A belated mother's day reflection

Note: this is a really belated post, started last year, and now I'm finally getting around to publishing it, with some current perspective added below.

June 2014: It's the day after Father's Day and I've got some of that quiet reflection time I was hoping for here at home. Watching my baby boy sleep, he's transitioning from two naps a day to the long afternoon nap, and I think of how he's growing up. But I'm not thinking of it in a sad way. People ask how my children changed while I was away for seven weeks. If they look different, did they noticeably age in my absence? Sure, Bryan's hair got longer, Eryn got a haircut, Bryan got his first two teeth in, Eryn got new shoes. Bryan grew out of most of his outfits, but he didn't look bigger or feel heavier.

Mother's Day is not a simple holiday. Countless emotions are going through the heads of people. Some are easy to read. Some people keep their emotions to themselves.  Some pride themselves on remembering the holiday. Others block it out, or just don't find it that important. This Mother's Day evening was spent in Hunt, Texas at a lodge on the Guadalupe River. It was too late in the day to swim, but we put our feet in and watched the sun set. The closest restaurant was at least 3 miles down the road, so we skipped dinner, but planned on a good breakfast. We drank wine from coffee mugs in a cabin built in 1923; Mike taught me how to play Scopa, an Italian card game. During the night, I was woken by rain on the roof, and a peacock's yell. I'm pretty sure I never checked my facebook that day, but I did call my mother.

While I was away from my children, I never stopped noticing others' children. The little girl with her McDonald's happy meal toy, anxiously awaiting her mom to open the bag for her. The baby sleeping in the car seat next to the table. A boy in his front yard, waving at us riding by. A toddler crying because she got 6 M&Ms instead of 5. 

Being springtime, I noticed the ewes, the cows, the mares, the hens, the does. They had that sense of heightened awareness in our presence. The animals that I presumed were not parents curiously came closer to the fence. The maternal ones looked for their offspring, making sure all was safe. 

Reflecting on this now, more of the strangers' comments make sense to me. They're parents too, and they had some sort of unspeakable connection with me that made them think of their own children. A man in the airport mentioned his teenage daughter, and wondered out loud if he'd let her go on a trip like I did. Somebody in a hotel lobby, talking about their son who had completed the MS 150 mile bike ride on the east coast. Something stirred in the psyche- the village is still there. People watch out for each other. 

This mothers day, I experienced all those typical mom things- an audience in the bathroom, a toddler stepping in dog poop in his bare feet, nobody could find matching socks. I'm not exactly sure what took up most of our day, but it was busy. I did manage to get a good nap in the morning, with my favorite cuddle babies. They're so cute when they're sleeping, mostly because they're quiet and not in an "up to no good" sort of way. 

Home

I'm home. It feels like I've been gone over a long weekend, not 7 weeks. Things are largely the same here as I left them.

I know this blog has been a great source of enjoyment for many, and I am not done with it yet. Writing for an audience, the vast, unknown audience of the Internet, about something that evolved into a very personal journey, is more difficult than I anticipated. By difficult, I mean, unexpected, internalized pressure to perform, to entertain. I want to keep my writings real, honest, emotional. But that's exposing a lot of my soul that I'm not sure I want to anymore. Not over this forum. Those are stories for a cup of coffee across a table, a glass of wine on the porch.

There's a good chance, in those early morning hours, when the children are still sleeping, and I've got my cup of coffee in hand here, and you have yours on the other side of the computer screen, I'll write up more things to share. Drafts from months ago that I'll finish and publish. The topic that drifts into my head as I'm relaxing into bed for the night. In the meantime, the babies are up for the day, and there's new adventures to be had, at home, with them.

Humidity

Mike's laughing at me for my idea of weather. The rain we experienced wasn't truly rain yet, not as he's known it, just as the humidity in the past two days isn't something most people who live in the South would notice. But I picked up on it right away. 

Before this trip started, one of my concerns was heat radiating off of the pavement. That hasn't been an issue at all. Humidity, that's a sort of heat that radiates from the grass next to the road. It's alive. Riding, you get a feeling for the stark contrast between the inanimate asphalt and the life force of the woods just to the right. Cold on one side, rising warmth on the other. 

