In my time since visiting Sturgis, I've had a lot of time to think about the motorcyclists I met there and the experiences I had. The biggest and most immediate impression the rally had on me was the night I spent in the bars. But of course, if you go anywhere, you're not going to see life in its most real and true sense in the bars.
Not to say I didn't have fun and meet interesting people at the bars. One conversation I had went like this:
"So where are you from?"
"Wisconsin, how bout you?"
"Mississippi. Did you ride out here then?"
"Yeah, I did, it was a long way..."
"Oh wow, congratulations, that's quite the achievement. I would have liked to do it, but it's such a long way, we just trailered our bikes and we ride them around the Hills here. What kind of bike do you ride?"
"Well, you may not have heard of it before... It's called a Trek. Trek 620 to be exact."
"Huh. Trek. Like T-R-E-K, huh? Nope, I've never heard of that. What kind of ride is it?"
"Well, it's like a cruiser, touring bike, ya know..."
"No, but is it a low rider, or a cruiser bike... that sort of thing?"
"Yeah, I guess its a like a cruiser. Use it for touring, you know?"
....... and this went on for a little bit until I didn't know what I was talking about anymore.....
"Ok, I gotta admit, my bike is unusual in that it doesn't have a motor... it's a bicycle."
"No way. And you rode it all the way out here??? I don't believe you. There's no way..."
... And this went on for a little while until I maybe had him convinced and he bought me a beer. In any case, the entire conversation was great to have - from discussing my life on the road to his life in Mississippi and the roads of the Black Hills and South Dakota.
The bikers I met on the way to the rally and ever since have been the most kind hearted and understanding people - even if they drive by me with noisy motors. They all have stories to share of long rides they have done, of living on the road and getting around on two wheels. Some are even old cyclists that went on bicycle journeys before bicycle touring was even a thing-cyclists who got tired of pedaling and resorted to the motor. All I can say is to keep pedaling on friends, let your legs do the work while your mind does the wandering, your heart does the loving, and your mouth does the drinking.
Link to Wyoming photos
https://picasaweb.google.com/forrest9/WindsOfWyoming?authuser=0&authkey=Gv1sRgCI7spt6-iICn8QE&feat=directlink
Link to my route so far:
http://maps.google.com/maps/ms?msid=203617401863148848612.0004aaa4f2b58845af1e4&msa=0&ll=44.087585%2C-100.151367&spn=25.384847%2C39.506836
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
Motorcycles and Mountains
"Are ya goin to Sturgis then?" we were asked.
"What's Sturgis?"
"You haven't heard of Sturgis? Wow, everyone's heard of Sturgis. Biggest motorcycle rally in the world!"
"But we're the non-motorized type..."
"It doesn't matter, it'd be worth it to check it out, you'll be so close..."
Still, being in close quarters with half a million motorcyclists wasn't so appealing to me. They're not the same sort of people as me-they share different views. When they pass me on the highway they give me a fright with their noisy motors and higher speeds. While I like to hear the insects buzzing and the birds chirping while I ride, they seem to enjoy the sound of petroleum burning in their engines.
"I think the louder the better. It sounds rough, like an animal does - pretty manly," said Gerald Roberts as reported by the Rapid City Journal's article "Decibel debate: Do loud pipes save lives?" He continued to say "We're a free country. Being a motorcyclist is all about freedom and doing what we're allowed to do."
Yet somehow, I found my idea of motorcycles start to change as I got closer to the Black Hills. I would meet them in places I'd stop and they all seemed like nice people. I'd get all sorts of comments, ranging from "You just need to put a motor on that," to "That's one way to beat the gas price," to "Now look at that, that's a real bike." One rider I talked to from Wisconsin told me "One day you'll make a list of things you want to see in your life. Sturgis will be on there."
By the time I got to Rapid City, I had pretty much made up my mind, I would ride 30 miles north in the evening and see what the big deal was about. The ride north was exhilerating. I could feel the energy in the air as I rode along the service road north. The sound of Harleys filled the air. A never-ending stream of motorbikes passed me on the freeway as I headed north. There was an 8 mile stretch I had to take along the interstate. As I hit 30mph on the downhill stretches - half the speed of the motorbikes - I really felt like I was sharing the road with them. I was going fast so I was a vehicle on their radar, rather than the silly guy hugging the pavement next to the ditch without a motor to power my two wheels.
When I got to Sturgis, the uniqueness of my form of transportation once again proved a huge benefit to me. While bikers were being charged $30/night to set up their tent on people's lawns downtown, I found a spot on a couple's driveway for free. As I got my gear sorted out I heard "Forrest, are you hungry?" Before I could muster up an answer, there was a plate with grapes, a ginger ale, and a huge piece of grilled chicken before me.
I headed down to the bars to see what all the crazy fuss was about. I had been warned "You're going to the bars? Watch out, the girls there are wild, you won't come back a virgin." What I found, however, was far different than what I had expected. Middle aged to older men that, in any other bar would be labeled as 'creepers,' stood around bars where girls in their early 20s dressed in bikinis flaunted themselves for dollar bills. I was disgusted. At least I knew that I'd never have to put Sturgis on my list of places to see - in fact, I could double cross it off with a permanent marker.
