The Awkward Pose

September 6 2015 – Sun and rain, 65 degrees

Miles Today: 21

Miles to Date: 6,507

States to Date: 23

Today marked the four-month anniversary of being on the road and I celebrated by reverting to my roots – I went to yoga! Aside from morning stretches and deep uphill breathing I haven’t practiced organized yoga since I left Cambridge.

My Portland warmshowers host invited me to his Sunday morning class, so we walked to YoYo Yoga and joined about 35 others for what might pass for church in this city. The teacher quoted inspirational verse and got us chanting before he put us through challenging vinyasa flows. My muscles are a lot tighter than they used to be and my one-legged balance is skew, but I did okay. Terri Cole, one of the owners, told me about their cross-country trip to practice yoga in 100 studios in 100 days. They’ve got a cool blog.

I cycled up Terwilliger Road in the Portland mist to the southwest part of town to talk with the director of the Cascades AIDS Project to talk about tomorrow. I returned along the Willamette River past downtown and out the industrial corridor. Portland is a much more industrial city than I anticipated.

I crossed the beautiful St. John’s Bridge to the remote St. John’s neighborhood. St. Johns feels like a separate place, which it once was. Portland annexed the town of casual streets, tall trees, vintage bungalows and tiny ranch houses. It’s authentically funky.

My Quaker warmshowers host moved here eight years ago because he liked the atmosphere. He pointed out the neighborhood’s merits on our walk into the commercial district for dinner, good beer and live music at Slim’s. On the way home we stopped at the Mexican grocery for a sweet and took a different route through this fascinating neighborhood.

September 5, 2015 – Sun and rain, 65 degrees

Miles Today: 55

Miles to Date: 6,486

States to Date: 23

We got a late start pedaling out of Longview. It was 9:30 before I scaled the tall bridge over the Columbia River, observed the two-mile long Weyerheauser plant on the northern shore and entered Oregon. I have now been to all 48 contiguous states – only 25 more left by bike!

US 30 in Oregon proved a easy ride though less spectacular than my route yesterday. I stopped at St. Helens for a Safeway lunch. I am a total fan of their kale super food salad. When I get the $6 lunch combo meal and ask for that as my main portion the staff always says, ‘You can have fried chicken, you know.” Sometimes I get chicken, but I the kale salad is too good to delegate as a side dish.

The overcast sky turned to rain. I sat out the storm and then and continued on through intermittent clouds and drizzle. Northwest Portland is industrial but quiet on a holiday weekend Saturday. I veered into the Alphabet District (so named because the east/west streets run alphabetical from Burnside to Wilson. I don’t know what happened to ‘A’). Immediately, Portland is different from other places. Sure, there is grunge clothing like Seattle. But there are also women in elegant long skirts, coeds wearing facsimile cheerleading uniforms, aging hippies clutching walking sticks as they parade the sidewalk, and guys in pressed khakis. Anything goes doesn’t mean sloppy. It literally means the full range of personal appearance is embraced.

I happened by a lovely branch library to take a writing break, then meandered down 23^rd Street past boutiques and cafes. I could have pedaled my own smoothie, but I had cycled enough, so I made my way to the stately Biltmore Apartment building on Nob Hill where my warmshowers host lives on the top floor with a broad view of the city.

Mike Riscica is a New York transplant, fellow architect, cyclist and accomplished blogger. We had plenty in common. Mike grabbed a Car2Go and we buzzed downtown. Then we spent the evening strolling back home along Portland streets. We visited The Portland Building (the first true Post-Modernism building?), Pioneer Square, and Union Way – a timber frame version of a Parisian shopping concourse. We enjoyed superb beer and a great dinner beneath the massive trusses at Fat Head’s, and a nightcap at another brewery. An altogether terrific introduction to Portland.

September 4, 2015 – Mostly sun, 60 degrees

Miles Today: 94

Miles to Date: 6,525

States to Date: 22

I had a solid 75 miles ride today which extended, over and over with detours, some by choice, others by necessity. Since I hate going back the way I came, I decided to take the longer route around 101 and the Columbia River shore. Then I decided to take the Discovery Bike Trail to Cape Disappointment, so named because 1788 explorer John Meares was disappointed in finding a bay when he was seeking the mouth of the Columbia River. The irony is, of course, that he had found the mouth of the Columbia. There is nothing disappointing about this cape: it is spectacular.

