BioWheels on Mont Ventoux

October 5, 2007 on 6:35 pm | In Road, Touring | No Comments

BioWheels Race team member, John Godts, recently returned from the trip of a lifetime in both splendor & difficulty. There is a challenge organized by a French bicycle club (actually, a brotherhood) next to Mount Ventoux. They say, “It is normal for a bike rider to try to climb Mont Ventoux at least once in a lifetime, but you are crazy if you do it again.”

There are 3 different routes you can use to go to the top of Mont Ventoux.
If you can climb all the routes in one day (starting from Bedoin, Malaucene and Sault), between sunrise and sunset, you are declared “Nut of Mont Ventoux” and you receive a plastic medal from the brotherhood. Putting all that in perspective, to accomplish this feat you will ride about 40 miles and climb 14550 feet - the descending at 55 or 60 MPH is another story.

The challenge can be done any time during the year - alone or with other riders. The rider must call the brotherhood in advance and then receives a road sheet which needs to be stamped by a local store in all 3 villages where the starts take place (Bedoin, Malaucene and Sault) as well as on the top of Mont Ventoux to confirm that you have been there.

So far, 26 Americans have done it including 5 people from Asheville. If you speak French, visit their web site www.clubcinglesventoux.org. If you don’t speak French and you’re still interested, e-mail John at jgodts@charter.net

John loved his Look KG461 for it’s lightweight climbing ability, stable descending and all-day comfort. Check out his great photos…

Our Unprecedented Journey Across KY’s Sheltowee Trace Trail

January 8, 2000 on 7:46 pm | In Mountain, Touring | No Comments

12-31-99 through 1-10-00

Article and inspiration by: Matt Hoyes

Edited and co-piloted by; Matt Johnson (whose notes will be italicized)

Matthew Hoyes pioneered this journey. Although I can recall dozens of campfires where the topic of conversation among the bio-family was the completion of Kentucky’s Sheltowee Trace Trail - Matt made it happen…for him, and by the blessing of sweet idiocy - for me.

Unlike ‘big sky’ touring out west, the tight valleys and corduroy hills of the Appalachian foothills are particularly difficult to navigate. Topo’ information is invaluable, whereas the Sheltowee is very difficult to follow. As it winds southwest through the Daniel Boone National Forest, The Trace passes through wilderness areas, sacred Indian grounds, National Landmarks, pristine river valleys, as well losing itself in ATV playgrounds and forgotten Appalachian communities. Ultimately, it ends on the John Muir Trail in Tennessee’s Pickett State Park.

Seldom in life does anybody get the chance to be the first… to do anything. Before this article, nobody has ever documented a mtb tour across the Trace. The millennial new year, winter conditions, that Appalachian element, the whole Daniel Boone National Forest, all the way into Tennessee…how could I not be part of it. Amazingly, my wife and 6-month old baby girl saw it just that way too, kinda. Due to family and holiday obligations, the earliest I could hit the trail was on the January 2nd. Our Red River Gorge rendezvous went off without a hitch.

In the spring, as Matt and I were still grasping the intensity of our winter epic, and matured friendship, we learned of a KY comrade who had just completed the Sheltowee Trace. He was fully supported, but completed it in half the time we had taken. To that gentleman, you’re a sick man-mj

As most people were preparing their millennium celebrations, draining their bank accounts, or stockpiling water and gas, I was planning my most thrilling adventure to date. I decided to ride across Kentucky on the Sheltowee Trace trail. 268 miles in all, it would challenge and inspire me more than I could have ever imagined. The following is my attempt to turn all of those wonderful recollections into words, and I promise that hacking out this essay was immensely harder than the riding itself. Nonetheless, no words or photos will ever do it justice.

12-30-99
My brother, Nick, and I arrived at the Northern terminus (not far from Maysville, KY) of the Trace at around 2 a.m., which is about my standard degree of lag when shooting for an 11 p.m. e.t.a. We had flown into Cincinnati on the 30th, about three days after Nick had called home to check on his dog, Zoe, only to find she had gotten off her run and split. There was still no Zoe when we arrived in Cincy, but a worried and weary brother sucked it up and got me to the terminus. Thanks bro.

12-31-99
New Year’s Eve, 1999, was the best last day of any year that I’ve lived. According to the mileage chart, it was going to be 48 miles from the Northern Terminus to Clear Creek Campground, and awaiting me there was the most wonderful welcome party. Dear friends, Amanda Tucker, Steve Koeller and Andy Kosse had already set up camp, and it was stocked with food, drink, and all of my cushy gear.

