Selfishly, I’ve always dreamed that a natural disaster would come along sharing my first name. Not necessarily the kind of Class 5 Kill-storm that callously wrecks entire cities and lives, but something with the audacity to turn a few heads—something inevitably allowing me to cheerfully clip headline articles reading “Caitlin Ravages Florida Coast” and “Path of Fiery Destruction in Caitlin’s Awesome Wake”. So naturally, May 2009’s featured tropical storm “Anna” was a disappointment in more ways than one. First of all, news from The Weather Channel was horrifying. We were riding directly into the eye of the storm, and “Anna” showed no sign of letting this go unnoticed. Second of all, no one named “Anna” has EVER been suspected as having the capacity to cause a wake of fiery destruction—they might as well have named the storm “Millicent” or “Patty”. Yes, I realize that they’re working in alphabetical order, but if they really want people to take all those Watches and Warnings seriously, I think “Apocalypta” has a nice ring to it. Better than “Anna”, anyway!

As we reluctantly surrendered to Anna’s sinister clutches, the skies grew dark with the threat of imminent storms. Anna showed no mercy, tightening her hold and preparing to ravage, her relentless, pounding rains and unpredictable headwinds proving a daily challenge to our constantly fluctuating morale. Increasingly, we sought out the relief and succor of a good KOA kabin, but no ruggedly air-conditioned pine fortress could protect us from the tropical anger and untamed passion of sweet, scornful Anna. It just really sucked. I hate wet socks.

Admittedly, even in the absence of a troublesome antagonist like Anna, Florida would not have been my favorite state. I liked the stark desert mountain ranges of the Southwest and the sweet, rolling magic of Texas Hill Country. Flat, monotonous riding has never really been to my taste–I grew up in Kansas, and could do without the endless, mocking horizon. It’s much more exciting to cut a swath through dark, mystical forests, wondering what sort of grueling climbs or thrilling descents lay around each corner, or even to spend six hours creeping slowly to the top of a majestic peak just to earn a single hour plunging into transcendence. Most of my crew rejoiced over the considerable ease of Floridian terrain, but as in most things on these rides, I was the odd man out.

It bears mentioning that Florida provided relief in one major area of considerable personal suffering—food! As we made our way across the panhandle, the distances between small towns decreased from 30-60 miles apart (in the West) to a mere 10-20. Access to crucial snack items (I believe the polite term for this is “snackcess”), like the sacred triumvirate of Dark Chocolate Peanut M&M’s, Rold Gold Honey-Wheat Braided Twists, and Yoo-hoo (I know–I’m a mess) swiftly went from Code Red on the terror alert meter to low-level Green, as I blissfully indulged in my chosen nutrients at leisure. (Vegan options, as ever, remained at large.) If any representatives of these fine products happen to be googling this on a lark, I’d just like to put it out there that I’m willing to entertain multiple product endorsement deals on the fitness-enhancement qualities of any member of the aforementioned sacred triumvirate. Yoo-hoo, especially, could probably stand to revamp its syrupy, countrified image, and I’ve been mistaken for a teenager (albeit, a haggard one) often enough to think that I can bring just the right amount of “Gossip Girl” meets “Outside magazine” to the job. Think about it, various CEOs and snack barons, and leave your contact information in the comments section!

Skipping ahead through the space-time continuum to the final day of the trip, I have to say that the last ten miles were much more harrowing than expected. In an effort to foist a sense of group identity onto my weary cluster of riders, I suggested (nay, demanded!) that everyone ride together for the bulk of our final day on the route. We would storm the beach as one! Our families and friends would marvel at the excellent photographic opportunities hand-fed to them by our bold, athletic unity! Cue “Ride of the Valkyries”!! Or the theme song to Karate Kid!

Needless to say, that’s not how it all went down. We had a mere 35 miles to cycle together, and proud memories of the first 6 will remain with me always. Although the riders may hate it, I love it when the whole group is all clustered together. Rarely do I have a chance to keep an eye on the entire roster, trailing maternally along behind them with absolute certainty that no one is stranded or injured or shot-gunning Olde English by the side of the road. My anxiety sinks to an all-time low—a rare opportunity for a leader on a long trip like this, especially one haunted by the long-ago loss of a cyclist to an automobile. Naturally, it didn’t last. The British guy got his FIRST flat of the entire tour (the individual average being around 6-8, mostly due to rough West Texan roads), and the two of us immediately fell behind to change the tube. Once back on the road, we hammered hard to catch up with the pack and soon met up with the recumbent rider taking his thrice-daily chocolate milk stop. We set off together, and were within 10 miles of the triumphant finale of our 3200-mile journey when the bike in front of me suddenly slammed to a stop under unexpected attack from a nefarious bee. With no time for evasive action, I crashed immediately, sailing over the handlebars and Supermanning out onto the pavement. Yes, I was drafting off a recumbent. But why does that make my war wounds more laughable than impressive??