After falling asleep to the sound of motors, I awoke to a similar noise and got ready to leave. A brief encounter at the grocery store on my way out of town boosted my experience. A tall man, skinny with long shoulder length hair rode up to me on his low-rider bike. "Nice ride," he told me. After taking a closer look at his, I realized he was on a 'bicycle' as well. His, however, was a front wheel drive, battery powered, solar charged cycle. He claimed to be able to race Harleys from light to light in town. "20 years ago they were all talking about going green, man. I went green and nobody followed," the old hippie said in a grooved out voice. At least, it was nice to meet someone with a similar mindset.
As I biked further out of town, I saw a sign "Learn to Weld." Being slightly worried about the integrity of my front rack, I stopped and had the experts at Lincoln Electric take a look at the problem. About an hour later, I had two weld jobs done on the rack that was about to fall apart. Perhaps Sturgis had been a good idea in the end.
When I finally hit the road, I headed west to the historic town of Deadwood. The sound of motors filled the air of the Black Hills. An extremely sacred spot to the Lakota Sioux, the hills are literally a green bubble in the middle of brown arid plains. The hills finally came alive to me when I got on the Michelson bike trail in Deadwood - 108 miles along an old railway track. Immediately, I was carried away from the noise of the road and transported to the beauty of the hills. The trail followed a mountain stream up up up. I could hear the noise of the stream, saw fauns and bucks, birds and wild mountain flowers. I followed a kingfisher as he soared along the stream, searching for a morsel. The trail lead me over old railway bridges and through old tunnels, past mountain wetlands and meadows where cattle grazed and under rocky outcroppings that jutted hundreds of feet above me. I was in a state of euphoric bliss, on the verge of tears, realizing how much I missed the sound of silence and the sound of the forest.
That night I camped above Hill City, just off the bike trail in the Black Hills National Forest. It was a perfect night. No bugs bothered me as I made a quick dinner in the forest. I was in bed by 9pm. At 2am I woke up and stuck my head outside my tent. The Milky Way appeared above me like a great rift in the sky. Shooting stars shot above my head every 20-30 seconds. I could feel it, I was in a different world, lost in time and space with no thought about the constant drone of motors that filled the air miles away in the same sacred hills.
Should motorcycles be allowed to make noise? It's a controversy, one that is valid for debate and reflection. In the city, the sounds of motors, people's stereos and cars are noises that should be expected. When the noises of the city fill the air of the countryside, noise is a public issue. It's the econ 101 issue regarding the use of public resources. Motorcyclists should be respectful of the fact that, while they may enjoy the sound of their motors, many people searching for peace and solitude in the hills do not. It's not about "freedom and doing what we're allowed to do," but about sharing the beautiful resources of this country with eachother and being respectful of other people's methods of enjoyment - by motorcyclists and nature enthusiasts alike.
Regarding the Sturgis rally, for one week a year they bring thousands of dollars to the people of the Black Hills which allows many of the small towns to continue to exist. One week a year of noise in the Black Hills seems a decent price to pay in exchange for the money that is brought in.
"What's Sturgis?"
"You haven't heard of Sturgis? Wow, everyone's heard of Sturgis. Biggest motorcycle rally in the world!"
"But we're the non-motorized type..."
"It doesn't matter, it'd be worth it to check it out, you'll be so close..."
Still, being in close quarters with half a million motorcyclists wasn't so appealing to me. They're not the same sort of people as me-they share different views. When they pass me on the highway they give me a fright with their noisy motors and higher speeds. While I like to hear the insects buzzing and the birds chirping while I ride, they seem to enjoy the sound of petroleum burning in their engines.
"I think the louder the better. It sounds rough, like an animal does - pretty manly," said Gerald Roberts as reported by the Rapid City Journal's article "Decibel debate: Do loud pipes save lives?" He continued to say "We're a free country. Being a motorcyclist is all about freedom and doing what we're allowed to do."
Yet somehow, I found my idea of motorcycles start to change as I got closer to the Black Hills. I would meet them in places I'd stop and they all seemed like nice people. I'd get all sorts of comments, ranging from "You just need to put a motor on that," to "That's one way to beat the gas price," to "Now look at that, that's a real bike." One rider I talked to from Wisconsin told me "One day you'll make a list of things you want to see in your life. Sturgis will be on there."
By the time I got to Rapid City, I had pretty much made up my mind, I would ride 30 miles north in the evening and see what the big deal was about. The ride north was exhilerating. I could feel the energy in the air as I rode along the service road north. The sound of Harleys filled the air. A never-ending stream of motorbikes passed me on the freeway as I headed north. There was an 8 mile stretch I had to take along the interstate. As I hit 30mph on the downhill stretches - half the speed of the motorbikes - I really felt like I was sharing the road with them. I was going fast so I was a vehicle on their radar, rather than the silly guy hugging the pavement next to the ditch without a motor to power my two wheels.
When I got to Sturgis, the uniqueness of my form of transportation once again proved a huge benefit to me. While bikers were being charged $30/night to set up their tent on people's lawns downtown, I found a spot on a couple's driveway for free. As I got my gear sorted out I heard "Forrest, are you hungry?" Before I could muster up an answer, there was a plate with grapes, a ginger ale, and a huge piece of grilled chicken before me.
