The Pacific! Portland! It's over!

I heard the shoes of early-morning walkers crunching on the track. Hidden behind the thin wall of the covered bleachers, I was still invisible 50 feet away.

A mere 50 miles away: the Pacific. I assembled myself and began pedaling by 7am. Full of anticipation, I worked my way toward the ocean as the sun worked its way through the trees to warm me on this chilly morning.

Route 126 was beautiful, but somewhat perilous. Logging trucks, large RVs, and narrow or non-existent shoulders made for an exhilarating ride. In these conditions I ride defensively and quickly. I was in Florence Oregon by noon.

I arrived tired. All I wanted to do was see waves crashing onto sand. I wanted to find someone to take a picture of me and the Hoopty with the Pacific behind us. A lot of expensive houses got in the way - so essentially I was at the water far before I was able approach it. When I finally found a road and a park and a parking lot that were near the water, I realized I was still a quarter mile of sand away from the water itself.

I leaned my heavy ridiculous bicycle on a fence and walked to the water. I let a wave roll over my feet, and still there was nobody cheering for me. I rode all the way from Philadelphia, and there wasn't even a marching band when I arrived. It was awesome. My secret success was noted in my mind. I walked back to the Hoopty, but I realized that my trip wasn't complete. When people start and end their bicycle trips across America, they take a picture with their wheels touching the water. I knew I'd regret it if I didn't give in to tradition.

I made another trip to the water with the Hoopty. I'll tell you it wasn't easy. I pushed, dragged and lifted the bicycle across a quarter mile of loose sand. This kind of treatment is pure abuse to the drivetrain. Sand is the worst enemy of a bicycle. I got to the water and a nice lady took a picture of me just as a wave crept over the Hoopty's wheels and my shoes. Mission accomplished. Tradition celebrated. I spent about 20 minutes cleaning sand off of the poor bicycle before continuing.

What now? Stay in Florence and find free camping, or try to get to Portland today? I expected to reach Portland the next day, but it was still early. I wasn't exactly enchanted by Florence, so I decided to go for it. Portland today! I would hitchhike! Boom.

I succeeded in my Coastal Challenge. I wanted to celebrate by eating something big and drinking beer. I'd won! I deserved a proper celebration! But something in me didn't take the opportunity to indulge. Instead, I stopped at a discount grocery store for supplies, and made sure not to go over my $5 daily allotment.

I knifed a big rectangle out of a cardboard box and headed back to highway 126 toward Eugene. I stopped at a hardware store and acquired a paint pen to finish my sign. I wrote "PORTLAND" in big fat legible letters, and I stationed myself on a wide shoulder a few miles out of town. Within a half hour or so, I had a ride.

He could have driven a little slower. But this guy drives fast. He's a good driver, and that's his thing. The pickup truck careened toward Eugene as the radio blasted Lupe Fiasco, and the driver showed me handguns on his iPhone. Recently purchased weapons. I was complacent and agreeable even as he passed an already-passing vehicle in the far shoulder at about 90 miles an hour on a 2-lane road. I was riding the other direction on that shoulder only a few hours earlier. That crazy maneuver could have put me in a ditch if it happened then. It bothered me to think that riders from the ACA group would be filtering through on that shoulder throughout the afternoon. Yuck. Beggars can't be choosers. It was my choice to sit in the air-conditioned cab with this self-proclaimed "hill person."

I rode through Eugene on an idyllic path along the Willamette River. I went about ten miles or so, snaking around until I got to the I-5, and a place where it looked like I might be able to catch a ride. My spot was near a freeway entrance, but I wasn't feeling lucky. Most cars didn't seem to be taking the northbound ramp, and even if someone wanted to pick me up, there wasn't a lot of spare real estate on the shoulder. I formed a plan: I would try to catch a ride until the sun was a little lower. If I wasn't successful in the next hour, I would get blasted on Four Loko and find a sneaky place to wrap myself up in a tarp until morning.

Recognizing the obvious problems with my position, I took my bicycle and my sign right onto the highway itself. I stood on a wide shoulder just past the on-ramp, and held my sign hopefully to the northbound traffic. It's always great when you're trying to catch a ride for awhile, and a pickup truck finally pulls over. A nice girl about my age pulled over her white Chevy, and confirmed what I'd hoped: she was headed to Portland.

I put my stuff in the back, and got in. We immediately hit it off. She was traveling around in her pickup for a few months. I was riding around on a bicycle for a few months. The trip was made to seem short by our naturally easy conversation. She didn't have a place to stay in the city, so I said I'd ask my friends if they could host an extra person. She got me some Carl's Jr - her treat - and we were in Portland by 10pm.

We drove directly to my friends' practice space, and everybody was sharing a box of PBRs within minutes. I was playing some drums and reflecting on all that had happened and changed in the past 24 hours.

An epiphany about spending. My cup runneth over (with happiness).

I woke up at a reasonably early hour. I could just see a hint of my breath as I exited my tent and stood in my private campsite. I began the day by reversing what I did last night. Items removed from bags were put back in, bags removed from bicycles were put back on. the previous tenants left cans and paper waste in the fire ring. I used one of my spare plastic grocery bags to gather it up and pack it out. the secret site remained clean and ready for the next person who discovered the narrow singletrack. What a great spot. The fire ring built out of smooth rocks from the river was a nice touch.

I pushed out of the trees and continued on the path. I was riding by half-seven. I began to see members of the Adventure Cycling group. They're on this same planet. We share the same time and space. Still, it seems they're in a different world. Or I am. If it's me, I'm happy to be in my world. Maybe it's the vibes I got as I was passed by the yellow guy who was in huff-and-puff rush to tow a BOB trailer.

I saw a picnic table, so I stopped for a picnic breakfast. I filled the table with items. My own mountain of paperwork. I got the water to an almost-boil as I turned the rest of my bread into PBJ sandwiches. I doled out the water: "You, sir, will go to the mug to make coffee - you, madame, will stand by awaiting oats." I didn't really talk to my cookpot, but that doesn't mean I'm not having fun.

I sat and relaxed as ACA riders filed by slowly. I thought someone might stop to talk. I didn't need company, but I assumed someone might wave as they went by. I was behind one-way glass. A massive invisible heap. Strangely, but happily. I sipped Folgers and enjoyed a big pot of bland oats. It was great.

I thought about the Coastal Challenge. $5 per day on food. It's working incredibly well. I feel great, and I am happy. Then I realized several things. First - if I'd started a budget of $5 on food and drink much earlier - at the beginning - then I would have spent $500 by this point. Of course I've had other expenses, but the thought of getting this far on $500 was staggering. A major eye opener. An epiphany. I could have eaten, felt great, bought my tires and tent, AND gotten a decent sleeping bag for under $1000 total.  I have spent over $3300. It floored me. Second - if I could eat and drink for $5 per day on the road, then certainly it should be easier in Philadelphia. The city holds many more and stronger temptations, but a lifestyle change doesn't always happen easily. I spend too much. Period. I want to keep up the challenge. Right now, the challenge is $5 per day for everything. (Especially no paid camping.) For August, I will try $5 per day for food and drink. It will target and crush the major source of my spending.

If enacted, I will drink less. I will seek out free food opportunities, eat much healthier, and drink much less. I realized - with a gravity that excited me - that this was an important line of thinking. I had finally put together some pieces and discovered a plan that could truly enhance my life. Healthier me. Less drinking, but not needing to quit. (Which is great, since I don't want to.) More money. More savings. Less dependence on work. More independence.

I got back on my Hoopty bicycle happier than I had already been. I felt like a weight had been lifted, and I wasn't even feeling particularly heavy. Now I was floating. Obvious facts had finally revealed themselves to me. I felt like this was the enlightenment or epiphany I had been waiting for. This trip was a spiritual quest of a sort, and maybe it bore useful mental fruit in the final hour.

Roadhat! A good one! I squealed the brakes to a stop and picked up a Giro cycling cap. It was the same kind that Stuart was wearing many states ago. It was also brand new - not a mark or stain on it. Crisp brim. I thought it might belong to a member of the ACA group. If so, they weren't getting it back.

Roadhat! Holy shit! This one was even more awesome! I pulled over and picked up an Australian-style cowboy hat. The quality was clearly good. It was an oilskin hat - good for shedding water as well as blocking sun. It already had a nice gentle patina, and it was a perfect fit. As an odd twist, it was manufactured in Oxford Pennsylvania - a couple small towns from where I grew up.