We finally caught up to the rest of our mystified team waiting at the outskirts of St. Augustine (“Where have y’all been? And why are you covered in blood?? “), and two other riders were attempting to ignore their flat tires, just wanting to survive long enough to touch wheels into the Atlantic coast. The general attitude was “We’ll get there if we have to crawl across the sand on our hands and knees, dragging nothing but a battered bicycle frame behind us.” Bruised, bloody, and covered in grease and road grit, we finally rode out onto the beach at Anastasia State Park, looking as non-triumphant as possible. Pictures were taken, stories were told, and almost immediately, we scattered to be with family and friends. Once you ride across the country once, you’ve pretty much abandoned the opportunity to impress anyone with a repeat performance. Nevertheless, I was pretty stoked to be standing on the sunny Atlantic coast, surrounded by ecstatic riders, celebratory families, and the most important personal of all—my mom, bearing homemade baked goods and a get-away vehicle. I’ve never been so ready for a day off!

The truly hard part about writing these trip updates is not mentioning anything remotely personal about the riders on the tour. Each group is so unique and weird that it’s nearly impossible for me to resist chronicling everyone’s foibles. The experience of traveling with a completely random assortment of humans—especially with this year’s particularly motley crew–is really what shapes the story of my journeys, but confidentiality demands that I keep the funniest, most riveting stories to myself. The result is that my trip updates reveal very little about the actual experience of the tour, which is a bummer. What may seem like a fairly routine, leisurely jaunt across the southern United States could have actually made for a wildly-dramatic reality TV series, and I have enough war stories this time around to fill up a year’s worth of happy hours. Now that the adventure has ended, I feel a little bit lost—like a captain without a ship or a crew—but that sentiment always kicks in at the end of these tours, as does an unexpected struggle to reintegrate into a “normal” lifestyle. It’s a strange feeling to spend two months traveling and forming tight-knit bonds with a small group of people that you’ll (possibly) never see again– like phantom limbs, their swift detachment is something I haven’t yet grown accustomed. At the risk of further spiraling into a long-winded self-assessment on the nature of leadership and my post-trip emotional state, I’ll just wrap this up here. There’s nothing more I can say about the Southern Tier that the following epic ballad, written by one of my riders, doesn’t say more poetically and with a more bizarre, homosexual conclusion.

BALLAD OF CAITLIN G
(Inspired by a walk along a dangerous highway and railroad crossing in Silsbee, Texas )
Wolf packs have their alpha bitch
Honey bees have their queen
The Southern Tier has Caitlin
Whose future could not be seen

Sixteen riders left San Diego
On a sunny March day
Their plan was to ride
Across the USA

Caitlin G was their leader
As strong as she could be
But she never made it past
The Texas town they call Silsbee

Chorus:
Caitlin went to Walmart
But now she’s heaven bound
For she never saw that freight train
Come roaring through the town

#2
Caitlin led the Southern Tier
From Alpine to Globe
Through deserts, mountains, wind and dust
She made her charges go

Sixteen began the tour
Showing no fear
One was left at Blythe
When he couldn’t give up his beer

Another left in Three Way
When he blew out his knee
When B. got the call in Mimbres
We were sad as we could be

When #13 texted Caitlin
And told her to say “good bye”
We jumped for joy and clapped our hands
And prayed that it was not a lie

Repeat Chorus:

#3
Caitlin led the Southern Tier
She was brave and strong
But you had to keep your eye on Caitlin
Cause sometimes she was wrong

In Franklin she turned left
When she should have turned right
I promised not to tell on her
Just to avoid a fight

But another wrong turn on Munson St.
Also was wrong
So I had to immortalize
The mistake in this stupid song

Repeat Chorus:

#4
Late one night in Silsbee
Three bikers were bored
So they decided to walk to Walmart
Where they could maybe score

K. wanted a camera
Fuji Film is what he got
Caitlin wanted bug spray
So the bugs would bite her not

They walked down to Walmart
Across the railroad tracks
Caitlin got her bug spray
But she never made it back

Repeat Chorus:

#5
The bible beaters tell Caitlin that she can’t go to heaven
But that’s not the way it works in Gods eyes
For Caitlin’s up in heaven having map meetings with the angels
And forever painting rainbows in the sky

Repeat Chorus:

(Sing to Oh Susanna – or any tune that works for you; try Rap, Blues, Zydeco, etc)

Bike touring isn’t for everyone. It can be hot and humid, rainy and cold, or any combination of inclement weather conditions. Sometimes the climbs are grueling, but when the terrain actually flattens out, it’s rare that the wind isn’t against you no matter which direction you turn. Camping adds another element of difficulty. Cold showers, no showers, mosquitoes, shady characters hanging around, food-stealing critters, rocky tent sites situated atop Indian burial grounds—the list of tribulations is nigh-endless. Not to mention those bonus challenges out on the road–flat tires, mechanical problems, hunger, dehydration, poor highway surfaces, detours and construction, unsafe motorists, dry counties, and the final indignity—being chased by vicious, rabid dogs dragging chains from their necks like something out of Resident Evil.

That being said, it wasn’t really a surprise when we lost another member of our group shortly after leaving St. Francisville. Since launching into an unexpected berserker rage in El Paso due to the imperfect standards of the hostel, the individual in question had spent more time touring the South in a rental car than cycling with the rest of the crew. So no one was really disappointed when the absence became official and our numbers further dwindled down to 12 from the original 16. 12 is my lucky number, anyway—I was born on 12/12, have always raced under the number 12, and even proudly sport a homemade XII tattoo to ward off any potential bad luck bedeviling my left ankle. If I had to pick any group size for one of these tours, 12 would actually be my preferred number—thus, I hoped that our attrition rate had stabilized. It was beginning to feel a little bit like an episode of America’s Next Top Model… from later on in the cycle, after all of the girls with personality disorders had been eliminated and the house started to feel a bit empty. “Two cyclists stand before me, but I only have one NutriGrain bar left in my hand. The person I do not call must immediately return to the tent, pack up their panniers, and head for home. ..” Or perhaps I’m the only person existing at the center of the Venn Diagram marked “ANTM fan club” and “bike tourists”? Anyway… AND THEN THERE WERE 12!

