The Awkward Pose

October 12, 2016 – Sun, 75 degrees

Miles Today: 60

Miles to Date: 17,806

States to Date: 45

My agenda to visit all of my siblings and their children on this journey is not merely social. We are a demographically diverse bunch. Pat and Jack Fallon were third generation Irish-American Catholics from the New York area. None of their five children or fourteen grandchildren is Catholic or lives in metropolitan New York. We are scattered over eight states; we all practice a different religion, if any at all. Some of us have advanced degrees; others have not graduated high school. Some own homes; others rent. One has six children; others are committed to having none. Some are veterans, others felons; one is both. We are married or divorced or living together. We are straight and gay. We have natural children and stepchildren and adopted children. We occupy every economic quartile, though none of us is in the top 1%. Our politics run blood red and sky blue. We are the most diverse family I know that still all talk with each other. Because, whatever our differences or opinions, we are family.

The most difficult person to meet up with on my journey has been my oldest brother Bill, a long haul truck driver based in Salt Lake City who’s home at most 36 hours a week. Over the past year we near missed in Indiana, Wyoming and Texas. Today we navigated an Apollo worthy linkup. I cycled to Vaughn, New Mexico and took a room at the faded motel next to a 24-hour diner on US 285 that Bill passes four times a week shuttling between Salt Lake City and Laredo, Texas. He gave me a 3:00 a.m. ETA but called at midnight: making good time, only fifteen minutes away. We spent three hours at Penny’s Diner, the only patrons in the only bright lights for a hundred miles around.

Bill is the most upbeat person I’ve ever met. No matter what travails befall him, and there have been plenty, he always says things are great. He’s also keen about whatever endeavor he’s invested in, whether it’s product sales, international construction, SBA disaster financing, or, these days, trucking. Since I’m fascinated by logistics, I enjoy hearing the intricacies of schedule and the advantages of designated routes, though the sheer volume of trucking and the fossil energy we burn on our highways overwhelms me. Bill’s company runs twelve round trips per week between SLC and Laredo alone simply to deliver parts between Autoliv’s plants in Utah and Mexico. Between shoptalk we catch up on the comings and goings of our children, which are less predictable than Bill’s junkets up and down US 285.

When I ask Bill ‘How will we live tomorrow?” he declines to respond. Many people do that; I only ask once. I put down my pen and look out at the deep night sky, so familiar to a man who trucks all hours, so foreign to a guy who cycles all day and hunkers down in the dark. I wonder how two people so genetically linked can be so different. Which makes me ponder the challenge of forging better bonds among the rest of us.

We start by seeking out and creating bright spots where our complicated paths intersect, the Mormon trucker and the Yankee cyclist in the middle of the night in the middle of New Mexico. Not too much in common. Except that we’re human. And family.

October 11, 2016 – Sun, 75 degrees

Miles Today: 69

Miles to Date: 17,746

States to Date: 45

O give me a home where the buffalo roam

Where the deer and the antelope play

Where seldom is heard a discouraging word

And the skies are not cloudy all day

Today was a day for singing! Back in the wide-open spaces to begin my fourth swath across the Great Plains – this time traveling east from the Sandia foothills across the New Mexico sage and the Ogallala Aquifer nourished South Plains of Texas to Fort Worth.

I spent the whole day on broad shoulders of I-40 and US 285. Road sign mania! None in the cars or trucks zooming past could hear me vocalize. They don’t know what they missed.

The temperature was perfect, the sun was bright and the wind nudged me forth from behind.

I actually did see antelopes play.

I feasted at The Encino Firehouse Mercantile and Deli, the only business in the town of fifty souls. Victor Gallupe, City Councilman, Fire Chief and cafe proprietor, explained that the town used to be four or five times larger. But he has hopes for the future: the largest wind farm in New Mexico is being built fifteen miles due west on US 60.

Over 100 trains a day pass through Encino, along a main east/west corridor that parallels US 60.

Live horses make Vaughn’s welcome sign authentically Western.

October 10, 2016 – Sun, 75 degrees

Miles Today: 53

Miles to Date: 17,677

States to Date: 45

Albuquerque is low-slung as Fresno, visually chaotic as Houston, friendly as Minneapolis, street-peopled as Portland, and outdoorsy as Denver. Albuquerque’s much smaller than I thought: its sister city Phoenix is more than four times its size.