Roadvest! I was looking for a reflective vest to replace the one I'd lost, and here was one right here! Okay, fine. Now I was just picking up dirty shit from the side of the road. My bicycle was piled with it, and in thirty miles I made my rig look 30% more circus-asinine. The mercury in my enjoyment meter was about to break the glass.

I stopped by Bike Friday in Eugene. I took some photos and got my crusty bicycle all up in their showroom's business. I hold Bike Friday in the highest esteem, and couldn't follow the route a mere ten blocks to the south without stopping to gawk at tiny bicycles.

I set up camp behind some covered bleachers. I was behind the high school track; hidden behind a high school in Crow. They were out for the summer. Out of sight; out of my mind. I had electricity to plug and play with my phones. (I have hundreds of phones. Thousands.) I sat and cooked as I listened to music. I read a book and listened to NPR before setting up my tent and getting sleepy.

Over the McKenzie Pass. Free camping always.

Lazy. Tired. I know what to do: move it. But I don't. I'm barely packed up by 10am. Then I just go to the lush green Sisters Commons to unpack it all again. I need to do chores: charge my phones, re-pack and organize my jumbled mess of gear. I need to try out my new round of PBJ ingredients.

With all that accomplished, I was off. But it was a false start. I didn't sit down on a toilet yet, and I thought my tires might be a bit low on pressure. So I rode around in a slow pointless manner.

Then I saw a $3.50 breakfast special. I knew it would be a blow to the budget, but I figured I could manage it. The eggs, sausage, and biscuit were confirmation that touring cyclists are better served by avoiding these prepared foods. I've gotten hungry during this challenge, but I think the solution is for my mind and body to adjust. I'm not doing myself physical abuse with the budget diet. If anything, I believe I'm doing myself a huge nutritional favor. The budget diet isn't a well-balanced organic gourmet, but it's closer to healthy than the regimen of grease and horseshit that I seem so well trained to crave.

So I ate a dry crummy breakfast out of a hinged styrofoam coffin. I paid with a sweaty fistful of change.

I've squandered most of my early-start opportunities. Maybe next tour I'll roll out daily at half-seven, but not this round. I sat on a bench and waited for inspiration to leave.

I always start out pretty slow, but soon I found myself leaping up the relatively easy grade toward the McKenzie Pass. I had a conversation with a guy at the lookout. I told him a few things about my trip so far. "Do you take donations?" he asked.

"No, no, no" I said. I made the gesture for no: hand out; palm down - polishing an invisible stone. I should have taken his money. I don't need it, but what's the difference? Pride? Why did he offer me money? I guess to him it looked like I needed it. But I'd prefer a person to be jealous of jubilation rather than compelled to squander charity on me.

The climb and summit were my favorite of the entire trip. I think that's true. I looked out over lava beds which contrasted nicely with snowy mountain peaks and a couple untouched green areas where the lava left islands of lush life. The descent was a steep snake. I went from 5,300ft to under 2,000 dropping like a rock as the heat returned toward the bottom. Large vehicles are not allowed on the narrow scenic road. The vehicles which are allowed seem generally willing to spare human life.

I goofed around at a ranger station and charged all of my phones at an outside outlet. I watched every available educational clip on a television in the air conditioned log edifice. Eventually, all I had left to do was eat a PBJ and move on.

Tired of PBJ? You must not be me. The more I eat them, the more I like them. Each batch has a new personality as the ingredients change and they spend various amounts of time stacked in a grocery bag in my luggage. Firm, mushy, fancy, cheap. PBJ is great to eat.

I rode downhill slowly into the wind feeling like I was wearing a parachute. I saw a girl on a loaded touring bicycle. Ellen! We'd met in Kansas right before the night I thought I might die. I pulled over so we could compare notes. I followed her to the RV bees nest where the ACA group was building its nightly hive of personalities. We talked for a minute. Then I talked to someone else. Then I made more PBJs. Then I got sneaky and took a free shower. I left feeling great.

The final mission was to secure some free camping. I turned toward a sign for National Forest camping. I hoped for free, but went about three miles off route down a tiny dead-end road to see a sign asking for $14. There was even a passive aggressive addendum admonishing people who don't pay promptly. Nope. Not gonna happen, dudes.

I backtracked up the road a mile and noticed a curious piece of singletrack starting behind a rotted log. Promising. I hiked back with my bicycle, guiding it through underbrush toward a beautiful secret spot along the McKenzie River... complete with travelin' kids. They were drinking Busch as the guy cut vegetables on a magazine cover. Whoops. I apologized for materializing in their camp. Clearly the apology wasn't necessary. We all knew that nobody can really own god's green earth. All people can do is pay other humans to put up fences on it. We were all here because paying $14 for camping seems stupid when you're surrounded by millions of acres of forest.

The guy was a skinny shirtless long-hair in a Pink Floyd hat. They were hitchhiking around and traveling light and cheap. They're the type that might have identified as 'family' if there was no secret territorial thinking in the back of everybody's mind. I chatted with them for a few minutes, and the guy mentioned there was a similar spot about a half mile up the river. I gave them back their personal space, and headed back up the skinny dirt path.

I found the other secret camping spot as described. I had my own spot. It was much prettier and better in every way than the spots in the official "fee area." I set up camp, and drank the smallest amount of whiskey ever. I cooked 33 cents worth of "Betty Baker" mac and cheese, and began to read until the sun went down. I looked at endless stars and slept to the sound of the river.

Staying cheap and colorful.

It was another cold night, but a manageable one. The cold air, combined with the fact that I'm a wuss, means that I stay covered up until the air gets reasonably warm. Starting earlier would mean less time spent baking in the sun, but it's a tough sell before 7am.

I made a lot of soggy oatmeal with a dab of jelly and some salt. I had my Folgers. I have enough food left to attempt a $0.00 spending day. Counting $5 each day means that I have an additional un-spent $1.43 in the budget. I still can't afford PBJ and bread for $6.43 at the small grocery store in town. If I can skip a day of spending, I will have $11.43 for groceries when I wake up in Sisters Oregon tomorrow morning. Thinking about this remindes me of the $1 peanut butter and $1 jelly I found in Lander Wyoming. Budget-wise, that would be quite helpful right now.

I have enough ingredients for three PBJs today. I have a packet of "Hammer Gel" I was given in Butte Montana (huckleberry flavor, naturally). I have a couple Clif Bars and plenty of Ramen. I have a packet of 20-minute rice, and a can of chili. I ought to have no worries - but the challenge remains... challenging. I guess that's the point.

I feel like I'm learning something about money and hunger. Just a slight something. Like: I have always had money, and I have never been hungry. This challenge would be simple for anybody who has ever faced adversity. It would be comfortable oppulence for a sizable segment of the population. For me there's a learning curve. I'm happy that I'm learning and I didn't fuck it up quite yet.

I sat at a picnic table. I pulled over to get water and take a break from the heat. I listened to a woman whine about being hungry while her husband ate handfuls of peanuts. Don't worry: they will soon "stop somewhere."

I continued into the heat. I pushed forcefully into a strong headwind. A discount grocery outlet made me swing a u-turn. Promising!

I entered through the automatic doors to look for the best items my $6.43 could buy. With $6.10 I exited with a boutiful bag. Bread, peanut butter, jelly, can of lentil soup, box of mac n' cheese, $0.50 ice cream cone. Boom. The jelly actually looks good - rasperry jam, in fact. The bread is the wheat bread you would expect for $1.09, and the peanut butter doesn't look like complete Alpo either. Success.

I found more great swimming in the Deschutes River. A long line of parked cars indicated that this was a popular swimming hole. I parked and walked down a narrow dusty path to the river. It was narrow, fast and deep. I removed my shoes and dove in with full riding attire.

I wrung the salt from my shirt and took a few minutes to soak. I took the opportunity to read the tattoos of the guy swimming near me. "White Power." I looked again to scan for irony. None. He was buff, shaved bald and white power seemed indeed to be his thing. I was happy to be flying my colors, too. Bright colorful heart tattoos in a ring around my puny right bicep. Love. Or at least interest, curiosity, hope or acceptance. It's important to show your colors if you have them in your heart. I won't hide myself if I can help it. I have bright colors in my heart and mind. I want to show those colors on the outside. And I don't want to grow up in the dull-normal sense.