Eastern Louisiana would have been a complete snoozefest, if not that the sticky, humid air and relentless mosquito attacks made it impossible to sleep at night. Motorists continued behaving horribly, cell signals continued to disappear for days, and my recently-adopted Gambit accent began to lose some of its original luster. Luckily, Mississippi lay just beyond the horizon, and I knew I would feel much more at home there. After all, I too have a lot of repeat letters in my first and last names. So we crossed into Mississippi, but before we could really get a feel for the place, the “Welcome to Alabama” sign greeted our entry to the Gulf Coast recreational area. After nearly a month of Texas and Louisiana, suddenly we were tearing through state borders like a Tyrannosaurus Rex tears through a basket of sleeping kittens. It was at this point that the trip began to feel like an actual vacation! Rest days piled up, and six weeks of maintaining a frugal budget meant that we could afford to kick back a little bit with hotel rooms and restaurant meals. I learned to love the look of momentary confusion registering across a waiter’s face when I reached for the combined check at a fancy seafood diner. “I’m an eccentric oil tycoon,” I offered by way of explanation. “I don’t mind treating. Wait, did you add in the senior discount??”

The Gulf Coast of Alabama was an unexpectedly popular tourist area, with beautiful beaches and a stunning skyline of waterparks, movie theaters, and mini-golf courses. Was this Alabama or heaven? We only had two days to come to a consensus (decision: Alabama), before departing for the only state border that mattered—Florida! Before going on to describe the wonders that greeted us at our final state line, I would like to interject my breathless review of the movie “Star Trek”, which I finally had the chance to see in Gulf Shores: 4 STARS! NO, 10 STARS! A SERIES OF ENTHUSIASTIC THUMBS STABBING UPWARD TOWARDS THE HEAVENS! BETTER THAN “WRATH OF KHAN” AND “FIRST CONTACT” PUT TOGETHER (INTO ONE COHERENT FEATURE)!! EVEN RECOMMENDABLE FOR FIRST-TIMERS, TEDIOUS STAR WARS FANFOLK, AND THE KIND OF PEOPLE WHO AREN’T EMBARASSED TO SAY THINGS LIKE “WELL, UH, I LIKED THE ONE WITH ALL THE WHALES..”!! BEST MOVIE I’VE EVER SEEN IN MY LIFE!!!! AGHGHGHGHHHHH!!!!

Ahem. In conclusion, I would like to pump a triumphant fist in the air, take a puff from my inhaler, and conclude this update at the Florida state border. Will the 12 remaining cyclists make it to the sandy Atlantic shores?? Or will a wormhole in the space-time continuum send them spiraling back to San Diego?? Will any be struck down by the sinister forces of swine flu??? It has yet to be determined!

As we continued our quest to experience every seedy RV campground that the state of Texas had to offer, it became more and more apparent that mysterious forces were hampering our abilities to impress bystanders with our long-distance cycling feat. We had entered some sort of wormhole in the space-time continuum! Well, either that, or the existence of a city in nearby Duval County with the audacity to call itself “San Diego” meant that every other Texan we encountered simply assumed that we were out on a day ride.
“Ridin’ up from San Diego, you say? Yaaaaaap, sure are pullin’ a lot of stuff on that there bike.”

Hmph. It’s not that I really NEED everyone to KNOW that I’m a cross-country cycle tourist, per se, but I would hate for the entire state of Texas to think that I pack up 75 pounds worth of assorted belongings just to get to a neighboring county’s Walmart. Although by the time we reached the far eastern edge of Texas, I could scarcely believe that the journey started in California either–enough time had passed that the rocky beginning of the trip started to feel like a particularly strange dream. A strange dream of a life revolving around anything other than endless rolling hills under big Texan skies.

Collective morale sank lower than ever as we trudged across the eastern portion of the state, clearly needing some sort of state border-crossing milestone to lend a sense of progress. Rolling out of Austin, we faced our first day of thunder, heavy rains, and wet, stormy riding. The rolling terrain of western Texas eventually smoothed and flattened, as logging-truck traffic on our route picked up and highway shoulders narrowed. I warned my group to leave earlier in the morning–that roads would become busier as late afternoon rush hour set in–and the gentle suggestion was received as a stern deadline. No amount of back-pedaling with the continued reassurance that bikes would NOT automatically self-destruct at 3pm sharp could keep the riders from hustling grimly through the day as if on a death march instead of a bike tour. We needed that Louisiana state line more than ever.

