The Awkward Pose

July 30, 2015 – Sunny, 90 degrees

Miles Today: 62

Miles to Date: 4,828

States to Date: 19

Today I was a bicycle tourist in the truest sense of the word. I left Kaysville about 10 with the general idea to go to Logan, though if something interesting came up along the way, I didn’t have to get there, for I had meetings scheduled and no lodging arranged in advance.

I rather liked Ogden, which is less affluent than other places along the Wasatch Valley, but also less homogenous. The main street is littered with immigrant stores and restaurants: Mexican bakeries, Chinese buffets, Indian Tandoori, Mongolian Barbeque. Too bad I wasn’t hungry. Downtown featured wonderfully painted horses at the street corners. Just north of town I saw a sign for $5 haircuts. Really? I was straggly and so went in, where Corinne, the chatty wife of an Air Force solider, did a terrific job cutting my hair, at any price.

The next third of my ride was a perfect stretch of cycling. The breeze was cool. US 89 had light traffic and a great shoulder. The Wasatch Mountains loomed over me to the right, the Great Salt Lake spread out on my left. This stretch of agricultural land is like none I’ve seen in the West – sweet corn and fresh tomatoes; cherries, peaches and watermelons. Handsome orchards march up the mountainsides and farm stands sell terrific produce at ridiculous prices. I stopped at Granny’s for some watermelon, but I couldn’t eat it there, as they aren’t licensed for on-site consumption. They looked juicy and good, but not good enough to weigh down my pannier.

I decided that if Brigham City looked neat I might stay there. However, US 89 took a sharp right before the town presented a good face and so I decided to pedal on. Up, up, up another eight mile rise to a pass that eventually bought me into Logan Valley. I wasn’t psyched for such rigorous cycling. I just did it.

It was pushing six by the time I pulled into the Econolodge near downtown Logan. The town presented nothing but wide streets and preoccupied motorists, and I was too tired to seek out more character. At least it’s within walking distance of a few eateries. I got cleaned up and set out for dinner, pleased to find a Salvadoran food truck with tables under tents. I ordered the special, which included pamposas, yucca, fried pork and a sweet pancake dessert. Edgar, a local Guatemalan construction worker and college student, joined me in a great dinner conversation.

July 29, 2015 – Sunny, 90 degrees

Miles Today: 16

Miles to Date: 4,766

States to Date: 19

Today was a day of connecting with my own family and meeting another who is quite extraordinary. I spent the morning with my sister-in-law Julie and her son Steve. He makes an awesome breakfast.

 Then I visited Kadee and Brad Troop and their seven adopted children, four of whom have EB (Epidermolysis Bullosa) a rare genetic disease; the other three were born with drug-related syndromes.

I pedaled up the Rio Grande bike trail to my niece Jessica’s and spent the evening with Jes and her two children as well as my nephew David and his wife Jennifer. Ammon is a Lego fiend; we spent time concocting Star Wars sets at his Lego table. Emma is only four but just ditched the training wheels on her bike. She’s fearless on two wheels. I figure she’ll be ready to join me, maybe next summer?

July 27, 2015 – Sunny, 80 degrees

Miles Today: 46

Miles to Date: 4,703

States to Date: 19

The ride from Midway through Provo Canyon is yet another gorgeous slice of Utah scenery. US. 189 is a wide and twisting road that hugs Deer Creek Reservoir at the base of Mount Timpanogos, the largest peak in this area. About halfway down a side turn leads to a bicycle path that runs right under the spectacular Bridal Veil Falls and then continues down to Provo. I rolled through Brigham Young University, had an odd interchange with a coed in a car who insisted she knew me, and cycled through downtown on my way to Fire Station No.5, where I met Chris Blinzinger, the Manager of Emergency Preparedness for the City of Provo. Chris took me out to lunch with four other people involved in medical, civil, and natural disaster preparation to talk about tomorrow.

