Editors Note: our “publisher”, WordPress, contacted us regarding concerns that the nature of our discussion around fecal activities “could border on vulgarity, a clear violation of our user terms of service.” I must be crystal clear: humans have been noting, analyzing, and — most importantly— enjoying, the making of the fecal waste since the beginning of the times. Once a one no longer dueces, that one is dead or soon to be dead, and thus every crap should be celebrated. A celebration of love while we’re still alive to celebrate. Living plants and other aminals die, I put some of them into my mouth and soon thereafter they come out my bootyhole, I live. Eventually I may even become something’s turd. Hard facts. Moreover, on long bike rides, where every ounce kinds counts, taking a dookie — especially those which are descended from the food we are carrying — is legitimately lightening your load. Lightning, even. Vulgarity my ass, your honor.
Now that all that shit’s behind us, let’s go back to me tossing and turning all night. Warm in my tent, but windy and cold as fuck outside; the second time I get up to pee the stars aren’t there anymore. Two or three more of those and I submit to the restless first night always being the toughest, regardless of the climate. Sleeping on the ground and all. I’ve gone from four pillows to my cube of clothes as a pillow.
Finally, I pull myself out of the tent. Damn. My neck hurts. My back hurts. My neck and my back. Yikes, my shoulders hurt, my knees, my feet… everything. Todo, Toto. The shower still doesn’t function here at Pleasant Hill City Lake. That would be the luxury I need rn rn. I push out asap mostly bc I need to warm up and the actual Pleasant Hill “City” is a few miles down the trail. They have a cafe I intend to warm up in.
It’s indeed quite a warm and cozy space that I’m enjoying eggs, bacon, and potatoes in. There’s quilts hanging on the walls. It’s busy; quite jumping in here; lit, even. I have to do the European thing and share an 8 person table with 3 other people seated at the other end. They give me glances. I give them back. We don’t talk they know I’m listening. Everyone’s happy. The guy is wearing a Deutchland sweatshirt. It’s rather baller. Definitely cool. The large person cashing out across the room has on an even larger shirt, and on the back of it that massive Missouri Mobile tapestry it says:
It’s OK To Not Be OK, Just Don’t Give Up.
I have no idea what it says on front; that’s probably for the better. Outside of this while being seated inside and eating hot food served to me, I am really not OK. I’m cold. My whole body hurts. Aches.cJust really hurts… deeply… and just one 35 mile day in. Yet. Though. And. Butt. Also I’m not gonna give up 40 miles. Conjunction Junction on rail trails. I spend the entire day on this one: the Rock Island Trail. Pass me my culture cipher, gawd. No navigating. No steep inclines. It’s quiet and windy and just fucking cold. 18 mph sustained, sort of broad siding me. The gusts are much more but seem to be from behind. Going down to 33° tonight supposedly. Frost coming. Glad to not be a dead plant. Trying to not end up like Jackie on Yellow Jackets. I’m still wearing all of my clothing, which at least makes my bike bags lighter. Three shirts have become one. Butt. Again. Also. It’s quiet. No cars. It’s an island for sure. No other cyclists either. I see and hear no one for most of it. The weathers shit, nobody else wants to be out here.
I get tired so I try to take a break. If I stop longer than 10 minutes I get too cold — after about 10 miles I start to sweat. hot cold hot cold. That again?
I don’t think much about writing and so I’m not gonna write much more about this. I am going to go ahead and try to do a lot of not thinking. It’s 50 grueling and brutal miles for me. I say again though — it’s quiet, and all mine. The surface is soft and mushy and slow as fuck. The wind both gust and sustained, toss me around. And it’s too cold to rest. When I’m not in pain it feels like my body just doesn’t respond fully. 6-8 mph max it is. I focus only on the sound of the wind in the trees, getting comfortable being uncomfortable.
Also, my writing is straight shit lately, so I’m looking for a new editor to replace myself with.
I got a thing with rain jackets, specifically whichever rain jacket I have when I have it. Over the years they’ve been used ones, new ones, cheap, whatever. They all work. Whenever I put it on, the rain stops (or never even starts). Right now I’ve got a rather pricey Eddie Bauer rain jacket on. They don’t pay me and I had to buy the one I’m wearing right now. Right now. I’ve had this one a few years now and it’s nice. Armpit zippers and everything. You better ask somebody.
Earlier. Like way earlier. It’s morning in KCMO. I awaken in a comfy king size bed with four pillows and I’m wearing zero rain jackets. Butt. In case we’re counting at home (and why wouldn’t we be?) I take not one, not two… yes three deuces — actual poops — before I even leave the room. Dayum. Life keeps living.