The humid air feels like life. Sweating, you're alive, active, in motion. Thoughts of the last time I've felt like that: a baby sleeping on my chest in the summer, hot breath on my skin, hair matted down; but I wouldn't move him for the world, even if I was sitting in a puddle once he stirred. Summer nights too warm to sleep, you want to hold somebody close but you know the stickiness of bodies touching would lose it's magic pretty quickly because it's just too much. 

People wave at us on the road often in Texas, but it's hard to notice because they're in their climate-controlled cars with the windows up. They can't feel it the same way. They miss the bugs chirping, the squirrels rustling, the sheep bleating behind the trees. These sounds of life, sustained by that moist air. 

As we head deeper into Louisiana, I'm sure I'll have more of this "real" humidity and rain to feel. But I think it will still feel like life. 

Ironman

It was pure coincidence that our third 100+ mile day was the same day of Ironman Texas. It was particularly interesting to see our milage for the day ended up being the exact distance of 112 miles. 

The best part? We actually found ourselves on the race course that morning. Rolling into Richards on Friday, we saw a few "race in progress" signs posted. We knew we were going to have a long day getting into Kountze, so with an early sunrise start, we didn't get to see any of the action, but I'm sure we entertained many of the volunteers at the water stations on the farm roads. 

Dawn at the ranch in Richards, TX

7am start, 20 miles to breakfast, another 50 to lunch, then 42 to the hotel for the night. Actual time on the bike: 8 hours, 13 minutes. 

I did some quick math in my head: you get 17 hours to finish an Ironman race. Mike and I just finished the bike distance in 8 hours on heavy, steel frame bikes with at least 20 lbs of stuff packed in the least aerodynamic way. 

2 hours would be generous for a 2.4 mile swim for me. 

That leaves me with 7 hours to do a marathon. 

Theoretically, I could finish an ironman triathlon. I mean, of course I knew it was possible, but now I had actual facts to back that up. 

That's pretty amazing. 

Making memories

 "My dear, what are you doing?" 

"Making a memory! All my life, when I'm quite grown-up I will always remember my grandfather and how he smelled of (sniffs) tobacco and peppermint."

- The Parent Trap

The scents of the outside world are often missed by travelers driving by. The few cars we see that are off the main road have the windows up and the air conditioning on. When it's 102 degrees out, I don't blame them. A hot car is a miserable place to be. On a bike, the wind helps it feel 10-15 degrees cooler, even if it feels a bit like a hot blow dryer at times. 

But each place on the road has scents that will always be parts of this memory. East of El Centro, farmland of alfalfa and onions. Arizona had a lot of sage brush. New Mexico, juniper. The Interstate 10, diesel trucks climbing up and down the grade outside the town of Sierra Blanca. Families cooking their dinners as we roll silently down the side residential streets. Dairy farms and family farms. New flowering trees that I can't identify. Most recently, deer carcasses rotting as the buzzards feast. They're not so bad if you pass them on a downhill with the wind in your favor, but a midday climb at 5 miles an hour, that deer stench hangs around. And we ride on. Expecting rain soon, which will bring more fragrance to the dry countryside. A winery or two down the road, identifying all the complex aromas in a glass. More unknown territory as we move east. 

Remembering the scents of all that's behind us. I wonder if Bryan remembers his mother smells of coffee and stale milk. 

I'm sure he does. You never forget your mother's smell. Soon enough this adventure will be a memory. Enjoying every part of it. 

Day 13, 14, 15: still Texas

Valentine, Texas. Everything is closed except the post office. 

Mike and I talk often about what it means to have adventures. One theme that resurfaces from time to time is the idea of keeping yourself uncomfortable. Doing something that keeps you stretching your limits, something foreign, something that makes you think, that shakes up your routine. Texas is doing that. 