I stopped by Fort Columbia, which had a nice campus of old buildings. It also had odd parking fines. Washington state has both high and bizarre fine amounts for littering, speeding and other citizen infractions.

My fear of heights kept me off the four mile Astoria causeway/bridge, so I took the longer route on the Washington side: Route 401 north to Naselle and Route 4 east to Longview. I enjoyed long stretches along the north side of the Columbia River, steady climbs through tall forests and windy descents.

The sky was full of giant clouds all day, though in mid-afternoon they turned grey. Rain fell coincident with a state-imposed detour around Route 4 construction.

Longview is not a bike friendly city. After too many honks and exhaust revs directed at me along Ocean Highway coming into town, I resorted to riding the sidewalk. Even though I am supposed to be on the roadway, it’s better to be safe than to be right. I was happy to arrive at my warmshowers hosts, who had a good meal, great conversation, and nice bed for me.

September 3, 2015 – Sun and rain, 60 degrees

Miles Today: 74

Miles to Date: 6,431

States to Date: 22

Highway 101! My first day on this storied highway. I will follow 101 on and off for the next two months. I originally planned to take it around the Olympic Peninsula, but local cyclists warned it was narrow and the logging trucks dangerous. Since I listen to local counsel, I opted to cross below the peninsula to Aberdeen and hook onto 101 South there.

Dense fog wrapped me as I crossed the bridge from Aberdeen at 7:30 a.m. The September days are markedly shorter. The mornings are cool.

Within an hour the fog lifted and I logged twenty-seven miles to Raymond. Up and down and up again through a county that ought to named ‘Weyerhaeuser’ since apparently they own all the land. There are all sorts of signs about when what is planted, and these large clearings smack against tall trees. Route 101 lived up to all aspects of its reputation. The scenery is beautiful, the riding sketchy. Nice shoulders disappear without notice. Trucks barrel along at great speed.

There is a belching mill at Raymond, though the town is very poor. Another of those predictable yet counter intuitive truths. Just as we pay the people who provide our most essential needs – farmworkers, garment workers, laborers – less than people with specialized skills – lawyers, surgeons, football players. So to, towns rooted in natural resources; be it lumber, coal or wheat; are poorer than towns rooted in ideas; education, culture or technology. The 2×4’s that the Raymond mill produces are commodities. The people who get rich off of them do not live in Raymond.

Just south of town a guy in a pickup coming north called from this window, “Big rain ahead.” The sky was grey, which is not unusual in the Northwest, but since I listen to locals, I decided to stop. Only the second time this trip I’ve made a weather stop. Each time there’s been a McDonald’s at hand. I took an early break, locked my bike under an overhang, and sat out a humongous storm. It was noon before it let up, so I ate a grocery store lunch and headed on in the crisp after-storm air.

I should be as lucky with my food as the weather. After Raymond, 101 flattens out. Five miles beyond is South Bend, the oyster capital of the world, a real working fishing town with pungent marsh smells and great places to eat. My lunch was fine, but it wasn’t fresh oysters! I was full and still had forty miles to go, so I pedaled on.

Forty miles on the Highway 101 cyclists adore. The road was good, the terrain gentle, the views amazing. Sometimes I hugged the shore. Other times the water was distant. There were fewer trucks past Raymond. In fact, there wasn’t anything except trees and more trees. I startled a huge buck in the woods. A mile later a parade of six large deer crossed the road. I saw more deer than houses.

I reached the Long Beach peninsula about four. On a map it looks like a barrier island off New Jersey. But instead of a sand spit, the peninsula has the same terrain and tall pines as the rest of this area.

Long Beach is my kind of beach town – a little tacky and very salty. ‘Our Place by the Beach’ proved a nice place to stay: salt water taffy in a jar at check-in; a room with sitting area and picture window overlooking pines; a soothing hot tub. Marsh’s Free Museum, downtown, is gaudy as any souvenir shop. Fudge stores, frozen yogurt parlors, pizza stands, and T-shirt emporiums round out he rest of the commerce. The summer season is short here. The bumper cars and merry-go-round were already closed.

No one could recommend a good oyster place, but I enjoyed fish and chips and good beer at the local sports bar where the Seahawks were beating the Raiders so bad I left in the second quarter. If I ever ride this way again a #12 jersey is in order. Seahawk’s fans take their twelfth man status seriously.

