The Awkward Pose

October 29, 2016 – Sun, 85 degrees

Miles Today: 60

Miles to Date: 18,664

States to Date: 46

Back in College Station TX I visited the land that inspired my New York born father to pioneer west. Our Conestoga wagon was a Winnebago. His strong-willed wife refused his lead and insisted we settle 350 miles to the north. Our homestead was not 160 acres, but a brick ranch that we could not inhabit until the bankers were satisfied. We did not circle the wagons at night; we parked in the Safeway parking lot. I did not rise with the dawn to help with chores; I unhitched my bicycle from the back of the motorhome and pedaled against the wind to school. To any rational 1971 eyes we lived in suburban America. In my fathers eyes we were battling the elements and conquering the West circa Oklahoma Land Run 1889.

My father’s business never prospered. The bank took back the Winnebago, then the ranch. My parents shuffled among houses and apartments all over town. My mother went to work. My father drank more. Eventually they split. The pioneer returned to New Jersey, his dream unrealized.

Meanwhile, I arrived in Oklahoma with a mop of bad hair, a thick accent, and an urban attitude to match. But I thrived. I landed at University High School in the middle of my junior year, met great friends, dated a terrific girl whom I eventually married, and got accepted to MIT, in part, I am certain, because I applied from a geographically sparse niche. Less than two years after becoming an Okie I shipped out to college. My lasting lesson of heartland was appreciation for all regional attributes our country embraces and the conviction that our commonalities are more plentiful than those differences.

Norman’s physical fabric, so transformed between 1889 and 1973, has stabilized in the last 43 years. True, University of Oklahoma Football stadium is getting enlarged again, like an inflatable toy that refuses to pop: 87,000 seats plus an attached parking garage so fat donors can drive to their skybox. Sure, the commercial strip along I-35 is banal as any in America. But everything else is much the same. OU’s campus is still anchored by a pair of handsome ovals. Main Street storefronts survive despite the big box stores. The wooden bungalows in the older part of town still need a coat of paint. The brick houses in the subdivisions beyond appear smaller only because the trees have grown.

I arrived on Homecoming Day. Campus buzzed with anticipation of the night game against University of Kansas. The parade down Boyd Street could have been a Jimmy Stewart movie: Pride of Oklahoma marching band, cheerleaders, Greek letter fraternities and sororities. But a few boys wore pink shirts with the OU logo, women with cropped hair held hands, interracial couples clapped along with everyone else, one Homecoming Queen candidate was from Mumbai.

When I first came to Norman Mumbai was Bombay, and we didn’t consider anyone from there pretty. Girl’s held hands as a joke, interracial couples hid, and boys’ didn’t wear pink shirts – period. The physical fabric of this college town may be little changed, but the society it supports has blossomed in directions this oxford-clothed high schooler could never have imagined.

October 28, 2016 – Sun, 85 degrees

Miles Today: 96

Miles to Date: 18,664

States to Date: 46

It was a great day to be a cycle tourist, and a great day for singing. I woke to a bright golden haze on the meadow. Yes, a bright golden haze on the meadow.

The ranches are immense, bounded by stone cairns and highlighted by rustic signs.

Mill Creek has few people but several strip mines for limestone and silica. The dust from the Martin Marietta plant fills the air and coats the trees.

Chickasaw National Recreation Area in Sulphur has picturesque waterfalls. I pedaled five miles out of my way to indulge in the Bromide Springs that made the place a mecca for tourists over a hundred years ago, only to find that the springs have dried up.

The Trail of Tears, in which the ‘Five Civilized Tribes’ (Cherokee, Choctaw, Creek, Chickasaw and Seminole) were resettled from their original lands east of the Mississippi to the area that is now Oklahoma, is an ugly chapter in our historical abuse of native peoples. Then, we infiltrated their new lands anyway. But the history and status of Native Americans in Oklahoma is quite different from other parts of the west because there are no reservations. Nine percent of Oklahomans are Native Americans, similar to South Dakota and New Mexico. Yet, they are much more integrated into society.

Given enough time histories losers can become big winners. Today, the tribes are cashing in our penchant for gambling. The Choctaw casino in Durant and the Chickasaw casino just north of the Red River are glittering places where, mainly Texans, pay Native Americans to spin and roll and poker. The Chickasaw have invested some of their profits on the Chickasaw National Cultural Center: a stunning series of pavilions organized around walks and water elements reminiscent of the Getty Museum with a Native American tilt. I was particularly pleased to see that Frankfurt Short Bruza, the Oklahoma City firm where I began my career, designed the elegant place.

