fighter. The one fight I ever had was with my older brother. I was beating his butt when mother pulled me off of him. All of my other fights, well, my older brother fought for me. I'm not violent. I prefer peace.
But on my biking tours I carry a hammer. It started out just as a stake hammer. For some reason I started fitting the hammer between the tent compartment of a rear bag and the bag itself. Velcro holds the tent to the bag, so the hammer fits nicely in that in-between space. By accident it became a tool for potential self defense.
Last summer I was biking from Mission, South Dakota, to St. Louis. It was the hottest part of the summer. Record heat everywhere. 101° on my bike in Nebraska. Toward the end of a long day I was stopped at a red light in a small town. A truck pulled up beside me, and the dude on the passenger side said, "Get on the sidewalk, fucker." Instinctively, I reached behind me and pulled out my hammer. The dude looked shocked, and the truck peeled away on the green light.
And so the hammer became my power for driving stakes, when need be, and for protecting me, when need be. Not that I've ever had to use it. I keep it in my tent at night. I think, if some bizarre threatening maniac comes sneaking in my tent, I can wield the hammer and the sucker will flee. I think I can use it to beat away raccoons and bears. I think a crazy who pulls up beside me will see the hammer, think twice, and skedaddle. The problem is that the hammer is on the right rear side of my bike.
Peace be with you.
Follow the BALM
Several years ago I was biking from Kansas City to St. Louis. I had stopped on HWY J in the western part of Missouri to take some pictures. Almost immediately, a certified badge carrying federal security officer stopped me, demanding that I identify myself and show him the pictures I took. Evidently, my photographic moment had been near a high security ammunition site on HWY J NEAR INDEPENDENCE MISSOURI, and I was a potential terrorist. He sat in his car with my wallet and phone, punching numbers I suppose in his computer, doing a background check on me, checking federal and state terrorists databases, and I was clean! He didn't seem pleased.
I'm not an activist, I keep my politics private. I'm not an evangelist, religion is personal. I'm not a fighter. The one fight I ever had was with my older brother. I was beating his butt when mother pulled me off of him. All of my other fights, well, my older brother fought for me. I'm not violent. I prefer peace.
But on my biking tours I carry a hammer. It started out just as a stake hammer. For some reason I started fitting the hammer between the tent compartment of a rear bag and the bag itself. Velcro holds the tent to the bag, so the hammer fits nicely in that in-between space. By accident it became a tool for potential self defense.
Last summer I was biking from Mission, South Dakota, to St. Louis. It was the hottest part of the summer. Record heat everywhere. 101° on my bike in Nebraska. Toward the end of a long day I was stopped at a red light in a small town. A truck pulled up beside me, and the dude on the passenger side said, "Get on the sidewalk, fucker." Instinctively, I reached behind me and pulled out my hammer. The dude looked shocked, and the truck peeled away on the green light.
And so the hammer became my power for driving stakes, when need be, and for protecting me, when need be. Not that I've ever had to use it. I keep it in my tent at night. I think, if some bizarre threatening maniac comes sneaking in my tent, I can wield the hammer and the sucker will flee. I think I can use it to beat away raccoons and bears. I think a crazy who pulls up beside me will see the hammer, think twice, and skedaddle. The problem is that the hammer is on the right rear side of my bike.
Peace be with you.
Follow the BALM
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| Too late. Too late. |
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| St. Joseph |
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| The best malted milk balls! |
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| Grocery store on the way to Van Buren State Patk |
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| Totem pole at VBSP |
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| Yellow duct tape to keep flag from sliding down pole |
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| Camp |
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| Lost in the woods |
6.05.2013
BALM: Week 4 Day 3
Often at day's end, especially days and weeks into a tour, I don't remember the specifics of where I've been or when I was somewhere. What was the name of the small town where today I sat at a picnic table in front of a grocery store and ate a wonderful piece of fried chicken? In what town is the steam locomotive Pere Marquette 1223? How many days ago did I take the shuttle over the Makinaw Straits? And places and days before that? It's good that I keep a record of the BALM at Track My Tour. I can always go there to see the waypoints, the camps, the coffee stops, the points of interest, the scenic views, and such.
What I remember mostly is the routine. I wake up. I fire up the JetBoil to make a cup of Starbucks Via instant coffee. I put on my biking clothes, sort panniers and handlebar bag, wipe the dew from the fly of the tent and take it off and stuff it in a compression bag. I deflate my sleeping pad and stuff my sleeping bag in a compression sack. I take the tent down, drying it too, and place the rolled up tent and its poles and stakes in the tent compartment of the right rear Arkel bag. I fasten the front and rear panniers to the bike. I bungie the sleeping bag to the rear rack. I put on my helmet and gloves. I turn on the Garmin computer. I latch my coffee cup to the left rear Arkel bag. And, lastly, I say, "Hammer," as I stuff it in a tight space of the right Arkel bag, where it is handy should I need it. Then I mount the bike and start pedaling. So far on the BALM I have repeated this routine 24 times.
