Daddy: I wonder why this town is called Twin Bridges? Think there’s two bridges that look the same?
Me: Maybe. Or maybe it was founded by the twin Bridges brothers.
Later
Daddy: I read a sign. Apparently there were two brothers who built bridges.
Me: Were they twins?
Daddy: I don’t think so.
Me: Were the bridges identical?
Daddy: I don’t know. It didn’t say so.
Me: —
(in my head)
Christopher: Drop to a lower gear. You want your cadence to be around 90rpm.
Me: I feel like my legs are going to fly off!
Christopher: You’ll thank me when you’re doing 60-mile days.
Suni (quietly to me): He knows what he’s talking about. But do what feels comfortable.
Christopher: Also drop your heels so your foot is level. Your calves will cramp like that.
Me: I can’t help it, I’m a toe pointer!
*peaceful cycling for a while*
Christopher: *eyes feet*
Me: I know, I’m trying!
Suni: You’re doing great.
Thanks for keeping me going guys!
My dad is here! Having succumbed to my guilt tripping [“you’re retired, what else do you have to do? Besides, then you won’t be worried about me.”], he flew in yesterday. His bike won’t get here until tomorrow, so in the meantime we’ve rented a car and are playing tourist in Missoula.
Missoula is super bike-friendly, so it’s a bit of a shame to tool around in a car, but not enough to negate the glorious freedom of swift, air-conditioned transport. We make quick work of exciting preparatory activities like going to Walmart for sunscreen, and spend the rest of the day tooling around the city center. It’s a small city by our standards, with the added novelty of a relatively natural river running through the middle, with people fishing and everything. Where I’m from, rivers are caged in with concrete and rubble, and are mostly inaccessible as a source of recreation.
We hit up the headquarters of the Adventure Cycling Association for some advice on riding south given all the forest fires happening. They seem to think it’ll be ok, though they are far more nonchalant about hundred-thousand acre wildfires than I am. Most importantly, we pick up the map that will lead us south out of Missoula and down to Yellowstone.
Papa D’s bike arrives on Tuesday morning. He’s been checking out the window for the Fed-Ex truck like a kid on Christmas, and runs down to grab it when it arrives. Miraculously, it goes together with minimal swearing and only momentary frustration with the handlebar bag. So we ditch the motel, ditch the car, and ride off into town for a quick check-up at the bike shop before our journey commences.
It’s nice to have company. Riding alone isn’t so bad, but exploring a city by yourself is a bit lonely. Having the dad here makes it better, and it’s fun to talk him through what the next few weeks of riding will be like. I get to be the expert for once! I hope he enjoys it, but even if he’s only here for a short time it’ll be worth it.
I’ve been “cheating” a bit the past few days. Meaning I’ve gotten a few car rides to avoid knarly stretches of road. At least that’s what I’m telling myself. How do you know the difference between legitimate fear and anxiety?
Maybe I’m really afraid of the trucks and the traffic and the wind. Maybe it’s really just discomfort in not knowing what the day will hold. Maybe I’m just worried I won’t be able to do it. And then what? I’m stuck on the side of the road with no way out? Or more likely, I make it my destination later, sweatier, and more tired than I would have liked. Is that so bad?
Like many people, a lot of my time has been spent avoiding discomfort, and I find myself following that same pattern out here, away from the high-stakes realm of work and relationships. In some ways, it’s more valid to avoid the potentially scary right now; there are legitimate dangers being on the road by yourself. But there are a lot of wonderful opportunities too, and I wonder if I’m missing any by being too careful with myself. Is it better to be gentle with myself and practice preventative self-care to counter anxiety? Or should I push myself a bit more, to prove to myself I have higher limits than I give myself credit for?
I don’t have an answer today. But I’ll keep asking myself what it is I’m really afraid of. No great adventure has ever been in pursuit of comfort.