Indian summer prevailed, the wind remained at my back, and I reached Pauls Valley in daylight; a long travel day filled with worthwhile sights.

October 27, 2016 – Sun, 80 degrees

Miles Today: 75

Miles to Date: 18,568

States to Date: 46

Kudos to me: I have survived Texas yet again. The first time I exited the Lone Star State I enumerated the finer points of heckling. After 18,000+ miles, I’m keyed into the hazards cycle tourists face living on the shoulder. Pedal at your peril:

10. Shoulder debris

9. Right turns from side street. Make eye contact with everyone entering from the right. Curse those tinted windshields.

8. Shoulder gravel. Slow down or skid.

7. Trucks passing cars in the oncoming lane. They gun right down on you.

6. RV buses pulling autos, usually driven by retired men without commercial license who are Masters of the Universe in their minds but don’t really understand how big their rigs are. Oh, and they sometimes forget to push the side steps under the chassis before pulling out of their driveway, which can clip you right in the ankle.

5. Right turns from behind. People in a hurry, which is pretty much everyone, will not yield to a cyclist.

4. Rumble strips in the shoulder. Instant migraine.

3. Darting across a main road from a side street. Who looks for cyclists?

2. Single direction drainage grates aligned with your tires. I yield to all drainage grates. Get your tire stuck in one of these and you’re flying over your handlebars.

1. Unsignaled left turns. Been there, done that. Can’t blame that one on Texas, but I am wary of it at every intersection.

October 26, 2016 – Sun, 80 degrees

Miles Today: 44

Miles to Date: 18,493

States to Date: 45

Scottsdale is stylish money, Boston is old money, San Jose is tech money, New Orleans is fun money, La Jolla is laid-back money, Altoona is hard scrapple money, East St Louis is no money. Dallas is simply money – lots and lots of money. One of my hosts, who’s lived here thirty years said, “I can never get over how much money there is in this city.”

Indeed, my trek from Uptown, along Turtle Creek, through Highland Park, University Park and Preston Hollow, Northeast Dallas and Vickery Meadow, Plano, Allen and finally McKinney took me through miles and miles of million dollar homes. There are subtle differences among these neighborhoods. Closer in, architectural styles vary, but symmetry rules. Order conveys power.

Further out, everything is vaguely English and arbitrarily asymmetrical. Roofs have too many gables and hips to count. On one street, every single house had a turret. Which, of course, neuters the whole idea that turrets define corners.

Rich people in Dallas buy what all America’s purchase with their money: privacy. As a result, it is rare to meet an actual human. Houses are self-contained and air-conditioned, garages are attached. There are few parks, few sidewalks, no place for a cyclist at all. People walk their dogs in the morning and evening, and offer uniformly pleasant greetings. Canines remain humanities best hope.

Of course, with money comes excess. Why place a pumpkin on your porch when you can scatter enough along your curb to feed an entire village in the developing world.

Before you decide I’m too harsh on The Metroplex, I will mention two things I absolutely love about Dallas.

First, Steel City Pops, Lower Greenwood that serves up frozen concoctions for a mere three dollars. I will long remember my creamy pumpkin treat. At first bite you think, ‘I wish Steel City was everywhere.’ Then you realize, no, you are glad there are only a few locations for this unique experience.

Second are Dallas’ commanding street trees: huge dome-shaped bouquets with wide arms that often span across the pavement. The best streets have one huge tree on each front lawn. In subdivisions of low-slung mid-century ranches, the trees create a canopy that links the shallow roofs. All Dallas really needs is for the citizens to come outdoors, sit in the shade of their magnificent specimens, and chat. It won’t happen; there’s no money in that.

October 25, 2016 – Sun, 75 degrees

Miles Today: 12

Miles to Date: 18,449

States to Date: 45 

I voted today. It wasn’t easy: sending a letter to the Cambridge Election Commission a month ago, requesting a ballot mailed to an address where I would land after the October 12 mail out date with enough time for it to get back to Cambridge before November 8, filling in the oval circles, pedaling to a post office in Dallas, just to have my vote counted in a state where my ballot won’t possibly matter. Massachusetts is blue as the Texas sky.

By any economic measure, voting is a waste of time, unless perhaps you live in a swing state. But if I’ve learned anything in my year on a bicycle it’s that economic measures are often too meager. I take the time to vote because it’s a civic right; a tangible, if tiny, way to participate in our governmental process; a process that will only get better if more people vote. In a world where a mere 13% of people live in ‘full democracies,’ I vote because I can.