Initially skeptical about Southern Louisiana due to a lifelong hatred of the X-Men character Gambit, I immediately began to change my tune once we crossed into Beauregard Parish and spent our first overnight at the Merryville Historical Society. Merryville hospitality was unrivaled–the folks at the Historical Society greeted our arrival with snacks and stories, all before laying out a traditional local spread of biscuits, Jumbalaya, and cobbler. Although I found the distinctive Cajun accent difficult to understand, I quickly became a fan of trying to transcribe it, recording such inspirational snippets of Southern wisdom as “Dey wun give yeh nuttin’ f’nuttin’. Aw, HEY, dey wunneven give yeh SUMtin’ f’nuttin’!” and texting all my friends in my newly-adopted “Ragin’ Cait-jun” vernacular. Actually, my recent, unexpected enthusiasm for the culture has been so resolute, I become almost inconsolable when confronted with anyone who DOESN’T come complete with a vowel-laden French surname and an outlandish Cajun accent. Apparently I’m not going to be satisfied until I meet Leatherhead from Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, drifting down the bayou in search of a good gumbo recipe. Who knew I was such a fan of cultural stereotyping?

Leaving Merryville was difficult, and not just because of all the warm hospitality. Cataclysmic thunderstorms, heavy rains, flooding, and a tornado watch had moved into the area, but our lack of access to news media prevented us from fully realizing the severity of the situation. We might have never set out for Oberlin if we had known that Stormageddon: ’09 was about to transpire, but upon leaving the safety of the Historical Society, the skies went black and we immediately entered the Thunderdome. Dark clouds unleashed an unholy vengeance as we crept tentatively down the highway through the miserable, pouring rain, occasionally fleeing the road for the shelter of a nearby barn to wait out the light show. Lightning struck less than a mile away, and the relentlessness of the storm suggested that we might get stranded in the middle of nowhere. I wondered how best to spin the day’s ride into a positive experience–”severe thunderstorms with a deadly tornado warning?” Or “the tailwind of your life with a minor electricity hangover?” Nearly defeated, I had to keep reminding myself that getting struck by lightning in Louisiana would make for a great journal entry (and possible book deal!), or at the very least a good tale to tell at the bar when I get home. What’s an epic adventure without a few death-defying war stories?

When we reached Oberlin intact, the guys at Volunteer Fire Department were kind enough to drive us all to the laundromat and pick up a huge stack of pizzas for everyone. Phillip, one of the volunteers, let me ride in the fire engine with the sirens blaring, giving me a three-block tour of the entire town and a tutorial of the ins and outs of firefighting. It was like a fifth grade field trip, and after a long, stressful day, I was absolutely in heaven. We were told we could sleep anywhere in the firehouse, and in exchange I promised that if the fire alarm went off in the middle of the night, I was willing to lend a hand with my new hose-wielding skills. This proposition met with a considerable lack of enthusiasm, but I enjoyed the image of our cycling group as the “Bad News Bears” of volunteer firefighters, spending the entire night envisioning all the hilarious pratfalls that lay in store. Collecting eccentric overnight locations is one of my all-time favorite bike touring hobbies!

The next challenge to beleaguer my meticulous planning came in the form of the St. Francisville ferry. We had been traveling for a week and a half without a rest day, when it was brought to my attention that the ferry was no longer in operation and we would have to take a 60-mile alternate route down to Baton Rouge to get across the Mississippi River. Adding miles to an already exhausting schedule was out of the question, so I used a Louisiana State Bike Map to find a route for us to cut over into Baton Rouge earlier, saving us the extra day. The route was certainly not ideal, but had a decent shoulder (for the most part) right up until the steep, narrow bridge across the Mighty Miss. Luckily, the West Baton Rouge sheriff department was kind enough to send out police vehicle escorts to usher us across the bridge in our own lane of traffic, giving us the time and space to lift our bikes across the hazardous expansion joints. I puffed up with self-importance as passing motorists honked out their respects–THIS must be how celebrities cross bridges, when they’re not slumming it for one of those “Stars–They’re Just Like US!!! features. Actually everyone in Louisiana honks ALL THE TIME and it’s as baffling as it is irritating. You can be riding or walking eight feet off the road in the shoulder and every single car will lay on the horn as they roll past, as if totally inconvenienced by your mere unmotorized existence. And yet, the minute those same aggravated roadsters step out of their vehicles, they transform into the kindest, most hospitable folks you’ve ever encountered in your life. I’m still trying to work out the Dr. Jekyll/Mr. Hyde dynamic of it all, but I’m not the only person who’s noticed the disconnect.

Our long-awaited rest day in St. Francisville brought one of the most unexpected surprises of all–Portlanders! I was at Birdman Coffeehouse in the tiny, historic downtown (pop. 1,712), feverishly stabbing at my miniature keypad in order to input THIS VERY JOURNAL ENTRY, when the sudden sense that I had stumbled into an interdimensional portal straight to Stumptown Coffee came over me. A crew of familiar faces in bike hats and mustaches marched past and we all did a double take. Team Rapha!

Once again, the Portland bike-culture diaspora has provided me with a sympathetic ear (I may have OVER-vented my frustrations–sorry dudes, if you’re reading this)! They’re in the area working on a guidebook of all the best rides in the United States–you can check out their epic adventure at rapha.cc/continental. It was all I could do not to choke out “please. take. me. with. you!”, but I had to return to my group for an excellent evening of story-telling and nigh-endless Coors Light. Tomorrow we’re back on the road, and although we have some beautiful rides left in store, I’m really looking forward to the two-week countdown to St. Augustine!