The city of El Paso threw us into some uncomfortable cycling situations: urban traffic, road construction, narrow lanes that we, as cyclists, had to exercise our right as a vehicle on the road, to take the lane. Riding on highways with morning traffic, and even a little navigational mishap that had us looking at the border fence from the southern side. We were politely escorted out of the "restricted area", and then I asked the construction crew if I could use their port-o-potty. (They said yes).  Downtown El Paso is not in any danger of gentrification any time soon. Our lunch stop required me to remember every bit of my rudimentary Spanish to translate the menu and order our lunch at a true hole-in-the-wall taco shop. There's a true sense of accomplishment from rising to the challenges thrown at you. 

The long stretches betwen towns in West Texas have been something. A 74 mile stretch of road of nothing, just what we left at point A, our destination at point B, hoping all of our supplies in the bags are enough to get us there. On a day ride at home, most routes are usually an out-and-back or a loop. You know when your uphill climb will be a downhill coast. Out here, at the end of your second day of nothing but uphill, you really hope that the downhill will come tomorrow. And it did, but it was negated by a strong headwind. That was frustrating. That was testing some limits. 

Small town Texas. You take what you can get. One motel in town. One diner in town. In many cases, nothing left of town- too far off the main roads, too close to a bigger city. Traveling by car, it's not a big deal to drive on another 30, 40, 50 miles down the road. By bicycle, 30 miles is 3 more hours. But I don't think the few cyclists will keep these way station towns around much longer. 

Sanderson, Texas. The hotel manager cooked us a hot Indian breakfast of some sort of grain (barley?), lemon, peanuts, yellow curry and a thermos of chai, because there is nowhere to eat in the morning. The next place with food was 60 miles away. 

Day 11, 12: Texas

I've riden my bicycle from California to Texas in 11 days. 

That's amazing. 

In another 11 days, I'll still be in Texas. 

This is new to me. The landscape has changed. Gone are the mesas of Arizona, the scrub brush of New Mexico. Farmland everywhere. There are different bird sounds. I'm pretty sure I won't be able to get the Hatch chiles much longer (but I'm planning on getting elote corn for dinner!)

The slow fade out of urban El Paso to rural border towns of Fabens and Fort Hancock told many stories of this corner of the state. Old and new pecan groves, old and new border fences, old and new railroad lines. Our ride took us along a local highway with Interstate 10 on the eastern horizon, Mexico on the western horizon, and agriculture on either side, criss-crossed by the train tracks. 

Traveling at 11 miles an hour on the road with farmers driving diesel pickup trucks and tractors is a world away from the 75 mile an hour pace of the Interstate with truckers and travelers. On the Interstate, it's easy to go another 60 miles to the next Big Town. What's another hour of driving, really? On a bicycle, 60 miles was  our entire day's ride. 

60 miles of Texas down, 740 more to go. 

Day 8,9,10: New Mexico

New Mexico sky. 

New Mexico greeted us with the evening scents of juniper and roasted chiles, and sent us out with the taste of the earth carried by the wind. 

The original route of the Southern Tier had us climbing into Silver City, near the Gila Cliff Dwellings, and down through Hatch. Instead, we went on the I-10 through Lordsburg to Deming, Deming to Las Cruces. It was a long night of map-reading and discussion to reach that decision. That route would have been acceptable, had we planned to camp. But camping wasn't the plan. That route would have had some different sites to see, but sightseeing isn't the plan. 

Cross the United States. Dip our toes in the Pacific, ride east, dip our toes in the Atlantic. End each day as you started it-alive. And enjoy what comes along the way, whatever road that might be on. 

So, we opted for the quicker route out of the desert. The wind was not kind to us. 20, 30, 40 miles an hour headwinds. Watching the speedometer, I saw our speeds dropping as we pressed on. 7,6,5,4 miles per hour was as fast as I could make the bike go on flat land in the wind. I may as well have been riding into a wall I couldn't see. The wind would lift and it was a short sprint until the next gust came down from the east. 

Mike reassured me (us?) that no storm ever lasts. No wind will go on forever. It always passes. And the worst storms make the calm day even better. When I was hugely pregnant and uncomfortable in the summer heat, I found hope in remembering it was only a temporary state. I wasn't able to run or ride my bike, but there was an end in sight. A better weather forecast for tomorrow. This made it easier to press on. 

