I’ve been a dad for a week now, so I now know a few things about fatigue. For instance, it can be caused by 2am feeding sessions followed by 3am diaper changing sessions. It can also come from all of the visits we’ve been having from family and friends which stretch well into nap time. I might have to establish—and strictly enforce—visiting hours so Mags can get some sleep. Fatigue also comes from cycling, and I don’t just mean riding your bike. I’m talking here about the periodic loading and unloading of a material, for example, the aluminum in the fork on my cyclocross bike.
I like to ride my cyclocross bike this time of year because most of the trails are still muddy or covered in snow, and with all the rain we get in the spring, it’s nice that I can fit fenders on it to keep my arse somewhat dry when I ride on the road. Last week, in one of my final pre-fatherhood rides, I went up Emigration Canyon and beyond to see how high the snowline was. What by all accounts was an uneventful ride was almost ruined at the top of Little Mountain Pass when I saw that my odometer had changed to 9,700 miles.
“Wow, 9,700 miles”, I thought as I descended into Emigration Canyon at 30 mph. “I’ll turn the thing over in just a few weeks”, I thought as I rode over a few bumps and watched, as I have been doing on this bike for eleven years, my fork flex up and down. I used to joke that I get almost an inch of travel out of it. Then I thought about the Strength of Materials class I took in college where I learned that aluminum has no fatigue limit, meaning that in can develop microscopic cracks that enlarge where loads are applied repeatedly. Eventually the crack becomes so large that sudden fracture of the material occurs. Fellow enginerds wanting a geekier explanation of this phenomenon can scratch that itch over at the Sabrosa website because, thank goodness, I’m not that kind of engineer.
Now exceeding 40 mph I thought back to all the great rides I’d done on my cyclocross bike. I rode it on my longest day on a bike—211 miles from Seattle to Portland. I loaded it up and toured the San Juan Islands on it. I’ve raced cyclocross on it. I’ve ridden it around the Great Salt Lake twice. I’ve put countless (well, 9,700 miles actually) miles commuting to and from work. It’s always been my go-to bike in the worst weather because I wanted to preserve my road and mountain bikes. Rain, snow, salty roads, tours, muddy cyclocross courses, I’ve ridden it in some of the worst conditions possible.
What do I do? Is 10,000 miles too much stress on an aluminum fork (not to mention the aluminum frame)? Is it time to retire one of my favorite bikes? A sudden failure of my fork at 40 mph, or 40 miles into the west desert could cause my boy to grow up fatherless. [I could probably survive a sudden fork failure 40 minutes into a cyclocross race, so should I save the bike for racing only?]
Sometime while descending the canyon I convinced myself that 9,700 miles is a lot less than 10,000 miles and I am somehow safe for another 300 miles. So when I got to the mouth of the canyon I turned onto the Bonneville Shoreline Trail for a little single track on my ‘cross bike with skinny tires.
Anyone want to buy a used cyclocross fork?
Vince is my best friend from college. After our graduation we both went to grad school, Vince to Indiana and me to Seattle. Since then he’s lived in Texas, Arizona and Washington. Despite all that distance between us, he and I manage I go backpacking once or twice every year. Mags usually comes too and Vince’s wife Kylee joins us as often as she can.
In August 2009 we hiked through Death Hollow, a tributary to the Escalante River in south-central Utah. Death Hollow is a slot canyon, meaning that the walls are too steep to climb out in most places, and it has a good size stream (huge by desert standards) flowing through it. There is no trail so instead of fighting your way through the tamarisk and willows, you just walk in the stream where you can, and swim where you can’t. Over the years, we’ve perfected a method for keeping our equipment dry. We pack everything we want to keep dry in river bags then slide the river bags into our packs. When we come to a deep pool we just take off our packs, throw them in the water and swim behind them. Our packs get soaked but our equipment stays dry. No matter how much I do this I am amazed every time how what feels like such a heavy burden on my back can stay afloat in the water. I always hesitate for a moment before throwing it in the pool, but our packs float every time. In fact, they float so well that Mags prefers using hers as a raft more than swimming behind it.
Like most desert streams, the water in Death Hollow is muddy, like coffee with double cream. Walking downstream the way we were, we couldn’t see where we were stepping. We were walking single file with me in front in water was about ankle deep. We were probably talking about Andy Skurka, whom we had med that spring on a trip in Hackberry Canyon when I stepped into a hole. This was no normal hole. Mags says she watched me completely disappear under the water. I never felt the bottom. Fortunately my buoyant backpack brought me to the surface, but unfortunately it was forcing me facedown into the water. Thinking quickly, I unfastened my hip belt and tried to wriggle out of my pack, but my sternum strap was still fastened. Quick thoughts are not always wise thoughts and the result was that my pack floated higher and pushed me deeper into the water. My sternum strap slid from my chest up to my neck and I struggled to breathe and flailed wildly to keep my head above water.
