Fifty-five miles

Didn’t seem like much for a full day’s ride. Salina was close by on the map, and was nearly the same elevation as Nephi, so we thought that the day would be short and sweet, getting us to our destination in the early afternoon. When you know that your entire day will be spent on a bike, something in your brain is liberated. I knew, each day, that I didn’t have to worry about anything except getting to the next town. There was a reservoir along the way, too, and it seemed like a great idea to maybe go swimming in the afternoon. I knew that there would be large segments of the ride with no services, so we planned our stops carefully to ensure that we had plenty of food and water as we went. Our morning routine began that day, buying blueberry bagels and colorful drinks from a grocery store before saying a prayer and taking to the road.

Going south we reveled again in our freedom, more often in silence than aloud. The wind picked up throughout the morning, and descents after climbs were less and less gratifying. After a particularly hard climb we found that we were pedaling downhill to keep up a 12mph pace. The landscape as we rode was bleak and brown with only small, haphazard patches of green sage or juniper trees scattered in the open fields. The black asphalt cut hill and dale in two, dividing our vision. In the early afternoon we reached Yuba reservoir, and stopped to debate whether we should stop and take a dip in the lake or continue on our (fairly miserable) way. We decided to walk to the lake and have a little break, but realized quickly that it was not as close to the highway as we had expected and our bikes were not well-suited to the gravel road that we were on. Right then, though, we heard a car rolling and popping up the road, and I walked out to hitch us a ride. The guy was nice enough, and told us to hop into the brown, vintage 1980s boat attached to the bumper of his blue conversion van.

None of us had the courage to jump into the water that remained cold despite the summer heat. The wind had been blowing hard all day, and it was worse near the water. We took a few pictures and decided that we should get going because the walk back to our bikes would be long. When we got to the top of the boat ramp we were already hoping for a ride out of the park that would spare us the annoyance of walking on a gravel road in flip flops and wet feet. A kid was washing down picnic tables a few yards off, and we had a debate as to whether we could convince him to drive us back to the highway. We quickly decided that we would ask; cause hey, what could we lose? He was amiable, and let us hop in the back of his truck that rumbled quickly down the dirt road to our bikes. We thanked him heartily, and hopped over the sides of the truck onto the bumpy red dirt road.

Back on our bikes, we were soon out of water, but near a small town. We rode in, looking for a gas station or restaurant to fill our camelbak bladders. Not finding either, we saw a darkly tanned man standing outside his house and stopped, shoes clicking as we released from our pedals and walked on the asphalt. His name was Sal, and friendly enough as he offered us water from his hose. Blake and I filled up, and Cory turned him down. As the water ran from the hose, he described to us his work at a nearby prison, and his construction business- he had built his own house. There was something strange about him, though we couldn’t decide, whether it was due to isolation or some inherent defect. He gave us bad directions as to how to leave town, but we just left the way we came, commenting on his strangeness. On the road again, I felt my muscles tiring. There was a sweeping headwind, and we talked very little as we road. We drafted one another, taking turns pulling up the hills as we progressed toward Gunnison, where we planned to take a short break and eat.

Gunnison seemed a paradise when we crested the final hill on our way in. Shade trees lined the clean main street and the air felt cool and refreshing as we coasted in. The whole town was a downhill; it seemed to our tired legs a vision of heaven. Coasting into a subway parking lot, none of us knew if we had the energy to ride twelve more miles into Salina, where we meant to rest for the night. The women staffing the restaurant were friendly and kind, laughing at our clothes and asking where we going and whence we came. The gave us free cookies, and we sat around with our feet up for an hour or so before deciding to move on, finishing our day.

Leaving Gunnison was a climb, and we rode along some railroad tracks for several miles before they diverged from the asphalt road. We had learned that riding on the white line at the edge of the highway smoothed the bumps of the blacktop, and remained in a single file line nearly all the way to Salina. To keep our spirits up, we started yelling lyrics to sublime songs, trading speakers while the others breathed. The hot desert, populated with mostly juniper and the occasional tractor-trailer, drained our last energies as we crested hill after hill on our way into Salina. As we followed the snaking road into Salina, I spotted the steeple of the church, and we coasted around the rear of the chapel. We were glad to find a pavilion and a large lawn, with shady areas where we could nap.