I arrived in Sisters approaching a low-level delirium. I was not impressed to see that the city park charges money. I won't pay to be proximate to pointless campfires and errant guffaws. I turned back to go into town. Some mountain cyclists on Ellsworths pointed me toward the trailheads outside of town. I also asked at the fire department. I had an idea of where I could camp for free, so I filled my bottles and headed in that direction.

I got a nice piece of ground that looked safe and sound. I set up my tent and juggled food and cooking items. My tent is spacious, and I've gotten in the habit of setting it up with all the amenities and gear you might find in the average mansion. It takes a lot of rifling around and sorting, but I can really make a tent a home these days. I cooked on the front porch.

I had a bit of whiskey. I took a couple days off, but not tonight. If I was going to abstain for longer, then carrying it around in my pannier was probably the wrong approach. No bigs. Whiskey: I had some.

My life and my future are a tug of war between comfort and frugality. I crave simplicity and autonomy, but still find comfort in typical stuff like apartments and TV. Being alone on this trip is good for my health. So is living in a van. But both of those things take dedication and a little bit more work. Bicycle trips and vandwelling both yield wonderful and unparalleled mental results. I am enriched by my experiences with both, and I am still learning.

Expense Report:
$6.10 - Bread, PBJ, lentil soup can, mac n' cheese box, ice cream cone.

Heavily abridged Hullabaloo

"The Coastal Challenge." It's on, baby. I am continuing to attempt spending less than $5 per day. I broke down camp and set off for the grocery store where I would try to do good.

I spent $3.29 on chili, Ramen, yogurt and a couple bananas. I took my camp mug inside and filled it with hot water from the spigot on the coffee machine. I went to a bench outside to spoon in some instant crystals. I spread out a grocery bag to make a work surface for PBJ assembly. I made a stack of sandwiches. I poured plenty of oats into my cup of yogurt. I had a banana and sat on the bench feeling like a king. So far, so good. After taking a moment to enjoy sitting, I put the stack of sandwiches into the grocery bag, wrapped and folded it all up, and put it carefully in my pannier where it will begin getting squished. I call the squished mushy sandwiches "food bombs," and I enjoy them immensely. They contain the ideal dosage of instant power.

A young girl sat on the opposite end of the bench and she wanted to talk. She cradled a gallon of milk, and she smiled when she sat down. If she wanted to talk, she could - but she was being polite and not interrupting me as a I wrote about 500 words in my notebook. I'm getting used to writing by hand again, and my scrawl is getting quicker and less tiring. Pages are pouring out, and all this hullabaloo is heavily abridged.

She was about fifteen and her shoelaces were two bright and mismatched colors. Trustworthy. We talked about traveling, and I tried to describe some logistics of Hoopty travel and give some honest thoughts about my feelings. She's gone backpacking before. Her dad let a foot traveler stay at their house for a few days last year.

A short hot ride out of town brought me into a beautiful canyon with tall rock walls on either side. The scenic road snaked beside the crystal clear John Day River. There were several reasonable places to get into the water, but soon the road turned away and it seemed like I'd missed my chance. I was sweating, hot, and in no particular hurry. I turned around and leaned my bicycle on a guard rail. I walked back about a quarter mile, and eased myself down the steep rocks to the water. The river was deep and clear. Without hesitation, I dove off a large boulder and was fully submerged without doing the whole toe temperature testing rigamarole. I believe this to be the best way to enter any body of water.

I started out again with my riding clothes completely saturated. Within a mile I was bone dry again. I continued to climb for many miles. I felt good, but the feeling didn't last. By the time I reached Mitchell Oregon, I was thoroughly exhausted and obviously dehydrated.

I was within an inch of increasing my budget or throwing it out altogether. But I limited myself to a large iced tea, and managed to stay within my self-imposed limit. I asked for confirmation and was told yes - the city park has bicycle travelers camping in it all the time. It was fine and it was free.

I sat on a pale yellow bench in the park and I was obviously warped and effected by the day. A random couple came to have a picnic, and were nice enough to offer me some salmon and cream cheese on Ritz crackers. I talked about bicycle touring and mentioned a few of the beautiful things I've seen. I refused the $5 he gave me, but didn't continue to refuse it when he insisted. Honestly, it was a pretty lousy show of refusal on my part.

I did a shitty job of cooking dinner on my alcohol stove - but even so was able to make plenty of food to stay strong and feel full.

Expense Report:
$3.29  -  chili, Ramen, yogurt and a couple bananas
$0.99  -  Arizona tea

The Coastal Challenge

I woke up feeling mildly like shit. The tent gained stuffiness quickly. There was no shade to protect it from the rising sun. I managed to steal an extra hour of sleep, but too soon it was necessary to pack up slowly and move along.

I rolled slowly. I made it a few blocks to... McDonalds. I filled my waterbottles with ice and water, and found myself compelled to get an Egg McMuffin meal. I guess after beating myself up with whiskey at night, I decided to knock myself around a little bit first thing in the morning too. I sat in a corner and watched chaos hold its breath. A surreal and strange cast of characters rotated through the doors. I reminded myself that to the casual observer, I was the strange one here. Profound. It's hard to imagine that McDonalds made an effort to serve better coffee. They might as well give those dice another roll...

I had a long day of mostly climbing with almost no resources along the route. I found myself at my end destination with only a few sips of water. I'd been rationing sips for several hours. At the National Forest campground there was a note. It was an apology for there being no potable water. Asking price? $12. Fuck off twice.

Fortunately, I only had a little bit more climbing before a long descent into a valley. I was ten miles from a town. Halfway down the mountain, I stopped to gawk at a huge model of a covered wagon. I asked a couple to take my picture with it, and a minute later they were giving me a half gallon of cold water and apologizing that it was three days old. I drank a bottle right there and another on the descent.

I made it to water, and continued on the route. I felt fine, and there was enough sun to let me still be a little picky about camping spots. I got to the town of John Day and found my spot along the river. I set up my tent in tall grass by the clear river. I couldn't be seen from the road, but someone might spot me from a walking path. I doubted it mattered in any case. I didn't have a signed note from the sheriff, but aside from that, the spot looked plenty low key and reasonably legit. Done.

I dunked myself in the river. I rinsed the salt and sweat out of my clothes in the cold water while I was at it.

Expense-wise, I did well today. After the strange McDonalds splurge, I didn't buy anything else. I decided to challenge myself. From this point - for at least awhile - I will try not to spend more than $5 per day. If I could stick to that budget, I would consider myself a superhero. $10 is more realistic and easy. It still shows relative discipline, but it's an easier amount to work with. But this is a challenge, and technically I think it's possible. I have a small stockpile of food that will help.

Booze. Last night got haywire with the pouring. When I sat up and looked at the bottle, the way I felt made plenty of sense. I challenged myself to a sober day today. If that could last to the coast it would be as amazing - or more - than spending only $5-$10 per day. I'm not beating myself up about any of it. This is my trip and my life to enjoy. But - it does not escape my thinking that cutting out drinking will make me ride better. If today's 80 miles are any indication, I don't need any help. But I wouldn't mind feeling even greater.

I read a book on the Kindle. As the light faded enough to make the activity too difficult, I quit. Except for waking up when a few deer wandered close to my tent, I slept well.

Expense Report:
$4.29  -  McDonald's breakfast

Notebooking; journaling

I got a notebook for 25 cents. I am filling it with words and ideas. I am making extremely regular updates. I like journaling. I'll update here soon, but I'm loving the notebook. No electricity, and none of my moments are slipping through the cracks.

Oregon is pretty. I ride bicycles.

The rooster woke me up at 4:26am. The rooster kept going until I finally gave up on sleep around 7am. It's not the first time a rooster has thwarted my efforts to sleep. The sum of sleep bits added up to maybe a spare hour if you mushed together the moments.

I ate yogurt and oats and made PBJ sandwiches. "Which way are you headed?" asked a couple cyclists on loaded bicycles. "West," I said, indicating with my spoon as they swept past, not breaking cadence. There was a moment before their trip when they clicked on their Performance Bike emails and filled their virtual shopping carts.