At the end of the day all of this seems to go in reverse. I stop the bike, get off, take the bags off the bike, erect the tent, inflate the sleeping pad and place it, along with the sleeping bag and hammer, in case I need, in the tent. I arrange the clothes to wear the next day. (Every couple of days I shower.) I see to the bike. I fire up the JetBoil to boil water for coffee or create-a-moment hot chocolate and for a freeze dried dinner boosted with Raemen Noodles. I eat. I crawl in the tent. I read, listen to music, write, sleep, wake up to cramps in the top of my feet, and sleep some more. So far on the BALM I have repeated this routine, minus the cramps, 24 times.
I suppose this is true of life in general. What we remember best, what we do best, is the daily routine, the actions required to kickstart the day and the actions required to bring the day to an end. Everything in between, because it is often so different from one day to the next, becomes a blur. I suppose that's why we take photographs, write notes, keep a journal or a blog, shoot video, make audio, or tell friends, hoping they'll remember should we forget.
I don't even do that very well. Have I noted anything specific that happened today, except for how I started the day, how the piece of fried chicken was memorable, and how I ended the day? I have written, instead, impressions, riffs, mash-ups, and stylistic musings, all of which, seemingly for me, embody the BALM. So far on the BALM I have now repeated this routine 24 times.
Later I will revisit these moments attempt to layer the map, the image, and the musing. Who knows what will come of that? Fiction? Poetry? Memoir? All those genre? Is there a name for the unity of the three? Truth?
But this is what happened today. I was biking desparately out of Montague on a head-banging disco-tech of a road that snapped into spa.
Follow the BALM
What I remember mostly is the routine. I wake up. I fire up the JetBoil to make a cup of Starbucks Via instant coffee. I put on my biking clothes, sort panniers and handlebar bag, wipe the dew from the fly of the tent and take it off and stuff it in a compression bag. I deflate my sleeping pad and stuff my sleeping bag in a compression sack. I take the tent down, drying it too, and place the rolled up tent and its poles and stakes in the tent compartment of the right rear Arkel bag. I fasten the front and rear panniers to the bike. I bungie the sleeping bag to the rear rack. I put on my helmet and gloves. I turn on the Garmin computer. I latch my coffee cup to the left rear Arkel bag. And, lastly, I say, "Hammer," as I stuff it in a tight space of the right Arkel bag, where it is handy should I need it. Then I mount the bike and start pedaling. So far on the BALM I have repeated this routine 24 times.
At the end of the day all of this seems to go in reverse. I stop the bike, get off, take the bags off the bike, erect the tent, inflate the sleeping pad and place it, along with the sleeping bag and hammer, in case I need, in the tent. I arrange the clothes to wear the next day. (Every couple of days I shower.) I see to the bike. I fire up the JetBoil to boil water for coffee or create-a-moment hot chocolate and for a freeze dried dinner boosted with Raemen Noodles. I eat. I crawl in the tent. I read, listen to music, write, sleep, wake up to cramps in the top of my feet, and sleep some more. So far on the BALM I have repeated this routine, minus the cramps, 24 times.
I suppose this is true of life in general. What we remember best, what we do best, is the daily routine, the actions required to kickstart the day and the actions required to bring the day to an end. Everything in between, because it is often so different from one day to the next, becomes a blur. I suppose that's why we take photographs, write notes, keep a journal or a blog, shoot video, make audio, or tell friends, hoping they'll remember should we forget.
I don't even do that very well. Have I noted anything specific that happened today, except for how I started the day, how the piece of fried chicken was memorable, and how I ended the day? I have written, instead, impressions, riffs, mash-ups, and stylistic musings, all of which, seemingly for me, embody the BALM. So far on the BALM I have now repeated this routine 24 times.
Later I will revisit these moments attempt to layer the map, the image, and the musing. Who knows what will come of that? Fiction? Poetry? Memoir? All those genre? Is there a name for the unity of the three? Truth?
But this is what happened today. I was biking desparately out of Montague on a head-banging disco-tech of a road that snapped into spa.
Follow the BALM
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| The power that moves you |
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| Pete Marquette 1223 |
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| Coffee Grounds |
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| Michigan town |
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| More flowers |
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| View from Save a Lot |
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| Camp at Van Buren State Park |
6.04.2013
BALM: Week 4 Day 2
I woke up early this morning to the sun rising on the dunes of Silver Lake. The distant line of dunes was broken in half: the left, stark sand; the right, lush trees. These Silver Lake dunes are much like the shore and inland faces of bigger dunes, Sleeping Bear and Arcadia, for instance, where the inland face is lush trees and the shore face is stark sand. These Silver Lake dunes had both faces turned toward a stand of lonely looking tree trunks across the waters.