I hope that you vote too, by absentee ballot, by early voting, or on November 8. It is our privilege. It is our responsibility. It is how we shape our nation.

October 24, 2016 – Sun, 75 degrees

Miles Today: 16

Miles to Date: 18,437

States to Date: 45

Every presidential library reflects the nature of the man it portrays. Here is the letter I sent to the visitor email address after my visit to the George W. Bush Presidential Library and Museum:

Greetings –

I am a cyclist on a journey to visit the 48 contiguous states. Along the way I ask folks the question, “How will we live tomorrow?” So far, I have travelled over 18,000 miles, visited 45 states, asked thousands of people my question and profiled over 400 individuals and organizations about their view of our future. The adventure has revealed American’s innate generosity and trust.

I’ve also visited nine presidential libraries. On Monday October 24 I visited library number ten: The George W. Bush Presidential Library. I thought you might be interested in the reception I received.

I locked my bike to the rack at the bus stop along the main road. I entered the library courtyard, in my yellow cycling shirt, carrying a pair of yellow panniers. A gentleman in a blue blazer with numerous pins on his lapel approached me. “Are you delivering pizzas?” “No,” I replied. “Then what are you here for?” I told him I was here to visit the museum. He gave me a look of doubt. “I thought you were delivering pizzas.”

I proceeded to the security area. The first words from the guard were, “What are you delivering?” With little patience, I told her that I wasn’t delivering anything. “So what’s in your bags?” I told her I’m a long distance cyclist; these were my belongings. “I hope you know you’ll have to check them.” I said, “Of course I want to check them.”

In my cycling clothes I look no more like a delivery person than you do in your office attire. However, I do look very different from people wearing street clothes. The message that your staff conveys loud and clear is, ‘if you look different you will be treated with suspicion rather than respect.’

After visiting hundreds of public places and private businesses in my cycling uniform and being greeted with curiosity and good cheer by oil company executives, permaculture farmers, police officers, and homeless individuals, I am appalled by the unprofessional manner in which your staff addressed someone differently dressed. I hope you are as well.

The message of compassion expressed throughout the exhibits of the George W. Bush Presidential Library do not ring true after a person is so rudely treated by the museum’s staff.

October 23, 2016 – Sun, 75 degrees

Miles Today: 49

Miles to Date: 18,421

States to Date: 45

The United States is emptier than most people think. When we drive freeways at rush hour, fill up mall parking lots on weekends, load warehouse goods in the morning, or descend on baseball stadiums for a night game, we populate places for a particular activity. We associate them with bustle and crowds. But there are hours, days, entire seasons when these places sit unused. The inevitable result of an environment cordoned into specialized zones in a nation of excess, if ill maintained, infrastructure.

I spent a Sunday pedaling from Fort Worth through Arlington, Grand Prairie and Irving to Dallas, aka The Metroplex. What does the fourth largest SMSA (Standard Metropolitan Statistical Area) in our country (after New York, Los Angeles, and Chicago) look like on a mild autumn afternoon? It’s mostly empty.

Arlington is the sports and entertainment center of the Metroplex, home to Six Flags Over Texas, Ranger Stadium, and Cowboy Stadium. But the city’s main street is a former US Highway whose traffic has shifted to the nearby Interstate. What’s left are used car lots, repair garages, pawn shops, fried chicken in any shape, and budget motels.

The industrial zone is a no man’s land.

Houses in Grand Prairie have designer grates that hide any life within.

On a perfect cycling afternoon, even the bike path in Irving is empty. Most Americans are watching their favorite football teams. The only humans I saw were Indians playing mad cricket.

Downtown Dallas is full of vacuous plazas where groups of poor people huddle in shade and a guy with a megaphone barks the Gospel. I.M Pei’s City Hall is brutal modern architecture with the subversive message that government could topple and crush us. Another example that just because we have the technical capacity to build something, doesn’t mean it’s a good idea. The First Baptist Church complex is also a hodgepodge of meaning. Yes, there’s a cross. But everything else looks mighty corporate to me.

I really loved the cattle sculpture stampeding through Pioneer Square. There were more of them than humans. Actually, I rather liked the entire day. I got to pedal through every kind of landscape: residential, civic, industrial, retail, natural, without having to bother with any people.