I headed down to the bars to see what all the crazy fuss was about. I had been warned "You're going to the bars? Watch out, the girls there are wild, you won't come back a virgin." What I found, however, was far different than what I had expected. Middle aged to older men that, in any other bar would be labeled as 'creepers,' stood around bars where girls in their early 20s dressed in bikinis flaunted themselves for dollar bills. I was disgusted. At least I knew that I'd never have to put Sturgis on my list of places to see - in fact, I could double cross it off with a permanent marker.
After falling asleep to the sound of motors, I awoke to a similar noise and got ready to leave. A brief encounter at the grocery store on my way out of town boosted my experience. A tall man, skinny with long shoulder length hair rode up to me on his low-rider bike. "Nice ride," he told me. After taking a closer look at his, I realized he was on a 'bicycle' as well. His, however, was a front wheel drive, battery powered, solar charged cycle. He claimed to be able to race Harleys from light to light in town. "20 years ago they were all talking about going green, man. I went green and nobody followed," the old hippie said in a grooved out voice. At least, it was nice to meet someone with a similar mindset.
As I biked further out of town, I saw a sign "Learn to Weld." Being slightly worried about the integrity of my front rack, I stopped and had the experts at Lincoln Electric take a look at the problem. About an hour later, I had two weld jobs done on the rack that was about to fall apart. Perhaps Sturgis had been a good idea in the end.
When I finally hit the road, I headed west to the historic town of Deadwood. The sound of motors filled the air of the Black Hills. An extremely sacred spot to the Lakota Sioux, the hills are literally a green bubble in the middle of brown arid plains. The hills finally came alive to me when I got on the Michelson bike trail in Deadwood - 108 miles along an old railway track. Immediately, I was carried away from the noise of the road and transported to the beauty of the hills. The trail followed a mountain stream up up up. I could hear the noise of the stream, saw fauns and bucks, birds and wild mountain flowers. I followed a kingfisher as he soared along the stream, searching for a morsel. The trail lead me over old railway bridges and through old tunnels, past mountain wetlands and meadows where cattle grazed and under rocky outcroppings that jutted hundreds of feet above me. I was in a state of euphoric bliss, on the verge of tears, realizing how much I missed the sound of silence and the sound of the forest.
That night I camped above Hill City, just off the bike trail in the Black Hills National Forest. It was a perfect night. No bugs bothered me as I made a quick dinner in the forest. I was in bed by 9pm. At 2am I woke up and stuck my head outside my tent. The Milky Way appeared above me like a great rift in the sky. Shooting stars shot above my head every 20-30 seconds. I could feel it, I was in a different world, lost in time and space with no thought about the constant drone of motors that filled the air miles away in the same sacred hills.
Should motorcycles be allowed to make noise? It's a controversy, one that is valid for debate and reflection. In the city, the sounds of motors, people's stereos and cars are noises that should be expected. When the noises of the city fill the air of the countryside, noise is a public issue. It's the econ 101 issue regarding the use of public resources. Motorcyclists should be respectful of the fact that, while they may enjoy the sound of their motors, many people searching for peace and solitude in the hills do not. It's not about "freedom and doing what we're allowed to do," but about sharing the beautiful resources of this country with eachother and being respectful of other people's methods of enjoyment - by motorcyclists and nature enthusiasts alike.
Regarding the Sturgis rally, for one week a year they bring thousands of dollars to the people of the Black Hills which allows many of the small towns to continue to exist. One week a year of noise in the Black Hills seems a decent price to pay in exchange for the money that is brought in.
Sunday, August 7, 2011
Badlands by Bicycle
The National Park system, it truly was the United State’s best idea. Where else can you find foreign visitors, license plates from all 50 states, large families with kids, senior citizens, bikers, and kids in their 20s all enjoying and learning about the same place? The environmental education that the parks offer to people is outstanding, and I really hope that people take the messages home with them. Yet it is slightly upsetting to see RVs pulling an SUV through the park-I guess you can’t convince everyone.
The amount of people that the parks attract is wonderful, but being one in a crowd like that-not so fun. Where is a person to go? To the backcountry... In countless national parks I’ve had the same experience. The touristy places that attract throngs of people are way overrated, far better to get out on the trail and make your own discoveries, which is exactly what I did. I locked my bike up at a trailhead, changed my shorts, and took the path less traveled. Somehow I was transported from crowds of people to being back, completely on my own in the middle of the badlands. I saw birds again, watched hesitantly/hopefully for rattlesnakes, prairie dogs chirped, vultures soared the heights and the grassland was alive. The path lead me up river paths where, just the night before, water had gushed down small waterfalls, became stagnant in small pools, and eroded away at the small canyon’s sides in its rush to shed its potential energy and get to the White River. At the end of the 6 mile, one-way hike, I got a ride from some fellow hikers from South Dakota back to my bike.
Biking through the badlands proved to be a harder ordeal than I had anticipated. My destination was the Sage Creek “primitive camping” site, 34 miles from the visitor center. (Primitive, I thought!?!! That’s how I’ve been living! It’s not primitive…). Going through the passes as the scenic road wound itself up and down the ancient, eroded lake-bed brought my bike down to its lowest “granny” gear. Cheers and thumbs up from
passing car windows gave me the energy I needed to complete the climbs. One “bikers r sexy” sign from a passing Subaru (with two young women in the front seats) completely made my day and powered me to the campsite. The loaded touring bike completely stuck out and it seemed like every other person wanted to know my story and where I was going.