After all that shitting around I gotta psych myself up the rest of the morning before leaving out. About this long ride at hand, not about more shitting. Kinda doing the abundance mindset, power of intention thingamabob. Telling myself it’s all mental. Ya know. All that nonsense. And… it’s all that makes sense.
Forecasts gonna forecast today. I can get wet but I like to keep my gear dry as a bone. Just cuz. Back to focusing hard as I roll up this Ortlieb waterproof pannier bag, I tuck the long plastic drip stop strip thingy that makes it the most waterproof bag that money can buy. Deutschmarks, Dollars and Euros alike. They don’t pay me either, in any of those currencies. Convolutionally inspired, electrical impulses fire about inside my cranium, going on and on about how I’m gonna roll it this one time—it’ll be the exact right way — in an exercise in getting these protons, neutrons and/or electrons in my mind to where we need them to be. Sure.
I fucking nail it. Deliberation with intention come forth and manifest. Jedi Mind Trick kinda hotel room right now.
Then 30 seconds later I realize that I left my detachable fender in that same/exact/fucking bag and now have to undo it all anyway. What the hell?! So much for doing it one time correctly. I’m team Lauryn all the way, yet Wyclef might have been right… “two times.”
Ninety minutes to check out and I just now find the hairdryer. Clutch! because it completes the bathroom-to-laundry-room transformation that is the staple of a hotel on a long ride. Every sink; a clothes washer. Every hair dryer; a cloth dryer. Long ride bike pack cycle tourists only really care about clean underwear and a shower, everything else is filthy anyway. It’s a generalization. It’s a little secret. Nobody talks about, but it’s true. Clean yet dirty.
Everything outside my 3rd floor window is still wet from another over night downpour. There’s more where that came from. I check the radar. All the green and blue as usual. Then. Mustard… no ketchup. The roof puddles several buildings over grow still; the raindrops have finally let up for a bit; I don my magic rain jacket and head out. Ready for adventure. Ready for the world. Ready for… ugh. 2 blocks in and I realize I have no idea how to use my GPS element bolt two navigational handlebar computer thingy anymore. Like I made sure it worked at home but I have absurdly forgotten how to navigate with it. I can’t even R2-D2. I’m bad Luke Skywalker. I figure it out after only maybe three wrong turns. Yeah. Three. I gave up printing maps 3 years ago and the research is ongoing. I haven’t however given up on the obligatory fully loaded bike shot:
The wind picks up more. Somewhere around mile 7 and it starts to hurt everywhere. Not the wind. My body. My legs. I for certain have the least physical conditioning I’ve ever had ahead of a week-or-longer ride. Today is only 35-40 miles for a reason. Tomorrow might be that way too. Tough miles. Wrists. Knees. Getting out of cities sucks. And everything is wet. It’s that back-and-forth and that universal dialectic conundrum that gets me in that mindset that I need to be in. A differential equation. Calculus, one could call it. Let’s just approach infinity (or negative infinity), for fun. Shits AND Giggles. Whoa. Yesterdays hot and cold extreme self-temperatures now dangle in my view point in some strange hallucinated hologram. Is this just more contrast?
Contrast therapy, even. Cue Snagglepuss voice. You know that bow tie flamboyant feline who debuted on The Quick Draw McGraw Show. His Wikipedia says he’s: enjoys the finer things in life and shows a particular affinity for the theatre. His stories routinely break the fourth wall as the character addresses the audience in self-narration, soliloquy, and asides. What a strange cartoon character. Such a misleading name for such a clearly homosexual talking cat in a universe of full of cartoon cats. Snagglepuss makes the Pink Panther look like Chuck Norris. See, there I go again with the juxtapositions. Juxtapositionings, exit stage right.
And then. The holy grail of capitalism… the Mecca of bike tours… Walmart. It’s a love hate for me. Mostly love, because when I need something they have it. I need camp stove fuel, since my pals at TSA don’t allow it in checked baggage. I’ve gotten away with it before but left it out this time. Now I need more. And I need a break to stretch. I detour off the trail. The first car I’ve seen in 15 miles lays its horn in on me all the way. “Fuck him”, I think as I flash a two finger peace sign. I left my back rack American flag at home; it usually calms these chodes down. Nonetheless, here in Raytown Missouri I do my patriotic duty and try the local hardware shop first. To no avail. I’m cynical Walmart will have the small iso butane canister either. God damn this is a robust Walmart. I need a map to get out of the lifestyle sections. And. And. And they have it! Fuck yeah. I grab two bananas (no cramps!), a spicy ramen for later and a grab-and-go chicken wrap for now. Good deal. Way to go Murika. I step outside and the drizzling begins. This is what was called for. The temps are gonna plummet, I hear. Slap my magic rain jacket back on and push off.