Without hesitation Vince dropped his backpack and jumped into the pool. Mags says that he also disappeared under the water. When he came up he pushed me and my pack closer to the edge where Mags was able to help me get my pack off and then pull us both out of the water. It was over as fast as it started and we all sat on the bank catching our breath and wondering just how close I had come to drowning. In hindsight, jumping in after me was probably not the smartest thing Vince could have done. It's possible that I could have become so panicked that I drowned him and me both. Instead he might have been able to pull me in from the bank. But we'll never know, and that is not what this story is about anyway. Vince jumped in without hesitation. Without any thought for his own safety. He didn’t take time to analyze all of the possibilities.
In a few days I’m going to become a father. Want proof? Check out this photo of Vince, me and a visibly pregnant Mags backpacking in the Grand Gulch two months ago—Vince and I carried all of her gear. Throughout Margaret’s entire pregnancy I’ve been telling people that I’m feeling a mixture of equal parts joy and terror. Undoubtedly my life well never be the same, but how much of it will change? How far will those changes reach? Another friend says I'm terrified because I care. I want to be a good dad and I tend to be overly analytical in my decision making. My analysis and tedious preparation are just another form of hesitation. Maybe Vince is on to something. Maybe when it comes to being a dad I just need to just drop my pack and jump into the pool without hesitation.
Crossing the Promontory Mountains seemed especially excruciating this year. The first 200 miles of our ride around Great Salt Lake had gone by with relative ease. Sure, I had my share of equipment failures—a broken rack and a flat tire, both encore performances from the 2006 RAGSLOW, but up to that point I had felt good, had plenty of water and good company. Up to then the riding had been relatively easy, but the climb up the Promontory Mountains is when I was crying for my mama. There were at least five false summits along that hot dusty road, and each time I got to the top of one I was greeted with the view of another summit in the distance. Five times I was sure I was done climbing and five times I was wrong.
It wasn’t until I was finally descending for real that I realized what a metaphor for a ride like the RAGSLOW the Promontory Summit really was—no matter how many times I do that ride there is always a need to do a bit more. There is a section of ‘road’ on the northwest shore that is quite possibly the quintessence of cycling. Rough, rocky, hot, snake infested, lonesome—it is hardly fit for hiking and yet we descended it on our bicycles by our own volition after having ridden 120 miles on the worst roads over which one could plan a bicycle tour. And we all were grinning from ear to ear. In that instant I knew why I choose to ride a bicycle and why I choose to ride it places most people would never drive.
Unfortunately I left that experience out there. I cannot put down in words what I felt because I still do not understand it myself. That is why I am not finished with RAGSLOW. That is why I likely never will be. Not because the view from of the lake on the northwest shore rivals anything I have ever seen from the seat of a bicycle, which it does, but because I felt a sense of life there that I have not felt in any other place.
I have finally come to terms with the fact that RAGSLOW will never be a ‘destination’ ride like RAGBRAI or RAWROD, and I have realized that is a good thing. To let it follow the arc of those rides with their debauchery, excess and total absence of real danger would be a desecration. Instead we have decided to hold the RAGSLOW on a quadrennial cycle. That allows enough time for its mystery to build and the horsefly bites to fade.
So who’s in for 2014?
Can you handle 300 miles of stark desolation?
I’ve managed to convince a couple of suckers from the Northern Mojave to join me this fall on another bicycle tour around Great Salt Lake. Mark from O-Town and I did it in the spring of 2006 and became, I believe, the first people ever to circumnavigate GSL by bicycle. That tour inspired two other haphazard attempts at riding around the lake by Kirk and company (All bicycle tours are haphazard—this is a compliment). One of those tours passed through Wendover(!) and included a stretch of riding across the salt flats. The other expedition followed Mark's and my route, but in reverse. Mr. Kirk described how that expedition ended in an email to me :
A friend and I rode "your [the April 2006] route" this past spring. We did it counter clockwise though. It took us 3 days but we really didn't finish it. It got to be like 10pm at night and we were still by the Tooele exit. I couldn't take the bugs and Interstate anymore so I called my woman and had her pick us up. I still feel like a total failure for doing that. We were sooooo close to being done. We were at 126 miles for the day. We had gotten BAKED by the sun all day, took a dramatic wrong turn, eaten alive by bugs, ran out of water, on and on and on. I hate my cell phone. I never would have called if it wasn't for that damn thing.This year we’re going to take a slightly modified route which should keep us closer to the lake for more of the route. We’re also taking a few precautionary measures to ensure we do not run out of water again but aside from that we’re prepared to shrivel, wither, evaporate and desiccate in the desert again.