As for now, I met up with Brint in Rapid City and we’re deciding our next move. Sturgis seems like a good idea, but we’ll be in Wyoming and headed west through the least densely populated state in the US soon enough.
Photos of the plains at:
https://picasaweb.google.com/forrest9/TheGreatPlains?authuser=0&authkey=Gv1sRgCPeprIDd1fGUiQE&feat=directlink
sorry for the disorder, they got disorganized during the upload...
The amount of people that the parks attract is wonderful, but being one in a crowd like that-not so fun. Where is a person to go? To the backcountry... In countless national parks I’ve had the same experience. The touristy places that attract throngs of people are way overrated, far better to get out on the trail and make your own discoveries, which is exactly what I did. I locked my bike up at a trailhead, changed my shorts, and took the path less traveled. Somehow I was transported from crowds of people to being back, completely on my own in the middle of the badlands. I saw birds again, watched hesitantly/hopefully for rattlesnakes, prairie dogs chirped, vultures soared the heights and the grassland was alive. The path lead me up river paths where, just the night before, water had gushed down small waterfalls, became stagnant in small pools, and eroded away at the small canyon’s sides in its rush to shed its potential energy and get to the White River. At the end of the 6 mile, one-way hike, I got a ride from some fellow hikers from South Dakota back to my bike.
Biking through the badlands proved to be a harder ordeal than I had anticipated. My destination was the Sage Creek “primitive camping” site, 34 miles from the visitor center. (Primitive, I thought!?!! That’s how I’ve been living! It’s not primitive…). Going through the passes as the scenic road wound itself up and down the ancient, eroded lake-bed brought my bike down to its lowest “granny” gear. Cheers and thumbs up from
passing car windows gave me the energy I needed to complete the climbs. One “bikers r sexy” sign from a passing Subaru (with two young women in the front seats) completely made my day and powered me to the campsite. The loaded touring bike completely stuck out and it seemed like every other person wanted to know my story and where I was going.
As for now, I met up with Brint in Rapid City and we’re deciding our next move. Sturgis seems like a good idea, but we’ll be in Wyoming and headed west through the least densely populated state in the US soon enough.
Photos of the plains at:
https://picasaweb.google.com/forrest9/TheGreatPlains?authuser=0&authkey=Gv1sRgCPeprIDd1fGUiQE&feat=directlink
sorry for the disorder, they got disorganized during the upload...
First encounter with the West
As we headed west of Pierre, the landscape changed drastically. The large expanses of corn and soybeans disappeared, and we instead found hills covered in prairie grasses, with far fewer grazing cattle to entertain us. If I didn’t find the middle of no-where before, certainly I found it west of Pierre. Not to say that it didn’t have its own beauty, by all means it did. The hills, while they created an additional challenge for us as we began to use our climbing muscles again, stretched as far as the eye could see. As I climbed, I lost all knowledge and sight of the expanse of land that lay around me. But when I summited the small hill, immense grasslands and large, rolling hills swept the landscape before me. The road went down, up, down, up, down, until finally up a bigger hill and out of sight.
We thought that on the road west of Pierre we would be relatively secluded and on our own. A sign saying “next services 66 miles” confirmed our belief that we would really be on our own. But the day we left Pierre -Friday- happened to be the day before a little biker rally in the small town of Sturgis, SD, about 30 miles north of Rapid City. For those of you not familiar with this event (I wasn’t until we got to South Dakota…), from what I’ve since gathered it’s the biggest motorcycle rally in the nation. The small town of Sturgis (roughly 2000 people) increases by at least 10,000 bikers, but I’ve heard numbers far higher than that... So instead of being relatively on our own for the 66 miles, we instead hugged the shoulder the whole way, being passed by countless numbers of loaded motorcycles headed to Sturgis. I guess I don’t have such a sophisticated appreciation or understanding of motors, but it seems like the louder the bike, the better it is. The sounds of cicadas and prairie birds was constantly drowned out by the buzz of engines.
We rolled into Midland at about 3pm, a town that consists of a couple of bars and a convenience mart. The tap beers were only $1.50 which turned out to be very hard to turn down after my second beer with the knowledge that we still had 30 miles to pedal to get to our intended destination for the day, Philip. Fortunately we had a tailwind all the way to Philip (pop. ~800) and got there by 5pm, just in time for happy hour in the largest town for 100 miles in all directions. If you’re ever near Philip, SD on a Friday night, the
Saloon 78 is the place to be. There was a steak roast-$15 for a GIGANTIC cut of local ribeye with all you can eat garlic bread and potato wedges. The grills got set up and you grill the meat yourself. We ate until we were thoroughly stuffed and retired to play pool the rest of the night.
After Philip, Brint decided to go to Sturgis to pick up his bike shoes which his neighbor had brought out for him. I headed south into the Badlands National Park.
