Hoping for a Tail Wind

When a man moves away from nature, his heart becomes hard. ~Lakota Proverb

There are multiple moments over the last few days when I’m feeling joyous about finishing strong. My feels are victorious in nature. Triumphant ‘tude. Even committing to finally sharing the playlist (intended to be played on shuffle — but do-you, boo.) Trying to not get too excited as there’s always miles to go — we all fall over our own feet running downhill so often, why not not jinx myself and not fumble two yards from the end zone, Leon Lett? I intend to write mainly about the mentality surrounding “knocking it out of the park”. A winning mindset is all up in these web pages since the start — get a late pass. Instead, I’ll simply assess this long ride’s initial goals and focus on my current mindset.

1) Connection of my map of long rides from Jacksonville to DC, collectively creating a crow (check the verb form!) that I’ve rode 85% of the US Atlantic Coast from the conch republic to Bah Hahbuh. And I actually have. And… Yes I’m this nerdy about maps, and I have 5th grade geometry bee credits to show for it. Only NYC to Boston remains. You better ask somebody, map boi.

Number 1 goal… CHECK MF

2) The Outer Banks…. Wasn’t sure if I’d have time to take the longer and obviously much better alternate. If you need to, scroll back a week ago, Mork.

Number 2… MF CHECK

3) Time to experience Richmond. Just a couple days from DC, I figured that only if I were behind schedule would this one not happen. Had the time, skipped some cold with it too. dope apartment.

Number 3… MF CHECK MF

Extra credit: Savannah. Never spent much time. Heard about. Want to see. In all honesty I didn’t foresee making time so early in the ride. Hard to commit to a day off on day 3 when those first three goals could be affected. Figured I might cruise right through (Charleston’s fate this ride); I had to fucking injure myself enough to warrant me to take it. Feeling fine now in that regard, and enjoy the shit out of the time I have there… and still make it with enough time to hit the first 3 checks? I’m calling it a win-win-win-win-win-win-win… once I’m actually on this train. Seven XL, the gods live well.

With all that out of the way, let’s go back. (Or forward? The timelines are as confusing as the Marvel universe!) Back to the smell of coffee at 5am. G is fa sho part of the early-in-the-morning crew. Gap Band. My ankles and knees ache so badly that I don’t get up off the guest cot set up in the living room straight away. As I usually do. When I’m up, I’m up. Not today. I lay there. Once I do get activated, it’s a quick up and out as my hosts have busy days today. I thank them and insist they come up north for summer and I hit the four mile run trail, back down to the Mount Vernon trail and up over the Arlington memorial bridge — and like that (Kaiser soze “gone” blow), I’m in the 51st State: Columbia. Wait. Nope, that still ain’t happen yet; legitimate taxation without representation right here in the good old estados unidos? I’m looking at you too, Puerto Rico, Guam, VI, etc, etc… if only you were whiter the old white guys would probably give you your props and representation. Fucking 4 senators from Dakota? Fuck that.

Realigning priorities for my mind and body. Crossing the Potomac River, I reflect on how dehydrated I am. Coffee has been cut way back. Water intake is way up. It just goes right through me. I’m always thirsty. And always looking for a spot to pee. I’m ashier than Ashy Larry. I’m rich bitch! Shoutout to Donnell Rawlings, saw him live in Copenhagen with Ali Wong, Chris Rock and Dave Chappelle last year. Still funny. Probably better hydrated than me too. Now on National Park Service territory, i spy a water fountain across the way. I pay my taxes, so I chug my last full bottle and head over to take my share.

Sitting here on the Lincoln Memorial steps, I realize it’s been a hot minute since I’ve been back here. Like probably a little kid kinda while. I’ve biked in and out of DC regularly the last 3 years, yet without this sort of free unstructured time. I poorly manifest some rudimentary National mall sketches. George Washington’s rock hard penis erects in the distance. I eavesdrop on the 3rd graders field trip tour guide. Listening in and learning. Anyone can teach me anything. I’ll take it. I may not want nor need it afterward, but I prefer intake of all and then discerning that part on my way own. It works. Now I know about all sorts of happenings in 1922 that I previously did not. Too bad you weren’t there for it. You could be smarter too now. Shoutout to the old school UNE crew: university never ending. Find you a teacher.

Feeling a sense of calm and fulfillment, I’ve shed some non-serving biases and recharged my peopling battery. I like being around them again. I have a ticket for me, myself and I and the Raleigh sojourn on the Amtrak capital limited 29, destination Cleveland — hitting the slow roll summit and opening rides weekend. The bike ticket is $20. Pool Noodle Petra again rides for free, as she should.