Before dinner and football I walked out to the ocean and waded in the Pacific. It was not nearly as cold as everyone says, about the same as the ocean on Cape Cod this time of year. But no one swims in it. The waves are rough, the undertow strong. Still, I enjoyed my first dip ever in another ocean.

September 2, 2015 – Sun and rain, 65 degrees

Miles Today: 74

Miles to Date: 6,357

States to Date: 22

Back on the road again! I rolled out of DuPont on a beautiful morning. After a short stint on I-5, I pedaled along tree lined back roads to Olympia where I spent the morning absorbing the sites. I chatted up Zach of Zach’s Window Cleaning while I ate my grocery store breakfast and can vouch for his work. Then I visited the State Capitol. Docent Dave gives one of the best tours I’ve ever attended. He made good fun of the guy in the yellow bike shirt while knowing every detail of the carpet, furnishings, chandeliers and worldwide assortment of marble in the building. On the way out of town I discovered a salmon spawn viewing platform. The salmon will soon swim upstream, and are swarming in apparent excitement. Finally, I stopped by a fruit stand and enjoyed two huge Washington apples.

Fully satisfied, I spent the afternoon pedaling the wide shoulders of Washington 8 and US. 12. I got on local roads for a bit, but the rugged pavement so typical to Washington sent me back to smoother surfaces. A few rain showers kept me cool; then the sun came out and dried me off.

At Montesano I turned south on Washington 107 and cross the Chehalis River. The road glistened from recent rain; the breeze was cool. I noticed several cars turn off on Blue Slough Road and figured it went in my direction, though it wasn’t on Google’s route. My adventurousness was rewarded with five miles of extraordinary cycling. The road was narrow and smooth, the terrain varied, the river picturesque. It’s noteworthy that cycling on narrow roads is often safer than ones with skimpy shoulders. I claim space in the right lane and motorists don’t attempt to pass me against oncoming traffic.

Aberdeen is a dreary town, but I landed a super nice room at the Travelodge, just a few blocks from the phenomenal Taqueria Las Mulitas where I enjoyed an adobada burrito and basket of chips with a large garnish bar for a whopping seven dollars. Eating in abundance is an integral part of touring.

August 29 to September 1, 2015 – Rainy, 65 degrees

Miles Today: 7

Miles to Date: 6,283

States to Date: 22

Vacation is not only doing something pleasant; it’s doing something different. So, after riding my bike for over three months, I took a four-day vacation. I visited my niece, her husband and their three boys in DuPont. I hardly rode my bike; I scarcely went outside. We watched The Lego Movie and built our own Lego creations. Ate dinner out and ordered pizza in. Three boys can keep three adults amused without any other diversions. I like to think that I helped my niece around the house, but mostly I just took it easy and enjoyed my extended family.

This essay was published in WBUR Cognoscenti on August 21, 2015

Stone Soup is a folktale about a wanderer who comes to town and proclaims he can make soup from a stone. He convinces townspeople to heat a cauldron of water and places his stone inside. Then he stirs expectations: ‘a slice of carrot’, ‘a pinch of sage’ or ‘a bit of meat’ would make the soup even tastier. He cajoles locals to toss in all sorts of ingredients, and by supper they share the soup all around. Everyone is amazed that such tasty soup comes from a stone. After the feast, the drifter pockets his stone and proceeds to the next town.

I consider that fable as I bicycle across the 48 contiguous United States and ask the question, “How will we live tomorrow?” In the past thirteen weeks I’ve pedaled over 5000 miles and visited tewnty-one states. I have thousands more miles and a full turn of the seasons before I complete my circuitous route. My odyssey is rooted in a desire to explore this country in a visceral way; my question provides structure and purpose to my wanderings. It also stimulates a deeper level of conversation among those I meet.

Every day I engage at least one person I don’t know in conversation and ask them my question. Several times a week I visit companies and institutions to discuss tomorrow. So far, I’ve talked with organic farmers and fast food executives; hospital CEO’s and family constellation therapists; chiefs of police, IT programmers, inventors, professors, and minimum wage workers; Muslims, Catholics, Seventh-Day Adventists, Mormons, Jews; and immigrants from Lebanon, Somalia, India, Norway, and Cambodia.