We thought that on the road west of Pierre we would be relatively secluded and on our own. A sign saying “next services 66 miles” confirmed our belief that we would really be on our own. But the day we left Pierre -Friday- happened to be the day before a little biker rally in the small town of Sturgis, SD, about 30 miles north of Rapid City. For those of you not familiar with this event (I wasn’t until we got to South Dakota…), from what I’ve since gathered it’s the biggest motorcycle rally in the nation. The small town of Sturgis (roughly 2000 people) increases by at least 10,000 bikers, but I’ve heard numbers far higher than that... So instead of being relatively on our own for the 66 miles, we instead hugged the shoulder the whole way, being passed by countless numbers of loaded motorcycles headed to Sturgis. I guess I don’t have such a sophisticated appreciation or understanding of motors, but it seems like the louder the bike, the better it is. The sounds of cicadas and prairie birds was constantly drowned out by the buzz of engines.
We rolled into Midland at about 3pm, a town that consists of a couple of bars and a convenience mart. The tap beers were only $1.50 which turned out to be very hard to turn down after my second beer with the knowledge that we still had 30 miles to pedal to get to our intended destination for the day, Philip. Fortunately we had a tailwind all the way to Philip (pop. ~800) and got there by 5pm, just in time for happy hour in the largest town for 100 miles in all directions. If you’re ever near Philip, SD on a Friday night, the
Saloon 78 is the place to be. There was a steak roast-$15 for a GIGANTIC cut of local ribeye with all you can eat garlic bread and potato wedges. The grills got set up and you grill the meat yourself. We ate until we were thoroughly stuffed and retired to play pool the rest of the night.
After Philip, Brint decided to go to Sturgis to pick up his bike shoes which his neighbor had brought out for him. I headed south into the Badlands National Park.
Thursday, August 4, 2011
Middle of no-where?
When I set out from Wisconsin, I didn't know what to expect from the plains states of the mid-west. I'd been through them too many times to count behind the wheel of a car, or jammed into the backseat staring at endless fields out of the window that never seemed to end. No trees, no turns in the highway and with barely a hill in sight, I was worried that biking across the plains would be a similar experience to driving. But I tried to keep my hopes up, I tried to avoid having expectations which, without failure, taint an experience to a point where an enjoyable time can be viewed as a failure. I tried to keep an open attitude toward the state and the experience. What will the people be like? Will the backroads really be as bad as the interstate? So we ventured across the South Dakota border from Minnesota, leaving behind flat acres and acres of corn and soybeans, and finding thousands more acres of corn and soybeans. Now however, the ancient eroded landscape rolled before us so we had hills to climb, and the wind, which lacked impeding structures in the surface of the earth like trees and mountains, blew with regularity into our faces. The hot sun rained down on us, bringing the temperature of the earth to the upper 90's, with a humidity of 70+%. Brint's thermometer on a keychain read 113 degrees at one point and, though we knew this was incorrect, the number still frightened us. While biking, it's hard to know exactly how hot it is. The constant wind on your face keeps sweat evaporating quickly, so you can't get an accurate feeling for the temperature outside until you take a break, sit in the shade, and walk back out into the sun. Then the heat hits you with its full force and tells you "watch out, don't even try it, go inside and drink a margarita. Or two...
South Dakota, however, did not remain the unlivable, desolate, middle-of-nowhere place that I was afraid of. Instead, the landscape came alive with geological formations, prairie, and wildlife. Along state highway 14, we discovered many small towns with life of their own. People that are raised out here seem to come to enjoy life in the small towns where everyone knows everyone and you can do as you please. We came across the town of Laura Ingalls Wilder in De Soto, and spent a long time trying to figure out what drew pioneers to such a landscape. It wasn't until I read a quote of Laura's that I really understood. It said that the prairie looks the same everywhere you look, but if you take a little time, it holds many wonders and secrets that can only be found with patience.
From Huron, we took the smallest country roads west through the prairie. We didn't see a single town for about 70 miles and about 20 cars over the course of the day. When we finally rolled into what we thought would be a small town - Mac's Corner - we found it was nothing more than a small convenience store and gas station. After going through 5 liters of water over the course of the day though, we filled up, bought some food and rolled another 30 miles to camp on the banks of the Missouri river.
The country roads along the way turned out to be the best decision we'd made for directions. Although it could have been because of the cooler temperatures and lower humidity (85degrees and 50%), I was pretty sure it was because of the landscape. The hills rolled onward so much so that we experienced our first climbs since leaving the hills of Wisconsin. A small "mountain" range loomed ahead of us all morning and, while it couldn't have been more than 200ft high, at least it was something to look at as we rolled up and down the small hills of the state. At the bottom of every hill was a wetland, or an eroded river valley. The hills around the river having been eroded for thousands of years before becoming what we have today. Meandering rivers wind themselves through tiny river valleys, disappearing from view in what appears to be a sure uphill rise. The ground water dynamics of the area seem visable even from the surface, as one stream's groundwater surely flows into the stream on the other side of the small hill.
Wetlands bring an abundance of life, and the feeling of it was palpable in the air when we stopped next to a watery area. Birds wouldn't cease chirping, waterfowl would half fly, half swim away from the roadside through their algae filled home. The grasses of the prairie sang with life as crickets, grasshoppers, and prairie birds would jump, chirp, and sing the blades of grass to life. At one point, I followed a red-tailed hawk as he soared across the prairie, about 10ft off the ground, in search of a morsel to eat. Killdear flew on either side of the road, and entire flocks of red-winged blackbirds soared by. Am I really about to admit this online? I wished I knew more bird species...