All the DC federale tourism stuff is happening on this sunny day. Like my man Al B Sure — in effect mode. I still have a crush on Dawn from En Vogue. Lincoln’s four score speech is good, yet have you read the transcript of his second term inaugural address? Powerful stuff as he questions divine will and addresses a nation that has just collectively suffered so much death and destruction. General Dwight D. Eisenhower doesn’t get his mug on a greenback (or a giant statue) though his second term inaugural address is inscribed on a rock over here in this small park. At least his name is on it. Solid. Though I doubt his farewell speech — probably the realest shit to come out out of any modern president’s mouth — is in stone anywhere around here. Scathing. I like very few presidents, but I like Ike. A general in charge usually means we fight as a last resort, they know the real horrors of war. I’m in favor of only those with at least four years military service being eligible to serve as president, in congress or on the Supreme Court, and that’s the triple truth Ruth. Ike’s speech was “a solemn moment in a decidedly unsolemn time”, warning a nation “giddy with prosperity, infatuated with youth and glamour, and aiming increasingly for the easy life.^”

Prophetic AF my dude:

As we peer into society’s future, we – you and I, and our government – must avoid the impulse to live only for today, plundering for our own ease and convenience the precious resources of tomorrow. We cannot mortgage the material assets of our grandchildren without risking the loss also of their political and spiritual heritage. We want democracy to survive for all generations to come, not to become the insolvent phantom of tomorrow.

Despite his military background and being the only general to be elected president in the 20th century, he warned the nation with regard to the corrupting influence of what he describes as the “military-industrial complex“.

Until the latest of our world conflicts, the United States had no armaments industry. American makers of plowshares could, with time and as required, make swords as well. But we can no longer risk emergency improvisation of national defense. We have been compelled to create a permanent armaments industry of vast proportions. Added to this, three and a half million men and women are directly engaged in the defense establishment. We annually spend on military security alone more than the net income of all United States corporations.

Now this conjunction of an immense military establishment and a large arms industry is new in the American experience. The total influence—economic, political, even spiritual—is felt in every city, every Statehouse, every office of the Federal government. We recognize the imperative need for this development. Yet, we must not fail to comprehend its grave implications. Our toil, resources, and livelihood are all involved. So is the very structure of our society.

In the councils of government, we must guard against the acquisition of unwarranted influence, whether sought or unsought, by the military-industrial complex. The potential for the disastrous rise of misplaced power exists and will persist. We must never let the weight of this combination endanger our liberties or democratic processes. We should take nothing for granted. Only an alert and knowledgeable citizenry can compel the proper meshing of the huge industrial and military machinery of defense with our peaceful methods and goals, so that security and liberty may prosper together.

After a few miles a noodling around the Capital’s many bike lanes, I grab the bomb ass afternoon breakfast and coffee at a spot called Busboys and Poets. $4.25 free refills is the actually deal if — like me — you’re on your fourth coffee. The dollar cup of coffee exists!! This place has almost everything I’m into. I almost buy a book inside. I don’t. Instead I just chill and meditate on the last few weeks. I’ve hit that point where 70 fully loaded miles is normal. Hypernormalization of the abnormal. There’s no other means to reach this point. Upside-down life. Outside. Under my own power. Traveling, man.

Living that upside down life is so real. I can’t recreate it any other way, or believe you me, I would. It is a vibe. Especially as I’m actually bent over, head below heart in the sun in a quiet weirdly placed DC city park. Stretching those godless commie legs of mine. Union break. This park is all concrete and separate from the nearby commotion. I have it to myself for much of an hour, killing time, right now. I’m looking at my bike upside down. It’s called upside down bike yoga I think. A white haired white couple approaches. Whoo. White walkers. Definitely named Walter and Mabel. Walter sees me, I’m making eye contact with him right now as I’m stretching. He’s clearly uncomfortable. I love it. Eye contact. Bent over upside down through my legs, past my bike while typing in my phone and doing the guided-meditation thing. No hipster has made a name for all this yet. Yet. Walt grabs Mabel’s hand and turns back. Ha. Yes. Upside down life. Maybe. Definitely. He probably smelled me. What few miles I have today, the stink is collective. My appearance screams “I’ve been living outside… alive”. It’s understandably uncomfortable for the uninitiated. Under his eye.

