The Awkward Pose

October 6, 2016 – Sun, 70 degrees

Miles Today: 73

Miles to Date: 17,472

States to Date: 45

When Google informed me I had 73 miles and a half-mile of vertical rise and fall, it did not convey the beauty of today’s ride. The going was rough, the wind grew strong, but the ride was so beautiful I would do it again in a heartbeat.

Rio Grande Canyon in morning shadow.

Fourteen miles through the Rio Grande Gorge

The Museum of Gas in Rinconada

The best $5 green chile burrito north of the border

Rio Arriba County Road 40

Crossing the Rio Grande

Red Rock cliffs along US 84 north of Abiquiu

La Chama River from the top of the mesa

Ghost Ranch labyrinth at sunset

October 5, 2016 – Sun, 70 degrees

Miles Today: 22

Miles to Date: 17,399

States to Date: 45

When I arrived at Taos Pueblo before 10:00 a.m. stocky guys in orange vests were directing cars to dusty parking lots. One hailed me down and demanded I pull my bike on the sidewalk. “How did you come here?” Apparently pedestrians and cyclists are supposed to take a van from the Plaza to avoid the shoulderless roads and barking dogs. I had simply followed a sign with an arrow to ‘Taos Pueblo.” Eventually David stopped barking himself, gave me a place to park my bike and store my bags and when I asked him “How will we live tomorrow?” he extolled the virtues of tradition and a slow life. Then David directed me to the ticket counter, where the woman pushed the Master Card slip for my $16 entry at me. “Hurry up, I have a bus coming in.”

Before I even entered the gate, I witnessed the dichotomy of Taos Pueblo. It is amazing, miraculous really, that people have lived here for over 1,000 years. It is appropriate that it is a National Historic Monument and a World Heritage Site. But it’s horrific that Taos Pueblo is so commercial. Signs everywhere: don’t do this; buy that; give your guide a gratuity. For sixteen bucks you ought to get a half hour tour by someone trained and informed. Instead they tout how tours are given my tribal college students eager for tips. Mine integrated at least three plugs for tips into his spiel. The history of the place is all right; the tone of the place is all wrong. The hucksterism obscures the magic that the tour guides and shopkeepers proclaim. I want to believe that the natives’ commitment to this land, this place, this way of life, is genuine. But sincerity so polluted by the almighty dollar is difficult to swallow.

Luckily, a different parking guard was happy to let me ride my bike out of the area instead of making me wait for a bus. The rest of the day I toured Taos; a predictable mix of commercial, artistic, and alternative attitudes coexisting on thin air. I could definitely fit in here – the place is crawling with skinny white guys with wrinkled faces and disheveled grey hair – but after one day I was ready to pedal on.

October 4, 2016 – Sun, 75 degrees

Miles Today: 84

Miles to Date: 17,377

States to Date: 45

Thirty-four degrees at 7:30 a.m. and the world stood still as a Watteau painting. I dug my thermal and windbreaker and heavy gloves from the bottom of my pannier and headed south in crystalline mountain air. By ten I was warm enough to stuff the jackets back in their bag. The wind picked up around eleven. Long descent into Questa and a steady climb back up through the pine forests. I was on the outskirts of Taos by 1:30 p.m., but didn’t go into town. Instead, I headed west to cross the Rio Grande Canyon Bridge and visit Earthship, a community of net zero permaculture homes on the high desert. Then I retraced my path and pedaled a few miles north to Arroyo Seco to stay at Snowmansions Hostel.

Earthship is cool, though I can’t imagine living in a place so consciously earthy. I cannot argue with the energy efficiency and sustainability, except that, as long as your vehicle burns petrol, living twelve miles from the nearest anything is unsustainable. The aesthetic works for some, but not many of us. Mostly, I felt the place would be an odd community. The low houses, paying reverence to the sun rather than each other, reminded me of guys sitting shoulder to shoulder at a bar, all looking the same direction, out of each other’s gaze. As one resident said, “People pretty much keep to themselves.” And then, as if she realized her oversight, she added, “Of course, unless you need them, and the then they’re the greatest in the world.” The whole point of an Earthship house is independence and autonomy. That they have built a collection next to each other seems like happenstance.