Provo is similar to Madison, WI; State College, PA; and Boulder, CO in that it is a college town, but is unlike them in that BYU students, mostly Mormon, are quite different from many college students. There aren’t any bars, the campus is full of married student housing, off campus housing advertises itself as ‘men’ or ‘women’ only.

I was struck by Provo’s architecture, which doesn’t reflect the rugged West, as lodge style buildings do in Colorado. Rather, it harkens to colonial stability with brick, moldings and symmetry. The LDS churches, which occur within blocks of each other, are subtly different combinations of traditional elements. Even the condominiums complexes seek historical connections. I loved The Bostonian, Cape Cod forms in the shadow of giant mountains.

After lunch I took a writing break, then pedaled back toward Provo Canyon and over the Murdoch Creek Trail to Pleasant Grove, where I stayed with Chris and his family. Kendra and Chris and their eight children could be featured in a heart-warming reality program. They went to their high school prom together, drifted apart, married others, had children, divorced, and then reunited. We shared a terrific barbeque supper and then everyone pitched in to help Chris and his stepson Spenser prepare for a four-day backpack trip with 25 scouts. My two panniers with a credit card for emergencies are easier to manage.

July 26, 2015 – Sunny, 90 degrees

Miles Today: 101

Miles to Date: 4,657

States to Date: 19

Every time I feel flat or overwhelmed on this project, something happens to rejuvenate me. Today was a challenging day, but two high points made all the effort worthwhile.

I woke up early, filled with the anxiety that comes in facing a century through unknown terrain with over 4,000 feet of vertical climb. I rolled my packed Surly to the motel breakfast right at 6 a.m. to find hot coffee, bagels and fruit. More importantly, I found Alaina, the morning clerk who apologized for ‘not having my face on yet’ and then proceeded to brighten my day. I had not heard that expression since Oklahoma days, and sure enough, Alaina had just moved back to Roosevelt form Oklahoma. She was a sweet open person, and when I pedaled west on US 40, her hearty best wishes gave me more energy than the caffeine.

Roosevelt has grown long and ugly to the west, where the haphazard business of oil exploration has littered the valley with metal buildings, material stockpiles and a general disrespect for our earth’s surface. Since the latest oil boom’s tapered, structures less than five years old are already abandoned. The energy business is not conducive to thoughtful or stable development.

Duschesne is the third major town of the Uintah Basin, the smallest and the least affected by recent energy exploration. The Mormons who settled this area mastered water control. A system of canals enables the arid land to turn into lush green fields. The prosperous looking farmhouses reflect their success.

I enjoyed a fantastic breakfast at Cowen’s Cafe – perhaps the best sausage patty of my life – before heading into 60 miles without services. I climbed up a steady twelve miles to leave the Uintah Basin. Dozens of dual trailer oil trucks huffed past me. I descended into Fruitlands, a wide valley with more signs of land for sale than residents. I needed a noon break, but there wasn’t a scrap of shade, so I propped my bike on a guardrail and sat with my back to the glare. Then I climbed again, ten more miles at a steeper grade. More trucks passed me, along with all sorts of weekend warriors pulling trailers and boats. I saw a peak; it proved false. The next one was a rouse as well. When yet another rise showed itself I took another shadeless break to regenerate, then soldiered on.

At the top of the final rise was Strawberry Reservoir. On the East Coast the basic rules of gravity apply; water lies at low points. In the West, thanks to our prodigious damming, water is high up. Strawberry Reservoir is thousands of feet above its adjacent valleys.

My warmshowers host asked me to call a few hours out; he might ride out to meet me. It was 3:30 p.m. when I told Steve I was entering Uinta Forest, 28 miles from Midway. I had been averaging well under ten miles an hour, so projected I would get there around 7:30 p.m. The moment the words left my mouth I was depressed. Did I have energy to pedal four more hours of this hot sun and grueling climb?