Some people respond to ‘How will we live tomorrow?’ by describing what they’ll do twenty-four hours hence; others talk about colonizing distant planets. Many respond from a global perspective, others answer in the first person singular. Quite a few rephrase the question to how should we live, or how they hope to live tomorrow. One man, a Navy veteran who offered me lodging for the night, told me my question was too broad and diffuse. Then the next morning he said, “I’ve been thinking about your question: We will live tomorrow in the memories of those who love us.” Hardly a standard military response.

My project is inherently unscientific. I am a slow slice of space and time cutting through our land, haphazardly hitting and missing people and events. Still, a guy on a bicycle with two saddlebags and a question learns quickly that people are kind and good. I’ve suffered two mechanical failures and one serious tumble. Each time strangers came to my aid, offering transportation and iodine. I originally intended to stay in local motels, yet half the time strangers who’ve heard of my adventure invite me into their homes, make me supper, give me a bed, cook me breakfast, and send me on my way. All I offer in exchange are stories of the road and my question. Yet we both find it a satisfactory exchange.

People hail me down to give me cold water, buy my lunch, offer me money, and give me fresh produce. I turn money away, but I’ve learned to accept food and drink as tangible ways for people to participate in my adventure. As one staid businessman said, “You’re living the dream, man. You’ve got to let others join in.” More then stuff, I appreciate how people display their concern for my quest and my safety. Nuns give me blessings; Buddhists give me Karma; Native Americans give me talismans. Evangelicals pulled me into a prayer circle in a McDonald’s. As a tiny yellow-clad creature crawling across a continent abuzz with hard steel vehicles, I am grateful for all protection.

On my longest day so far, crossing the Continental Divide in Colorado, a seasoned cyclist overtook me outside of Denver. I gave Mark my card and asked him my question. He said, “I’ve got lots of ideas for tomorrow, but today I’m looking after you.” Mark accompanied me for eleven-hours for the seventy-mile climb to Loveland Pass. Near the top he said, “You may be the only man who ever topped Loveland on a heavy steel bike with saddle bags and tennis shoes. You are one weird cyclist.” Then he rolled back east while I continued west.

I could end my odyssey today and consider it a success; I have countered my concerns about our vast country and its myriad problems with examples of abundant generosity. But I can’t stop yet. I have many more miles to pedal, states to visit, and people to meet. In every town, I ask my question, people toss their ideas into the mix, and savor our conversation. Then we part, like the stone soup vagrant and the townsfolk, mutually satisfied.

August 28, 2015 – Partly sunny, 65 degrees

Miles Today: 50

Miles to Date: 6,276

States to Date: 22

 Much as I enjoyed Seattle, it felt great to climb on Surly, pedal down to the waterfront, weave through the container port, cross over the West Seattle Bridge, and log some distance. Five low mileage days made me antsy. Even though today’s route wasn’t difficult, it was more than mere commuting.

I climbed through West Seattle and descended to the Vachon Island ferry port. Ferries are an integral part of Seattle’s transportation infrastructure. Still, I was surprised how many people and vehicles took the twenty-minute ride midmorning. Crossing Puget Sound with ferries, pleasure boats and freighters all in view, I recalled how water used to connect us. Before railroads, before roads, rivers and bays were our thoroughfares.

Now, land connections dominate and water connections are weak bonds. Vachon Island is a separate world a mere two miles from the City of Seattle. It reminded me of Cape Ann in Massachusetts – varied terrain with lush greenery, well-kept vintage houses and a quaint scale. The grocery store where I stopped at noon was crowded and inefficient but no one seemed dismayed or rushed. Island time exists wherever water surrounds us, even if we’re only 15 miles from Amazon headquarters.

The ride after lunch only got better. Sun streaked through tall trees and illuminated mounds of fern and moss. I descended into the village of Burton. Magnolia Beach opened before me, an arc of fine sand beach and frame cottages. Seagulls lofted above. The sweet scent of salt air rushed my nostrils. All at once I was back home. Then it struck me. How far I’ve come. Until that moment my journey from Cambridge to Seattle had been measured in time and distance. A single jolt of sea air clarified my emotional distance. All the months I’ve traversed farms, prairie and mountains I never thought about the sea. But one waft from the opposite coast made my heart pulse a homesick beat. The world is not just round in shape. Memories retrieved mark the cycle of our growth. Like rings of a tree. Or seagull squawks that echo true on either coast.

