The Main Machine: 2006 and 2016

My main bicycle is a 1997 Diamondback Outlook that I bought in 2006. A property manager in Delaware answered my classified ad in the Daily Local News. The ad started strong with "Bicycles Wanted" in bold type. Plenty of tenants had moved out, and I bought the bicycles that were left behind for $20 each.

I lived at 46th and Locust in West Philly. My apartment with my girlfriend at the time was in the basement. Getting my road bicycle up the stairs and through two doors was just enough of a pain to justify getting another bicycle to lock outside full time. I wasn't worried about the Outlook - I viewed it as a bike theft experiment. I used a U-Lock, and it lived outside the front door, attached always to the stop sign on corner. Nobody ever touched it.

The only things I changed originally:

1) Handlebars to Raleigh 3-Speed takeoffs.
2) Shifters to friction thumb shifter on right side only.
3) Tires to $5 IRC slicks from the wholesale account I had no business having.
4) Rack and Milk Crate.

The Diamondback was easier to access, and had a useful crate on the back. I was not worried about theft or damage. Wide tires roll great on shittily-maintained pavement. For these reasons, and the simple fact that it was more comfortable, the Diamondback became my main bicycle. I never would have guessed back in 2006 that the $20 bicycle would be the one that I would ride up into Quebec, and then later from Philadelphia all the way to the Pacific Ocean. But so it is, and we are still close friends today.

Now it is 2016.

The Diamondback "Hoopty" Outlook has gone many thousands of miles, and dozens of component changes. It is unlikely that there will be much deviation from the current setup unless something breaks or wears out. The Hoopty wears many brands, and components from many ages and origins. It is as mechanically simple, smooth, and reliable as I could ever wish of a bicycle.

Here are the details with plenty of photos for once:

As majestic a machine as I have ever seen...

To me, this looks like the epitome of bicycle cockpit comfort.

Sugino XD600. The only crankset you will ever need. It's on its third center chainring - a 40t Race Face. The 36t it comes with is too small for pavement riding, but I wore it out before changing.

The original "7-SIS" rear derailer. I wanted to see how long it would last before crapping out, but I'm starting to think I will never find out. That blue piece of housing was also installed in 2006.

One bottle cage is never enough. The hose clamp is grabbing the metal boss from a Minoura gadget that was designed to put a bottle cage on the handlebars.

Velo-Orange quill stem adapter. Opens up a world of stem possibilities.

Bar-end shifter attached to Jagwire shifter pod. The pods are designed to go on the ends of aerobars, so the orientation is backwards - so this is the "front" shifter operating the rear derailer. It's a friction shifter, so it works great.

Suntour Accushift shifter attached to Jagwire shifter pod. This 7spd shifter operates the Front derailer in friction mode. The reason for the Jagwire pods is that they fit over the handlebar ends, as opposed to traditional bar end shifters, which fit inside the ends.  The handlebar's inside diameter is too small for bar end shifters.

Brooks Flyer. The saddle rarely sees the light, because I keep the rain cover on at all times. I've worn through a rain cover, but the saddle probably has years to go. 

Oversize Hi-Ten MTB tubing. The most scoff-worthy tubing available. Somehow it hasn't killed me yet.

Fender stickers for reflectivity and amusement. Boat inspection sticker found roadside in Idaho, and applied over a crack in the fender, which has recently re-appeared. 

Milk crate featuring many toe straps. The rolled up yellow thing is some sil-nylon that I made into a cover for the milk crate. It's big enough to fit over an overstuffed backpack, and keeps everything 100% dry.

I put these pedals on every bicycle.

My friend Nielle used to race downhill MTB. She was sponsored by Ringle. I found this hub in a taco'd wheel in the basement of Fairmount Bicycles when the shop opened. I needed a new wheel, and I didn't have much money. I migrated the hub and spokes over to a new rim, and I've been using it ever since. I killed the pawls on the cross-USA trip, sent an email to Ringle, and had new pawls and springs sent free of charge. It always pays to mention that you work in a bicycle shop.

Shimano Alivio brake levers. These originally had integrated trigger shifters. The shifters were broken, so I removed them, and ground down the vestigial disc-shaped bosses with an angle grinder. The levers were worth saving - the barrel adjusters are made of steel, as opposed to the tin foil bullshit on 99% of  levers, which immediately strips and crossthreads. The mechanical advantage is matched well to cantilever brakes, as opposed to the pull on a lot of replacement levers that seem to be trying to split the difference between the cable pull for v-brakes and cantis, thus being sub-par for both. For inexpensive levers, these were made well.

The rivets failed, but the zip ties won. These fenders are developing a lot of cracks, but I think I can outpace the damage with more zip ties.

Yup... seems to make a lotta sense....

This Is Why I'm Not Writing Anymore

I haven't talked to Kristin for two weeks. She's at her parents' house; I'm at mine. We didn't talk much for most of July either, except to fight. I hate fighting. My instinct is to wait it out. From what I've seen, nobody stops a fight when they realize the other person has a good point. Fighting is a loud hiss - venting - and I would rather let off steam in private.

That doesn't make me less of an asshole. I sound like an asshole when I am speaking precisely, or when I am being critical, which is too often, since I am so seldom wrong.

I have a certain way of doing things. It's a correct way: researched, logical, precise. When my ways meet resistance, I am confused and frustrated, because my ways are correct, and all anybody else needs to do is paint by the numbers. Nowhere is this more apparent than in the methods I use to sell books online. I have systems, and the systems are the only way I make money. I want to work less while making more. It's not a fantasy, because I know how to do it.

We are fighting because we each have a different view of how the business is going. I see room for improvement. Without increasing overall effort, I believe we can improve accuracy, efficiency, AND volume. I know exactly where to focus those efforts.

That's a moot point. I'm not working with Kristin anymore. It has always caused friction, because I am far too awesome at this job, and she can never live up to my ridiculous standards.

I don't know how our marriage is going to work out, but working together sure isn't something that's going to fix it.

The problem is that when there is a work related issue, it flows seamlessly into a personal relationship fight. This means I am living in a nightmare. We can't fix work, because it is impossible for me to even suggest there is anything to fix, and doing so makes me an insensitive asshole. To make matters worse, I don't show love, Kristin feels unloved, and I am a shitty husband.

There is a whole spiderweb of issues and variables at play. I would like to start sorting all those out, but I don't think I'm invited to the table unless I bring flowers. I am not in a hurry to bring flowers to somebody who has begun in earnest to step all over my nuts.

I hate all this shit. I am riding my bicycle instead.

I Am Riding My Bicycle Again

I love bicycles. Bicycles are a hobby, a religion, a sickness, and a source of great and hilarious farce. Bicycles are something I need in my life. That I can fix them skillfully improves my state of inner peace. And while I don't hope for an apocalypse, I recognize that my skillset would prove surprisingly valuable, and I would be an unlikely target for cannibals on foot. More usefully, though, having experience with bicycle touring prepares a person for frequent and inexpensive getaways. Taking a bicycle trip is probably the single best thing I can do to clear out my brain and give myself a renewed positive perspective on life.

I haven't ridden a bicycle much for the past few years. Maybe as little as ten times in a year, and not very far. People change. Interests change. I wasn't too hard on myself. I accepted this ebb of activity as natural.

Then, during the most recent van-cation, I began to severely miss the utility of my Diamondback with milk crate securely attached. When I've lived in a van before, I as much "lived in a van" as I did "live on a bicycle." The van is where you sleep, and the bicycle is your ticket to go exploring and fetch supplies. Ideally, you run around all day, and then have a cozy little home to return to. Not so during the last van trip. I drove that big fucker everywhere. Sure, I had my little Raleigh Twenty, but we did not really ride bikes. We had dogs, so we walked. We had dogs, so we couldn't leave the van for very long. What a load of grief.

In any case, that trip made me miss flying around on a heavy, unbreakable, permanently-tuned, impervious-to-disaster happiness machine.

We ran severely out of money from severely not working enough, and headed home double-stat. I made a new commitment to personal organization so such things would never happen again. I've been reading (parts of) books about the ADHD brain and how to go about finding systems of organization that are compatible with it, and new ways to think about organization that don't lead to the usual conclusion, which is "fuck it, we all end up dead."