After the next long climb and mountain pass, I arrived in Richland, Oregon. I sat on a bench with coffee and oatmeal cookies as I experienced on of life's perfect moments. I watched an occasional car pass slowly as my mind drifted and my eyes went to the mountains surrounding the town. Butterflies passed as I sat on a surprisingly ergonomic handmade bench. I reflected that it was difficult for me to imagine life's difficulties. Only with logic could I understand that life isn't always easy. My heart could hardly believe it possible.

During the long climb out of town, I felt great. No hill or headwind could slow me down. I cruised easily putting out a strong effort as I wound my way through the canyons. Eventually the bottom fell out of feeling good, and I cursed as I was teased by many false summits. I'd used up my legs, and I was considerably slower as I reached my destination: Baker City Oregon.

I went to the bicycle shop to ask for camping tips, and was told that an empty field across from the YMCA on the end of town was a good bet.

I am waiting for a plate of Mexican food as I write these words. I am concerned to know that my bank account is at $343, and my wallet contains $110. Hmm. Will I need to borrow money from my parents? I'd much rather not, but I know the safety net exists. Clearly I'm not disciplined to any useful degree.

I went to the library, and I went to the park. For the sum of $2, I purchased a fantastic book. It's a book about "All Terrain Bicycles." It appears to be an unread copy, but it was published in 1985 when mountain bicycles were fairly fresh on the market. Conspicuously, there is no mention of suspension forks. They didn't exist yet. Delicious! This is essentially a book of pseudo-science which reads like fat tire propaganda. Delicious, indeed. Me and this book are aligned in full support of the Hoopty ATB - for the specific purposes of touring, commuting and exploring.

I laid out my large sheet of sil-nylon in the shaded grassy park. I read the pseudo-science and enjoyed looking at wonderful photos of early filet-brazed Ritcheys and lugged Miyatas with 68-degree headtube angles. I became tired. I pulled the thin nylon over me to block the cool breeze, I laid my head on my sleeping bag which was balled up in a stuff-sack, and I slept memorably well. I looked homeless, but I felt like a million bucks.

The YMCA was fine with me setting up a tent in their big empty field. I set up camp and returned to the town park to have a secret soda as a girl played cover songs on an Ovation guitar over a small PA system to a smattering of mostly-old audience members. She played with an ever-changing tempo, and I enjoyed hearing her rendition of a Katy Perry track.

I returned to the tent for way more whiskey while I tried to figure out how to post photos on my blog directly from my phone. I didn't quite figure it out.

Expense Report:
$3.60  -  bread, chocolate milk, yogurt
$3.99  -  oatmeal cookies with free coffee
$11.00 -  Mexican food for lunch
$9.40  -  Fifth of whiskey
$2.00  -  ATB book
_________________________
Total: $29.99

Through a canyon and into Oregon.

I woke up and was relieved to feel alright after a busy night imbibing. I hoped I wasn't too outrageous at the bar, but reasoned that it clearly wasn't a problem if I was waking up in my tent. If I got too silly, I wouldn't be coming back here anyway. This will probably be my last trip through Council.

I checked my iPod to see what song it was that I'd wanted to hear so bad. It was Daedelus; "I Car(ry) Us." Yeah, I need to hear that song several times. I need to spin pedals and roll these wheels as a breeze of strangeness whisps into every possible crevice.

I was able to arrive in Cambridge Idaho about fifteen miles after I didn't feel like riding much anymore. I called Shelly from a cute little park in town. I could have been on the bench forever. I had my fun little coffee, and I wanted to freeze time while I ate my spotty banana in the shade. I am having a great time. Still, I'm ready to be somewhere for awhile. Portland, Philadelphia... I'm ready for a break. As if I'm not being lazy enough.

As I continued, one thought prevailed: boy do I not feel like climbing another stupid mountain right now. But then I found relief. It's hard to find fault with a 7-mile descent.

The road has been bountiful today. I have been provided with wonderful decorations. First came a blue pine-tree air freshner in "new car smell." And now my rear fender sports an Idaho boat inspection sticker. My eyes are peeled, and I'm always scanning for roadside treasure.

Oregon! I reached Oregon after riding through Hell's Canyon. My legs were gelatenous as I rolled into the suggested campground in my guidebook. $10 is a fair price for this nicely maintained campground with hot showers. But my pride and sense of adventure will not allow it. I took the shower for free, ignoring the advice of signs claiming they were for overnight guests only. I would recommend this approach to a friend. I showered. Then I washed the salt out of my riding clothes in the shower. Then I washed my socks in the sink using the foamy soap from the dispenser. After wringing them out many times, they finally stopped pouring out dirt. As I air dried and ate a sandwich, I felt clean. I was refreshed and ready to find free camping. I had plenty of sunlight, and my guidebook hinted at free camping in a town park in another 18 miles.

Halfway Oregon is a nice town. I was happy to get there and cut some challenging miles out of the next day. I was happy to get to a place with cell phone service. There was also a bar. If you want a cheeseburger, fries, and two pints of Bud, expect to pay $17. Once again I realize the economic advantage of secret sodas.

I went to the Lions Club park where free camping was available in 1996. Not today, it seems. There was a sign claiming that overnight camping was not allowed. Hardly concerned, I turned back to town to resolve the matter. The first local who I talked to offered to let me camp right where I stood. He owned the Halfway Mercantile store, and he pointed out the boundaries of his property. I could find a spot that suited me, and I was welcome to set up a tent.

The night was ideal. The temperature was ideal, and there seem to be few if any mosquitoes around here. I had a couple bedtime beers, and played with my phone.

Expense Report:
$2.44  -  Yogurt, Chocolate milk, banana
$1.37  -  Mocha caffiene coffee
$0.50  -  Non-working air compressor that eats quarters
$1.46  -  Dr. Pepper, oatmeal pie snack
$4.65  -  Four, Clamato, Coke
$17.00 -  Burger, fries, 2x pint of Bud
___________________
Total = $27.42

Another town park, and some more drinking.

Once again, I got off to a sluggish start into a headwind. Before long, it was time to stop for coffee and re-adjust my life and attitude. It wasn't cheap. The coffee was $2.12, and I had to pay all over again for the third refill. Like a chump. I should have declined and asked for an ice water. I was practically paying rent for my parking spot in the corner. And I typed and typed for several hours as the sun changed its position and the coffee found its way into my brain.

Roadhat! The joy of a nice clean roadhat. I'd rather find money, but I'm cheered just the same.

After typing and finding another hat, my day started to turn around. I had several long descents, and that never hurts. I got to the tiny town of Council Idaho. The sun was beating down, and I was absolutely finished for the day. I got some lame groceries and took note of how I'm beginning to look and feel more classically homeless by the day. The cashier at the grocery store took a good long look at me, and wouldn't take my nickel when I fished it out of my pocket. Charity? I wonder what I could buy with the extra nickel.

Town parks are great for sleep. You're allowed to sleep in this one, and I was told a couple times that you can pretty much put up a tent wherever you want. But the town park looked good. I leaned up my bicycle, figured I didn't need further security measures in these parts, and set out on foot. Being that the sun was hot, and I always drink beer anyway, I went to the bar. I got what was cheap: mugs of Rolling Rock. I talked to a drunk lady about cooking and pot. I tried to spend time and push the day along.

When the drink prices went up by $.25, I made an exit. Then I made an entrance. I got more beer to go. I also got a an abstract burrito with heaps of lunch meat and spinach involved.

I returned to the campground, and to my absolute delight, Kurt and Sara were there! We chatted. As my watch beeped at 7:21pm, I was setting up my tent and talking to Kurt as he filled his water bottles. I felt a little sheepish with my large bottles of beer in a paper bag. I don't know if these guys drink, but they probably don't drink huge beers like these, and especially not on a bicycle trip where you're actually trying to get somewhere. They seem smart and reasonable. I like them a lot, and I'll give an example why in the next paragraph.

Sara and Kurt asked if I could help them out. They'd gone to the store and found that the half gallon of ice cream was only slightly more expensive than a pint. They wanted to know if I would be able to help them eat some of it because they had too much. A favor, indeed. We talked some more while we ate ice cream.

"What kind of whiskey?"

Either the bartender randomly decided to give everyone a shot, or someone bought it for me. "Yukon!" I said, getting straight to the point. There was a cheerful boistrous atmosphere. The jukebox was working just fine, and everyone seemed happy to be there.