The cornfields and soybeans gave way to prairie fields where cattle grazed away. Small ponds and wetlands appear in the middle of the driest fields giving cattle a perfect place to cool themselves off in the heat of the day. The cattle out here have a different sense about them than the cows in Wisconsin. When we stop to take a picture, they sense something is not right, and it doesn't take long for one of them to trigger the herd to go galloping away from us in fear of the weird creatures that for some reason stopped on the road instead of passing straight by.
Indeed, in the grasslands of South Dakota, we didn't find the middle-of-nowhere. We found life. Life in the fields, in the wetlands, and even in the rocks in the geology of the area. What a beautiful place and a privilage to be able to enjoy. Next time you drive through the plains, take a moment, slow down, and think about life slightly differently, the way the prairies of the plains are meant to be appreciated, before you cruise on to the next state border.
South Dakota, however, did not remain the unlivable, desolate, middle-of-nowhere place that I was afraid of. Instead, the landscape came alive with geological formations, prairie, and wildlife. Along state highway 14, we discovered many small towns with life of their own. People that are raised out here seem to come to enjoy life in the small towns where everyone knows everyone and you can do as you please. We came across the town of Laura Ingalls Wilder in De Soto, and spent a long time trying to figure out what drew pioneers to such a landscape. It wasn't until I read a quote of Laura's that I really understood. It said that the prairie looks the same everywhere you look, but if you take a little time, it holds many wonders and secrets that can only be found with patience.
From Huron, we took the smallest country roads west through the prairie. We didn't see a single town for about 70 miles and about 20 cars over the course of the day. When we finally rolled into what we thought would be a small town - Mac's Corner - we found it was nothing more than a small convenience store and gas station. After going through 5 liters of water over the course of the day though, we filled up, bought some food and rolled another 30 miles to camp on the banks of the Missouri river.
The country roads along the way turned out to be the best decision we'd made for directions. Although it could have been because of the cooler temperatures and lower humidity (85degrees and 50%), I was pretty sure it was because of the landscape. The hills rolled onward so much so that we experienced our first climbs since leaving the hills of Wisconsin. A small "mountain" range loomed ahead of us all morning and, while it couldn't have been more than 200ft high, at least it was something to look at as we rolled up and down the small hills of the state. At the bottom of every hill was a wetland, or an eroded river valley. The hills around the river having been eroded for thousands of years before becoming what we have today. Meandering rivers wind themselves through tiny river valleys, disappearing from view in what appears to be a sure uphill rise. The ground water dynamics of the area seem visable even from the surface, as one stream's groundwater surely flows into the stream on the other side of the small hill.
Wetlands bring an abundance of life, and the feeling of it was palpable in the air when we stopped next to a watery area. Birds wouldn't cease chirping, waterfowl would half fly, half swim away from the roadside through their algae filled home. The grasses of the prairie sang with life as crickets, grasshoppers, and prairie birds would jump, chirp, and sing the blades of grass to life. At one point, I followed a red-tailed hawk as he soared across the prairie, about 10ft off the ground, in search of a morsel to eat. Killdear flew on either side of the road, and entire flocks of red-winged blackbirds soared by. Am I really about to admit this online? I wished I knew more bird species...
The cornfields and soybeans gave way to prairie fields where cattle grazed away. Small ponds and wetlands appear in the middle of the driest fields giving cattle a perfect place to cool themselves off in the heat of the day. The cattle out here have a different sense about them than the cows in Wisconsin. When we stop to take a picture, they sense something is not right, and it doesn't take long for one of them to trigger the herd to go galloping away from us in fear of the weird creatures that for some reason stopped on the road instead of passing straight by.
Indeed, in the grasslands of South Dakota, we didn't find the middle-of-nowhere. We found life. Life in the fields, in the wetlands, and even in the rocks in the geology of the area. What a beautiful place and a privilage to be able to enjoy. Next time you drive through the plains, take a moment, slow down, and think about life slightly differently, the way the prairies of the plains are meant to be appreciated, before you cruise on to the next state border.
Monday, August 1, 2011
Being Homeless
Being on the road is, in a sense, being homeless. It is a nomadic lifestyle; I have what I need to survive on my bicycle and stay alive by visiting towns, markets, grocery stores, bars, and right now, a public library. I see now why the Madison Central public library is a beacon to the homeless of Madison. Being on the road, I feel much closer to the homeless. While I don't lack financially speaking, or have a drug addiction, I don't have a place to shower at the end of the day, there's no guarranteed roof above my head (although my tent promises to be a good substitute now that I re-sealed the previously leaky seems...), no air conditioned haven free of mosquitoes, ants, flies and bugs.