Snowmansions Hostel, on the other hand, is a very ordinary structure within which lies a community as well as a business. During ski season the place probably accommodates 40-50 people, but in early October there were less than ten of us, all men. Staff, however, was plentiful. They came to Snowmansions from all over to live and work in community with a level of consciousness I appreciated without being overbearing. Although I was the only guest taking dinner, Sam and Justine made a banquet of dishes. “It’s better to have leftovers then run short, and the staff will eat whatever’s left.” Sure enough, about 8:00 p.m. Snowmansion residents came out and devoured the beans, barley, quesadillas, soup, ravioli, grilled cabbage, and grapes I could not finish. I offered Justine the $10 donation requested of guests. “Don’t bother, it was mostly leftovers.”

October 3, 2016 – Sun, 70 degrees

Miles Today: 29

Miles to Date: 17,293

States to Date: 45

One look outside my motel room in Walsenburg told me things had changed. Yesterday’s gentle stir of the trees had become a steady sway. I packed and left and rolled through town still not quite sure of the strong wind’s direction – until I turned west on US 160 and it hit me in the face. I settled into a Zen pace. I logged seven miles in the first hour. At this rate, I would spend hours in the shadow of Spanish Peaks and arrive in San Luis about 6:00 p.m. My Zen thoughts turned mathematical. Perhaps I should just get to Fort Garland? What if the wind got worse and I was stranded? Perhaps it will shift and my prospects improve?

I kept pedaling. It was still morning and adventure lay in moving forward. Five miles per hour. Four miles per hour. The gusts were strong. One caught me quick and I had to drop my feet to the ground. After it passed, I restabilized and pedaled on.

Twelve miles out, where Colorado Highway 12 veers to the south, I ground to a halt. The wind was steady at twenty-five to thirty miles per hour. Gusts were forty, maybe fifty miles per hour. Even when I could move forward, I was weaving too much to be safe. I dismounted, pushed Tom a few hundred feet, lodged him against a ‘Road Closed’ gate, thanked the fates it wasn’t snowing or raining, braced myself against the wind, and stuck out my thumb.

I am inpatient by nature, so rather dislike hitchhiking. It’s so passive. I waved at cars and trucks that could not accommodate a guy with a bike, and sprouted a big thumb to pick-up trucks. After fifteen minutes that felt like two hours, a red Toyota came up the rise. I knew intuitively he would stop.

Buddy Lane and I wedged Tom among the equipment in his bed. He drove me 35 miles to Fort Garland, over the spectacular Le Veta Pass. The orange Aspens were in peak foliage, bright against their evergreen neighbors. I might have bemoaned the pleasure of cycling through such splendor; except the wind was so strong I knew it was impossible.

Trucks travel so fast. Despite the wind rocking the two-ton vehicle, we were in Fort Garland in no time. Buddy and I hit it off; we sat and talked in Fort Garland awhile before going our own ways. After being so pressed for time against nature, I was only sixteen miles from San Luis at noon.

San Luis is directly south of Fort Garland, so my headwind turned into a crosswind; a different kind of challenge. Luckily, I enjoyed a big shoulder and little traffic, but riding was still difficult. I stopped every few miles to steady my nerves and absorb the amazing views.

By 2:30 I arrived at my motel. A very short travel day in terms of miles cycled, but an exhausting day in terms of energy spent. The lowest average speed of my entire trip: slower even than the day I ascended Loveland Pass: 6.9 miles per hour. Colorado is a fabulous state to bicycle, but it makes you pay for its glory.

October 2, 2016 – Sun and clouds, 75 degrees

Miles Today: 57

Miles to Date: 17,264

States to Date: 45

I woke this morning to rosy pink light highlighting the stucco surfaces of the houses in the new subdivision north of Pueblo. As I admired the light my eyes fell on the emerald oval of grass, a front lawn sparkling wet from dawn-timed sprinklers. The brilliant green, so false in this high desert, left a sour taste in my psyche. My hosts are conscientious people; recycling advocates new to an area of the country where recycling is still news. But if you move to Pueblo and buy a subdivision house, it will be big, it will have conventional heat and air conditioning, it won’t be oriented for solar, and it will have a lawn. Unsustainable development is not just allowed. It is the norm. It is all that’s available.