Are you interested in joining us? Serious inquiries only, please. You’ll need to be prepared to ride nearly 300 miles in three days while carrying your own food, water and camping gear. Still interested? If my story of our first expedition, found here, doesn’t scare you off then email me and we’ll discuss the details.
You can also read Kirk’s story of his second expedition here. It begins on page 22 of the pdf.
With white knuckles, I moved from semi to semi, trying to get maximum pull from every one, but they all slowly pulled away from me. I was starting the final climb before the mouth. A check of my rear view mirror for another semi to draft left me disappointed—nothing was coming. I’d never make it without another pull, would I? Then it hit me, I realized with no traffic behind me, it didn’t matter how slow I was going. All I had to do was ride it out. My speedometer dipped below 30 mph before I finally crested the hill and had a view of Salt Lake Valley. Oh what a glorious sight! The only thing between me and my dream now was the unlikely event of a traffic jam or the very likely event of a bad Utah-merge. But luck and the hypermiling gods were on my side that night. By now there were two pickup trucks pulling camper trailers waiting patiently behind me while I picked up speed and entered the valley. I actually made it back to freeway speed before my exit at 1300 East. There is a stoplight at the end of the off ramp that I coasted through just for good measure.
Success never felt so good.
The final stop on our Trifecta Tour of the prepared to sacrifice him, and it’s the same rock from
which the Prophet Muhammad stepped off of as he ascended into heaven. That’s a pretty righteous rock, maybe even a
little self-righteous. Apparently the
rock wanted so badly to follow the prophet into heaven that Muhammad had to
press it back with his foot, leaving a deep footprint in the stone. Muhammad got a pass into heaven and all it got was a gilded dome. Incidentally, the gold for the dome is rumored to have been provided by King Hussein of Jordan, who sold one of his New York City properties to pay for it.
I wanted so badly to see this alleged
footprint but unfortunately you’ve got to be a Muslim male to go inside. Instead, we wandered around the plaza outside, where little
kids played soccer, women strolled around in burkas, and one woman conned my
father-in-law into paying her for snapping a photo of him. I
was taken aback to see weeds growing on the grounds and even litter lying
around. The whole place had a somber, uneasy feel and I was
glad to leave.
I suspect they were glad to have me leave too, not just the
temple mount where the Dome of the Rock is, but I think they’d like me and my
kind to leave the entire country. Or at least just leave them alone. The stark contrast in atmosphere between the Jewish
celebrations going on at the Western Wall at the base of the temple mount and
the stultifying atmosphere and oppressive heat at the top by the Dome of the
Rock are a microcosm of the status of the whole country—separate and
unequal.
The Arab neighborhoods we
walked through to get to the
As anyone who grew up in the South in the ’50s and 60’s could
tell you, there’s nothing like a double standard to create a little
uprising.
The next stop on my Jerusalem Trifecta tour was the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, built on the sight most Christians believe is where Jesus was crucified. This site is the culmination of most Christian pilgrimages, but what struck me most about the place was the crowds. The church was packed, and I couldn’t find anyplace to sit and contemplate the significance of the place. So instead I got in the line to see the fancy stone box where Jesus’ remains are said to lie—something I didn’t quite understand since I was taught that Jesus ascended into heaven after his resurrection, so there shouldn’t be any remains to put in a box.
Nevertheless, I got in line to see this box, and was immediately inundated with Russians who started cutting in front of me in line. A couple of them got in front of me then they kept trying to bring the rest of their companions up to join them, reaching back, motioning to them, whispering things that sounded like missile codes, etc. I had to hip check one old woman who tried to sneak by me.
As we got close to the stone box, the Russians started singing, and there was one priest immediately behind me that was very loud and very afflicted with halitosis, so I was relieved to finally get inside to see the stone box. Unfortunately, I had to share my time there with three other Russians, who proceeded to scatter icons and trinkets across the top, kneel down and start praying. I was boxed out, and before I got a chance to inspect the box I was called out by the usher.
I felt boxed out about a lot of the other biblical sights we visited in Israel too. All the significant sites seem to have a church built on them. For example, the well in Nazareth where Mary was told she would bear the Son of God was housed in two churches, one built on top of another. The well itself was nothing more than a pipe with some water gushing out. The engineer in me estimated it was flowing at about one cfs, or cubic feet per second, and the MBA in me estimated there was about $34 in US and other currencies at the bottom of the well. Meanwhile the Christian in me had a difficult time envisioning the what had occurred there because I’m certain the Angel didn’t speak to Mary in the basement of a dingy old church. I would have rather seen an actual well, in the open air, with the city surrounding it.