The Entrance to Center Canyon seemed promising, but around a curve was a rise, than another, and more headwind. I was considering putting my thumb out for a sag ride but decided to persevere one other crest. Finally, I saw the summit sign – 8,020 feet – followed by the most satisfying downhill of my entire journey. Twelve miles at a nice 6% grade through a glorious canyon all the way into Heber City. I was at Steve’s door before 6:30 p.m., tired in body but energized in spirit.

July 25, 2015 – Sunny, 80 degrees

Miles Today: 64

Miles to Date: 4,556

States to Date: 19

 I continued my journey along US 40 into Utah. The scale is grander than Colorado, the road kill more exotic (bucks and snakes), the shoulder a cyclists puzzle of different pavements and rumble strips irregular as crispy bacon.

I left early to avoid the wind and was in Vernal by ten. I was in Vernal ten years ago or so at the start point for a family rafting trip. The town has grown in size but not in my affection. It’s hard to love a place so naturally beautiful befouled by the detritus of our energy business. The air should be so fresh. Instead it is heavy and rank.

Beyond Vernal the Uintah Basin is stark and gorgeous, except for the drilling sites. Around fifty miles I needed a break and sought shade. I spotted a row of trees, which turned out to line the driveway of a rare house. As I slowed to see if it might be suitable spot, I met Darlene and her granddaughter searching the roadside for a stray dog that came by their place and then ran off. I’m a sucker for Pamela Anderson types. Darlene’s ample figure and platinum hair were offset by the most gorgeous nails I’d ever seen. She invited me to rest in the shade while they searched. I enjoyed a bit of breeze. Unfortunately, they found the dog on the far shoulder, yet another road kill victim. Darlene used the dog to lecture me on being careful. The speckled pink nail of her pointer finger dazzled me. Then I pedaled, refreshed and careful, toward Roosevelt.

The Uintah Basin is an ancient seabed, which explains both the dinosaurs and the oil. More recently it was home to the Ute Indians, whose reservation is centered at Fort Duchesne. Several tribal businesses line US 40, but what caught my eye was the Fort Duchesne Cemetery, one of the most remarkable places I’ve encountered on my trip. It’s a barren place of hard furled flags, garish plastic flowers, antler ornaments and markings of Americans who died much younger than most of us, set off the highway just enough for cars to ignore but not so far as to be serene. A woman and her daughter vacated a mini-van and placed two fresh plastic bouquets on a man’s grave. I did not ask her about tomorrow. This was the kind of place where tomorrow and today mingle in a way Native people understand and Westerners only guess about.

I got to the Frontier Motel on Roosevelt’s main street before three and had a nice conversation with the clerk, also owner, about her seven children and their interest in cycling. The Frontier cost a notch above my usual joint, so I was disappointed the pool wasn’t open and I had to make several calls to get the Internet to work. I want to patronize local places, but everything is easier at the budget chains. I finally abandoned my room and settled into a booth at the Frontier Grill, where the Internet worked great and I had my first full restaurant meal alone – soup, salad bar, steak, baked potato, vegetable medley, scone, and peach cobbler a la mode: a very satisfying treat.

You might wonder about a scone in a restaurant in rural Utah. Not to worry. It was fried dough, served with honey, under a gussied-up name. There’s nothing British about this part of the world.

July 23, 2015 – Sunny, 80 degrees

Miles Today: 44

Miles to Date: 4,405

States to Date: 18

Today was the first of four days I will spend on US 40 West heading toward Salt Lake City. Like most ‘easy’ days when I futz around and leave late, the ride proved more difficult than I expected. My route was a gentle down through the gorgeous Yampa Valley, but a North Dakota caliber headwind kept me hard at the pedals. Still, I was glad for the leisurely morning and hanging around Steamboat it more fun than being in Craig, a coal-mining town with an acrid smell that even a strong breeze can’t eliminate. I had a big breakfast before I left and a satisfying pizza around two in Haydn. Which was good since my Super 8 in Craig is on the way out of town and I had no interest in getting back on my beloved Surly to seek out dinner. I often enjoy what I call the Cliff bar duo for one meal a day (a traditional Cliff bar with a Builder’s Bar chaser), although not usually for dinner. Tonight, they made a perfect meal.