My remedy for feeling adrift is, of course, riding my bike. I began with fourteen miles of delightful Sunday cycling traversing the length of Pueblo from its northern limit through empty downtown past the riverwalk (the Arkansas River runs through Pueblo), along historic Union Street and the Victorian mansions of South Pueblo.

By the time I passed a gas station / convenience store cloaked in stylized font as ‘Mindful Eating’ that also touted 99 cent fountain Pepsi and free lighters with cigarettes, my endorphins had pressed me into  good enough mood to laugh at such folly. Obviously, the proprietors have never read Michael Pollen’s In Defense of Food which contains the sage advice, “Never fill up your car and your stomach at the same place.”

Finally, the pavement gave out and I had to ride the I-25 shoulder. Okay, okay, I didn’t HAVE to ride the I-25 shoulder. But when the three options to cycle from Pueblo to Walsenburg are: a) 119 miles on two lane mountain roads, b) 75 miles of dirt roads in the plains, or c) 55 miles of smooth pavement, half along I-25, I opted for the easy choice. On a Sunday morning with a faint tailwind and excellent shoulder, I-25 was as good as Interstate riding gets. I tuned out the passing noise and focused on the breathtaking landscape beyond.

Walsenburg is a sweet little town that gained some notoriety a few years ago for downzoning to accommodate tiny house neighborhoods. I rode to the areas where the proposed tiny house villages would be built: nothing yet. Still, the town has a cool library carved out of a defunct school and nice mom and pop motels that beat the chains. No sprinklered lawns here.

October 1, 2016 – Sun, 80 degrees

Miles Today: 15

Miles to Date: 17,207

States to Date: 45

When I began my journey last May I targeted a visit to each of my twelve nieces and nephews. At the time, eleven of them were scattered across seven states, while eldest nephew James, who has a troubled history of homelessness, was unaccounted for. I’ve visited seven of my nieces and nephews so far, as well as their spouses and children, several for the first time. This spring James surfaced in Pueblo Colorado where he’s currently serving a thirteen-year sentence at San Carlos Correctional Facility. His story is a tragic example of how our society fails its most fragile citizens, yet our visit offered a sliver of hope and gave my mind some ease.

Here’s the tragedy. James, 41, has suffered schizophrenia since high school. He’s been in and out of treatment facilities and prison, lived with family and on the street, attacked people and been attacked. He is the spitting image of my brother, his father, except for his nose, which has been broken several times. Like so many people with mental illness, James feels better when his medication is stable; then he grows independent, goes off his medication, and deteriorates into delusion or violence. I have never witnessed James as anything but a mellow soul, though I know enough about his unleashed anger to admit it is real.

According to James, two years ago he was living on the streets of Denver with winter coming on. He decided to go to jail, so staged a modest theft in a convenience store. When the clerk did not call the police, James pulled a pair of scissors from his pocket, which escalated his actions to assault. An action designed to provide a warm bed for a few months turned into a long sentence.

Here’s the sliver of hope. James is incarcerated at San Carlos Correctional Facility, a federal prison within the Colorado Mental Health Institute at Pueblo, a college-like campus that includes an array of inpatient, outpatient, youth and penal facilities. Every aspect of my experience, from the initial application to visit I made months ago, through the guards good humor when I arrived on a bicycle, through the respect they show my nephew, was dignified and humane. James looks better than I’ve seen him in years. He has the sluggish response of a person heavily medicated, but he’s coherent, logical, and healthy looking. After talking to strangers all over the country for more than a year, I was anxious about conversing with my own nephew through glass for an hour. The time passed well. We had a few laughs.

San Carlos is a medical institution; regular therapy and group classes are part of James’ routine. Within a year he will be transferred to regular prison. He is not looking forward to that. Hopefully, his time at San Carlos will give him the skills to better cope in his next placement, and eventually, in some capacity in the open world. James will never participate in our society as he might if his head wasn’t plagued by voices. But wouldn’t it be wonderful if we could find a way to offer him the stability and contentment he needs without being behind bars? It seems to me being able to see the mountains just beyond his walls could do him so much good.

September 30, 2016 – Sun, 80 degrees

Miles Today: 48

Miles to Date: 17,192

States to Date: 45

A beautiful day of rolling south with the mountains on my left and high desert on my right. My Colorado Springs host Kyle rode me to the end of the pavement, then I had fourteen miles of gravel before returning to blacktop outside of Pueblo. The Colorado plains are short of paved roads beyond the Interstate!

