A garbage truck goes by in the semi-dawn, gears squealing, as we lay in our tent.
Daddy: I miss that.
Me: What, the garbage truck?
Daddy: Yeah. Hearing it, lying in bed on Thursday mornings in summer when the windows are open. Just that kind of thing.
I think he’s ready to be home!
This has been a long few days. Between the crash and the driving, the trip has lost some of its spark. I feel aimless off the bike. Driving doesn’t have the same sense of purpose. We’re just moving through space, seeing the same things as all the other tourists. This dissatisfaction is bringing out the elitist in me, making painfully clear how much I hate feeling anything that might be considered ordinary.
Daddy’s lost a bit of zip too. I can tell he’s ready to be home, back to his own space and (most importantly) to his grandkids. Our crash came just as he was starting to enjoy the biking. I hope we can both enjoy it again when we get back on the bikes tomorrow.
Today was a good biking day. More downhill than uphill, good shoulders, sites to see and the energy to see them. Crazy Horse, Mount Rushmore, and then down into Rapid City, our first “big” city since Missoula.
We were cruising down a long hill about 4 miles from town when I saw a piece of 2×4 laying across the shoulder. It lay halfway into a big patch of gravel, 3 inches deep and covering the whole shoulder. I knew I would hit it. I was going too fast to stop in time, and we were on the highway- no way was I going to swerve out into the lane. All I could do was pump the brakes and hope I slowed down enough not to go over the handlebars.
I’m not sure if I achieved it. All I remember is sliding on my stomach for what seemed like ten feet (it was probably 3-4), coming to rest just short of the 2×4. I lay there for a moment, vaguely wondering if my dad had managed to miss the rough spot. “Are you ok?” A shaky inquiry came from behind me. I rolled onto my back, toward the guardrail. “Yeah.” “Anything broken?” “No.”
I remained still, regrouping, breathing deep to calm my racing heart. With a start, I called out, “are you ok”? “I think so,” came the reply.
When I pulled myself up, I saw my dad a few feet up the road, his bike on the ground and his face a blend of surprise and worry. My bike was on its side, facing uphill. Strange. I tried to get my phone out, thinking this would make a dramatic picture, but my hands were shaking and I couldn’t get into my bag. Oh well.
Daddy pulled his bike upright, trying to roll it down to where I was. It wouldn’t roll. The fender was bent, and the brakes stuck. Upon closer inspection he could see the front gear cable had snapped. “We’ll have to get a ride.” I’m with you there Pops.
We managed to get the brakes loose and slowly rolled the bike down the hill towards town. About 200 yards down on the opposite side rose a stately brick cupola, strangely familiar. A sign below read Founding Fathers Museum. We headed there.
Inside, we were met with a a quiet greeting which quickly melted into a look of confusion from the guy at the desk. Daddy gave a jumbled explanation of our scraped and bloody appearance, asking if there was anyone who could take us into town. The museum guy, who’s name we later learned was Cam, told us he’d ponder that while we cleaned ourselves up in the bathrooms.
The water stung as I wiped down my knee and elbow, but there was no serious damage done. By the time I got out, however, Daddy and another employee (dressed like Ben Franklin) had decided the cut on his palm was messy enough to call the paramedics. They were already on the way, and Cam was at the front desk calling bike shops to see if any could help. Wonderful.
I was shaky but ok, and went out to meet the ambulance when it arrived. Two cheerful guys stepped out and busily started checking over my Dad (I got two band-aids). They agreed that the gouge in his hands would probably benefit from stitches, and prepared to take him in to the hospital. I would stay behind to see to the bikes and to book us a hotel nearby. I asked which hospital they’d be going to, and they both laughed. There was only one hospital- the hospital- so I’d have no trouble finding it.
After they left, I set about getting organized- calling for a hotel room and texting my mom and sister to let them know what happened. And texting a few more people for moral support. Cam let me know that he’d found a shop in town that could take the bikes now. As soon as he got off work he could take me over there. While I waited, I checked out the main attraction, a life-size wax figure replica of the famous John Trumbull painting of the signing of the Declaration of Independence in Philadelphia (that’s why the building had looked familiar- it too was a replica, or Independence Hall). It was comforting to be in a history museum, a familiar environment with familiar stories.
The wait over, Ben Franklin guy and the other staff wished me luck as Cam and I departed for the bike shop. He’s a Rapid City local and former music teacher who is now going back to school to learn to code- so we had lots to talk about. He’s hoping to work for Amazon when he’s done, in their new gaming division. He was surprised to hear about my background in history and museum work (as are most people who learn that I work in an architecture firm); I told him there was no better rescue base for me than a colonial history museum!