Along with improvements in organization, I knew it was time to get back on a bicycle. In fact, every one of the ADHD books spent time talking about the importance of physical exercise. I know the benefits first-hand of flying around by bicycle. The books were reminding me and underscoring what I already know.

I can't explain why it took so long to start riding again, but I imagine the reasons are similar to the reasons why most people never start flying around by bicycle in the first place. It isn't hard to do - but it is always easier not to.

I drew my line in the sand, and determined that I would at least start riding some. I didn't work out the details of destination or distances, but did determine that zero riding equals lots of fucking up.

Hills that I would sail over years ago are now formidable once again. I rode an old favorite loop of mine from Kennett Square through northern Delaware. It's 18.5 miles of beautiful low-traffic roads. There are flat sections and rolling hills. The route goes along a creek, through the woods, across a mirror-surfaced reservoir. You go through small town Delaware, and then roll past farms and fields until you return to the starting point.

I felt like I was going to throw up.

I am so out of shape that a moderate effort up the first climb brought me close to puking. I guess that's one reason that some people don't start flying around by bicycle. But I'm familiar with riding up a hill too fast, and I know what comes next if you keep with it - the results are worth the effort, and the effort is something you can be proud of. I mean, you can't boast too much, but you should be confident that as soon as you hop on your bicycle you are a hero - in my mind and yours.

3/4 gravel vs. a past labatt.

Fuckin 3/4" gravel my heart is filled with, and I'm slinging it by the handful, and I'm building a mountain with it and a moat. Tight and dusty. I am thankful and begging for anything I recognize. I am wound tight as a spring.

Grass covered hills were enough to bring my eyelids to 3/4 mast, and I still drove my train car straight home. I have ten homes, going on thirty. Sleep is fitful and useless.

Once a time ago, I was in Brattleboro, VT.

- Jerk seasoning in free stew
- $2.00 balaclava
- $1.89 40oz LaBatt Blue from a roof carrier

It's five hours away.

Sick and slow and nowhere to go.

Starting Tuesday August 2nd, I had the worst headache of my life. I would later find out that a virus had infected a layer of tissue surrounding my brain.

Inflammation increased pressure until I cried out to nothing in particular for mercy. I attempted vague and insincere prayer; pain causing me to reach out desperately and beg for relief.

I am lucky. My folks heated chicken noodle soup. They looked over me, and brought me squares of badly needed sandwich. When it looked most grim, they took me to the hospital twice, and mostly paid for all of it.

It is too hot and fucked up outside to even think right now. My brain is pickled. My head feels like a collaboration with a baseball bat.

Bumper To Spike

Today we parked near a cactus. Not notable aside from the height, majesty, and type. I went nearly bumper-to-spike with a tall saguaro cactus that would have done the Looney Tunes proud.

Prescott Arizona

Prescott Arizona has a scenic and shaded town square. The blocks which surround it are the typical niche and kitsch. Everyone wants to out-cute each other in a bid to end up with your money. I don't have the space-time to continue'em.

Special olive oils, ice creams, and a lot of cowboy pow-pow. Not now. I sat on two benches while Kristin brought me an iced cream and an espresso to cheer me up. The first bench was in the shade - I practically froze to death. My book and I then moved into the sunlight, where the blood beneath my skin practically boiled.

After a rest n' read, I was prepared to proceed. We drove five miles in fifteen minutes, and ended up on top of a mountain. We put the van in park on a rare spot of flat land. We had privacy, and a place to watch the sun disappear.

What a lucky pack we are.

FreeCampsites.net   ---   It keeps working.

You might as well drop what you're doing, because living in a van is better than your house. Well, there is of course the whole pooping at McDonalds aspect, but oh! the views!

We went to sleep in a parking lot for a trailhead in the desert. Ten minutes from downtown Sedona, and twenty minutes after parking the van, we watched the sun drop below a distant mountain.

I lost all my travel notes - which made me absolutely apoplectic - so I am writing this down from memory. I'm regaling with tales from what I remember.

Oh! I sit here in my folding chair with a Chelada Bud practically freezing my hand off. Kristin is cooking spaghetti, and we giggle at our inside jokes. The dogs are grinning. We all know what a lucky pack we are.

Sedona AZ.

We left the pondersa pines, and went into town. I went into the library where I bought two large bags of books. I love this job. Actually, I love this part of the job. Looking at books for hidden gold - which we regularly find - is interesting and rewarding. I find books for me. I found some books about learning Arabic to sell, and a book about what Peace Pilgrim was all about for me to read... and then sell. 

I did due enough diligence, and then we headed to REI. They're having a huge sale, and there is a lot of gear that I want. I looked at many tempting items, but ultimately decided that all I needed was a fork. 75¢. Even with discounts stacked on savings, I am ultimately a frugal dude who doesn't like new items, and would rather build it myself. So no bikes, no bike racks, no cookware, and no chairs that fold into a matchbox. We'll keep rolling with the same crumbs and sand.

I could stay in the woods outside of Flagstaff for another week. The nights are cool, and the pine trees smell like a better version of home. I believe we will be back soon - stay tuned - so we decided to roll south to Sedona.

Sedona! The views keep getting better. Our van keeps being the best. The signs at the lot for free parking tell RVs to go elsewhere. Traveling the country must be hard times behind the wheel of a bus. I am constantly pleased to pull into a standard parking space. Often, we are the biggest thing in the lot - but always we fit.

We opened all four vents - two in the roof, and the two side windows up top. After some testing at all temperatures, I am happy to find that in anything but the most extreme heat, the dogs are cool and comfortable inside the van. And so are we. My worst fear was that the van would be stuffy or stifling, and we would always need to bring the dogs along. Not so - we can wander awhile, and the dogs will be fine. Judy Dog takes the bed, and Daisy falls asleep on whatever happens to be the tallest and softest perch. 

Loafing around on public land. Flagstaff AZ.

None of our pack had much of an agenda today. The keys would not have touched the ignition if our jugs contained enough water. I pooped in a hole that I dug, forestalling the need for a town or toilet.

The slim pine trees are spaced perfectly for hammocks, so I dug mine out from behind some pants. The wind was steady, and the hammock provided a perfect protective break. I could modulate the cool air by increasing or decreasing the size of the opening in my cocoon. 

I read "Mostly Mississippi" - an account of a newlywed couple who travels by shanty boat down the Mississippi River in 1925. Good subject. I alternated between reading and falling asleep.

Eventually, we needed water. Eventually, we wanted supplies.

I turned the key and cruised back to town for dinner ingredients and cheap wine. An hour later, we were right back where we started. Not soon enough.

BLM land outside of Flagstaff AZ.

Back in BLM territory. Free land to park and sleep. We are parked in the largest continuous ponderosa pine forest in the USA. Judy Dog celebrates this with many fast circles. She follows up by digging a sanctioned hole.

Other vans, trucks, and campers are dispersed in the area. Nobody needs to be parked close to anybody else. Space is abundant. Officially, this is called "dispersed camping" and the name fits. Dispersed camping happens on BLM land where there are no amenities - no picnic tables, no trash cans, no toilets, no fees. You can park somewhere along the winding dirt road - wherever looks good.

We drove down a dirt road slowly. The big van has proven itself. The potholes and washboard sections were nothing compared to what we rolled over outside of Durango. We pulled over when we saw a flat spot, and parked right next to a few trees.

There are supplies nearby. We are two miles from the interstate, and ten minutes from a Walmart downtown. Looking around, you would never know it. Like most BLM land, you can park officially for 14 days.

Free hot shower! Free hot shower!

Free hot shower! Free hot shower!

We are parked six miles west of Holbrook Arizona at a truck stop. The cool night air feels crisp against my damp skin and hair. I pulled open the side door and poked my head in quickly, alerting all occupants.

Judy Dog thinks hot showers are very interesting. Judy is a dog with many interests. Most of what I say is riveting and cause for great excitement!

"If you want a shower, put on your shoes and follow me!"

The sun had set an hour earlier in glorious fashion. We watched the colors change above the desert horizon, between an enormous Popeye's Chicken sign, and the embankment surrounding a truck parking area large enough for big rigs to do a figure 8. We were parked to a far corner of the "cars" area, which is far smaller and completely paved.