This tunnel was short but had motion detecting lights!
Ten miles or so it’s still not raining. I remove the jacket and predictably the drizzle picks up in five minutes. I stop at a trailhead park for their water fountain and covered pavilion. The drizzle picks up more then tails off. Up then down. Up then down. There’s little cover on this trail but I decide to go for it. Detour ahead puts me back on roads with cars amand near some sort of civilization that should provide some sort of shelter, if I can make it in time.
I don’t. Here comes that radar mustard!! Two miles later and all that calculus kicks in. My magic goes to shit. Differential Downpour approaching infinity. Like buckets. Cats and dogs. Soaked to the bone. All the cliches. I’m on a way-too-busy-road in a rainstorm for a good hour. I cross a six lane highway in redneck rush hour, legit riding down into a two foot pot hole filled with water. Somehow everything survives that. Somehow. The jarring hurts my neck and quads. Then, another bastion of American wealth and worker exploitation which I truly only frequent on long rides appears: Starbucks. Fuck it, I tuck in, cop a seven dollar latte in a ceramic mug and spend an hour waiting it out, pretending I’m gonna dry off.
All my anti capitalist rambling flows off like a nonsense Nile; as if hypocrisy were the new patriotism. Maybe it’s always been? Anyhoo. The rain lets up. The wind has strengthened. Profoundly cold and still wet I now roll off, aborted into these colder and wetter, godless commie public roads. I’m legitimately a fetus shivering the first mile or two. Wearing every long sleeve top garment I brought, wearing my full finger gloves, wearing my knit winter hat. Rain jacket is wet but hoodied up tight. Feet soaked in socks — and that’s just gonna be the way it is for a while. I have yet to not be let down by anything marketed as a completely waterproof sock for bicycling. Outside of some fleece lined sweatpants, some extra underwear and some long socks, if the skies open back up right now, I’m gonna be out of dry clothes on day one.
There must be magic left in this EB rain jacket as no more rain falls all night. I roll into Pleasant Hill City Lake Park. My chosen first night camp site. $20 and there’s showers. Yes!
Except the shower is not working. What the fuck. I get out of the wet shoes, now wearing my dry socks and flip flops. I’m that dude. I never wanted to be that dude. Still stanked up and rain slick, I pop up the palace and fire up the camp stove. The ramen sure hits the spot, temperatures drop and the wind picks up. We’re talking 40° and 18 mph winds. I mummy myself up in the bag and do my best to get some sleep.
After an hour of dozing in and out, I stir and step out to drain the main vein. The stars have taken over the night. The bathroom showers might have been out of order, but the star showering was right on time. I start to freeze and jump back in as quickly I can.
Bring your seat backs to their full and upright positions and stow your tray tables, we’ll be arriving into Modernism shortly.
Sort of. My Raleigh Sojourn and I arrive, safely into Kansas City. I’m still nervous about bike breakage, so straight away I set out to rebuild and check her out for any handling issues. Everything’s good to go. Shoutout to unionized airport baggage handlers worldwide. And even those crazy motherfuckers in the TSA. I love the cat and mouse game I’ve been playing with them for a few years now. I save my inspection notices and scatter them throughout in the bike bag. They place another one in there every time; yet also collect the previous ones from all up in there and pile them all neatly on top. It’s like I’m saying: “I know you’re watching me so check me again why don’t you” and they’re replying: “we know you know we’re watching you and will check your shit each and every time.” Thanks for doing your job guys and gals, you’re better than the politicians and amazon delivery drivers, I guess.
Bau. Bow. Bao. So what does it all mean?
the human body as a geometric puppet
the bicycle as a shared discipline of both craft and art
colors as emotional forces
words as structural elements
Jane, stop this crazy thing!
Back here on planet Earth, I’ve gone and pushed back my departure outta KC by a day to avoid some storms. Predictably, those storms then delay a day as well. Well played Mother Nature. Maybe windy, rainy riding was meant to be. I have the day off, either way. I no bike; I walk; meandering through the city to help bring back my navigational skills. It’s been a while and I don’t trust my post meningococcal brain nearly as much as my old one. Neuroplasticity developing as I make my way up Grand Blvd. My hotel has a Jim Leedy Bar which sounds like it’s super awesome but it’s kinda empty and lame, so I skip their breakfast and instead Messenger Coffee and Ibis Bakery set me straight. I wanna say the coffee slaps, though that might be forced usage. Go ask the cool kids.