October 22, 2016 – Sun, 75 degrees

Miles Today: 45

Miles to Date: 18,372

States to Date: 45

Pete Parsons, a Texas gal of supersize personality, has put me in touch with fascinating people all across my journey. She outdid herself in setting up a meeting with Fort Worth Mayor Betsy Price, a cycling enthusiast and health advocate. Mayor Price and I met at the Blue Zones Project Festival at Bluebonnet Circle near Texas Christian University.

A number of cities across the United States have initiated Blue Zone Projects to encourage people to make choices that extend life and health according to the precepts of the world’s Blue Zones. There are about thirty communities in the US with active projects supported by local non-profits and foundations. Fort Worth is the largest city to fund a Blue Zones Project. The city monitored its relative health by several parameters before the project started, funded the initiative through 2018, and will assess them at the completion. The project works with individuals to take the ‘Blue Zone 9 pledge’, employers to incorporate movement and mental release in the work place, and educational groups to spread the message. Fort Worth hopes to become a designated Blue Zone City, for improving Blue Zone attributes (which is not the same as being a Blue Zone; that represent generations of behavioral traits).

Steve, my host for the night, took me to a feast of barbeque ribs, cheese biscuits and local beer with his Marine buddies. Not exactly Blue Zone food, but there was a pan of green beans for color and we passed around a salad, sort of like swilling the vermouth bottle over a martini. Patrick asked if I was Steve’s dad, so everyone called me dad all night. Ryan, who served with Steve in Iraq, is a founder of the Decentralized Dance Party movement. DDP orchestrates massive public dance parties; 63 cities around the world so far. Tonight we did something smaller but equally thrilling: banana pedaling through Fort Worth’s downtown.

Three active duty marines, two retired jarheads, two girlfriends, and me slipped on banana suits, drove downtown, and rode our bikes through the city streets on a busy Saturday night. Dance tunes blared from the suitcase turned boom box strapped to Ryan’s bike. Fort Worthian’s high fived and fist pumped us as we slipped along the sidewalks, circled the convention center plaza, and sped down the ramps of Tarrant County College. We ran into a group of skateboarders in an empty parking garage, rode up to the top and careened down seven floors of concrete ramp. I was last in line when an elegant woman outside of Circle Theater asked if I was their chaperone.

Truth is, I did tire first. Despite the exhilaration of the night breeze and downtown lights, by midnight I was keen to hit the sack. The sound system broke down a half hour later. Ryan was bummed but I was ready to call it quits. We got to bed just before two. If the tunes kept flowing, who knows how long we would have cycled downtown Cowtown?

October 21, 2016 – Sun, 75 degrees

Miles Today: 86

Miles to Date: 18,327

States to Date: 45

The wind took a vacation day, and so I got one as well. Rare in this part of the world to have no wind, but incredibly easy to ride when the sky is calm.

Texas has perhaps the least bike-friendly drivers in our country. Riding in any city, from Port Arthur to El Paso to Muleshoe, is precarious as Texas streets paved concrete with integral curbs. There’s no place for me to be except in the traffic lane, which annoys the pickups. Fortunately, the highways are another story. Texas has wonderful highways, with wide shoulders and rumble strips. There’s plenty of space. Everyone gets along because we don’t have to interact. Robert Frost wrote that good fences make good neighbors. In Texas, distance makes good neighbors.

Mineral Wells is a peculiar place. The massive abandoned hotel from its early 20^th century days of healing waters hovers over the near deserted downtown like a mirage from The Shining. East of town I came upon the National Vietnam War Museum, which is seriously less official than it sounds. Not a soul at the place, no staff, nothing. There’s a plywood replica of the Vietnam Memorial in DC, a stucco replica of a Vietnam camp’s honor wall, a helicopter with propellers fabricated in Mineral Wells, and well tended gardens. The big picture eluded me.

Weatherford may possess the most attractive courthouse in a state whose 248 counties include many contenders. It sits on the axis of the city’s main streets and commands attention from all directions.

October 20, 2016 – Sun, 75 degrees

Miles Today: 61

Miles to Date: 18,241

States to Date: 45

Grinding against the wind! The only constant is change. That applies to the wind as much as anything. It took me more hours to grind out fewer miles today, thanks to a wind shift that brought steady gales from the northeast. Still, it was a gorgeous autumn day and I had lots of time to savor the saving grass and golden sage flowing against me.

I am no longer in West Texas. The high plains gave way to brush and then creeks and finally across the causeway of a big reservoir; more water than I’ve seen in a month. I was happy to pedal up the last long hill and see my motel. A bucket of fresh ice, a hot shower, can almost make a body forget about the wind. Almost.