The Trail of the Coeur d’ Alene does not disappoint. It is quiet, scenic, well-paved, and (for now) downhill. I bike for 15 leisurely miles, finally able to listen to my thoughts instead of listening for trucks. I ride over a bike bridge, through pine forest, alongside marsh grasses to the town of Harrison, a former logging town on Lake Coeur d’ Alene.
There is a town campground in Harrison, and the lovely host family welcomes me, reacting with the usual surprise when they hear what I’m up to. They also give me fair warning that it is Regatta weekend, an annual gathering of boats and general excuse to party. They hope the music won’t keep me up. I assure them I’m a solid sleeper, and they point me to the best/nearest/only restaurants in town.
Hungry, I grab some nachos at The Landing, then make my way to The Cycle Haus where I know I can get wifi access. They’re closing soon, but I grab a decaf coffee and settle into the comfy couch to catch up with the digital world for a few minutes. An older man, catching site of my adventure cycling maps, strikes up a conversation, sharing his experiences hiking and biking all over the country. His dining companions join in, as does the barista, and we pass a lively half hour talking about my trip. Mindful of the time, I head out to get some ice cream, as recommended by both Lauren and the camp host family.
I sit with my ice cream and watch the sunset, listening to lapping water and the drunken banter of the bros at the next campsite (congratulations on the new job Alex). There is a band playing funk-rock covers at a bar up the hill. When the sun sets, I can see the Milky Way. Its been a good day.
I began the day with a nervous breakfast of poached eggs and peaches, courtesy of Christy and Jim. I wonder if I’ll ever get over this morning apprehension? I had a climb ahead of me I knew, and I wasn’t sure if I was ready for it.
I wasn’t. Lewiston Hill is a 2,000 foot high crest rising above the Snake and Clearwater Rivers, best cycled via the Old Spiral Highway. This old truck grade winds 10 miles up via dozens of switchbacks to meet up with the new Route 95 north of town. It’s not exceptionally steep, but its relentless. After 45 minutes of solid effort, I checked the map to see how far I’d come- about a quarter.
I almost cried. I fantasized about hitching a ride up, looking longingly at each pickup that passed me on its diesel-powered way up the hill. I yelled. I stopped, I panted, I stretched, I pedaled…
About halfway up I met with two ladies out for a morning ride. I looked jealously at their unladen bikes, fighting the urge to scowl openly- it wasn’t their fault I was struggling. It turns out they were out for a birthday ride, just headed to the top of the hill and back down before going out to lunch. Crazy. Their friendly chatter carried me up the next quarter, even if I couldn’t participate very audibly.
I finally made it to the top, gratified to see the city stretched out below me, satisfyingly small. My victory was tinged with the supreme annoyance that I still had another 35 miles of rolling hills to get through before I could rest my shaky legs. 35 miles on a busy highway. With limited shoulders. I was very grumpy.
Some days the miles go by quickly, feeling upbeat and efficient. Today, I crawled over them through a persistent headwind, counting down the distance on the highway markers one mile at a time. The last few miles into Moscow were studded with unexpectedly steep hills, and construction had turned the road into a sea of grooved pavement littered with gravel. At least it slowed down the trucks.
By the time I got into Moscow I was fed up. I made for Main Street looking for something to revive myself and came upon the local co-op. Excellent. It followed the same charming blueprint of crunchy grocery stores everywhere, with lots of exposed timber, bulletin boards advertising swim lessons and gardening clubs, and a popular cafe/deli area full of chatting patrons. While I perused, I sent a text to Lauren (my host for the night) inquiring as to the steepness of the ride to their house. I wanted to be able to mentally prepare for the final push.
He response was everything I could have hoped for. Her husband Dave was down in town; would I like him to pick me up? YES PLEASE. The day suddenly became much better, and I settled down in the cafe to gorge on Lara bars and wait for Dave.
My savior arrived in the form of a tall white-haired man, smiling hesitantly. “You must be Sara.” Was it my look of utter desperation or the bright purple shirt that gave me away? We loaded up the car and headed north, chatting as we drove.