Suffering from postpartum depression was different. The brain ruminates, spirals into a negative cycle where it is so hard to really believe that the storm will end. That it won't last forever. And I'm so grateful for finding Katherine Stone's website, Postpartumprogress.com, which told me just that. Hang on. The wind will let up. You will get stronger. 

Today, the wind was gone. It was delightful. 

Day 4,5,6,7: Arizona

Day 4: Blythe to Salome 66mi

Day 5: Salome to Mesa 136 mi 

Day 6: Mesa to Globe 80 mi

Day 7: Globe to Safford 80 mi

We've had some tough days in Arizona! That's mostly why I haven't been updating. And, Mike thinks I'm on my iphone too much :)

 "Rain, after all is only rain; it is not bad weather. So also, pain is only pain; unless we resist it, then it becomes torment."–I Ching

I came across this quote when I was about to give birth to Bryan, and it really resonated with me. It came to mind as we've been dealing with the wind. It's just something that *is*, and you deal with it. 

Riding a bicycle in the wind isn't something you can train for (unless you have a wind tunnel.) Mike compared it to learning to sail in various weather conditions- you can't learn it until you experience it. I've become an incredibly stronger and smarter cyclist over the past week because I've had to. 

Riding on the canal bike path through the urban areas of Phoenix reminded me of the summer after seventh grade, riding bikes with my friends through Hilltop park, to the top of Inkopah's big hill and down again, not really knowing much about bicycles except the basic idea to ride one. The trails were more suited for kids' bikes and skateboards, not loaded touring bikes, but for a few miles, I rode like a 12 year old again, speeding too fast into the underpass tunnels to roll up the other side. Off the canal road, the bike path took us through wide residential streets at dusk, just enjoying the cooling air and trying to rush "home" before dark.

And home it was- our first night staying with friends instead of a hotel. To be welcomed with open arms by familiar faces, complete with fireworks set off to announce our arrival, was more rejuvenating than I expected.  

How different the terrain was once we left suburbia of Apache Junction. "The Old West Highway" led us to the base of the mountains, and then up, through old and new mining towns. This was a much different form of bicycle riding, one where true skill, experience, and knowledge of the bicycle and physics would be important. Using the gears, shifting your weight, reading the bumps in the road, anticipating what might happen next. Understanding how wind direction interacts with mountain passes. Strength to hold the line, strength to avoid slow speed wobbling while climbing up and up, strength to get back on a loaded bike facing uphill. Then, the wind picked up more, and it took all of my strength to walk the bike along the non-existent shoulder, when it became too unsafe to ride. 

We accepted the help of a generous stranger to give us a lift off the mountain. It was a smart choice. I would not ride this route again (Superior to Globe), it is not meant for cyclists. 

I have a greater understanding of why many polytheistic religions have wind deities. The wind is often personified with having a spirit of its own. I have much to learn about it- and having such an experienced sailor as a cycling partner is helpful. 

And so we ride on. 

Day 3: Brawley to Blythe

Day 1: I was searching for lower gears to get up those mountains. Day 2: I was looking for higher gears to get along the flats. Day 3: I think I used every combination of my 30 gears to get through the terrain. 

I had a brief conversation with Dave at our 2pm "lunch stop" aka Palo Verde's only gas station mini mart (ice cream sandwich and a bottled Frappachino). He said to me, "You don't sound like you're having much fun."

Fun is going down a giant water slide. Or being silly with friends. Or having a pink popcorn party with your 3 year old. Riding a bicycle across the North American continent? It has its fun moments. But today, "fun" is not my word of choice. 

Accomplished. Bad-ass. Rewarding. Exhausted. 