I sat reflecting upon this idea today as I sat on the curb of a Hy-vee supermarket. I had just been inside the chilled sanctuary walking the isles packed with tasty morsels of food that my tummy cried for at every step. It was a difficult ride this morning, there was a strong wind from the south, which resulted in a headwind since we intended to travel south to get to Brookings, SD. I emerged from the cold supermarket with more than I had intended on purchasing; some meat and a tomato to make a sandwich with the bread, cheese and avacado I already had, a bag of chips, some yogurt, and a bar of reeses chocolate which melted within 5 minutes of being outside, inspite of the fact that I had placed it in the shade. Forecasts said 95 degrees was the high, with only 70% humidity, indeed a better day than conditions we had previously experienced. But stepping into the sun after being inside the supermarket yielded a cry of disbelief at the temperature we had just been biking through. After aclimatizing myself to the refeshing feel of the air conditioned supermarket, the sun and humidity was almost too much to bear. Yet bear it I did, and I sat on the curb next to my bike like I had the previous day and they day before that, eating my food, watching people entering and leaving the store, looking hot, sweaty, and extremely dirty. My white shirt, although it had been washed, still bears the mud stains from the pig wrestling the week before. Sitting on the curb, receiving funny looks from passers-by (or worse, no acknowledgement at all), gave me feelings of what I thought the homeless might feel on occasion.
A couple days ago, in Fairfax, MN, we had a good homeless experience. It was our second day on the road after leaving Erinn's in Lakeville and we were shot. It's amazing how civilization sort of just drops off the map. Within a couple of hours (not many miles on bicycle...) the people and towns we passed through went from Minneapolis suburbs to "You're from Wisconsin? oh, I went to Wisconsin once! Where ya headed?" "to the west..." "No, what town ya headed to? There's not much out there..." Indeed, there wasn't much out there, and before we knew it, we were in the middle of no-where (although some would call it Minnesota ;). We had the choice of a gravel road south, or a gravel road west, both of which didn't so much wind their way, but just go straight as an arrow past the fields of corn and soybeans. At least the monotony made directions easy...
About 35 miles after leaving a small town where we filled up our water bottles at the only store-the bar-we reached Fairfax and went straight to the grocery store. It was heaven on earth. Air conditioned, and stocked with everything a town of 1200 people should need. Before we had left the store we were almost done with a box of 6 ice cream snicker bars, and sitting just outside we feasted on watermelon, apples, blackberries, and bananas with peanut butter. It wasn't long before a young lady asked us what we were doing and why on earth were we in Fairfax, MN. She was there for her sister-in-law's wedding reception that evening. After a brief talk she said goodbye and walked away, only to come back after she'd got to her car. "Oh my, I almost forgot," she said. Brint and I both thought the same thing... she had forgotten to invite us to the wedding... "Here take this and buy yourselves a hamburger or something," and after trying to refuse accepting it, we took the $20 in her hand with gratitude. Maybe our scruffy looks (especially Brint's mustache) and stories to share are worth something to some people-like the story the homeless man was worth something to me. It's just a matter of starting a conversation with somebody and the possibilities are enormous.
As for us, we're headed west now, Pierre is the next major city we plan to hit on the Missouri river, maybe not too far away if the temperatures actually drop to a more bearable level.
I sat reflecting upon this idea today as I sat on the curb of a Hy-vee supermarket. I had just been inside the chilled sanctuary walking the isles packed with tasty morsels of food that my tummy cried for at every step. It was a difficult ride this morning, there was a strong wind from the south, which resulted in a headwind since we intended to travel south to get to Brookings, SD. I emerged from the cold supermarket with more than I had intended on purchasing; some meat and a tomato to make a sandwich with the bread, cheese and avacado I already had, a bag of chips, some yogurt, and a bar of reeses chocolate which melted within 5 minutes of being outside, inspite of the fact that I had placed it in the shade. Forecasts said 95 degrees was the high, with only 70% humidity, indeed a better day than conditions we had previously experienced. But stepping into the sun after being inside the supermarket yielded a cry of disbelief at the temperature we had just been biking through. After aclimatizing myself to the refeshing feel of the air conditioned supermarket, the sun and humidity was almost too much to bear. Yet bear it I did, and I sat on the curb next to my bike like I had the previous day and they day before that, eating my food, watching people entering and leaving the store, looking hot, sweaty, and extremely dirty. My white shirt, although it had been washed, still bears the mud stains from the pig wrestling the week before. Sitting on the curb, receiving funny looks from passers-by (or worse, no acknowledgement at all), gave me feelings of what I thought the homeless might feel on occasion.
A couple days ago, in Fairfax, MN, we had a good homeless experience. It was our second day on the road after leaving Erinn's in Lakeville and we were shot. It's amazing how civilization sort of just drops off the map. Within a couple of hours (not many miles on bicycle...) the people and towns we passed through went from Minneapolis suburbs to "You're from Wisconsin? oh, I went to Wisconsin once! Where ya headed?" "to the west..." "No, what town ya headed to? There's not much out there..." Indeed, there wasn't much out there, and before we knew it, we were in the middle of no-where (although some would call it Minnesota ;). We had the choice of a gravel road south, or a gravel road west, both of which didn't so much wind their way, but just go straight as an arrow past the fields of corn and soybeans. At least the monotony made directions easy...