For most of the day I carried this sense of loneliness with me. I carried it like a bike carries a load, with comfort and little effort. Loneliness on a bicycle can be a wonderful thing. It's the loneliness of missing Ann, Jessie, and Alexa back home. I know they're all in St. Louis, and that's the direction I'm riding. Loneliness can be such anticipation.
Loneliness on a bicycle--especially when you're riding miles a day, thus with time to let your mind wander, wonder, go blank--is like a vague voice that articulates everything you are grateful for: your health, people who love you, people that you love; an outlook that life is positive and promising; the surprise by joy that our time here on this planet is also a tour, the ultimate tour, and so we need to see to the health of the world, the way a touring biker sees to the bike, daily cleaning the chain, adjusting cables, tightening bolts, and cleaning dirt and grime from the frame, all so that the bike will move you forward as long as you can pedal.
Loneliness on a bike is the voice of who you are. At times the voice is comforting, it is the voice of Mother, telling you to be careful and to come home safe. It is the voice of Father, scolding you for not filling the tires with air. It is the voice of Brother or Sister, encouraging you to bike one more mile, or imploring you to get home now and your butt back to work.
A friend of mine was drafted after high school and went to Vietnam, where he was killed when his helicopter exploded in mid air. Randal, the golden boy, who was born the same day as I, wrecked his motorcycle, and for years sank deeper and deeper into anger and despair. He sank so deep that the only way up was to shoot himself. Jo, so much a sister who, when I was poor, always fed me tacos and gave me her car for laundry, died way too young of ovarian cancer. Loneliness is the hum of their voice in my spinning wheels. They hum Be happy for us. Celebrate for us. Live for us. We are with you. Always.
And loneliness is being happy when you forget everything, the living and the dead; when you are deaf to the complaints of your bike, the sandy rasp of the chain, the wobble of the front wheel, the knocking of the rear rack; when you are blind to all the light and shining and glowing of the lake and its geography; and when the two faces of the dunes go blank.
I welcome loneliness. I praise loneliness. I keep it close to me, like the polish of a bike.
Follow the BALM
For most of the day I carried this sense of loneliness with me. I carried it like a bike carries a load, with comfort and little effort. Loneliness on a bicycle can be a wonderful thing. It's the loneliness of missing Ann, Jessie, and Alexa back home. I know they're all in St. Louis, and that's the direction I'm riding. Loneliness can be such anticipation.
Loneliness on a bicycle--especially when you're riding miles a day, thus with time to let your mind wander, wonder, go blank--is like a vague voice that articulates everything you are grateful for: your health, people who love you, people that you love; an outlook that life is positive and promising; the surprise by joy that our time here on this planet is also a tour, the ultimate tour, and so we need to see to the health of the world, the way a touring biker sees to the bike, daily cleaning the chain, adjusting cables, tightening bolts, and cleaning dirt and grime from the frame, all so that the bike will move you forward as long as you can pedal.
Loneliness on a bike is the voice of who you are. At times the voice is comforting, it is the voice of Mother, telling you to be careful and to come home safe. It is the voice of Father, scolding you for not filling the tires with air. It is the voice of Brother or Sister, encouraging you to bike one more mile, or imploring you to get home now and your butt back to work.
A friend of mine was drafted after high school and went to Vietnam, where he was killed when his helicopter exploded in mid air. Randal, the golden boy, who was born the same day as I, wrecked his motorcycle, and for years sank deeper and deeper into anger and despair. He sank so deep that the only way up was to shoot himself. Jo, so much a sister who, when I was poor, always fed me tacos and gave me her car for laundry, died way too young of ovarian cancer. Loneliness is the hum of their voice in my spinning wheels. They hum Be happy for us. Celebrate for us. Live for us. We are with you. Always.
And loneliness is being happy when you forget everything, the living and the dead; when you are deaf to the complaints of your bike, the sandy rasp of the chain, the wobble of the front wheel, the knocking of the rear rack; when you are blind to all the light and shining and glowing of the lake and its geography; and when the two faces of the dunes go blank.
I welcome loneliness. I praise loneliness. I keep it close to me, like the polish of a bike.
Follow the BALM
6.03.2013
BALM: Week 4 Day 1
Today was a deceiving, pretty day. The sky was crystal clear, like a shade of Lake Michigan, which varies from crystal blue to green to brown, all within a a small space. With sunshine, you'd think it would be warm, a perfect day for a bike ride, a perfect day for 60 miles of coffee stops, bucolic images, and sweeping vistas. The day in fact was all of that.