We dropped off the bikes at a shop in town (run by a guy from Worcester, MA!), then headed to the Comfort Inn; I’d followed Daddy’s instructions to “get me a nice hotel.” Cam even came in to make sure the reservation was set so he didn’t leave me stranded. We were greeted by a grumpy old front desk manager- “I hope you have a reservation! My system is down, so I can’t help you if you don’t have a reservation!” I reassured him that I did. Cam bragged about our trip, telling the man all about us biking from Portland, how we’d wiped out on the hill today, and how my Dad was at the hospital now getting stitched up. I quietly joked that at least nothing needed amputation, and the old man was off on a story of how he got sepsis in his foot last year and almost needed to get it amputated. Something about talking medical dramas seems to put crotchety folks in a better mood, and he cheerfully asked if Cam and I would like a picture together to commemorate the afternoon. We obliged, and as we parted ways the old man exclaimed that his system was fixed. “You’re a good luck charm!” Well, I’m glad I could bring someone some luck today!
I checked in with Daddy at the hospital. They’d x-rayed his wrist to check for fractures (all clear), and had pulled a pea-sized hunk of gravel from his palm; he was getting stitches. “Not my prettiest work,” the nurse apologized, but it would heal up ok. I took a sting-y bath while I waited for Daddy to get to the hotel (within easy walking distance of the hospital, as promised), trying not to bleed on the pristine white towels.
Daddy came knocking with a big bag of medical supplies from the nurses, and we gave each other a long hug. “Sorry you came on my bike trip and got all beat up,” I told him. “That’s ok. I’m glad I was here.” We were both ok.
After a short icing session we headed across the parking lot to get some food. Heat lightening lit up the sky, and the wind was picking up. Maybe it was a good thing we weren’t camping tonight. After dinner we called my mom, regaling her with the details of the afternoon, so far as we remembered them. A batch of bloody laundry, more ice, then bed. It took a while for me to fall asleep, slowly easing myself from sore position to sore position. I could hear Daddy tossing and turning as well, his breath catching as he moved his tender wrist and hand. Finally he quieted, and I began to drift off too, more than ready to be done with the day.
The water tower
Beacon of town-ness
Mirage of civilization
Yesterday was the first day we embarked on our ride without knowing where we would spend the night. We had over 100 miles to the next city, and Google wasn’t showing any options in between. It was also Labor Day, meaning our chances of finding a room or campsite (if any in fact existed) were even slimmer.
We decided to strike out for Clearmont, the biggest-looking town on the route and home to a convenience store and church. I’d heard from several other cyclists that some churches allow tourers to use their facilities and camp or even stay in the church. The Clearmont Community Church Facebook page mentioned that the church was available for “refuge and respite,” and listed the pastor’s cell phone number. It was enough for us to go on.
We arrived around one to a ghost town. The parking lots along the main road were empty, the store closed. A sign on the store referred us to a group of cabins for rent next door; the sign on the cabins referred us to the store.
With the help of one bar of cell service we made our way to the church, chased by a small but persistent dog. It was a new-looking building, back on a quiet residential street across from the school. Self-consciously, we mounted the steps and pushed open the door, finding it unlocked. Small towns. The church seemed empty, but a small post-it on the office door urged us to call Pastor Shane if needed. So we did.
The call went to voicemail, so I left a slightly rambling message explaining our situation. I assumed he was having a family cookout in honor of the holiday, and I didn’t want to get my hopes up for a response. If nothing else we could sleep in the front lobby, I supposed. I sent him a Facebook message for good measure.
Just one granola bar later I got a call from a young-sounding Pastor Shane. Of course we could stay in the church- there were showers, a kitchen, and cots available just for this purpose. He’d be over in a few minutes to show us around. Success!
A few minutes later a well-used sedan pulled up, bearing a friendly bearded guy and a young blond teenager- Pastor Shane and his daughter Sidney. Shane apologized for his disheveled appearance; a new fire had started outside a neighboring town and he had been helping to fight the blaze. Sidney and her mom had spent the long weekend feeding firefighters in the area.
We chatted with them as we got the grand tour. Shane told us how he’d been working to make the church a community resource since he’d come in a few years ago. Being in a small town, it was important to Shane that everyone in the community feel a sense of ownership in the church, even if they didn’t attend on Sundays. Part of that was offering the church as a place to stay for people in need of shelter. He’d already hosted 13 other bikers this summer!
They left us to settle in and headed home themselves to clean up. It was funny to be alone in the church, sitting at the long communal tables just the two of us. It was a quiet evening, interrupted only by a couple of ladies who came in looking for their bible study group, only to realize it had been cancelled for the holiday. They didn’t seem the least bit surprised to see us there, and chatted away as if we were a regular fixture of the scene. We spread out our maps, strategizing the next few days over a welcome mug of tea (for me anyway), then headed to bed to prepare for the long ride tomorrow.