Since sunset, I'd been inside several times to survey the scenery. The condiment packets were all by Heinz. The on-site deli's version of a Philly Cheesesteak was discounted by 50% to only three dollars. They should make you sign a waiver. I consumed an ice-brewed can of malarkey, and was now back inside for the restroom.

The restroom was closed now for maintenance, but the nice lady with the cleaning cart told me that the ladies' shower rooms were available for use. It appears they open these as auxiliary restrooms while the main ones are being overhauled. I entered a private bathroom. The lock turned a sign to "occupied" above the doorknob outside. A huge roll of paper towels sat next to various soaps on the sink. Around a corner was a concave section of floor with a shower head above, and a drain below.

I took advantage of this immediately, and then I dried off with a long continuous section of paper towel. I walked out slowly; casually. Crisp and fresh.

I poked my head in the van, and encouraged Kristin to move briskly while the window of opportunity remained open. Kristin got her hot shower too.

Western Arizona; Navajo Country.

Mesa Verde was worth the ten bucks - take it from a guy who knows the value of a tenner. Take it from a guy who likes to make rice. Mesa Verde? Don't think twice.

I won't go into a history lesson, but I got a good one - take it from a guy who is well versed in shrugging.

After leaving the park, we headed south along smaller roads. All of the roads here are relatively small. Take it from the guy who dealt us legal pot in Durango. His statistic was that Durango has one of the biggest populations of anywhere so distant from any interstate. I don't have hard numbers, but the area is tucked away. This is clear on any map.

We continued south into Arizona. We entered Navajo territory, where the landscape becomes wide in all directions, and cows and horses go wherever they want. Cattle guards span every side road, and the mini marts do not have beer. Dust blows. Trailers and cobbled structures dot the desert; placed as though at random - intriguing but uninviting. The gas station featured a pump with no credit card slot. I do not know why every roof is covered in tires.

The land was vast, and I tired of driving. I slogged the end of our wine, as Kristin took a pull at the wheel. So much space, and we ended up sleeping in a dirt lot adjacent to a Burger King. Local dogs roamed leashless, with no owners in sight. The same was true at the last Burger King, an hour up the road. We were not traveling in circles, but it was late, and it was time to sleep.

Boondocked across from Mesa Verde National Park.

Bureau of Land Management. BLM.

Government owned land is abundant in the west, and dirt roads crisscross and meander through undeveloped territory. Cell service is hit-or-miss, but the views! Oh!

A few days ago, we parked at the top of a mountain. After sunset, the valley turned on its lights, and we admired a view of Christmas in a long dish; twinkling through the Aspens. Another couple arrived, and we stood for ten minutes talking about parking and finding a few reasons to laugh.

Today, we ended again at another patch of dirt. No neighbors. In every direction, there are a dozen RV parks and hotels. People don't gravitate to free parking off a spur along the side of a dirt road. I am baffled at how secret some of these places seem. There is an app for this! There is no fee! Come, be merry, and cook your pot of beans!

Again, Judy Dog gets to sprint in circles with no leash. She can sniff every footprint and tree. No cars and no humans for miles. Again, a small camp stove makes dinner. The volume knob features unrestricted twisting on our tape-deck radio.

To the sound of the creek, we slept.

Me and Kristin spent most of the day being mad at each other. We ignored opportunities to reconcile until early evening. Rain fell, and then hail. Dirt became mud, and soon Kristin fell too. Dog paws became moccasins of mud, and were wiped on every surface.

I saw a rattlesnake at the same time as Judy Dog, but was too late to keep her from poking it with her nose. In shock, I pulled her back and away, just in time to see that the snake had already had its guts blasted out all over the path before me. Dead snake. That could have gone differently, I thought, as my heart returned to a resting rate.

Van life is perfect according to my Instagram feed. All I see are happy feet photographed out the back of a van with extraordinary scenery in every shot. Malarkey. The other half of the story remains untold. Arguments about cooking or cleaning remain undocumented. Everything isn't always easy. Everything is always, however, better than it was. I feel like moving forward.

Eventually, we agreed to agree. We were in love again, and we were sorry to act like a dick.

Having spent several nights in a parking lot, we decided to mix it up. We checked the FreeCampsites.net app, and located BLM land twenty minutes from town. At the end of a long dirt road, we came to a gate that was slightly wider than the van. The road was no longer maintained, and seemed appropriate for a four wheeler or Jeep. Unwilling to be deterred, I inched our airport-handicap-shuttle-house forward. I steered carefully around craters, and aimed for the obstructions and holes least likely to get us stuck in mud. After half a mile, we arrived at another gate - chained, but not locked. No signs told us not to, so we opened the gate, closed it behind us, and continued. After the roughest section of road yet, we came to a clearing. A small clear creek flowed next to a wide patch of dirt, and I was able to park the van level.

Side doors opened to the creek. Folding chairs were placed beside the soot-covered rocks of a disused fire ring. Judy chased big sticks while I rinsed a few of our muddiest articles in the cold swift water. I climbed a steep hillside to feel the final minutes of sun on my face and skin.

Spaghetti is good. Our marriage is strong. We lifted the curtains and laid down in our home in the woods; ensconced between two steep ridges. To the sound of the creek, we slept.

Justice in the USA.

We've been in Durango for days, and haven't scratched the surface. We've been parked at Walmart amongst a handful of other liveaboard rigs. There are old hammered campers, a minivan with many curtains, and a couple stealth cargo van setups. A bottle of wine is three dollars, and avocados are down to thirty cents. We can have the doors open and the music up.

This isn't the level of decorum that some other van people recommend. But there's a time and place for everything, and those are ours. We're blowing smoke out the roof vent, and I haven't been handcuffed in years. This is our time, folks. We've hacked together a plan, and we're floating on accidental justice in the USA.

Vandwelling logistics: dishes, showers, clothing, dirt.

Listen: Move Into a Van Now.

When you first move into your van - my brother, my sister - there are aspects you will soon embrace. That is a certain fact. You will not be clean like a baby in a commercial for soap. Nope. Here's how me and Kristin deal with dirt.

Washing dishes:

Usually we wipe out the cooking vessel with one paper towel as soon as we're done. After boiling water or heating soup, one paper towel does a fine job. Get it while it's still warm. Oils and sauces take another paper towel or two. I wipe out most of the residue, and then give the dogs a run at the pot. Once they're done, it's spotless. Then I spray on a solution of Dr. Bronners soap mixed with water, and wipe it clean with one more paper towel. Clean enough to feed the Queen.

I drag out one paper towel for all it's worth, but what we save in water, we use in paper towels. I estimate that this method is still less net-wasteful than dishwashers, running water, and ten-thousand forks.

We have a powerful spray bottle from an auto parts store. Our soap solution is Dr. Bronners diluted heavily. You could drink Dr. Bronners straight, and it's certainly safe to pour trace amounts on the ground. Once we wipe it off our dishes, the job is finished.

Vandwelling showers: not a daily habit.

It's been ten days since we last showered. Hardly a tragedy; nobody knows. You can wipe off with damp paper towels or a wet wipe. Sometimes I help Kristin wash her hair by slowly pouring three liters of water over her head. She has some shampoo that contains no poison, and it's acceptable to not rinse out every trace.

I used to go swimming in a lake or a river to clean off. It's been cold out, so I'm not focused on swimming. Ten days is a stretch, so I'm probably going to get a shower at a KOA. These "kampgrounds" are everywhere, but they are expensive, so I would never actually stay. I drive in, find the shower building, and go in for a hot shower. Some people call this "stealing" but I don't care. Another tree falls in the forest.

Clothing:

I like clothes that excel at being worn many times. I like wool, and other clothing made for hiking and sweat. I like shirts that dry quickly and pack small. Cotton t-shirts begin to stink quickly, so I don't wear standard t-shirts often. I prefer shirts that feel soft like cotton, but claim to "wick" and tout an SPF. I have a shirt by North Face and another by Under Armour. I don't support specific brands, but that's who made what I eventually found for cheap. You can wash them successfully in a sink or a frying pan if that's where you get.

When it's hot outside, I march around in a big blue bathing suit with the netting cut out. It's an old Nike number that I got for a buck. It still had the tags attached.