 I took a second ferry from Vachon to Tacoma, a short ride full of chatty passengers. The mainland greeted me with a great beer sign and blocks of amusingly tacky houses. Tacoma must have boomed when the bi-level was king, board and batten siding in vogue, and contrasting paint motifs all the rage. Baby blue with chocolate brown. Lemon with rust. Each house, identical to the next, screaming to be unique.

I passed the Tacoma Narrows Bridge, sight of one of the most famous civil engineering disasters of our era. Not the bridge I saw, which stands firm, but the one that wobbled in a 1940 gale and came crashing down. Beyond the bridge, I rode for miles along the bay. Hills, mountains, and sky all muted against the overhead sky. It started to rain – just barely. Puget Sound is like Ireland. Rain enhances the place.

I arrived in DuPont, where I will spend a few days with my niece and her family. When I stay with warmshowers hosts, I typically leave a calling card and a box of Altoids as gesture of appreciation. But my nieces rank flowers. I love riding with a bouquet popping out of my backside, proclaiming to everyone that, though I travel light, I still have space for something as ethereal as fresh flowers.

This opinion essay was published in The Seattle Times on Thursday August 27, 2015.

I am cycling toward Seattle at ten miles per hour, fueled by 5,000 calories a day and a question. Since May, I’ve logged 6,000 miles, traversed 22 states, and asked hundreds of individuals, organizations and companies, “How will we live tomorrow?”

Seattle is a key terminus for many cross-country cyclists. More than half of the riders I’ve met start or end here. For me, Seattle is a turning point, the place I stop moving west and start heading south. Seattle marks only the third point in my objective to pedal and pose my question in the 48 contiguous states. Still, reaching the upper left corner on the map is a significant landmark in my journey.

I undertook this adventure because I love to cycle and wanted to see America at an intimate scale. More importantly, I am concerned about the negative tone of our national conversation. I’ve no confidence the 2016 election cycle will rise above partisan discord to generate the thoughtful debate we deserve. So I decided to generate my own discussions, one on one, with people I meet riding a bicycle.

A guy on a bike is like a woman in pearls: my accessory earns me special attention. I supposed that people would be inclined to talk to a cyclist; I underestimated that by a wide margin. People love to talk to a guy on a bike. They seek him out. They open up. The bike sets me apart, and triggers unconstrained responses to my question.

I appreciate strangers who engage in lively discussion, but I marvel at the private audiences I’ve earned. I’ve discussed tomorrow with Chiefs of Police, scientists, cattlemen, futurists, oilmen, shaman, museum directors, farmers, and executives. I’m not a credentialed journalist, just a good listener in yellow spandex. Sometimes I ask my interviewees why they offer me their time. To a person, their answer is, “because you’re on a bike.”

Some people respond to ‘How will we live tomorrow?’ by describing their plans twenty-four hours hence; others talk of space travel. Many respond from a global perspective, others answer in the first person singular. Many rephrase the question to how should we live, or how they hope to live tomorrow. One man, a Navy veteran who put me up overnight, told me my question was too broad and diffuse. But the next morning he said, “I’ve been thinking about your question: We will live tomorrow in the memories of those who love us.”

Retirees give me cold water along the road, truck drivers buy me lunch, mechanics offer me money, and gardeners give me produce. I turn down money, but I’ve learned to accept food and drink. As one collared businessman said, “You’re living the dream, man. You’ve got to let others join in.” Strangers invite me into their homes, make me supper, give me a bed, and cook me breakfast. More then stuff, I appreciate people’s concern for my safety. Nuns give me blessings; Buddhists give me Karma; Native Americans give me talismans. Evangelicals pulled me into a prayer circle in a McDonald’s. As a tiny creature crawling across this huge continent, I’m grateful for all protection.

I could return to Massachusetts after I reach Seattle – most transcontinental cyclists are one-way travelers – and count my journey a success. Not that I’ve solved our nations’ problems. Rather, I’ve countered my worries with example upon example of personal generosity.

But I won’t dip my tire in Puget Sound and head home. After Seattle, I want to ask my question in San Francisco and Fresno, El Paso and Tampa. Everyday brings fresh responses and fresh energy. And often, a savvy local exposes the real purpose of my inquiry. “You know, the answers aren’t all that important. The important thing is asking the question.”