Just as we were leaving, Pastor Shane came in to begin his day. We paused in the anteroom as he asked if he could pray for us. We all closed our eyes as he spoke, asking God to watch over us on our journey, asking for our safety and well-being, and for us to “see what they want to see.” My dad thanked him, shaking his hand with a heartfelt smile, and we headed out into the day.
I’m not a believer in intercessionary prayer, but I am always honored when people who do believe exercise their faith on my behalf. I do wholeheartedly believe in the power of positive action, and Pastor Shane and his family are a beautiful demonstration of walking the walk- selflessly offering their time, resources, and hearts to their community and beyond.
For a self-affirming journey, I’m spending a lot of time letting others affirm for me. People I’ve met, some only for a few minute, have remarked on my confidence, assertiveness, engaging personality, and infectious positivity. They have marveled at my bravery in taking on this trip, and friends and family have told me how impressed they are at my initiative. As for myself, I am feeling that some old impostor syndrome that follows me to professional conferences, reunions, and social gatherings. Why are all these people impressed with me? I haven’t done anything yet. Why do they seem to think I’m someone special? I’m not the best at anything I do, and in some aspects I’m painfully average. Who do they think I really am?
The real strangeness of impostor syndrome isn’t feeling that you don’t belong. It’s feeling that everyone else must have a distorted view of your value. If the people that belong here think I do too, I must be giving off some false impression.
I’m realizing that it is perhaps I who has a distorted view of my own value. I may not be the fastest woman ever to bike across the country, but I am one of a small sample that has the courage to try. I may not be the most knowledgeable person in the room at a conference of experts, but I’m willing to contribute what I can and put in the effort to be more useful next time. And for now, that’s enough. My best will always be enough.
I know I can’t rely on other people for validation; other people are unpredictable- generous, cruel, spiteful, and misguided. But I can be there for myself, and maybe this trip is slowly making me a better internal cheerleader. Not because I deserve it more than others, but because I deserve it just as much.
Scene: a featureless stretch of highway with trucks whizzing past; a persistent 15mph headwind prevails
Daddy: Man, this is relentless!
Wind: Wheeeeewwwww
Daddy: Please God, just a five minute break, that’s all I ask.
Wind: Wheeeeeeeeww
Daddy: THIS SUCKS.
Wind: WHEEEEEWWW
Daddy: AGGHH. Dammit!
Wind: Wheeeeeeeewwwww
Me: ARGHHH.
Brain: Oh hey, I see you’re pretty frustrated there. Here’s a replay of all the most poignant moments of the past six months to distract you.
Me: ARGHHH.
Earlier today
Me: I’m so not feeling that stupid pass today.
Daddy: me neither. But we can do it!
Me: I know we can, I don’t want to. I’m asking three people for a ride up when we get to Virginia City. I at least have to try.
In Virginia City (scene- a popcorn/knife store)
Daddy, talking with the proprietress about our trip: Yeah, we’re really not looking forward to that pass. We’ve heard it’s a pretty big one.
Fred, husband and knife-maker (joking): For a small fee I’ll take you up.
Me: Really? You can’t joke about stuff like that. I’m sold.
Fred (trying not to show surprise): Sure, ok. Come on back when you’re ready to go and I’ll take you up.
Later, in the truck
Me: Well this is making my day significantly better. Thank you so much for taking us.
Fred: Yeah, well, I’m supposed to be dusting the store today. I’m terrible at dusting. You know Cameron’s not that far, I can take you there if you want…
Me: No, thanks, we have to do some work today!
Fred (resigned): Ok, well I’ll just drop you here then.
Thanks Fred!
For the record, we bought lots of popcorn.
Answer A:
Repeat ad nauseam to cashiers, waitstaff, campground hosts, etc.
Well I’ve never been anywhere in the middle of the country. East coat, West coast, but nothing in between except the Chicago airport. And I wanted to be able to take my time and really see it.
Answer B:
For kindhearted hosts, professional acquaintances, and good listeners
It’s been kind of a shitty year personally and politically, and I felt like I needed to get out of my comfort zone and meet people I otherwise wouldn’t meet. The election made it clear to me that I don’t know very much about a lot of people and places in this country, and that I don’t understand where they’re coming from, what motivates them. So I thought I’d get out on the road and try to meet some new people, see some of our beautiful national parks (while we still have them), and get some time and space to think and regroup.
Answer C:
Repeat in quiet moments, to oneself
I know it’s been a rough year for you. That’s why you’re doing this, remember? To get back to yourself. To be inspired. To practice patience with yourself. It’s ok that you’re taking a break right now. It’s ok to be disappointed and frustrated and angry and sad and lost and fractured. Now let’s just sit with that. Or rather, ride with it.
Daddy: Stop at that next pull-off for a water break.
45 minutes later
Me: I’m stopping at that driveway for a water break.
1 hour later
Me: Look, cows
Daddy: I’m going to stop at that tree for a water break.
exchange 