Yes, we’re still in Texas, and all’s quiet on the Southern Tier. The thrill of crossing state borders has gradually faded into a vague memory as we continue to pedal our way across the vast, unsettled frontier known as the Lone Star State. “Everything” is supposedly bigger here, including the trucks, the RV’s, the steep climbs, and the long expanses of desolate nothingness between tiny, one stop-sign towns. Texas is so good at what it does that sometimes I get the feeling that I’m not actually IN Texas, but have instead wandered into a vast, Lone Star-themed chain restaurant, where “The Bluest Eyes in Texas” plays on a continuous loop and everyone is decked out in spurs and a ten-gallon hat eating chicken-fried steak. The people here could not be friendlier, but they certainly haven’t let a single stereotype go unfulfilled.

Leading bike tours for the last four years has given me the unique opportunity to witness the explosion of fixed-gear/messenger culture into small-town communities all over the US. Cruising through the comparative boomtown of Alpine (population: 6K), I witnessed a passing flash of bright Velocity deep-Vs and immediately sought to build a connection to the young, urban-cycling enthusiasts presumably at the helm of these now universally-popular vehicles. Really, I just wanted someone to laugh at my jokes and think that my tattoos are cool–after a month of traveling with the Golden Age set, I couldn’t help but think that my particular brand of scrappy, youthful exuberance would test better with the small-town teen demographic. Needless to say, the bike punx of Alpine blew right past me, weaving expertly through their single busy intersection with the questionable aid of narrowly-chopped handlebars, like I was standing still. I guess once you’ve donned multiple gearing and a Camelbak, you might as well be riding a recumbent as far as teens these days are concerned. Damn kids these days… being 30 is weird sometimes.

This area of the country has suffered from record drought for the last few years, so we continued to traverse dried-up river beds and brown, desiccated scrublands all the way into the famous rolling terrain of Texas Hill Country. Dusty, arid Tattooine gave way to the lush, deciduous forests of Endor as my messy cloud of hair cheerfully expanded in gratitude for all the moisture in the air. Seriously, I look like a labradoodle–once again you can measure the humidity index by the rapidly-increasing circumference of my head. It’s no wonder those mean Alpine bike punx wouldn’t give me the time of day. Damn punx!

I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this before, but I actually rode this exact route last year with my friend Claire as far as Austin, then flew to Virginia to lead a cross-country bike tour back to Oregon. My familiarity with the terrain has been both a blessing and a curse–it’s nice to have some preparation for what lies ahead, but never easy to head into a difficult stretch without stressing over the doom and hardship of the previous year’s suffering. As our group rolled out into the 95-degree heat outside of Bracketville, my stomach tensed at memories of last year’s Uvalde County Horror, when I rode for forty hot, humid miles with acute food poisoning on my own private trail of tears. “Nature” didn’t so much “call”, as it somersaulted in through the windows wearing those SWAT team uniforms for what I can safely say was in THE TOP TEN WORST DAYS OF “GOOGLEMAPS (I’m continuing to campaign for this nickname) GIDDINGS’” LIFE. This year I was able to bury my dead with regards to that horrifying trauma–the riding was difficult, but uneventful. Actually, a friendly Border Patrol agent cheerfully conducted Operation: Hydrate Cyclists throughout the day, greatly aiding our cause and even regaling us with stories of the latest narcotics news. The third time he pulled us over with his much-beloved cooler of ice water, he told us that the day’s haul–narcotics perpetrators being processed at the station–had finally turned themselves in because of heat exhaustion. “You guys are crazy to be out here,” seemed to be the laughing implication, and I think that he was probably right. The Border Patrol gig looks to be pretty uneventful most of the time, so between dragging tires along dirt roads in an effort to uncover human tracks (a constant process that brings to mind that scene in Spaceballs with the giant, literal comb being pulled across the desert), I guess there’s not much to do except tool around and razz cyclists. Fresh ice water on a humid, 95-degree day is like heaven’s sweet elixir, though–thank you various Border agents of Uvalde County!

Hill Country provided other challenges for our spirited crew of riders, as mechanical breakdowns and physical calamities rapidly turned us into a squadron of 13 Macguyvers. I can probably create an entire new bicycle solely out of two rolls of electrical tape and a handful of zip-ties at this point, provided the intended rider doesn’t care about specifics like lug design. Thus far, my favorite roadside fix has to be when we rigged up a crude superhero mask out of surgical tape to protect the grit-infected eyes of our recumbent rider–an effect that was intended to gently suggest “Zorro”, but instead screamed “crazy person on a crazy reclining bicycle”. A mere clothes-pinned towel-cape away from true LARPing, for a week his public image hovered somewhere between “The (semi) Invisible Man” and “I’m going to rob your store of Shot Bloks.” On the off chance that a recumbent rider can be said to possess an ego, I politely continued to call him “Zorro” anyway.