Quite often, Tara asks if I remember what I said or did last night. The answer: sometimes. I remember getting pretty tuned up and dancing, I remember when the sheriff came in and everyone pretended that he didn't put a damper on things, and I remember being charged only $5 as the bartender made up a number out of the blue. Touring cyclist discount? I gave him $10 and made my exit.

Expense Report:
$1.60 - Orange Juice
$4.24 - Coffee (second refill is not free? Dang, dude)
$5.00 - Dinty Moore can, banana, fried chicken, notebook
$9.00 - Rolling Rock
$5.00 - Burrito
$5.20 - Olde English; Four Loko
$10.00 - Bar tab plus tip
___________________
Total = $40.04

Serene heat and record-breaking laziness.

I woke up late. Some automatic sprinklers came on in the park last night around 2am. I knew they'd come on, but I didn't know where they were. I set up in a shady spot by a tiny stream and hoped for the best. The noise of water spraying my rainfly startled me awake, but at least I didn't set up right on top of a sprinkler. All in all, it didn't hurt anything, and it was nice to not freeze my ass of for a night.

I got up late. I waited until the tent began to get truly warm and a little stuffy. I'm right back to not caring much about making good time. If I bust my ass, I might gain 2-3 days in Portland hanging out with my friends the Klopp brothers. In any case at all, we'll have time to catch up and play some music in their practice space. Fast or slow; long miles or no - it doesn't matter, yo.

I packed my tent and began to roll after 9am. I wasn't "on the road" until 10am. I had my power breakfast of yogurt and oats, a banana, and a PBJ made yesterday. And a chocholate milk. That should suffice.

I immediately climbed a long hill and began one of my favorite descents of this entire trip. There was an 8-mile long 7% grade that looked steep as hell. The scenery was amazing. I swooped past huge grassy hills. They looked great. If not for the wind facing me, I would have been braking the entire time. As it was, I hit a top speed of 40, but mostly cruised at 30mph with no need to hit the brakes. I liked it. Boom.

I felt sluggish. The temperature was high, and the sun felt hot. I decided I would get to Riggins Idaho, and probably post up there. I was ready to call it quits.

Also - notably - I felt truly happy. I'm happy! God what a wonderful thing it is to be on a bicycle - bullshiting your way along many roads. You have to put up with a lot, but the scenery and experiences always tip the scales in favor of the adventure. RVs pass too close, then you meet somebody who you will never forget. It rains, or the weather makes you uncomfortable - then you see picturesque panoramas as you fly down the side of a mountain. I won't remember the heat and dehydration today. I will remember Riggins Idaho - the capital of horsing around with rafts on the Salmon River. Beautifully situated in a canyon; sandwiched between huge grassy hills.

I got to town and I was beat. Sluggish was the right word for it - that's how it was. I leaned my bicycle on the bar and proceeded to be stupid at 1:30pm. "Charge me money, and bring me shit my body doesn't need." That's how I could have ordered.

I laid out a big piece of sil-nylon that I have and took a nap on it behind the school. I've begun yet another book, "Chunneling Through Forty," about a girl who turns 40 and deals with it. It's on my Kindle because my mom and I have Kindles on the same Amazon account until I figure out how to connect mine to my own account (which I won't ever bother to do.) I zonked out in the shade for awhile, then had to get up when I became aware of dirty flies kissing my ankles.

I went to the grocery store where I believe they thought I was looking for something to steal. I think they didn't like me because I have erratic lines of salt forming unlikely patterns in every direction on my shirt. Either that or they honestly did want to "help me find something." I claimed to be "shopping for ideas." I made good when I bought turkey and cheese to make a new kind of sandwich.

I set out to explore the other end of town, but town was just a line along the road, and all I accomplished was an exit. I don't like to double back. I had and idea that I was going to set up a tent about 8 miles outside of town at a place that probably existed and was most likely okay. I had a slight headwind and legs that felt like jelly. I low-gear cruised it, and I didn't go far. The sun was still hot at 6pm. Or 5pm. I forget.

I stopped at a store that does it all. This guy sells beer, used boats, soda, used gear for fishing, a smattering of groceries, and beer ("Yes! It's Cold!") I can see why he had the sign - it didn't look too cold to me. I bought some shit and sat on a metal folding chair out front. I looked up at the hills to see if the sun would be shutting up any time soon. I went in and bought some more bullshit. I tried to make myself reverse the dehydration that had obviously been making me feel wacky. I did that, and then I got a lemonade Blast to fuck it all up again.

I found camp within view of the store - right by the mighty Little Salmon River. I didn't go swimming, but I took a bandanna bath with a blue bandanna that I found on a trash can in Ennis Wyoming. Me and the bandanna are both clean, and I swear it. Clean enough for a backyard barbecue.

Two additional notes: It's not a roadhat, but I found a roadjacket of the yellow cycling variety that is pristine clean, and probably retails for $80. I was fucking psyched, as you can imagine. I lost my notebook sometime today. I've kept many journals, mostly when I was younger, and often I would keep near-hourly updates on all details of everything I did. If I lost one of those journals, I would be apoplectic. Absolutely. As it was, this notebook was just a placeholder for scrawled details. It doesn't hold the same value as those other journals, but it made me uneasy when I noticed that it wasn't in a ziplock bag with a pen in the spine, tucked into my right pannier. Blast! (I had one as the sun went down and sweat dripped down my chest.)

Expense Report:
$3.10  - Yogurt, chocolate milk, loaf of bread
$12.30 - Burger; Buds
$6.20  - Turkey; Cheese
$2.00  - Arizona Tea, ice cream sammich
$4.65  - Blast; Coke
Total: $28.25 (the mistakes here are obvious...)

Dining techniques of the young and squirrelly.

I packed up early after a cold fidgety night. I packed a damp tent, filled my water bottles, and ducked my bicycle and myself under the closed gate blocking the parking lot after-hours at the ranger station. I wore full winter garb, and my hands were still cold as I began spinning into a beautiful misty morning in Idaho.

I could finally peel off some layers before entering a cafe in a town boasting a population of 23. I was hungry, and the term "cleaned his plate" was invented for me. I swallowed the over-medium yolks whole, letting them burst in my mouth. I wiped the greasy plate with toast before ordering a muffin and a fourth coffee. I did another thing that I like to do: I left my area clean and overly organized. The handle of my coffee mug, and the handle of my ice water "drinking jar" were turned to the left - straight and squared - pointing perfectly parallel to the edges of the counter at which I sat. The mug handles were perfectly parallel to the edges of the folded napkins on which they sat. The napkins were folded square. The mugs were spaced evenly and equidistant from the plate. The silverware on the plate made three silver stripes - three handles pointed directly to the left. My area was free of any errant crumb. All paper trash was folded and combined into the smallest possible package which sat neatly on the plate, above the silverware and directly south and to the center of the two mugs with handles. When I sit at the counter in a cafe, this is what I do.

I met Kurt and Sara beside the road. I saw touring bicycles, and I turned around and pulled over to chat and compare notes.

I got to Grangeville Idaho rather early. I planned to go much further, but a mountain climb into town made me feel tired and apathetic. I could stay in the park for free, and pushing on over another mountain seemed unappealing. A bird in the hand... is worth a grand. Right?

The 100 mile-per-day idea faltered hard. Instead: I napped in the town park toward the edge of the grass. There was DJ playing for a private event toward the center of the park in a pavilion. The first song I heard was Cotton Eye Joe by the Rednex, and it went like that from there. I laid out my tent components to dry. I thought I'd read a little bit. I zonked right out instead, and woke up to someone whispering "is he asleep?" as they walked by. I love life. Did they think I was dead? Who cares if a sweaty guy sleeps in the afternoon? (it's a riddle...)

Kurt and Sara showed up in the park as I was charging all of my phones. I chatted for bit, and then went to get ingredients to mix some secret sodas. I was going to get a cheeseburger, but I saw beer for sale first. Before I had a chance to drink much, Sara politely called over to ask if I wanted to join them for dinner. Yes. I did.

I enjoyed a great dinner with Kurt and Sara, and we all had plenty to talk about. They have a great cooking setup with a Whisperlite - one of the more popular backpacking stoves on the market today. It makes me jealous. We had chicken, pasta, mashed potatoes, veggies... it puts my food purchasing and cooking to shame. Though I've been happy with the addition of PBJ and oats-in-yogurt to my usual diet, it could be supplemented well with a dinners like this. Nick Carman loves his alcohol stove, but when it comes to food prep, he's gifted. Maybe I was meant to be a Whisperlite man...