Today was the first day that didn't feel like just a day ride, and not because we were carrying our bags. If today's road was a day ride, there would have been a unanimous decision to call it early and head back for lunch. When you don't have that option, you push on. Into the headwind, up the hills, watching for the trucks, stopping to refuel, rehydrate, reapply sunscreen. When you're stopped, you realize it's about 88 degrees across the desert, and the wind is blowing harder than you thought. The green milage signs taunting you: "Palo Verde 7 miles; Blythe 27 miles," as you look down at the cycleputer's speedometer showing 8 mph, and that's all you can push into the wind. 

But we made our destination, had a warm shower, and heading out for some Mexican food. Within walking distance ;)

Stats for today:

Ride time: 7 hours, 48 min. 

Ave. speed 11.2 mph

Max speed: 30.0 mph

Miles: 90.26

Road treasures to date: a bag of pop rivets sent home with Chris on day 1, a pair of pliers outside of Glamis, and a brand new shovel that was left for somebody else. 

A-hole truck drivers: 2. 

Friendly drivers: 99% were very curtious giving us room on the road. Waving and honks of encouragement were greatly appreciated. 

Other tourers spotted: 3 (one tandem)

(My odometer is slightly off, need to adjust that later)

Thank you all for reading and your encouragement! 

This was before the hard part :)

Day 2: pine valley to brawley

If every day is like today, I'll be a happy snowman. 

As I rode today, I compiled a mental gratitude list: 

- for Mike, inviting me along on this 

- for Dave, who taught me to ride a motorcycle, and all of his advice. Look where you want to go through a corner, don't panic brake, things like that. 

- for Bill and Sandy for hauling our bags these first two days. We're on our own today, but we're done with the mountains. It really made a difference. 

- for Chris, who tailed us on his motorcycle. He caught up with us half-way down Mountain Springs Grade, rode behind me with his flashers, which kept traffic on the other side. 

- for Caltrans, keeping the shoulder of the grade clean of debris. It was a safe, smooth ride down. (Now if they could just look at Evan Hewes Hwy... That was rough riding)

- for the strong tailwind that pushed us about 10 miles

- for Alma. Those disc brakes saved me down the mountains. The low gears got me through the mountains. 

Upcoming posts: 

 - cast of characters

- gear lists

Ready as I'll ever be!

Day 1: Chula Vista to Pine Valley

A few stats for today's ride: 

Distance covered: 49.8 miles

Ride time: 5.5 hours (or so)

Average speed: 8.2 mph

Max speed: 35 mph, coming into Pine Valley

Total elevation gain: somewhere over 4,000 ft. 

Damage done: one broken mirror (as I was leaving out the front door!) and one skinned knee (mine)

Lesson learned:

-more sunscreen

- take more pictures (this was a little hard today because it's basically my backyard, no new scenery for me!)

- Save the caffeinated drinks for lunch and dessert for dinner

I'm taking handwritten notes to craft a few better posts later when I'm not quite so tired. I'll be posting from just my iphone from now, unless we have time at a public library or a motel with computer access. 

Yesterday's warm up ride to the Pacific Ocean at Imperial Beach. 

Today's only picture, coming out of Bonita, only about 6 miles in but probably the steepest hill. 

A Jello kind of day

I rarely lose my appetite. I'm not a person who stresses easily. Type B, roll with everything as it comes. 

But there I was, standing in my kitchen, fridge door open, with lots of food and nothing to eat. I subsisted on the jello left over from my bridal shower for the three days leading up to my wedding because that was a big, DIY production. I had just finished my first year of teaching the week before, running around trying to get all the last details together now that school was out for the summer, and jello was the only thing I could stomach. 

Fast-forward to the week before B was born. I thought he'd be early like his big sister, but he ended up being 3 days late. The waiting for a baby's arrival is all consuming in that last stretch of time. The familiar sense of just waiting for the big day to come, and not really knowing what to do with myself in the meantime, jello was an old friend to that nervous tummy. 

These past few days have been jello sort of days. 

The clock moves at the same speed it always does, but it seems fast and slow all at once. I have no idea what this trip will be like. Just like birth, anything you read, hear, watch, none of it will describe your experience that lies ahead. 

At least I can draw on my experience of anticipating the unknown? 

Maybe I'll have some more jello. 