In a cheerful mood at an eerie, desolate RV park alongside the interstate in Comfort, I asked one of the riders, “Do you ever feel like one of the happy-go-lucky teens at the beginning of a horror movie?” Naturally, he had no idea what I was talking about (people rarely do), but it certainly SEEMED like the perfect scene for a headlamp-lit slasher flick, complete with razor-sharp chain-ring murder weapon and blood wicking off of microfiber spandex. Uneasy in my tent, I eventually fell asleep to the steady hum of highway traffic. I awoke to the true horror of Comfort’s RV Park USA: BROKEN SPOKES. On two separate bikes! Completely unexplained, and completely annoying. After performing some actual mechanic work with real tools (as opposed to the chewing gum and krazy glue I use to jerry-rig things roadside), the two victims were back on the road for a long day of headwinds and nigh-endless flat tires. After another long, difficult day of mechanical mayhem, we pulled into the campsite just at dusk, anxious for a rest day after a week and a half of tough riding. We’ve been staying in some pretty sleazy places with the kind of sleazy campground proprietors that instantly bring to mind the haunting-spree perpetrators of a Scooby-Doo episode. After contending with more than my share of unsolicited back rubs from these suspicious characters, I’m really starting to miss the cheery, asexual professionalism of a good KOA. Hopefully the campsites will improve as we head East towards civilization.

Today is our rest day in Austin, and I couldn’t be happier to be here. I replaced my tires, my chain, and my cassette at the bike shop; and I’m about to experiment with one of the new Dark Magic botanical Kombuchas at Whole Foods (the happy place I go to in my mind when confronted with trauma). On my ride in, I had a chance to witness the annual Festival of Wiener Dog Races in Buda for the SECOND year in a row, which lends a comforting feeling of purpose to my life, like I’m exactly where I should be right now among tube-like canine friends. The numerous throngs of people swarming the streets of Austin are a little overwhelming, so I think by tomorrow I’ll be ready to return to small-town Southern Americana. We’re halfway to our goal now–it’s all downhill from here!

Now that we’re deep into the heart of Texas, our fourth state, we’re starting to build up some credibility for the whole “where did you start/where are you headed?” interrogation. It’s always awkward announcing your plans to bicycle across the country when you’re still within commuter range of the Pacific Ocean, where the ceremonial rear-wheel dipping kicks off the whole hero’s quest in the first place. “Ridin’ a bicycle across the US of A to Florida?? Whatta plan!! How far have ya gone so far?”

“Um… we started over there by that Denny’s.”

No… begrudging respect from the good ol’ boys only kicks in after the second state border–and yes, believe it or not, California has just as many good ol’ boys as Texas!

New Mexico was our first chance to really build an audience for our road stories, and we enjoyed some of the finest hospitality and kindness that the Land of Enchantment had to offer. We also enjoyed some of the finest tailwinds that the current weather system had to offer–I hit my all-time record of 48mph on a smooth, breezy downhill, although I eventually pulled back on the brakes once crime-scene visions of various grisly crashes started to flash through my overactive imagination. At that kind of speed, all the moisture gets sucked right out of your skull–you coast to a stop with cracked lips stretched into a goofy, frozen grin, looking like your eyeballs grew magical wings of salt. It’s an exhilarating moment with decidedly un-sexy appeal. But hey, once you’ve thrown on thickly-chamoised spandex and a Camelbak, no one really expects much out of you anyway. I’ve gone days without catching a glimpse of myself in a mirror, only to eventually confront my wizened, leathery reflection in a campground bathroom, stunned that no one has yet recoiled in horror from the ever-expanding size of my hair alone. Get me on the road for two days at a stretch and my ragged body promptly goes into Mad Max mode.

While we crossed New Mexico in a state of utter enchantment, a string of hard times and bad luck managed to find our little group. First, one of the riders, a disabled US soldier, tore out the ligaments and cartilage in his rebuilt knees and had to leave the tour to seek surgical help. Second, our oldest and strongest rider, a world-traveling cycle tourist from Canada (and not-so-secretly, my favorite guy in the group), found out that his partner was diagnosed with a malignant tumor. There was no question of what he would do–we relied on some of the aforementioned New Mexican hospitality to drive him straight to the El Paso airport so that he could return home to be with loved ones. After those two tearful goodbyes, we rolled out towards the highest, toughest climb on our route, the Emory Pass, only 13 riders strong. It was in the wake of all this tragedy and turmoil that I found out that the original rider to leave the tour–the raging, verbally-abusive alcoholic that you may remember from such blog entries as “The Set-up“–decided to file a lawsuit against both me and my touring company. Throw in the fact that my optometrist sold me a box of contacts in the wrong prescription (a blinding misfortune only noticed after I had discarded the current pair, 70 miles from the nearest vision center), and you have enough chapters to fill up my own personal “Hard Times: an Oral History of The Southern Tier”. We can only hope that the number 13 will provide some sort of paradoxical luck for us from here on out.

Crossing the Texas border into El Paso, we encountered some of the strongest winds we’ve experienced on this whole gust-crazy trip. I was actually attacked by an unexpectedly violent tumbleweed the size and viciousness of an angry fourth-grader, blowing past on a callous rampage and leaving a trail of tears in its tangled wake. Though the physical scars may be small, the emotional scars and wild-eyed paranoia will linger over the course of many states. Danger can come from anywhere!