A retired forestry professor and meditation teacher, Lauren and Dave have lived in Moscow for over 30 years. Moscow is home to the University of Idaho, and is a little spot of blue amidst rural red surroundings. Their house was designed by its previous owner to be energy-efficient, with long rows of windows on the southern side to capture solar heat and deep eaves to shield those same windows during the hot summer months. Dave and Lauren are in the process of adding solar panels to the broad south-facing roof and are hoping to offset most of their consumption.
Lauren has a beautiful garden and mini arboretum of a yard. She graciously gave me a tour, pointing out the different types of trees they had planted over the years and letting me taste some deliciously sweet raspberries. It was a new experience to talk trees with the person who planted them. Most of the time the trees we encounter have no past we know of, and seem to be permanent fixtures of the landscape. It was like meeting a new partner’s parents, and being startled to remember that they existed before you knew them.
That evening, Dave went off to teach a meditation class in town and Lauren set about making a vegetarian feast from the garden’s bounty (with a little help from the co-op). Lauren cooks like I do- rummaging for what looks good, throwing it all on a baking sheet, spicing by mood, and only roughly estimating how long it will all take. It was relaxing to sit and chat, watching the magic happen and letting the roasty smell fill the kitchen. It was easily the best meal I’ve had since I left home, savory and familiar.
The next morning was bliss. Still worn out from the last few days’ riding, I had arranged with Dave that he would drive me up to Plummer to the start of the Coeur d’ Alene trail that afternoon. So for the first time in weeks I had no need to rush or feel nervous. I ate a slow breakfast (homemade yogurt and granola), sipped my tea, read up on the eclipse in the Scientific American on the counter. I checked email and looked over the roads for the next few days, planning. I wrote, borrowing Lauren’s computer and relishing the full keyboard.
Dave and I hit the road after a snacky lunch of snap peas and tomatoes from the garden with cheese and hummus. It’s amazing how fast a car can make a scary stretch of road go by. As can good conversation. Dave and I talked about meditation, how different people incorporate mindfulness into their lives in different ways. He meditates, Lauren goes for long walks, I run. Biking isn’t meditative for me yet, and I wonder if it will ever be. I assumed I’d cultivate mental space as I rode, but I’m still using all my energy just getting from A to B in one piece.
We talked about the eclipse, how some people travel all over the world chasing every opportunity to see one. Dave mused that there’s something special about natural phenomena like that; it’s not just the sight itself, it’s the special hush that comes over a crowd of people all mesmerized by the same wonder. That doesn’t happen very often in our busy and divided world, and it’s a phenomenon in itself. Dave remembered something similar happening when he went to see the Dalai Lama some years ago. The event was being held in a large stadium, buzzing with people. As soon as it was announced that the Dalai Lama was about to enter, complete silence fell over the crowd. Every person was quiet in anticipation and reverence for what was about to happen. Dave said it was the most memorable part of the event for him.
We talked our way to the trailhead, where Dave left me to the next part of my adventure with a hug. I began the next leg of my journey with a smile, grateful for the respite Dave and Lauren’s generosity had given me. I hope one day I get a chance to repay them in kind.
Riding in to Walla Walla, I was looking forward to sleeping in a real bed, chatting with some nice people, and putting a period on the end of my first week on the road. Leaving now, I feel like I’ve found a new West Coast family to help carry me forward.
My host was a chance opportunity. Someone from the conference I’d attended in Seattle just before I took off told me that her mother-in-law lived in Walla Walla and would be happy to take me in. I bit, loving the idea of such serendipitous accommodation and wanting a firm destination to head to after my first days of 50+ mile riding.
Some people just absorb you into their lives, making you feel like a part of their fabric as soon as you say hello. Barbara and Max are like that. As I rode in down their long gravel drive, Barbara yelled out, “you found it!” She showed me into the guesthouse, lined with books and with a king-sized bed waiting just for me. Heaven. With supreme thoughtfulness, she left me to shower and told me dinner would be at 6. She assumed I’d like to eat with them? Yes please!