I pedaled the length of Fourth Street, which is about as diverse a strip as any in our nation. I visited Old Town and the Jetty Jacks along the Rio Grande flood plain, downtown and the university. I was enthralled by the National Museum of Everything Nuclear, a more apt name than its official title. Mostly I liked Albuquerque because everyone I met, from coffee guru to college professor, to nature walker, to obese bicycle man, to green chili curry waitress, to ED doc in spandex, was open and engaging.

What I couldn’t compose in my brief stay was a coherent image of the place. Instead I found myself drawn to Albuquerque’s details. To the light on the coarse adobe walls, the contrast of brilliant orange against so much brown, to folk murals and stainless steel shimmering in the blinding sun.

Perhaps Albuquerque is the quintessential American city – disparate parts loosely tied together into an entity that resists cohesion.

October 9, 2016 – Sun, 70 degrees

Miles Today: 58

Miles to Date: 17,624

States to Date: 45

My tires stayed gripped to the earth, but my attention all day was in the clouds. From first light through midday to evening storms, the New Mexico sky was amazing today.

October 8, 2016 – Clouds and rain, 70 degrees

Miles Today: 26

Miles to Date: 17,566

States to Date: 45

My hosts described Santa Fe as a tale of two cities. Yesterday, pedaling in from the north, I passed through the million-dollar rancho city. This morning I witnessed the other city. I pedaled to a local McDonald’s for a morning writing session before Santa Fe’s attractions opened only to find the bike rack full. Turns out many other middle aged men, all the rest Hispanic, most of them marginally homeless, descended on this place for their morning warmth. Some played guitar, some avoided purchasing anything, some commandeered the men’s room for long periods of wash and clothes change. Some men sat in groups chatting, laughing, while others sat alone staring blankly into fate. I was impressed with the Gringo manager who dealt with all of these demographically unfavorable customers with patience and respect. I find humanity in McDonald’s wherever I go.

After ten I explored the streets of this charming capital city of high altitude style and colorful art. The colors were particularly welcome on this grey, featureless day. The State Capitol is among the most bizarre in our nation. Not only no dome, not even a flag. The frontcourt features a sculpture of three girls and two boys at tug-of-war; very odd for a guy accustomed to New England’s obligatory Revolutionary War hero on a horse.

The Santa Fe Society of Artists Show, which occurs every weekend spring through fall, featured some lovely art. I particularly liked Madeleine Durham’s wavy images on handmade paper (www.madeleinedurham.com) and Matthew Rhodes very colorful acrylics (www.matthewrhodesfineart.com).

All of which was a pre-act for my visit to the Georgia O’Keeffe Museum, a perfect place that does justice to a great artist without exhausting the visitor. Though I know much of Georgia O’Keeffe’s work, I was taken by her early West Texas landscapes. These horizontal layered images, painted in the early 1920’s seem to me to joyful precursors of the Abstract Expressionist color field painters of the 1950’s. The three horizontal bands hint at what Mark Rothko did, at a different scale and to different effect, thirty years late. There’s a dissertation in that for anyone interested in pursuing a Ph.D. in art history.

After so much culture, I indulged in a late lunch at Lotsaburger, a local fast food franchise that lives up to its hype. Full of high art and low food, I rode seventeen miles in the rain to stay with a host who lives in an Airstream. Fortunately for me, the rain stopped just in time to witness my own tri-partie horizontally banded landscape, albeit in the grey tones of the day.

October 7, 2016 – Sun, 70 degrees

Miles Today: 68

Miles to Date: 17,540

States to Date: 45

I like the rhythm of constant movement. I’ve never wanted to linger anyplace I’ve visited in my survey course of the United States. Until I came to Ghost Ranch, a dude ranch for the spirit and intellect. Here, I found the New Mexico magic so many herald. The scenery is beautiful, the people are engaging, the facilities are functionally stylish. Beyond that, the air is ambrosia and the light ethereal.

But lingering can be the agenda for another trip; this one is dedicated to rolling. So, after a morning hike up the Cliffside Trail and a terrific breakfast sauced with more interesting conversations with middle aged men penning poems and women painting plein air, I headed down (or is it up?) to Santa Fe. Down because it’s to the south. Up, because it is at 7200 feet elevation – the highest state capital in our nation and the last great height of my trip.

The ride east and south along US 84/285 wasn’t as captivating as yesterday’s trek, but I kept on, climbing against the wind, past Castle Rock, over the crest where the Santa Fe Opera perches, and down to Santa Fe.

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.