The hostel in El Paso had a lot of character, but had certainly seen better days. Right around the corner from Amigo Bail Bonds and a series of depressing gay bars, the sketchy energy of the place was immediately confirmed at check-in, when a tweaker raced into the building and up the stairs just in time to evade the series of cop cars rolling past. Actually, El Paso had a weird energy in general, possibly attributable to the gale-force winds and desolate Easter streets, or possibly related to the early downtown curfew and heavy armored guard presence. With a highly-publicized, bloody drug war going on just across the border in Juarez, it was hard to tell if all the safety warnings about El Paso could be chalked up to media hype or if it WAS really dangerous just to wander around the empty streets alone. I decided to take my chances, for the most part, and do some exploring. Having grown up in a very white area of the country where “diversity” meant throwing a few nods to Hanukkah into the holiday choral program, it was a unique experience for me to feel so conspicuous on the bus, in the shops, pretty much wherever I went. I definitely felt sheepish about the abysmal quality of my Spanish. Speaking of the US/Mexico border, this trip has really opened up my eyes about the whole border wall issue. Eye-sore that it is, this wall is dividing university campuses, Native American tribal lands, and ecological wildlife areas–not to mention communities, families, and friends. There has to be a way to stop the Secure Fence Act and the Real ID Act. Right now I’m frustrated by my own lack of information (I miss you, dear friend Internet!) and action, but it’s definitely an issue I’d like to look into further when I get home. Is it too much to expect Obama to tear down this stupid thing? And is there any way I can segue from all this earnestness back into bicycling?

The road out of El Paso was beautiful, traffic-less, and lined with endless pecan groves. Once we got out past Fort Hancock, we hit a few long, dry stretches of West Texas that forced us back onto the interstate, where flat tires become a daily inevitable at the sinister metaphoric hands of the wire beads from truck tires. One 75-mile day launched us into a headwind so brutal that we were on the road from 7am until sundown at nearly 10pm. We pulled into camp with just enough time to set up tents in the dark and slip into bed, anxious about the next day’s 90 miles of climbing. Ill-prepared to spend that many hours on the road, I bonked so hard around dinneritime that I ate the straight powder out of four EmergenC packets and considered tossing back my entire bottle of multivitamins. If Vitamin C could make you go faster, I would probably already be in Florida by now… or perhaps at least courting a few corporate sponsors. The following 90-mile day to Fort Davis was probably the most brutal day of climbing and winds that I’ve ever experienced. Some riders took a flatter bypass route, and some took lifts across the pass, but we all survived the experience in anticipation of better days ahead. We might as well just get used to the wind, mountains, and long stretches of desolation–we’ll be messin’ with Texas for awhile now!

Leaving Tempe, we set out through seemingly endless Phoenix sprawl before crawling back out into the open desert. The mountains loomed closer and closer, and legions of tall Saguaro cacti burst out of each rolling foothill like the spotty aftermath of one of those Biore pore strips. Naturally, I resumed my quest to find the perfect candidate to anthropomorphize with a helmet and sunglasses, but most specimens resisted the hilarious photographic opportunity through unreachable height or arm-lessness. Aside from that small frustration, riding through the desert in the springtime is an unexpectedly thrilling experience–the perfect time to see it all in bloom.

The Queen Creek Tunnel up to Signal Pass is legendary for its narrow, shoulder-less lanes and heart-pounding treachery. Just like the tunnels on the Pacific Coastal highway, this dreaded corridor of doom exists on a steady uphill climb, making it the longest, loudest mile of your life, as eighteen wheelers and mastodon-sized RV’s thunder past, missing the opportunity to graze panniers by mere inches. For a moment, the dark threat of mutiny over safety concerns loomed heavy on the horizon, but the roads gradually became quieter and wider as we rolled down through small town Arizona mining towns into the Apache reservation.

30-mile an hour headwinds. 30-mile an hour tailwinds. Sometimes you’re up, sometimes you’re down, and there’s very little you can do to predict or control any of it. The day we crossed the beautiful, expansive Apache reservation, we sailed through 80 miles of perfect rolling terrain like it was one long downhill. The next day, half of the team woke up with a collective headache and flu symptoms, as if we’d all spent the last 24 hours licking the same filthy payphone. Those days when everything goes wrong and herding 15 cyclists across the country feels like the hardest, least-appreciated job in the universe, I just have to take a look around me to remember how good I have it. “I wish I had the time or money to do something like that. I can’t even imagine feeling that free,” says the man at the convenience store wistfully, conducting a lingering investigation into the gear ratio and set-up of my Surly Cross-check. I want to align myself with his working-man frustrations, to tell him that I’m getting PAID to work really hard for this bike tour and that I know how soul-crushing it is to try to make the most of life with very little. It would be a lot of defensive posturing, though–I know that I move through these communities with a lot of privilege, education, and unearned advantage at a time when the outlook in our nation’s economy could not be more bleak. The main industry out here is copper mining, and with the price of copper currently plummeting, down-sizing and lay-offs are the headline news in nearly every town we pass through. Stores, restaurants, and campsites are starting to dry up as workers migrate north in search of jobs, while we glide through in a seemingly unaffected parade of flashy spandex and expensive bicycles. But hey, at least we’re supporting the local economy, or what little economy there is left. It feels frustrating and hopeless, but it’s a good wake-up call. Sometimes you have a headwind, sometimes you have a tailwind, and there’s very little you can do to control any of it.