I wear socks by Wigwam and Darn Tough. I wear these socks over and over and over. You can wash them in a sink: hand soap and squeeze. You can wash them in a river: dunk and wring. Like new.

Thin wool underwear is fantastic, but you can practically go bankrupt just thinking about it.

Dirt:

We have dirt on the floor. We have sand in the carpet. Muddy dogs have touched all of our precious junk. Eventually we will clean everything well. Once every six months, we will hit everything with a firehose or flamethrower.

Skafuggit.

The library in Durango is among the best I've seen. Spacious, quiet, and full of outlets. Full of chairs. Comfortable chairs face the river and the mountains. Tables are available too, if you want to work on those.

I set up my Big Ol' Laptop, and set out to catch up on work. Repricing inventory is tedious, and I've been letting our pricing get stale. I spent four hours in the library clicking tiny links and typing in updates. My fingers became frozen in copy-paste mode. $9.95 / $8.95 / $6.95 / TAKEIT.

Mentally exhausted from a mere four hours of work, I set out on foot. I walked to downtown toward the $2 Colorado drafts. It took longer than expected for Kristin to meet me. I sat at the counter, and it went like this: Ska, Ska, Fat Tire, Ska, Ska, aaaaaand Skafuggit.

Kristin's Day!

This is Kristin's birthday. She turned 31. We went out to breakfast, and napped next to a patch of grass. We looked in the shops downtown, and bought almost nothing.

I tried to find a promised spot on BLM land outside of town, but was only able to chip the windshield and punch the steering wheel instead.

Back to Walmart. There's nothing wrong with Walmart, and you're free to drink a lot of wine. You're free to smoke your choice from three kinds of pot you bought downtown. You're free to dance in the van, and so far I haven't found anybody to stop me.

Our Vanlife Plans

I've been a Nervous Nelly about work. Our plans require us to make money.

Our Plans:

I don't dare to say where we will be in one year. I barely dare to think ahead to next week. But right now, I want to live in a van. Kristin wants to live in a van. Our plan is to dwell in our home for as long as we can roll. As long as we want to.

We left Pennsylvania one month ago. The plan was open-ended then, and I downplayed how long I wanted to be gone. I claimed months, while in my heart I want years. I want to live in a van for years at the least. I want to visit home, but live on the road.

The thought of settling down in southeastern Pennsylvania made me nervous. Kristin asked what would help, and I told her she probably didn't want to hear about it. Living in a van. That's when I was happiest, and that's what I want to do.

"Let's do that then," she said. It was as easy as that.

With the decision made, the planning began. I pushed to make more money, and by the end of January we'd made more than I could have hoped for. I found the perfect van on Craigslist, in the middle of nowhere, and paid $2,300 cash in hundred dollar bills. I would have paid twice as much, but I kept that fact to myself.

The building phase began, ended, and then the rubber hit the road. Today, we're in Durango.

Making Money:

Doing anything for the first time is hard. Everything takes practice. I know how to make money from home, but we need to translate our business to the road. I'm slow to take action. Today we acted.

We've been buying books, and they've been filling up the van. I need to lift bags and boxes into the passenger compartment when we sleep. It is tedious, and it doesn't make money or sense.

Today, we found wifi behind a hotel, but the connection was ultimately too slow. And a guy with a weedwhacker wanted to know when we'd be gone. We had books in organized stacks, and we had to backtrack and put them back in bags to change location. At the second hotel, we were able to use wifi to process the books in the van, but I was unable to print shipping labels. We had to bag up the books once more - keeping them all in order - and move again. I was able to use the printer at the library - god bless libraries - and for sixty cents we had all of our labels printed.

What would take two lazy hours at home, took most of the day.

Learning Lessons:

Everything takes practice. Those who survive are those who adapt. We need to work in smaller batches and ship in smaller boxes. A wifi antenna seems now like a necessary tool. After today's lessons, I feel better prepared to have a more successful workday next time.

Will we have enough money? How much is enough? Some day I will take a minute to figure that out.

To Durango by way of Pagosa Springs, CO.

Northern New Mexico is a vast, open, and beautiful place. But once again, entering Colorado is like snapping awake from the foggy aftermath of a nap. Trees and green enter the mix quickly, as though they know the location of the state border. Sneaking in from below, we are entering Colorado from behind the front range. We are west of anything populous. We are headed to Durango.

We stopped in Pagosa Springs for a walk and gawk. Hot springs run below main street, and empty into pools near the center of town. A river runs through it. This is near to heaven, but the elevation is earthly at seven-thousand feet.

My anxiety was at work when we entered town, but by the time we drove away, I was relaxed. We stopped at Chimney Rock. CLOSED. The government owns everything, and then they close it most of the time. We parked and slept by the gate. We woke up and walked dogs on the locked side, and the landscape was ours.

By the time we reached Durango, most of the day was gone. I looked for parking in town, but decided a retreat to Walmart was the surest bet. We cooked a dinner and listened to songs.

Say "yes" to strangers who you meet in a bar.

Four nights at Walmart. Conventional wisdom holds that's a stretch. With the decision made to go north, all that was left was to turn the key.

We crossed more of New Mexico, as the distance to any interstate grew. We stayed on smaller two lane roads as the scenery became vast, and the traffic sparse.

By the time we reached Chama, the sun had been extinguished by a blanket of gray. I put on a sweatshirt, and switched to real shoes for the first time since before Key West. As a light sleet began to blow sideways, I wondered if perhaps Madrid was a better choice.

We went to the bar, and decided a few Buds would help us find a place to park and sleep. Two others were in the bar - one lady was eating, and the other was serving drinks. I thought the other patron was there for a burrito and some water, but it turned out that she had been drinking all day. She was from there. She hadn't returned in many years, but she was back today with a hint of trepidation. My word not hers. She is a fierce individual. She is stubborn, forceful, and today she felt alone.

I joined her outside. I took my green-chilli-smothered burrito and my newest pint, and we talked while she worked on a Jager Coke and a fresh cigarette. We each had time to say what we were thinking, and we didn't dwell on the weather for long. In fact, the precipitation stopped and the sun got one more chance before setting early behind a distant peak.

As I returned from the bathroom, our new friend was explaining to Kristin that we would be welcome in her home. I like to answer yes. I won't ask, but I like to go along. Better to accept an invitation than wonder. We were offered tacos and a hot shower, and the calculus seemed easy.

We drove twenty minutes in the direction we came from, and turned off on a dirt road. The craters were deep, and our belongings jumped and swayed as we proceeded slowly past a ranch gate. We arrived at the home she had built herself. It was simple and secluded. Faced with compliments, she focused on flaws. Not a real foundation; steps are not to code. A split in the floor reached across the kitchen. I saw beams and sawmill lumber, and felt at ease. I could see that the structure was practical and strong. I could imagine myself swinging the hammer.

We drank more beer, and eventually had those tacos as well. The TV was left on, and wood was added to the stove preemptively as the house began to cook.

We had our own house outside, but thought a refusal of the guest room might be rude. We slept in blazing heat, and I woke up with a dry mouth and a headache before pissing off the unfinished deck. As unsteady as I was, I felt pristine next to the hangover our host was battling after a solid day spent drunk.

She never invited strangers home before, and wasn't exactly sure how it worked. I've been in homes and on roads many times, and I felt comfortable showing that her instincts were correct.

Meeting a friend; a color and spice.

Success on all levels.

I took a peek in the library a couple days ago, and arrived today ready to buy books. There is a small Friends of the Library store near the entrance, and they are happy to accommodate dealers and middlemen. I made a bigger purchase personally than their entire previous book sale, and I left with more than the material weighing down my cloth bags.

I had time to talk with the store volunteer, whose name is a color and spice. She is older than dirt, her words, and we each had the time to confide. By the time I left, we were close enough for sincere hugs and well wishes. We knew a little bit about each other, and where the other stood and slept. We know where we are from, what we've found, and what we are still looking for. She extolled the virtues of Madrid to the south, and Chama to the north. I introduced her to Kristin, who was working on comics at a table by the reference section.

I have a feeling we are headed north. I want to know what lies between the rocks on the map.

The pack walks upward; surveys the valley below.