"You're doing what again, exactly?"

I am riding a bicycle across the United States. From the Pacific Ocean to the Atlantic Ocean.

ACA's Southern Tier Route

This isn't a huge deal. Plenty of people have done this before, on this route. We'll be in a town every night, so it's not as extreme as backpacking in the wilderness for a week, where chances are you won't see many people. These are paved roads, with cars, and cell phone service at least 50% of the time, and only a few stretches of 80 miles between services.

Okay, maybe it is a bigger deal than I'm making it to be. I don't know anyone who has personally done anything like this. Riding a bicycle 80-100 miles (127- 161 km) a day, every day, for at least 40 days, by my calculations. I'm prepared for temperatures of over 100 degrees F (37.7 C) through the deserts, but I'm not sure I'm prepared for the humidity of the South.

"What brought about this crazy idea?"

When I was in sixth grade or so, I dreamed of going on a bike trip. I think I read about an organized tour in the travel section of the newspaper one Sunday, and I asked my mom if we could do that. "Someday, sure," she said. She didn't exactly discourage me from this idea, but there certainly wasn't any movement to making it happen. Thinking back on this, from the perspective as a mother of a very persistent 3.75 year old, I'm now realizing Mom didn't really mean "someday" like my 11-year-old self interpreted it. I wanted it to happen next month. I wanted to start planning and GO. I was pretty dissapointed when "someday" didn't come soon enough, and I don't think it was mentioned ever again. I'd bet Mom doesn't even remember this conversation as a Really Big Thing.

Lessons learned:
Parents: be very, very careful about what you say to children. (I never got a tree-house either.)

image from Tree House Love

Children: Don't stop dreaming. Someday you'll be an adult and you can make things happen for yourself. (My tree-house dream has adapted somewhat, but that's another story)


So, when the opportunity presented itself, quite directly, might I add- I jumped at the chance. NZ asked, "I'm riding across the U.S. by bicycle. Anyone want to join?" How often do you get asked a question like that? Despite a few hurdles, I'm making this happen. We leave on Monday.

Meet Alma

I never really understood why people name cars, or bicycles. I suppose it goes back to naming ships- they're all transportation vehicles. Christening for good luck and all.  My first 'real' bicycle didn't have a name. A Specialized Dolce was my only bike. Dolce seemed good enough, meaning 'sweet' in Italian. And she is a sweet bike. But she won't be coming with me on this trip.

When I took home my Salsa Vaya, I knew she needed a name. Maybe I knew I needed all the luck and protection I could get for an adventure like this. And, I fell in love with her beauty. I really tried to objectively decide between the Vaya 2 and the Surly Disc Trucker, and take the looks out of the equation. Motorrad even offered to paint the Surly however I wanted if it was a better fit for me. But the Vaya stole my heart. 

I wanted a Spanish name, being a "Salsa". A few came to mind- Dolores? (rough translation: pain) Constantina? Too literal. And long. Fernanda is the feminine of 'brave adventurer'- okay, this didn't come to mind, I'm browsing the baby name sites by this point, and I like it, but I'm showing my teaching roots by admitting it has a previous connotation. 

And then came the name Alma. Soul. 

I liked that. It rolls off the tongue. Simple. Short. 

I looked up the name, just to be sure it really meant what I thought it meant; I knew I had the right name when I found this wikipedia entry:

 "The exact origin of the name Alma is debated, but it is most likely derived, in the female form, from the Latin word almus which means "kind", "fostering", or "nourishing".It has been most familiarized by its use in the term alma mater, which means "fostering mother", or "nourishing mother", and in modern times is most associated with a collegiate hymn or song, or to encompass the years in which a student earned their degree. Also, the Arabic word for "the water" and "on the water" are el-ma and al-ma, respectively. It may also be of Greek derivation, where the word αλμη means "salt water."  The name Alma also has several meanings in a variety of languages, and is generally translated to mean that the child "feeds one's soul" or "lifts the spirit."
 

 As I ride, and as I write, I hope this blog conveys why all these facets of Alma are important to me and my journey.