July 22, 2015 – Clouds & sun, 70 degrees

Miles Today: 34

Miles to Date: 4,361

States to Date: 18

The sun rose bright and clear in my face; I had no choice but to get up and address the day. I lingered with my hosts, Pam and Steve until nine. Can you blame me? We had great coffee, blueberry crumble, fruit smoothies with walnuts and granola, and cantaloupe. Steve told me road construction would lengthen my ride to Steamboat Springs, but since it’s not a route I usually do, or have any expectation about, I was very happy to hug the hills around Oak Creek and roll into the broad Yampa Valley about eleven.

I had a hard time getting oriented in town, but eventually found Howelsen Lodge and the hall of Olympic Banners. Steamboat claims the highest number of Olympians per capita in the U.S. The park was packed with all ages of baseball players, Tae Kwon Doe classes, cyclists, and tricksters doing summer variations on the ski jumps. No wonder that Colorado is the fittest state in our nation.

I was so pleased that the Western Motel let me check in at noon; though Peter Grubel, the 76 year old proprietor had so many tales to tell the process took about half an hour.

After lunch I cycled to Steamboat’s industrial area to meet with folks from Honey Stinger energy foods and Moots custom bicycles. Moots has a trial maintenance bicycle that is like a cycling bulldozer for building trails as you go. Quite a different industrial base than I witnessed in Pittsburgh!

I walked through Steamboat’s downtown at dusk. My two favorite details: the elaborate entrance to the Chief Theater and the western merchandise at F. M. Light & Sons, outfitters since 1905. The smell of the leather when you walk in the store is incredible.

July 21, 2015 – Clouds and rain, 70 degrees

Miles Today: 97

Miles to Date: 4,327

States to Date: 18

“Colorado has turned into Jurassic Park.” That is a popular phrase out here to describe the lush vegetation that’s overtaken the usually arid landscape this summer. It has rained almost every day since May, and not just dramatic late afternoon thunderstorms that provide more special effects than moisture. Sometimes the sky is cloudy all day. Some days are just a veil of grey. Some days it just rains straight through, like in New England. But when the sun shines, the slopes are verdant and the wild flowers magnificent.

Today I faced 97 miles with few services and a forecast of rain; a day demanding extra time and strategy. It stormed all night in Copper (even lost power for a few hours) but the morning emerged dry, if not sunny. The easy side of Vail pass was my first of three major climbs, and I reached the peak before eight. The misty clouds on the mountains were reminiscent of a fantasy film. Rain began to fall as I descended, and I ducked into a bus shelter for ten minutes when it turned into a torrent. Once the rain resumed a regular rhythm I kept on. The sky brightened by the time I was through the resort.

From the top of Vail Pass to the Wolcott turnoff is over thirty miles of descent, mostly gentle, mostly along Eagle Creek, which raged at its banks despite being midsummer. A nice series of bike paths kept me parallel but apart from I-70.

I turned north on C131 and pedaled eight miles up the Wolcott Divide. The descent into State Bridge is steep, and crosses the Colorado River not too far from its headwaters. The highway runs close to the river through Bond and McCoy, towns in name only, and then climbs again across the Red Dirt Divide, which makes clear how Colorado got its name.

Clouds loomed to the west as I travelled north, and by the time I reached Red Dirt Pass, big storms cluttered the distance. I put on my rain gear and headed down to Toponas, which, if not exactly a town, had a general store where I could stretch my legs and enjoy an ice cream sandwich. A steady rain fell as I followed the easy down slope. The Yampa River meandered under the road several times, growing wider and stronger. Clouds to the west were dispersing when I reached the town of Yampa, so I took another break.