By any measure, I'm a heck of a lucky guy.

Expenses:
$12.10 - Breakfast at a cafe.
$2.70  - Bananas, yougurt, chocolate milk
$5.10  - Four; Mickey's
Total: $19.90

(I also beat an unloaded Orbea-rider over the pass...)

It rained last night. I packed up my wet tent and hit the road. I rolled quietly out of the yard making sure not to wake - or talk to - anybody. I stopped at the first picnic table I saw: Dairy Queen. I paused to properly prepare PBJs for the day. PBJ sammys - check. Guidebook knifed up - check. Phone says where route is - check.

Rolling out of town was shitty. Busy and overcast. The town of Lolo ten miles down the road was not uplifting. It seemed like cold with possible rain. I drank a so-it-says highly caffienated push-button mocha coffee and a chocolate milk with my first PBJ sandwich.

From Lolo Montana, I took route 12 west. Everything was almost immediately better. In spite of a slight and gradual climb and some headwind nonsense, I was happy. The traffic died down, and everything seemed alright to look at. The climb got steeper until I crossed Lolo Pass and entered Idaho and the Pacific Time Zone. I relaxed at the visitor's center at the pass. There was free coffee and hot chocolate. There was a room with chairs and a TV. The television showed photos of bears and wildlife in slideshow-mode while playing serene music. I was calmed. I liked this place. I liked the ride up here, the rangers were extra friendly, and I could exist well here in this moment. I sipped a second hot chocholate and ate my second PBJ as a herd of waddling tourists popped out of a big white bus, one by one. There were three men on motorcycles: I overheard the conversation and understood the one guy to have been "beaten up by the wind" and also expecting to "get a workout." I looked at my bicycle and wondered what he was talking about. It looked more like 3x Denny's 24/7 on his schedule.

I continued to ride until I'd gone 98 miles. I asked a volunteer ranger, and he told me I could set up a tent on the grassy island in the parking lot. Perfect. Free; ideal.

I spent a long day riding through beautiful scenery. As serene and wonderful as it was, it still had a level of monotony. I'm within striking distance of the Pacific Ocean. I had the idea that riding 700 miles in 7 days would be a good challenge. I fell short of a "century ride" by 2 miles today, and questioned the logic behind the challenge. Challenges are fine for their own sake, but it won't speed up my trip appreciably. I don't need to speed up, and the better places to camp aren't always 100 miles apart. I still plan to increase mileage until the coast. The sun stays up forever, and it's impossible to find enough places to goof around for long enough. I feel strong and athletic, and I'm happy.

Expense Report:
$2.80 - Coffee, chocholate milk.
Total: $2.80

Adventure Cycling headquarters. Continuing to hobo around.

I froze my ass off for most of last night. I tried to acheive maximum insulating coverage from clothing and my sadly gossamer sleeping bag. The temperature only dropped to 42 degrees or so - I should be better equipped. (Or, I could quit being OCD-stupid and open up my emergency bivy / space blanket bag. But that takes work... and perhaps an 'emergency?')

The sun starts to warm the earth around 5:30am. You can feel the effects of the sun on the tent and earth about an hour later. I finally got some awesome sleep when the temperatures got to a cool but comfortable degree. The sleep was heavy; riddled with realistic dreams.

I got up and rolled; muffins in my tear ducts. I am using a heavy bicycle for transportation. I have all of my clothes and sleep-shit in bags that are attached to racks on a heavy bicycle. I also have a lot of food with me. Sometimes it's fun to ride around like that, and sometimes I'm waiting for fun to present itself again. At this stage, I'm kind of spaced out and in a mental state. I'm somewhere to the side of where I suspect reality sits. I am in a plausible parallel beside the strict reality that I was raised to recognize. You could get stuck on this plane of existence, but for now I'm only a visitor. You could continuously take acid or bicycle trips, and permanently alter your mental zipcode. I'm a visitor. I'm just traveling. This, sir - is great for your health.

I magically appeared in Missoula after a shit-fuck of a ride consisting of headwinds and (pretty much unavoidable) interstate riding (with a wide shoulder; still a shit-fuck. fuck, fuck, fuck!)

Then: I arrived at the headquarters of Adventure Cycling! These guys made the route. (The interstate section, however, was my old guidebook's wise choice.)

I was greeted by Greg who showed me where I could park my bicycle in the courtyard. "You have the ticket," he said. Like a moron, I visibly looked for a ticket - probably under the bungee strap holding gear to my front rack, I thought - a synapse in my brain made me accidentally crane my neck slightly around the GPS, guidebook pages and waterbottle cage all bolted to the crunk-o, sawed-off half of a Greg Lemond-era aero bar bolted to my handlebars. It took a split second, but Greg Siple already clarified "...the bicycle."

Greg Siple is a bit of a wingnut, too. I use the term with the highest respect, and I only submit myself to the label humbly. I entered the building where there was someone else to greet me. There is free ice cream and a fridge with cold drinks - every entering cyclist is offered these amenities.

There was a bomb-scare across the street at the federal building. Though the building was evacuated, and a bomb-robot eventually detonated some shit right out front, that's not the part of the day that made much of an impression on me.

As all the cyclists and employees stood out back, I chatted with Greg a couple more times. I didn't mention that I knew quite a bit more about who he was than I was saying.

Two other interesting folks were there. The couple who has the "Path Less Pedaled" blog were there on their new Bromptons. I knew they were in the area, but I was happy and interested to see that we were at the Adventure Cycling headquarters on the same day! I went to meet them in Philadelphia on their last tour, when several readers of this blog told me they'd be in town. I don't know how they got so rich, but they sure as hell can afford to goof around long-term with some expensive equipment. They're about my age, and they're busy fooling around and buying Bromptons. There's some money hiding somewhere. Dude had a SON generator hub on his bicycle in Philly, and that's the first time I've even seen one in person. I support them in spirit, but if there's a gold mine somewhere, then hand me a pick and a spade.

Greg wandered about with his old camera around his neck. We chatted once again as I existed quietly behind an invisible cloud of meek. "I saw the article about the Hemistour in the Rivendell Reader," I finally said. "I tracked down the National Geographic issue with the article. I thought it was pretty cool."

I mentioned that I was excited to read that they had used 26x1 3/8 rims laced to Campy hubs - probably the best choice of the pre-mountain bicycle era, but quite the non-traditional setup for the time. Greg mentioned that his wife June's bicycle from the tour was inside. He grinned and invited me in to check it out.

Greg gave me a sort of personal tour of all the bicycles that were on display throughout the office. Most visitors are not bicycle nerds, and I got the impression that this is not a tour that many people get. But I was lucky because I let it slip that I was highly excited about the aura and actions of this building. "One last bicycle," said Greg. He mentioned about three times that just about nobody saw this bicycle. He led me to the basement. The air was musty, and I could see that it was used for extra-extra storage. He showed me the last bicycle, which was somehow not on display anywhere upstairs. It was Ian Hibell's bicycle that he used to cross the Sahara. I recognized it from photos that I saw after Ian unfortunately got snuffed out in a hit-and-run in Greece in 2008. It was the same custom bicycle, and I recognized it immediately from the brazed-on tube protruding backwards from the seat tube to support a super-strong integral rack that carried a heavy load including lots of water. I exclaimed! I told Greg that it had brightened my day. It had.

I felt aloof and anxious as I left the building. I didn't know where I would sleep. I didn't want to skip past Missoula too soon. It was a big place with a bicycle culture, and I want to avoid feeling remiss. I made a couple calls to warmshowers.org hosts on a list that I printed out before the trip. "Sorry for the last minute contact," I said on my phone message. One guy called back within 20 minutes to kindly offer yard space for my tent. A few other cyclists were already staying there, he said. He welcomed me to join the party.

The three others turned out to be the Clique Of Three who I've run into several times. They're not mean, but they sure aren't nice. I think they might be aliens who keep humans at arm's length to protect their secret identities. It's indeterminable, and I keep to the sidelines.

I bought some beers to make some secret sodas, and then I bought a huge burrito. I was satisfied with this burrito, and happy that it didn't give me buyer's remorse.