Their house is beautiful. We chatted on the deck in the evening sun, talking family, work, and travel. Barbara’s son AC was there too, and took me on a lightning tour of Walla Walla, then grilled up some steaks that really hit the spot after a few days of campground quinoa. I went to bed early and spent the minutes getting ready for bed with my nose in a book like I used to do as a teenager.
With very little convincing, I decided to stay another day. Barbara and AC made the most of it, whisking me off to Wallowa Lake in the Blue Mountains. We drove through miles of farmland and forest to get there, and I relished in the luxury of seeing such beautiful terrain without having to bike it. We rode the gondola (pronounced gon-DOL-a out here) up to the top of Mount Howard, where we were rewarded with some good burgers and the affections of the little ground squirrels with a taste for fries. Afterward we stopped in the little town of Joseph to cruise Main Street and grab some affogato (a favorite of Barbara’s from last time she was there).
It’s amazing to me how much people out here seem to know about the farms and landscape. Barbara and Max could name off every creek I’d cross from Walla Walla to Lewiston, and described towns in relation to the rivers that met there. On our scenic Walla Walla tour, AC talked about who was farming which vineyards, what was in season, and who had been a part of the town for generations. I’d be hard-pressed to provide that level of knowledge about any of the places I’ve lived. It’s hard to know whether that has more to do with the family and their history in Walla Walla or if it’s a cultural commonality, but they helped me come to know the area more intimately than I expected, and I’m gratified.
The evening went too quick. Max regaled us with hunting stories, and Barbara pulled out maps so we could look over my route together. AC helped me fix a flat tire that had fallen victim to Goatshead, a mean, thorny little plant also known as puncture weed.
I could have stayed another week. Right now, hanging out alone in a campground in Pomeroy, I wish I had! The care, openness, and generosity of this family will be hard to match. In a week when the news has been utterly devastating, it’s been good for my soul to spend time with the kind of people that make the world a better place to be.
Clark: Hey Meriwether, look at that rock. It looks like a hat. What should we call it?
Lewis: Um, Hat Rock?
Clark: Excellent! *makes note*
…lunch time then?
Uphill Thoughts:
Maybe if I just lay here on the side of the road someone will take me to the hospital.
Downhill Thoughts:
I could probably do an extra 15 miles today…
I arrived at Maryhill State Park in Washington after a stint on I-84 and a harrowing ride across a humped and shoulder-less bridge at Biggs Junction. It felt good to ride past the familiar-looking state park signs and see the sedate site loops filled with kids on bikes. Best of all, more hiker/biker sites meant a cheap night’s stay after a few days of motel indulgence.
My site was next to a young family in an RV. Their tiny yappy dog provided a welcome opportunity for introductions when she decided I was too close to her turf. We introduced ourselves over some vicious hand-licking, then went our separate ways.
I spent the afternoon down on the Columbia, grateful for a chance to swim and lounge by the river I’d been following for days. The water was chilly but the stony beach was warm, and some inventive soul had molded an easy chair into the rocks, giving me the perfect spot for reading.
Mostly cooled off, I set about making dinner— an elegant affair of quinoa, tuna, and freeze-dried veggies. I must have looked pretty glum about it, because I looked up to find my neighbor Stacy and her son walking over to extend a dinner invitation. I’m not one to waste food, so I declined the dinner offer but said I would love to come over and eat with them. Finally, some company!
I met Stacy’s husband Luke, his parents, and their young daughter Bryn, who spent the evening mashing banana bread into the cup holder of her camp chair. We chatted about my trip, and where they were from, and Luke’s parents brought out the history buff in me talking about blacksmithing (Stacy and the kids took off for another swim at that point).
It was relaxing to get some family time, even if it wasn’t my family. I went to bed feeling calmer than I had in days, and slept well (despite the sprinklers going on at 5am).
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