The last few miles from the park the Union Station DC are a right on independence and a left on 1st to union station. All that has a nice ring. Right on, independence!! Jump cut. Jump cut. Dissolve. All aboard. Takin’ the train, takin’ the train…

Admittedly, this 29 train follows the C&O/GAP trail from DC to Pittsburgh nearly identically. If there were enough time I’d be on it for the third straight year. No motorized traffic for 330 miles. It’s a lot less fun on Amtrak — hey at least I’m still technically “riding” and not “driving” as we pass through Cumberland, the handoff between the two trails. I eat my last remaining banana, with what’s left of my peanut butter. I drink coffee at 8pm. Literally this train moves so slow at times I could probably get out and ride faster. I want to; not gonna. Happy to sit and think.

I arrive into Cleveland an hour behind schedule. Like 4am. It’s dark. Birds are chirping. I disembark, collect the bike and pack up. It’s not too cold and it’s quiet on the streets of downtown 216. No rivers are on fire. I get a few more miles and check into my apartment for the next two evenings, knowing full well the feeling I’m feeling is fleeting. It won’t last even days after I stop riding. Until the next one, I suppose.

“Live in each season as it passes; breathe the air, drink the drink, taste the fruit, and resign yourself to the influence of the earth” ~Thoreau

I’m sitting in the combination Target Grocery and Starbucks, sipping a $6 coffee. Worth it, maybe. I didn’t even realize Target had groceries. I just need a few items for today. Another 70 miles of hills and few on-route services, at least the first 50 miles of it. Leads me to sitting on this quiet and clean handicapped tar jzay crapper, comfortably contemplating all the mind time presented to me on this ride. Thinking of the really deep and profound things in my life. Like why, sometimes, does a small poop feel like a big one — or a big one feel like a small one? Feel me? Smell me? These are the serious topics of the day.

I overhear the new Target girl getting trained. Like orientated to the job, get your mind out of the gutter. The kids don’t even call that that anymore. It’s just now know as Tuesday. Can we put the word that twice in a row anymore? Abe Lincoln did it. Gimme five and I got five on it. Back in the world of not pooping, the Target dude showing the newbie the ropes let’s her know it’s break time. He says “have a good fifteen”. That right there is the state of labor in America. Modern day slavery. Work a full time job and still can’t afford the cost of living? At least you can enjoy 900 second a of break time while the rich get richer off our sweat and hard work. Boomers and Gen X’ers alike chide millennials and Zs over their disinterest in participating in such a system, calling them lazy or whatever. Avocado toast mortgage crap. Get it straight: Shit is not the same. It’s like it never had been. Work used to be a thing. Providing security. Roof and bread shit ad least. Working today vs working 20 years ago is apples to oranges. Apples to PCs. The rent is too damn high. For fucks sake, bread eggs and milk are too damn high. Breakfast is twenty dollars a plate. Wages are too damn low. Job security is nonexistent. The word Labor should evoke images of organized workers happily being productive, earning a decent living and taking pride in their jobs. Collectively bargaining. Instead it simply a meek symbol of a state of modern day slavery. I said it, I meant it. I will continue to mean it. I roll out before it start a riot.

Back on the road, it’s more farms. More hills. And more hills. Grueling. Bike C3PO gets the climbs right. But not the turns. I dunno. The sounds it makes are really R2D2ish. I get a little tailwind for a bit too. And I am back to shorts by noon. Destination is Alexandria, so I have lots of miles still ahead of me.

Everything can be out of nowhere at 7 mph. Out of nowhere Bills Mafia. I refer to this phenomena as “the diaspora”. It extends and lives beyond the game of football. After 50 or so miles of back roads, it’s bike trail the rest of the way. Yay.

I try to verbally paint a colorful picture on this site. Like how this section of the George Washington Mount Vernon Trail has hella root bumps everywhere right now. Slowing me down. And how the rain is letting up and the lightning appears to have passed. I’m wet. It’s not at all poetic though. I exist off singular ingredient food items. Bananas. Seed and nut and fruit trail mix. Peanut butter (when I can get it just “natural” peanuts). I’ve forgone even the tortilla — the greatest culinary vessel in human development — squeezing peanut butter out of the soft squeeze thing it now comes in right onto a half peeled nana and NOM NOM. Soaked through, except for my feet, luckily. My hair and nails are a mess. It’s not a good sight. The green lush shores of the Potomac River are though. They provide me all the coloring I need today. M

Money earnin’ Mount Vernon!