Expense report:
$10.40  -  PBJ ingredients, yogurt to mix with oats
$3.15    -  Coffee, pumpkin bread thing, Powerade
$7.80    -  Awesome burrito
$5.20    -  Four, Forty
Total: $26.55 (pushing it...)

Got my phones; Talls and calls in the park.

I got up while most of the house slept around me. My host said goodbye with a hug as she left early for work. Family is good. I microwaved some water and made a cup of instant Folgers from the crystals I've been schlepping. I had one of the bagels that a guy Pete gave me in Yellowstone. I spread on some PBJ, and took the whole mess to the porch.

The morning sun warmed me as I enjoyed a calm sit.

I cruised to the bicycle shop, and was happy to learn that they already had my phone - at 10:30am - and it still had somewhat of a decent charge. I checked my tire pressure, and thanked Rob Leipheimer a couple more times before hitting the road. My toes danced and pressed lightly just ahead of the spindle on the Hoopty's wide-and-squeaky BMX platform pedals.

The going was slow. I was riding a bicycle, and bicycles are a relatively slow conveyance. Walking is slower, but in the grand scheme, bicycles are quite slow. Since I can't keep a firm grasp on how much nothing matters, I am sometimes driven to curse at forces beyond my control. Headwinds take the fun out of bicycling. I pushed through a headwind for most of the day, but I still covered 90+ miles. My guidebook had three days devoted to reaching Missoula from Butte - I decided it would be better if it took two. The suggested mileages are relatively short.

I camped in the town park in Drummond, Montana. First I had a cheeseburger deal in town and acquired a couple cold beers. I set up a tent as the sun went down: Made a couple calls; drank a couple talls. I froze my ass off for most of the night.

Expense Report:
$2.70 - Oats and bananas at Albertson's
$1.80 - Chocolate milk and yogurt (to mix with lots of oats)
$5.00 - Burger, fries & Mountain Dew combo
$3.00 - 8.0% 24oz Lager; Coors 24oz
= $12.50 total

Bicycle Shops, budget concerns, and Butte couchsurfing.

I extracted money from the ATM. My balance on the receipt gave me an "ahh, fuck" moment. I have $648 in the bank, and $202 in my wallet. I immediately blew $8 on coffee and a breakfast that wasn't worth it. To further humiliate myself, I decided to leave my phone in the cafe where I was charging it. And the hashbrowns sucked.

I took a bicycle ride to Butte Montana. It was a ride on which I rode a bicycle. There was wind and hills. At one point, Plow United made me ride fast. It was a ride - just like every other day.

I got to Butte and realized that my phone was absent. I was astonished to discover that a cool head came naturally. I was amazed that I didn't need to talk myself down or suffer a panic attack. I said "welp." That's it. "Welp."

I went to a bicycle store and explained my situation. They were good people, and they let me use their internest. They also said I could use their phones and their address as a relay point. I figured I could convince the cafe to mail me my precious Droid. All I needed was the phone number of the couchsurfing host who I was planning to stay with. Dots were being connected.

I turned the bicycle shop into my office, which was great because the Tour de France was playing on a big screen in my office. I had the shop's contact info on a business card, and the proprietor was Rob Leipheimer. After a few minutes in the office using the computer, Rob walked in and introduced himself.

"Any relation?" I asked. There was a pause, and I added "to Levi... Leipheimer?" I was sure there probably wasn't, but the question sort of begged to be asked.

"Yeah, he's my brother" said Rob. "These are his jerseys." He held up a ball of jerseys.

For a moment, I thought he was being fecicious. In that split second I almost took offence, but then I realized that there was a strong family resemblence. Interesting! Levi Leipheimer is a pro cycling name; 26th or something in the Tour right now. Rob asked if I followed Levi, and I said that I did inasmuch as I follow pro cycling. (Which is not much, but I'm a bicycle nut, so I kind of follow anything and everything related to bicycles).

Rob gave me a water bottle from the shop with a sort of care package inside - Shammy cream, Aleve, an Action Wipe, and some Hammer Gel. All of it is mostly for the spandex-wearing type of crowd, but I can make use of it all (except maybe the chamouix butter). What a great shop! I didn't spend a dollar the entire time I was there, and nobody was concerned about that. They went beyond what they needed to in order to help me feel comfortable and get my phone back.

I sorted out the phone issue. The lady at the cafe got me the number of my couchsurfing host. (The number was on my phone and nowhere else.) I had to slowly walk her through the ins and outs of operating a Droid X2, but she got the swing of it after some patient coaching. Then she was kind enough to ship it to me before 4pm so it would arrive next-day.

After sorting out business at the bicycle shop and consulting with my couchsurfing host, I went to the park. Some extremely strung-out looking ladies were standing nearly sideways. They were 50-somethings pulling cans out of the trash. They pulled everything out of the trash cans, took whatever cans they could find, then put the trash back in. They didn't say so, but it was for drugs. We didn't talk about that, but we chatted for a few minutes about the can-collecting portion of the business. People are alright.

I made some PBJs and read some of a couple books. When it was time, I went to the couchsurfing house. A few people live there. They're a few years younger. I had a quick shower, and was able to wash my riding clothes.

They all drink and smoke pot. We had a great time getting horsey-sauced. They're the traveling sort of gypsy-type who know what 'Rainbow Family' means. One guy was making hemp jewelry for sale or trade. He was the guy who also knew some websites with music better than I've heard before. Some re-mix mashup shit. "Love-step" was the new genre he mentioned. Hoooboy! This guy humbly claimed to "just love great beats.. you know?" My iPod has some great stuff - but these beats could massage your ears from the first listen.

I'm watching my money a little more. The expenditures didn't get too wacky today.

Expense Report:
$8.00  -  breakfast, coffee, tip
$7.60  -  beer chip-in, pretzels, more beer
=$15.60 total

Camping free and getting clean.

Roadhat! I found a Cummins Diesel roadhat with flames on the brim. Looks boss.

I didn't pay for camping last night. Tall weeds under the picnic tables, and the placement of the campground in the center of nowhere told me that probably nobody notices or cares. It was a National Forest campground. The asking price was $10. I hate to say it's not in budget - I spent $36 on a bar tab last night (elite cheeseburger, delicious local IPA, plus tip.) But it's not in the budget. Neither thing is in the budget - but I only skipped out on the campground bill. $10 is steep to sleep on the god-given earth. No shower; no potable water. Is it $10 to use a nasty pit toilet instead of the woods? I'm not buying it... but I'm using it because it's some of the rare land that's not surrounded by barbed wire.

Tailwinds in the morning. Then coffee. Then headwinds as I climbed and cussed over a challenging pass between Ennis and Virginia City, MT.

I took a bench and an opportunity in Viginia City to make PBJ sandwiches and ask about free camping possibilities. I got some tips from a guy who seemed to know his science. I rode to the town of Sheridan Montana, where I later found sleep behind a dugout.

In the town of Sheridan I bumped into some of the group of 26 cyclists who I first met in Lander Wyoming. They have a bus and a van following them, and they're riding long distance for cancer. They each raised enough money to get themselves their own Jamis Aurora or Jamis Satelite. For cancer. The better their vacation, the faster we find a cure. I'm going to find a place to jerk off so we can all solve the diabetes riddle. Don't get me wrong: if I found the guy who invented cancer, I would punch him right in the face.

They were eating ice cream, so I got myself some pecan ice cream. They slept at the high school, and I slept behind a dugout in the town park.

I got a free shower at the pool. I was going to ask, but nobody was looking. It was the kind of shower where you press a button and warm water shoots out of the wall. I pushed the button many times. And nobody was still looking as I left.

I had warm (warm) booze and pretzels. I had a PBJ. My sleep was punctuated by high winds and animal noises.

Into Montana. Long quiet stretches of road.

The rangers at the Madison Junction campground all seem happy to be alive. They made coffee for the cyclist camp, and made hot water for my oats. I talked more to my campground compadres, and I was happy that they were all such good and interesting people. I didn't mind chatting and getting a late start. I wasn't planning a long day anyway - a mere 50 miles - and there's no use hurrying if you have so much time to spare.

I rolled out of the park, and into Montana. I think this is the 10th state I've ridden in since leaving. Sure - ten sounds good. Nah, maybe 9th.