We slept nearly as soon as we lay down, but after an hour or so we were all hungry enough to eat again, so we mounted our bikes gingerly and headed toward the center of town to find a restaurant where I could eat something without meat. Mom’s Café seemed a good choice, and we sat down, still wearing our jerseys and shorts. The waitress seemed unhappy, as most young single mothers living in small towns do. We made small talk and made some jokes with her, and she was smiling soon enough. Blake and Cory’s beards were getting thick enough to be noticed, mine was still barely visible. After eating, Cory paid as we went outside to saddle up on our bikes. When Cory walked out to meet us the door swung open and the waitress, with check in hand, shouted “Nice tip, you Jews!” I looked at Blake, astonished and laughing, then at Cory, who was responsible for payment. He had forgotten to write in a tip on his credit card receipt, so he quickly scribbled one in and we got on our bikes again, riding to a gas station to buy ice cream.

We got to the gas station and bought our ice cream bars and went outside to enjoy the warm weather that had seemed oppressive a little earlier. Sitting under the tin awning of the small post, we laughed at the people going in and out, making small jokes and laughing at the couples in their cars. Once we finished, we wanted to get back to the church to set up camp before it got dark, so we rode back. All three of us were sore and tired, more than we had expected. When we got back to the church, a crowd was playing games near our things, and we worried that we wouldn’t be allowed to sleep where we had planned. We were right, but we shouldn’t have been worried.

We chatted for a few hours with the adult leaders organizing the barbeque before we finally worked up the courage to ask if we could use the church facilities to wash up and shower. They happily obliged, and even left the building unlocked for us to keep away from the mosquitoes. The guy warned us that someone would be coming to lock up the building, and we could just talk to him when he arrived. We moved our stuff into the building, and sat around, waiting for our seemingly inevitable eviction from the cool, mosquito-free room where we sat. A few hours passed, and I heard the outside door open and got up, ready to leave the building. When I peeked my head out the door, an older man was walking down the hallway toward us, body stiff and flashlight raised, as he asked who we were. I told him that we were BYU students, and on a bike trip, and the guy who let us in told us that we could hang out for a bit. He just told us to lock up when we left, and checked the other doors before leaving. We took it as a sign that we could stay the night, so we got couch cushions from the sofas in the foyers and made beds for ourselves.

Four Hours

was how long it took to ride from Provo to Nephi. We left around one o’clock, dressed in jerseys and shorts, with our bikes between our knees. We had planned most of the trip, but avoided knowing every turn. Cory had our maps for the day in his jersey pocket, and we each carried a backpack with a tarp, blanket, and some other necessities. Friends had been taking bets all week on how far we would get before we turned around from fatigue or cowardice, and we spent the first few miles of the ride prematurely reveling in our triumph, and the “I-told-you-so”s that we would soon be saying.

Leaving the house we still needed to pick up a few things, and stopped at the bike shop to pump up our tires and buy them. I managed to fall off of my bike within 50 yards of the house, forgetting that I was clipped in and falling over comically. We trusted ourselves to providence, though, and headed south, following our fairly complicated map and sucking down water and Clif bars as we rode. The miles slid away that day, and we took turns leading as we rode at a light clip through Springville, then Spanish Fork, the Payson, and to Nephi. When we arrived in the town we found first the chapel where we planned to sleep, then made our next order to find food. We found the chamber of commerce populated by a Weight Watchers meeting, and the small pizza place that they directed us to staffed by teenagers with little motivation. Tough to blame them, living in Nephi.

Night came late, it was nearly ten o’clock when the sun finally disappeared, and the weather stayed warm and breezy. We returned to our things at the chapel, and found a couple patrolling the grounds, but felt too shy to speak to them, and they didn’t want to confront us either. After an hour or so of awkwardness, they left to their homes, and we lay down to try to sleep, worried that the sprinklers would turn on and soak us in our sleep. Sleeping on slanted grass is nice in the afternoon, but less pleasant at night, even when the weather is warm. When the sprinklers turned on near where we were, Blake and I woke up, grabbed our tarps and blankets and ran to where we knew had already been watered. Cory laughed at us for our haste, walking casually to where we already were laying, and laid down nearby.

The wind seemed to be on the attack right where we were, on a small decline against a chain link fence, and I fell asleep curled tightly in my white blanket. When I woke, Cory and Blake had both retreated to the concrete pad with the air conditioning units. I slept for a little longer, but the wind whipped my blanket on my legs and I followed suit. The concrete was hard, but at least it was quiet. All three of us slept in short intervals, finally deciding to stand up when the sun broke the horizon, changing back into our riding clothes and packing up our bags.