Las Carnales serves up the best carne asada burrito on earth. After lunch I spent the afternoon at a busy, friendly library, then I explored Pueblo: a county courthouse worthy of a European nation, a $7 dollar buzz cut at a ‘cosmetology school and salon’, a drive-in convenience store where cars line up for ten minutes or more rather than park and walk into the store. Is there any limit to how lazy we can be?

I stayed with a very agreeable host who lives opposite the coolest skate park I’ve seen on my journey. Allen is a retiree who moved to Colorado from Delaware in large part to indulge in the liberal marijuana laws. 420 sure does make a man mellow.

September 29, 2016 – Sun, 80 degrees

Miles Today: 83

Miles to Date: 17,144

States to Date: 45

My first day of fall foliage! Golden leaves along the South Platte as I headed south out of Denver. I followed the greenway all the way beyond the out loop (E-470) and then climbed to the Chatfield Reservoir. Like most water in the West, it sits high and offers spectacular views in all directions.

After another unavoidable segment on gravel, which included carrying Tom over two railroad tracks, I followed the shoulder of US 85 for a short time until I turned onto Colorado 105 south for thirty miles of exquisite mountain scenery. Just as the noon siren sounded in Sedalia the wind picked up hard and fast and blew straight at me while I climbed 2,000 feet to Palmer Lake. By the time I reached Monument my thighs were burning. Still, I was astonished when the Colorado Springs Valley opened before me. The hazy sprawl that extends more than twenty-five miles along the I-25 corridor was a shock after miles of pristine countryside.

I navigated most of that distance on unfriendly six-lane roads lined with big-box stores. Eventually, I reached the Pike’s Peak Greenway, which follows Monument Creek in the shadow of I-25 through downtown, incidental as that is. Colorado Springs is a transient town with four military bases where everything appears to have been built in the last ten years, at SUV scale. I didn’t see any place pedestrian friendly or rooted in history. By the time I reached my host’s apartment on the far south side of town I was ready for a hot shower, good food, and stimulating conversation. All of which Lilly and Kyle provided.

September 28, 2016 – Sun, 75 degrees

Miles Today: 2

Miles to Date: 17,061

States to Date: 45

I picked up Tom from his overhaul – he’s good as new. Maybe better, since we’ve had over 4,000 miles to get to know each other.

As we wound our way along the residential streets from Bike Source to my sisters, I thought about the creatures the two of us have met along the shoulder. Most of them, of course, are dead. Highway shoulders are where possums, squirrels, snakes, the occasional deer, and the tragic dog come to rest until the vultures descend to act out their role in the circle of life. But in Missouri, Kansas, and Colorado we also shared the shoulder with a parade of very alive creatures I’d never seen before: small, fuzzy centipedes that slither along the shoulder.

One day I stopped and studied one of these fellows: a pair of curious creatures with plenty of time. He climbed up from the gravel and scurried along the shoulder. Like me, he stayed outside the white line. However, if he ventured into the traffic lane he wasn’t run over: he’s so light a passing vehicle simply tosses him in the air, lands him in the rubble, and then he climbed back on the shoulder again.

These crawlies are more prevalent on sunny days, which makes me think they’re attracted to the warm surface. I don’t know what they eat, because there can’t be much nourishment on the shoulder and they constantly struggle to get back on it rather than settle into the grass beyond. I don’t even know what they’re called – I cannot find a name to correspond to their appearance on Google.

Nevertheless, Tom and I are happy to have them around. It’s a pleasant diversion to dodge something other than carcasses.

September 27, 2016 – Sun, 75 degrees

Miles Today: 7

Miles to Date: 17,059

States to Date: 45

A beautiful day to roll through Denver neighborhoods, visit Observatory Park and Place Bridge Academy, an innovative school for newly arrived immigrants run by the Denver Public Schools, before taking Tom in for a major service.

Like Seattle, Austin, and Nashville, Denver is a city growing on steroids. Folks say 1,000 people move here a week. The reaction among long-time residents like my sister is to avoid traffic: walk more places. Great idea! We walked to a local restaurant, Pioneer, and sat on the roof deck enjoying cheap draft beer and $5 Chicken Burritos with our friends Lisa and Bob. A very satisfying rest day indeed.