Thank god for dirt and water. We walked through a canyon and got to the top of a rock. Wind reached us when the trees became sparse. Kristin opted for being fully submerged in chest deep water, as Judy dove in after many sticks. My feet got dirty, and my skin was slightly burned. We arrived back at the van thankful and practically asleep.

I bought some books at a thrift store, and some lucky finds reminded me that the threshold to survive is not so high.

Time passes for all of us.

I have everything I dreamed of. I am immune to adversity. I am impervious to disaster. But sometimes us humans want more. Today I woke up, and I was already overwhelmed.

Dogs need to be walked, and books need to be bought. We need to maintain a moderate income, and a lack of on-foot exploration is practically abusive to the dogs and ourselves. We are awake and alive, and still I worry about more.

You can't drink wine at 7am, so you sit and stare while your heart beats harder; practically thunders under your smelly t-shirt. Plastic and cloth dangles and tangles the interior of the van. I can't take yes for an answer. I don't drink enough water, and it's a practical hassle to stand up.

We probably have about fifteen-hundred dollars in the bank, and some backup dollars in two more places. As we sell books, we get money from that too. But looking back, we bought and sold more books in 2015, and our sales have been slipping ever since.

I can't remember a better time and place. As far as money, there is enough. As far as a place, Santa Fe is great.

Deep breaths. Time passes for all of us.

Turning the wheels toward Santa Fe.

After talking business at Denny's, we pointed the van toward Albuquerque on the same road. Referring to my maps for the millionth time, we saw Santa Fe to the north, and decided to turn the wheels.

What to do in Santa Fe? The computer said "Plaza," so I routed there. A nice square of grass is surrounded by many merchants. Tourists with tan shorts and wide hats walk slowly; tentatively accepting the invitation of a mild climate and good scenery. You can buy stones and metal assembled in various quantities and forms. You can buy cloth as if woven during a time in the past. You can buy jewelry off a blanket, or a t-shirt that reads "Santa Fe."

We took the dogs for a sniff, but soon enough hunger got the best of our wallet. 

As the sun faded, the distant mountains changed colors. We watched this from the far reach of a Walmart parking lot near a few other rubber tramps with various levels of wealth and shambles.

We slept here:  35.618328, -106.033854

My future and the Flying J.

We made our exit from Oklahoma, and traversed Texas through the tip of the panhandle. We stopped to buy books in Amarillo, and eat a burrito down the street.

Onward to New Mexico, and we entered better desert. Mesas rose in the distance, and abandoned structures and vehicles lined the highway at intermittent distances.

My Future

Driving into New Mexico, I daydreamed of having a square of dirt to store my partial cars. I can imagine myself, one day, with a bright white beard, and sun-cooked skin. I will sit on a mattress on the edge of a bread truck; raised up a few feet and tied to concrete. I will sit on the edge of a hole I cut in the side, and gaze out across interstate four-zero. I will thumb to town for bread and whisky; a small solar panel will run a tape deck, and I will have three tapes - it doesn't matter which ones.

Either that, or I'll run a non-profit in Oregon. It won't be registered as such, but being the skilled business person I am not, that is what's written in the cards. Oregon will feed me, because that is what happens there.

Back in the past

We approached potential free camping in San Jon, only to be amazed by the structures, and disappointed with the lack of beer. It looks like San Jon used to be a town, but now only skeletons remain. We made two loops down main street, then drove twenty minutes to a Flying J.

We slept right here: 35.158523, -103.702984  They have Bud Ice and a Denny's

Oklahoma City: A place to pass through.

We woke up outside a well-stocked Walmart. The sound of trucks and trains did not stop during the night. It was what some folks would call “loud,” but I was pacified. Sound sleep. Kristin reported the same. When you’re not spending money to sleep, you don’t feel like anybody owes you silence.

Instant coffee: if it’s good enough for somebody, it’s good enough for me. The jingle from my childhood finally worked. It took persistence, but they finally got some Folgers in my cup.

We stopped in Oklahoma City. We went to a dog park where you could land jets inside the fence. It had its own zip code. The mayor is a dog.

We found a place that knows how to make a sandwich, so we split the proceeds. I asked the counter person about living in town, and was surprised to be regaled with accolades. (But he'd still leave if he could.) What I thought was a flat hot fart in the desert turned out to have redeeming qualities. The block we were on had hip businesses - young owners with proper politics. There’s at least one positive enclave in that city, and maybe more if you take time to look.

We opted to head west instead.

Here is where we slept: 35.366501, -99.416043

Here is what we saw:

No complaints about volume.

We drove from Hot Springs, ARkansas to Sallisaw, OKlahoma. Getting sleepy on the interstate is the best reason to stop here. We took a spot at the far reach of a Walmart parking lot. The "All Stays" RV app said this lot was friendly, and most folks who use that app carry a bath and kitchen sink. Our house takes up 100% of one single spot. We piss in a jug and keep a low enough profile. We use a lot of paper towels.

Parking at Walmart buys access to supplies and convenience. Rather than be creative, we sleep at Walmart when we’re passing through. Top off water; get some food.

I bought supplies. We heated quinoa and peas. I sat with two tall Clamato Buds and played songs off my phone through a tape deck adapter. Nobody complained about some volume.

35.449705,-94.800740

All I saw and said in Mississippi.

We drove through a misty Mississippi. A 12-year-old girl at Walmart sucked her thumb and stared me blankly in the face while I stood in line to exchange some okra for some without mold. Everybody is wearing sweatpants, and the only commerce is in the used tire trade.

"Gettin' Wasted...." declared a skinny old black man to answer an acquaintance, while paying for more strong beer. He explained further that he just sits home an' drinks.

"These bills been through somethin'" admired the cashier when it was my turn to make a purchase. I handed her two dollar bills that had soaked in soda for most of the time we were in New Orleans. They sat in the cup holder until they were discovered and dried. The cashier got the counterfeit money pen, and drew many lines while shaking her head.

"Those bills had soda spilled on them." I explained. "I only counterfeit fifties and hundreds." She was either amused by this, or it was pity by its plain self that I saw.

On to Arkansas...

We bought a few bags of books in Pine Bluff, and brought big beers to Hot Springs, AR.

34.524065,-93.036627   [NPS campground is worth the $10, and the creek has great skipping stones]

Up into Mississippi, G...

We finally left New Orleans. We loaded up the whole yard sale of crap that's been clogging up the guest room at Ian and Sarah's place. I'm hoping we didn't overstay our welcome, but in my heart I feel sure that we were at least kicking dirt at the demarcation. I value these friends, and I'd like to see them again one day. In any case, the road was calling, and the voice was getting louder.

We rearranged everything, and got rid of slightly more. The goal now is to have short days of driving, and fill the rest of our time with productive and enjoyable activity.

We drove four hours north and cooked dinner outside an Auto Zone / Walmart.

33.472672,-89.736278  [Fine place to sleep. Okra pickles and spaghetti available in store.]

Getting Adderall While Traveling: An Impossible Task?

Small tasks stand like mighty giants before me. Adderall helps me slay giants with a magical sword. I thank the lord.

I took our van to a Midas for a timely oil change and a gander at the AC. The air conditioning is blowing hot, and that is Not Optimal for the road ahead. I've had good luck at Midas elsewhere, so I keep going to them.

The air blows cold now. All it took was some money.

Our paychecks have been slowly drying up. Spending is beating income most every single day. The vandwelling experiment is in a slow spiral dive, and like a good pilot knows, a spiral dive doesn't feel like an imminent crash. But we need to pull up the nose.

With the object of success in mind, we got to work combing our aging book inventory. The task was daunting, but trimming the weeds was a must.

Let me talk about pills. 

I took one half of an Adderall, and the work went fine. After such a long break, my tolerance was gone. I could have groomed a poodle and cooked a steak dinner concurrent with the droll work of repricing books and mailing about a thousand duds to a deep pit in hell.

I have an Adderall stockpile, but it won't last forever. Knowing that I would be leaving Pennsylvania, I hinted that a larger dose would be better. I was blessed with a prescription for 10mg twice per day. That's 20mg per day; 60 pills per month. If I don't take it regularly, I can benefit greatly from only 5mg. So I have what's left in the bottle, plus sixty more pills back home. If I run low, I can have my helpful parents mail me more to General Delivery c/o Chris Harne wherever I am or will be.