I think that explains why so many Christians like visiting the Garden Tomb, another site where Jesus may have been crucified and laid to rest. They haven’t built a church on it (but there is one nearby) so you can walk the grounds and see for yourself where Joseph of Arimathaea might have walked to get the body and take it to the tomb. I didn’t even mind looking over the bus station between the edge of the garden and the hill that might be Golgotha. It even kinda sorta resembles a skull, aside from the TV antenna at the top.
Finally, I snapped this photo outside the church built on the Garden of Gethsemane. While it’s likely they put the sign up to preserve the peace and quiet inside the church, I think a lot of Christians feel this is official church policy when it comes to some of life’s more difficult questions. Maybe the sign is meant to keep skeptics, cynics and intellectuals boxed out.
I’ve been home from my pilgrimage long enough to distill my
impressions of what I saw in Israel, to race my mountain bike a couple of
times, and to get over the bug I brought home in my small intestine. To be very frank, I didn’t have a solid stool
for over a week, even though I drank nothing but bottled water (and minty
lemonade). I blame it on the poor hygiene
standards of the street food vendors who sell the best made-to-order falafel in
the world.
Spending a week in Israel after a week in Spain is like
washing down your milk with a shot of hot sauce—I did it backwards. We went from the slow, humane pace of bicycle
touring to the furious and frenetic pace of traffic in Tel Aviv. But with a little luck and perhaps a bit of
Providence these pilgrims made it to the Old City of Jerusalem.
I wasted no time in setting out for the Trifecta of holy
sites of the Abrahamic religions. First
up was the Western Wall, the holiest site in Judaism, in spite of the fact that
the wall is nothing more than a retaining wall, which is emblematic of my
impression of the Jews there—very practical and very casual. They had yarmulkes available for Gentiles and
forgetful Jews to cover their heads with in order that the fear of heaven might
be upon me as I approached the wall.
What struck me most about stepping up to that wall was not the little
notes to God stuck in the cracks between every block, nor was it the intensity
with which the Orthodox men prayed, and swayed at the wall—which reminded me of
the Spinners, or members of the Church of Unlimited Devotion, who used to spin
and sway at Grateful Dead concerts.
What struck me most was the casual attitude with which these
people behaved in a place they consider so holy. I saw men snapping photos of toddlers
fumbling against the wall, other men took video of some of the swaying orthodox,
another young orthodox man was asked by a secular man to take his photo at the
wall. Then there were the bar mitzvahs,
about five of which were going on the day I was there. There was singing, dancing, praying going on
everywhere, and women, who have their own separate section at the Wall, threw
candy over the fence at all the children on the men’s side. Meanwhile, there were young Israeli defense forces toting machine guns everywhere, reminding everybody how tenuous the Jewish presence in Jerusalem is. There was no judgment of who was holier than
whom, everybody was accepted, and everybody seemed comfortable in their own
skin. They didn't care that a Gentile like me was standing next to them listening and taking photographs. I couldn’t imagine some of the
holy places back home ever having such a comfortable, welcoming atmosphere.
I liked the Western Wall so much we visited it twice.
We made it to Santiago de Compostela a couple of days ago. Honestly, arriving at the cathedral holding the remains of St. James was a little underwhelming. Maybe it's because I'm a bad Catholic, (due in part to the fact that I'm not Catholic), or maybe it was because the final 10 kilometers were through the industrial part of town and then through a congested city. Those certainly contributed, but I think the real reason I was nonplussed was that all of the pleasure of the pilgrimage was in the journey, not in arriving at the destination. I'm already scheming of a return trip to do more of el Camino.
We arrived the cathedral just in time for the lighting of the botafumera during the Pilgrims' Mass. The botafumera is a giant (5 ft tall) incense burner that they swing back and forth across the cathedral at the end of the Mass. If the rope it hangs from were to break it would certainly kill a few people. While it has it's spiritual meanings, it's size is attributed to it's effectiveness at masking the odor of all of those stinky pilgrims gathered in the pews. It worked quite well at that, but only for a little while.
Our final stop out of town was at the Pilgrims' office where we could get our final Credencials to prove we'd made it all the way. They were very serious about the affair, closely inspecting each stamp in our passports and asking us where we started, how much of it was done by bicycle, where we stayed, etc. I sweat more during the interview than during the ride.