While I waited for dryer skies I perused the local bulletin board and added my card to the mix. By the time I rolled through Phippsburg, along the serpentine Yampa, to Stagecoach State Park (Steamboat Springs’ reservoir) and up to the Glas Deffryn Ranch south of Oak Creek, the skies cleared and the afternoon was beautiful. It was just after 4 p.m. and I had done an excellent job dodging the weather.

My hosts for the night, Pam and Steve Williams, breed Scottish Highland cattle on their 200-acre ranch. Steve toured me around and introduced me to their big-horned family. Pam made an exquisite baked potato bar which we ate in their timber-frame home with the sun setting over the pastures. Then we enjoyed dessert in a fire circle under the stars, mesmerized by the giant flames. Talk about tomorrow was rooted in our good fortune today.

July 18, 19, 20, 2015 – Sun and rain, 50 degrees

Miles Today: 92

Miles to Date: 4,230

States to Date: 18

 The Courage Classic is an annual cycling tour through the Rocky Mountains: 2200 cyclists and 400 volunteers raise over $2 million for the Colorado Children’s Hospital. Some members of my extended family have participated for over twenty years. For the past five years, I’ve included the three-day ride in our annual July reunion. This year, I made the Courage Classic part of my 48-state journey.

Each day the Courage Classic offers a range of routes and climbing challenges so that any level of cyclist can participate. Since our five core riders are getting older – average age 65 – we cherry pick favorite routes. This year, on day one we ascended Vail Pass east to west, rolled into Vail Resort, and then returned over the top. Day Two we circled Dillon Reservoir climbed Swan Mountain (my favorite stretch) and returned through Officers Gulch. On Day Three we left the crowds altogether and mounted Ute Pass, which is a terrific ride up a little-used road with magnificent views of the Gore Range.

After each days ride we soaked in the hot tub, then ate huge meals, caught up on old times, and played lots of cards. We are wicked competitive at hearts and fan-tan; my niece even got us to play Old Maid. By mid-afternoon Monday everyone headed back to Denver, but I was able to spend one solo night at our condo and continue west on Tuesday morning.

July 16, 2015 – Sunny, 80 degrees

Miles Today: 26

Miles to Date: 4,039

States to Date: 18

 My three days of R&R have included long visits with family, interviews with Medicine Man Denver marijuana dispensary, Collier Hospice Center, and EcoTech Institute, Renewable Energy College, as well a three evenings of book promotion for Architecture by Moonlight. It has been great fun but will end tomorrow with a bang when I attempt the most challenging ride of my trip: 96 miles from Denver to Copper Mountain, over Loveland Pass and the Continental Divide – 9,600 feet of vertical rise!

When I arrive at Copper Mountain I will be in severe need of a shower, and judging from my experience to date, I’ll encounter a huge variety of soap. Over the past ten weeks I’ve stayed in more than forty different households. They have all been generous and thoughtful. But they also have one other unifying characteristic – a dizzying array of liquid soap.

When did the bar of soap become an artifact? What is in all of these bottles of gel and foam that a simple bar cannot deliver? To be sure, a few homes still have bars of soap, in addition to their bath gel and body wash and hand sanitizer. But nobody only has soap, and many people have no hard soap at all. Even people who compost every scrap of food, recycle every bit of packaging and reject any form of fossil fuel transport have shower stalls littered with plastic bottles of odd colored liquid.

I carry a bar of soap. It’s compact, and portable. When I scrub myself, the friction makes me feel clean. I use it until it’s gone; I don’t lose that extra 20% of product that never shakes out of the container.

Now that I am aware of the liquid soap phenomenon, I realize that bars have become bottom shelf grocery store items. The liquid stuff, which surely has a higher profit margin and more adverse environmental impact, is easier to reach. When my bar runs out I am going to get another plain bar of soap. It will keep me clean. And when I have to bend low to reach it at the grocery, I’ll consider it yoga.

Send me good energy as I climb, climb, climb to the other side of America. I’ll clean up as soon as I get to the other side.