About 35 miles after leaving a small town where we filled up our water bottles at the only store-the bar-we reached Fairfax and went straight to the grocery store. It was heaven on earth. Air conditioned, and stocked with everything a town of 1200 people should need. Before we had left the store we were almost done with a box of 6 ice cream snicker bars, and sitting just outside we feasted on watermelon, apples, blackberries, and bananas with peanut butter. It wasn't long before a young lady asked us what we were doing and why on earth were we in Fairfax, MN. She was there for her sister-in-law's wedding reception that evening. After a brief talk she said goodbye and walked away, only to come back after she'd got to her car. "Oh my, I almost forgot," she said. Brint and I both thought the same thing... she had forgotten to invite us to the wedding... "Here take this and buy yourselves a hamburger or something," and after trying to refuse accepting it, we took the $20 in her hand with gratitude. Maybe our scruffy looks (especially Brint's mustache) and stories to share are worth something to some people-like the story the homeless man was worth something to me. It's just a matter of starting a conversation with somebody and the possibilities are enormous.
As for us, we're headed west now, Pierre is the next major city we plan to hit on the Missouri river, maybe not too far away if the temperatures actually drop to a more bearable level.
A brief encounter in Minneapolis
As we biked at 11:30pm to Amanda's place in uptown to stay the night , we passed a gas station on Lake St near the Mercado Central, and the natural inclination was to go in and buy an ice cream. Inspite of the neighborhood being slightly sketchy, we (maybe it was more me than Brint) gave into temptation and I soon emerged from the store with two ice cream treats in my hands. At that moment, a well built, slightly scruffy looking black man came up to us and started conversation. "Where ya'll from, where you biking to this late at night, across the country or something?" Of course, we had to tell him we actually were biking across the country, even though all our bags were at Erinn's in Lakeville, 30 miles away. When we told him we were from Madison he used the opportunity to connect with us; "Oh, I'm from Wisconsin too! Grew up in Milwaukee!" While I do my best to accept all people, no matter how they look, my brain was squirming with bad thoughts. 'Uh oh, maybe he'll just keep talking to us while his friends get in a better position to mug us,' I kept looking around to make sure we were still alone. After giving us a very brief description of his current life situation-homeless in Minneapolis-he asked for money. While I also don't give money to homeless people very often, I felt quite guilty that I was about to indulge in an ice cream treat, while he was going to sleep on the street somewhere, so I gave him a dollar.
I thought this would be the end of the encounter when he walked into the store and we started to bike off. But a few moments later he came out of the store yelling "hey madison, madison." We obliged and turned around to see what else he wanted. As he came up to us again, more thoughts raced through my mind. 'Why does he keep reaching behind his back? Is there a gun or a knife in his back pocket? Did he just call his friends now that he knows he found two clueless white kids with wallets?' Instead, he burst into a series of apologies; "I'm sorry, I don't like to beg, I don't really ever do it, I feel really bad about that," and further description of his current situation; "When I sleep at the salvation army, they kick us at 6am every day and tell us we can sleep there, but we can't stay there, and they kick us out, so now I pay an old man $25 a night to sleep on his porch, I don't know why I pay that much, that's just the way the deal worked out at the time." He then asked us if he could share something personal with us. We were very taken aback, still uneasy about trusting the man in that moment, but we agreed to hear what he had to say. What proceeded, was a 5 minute poem/rap/rhyme about what his life was like. Listening to him was like looking through the eyes of that man as he talked about his childhood as an orphan, addiction to drugs, need for a place to sleep at night, and his thoughts as he entered the darkest places of a city to sleep-dark corners of old abandoned houses that young children run quickly by during daylight hours in fear of what lies within. When he was finished, we thanked him, and I was happy to give him three more dollars, the last of the money I had on me. I told him he should try to get the poem published-if he spent all day thinking about the lines, they must be worth something, maybe even enough to get by without sleeping at the salvation army. As we left, I asked for his name, "Chris" he replied. "I'll look for your music," I said, and we were gone, biking down the greenway and completely shocked about what had happened.
I thought this would be the end of the encounter when he walked into the store and we started to bike off. But a few moments later he came out of the store yelling "hey madison, madison." We obliged and turned around to see what else he wanted. As he came up to us again, more thoughts raced through my mind. 'Why does he keep reaching behind his back? Is there a gun or a knife in his back pocket? Did he just call his friends now that he knows he found two clueless white kids with wallets?' Instead, he burst into a series of apologies; "I'm sorry, I don't like to beg, I don't really ever do it, I feel really bad about that," and further description of his current situation; "When I sleep at the salvation army, they kick us at 6am every day and tell us we can sleep there, but we can't stay there, and they kick us out, so now I pay an old man $25 a night to sleep on his porch, I don't know why I pay that much, that's just the way the deal worked out at the time." He then asked us if he could share something personal with us. We were very taken aback, still uneasy about trusting the man in that moment, but we agreed to hear what he had to say. What proceeded, was a 5 minute poem/rap/rhyme about what his life was like. Listening to him was like looking through the eyes of that man as he talked about his childhood as an orphan, addiction to drugs, need for a place to sleep at night, and his thoughts as he entered the darkest places of a city to sleep-dark corners of old abandoned houses that young children run quickly by during daylight hours in fear of what lies within. When he was finished, we thanked him, and I was happy to give him three more dollars, the last of the money I had on me. I told him he should try to get the poem published-if he spent all day thinking about the lines, they must be worth something, maybe even enough to get by without sleeping at the salvation army. As we left, I asked for his name, "Chris" he replied. "I'll look for your music," I said, and we were gone, biking down the greenway and completely shocked about what had happened.
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