Our pilgrim days aren't over yet. Next we're off to where it all began for more two-weeled pilgriming. Since we were going to Jerusalem I asked the priest at the cathedral in Santiago if he wanted me to take James' remains back to where they came from. I don't think he understood me because he got really mad and told me to get out of there. Must have been a language barrier.
People make pilgrimages for many reasons. Most of the pilgrims I have seen on el Camino de Santiago appera to be seeking adventure in one of its many forms. And Camaraderie. And Spanish vino. The latter are easy to spot. Other pilgrims travel to Santiago for personal reasons. For strength, for wisdom, for answers. Still others travel for spiritual enlightenment, to be cleansed of sin or to know God. Today I saw a well-travelled peregrino walking toward me on the trail--away from Santiago de Compostela. that is the way pilgrims of old did it, those that survived anyway. They would walk out their front door, walk to Santiago and then, presumably having found what they were looking for, turn around and walk back home.
What were they searching for? God? Forgiveness? Knowledge? Whatever it was, it must have been valuable enough for them to leave their homes, their families, their farms and their livelihoods, and risk their lives in hopes of finding it.
And the modern day pilgrim? They share with the medieval pilgrims a desire to see Santiago. I asked Mags what she was searching for. What is her Santiago? Reminding me that this whole pilgrimage thing was my idea, she said she was here seeking experiences. There's nothing wrong with that, I suppose, but imagine taking the same approach to life--"Well, I'll just plod along and see what happens." No sir, a successful pilgrimage should begin with an end in mind.
So what is the end I have in mind, you ask? What is my Santiago? It's spiritual and for that reason I won't say exactly, but my Santiago involves strengthening some of the most important relationships in my life. I can feel that strength growing with every pedal stroke. Isn't it peculiar how our inner self grows strongest when we weaken our physical self?
And what about you, Pilgrim? What is your Santiago?
Many have said a modest person is one who could carry all their important possessions in a backpack, or in my case, a set of panniers. The last few days have convinced me it was a pilgrim who said that first. I also carry a set of panniers on my pilgrimage of life. Sometimes I add things or carry them just becasue. It could be what other people think of me, for others, it could be a consuming lifestyle that´s out of control. Like all heavy loads, there comes a time when so much weight keeps me from moving forward. That´s why I sometimes like to stop and ask myself if I´m carrying around burdens that I don´t need. What do I have in my panniers that I don´t need.
There are of course burdens I can load into my panniers that don´t weigh me down. In fact, they can even make my load seem lighter. I´m speaking of memories, and today I thought I share a few of mine from the past couple of days on el Camino.
First is the four American girls sitting next to me here in this internet cafe. They´re printing off fake IDs so they can go out clubbing. I wish I had my camera with me, I´d send a photo to their daddys.
Next is the priest we met along the way who stamped our credencials. He called us ¨eagles soaring to Santiago. and told us if we asked Santiago when we get to the cathedrial we could get any blessing we desired. Then there was German pilgrim who helped Mags lift her bike three times over a rock wall because the trail between the walls was too muddy.
There are all the pilgrims I see each night walking so gingerly because of sore legs, blistered feet and aching backs. The albergues where we stay the night all smell like Ben Gay and stinky Europeans. Incidently, I should say that most of my experience with Europeans has been in hostels, so you´ll forgive me for thinking they all stink all the time.
At one albergue the hostess asked if we were married before she would let us have a private room. She was a sweetheart. Another host at our first albergue gave us his dinner because we arrived too late to buy something from the cafe in town. He saw that we were going to bed hungry and brought out his own dinner for us. Muchas gracias Igor.
Last is a memory of regret. In some ways I feel like we´re going too fast on this pilgrimage. The way all of our physical needs are met by the albergues and the pilgrim restaurants, it allows us to meditate and think of the meaning of our pilgrimage. But we´ll be finished soon, and I sometimes think I´ve loaded too much unecessary stuff into my panniers to unload it all before we arrive in Santiago de Compestela.
ASTORGA, SPAIN. According to Christian history, James (Santiago in
Spanish) the apostle, traveled to Galacia, in what is now northwestern
Spain after Jesus´ death to preach Christ´s message. Greeted with
little success, James returned to Jerusalem where he was summarily beheaded.
Legend has it that his remains were returned to Galacia for their final
resting place.
More manana. Buen Camino!
(hüp-t&-dü-d&l) n. 1. Stuff that gets in the way of a story's making progress. It is wordy, unnecessary, space-taking, and typically should be edited out. 2. Inflammation of a story caused by infectious or toxic writing and characterized by severe anacoluthon, embolalian engorgement, uncontrollable circumlocution, and runaway annomination. 3. Stuff Chad thinks about when he’s riding his bike.
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