Miles earlier, in the diminishing rain, I’m at a red light on a section of trail parallel to this George Washington memorial highway. Gross. Georgie is probably rolling over. He rode a horse over 60 miles along this trail. At least that’s what the historic signage tells me. Point is – if our first president didn’t rely on motor vehicles, then why should we? What, do you hate America or something?! My internal rage against the machine is quenched when a woman also stopped in the rain at a red light, roll down her car window and offers me a bottle of water. (Look at me using italics incorrectly.) I decline, as I am indeed good and don’t need that weight on me lady. Barb.. yeah let’s get with Barb. Later, like right now, at the next red light, here’s Barb again… asking me “do why are you doing this?”. I’m my head I’m like “damn I just put this broadly on the interwebs”, yet now – in the rain – I shrug emoji and reply, “Health and Fun?”

The root bumps slow me down. They suck. I pray to the spike gods I don’t pop a wheel on a one during a downhill. Brakes ready. Spring Brake 4 No 1. Miles ahead my longtime homie G (short for Geoff) has convinced his wife and baby I’m not a murderer and has offered up some to space to crash tonight. We met almost twenty years ago on Warped Tour and have some catching up to do. My homie Jenni wants to catch up too, we met randomly as fuck in the middle of Myanmar 8 years ago now. I push on.

My hamstrings are damn near hammers at this point. Even autocorrect knows this, man.

The traffic through Alexandria slows me down. The sun is getting low. Shoutout to the separated bike facilities all through Virginia. DC and Maryland have it too. The whole DMV, which strikes me as strange. Maybe it’s irony. I dunno. I arrive. I get to catch up with both old friends and with only a few miles left into the nations capital. Event horizon.

Be kind and rewind to the top of this month when this little Wahoo Elmnt Bolt (who gives me nothing) bike computer arrives just days before I’m leaving. If they would give me shit I’d tell them that’s too many names for one thing. Seems to be a nice failsafe on missing turns. I’m interested in not having to stop to flip map pages or confirm my location with my phone. No way I’m abandoning my basic battery odometer and paper maps anytime soon; I recreate and load up the route as best I can in the last 48 hours I have laptop usage, hopeful it’ll be worth the hefty investment.

A connecting principle
Linked to the invisible
Almost imperceptible
Something inexpressible
Science insusceptible
Logic so inflexible
Causally connectable
Nothing is invincible

It’s early morning. The first time in a while I’ve woken up in the same space two days in a row. It’s hard leaving this awesome space. I imagine myself living here. I don’t think I would live in Richmond. It’s just the feeling of having a space that I miss. I know it’s not real. Home is where the hatred is. And living here is not realistic. I make coffee, make waste, make tracks. Downtown is quiet early and it is chilly, in the mid 40°s. Fahrenheit. Chills. Winds out of the north. Guess which way I’m headed?

Most days I think of other bike touring friends I ride long rides with. Many of the best conversations I’ve ever had are with those folks. I’m pretty sure I’ve talked to myself enough on this ride. Today my homie Damon is on my mentals. We’ve had some deeply intense chats along the trail. We’ve also talk about the dumbest shit. And everything in between. He has this technique of self climate control where he’d always have long pants and sleeves with short ankle socks. He cools himself at the ankles apparently. I have two pairs of ankle socks to go with my one pair of long and my one pair of whatever-the-really-short-that-you-can’t-even-see-in-the-shoe socks. So I’m giving it a shot. Right now. Like right now, right now. And… it ain’t working. I’ve got pants on. I’ve got my rain jacket on. And I’m cold leaving this historic ass city. Surrounded by ghosts. War ghosts.

Traffic is quite light and other than my internal temperature controls, it’s a pretty nice ride for not being the Cap Trail. Butt fuck I’m glacial. I stop and add my long sleeve, under my short sleeve, under my jacket. Quiet country roads morph into full on farm roads. Lots of small farms.

In Ashland I munch a peanut butter banana and trail mix fajita alongside a protein bar. It’s a combination unstaffed Amtrak station and town visitor center. Railroad history I can dig it. Quiet little secular town. That day I’m Richmond actually leaves me more gassed at 20 miles than I’ve been in days. Damon would argue against the day off for this reasoning. I walk in and am low key flirting with the retiree volunteer at the visitor center. She’s all reticent with her reciprocation of it, knowing she doesn’t need to come out from behind the booth to show me a map she knows I don’t need to read with her hands that don’t have a wedding ring on them. Her name is likely Pam. Maybe! Or is that Pamb? With a a b? Hello lovely lady. She must have a thing for captain cavemen, because with more than two weeks sans razor, I now resemble him. I’m pretty sure she started the whole thing two moves ago; instead of clubbing her over the head and dragging her alongside my bike, I just fill up my bottles and head out, hoping she’s not a billionaire looking for someone like me, because if so then I done just fucked the fuck up.