So I walk and I navigate and I ponder. River Market. Crossroads. Cool names of areas. My consciousness evolving as I move. My thoughts drift. Downtown KC is like downtown Buffalo in ways. Big and empty and crumbling. Probably bumping and jumping 24/7 back in a different era. Not today. The similar state of the downtown area of 80% of American cities truly is the proof in the pudding that capitalism is clearly completely collapsing. The question to ask is “do we want the United States of America to collapse with capitalism or progress into something beyond?”
Something beyond human life simply being line items on a billion (and now trillion) dollar multinational corporate conglomerate’s budget sheet. Is there life beyond the profit motive for the average American citizen? Or are we all inevitably tied to this lifestyle, unable to pivot and dedicate ourselves to something more collectively minded, something more beneficial to our quality of life?
These massive stretches of pavement and buildings constructed in an era of wealth and productivity, intended for a much-higher-than-current capacity — they scream emptiness, loneliness, and decay. Entire downtowns with less than five or six pedestrians per square mile and more than 5000 empty cavernous office spaces or empty chic short term apartment lofts in the same span. A total waste. Sparsely populated by a pedestrian few who are either too eager to spend too much money or too eager to ask me for my money. Totes inefficient. These delineated spaces for the hope and allure of a few tourists or individual enterprises at the cost of local residents and their rightful place in a population center. Airbnb might be killing the world. Law Firms with five partners occupying three floors in a world of virtual meetings and AI might be killing the world. The rent is too damn high. It’s a worldwide occurrence but a distinctly American epidemic.
The profit margins and justifications for such waste are all based on bullshit much like roadway studies that tell us just one more lane on the road will cure crippling rush hour traffic. Just one more lane!
Or the idea that another parking lot will solve any problem. Just one more lot!
We evaluate a things’ potential or capacity based on some average that is inevitably betrayed by the peak of that average. All those cars not being driven taking up all that space for maybe 30-40% of the day.
And with that thinking right here and now in downtown anywhere USA, happy hour and nightlife is to one day what the holiday season is to the entire fucking year. That tiny, brief period justifying enormous waste. It keeps growing because of that small brief period when it shouldn’t exist at all. One more lane for a rush hour that only expands as public transportation dwindles and becomes more for the poor. One more airbnb for hipsters who aren’t relocating anyway. One more credit line for Christmas gifts we don’t need. What’s next? Bookmarking the weakest chapter of a good book. Where and how does it end? Why can’t we look at the whole pie.
I’m startled out of my American day-mare with a refreshing dose of camaraderie. A longtime acquaintance — at minimum a business colleague and at max a brother in arms in the fight for what’s right — lives here in Kansas City. I haven’t see Steddy P since 2013, when I booked a small run of hip hops shows for him and his partner DJ Mahf. They are absolute legends in Missouri, amazing performers and wonderful dudes… like 90% of my homies from the 1997-2015 indie hip hop world. Like the quality of these humans is so high that I legit feel like somehow this thread of dudes are the only solid, stand up men in our age range. We are passing away in increasing numbers and so I try to take every opportunity to check in and re connect with these old friends whenever possible.
I’m not sure how things with Steddy and I left off, but right now as I stand here hugging the proudly-part-owner of Record Bar KC they pick right back up as if it was just last week they were rocking Buffalo, Toronto and NYC. We chat for a bit. He’s given up the touring musician life for now, focusing on being a single dad of twin boys and managing the three music venues he’s always got an ownership stake in. It feels good to see him doing well. It feels good to show up for my people. Connection gives me strength and hope, I even take a photo without showing my ass or giving the finger. I don’t have a hat to hold so I solidarity salute it is.
Later, I indulge in something called contrast therapy. Real bawse shit. For $25, I get an hour in my own locked spa room. Back and forth between 175° infrared sauna and 48° cold plunge I go. It’s shocking but healthy. I don’t take pictures. Truly refreshing and probably that last time I’ll be this comfortable and pampered for weeks.
It’s also likely my last night indoors and in an actual bed for a bit, so I pass out early, eager to push out tomorrow morning. LFG.
“A man on foot, on horseback or on a bicycle will see more, feel more, enjoy more in one mile than the motorized tourists can in a hundred miles. Better to idle through one park in two weeks than try to race through a dozen in the same amount of time. Those who are familiar with both modes of travel know from experience that this is true; the rest have only to make the experiment to discover the same truth for themselves.”