I had some headwinds and tailwinds. Around Earthquake Lake, I had some wild headwinds. No worries though. I stopped at the information center and escaped the wind for a bit. It turns out I was toward the end of the canyon, and the difficult headwinds would become less severe in a couple miles.

I asked the girl at the information center if there was a grocery store between there and my campground. (What I actually meant to ask was whether there was beer.) I was told no to groceries, but it turns out I was only a few miles from a place that sold fly fishing equipment - apparently PBR fits under that umbrella.

I was set up for camp early. I didn't have enough opportunities to waste time during the day, so the sun was still high in the sky as I fit the tent poles into place. I took a dip in the swift river, and made 2.5 PBJ sandwiches. I had a few beers and I was both hungry and bored. As much as I kick myself for blowing money, sometimes it just seems like the thing to do.

I rode my unloaded Hoopty back up a hill and to a restaurant-bar. I drank some strong elite IPAs and had a delicious burger. I wasted time sitting and watching the Tour de France play silently on the big screen behind the bar. It was a little pricey, but it was the exact comfortable respite that I wanted. Part of me romanticizes the idea of spending as little as possible while traveling, and part of me relishes the idea of saving up twice as much for the next campaign.

I had descended throughout the day and landed at a warmer elevation. The sleeping was good, and I didn't pay for it.

Cruising over passes and sharing Yellowstone with the masses.

It's a horseabout day. I'm not covering miles, and I'll be damned if I'm not doing laundry.

I woke up and packed my junk. I rode the short distance to the next stopping area, which is a sort of mega-campground with all the amenities. I did laundry. I was disappointed that the food was cafeteria-style and expensive - so I settled for coffee and a muffin. Add one spotty banana, and the total is $5.97.

Fresh laundry; charged phone. I packed my clothes and made some fresh PBJs. I went to Old Faithful. Amazing as it is that water shoots out of the ground on the hour, my feelings were about the same as when I was nine. I knew it was worth the wait, but it didn't exactly make me marvel and wonder. It didn't make me feel small and humble in the universe. It just made me wish I could either stand closer, or not be surrounded by tourist-ducks in safari gear.

It was a great day in the park for bicycles. I crossed the Continental Divide three times. I climbed and descended and a guy gave me some Clif Bars and a can of MGD. Rad.

I got to camp sort of early, and there were other cyclists already set up. Nobody else was doing distance riding. The folks here were just exploring the park on two wheels. The charge for a site was $6. Good deal.

I'm getting a bit less social. I'm getting used to being alone. Me and the Hoopty have been mostly by ourselves since Denver. I was happy that others approached and did some talking. Toward night, a few of us sat around a fire. One younger guy and I had a lot to talk about. He was traveling around the country in a van with his friend who was somewhere else in the park. He was excited about the idea of living in a van, and in addition to saying "dude, man" he also sometimes used the word "fuckin'" as a comma. This is getting closer to my generation's casual manner of speaking, and it put me at ease. He told me that he's constantly scoping out vehicles for potential livability, and that's something I'm intimately familiar with. It's part of what I do also.

We stayed up relatively late - 11:30pm - and I reaffirmed that I'm not wild about my alcohol stove. It gets a passing grade, but I don't understand why people love these so much.

I laid awake for several cold hours. I wore warm wool socks, fleece pants, thermal long-sleeve shirt, sweat shirt, rain jacket with hood cinched over winter hat, and sleeping bag hood pulled over the whole operation. I was still cold. With a proper sleeping bag, I could have been cozy in boxers. It's something to think about. I'm thinking about it a lot.

Grand Teton to Yellowstone National Park

I tried to sleep in at least a little bit. I was marginally successful, but three men began to repair the siding, and you can only get so much sleep with that racket. Most of the sleep after that point was fake, so I packed up and rolled out.

Within five mintues, two things were amiss. First, my patch-job must have sucked once again. My tire was only quasi-inflated. It could be ridden, but for all intents and purposes, I had a flat. Second, my Carhartt hat was missing. I didn't despair - there was a bicycle shop a mile from where I stood, and the hat was a roadhat.

When I see a hat on the road, I stop and pick it up. Sometimes I leave it, but if it's even halfway good or wearable, I pick it up. If it's dirty, I'll wash it. I call them 'roadhats.' The Carhartt was my best roadhat to date, but it's loss doesn't leave a big hole in my life. I found it outside of Pueblo. I had a totally rad Budweiser roadhat, but it was lost in the tornadic activity back at the Colorado border. That was a good hat too. I had a basic blue roadhat, but it was kinda stupid so I left it in Denver. I saw a cool roadhat on an indian reservation, but I left it. It had skulls and fire, and exclaimed a brand name that I'm unfamiliar with. Leaving it is something I regret. As I left town, I was down to zero roadhats. I prefer having at least two.

The tire business needed to be addressed. The bicycle shop was a good one. They had a Serfas Drifter in 26x1.50, and I ponied up for it. I even had them put it on - be lazy; support the business. There was a beautiful handbuilt bicycle in the shop, and when nobody present could identify the manufacturer, I tossed my hat in the ring: "Looks like a Box Dog Pelican." It was cool to see one - but if it was mine, the brakes would be adjusted better, and the front wheel wouldn't be on backwards. Not that it matters, but the valve stems would be lined up with the labels on the tire sidewalls, too. Though I ride a goofy Hoopty, I see to all these details. It's something that brings me the same nerdy pride as being able to identify an obscure bicycle by the details of the workmanship.

I rolled away on a new tire. The fresh rubber was slightly skinnier than my true preference, but it will do nicely. The tread is thick enough to last for many miles, and protect me from flats. The cheap and cheerful "CST Selecta" was worn down, and it had become an easy target.

As I rode, I felt hurried. Why should I feel hurried in these surroundings? Maybe it was the tourist traffic. It had to be a contributing factor. As I continued to ride, I became more at ease. Maybe part of me wants to wrap this up and go home, I reasoned. Maybe going off-route to Jackson made me feel ill at ease because I was adding a day and prolonging my relative solitude. Probably that. But how could I miss that raft trip? The midnight float was a rare opportunity, and I was lucky to be present. The raft trip isn't even something you can pay for - in fact, it's probably some kind of low-level illegal. I was a lucky man in Jackson. Now my heart felt more at ease as I cruised in front of the Grand Teton mountains on fresh rubber.

The conditions were ideal. I had wind at my back, a perfect temperature, rolling hills, and unbeatable scenery. Then a machine told me I had to pay $12 to continue riding on a bicycle path in the park. Fair's fair, but I wasn't excited about paying $12 for a measely hour or two in the park. Yellowstone would be another $12, I thought. Camping is $12-20 depending on which place. This is getting rough! But I paid and continued, and wasn't unhappy.

The scenery! I could do with fewer RVs and jag-axes on the road, but it did little to detract from the scenery. Around every bend is some new wonderful thing to look at, until it almost becomes a comedy routine. It's nature's version of the magician who keeps pulling more and bigger objects out of a hat. "Looks boss!" I thought as I stared down a steep canyon at a river comprised completely of a steep series of splashes.

I got to the gate at Yellowstone, and was freshly assuaged. "Hello, lonesome weary traveler." The gate attendant spoke calmly and slowly. $12 at Teton works here too. "Don't worry about campgrounds being full - there are spaces reserved for people like you (cyclists.)" In fact, those spaces have a reduced rate. And... yes, they still have the yellow brochure with the outline drawing of a guy getting gored by a buffalo. Mega-score!

I rode though the park to the first campground. I snaked up some climbs, and down some descents, bringing me and the Hoopty to then end of an 80-mile day at Lewis Lake. A friendly ranger said she had a spot just for me. The campground was free, because there was no potable water. I had a spare quart, and was thus unconcerned.

I set up my tent, and realized this was another mosquito zone. The elevation was high, and I knew it would be a cold night. (The snow was also a tip-off.) I dove in the lake, and the snow-melt water froze me and woke me right up. I dove in again, and tried to wipe the salt and sweat off my skin. Done! I cooked some Ramen and swatted mosquitoes. I retired to my tent for a PBJ and the remaining sips of Yukon Jack.

My sleeping bag is junk. Seams are ripping, and the gossamer cloth and stuffing provide minimal warmth. I made it through the night, but there were a few cold hours of being awake.