Getting Adderall on the Road: An Impossible Task?

Why can't I get more Adderall on the road? Explaining this real problem makes me angry every time...

Health Insurance: To see a new doctor, I must first change my "Primary Care Provider" to the new doctor or else the visit will not be covered. So even if I only want to see the doctor one single time, I must first change my "PCP." Then, since I'm traveling, I have to change it back when I'm done. This takes two rounds of absolute phone hell. Worse: you won't know you need to do this until you screw it up once.

Doctors: How can I be sure a doctor will be willing to prescribe me Adderall after only seeing me one time? Adderall is a controlled substance, and many doctors treat it like you're trying to order an 8-ball. But I can't figure that out unless I make them my "Primary Care Provider" first.

I have already screwed all of this up once, and that's why I kept the same doctor even though it meant driving over an hour to get to her. It's not like there aren't doctors in Philly. The whole process gave me a real live breakdown with cussing, yelling, and crying.

Refills: Adderall is a controlled substance, and you cannot get refills. A new script must be written every time.

In Conclusion: For certain simple tasks, I am likely to become overwhelmed, enraged, or simply ignore it forever. (Paying bills is like that. I still owe the IRS for 2014.) A short to-do list will do me in. But there is a magic fix, and it is a stimulant. A tiny little stimulant will calm me down, and turn a twisted trainwreck into a simple paint-by-numbers. However, since the USA has a tendency to want to step all over my balls, I've decided to move into a van and try to focus on frying smaller fish. As it is now, I won't need to revisit this Adderall issue for maybe 5-6 months.

Swamp tours and catfish food.

Boat tour. Bayou boat tour. The aluminum boat looked like it was welded by a drunk or a novice. The price was right - Ian and Sarah got a coupon discount. The rain banged down just enough to keep the temperature comfortable. In fact, aside from sitting across from the most irritating girl in America, I think we all had a fantastic time. 

I got to hold a baby alligator. The boat operator tossed out marshmallows to entice the alligators to come and visit. Eventually, he explained the difference between Cajun and Creole. He loves the swamp. I was mostly convinced that I should to. But I'm only here for a gawk and squawk. I have other matters to attend to. 

Eating catfish. Twice now, I've had some catfish, and I'd have some more any time. A catfish po' boy at a bar that spills out onto a sidewalk - now I'm living the dream.

Oh!, my concerns, they plot and plan clamor.

When a task demands attention, I take my time. I glance askance and yawn as life's concerns convene in the corner. Asleep at my wheel, the concerns are wont to plot and plan clamor.

Increasingly bored and numerous, one of the concerns will eventually reach a boil. The result is a shouting match of many voices; one of them the loudest.

WE HAVE DEAD BATTERIES ,,FUCK! 

First, I will lament that I am alone in the world. The deep cycle battery gods have forsaken me, like the rafter-cutting gods of before. I have nobody to up and read a book and trouble shoot the shit in my stead. Grudgingly, I use the energy of anxious frustration to propel me forth.

My feet are heavy bags of sand. My thin arms dangle indecisively from their sockets.

I would fall asleep standing if not for incessant prodding anger; flames fanned by the mere concept and existence of variables unknown...

DID I KILL THE HOUSE BATTERIES?

>>> How Ta Fix Yr F'kn Badderies, Kid: <<<
Step One: Check the voltage. 10.2 volts? Dead, dead, dead.
Second Step: Plug in the three-stage charger: the juice from the alternator was not enough.
Step Three: Wonder why I don't have a fucking extension cord in the fucking van.
Step Four Loko: Put down the Bud Ices, and go to Home Depot.
Step Five: With the batteries charging, ride bicycles all over New Orleans with Ian. Begin to remember that life is alright. 
Step Six: Renew vow to explore stoicism. 

End Note: The batteries are completely fine.

Sleeping inside.

We've been sleeping inside. We've been expanding our belongings to cover more surface area - more surfaces in more areas. We haven't gotten great at getting anything done. We should take these boxes to the UPS Store, but I've been too busy getting drunk and gluing my glasses back together.

Improving our systems.

Our van sits parked on St. Claude as we spend the nights inside on a bed. Soon we will return to our home, and find parking on the periphery of the French Quarter. We've done some walking around, but there is plenty more to enjoy.

While we have access to a house-home, we are catching up on work and minor repairs. We need to get our systems in place to sell books while traveling. We need to buy and sell more; like throwing coal in the burner of a steam engine.

I broke my spectacles. I'm not excited about the backup pair, but I am grateful to have them. Kristin's folding bicycle broke a chain, and the source of the problem is confounding. Both of these issues were addressed.

I worked through the possibilities with the bicycle, and decided the rear cog on the coaster brake hub was to blame. Process of elimination. I don't know why it was a problem, but everything else was certainly not. Sure enough, an new cog seems to have fixed it. The old one was bizarrely wide, and every twenty rotations or so, it would catch the chain and violently threaten to pull it apart.

JB Weld is an excellent product. A toothpick full of the two-part stinky kinds seems to have my glasses back in shape.

Meeting a drunkbot in New Orleans

We're in New Orleans. We have friends here, meaning a shower and a guest bedroom. We arrived around 10pm, and by midnight it was time to cross the street for beer.

An extremely drunk man across the street loves me. But then he changes his mind and decides he hates me again. I entertained this for a few rounds before I realized he was not a man at all. He was a drunkbot. No short term memory. He didn't know who he was, or where, or why. That he could even see me or communicate was itself merely a mirage. He held two beers; both 24oz tall boys. Still, he had one free hand to gesture. Between index and middle was crammed a tall Steel Reserve. Pinched slightly between middle and ring was a Corona. Both cans were long since emptied.

After we left the bodega, the drunkbot's heat sensors picked our signal back up. He began to accost Ian, who is at least 6'4 and could bulldoze him with a shove. But then he declared admiration, forestalling the need for action until seconds later when the tides turned again. Fortunately, a young couple was crossing the street in the direction of the bodega, and his attention was diverted to a fresh audience.

Finding free vandwelling parking with an app.

This is a good time to be alive. This is the best time to live in a van.

We have an app called "Free Campsites." That's how we found the dirt road. At the end of the road is a campground that is only open for a few months each year. When it's closed, the entrance is blocked by a heavy yellow gate. Perfect. We parked in front of the gate, at least a quarter mile back from the road. It worked well. We own the Earth, along with all the others who roam over its dirt. Alligators.

Last night, we began heading west on the Tamiami Trail, aka route 41. We are as deep in the Everglades as a tall majestic van can get. I was diligent in working the words "Tamiami Trail" into every possible conversation. I did not miss an opportunity to say "Tamiami Trail."

Fast forward 24 hours, and our tires rested in the soft dirt of some state-owned panhandle land. The "Free Campsites" app wins again! We arrived toward the later half of the nine o'clock hour. Another dirt road, this time with deep potholes, required us to crawl very slowly indeed. Signs posted a mile or so in claimed that we should "STOP" and "REGISTER" but it was unclear where or how. A single RV rested underneath a seemingly built-to-size roof, making the setup appear at least semi-permanent. This was between our van and the place we were supposed to park.

A woman stepped out of the RV, and I tried to pull on my dirty Keens quickly and not keep her waiting. Kristin and I exited the vehicle, and stood facing a cagey lady standing on the steps to her RV. Our dogs barked a bit, and so did hers. She sized us up, while we stood at the gates; hats in hand.

The land was closed for a few weeks. Some biologist organized a turkey hunt. I swear I am not making this up. We were told that this biologist has a brother who wants to do what this lady is doing - staying full time on public land somehow; details fuzzy - and they are looking for any way to get her out of there. Clearly there is more to this story, but approaching 10pm with dogs barking was not the time to eek out each detail.

I thanked her and said going back to the truck stop would be okay with us: we were used to that; didn't much mind, in fact. I looked down and sideways, and assured her we didn't want to get in the way of her good thing.

Her heart was pure. After sizing us up, she said she hated to turn people away. She'd seen that we weren't serial jerks, and she couldn't stand to kick a puppy. We agreed that if anyone asked we'd say we got there late, and we only knew that we could park on state land. We basically agreed that this conversation never happened.