Cory, Blake, and I did this. More details are forthcoming. 

Family Reunion: Day 1, Part 1

For this trip, I'm going to take some inspiration from the Rob Brill School of Blogging. The style may vary from my conventional methods.

5:10 a.m. Wake from a dream, lost now, my alarm having scared it away like an animal in the forrest. I hadn't gotten much sleep. Packing and checking and packing and checking again to make sure I'd packed everything, it takes time and it's toll in stress. But I had everything I'd need, I was sure of it. All there was to do was get my bags and walk out to the bus stop.

The bus is late. I'm always so nervous when the bus is late. Is it not coming? Am I at the wrong stop? Maybe I messed up on the schedule. But here it is. Now I need to make sure I get off at the right transfer station.

I sat at the front, watching the roads we pass, trying my best to know where we are. A bus driver asked me once if I was a bus driver. He noticed how closely I was watching all the intersections and routes we take. He thought maybe I was taking professional notes. Turns out I'm just way too concerned about taking the wrong bus, going the wrong way, and getting lost.

Despite all my worrying, or rather because of it, I did get lost. The route ended at the transfer station on 81st. 81st? My route plan says I'm supposed to get off at 78th and wait there. We didn't stop at 78th, did we? Is there even a stop there? I ran a couple blocks, wheeling my baggage behind me. There is a stop at 78th, but the route I need doesn't come that way. I don't know what to do or where to go. I am a smart person, why can't I ever, ever figure out the bus routes? I'll blame it on undiagnosed learning disabilities.

Deliberating over my next move, a bus turns the corner and pulls up to where I'm at, stopping at the light. She opens the window.

"This isn't my stop, but are you looking for the number 540?"
"Ya, I am."
"Jump in."

Answered prayers. She must have seen the frantic look on my face.

We continue on our way, stopping all along, people getting on and off. I see a coworker waiting on the corner for his bus. He must be here every morning at 6:10. I'd never realized he's always in the office before I am, even when I come "early". After crossing Lake Washington, we enter the city. Seattle is such an ecclectic place. Two women across the isle from me hibernate on their commute, like owls perched in a barn. I notice a man running past two construction workers at an intersection. His gray sweats match his oversized mustache and shaggy top, and his red bandana only accentuates his air-boxing. Overall, it's an impressive Rocky Balboa impression.

It's as much luck as anything that I finally made it to the train station. Heaven be thanked for more than a couple kind hearted bus drivers this morning.

New York Sour Disel

I'm not very great in discribing, great road trips. So i will relate our trip to New York through visuals.



















We had the best time, probably spent to much money, but who cares! we are rebels of the economy. I would recommend walking everywhere in NYC, your legs may hurt but your spirits will soar.
and it smells bad.

Austin and Dave led the way from Pike's to the shoreline where we would meet some friends. As we came across the bridge that spans Lake Washington, traffic clogged. Everyone was moving to the left lane, and we saw a car stopped in the right lane about a hundred yards ahead. Right after both of us passed the car, Austin swerved to a halt in the blocked right lane and Kyle jumped out, heroic. He jogged to the stopped Volvo, and started helping them change the flat that they had suffered in such an inopportune locale. He was nice, they were a little drunk, and the police arrived in little time to tell them they needed to move from traffic. The car was already in the air on the jack when the officer made this suggestion. I told him that it would take longer to lower the car and drive on the flat than to simply change the tire, so he ran back to his cruiser and got a tire iron. Not for me, for the wheel. In a couple of minutes, the spare was on, and Kyle and I were jogging back to our cars. 

It was early afternoon when we got to the park. Some old friends of Kyle's and people in Austin's new ward were there, enjoying the first beautiful Saturday of the year. We had chosen our weekend with laser precision. We sat around taking pictures and talking for an hour or so, then decided we should go downtown to watch the sunset. We hopped in cars once again, and got to Queene Anne Boulevard just as the sun descended into the Sound. We took pictures at the lookout, admiring the Seattle skyline and the colors of the clouds, reflecting the last sunlight of the day. 

Not much of consequence occurred after we left the park, we visited an old friend of McKenna's and Kyle's, then took back off for Austin's place, far later that we should have, considering our designs for attending early morning church before going to Snoqualmie Falls. 

Recommendation

I'd like for you to go on a road trip. I know gas is pricey, but it's a great experience, worth the gas if you can swing it. Here are some pointers.

Photojojo’s Ultimate Guide to Road Trip Photography