One prevalent theme among our riders (besides the obsessive interest in relative fiber content) is the journey to overcome grief and loss. As a group, we have survived cancer, brain injuries, replacement surgeries, the loss of spouses, siblings, parents, and jobs, and everything else that life can throw at us without grinding our progress to a halt. Down, but not out, we keep moving, out-running the crush of emotion and uncertainty, ready to prove that we can overcome the mountains, the desert, the flat tires, the scarcity of vegan muffins–whatever it’s gonna take to keep going.

It’s easy to feel disconnected from the outside world on a trip like this. Crawling through dusty, desert towns where front page news has been of the “96-Year-Old Local Man Keeps on Truckin’” caliber of fair and balanced reporting, I had no idea that Iowa had legalized gay marriage, let alone what the Obama administration has been up to lately. It’s actually a relief to get away from it all, although I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that Post Traumatic Stress Disorder kicks in every time we burst back into cellphone range after a 3-day backwoods drought. Today is our layover day in Silver City, NM, and we’re off to investigate the Gila Cliff Dwellings built by the Mogollon people over 700 years ago. Two states down, six more to go!

Operating under the somewhat outdated advice of armchair guidance counselors everywhere to “do what you love and the money will follow”, I’ve been trying to turn my love of bikes into various odd jobs for quite awhile now. In addition to a long, illustrious career as a Portland messenger, I’ve been leading seasonal cross-country cycle tours for the last four years through a cycle advocacy nonprofit. NO, the money isn’t quite “following” at the pace I would prefer, but I have no doubt that it’s drafting along somewhere back there, just waiting to overtake me in a sprint.

My newest assignment is a 2-month self-supported tour from San Diego, CA to St. Augustine, FL with a group of 15 characters ranging in age from 22 to 68 (average age is probably around 58). “Self-supported” means that everyone carries their own gear in panniers or trailers–there’s no van following along to lob snack bars at the riders, or to scoop them up if anything should go wrong physically, mechanically, or emotionally. In essence, I’M that van. My job is to make all of the campground arrangements in advance, oversee the cooking rotation, handle the finances, ride at the back of the pack with a heavy tool kit jerry-rigging things, and basically raise a family of 15 traveling, needy cyclists. Kind of like the bike messenger thing, only this time I’m trying to hustle human cargo across the country on a definite slow order. It’s not always easy, but it’s a good job for me–I have a lot of patience, a love of strange characters and stories, and an excellent sense of direction. They don’t call me “Google-maps Giddings” for nothin’. …And if they DON’T call me that yet, well then they’ve never ridden tandem stoker with me in an alleycat.

The route that we’re taking is known as “The Southern Tier”, a name which I inexplicably feel the need to invoke in a proud, old timey circus announcer shout. “Tha Suuuthawnn Teeeeeah!” This compulsion strikes about once daily, and is always met with awkward silence from my patient but mystified group. And so far this looks to be one of my most interesting groups yet. Riders flew to San Diego from all over the US and Canada, with a broad range of backgrounds, political leanings, physical abilities, and bike setups/biking styles. One group member even showed up in flip-flops on a vintage, one-speed cruiser with a coaster brake, hauling one of those pet trailers full of gear. Needless to say, his frame broke in half (seriously!) on the introductory shakedown ride, and he disappeared for a few days before rejoining us with a completely new touring bike. I should have known that that wouldn’t even come close to being the first major crisis of the journey…

Setting out from San Diego, we dipped our rear wheels in the Pacific Ocean at Dog Beach, climbed over the Eastern Peninsular Range, crossed the desolate, windy deserts of Southern California, and are currently cutting a swath across Arizona, laying waste to every Dairy Queen with the misfortune to lay in our path. From here, we’ll continue on through the cactus-lined highways of the Copper State, then firmly tie on turquoise bolo ties for the trek through New Mexico before cranking our way across Texas for three long weeks before we even enter the Southeastern US. It’s slow going, but a fascinating journey, both geographically and politically, through a part of the country that few people get the chance to see. In my ignorance, I wasn’t even aware that our government had started building the wall between Mexico and the US, but I got a chance to see it from about 50 yards away, in all its ridiculousness, hypocrisy, and aesthetic repugnance. It’s easy to feel alienated and hopeless when nothing in our country makes sense… this is definitely a topic I’ll have to come back to in future journal entries.

Today is our first rest day in Tempe– I regret that I haven’t had a chance to blog before now, because by this point there are too many stories to tell and no clear starting point. In some ways I feel like a spandex-clad soldier just coming back from war, too traumatized to put confusing experiences into words. We started the tour with one group member with a lot of personal problems and issues with alcohol, a situation which immediately escalated into a really serious, frightening situation. Maybe I’ll be able to laugh it all off by the time I get back, but I’m just not ready to tell those war stories yet. So now we’re down to 14 riders, all of whom seem to be as crazy as me about exploring the weirdest, most remote places in the US on a 75-pound bike. Thus far, the riders have been a wealth of life stories and advice, most of which can be boiled down to “Carpe Diem”. I love getting the chance to hang out with older folks and gain wisdom from their extensive experiences, warmed by the confirmation that growing older doesn’t mean giving in. Sure, kicking back in a rocking chair with a handful of Werther’s Originals in time for “The Wheel” can be a pretty good Friday night, but there’s nothing like bombing down a mountain pass so fast it feels like your heart might explode, smoking past someone half your age on a smoothly paved uphill, and knowing that all you can do is make the most of what you’ve been given right now. Wish us luck, we’re headed for the Atlantic!