My headwind is gleefully joined by hills. Not the OG 90s department store, actually hills! Ain’t seen them much at all this trip. Florida, Georgia and the Carolinas coast is flat. Or at least it was when i rode through. Not turning back now. Nor never. Neh never. Hills can be fun, rolling along, using my gears and going from 5 to 25 mph.

Playlist variance in effect. The customer Slow Roll Boombotix speaker is recharged and blasting. Synchronicity is the full album experience. Du jour. This Wahoo Bolt (still not paying me) is fully charged too and it’s letting me know the robots have won. Did I mention that Damon is the one who called me clamoring over these machines, inspiring my immediate investment? For the first time all ride it’s telling me something more than turns. Oh, there’s a climb coming up? Thanks little buddy. R2. Johnny 5. It congratulates me as I “summit”. Cute.

The next hill though. Holy shit. “King of pain” is appropriately theme songing it up and Rosy The Robot tells me this is a 13% grade, when I can look down, at 2.5 mph. Otherwise I just hear beeps. I have to tell the police to the shut the fuck up, so I can hear traffic coming while I do the entire street wide serpentine-zig zag zig-slalom thing. I don’t wanna walk and I don’t wanna get hit by a car in a turn, infrequent as they are on these farm roads. The police should be able to, but cannot, save you from traffic. Many times someone hits a pedestrian or a bicyclist with their motor vehicle, they’re not even charged. If they kill someone, it’s never more than involuntary manslaughter. And no one goes to jail over traffic tickets. Maybe it’s irony, the only jail needed would be having the PRIVILEGE of operating that massive petro-powered death bomb revoked. Yoked. Yoksy-doked. People would lose their minds about not having their cars and likely get their shot together.

Theres not so much as a store in-route for 40-50 miles so I’m glad I got the all-bottle refill back in Ashland. Also. I am in favor of taking drivers licenses away for real. And regular re-testing fir all. As a New York State EMT basic, I have to recertify every three years. Dna we get once a decade for motor vehicle operation? I’m also quite pro-listening to The Police. I’m all wrapped around my own finger on it right now. Also, I listen to the other other police too. I won’t talk to them for free, but I will listen for free. I mean, if someone wants to pay me, I’ll take the money everytkme for listening to the police. Both versions in fact. Not like the psycho therapist listening though. Especially not for Sting. Just listening. The sarcasm dripping from my mind is rudely interrupted by handlebar Wall-E. Shit. Another 13%er? My legs get to communing.

A train breaks down right on my path. I wait for an hour. Then jog 1/2 mile to find out I can’t get around the back. Ride up the gravel path the other way. Guys working tell me “it’s gonna be a while”. Fuck. I keep up the gravel path and eventually, thankfully, can get around the train with little detour. The other plan adds 40 miles. Glad this one happens.

Sending out an SOS. I’m on climb 7 of the day. I didn’t know how to count climbs. Or measure grade. Until bike Dot Matrix comes along. Did we just become best friends?! My legs don’t know give a shit, they are screaming. Up into my hips and back. Real Pain. I’ve moved on to Regatta de Blanc and my body sings Deathwish. This day is reminded me of my first taste of Texas Hill Country back on the southern tier cross country with, of course, Damon. Let’s harness 1.21 jiggawatts and go back to 2021 right now. Or just get a taste of my deliriously exhausted self shouting at my bestie in the middle of nowhere.

By climb ten I’m dumb. Gassed. I’m done with The Police and go back to official Atlantic Coast long ride playlist. My phone is on do not disturb always and airplane mode most times. Unless I’m pulling up music or maps. I get a text.

My dude. Talk about synchronicity. I’ve got designs on several sneaky spots I can probably illegally camp for the night. That’s his thing, Damon calls it wild camping. Yet another term. I call him up, update him on the wahoo and everything. I check the forecast. He says “When the overnight temperature low and the motel room price are below 50 it’s no question for me”. That’s seals it. This Motel 6 is $48, that’s what I call leaving the light on for me. I book it. I also grab a burrito to go and head to the room. From the outside it’s a mess. From the inside, it’s better than plenty I’ve paid more for. After the day I have endured, there’s no capacity for complaint. And little capacity for being awake much longer.