Vast land surrounded our domicile, and we let the dogs sniff and circle. We never saw a biologist or his brother, and the perma-parked RV is still safe for another day.

True Crime at the Free Library

"Are you Mark?"

We're outside Tampa now in the parking lot of a library. We're looking for books to buy and sell. Kristin is walking the dogs, and is out of sight under some palms. A hammered Lexus pulled up close and the darkest young black man with dreadlocks and red stains covering the bottom half of each of his teeth leaned out the window. "Are you Mark?" I couldn't look away from his teeth. I never saw teeth that were fucked up in this particular way. I told him that I was not Mark.

"You're not Mark??" he didn't believe me. What the fuck is with those teeth.

"No" I said decisively. "My name is Chris." as though that would settle the matter.

This area did not look as "crime-free" or "safe" as a sign posted to the outside of the library would have you believe. If it was so safe, I later wondered, why would there need to be a sign telling me so? I don't need a badge declaring that I'm not a rapist.

The Lexus followed me slowly behind a line of parked cars as I walked down a grassy median toward the front doors of the library. As I got to the crosswalk, I was forced to walk in front of the Lexus even as I was trying to pretend I didn't see it. I stepped around a woman who frankly looked like a prostitute. Smooth black skin, but a protruding belly and dark bra clearly visible through her sheer... shirt?

I looked up and saw the sign posted on the wall, telling me my instincts were wrong - this is a safe library. Yes, sir - nothing odd here. You are not being followed by a man with amazing teeth, and no prostitutes operate... say... within about a mile of here. "Lying-assed sign," I thought, as I continued toward the doors with increasing rue.

Entering the library, I found a Friends of the Library book store to the side of the entrance, and finally I did feel safe. At least one white-haired biddy was providing a buffer between me and outside. I started browsing through the books in a small closet toward the back of the store, and five minutes passed.

I was looking up data about the sales history of a book about Faulkner when two hookers barged in. (!!!)

"I NEED TO SEE YOUR ID" demanded the white hooker.

"Whaaaaa?!" I responded; caught quite off guard. The other hooker was the one from outside, and now she had a badge. The puzzle began to make sense now, and I was happy to show them my license when they demanded for a second time. I was never so glad to not be named Mark.

The sign on the library will remain a falsehood until they finally nab "Mark." The rue will be his as the Lexus-driving vampire sorts out business while two hooker-cops hold him to the pavement.

Heading to New Orleans; neglecting basic battery care

How about right now? 

Key West has been beautiful. I love to march around with my family and blab about what happened when and where. Beaches and sunsets have been ever-present, and I got to catch up with a friend.

We woke up this morning next to Sears, and got morning supplies at Publix. Judy-dog pissed a bucket right on the sidewalk in front of TJ Maxx. Less subtle than me, but I agree with the sentiment. I made a swift retreat, looking over my shoulder.

Back at headquarters, we convened to make a game plan. We could sit around in the shade some more, or go back to the beach. Alternately, we could go to New Orleans. When? How about right now.

The appeal of spontaneous action is intoxicating. We'll be back in the winter. With that decision, we added leaving to the schedule. First, I had to get one slice of the best key lime pie. We were on the road by noon.

I am a puppet of a clown

Batteries need to be recharged. We've been running the fan far more than the alternator can keep up with, since I'm only driving for about ten minutes per day. I was lazy and forgetful, and I didn't bother to check the numbers. It would take about one minute to the check voltage with a multimeter, since I didn't install a simple voltmeter, but evidently I've been too busy. Until today. I checked the voltage, was aghast at my negligence, and continued to fester and boil for several hours throughout the day.

That key lime pie was fantastic though.

One step forward; one step back.

Death to crap

I had the distinct pleasure of mailing home two boxes of crap that We Don't Need. I was further tickled to drive around back and jettison a bin of bullshit into a dumpster. It is my opinion that a couple more boxes should be left for dead, but already we feel a little less cramped.

You've got to fight your wife

What good is life if you never get a little bit sad once in awhile? Worthless. You're stuck at one end of a wide spectrum. Every so often you need to kick up some emotional dirt. If you ever feel slighted, that's the best opening. Even kids know the weight of "SHE STARTED IT." My advice is to remember exactly what she said that was a little bit off, so you can repeat it to her and sound far more hurt than you feel. Extra points. You'll know that somebody won when you're both crying a little bit.

Picking the right van: "Do I need a giant beast-wagon?"

Vandwelling in a beast-wagon vs. a standard conversion van

Vandwelling in an extended body van (aka 15 passenger) with a hi-top is different than living in a standard length camper setup. The tall fiberglass shell makes the inside feel truly spacious. Relatively huge, in fact. The shell also weighs a lot more than the hi-top on a standard camper, being that it is at least twice as tall, and also several feet longer. The extra length on the extended body makes it possible to store bicycles and a bike trailer in back without sacrificing any living space as compared to a standard length, or 12 passenger van.

The extra size and weight are most noticeable when driving slowly on uneven surfaces. Our van will rock and sway over potholes and speed bumps. On the highway, though, everything feels basically the same in normal conditions. Fuel economy is comparable: bad vs. bad... to me, all other factors are more important. (If you need excellent fuel economy, you should consider squeezing into a minivan, or driving less.)

I was intimidated at first by the prospect of buying an extended body van instead of a standard length. My first worry was that it wouldn't fit in a standard sized parking spot - and it might be harder to parallel park. Nervous forum-dwellers point to the reputation of a 15 passenger van to roll over or be difficult to drive in windy conditions. Neither of these factors ended up being a problem.

The van has never been difficult to fit in a standard spot. Parallel parking was easy to get used to. Sure, there might be a spot here and there that a standard van would fit, but ours would not - but in practice, I haven't even seen that happen yet. The big van requires a little more attention when driving in high wind - but again, I don't think this is a big enough factor to dissuade a prospective vandweller from ownership, other factors held constant.

Being a married couple with two dogs, I feel certain that we made the right choice. We have more space than a standard size van, and the weight/handling/MPG penalty is paltry. I'm thrilled about the aesthetics of our home as well. I don't like owning fancy things. I don't like to tiptoe, walk on eggshells, or fret about scrapes. Our home is reasonably low-key enough to park on the street, but it is not without personality. The casual observer will only see an old passenger van. We're having a party, but it's not out of hand.

Other vandwelling vehicle options

Older VW Vanagons and Westfalias are popular. They're too small for our big pack, and it's my belief they scream "lived in" when you see one with curtains on the street. Those tent-tops are neat, but you won't put those up when you're parked just anywhere.

Some people convert short school buses or a wide shuttle bus. I'm a little jealous of the extra width of a shuttle or school bus, but I am more interested in the ability to park in the maximum number of locations. Anything longer than our van would be hard to fit in a standard parking lot space, and might fall into the "oversized vehicle" category of local ordinances, making street parking a challenge. Again, I feel confident that our van is perfect for our exact needs.

Everybody needs to consider the relevant factors before picking a vehicle to live in. Most of the time, I think a standard length van is the right choice, and I would always prefer a fiberglass raised roof. My previous van - a 1990 GMC conversion van - was great. Now that I have more people and dogs in my dwelling, I am glad to have a longer body and higher roof - but at least for now, I would not want anything bigger.

Parking at Winn Dixie - Vandwelling in Key West

We woke up in the Winn Dixie parking lot again. Lots of sleeping at Winn Dixie. That was always off limits in previous years, but when we got to the island, the first people we met said they'd parked there every night for a month. They were drinking, and it seemed like a lot, but their Uncle Bill confirmed that he had stayed there extensively without incident. Maybe I'm blowing up a good spot by mentioning this, but I think that typing here is a lot like shouting into an empty coffee can in the woods. If you can hear me, and you'd like to know: the Winn Dixie is open 24 hours now, and nobody seems to be asking anybody to leave. I like waking up next to amenities, and parking here is a lazy easy choice.

(If you want better tips on vandwelling in Key West, you should contact me privately.)

In other news, I bought some yarn. I'm trying to remember how to crochet.

Eating and deleting.

We woke up in the parking lot of the better grocery store toward the top of the island. The vanhouse is habitable even in bright sun, provided all possible windows and vents are open. Provided additionally that our Fan-Tastic vent fan is on. They were; it was.