It was also cold. This Lake Michigan weather is fickle. It can be sunny and cold, it can be overcast and rainy, it can be windy and rainy, it can be sunny and cold and windy. Today was sunny and cold and windy.
On past tours I have returned home with a biker's tan. Dark brown from the end of my shirt sleeves to the top of my gloves, the tan ending in a fine line at my wrist. One tour I biked without gloves, and my wrists and hands cooked and blistered, just like my ears always do. Probably I'm a fine candidate for skin cancer. On past tours my legs have been similarly tanned: from the bottom of my padded biking shorts to the tops of my biking socks. I'm vain. I'm concerned about how I look. So, on past tours, toward the end, perhaps the last two days, I've worn a tank top and gone without socks to even the tan.
This BALM ride has been different. I do feel as if my face is tanned. My nose and ears feel raw and charred and flakey. My nose and ears are body parts that stay exposed regardless of the weather. Perhaps my legs--from the bottom of my padded shorts to the top of my biking socks--are tanned, too. But my arms? They've been covered for the most of this tour. It's been that cool or cold, and I've worn my cold weather clothes and gear to keep my core warm.
I've been riding around the lake and its bays for 22 days. I recall just one day of a good tailwind. The rest have been days of headwind. Sometimes a headwind isn't too bad. It could be hot and the wind would be like a fan, maybe a hot breeze, but any breeze cools the sweat and cools you off. But when it's cold and windy there's this phenomenon called wind chill. And riding into a sunny blue wind chill is sort of a contradiction. Perhaps not. I recall winter days in Buffalo, New York, when days were a beautiful icy blue, with sub zero wind chills.
On days like this I try not to throw a micro fit. I keep my head down, perhaps now and then say something nasty to the wind, call it a nasty name, yet I keep my head down and keep on pedaling. 'Anders will get me to the set destination by the end of the day. I'll set up camp, eat a hot freeze dried dinner, drink a hot cup of coffee. I'll crawl into my tent, settle into my sleeping bag, and, because I'm tired and warm, sleep soundly.
Follow the BALM
It was also cold. This Lake Michigan weather is fickle. It can be sunny and cold, it can be overcast and rainy, it can be windy and rainy, it can be sunny and cold and windy. Today was sunny and cold and windy.
On past tours I have returned home with a biker's tan. Dark brown from the end of my shirt sleeves to the top of my gloves, the tan ending in a fine line at my wrist. One tour I biked without gloves, and my wrists and hands cooked and blistered, just like my ears always do. Probably I'm a fine candidate for skin cancer. On past tours my legs have been similarly tanned: from the bottom of my padded biking shorts to the tops of my biking socks. I'm vain. I'm concerned about how I look. So, on past tours, toward the end, perhaps the last two days, I've worn a tank top and gone without socks to even the tan.
This BALM ride has been different. I do feel as if my face is tanned. My nose and ears feel raw and charred and flakey. My nose and ears are body parts that stay exposed regardless of the weather. Perhaps my legs--from the bottom of my padded shorts to the top of my biking socks--are tanned, too. But my arms? They've been covered for the most of this tour. It's been that cool or cold, and I've worn my cold weather clothes and gear to keep my core warm.
I've been riding around the lake and its bays for 22 days. I recall just one day of a good tailwind. The rest have been days of headwind. Sometimes a headwind isn't too bad. It could be hot and the wind would be like a fan, maybe a hot breeze, but any breeze cools the sweat and cools you off. But when it's cold and windy there's this phenomenon called wind chill. And riding into a sunny blue wind chill is sort of a contradiction. Perhaps not. I recall winter days in Buffalo, New York, when days were a beautiful icy blue, with sub zero wind chills.
On days like this I try not to throw a micro fit. I keep my head down, perhaps now and then say something nasty to the wind, call it a nasty name, yet I keep my head down and keep on pedaling. 'Anders will get me to the set destination by the end of the day. I'll set up camp, eat a hot freeze dried dinner, drink a hot cup of coffee. I'll crawl into my tent, settle into my sleeping bag, and, because I'm tired and warm, sleep soundly.
Follow the BALM
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| Goody's |
 |
| Red barn beside tin shed |
 |
| Antique shop |
 |
| Hydroelectric plant |
 |
| Rest stop |
 |
| The Texaco Star |
 |
| Silver Lake |
 |
| Camp |
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| Sunset |
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"After Long Gone" at One Sentence Poems
The first of three one-sentence ghost bike poems appearing this week at One Sentence Poems. After Long Gone
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