We entered the cold air conditioning of the grocery store and made a loop. Supplies so far include sprouts, hummus, avocados - one green or two Haas, yogurt for now, and a bread device for whenever. This we keep on hand, and supplement daily with whatever else on a whim. We are making an effort to leave our worse habits up north, and why not - sprout sandwiches are easy and make me feel great.

We drove to our shady place near the pier, and I put our stovetop coffeemaker into service. I needed a hot cup of power before proceeding to the next step today. We have Too Much Bullshit along for the ride...

Everything out; everything in. We went through each bin, and considered every item. Some belongings stay, but two boxes do not. Two 12x12x16 boxes were marked for deletion. We are still a bit heavy - my opinion - but to jettison some ballast is a boon. We have more room. Boom.

I took the opportunity to drill some holes in a pole to keep our huge rear door stationary, even in moderate winds. Tested: works.

My favorite parking spot for vandwelling in Key West.

We woke up on Margaret Street under palm trees on a block that used to feature a large Banyan tree. Those majestic tendrils have since been deleted. Tall palms still shade the non-residential side, and various species of roots pour slowly like molten glass over the curb on the opposite side. To get our home inside the lines was a tight shave. But I'm that good. Mirrors and windows were retracted on the passenger side, and we exited through the driver-side door only. An inch existed between the street-leaning palms; matching in parallel the cant of our fiberglass roof. Yes We Can.

We rose rested and walked the single block to the best place on the island to get a cafe con leche and a bucci served in a tiny plastic cup. Bucci, a shot of espresso, still goes for fifty cents. A small cup full of espresso, or a "colada," will run you $1.25. The same guy is serving it. His hair is a shade lighter now, but his practiced motions are identical. The smells are identical.

This is home. This is the second home that will always be in my back pocket when I need it.

Finding inspiration after the dog beach.

We found the dog beach. Judy-dog can be persuaded to swim if you toss the frisbee close enough to shore. Throw a stick in a river and she does not stutter - but the ocean holds many mysteries. Daisy-dog is more tolerant of the sea. She becomes a tiny stoic paddler. Her legs paddle mechanically well before entering the water, and she resembles an expensive wind-up toy.

Any quantity of sand and salt is acceptable in the van. If we soon reach a critical mass, we can hover inside a certain spectrum - more sand will enter the side door, and an approximately equal quantity will exit the back. It will return to the Earth with a knowing salute.

We should start working again. We did well enough around the new year that financial peril is not quite imminent. Eddie wanted to learn more about this business - to add a new income to his bag of tricks. It was with this in mind that we convened at happy hour on a deck bar overlooking his boat. Three pages of loose ideas devolved quickly into laughing and writing the word "Quaaludes" on his yellow legal pad before taking some clients out of a cheap boat he has on Air BnB.

Below, a man in a bathtub skiff steered out to deeper waters using a weed whacker as an outboard. I cataloged this under "inspiration."

Self doubt vs. all the clout.

My brain waves are evening out considerably. I'm holding the reigns of a new reality. A renewed reality. Through minor phone prodding, I was able to raise my friend Eddie. I thank god he got back to me, because the nervous part of me easily feels snubbed. My heart worries that even my closest friends could harbor some resentment that untended might boil into a firm dislike. Only a careful counter-logic can confirm that I am looking into a funhouse mirror of self doubt. 

Earlier today, I was in Home Depot to get a cheap tube and some clamps. A sad song by Madonna began as I walked through an aisle of storage containers. The song was far too heavy for the moment, and I felt blessed to notice this fact. I belong nowhere in particular, and I am free to put my feet anywhere I see fit. For that moment, I was a fly on the wall witnessing an absurdity, and I did not want to be anywhere else.

I met up with Eddie at his docked domicile. I remember when his son was a baby that I once spoon-fed some barley soup. Now he is nine. We all bicycled for a quarter mile with a stop in the middle to admire some spear guns. 

At the Gas Monkey bar on Duval, Eddie's son got chicken fingers, and Eddie ordered the recommended sandwich. I got a tall cup of beer and we all watched their friend play a Feist cover among some others. Richard Rawlings himself walked by, below, and I assured myself again that the stool I was sitting on was the world's best perch. Here. Now. Let’s do this.

Quitting bills, stopping pills, and a return to The Island.

We rolled out of the driveway in Kennett Square and made a line toward I-95 south. We left on 4/8/16. Four times two is eight. Eight times two is sixteen. Every moment leading to this was a nap or a palpitation. Leaving the apartment we had for a year; outfitting the van; preparing to live on the road with two dogs for as long as possible.

The apartment was a mess of messes. Every time we returned home - even if we were gone for a moment - we came home with enough bullshit to anchor a boat. Plastic bag loops dug into our wrists and fingers as we filled our apartment with ever-increasing ballast. At the end of a year, we had to blast out all of this.

Trapped and suffocated; I can hardly remember how smiles rose to the surface. We had great times in that apartment, but oh! it's the difficulties that still leave a sting. On the positive, I married a human girl who speaks my language. We adopted Judy-dog, who is a far better dog than I will ever deserve. I learned how to set us up as booksellers on the internet. Gasps of crisp oxygen punctuated doubt, fear, and frustration. I'm afraid to feel my roots take hold in stationary soil. A fiancee; a dog; a year-long lease. I'm positive about this girl, but adopting the entire menu, oh! I have some recipes of my own! Trust me! Join me! Believe not my modesty; for I am a king.

... and now we've made our escape.

Life is not so easy. The way some people write, it sounds like it is. I’m jealous of those people until I remember there’s a good chance their knuckles meet drywall in secret; their curses turn the wallpaper blue; tears fall in private, wiped away with a tall shrug and a lilted head; ignored as an anomalous moment of weakness. Life is not easy in part because our emotions are tied to unavoidable biology; universal chemistry. The rich and famous fall victim like the rest of us, and today there is a pill for everybody. Certain doctors would prescribe a milligram of such-and-such even for simply feeling okay.

And so it was. I was introduced to and provided with amphetamines to help me run with the pack. When the sky turned gray, and my heart went blue, there was an easy solution for that too. A yellow pill. If both were failing, there was one more option, and it usually comes in a bottle or can.

It’s not as bad as it might sound. Pills work. They’re not a firm solution, but they are a forceful hammer-blow when the head of a nail sticks above the surface. The blue pills helped immensely when I was learning how to build a tiny house. They helped me find a way to make money. They filled me with the energy to digest a reality that I suspect the majority of people don’t much mind. People seem to go about their business more or less upright and rarely with their heads on fire. The blue ones help me to observe and copy this phenomenon. But I don’t want to live in Wonka World forever, so alas, today, I am very sleepy indeed.

Those yellow pills are a tiny little trick. Those only make you feel like yourself. Sheets of sleet could beat my bare feet, and I doubt I’d much mind. Those ones are offered for the mere suggestion of sadness, and they hardly cost a dime each. I thought these were a stand-in for the sun (being small and yellow, after all), but now I suspect some of this crying-while-happy might be their footprint.

This post is about Key West, and how I’m there right now. It’s about how beautiful this island is, how friendly folks are here, and how nothing has changed much. I thought I was away for awhile, but when I checked how long, I had to count again to make sure. It’s been six years. I haven’t been to Key West in six years.

I am sitting in the Truman Annex. I am sitting on a tiny couch built over the battery system for our van-house. Kristin is rearranging our ballast and the dogs are drooped over soft things, wearing content smiles. A tourist trolley is clanging past, and jealous lookers-on keep stealing a glance inside of our domicile. Last night we slept next to Sears. It is not the best spot, but in its favor, I felt most certain that our sleep would not be interrupted.

Sleeping in a van is beautiful. Believe nothing else. We have plenty of space. We have two open windows and two vents clustered about the bedzone. We have a few fans; two of them strong.

I’ve spent the five days since our departure vacillating between excitement and apprehension. Will we be organized, comfortable, and happy enough to spend a year or more living in this van? Will having two dogs turn vandwelling into a resentful chore? Are we going to ever start working again; can we be sure to have enough money? Can we start eating healthy and getting regular exercise? Can we live a happy life using simplicity like a card trick? I think we can. I need the answer to be yes.