There’s something uniquely exciting about riding through unfamiliar wilderness, knowing that you must make it to your destination because you have virtually no equipment to make it through the night. The result is usually a few hours of night riding due to a gross underestimation of the brutal terrain, and this day was not much different. My first realization as to exactly how ten miles was going to feel came early. Leaving the parking lot, at the northern terminus, the Trace shoots due north to the Daniel Boone National Forest boundary then bends east and eventually south. The first section is prime single/double track rippin’ all the way to county road 143. The first of the many suspension bridges along the trail came early in the day and delivered me right on to someone’s private property. A big flanneled man greeted me on a four wheeler being followed by a bulldog. He said that he first thought I was walking a motorcycle across this one foot wide bridge that hangs a perilous fifteen feet over a flat rock creek. No, sir. Bikes were fine with him though, and he sent me in the right direction. I rode through some more sweet single/doubletrack mix that lies in the area around Rodburn Hollow, and by about 3 p.m., I had reached Morehead. It was obvious that I wasn’t on pace to make Clear Creek by sun down, but it didn’t matter at the time. I knew the next section to come, and it was one of the tastiest in the Boone. The Cave Run Lake area is one of the more popular riding spots for good reason, and I knew the time could be made up. Mostly doubletrack or wide singletrack, the Trace leaves Cave Run’s Caney loop and continues south, which commenced what I thought to be the best section of the Trace that I’d ever ridden. The trail rolls into some highlands and looks back at Cave Run Lake, then down onto Clear Creek Lake. I descended with the sun, and kept the hammer down as my eyes constantly adjusted to the dimming light in the green singletrack tube.
Eight hours of saddle time had gotten me to the Clear Creek Campground and my friends. The warm hugs that I had been dreaming of finally came when my buddies came strolling down from their sunset vantagepoint. New Year’s celebrations began immediately and we all ended up struggling to hold our eyes open to see the birth of the new millennium. Sleep came easily that night, and, with a short-mileage day to follow, I would get to sleep in.

1-1-00
And did I sleep in. Not getting on the trail until half past noon should have been and indication of the ensuing battle with the cozy climate of my sleeping bag. Once I was on the bike, climbing out of Clear Creek got me warmed up to the day. Wickedly steep switchbacks greeted me in unrelenting succession, but the trail always rewards such efforts and I was not to be disappointed on this day, the first day of 2000. Once the climbing tops out, it’s ridge top splendor until the trail falls off the other side, plunging into the trees. I was pulling G’s (that sinking feeling in your stomach when you go through a dip on a roller coaster) when I crossed a fire road and shot into another tough climb. At the top of the climb, it steepened as more sandstone jutted out of the vanishing trail. It was there that I hopped off the bike to begin the portage and realized that my jacket had fallen off my rack. Surviving the trip without a shell would have been impossible or, at least, damn uncomfortable. Unable to remember the last time I saw it, I started to re-retrace the Sheltowee. Back down and across the fire road, then up.

Paying dearly for every inch of what had just been the downhill that had me so perma-grinned didn’t go unrewarded either. I found my jacket (almost at the very top of that sweet downhill), and, when I stopped to pick it up, I spotted a quaint, beautifully hidden arch. After visiting for a few minutes, it was back onto the frozen Velcro track for an even faster second descent. The trail continues up from where I’d turned around, and it requires much hike-a-bike to top it out.

More insane drop-offs and portages followed, with the last of which providing the first taste of the eye candy to come. The rolling knobs started giving way to hundred-plus foot cliffs, and I knew that I was entering the Red River Gorge region. Although, not nearly as close as I thought, I found myself pedaling through a nasty mix of road, mud, and big gravel after hitting route 1274. I got rained on for an hour or so as I was approaching a decision that I knew was impending. The blazes led me back a somewhat residential gravel road, then to a trailhead. It was the beginning of the Clifty Wilderness, and I was staring at my first ‘no bikes’ sign. This wilderness area is considered a fragile geological area, and it’s connected to the Red River Gorge (Kentucky’s ‘Land of the Arches’). So, I swallowed my pig-headed pride and bypassed it. It was hard not to feel a little bit gypped, or like I was cheating myself out of my goal of doing the entire trail, but I was trying to make a law-abiding crossing and headed out to the main road. Highway 77 parallels the trail into the Gorge where I was meeting my friends. The Gladie Creek visitor center on 715 was to be the meeting place which, after about five-and-a-half-hours of saddle time, I reached with daylight to spare. But, a hike to Raven’s Rock would keep my support crew busy until about 7:30, and we met a few hundred yards down the road. Glad to see my gear, almost as much as my friends, I got into my fuzzies, and we headed for a sweet car camping spot that Steve knew of.

1-2-00
The Red River Gorge is a National Geologic Area that’s dissected by the Sheltowee and is a hiker’s or rock climber’s dream come true. Friends introduced me to this mystical land in 1992, and there hasn’t been a year since that I haven’t dropped into the Red for a few days of serious playtime. There are loads of walls, cracks, crags, and cliffs offering an array of challenges that taunt you to go beyond your limitations and claim a number of lives annually.

Since my friend and soon to be trailmate, Matt Johnson, and I weren’t scheduled to meet until the evening of Jan. 2, we had a day to blow. A day off my bike this early in the trip had me itching for the trail, but sunny skies and a 50-plus degree-day made the hiking take all my cares away. The hike to Courthouse Rock via Auxier Ridge is a stroll, but the climb up Courthouse’s crack will get some adrenaline spiking into your veins. Steve and I couldn’t resist, and had to bust for the top. Three hundred and sixty degrees of high country eye candy awaits those who can scramble their way up the crack. ‘Just couldn’t pass it up.

Our hike showed me something that I had never before seen on this very familiar trail - fire damage. The Red, in the fall of 1999, had been blazing with wild fires. The forest service roads snaking through the woods would be the dividing line between lush green woods and charred black ones. Certain trails looked as though new brown carpet had been laid across a soot-covered floor. Due to the amount of reckless behavior that occurs, there are going to be some new restrictions placed on visitors for the safety of this sacred place, and, for once, I’m siding with the man. The Gorge has been desecrated, raped, or just partied out, for far too long by irresponsible visitors. I’m glad to see an effort to preserve what rock faces people haven’t carved away by writing “Bobby loves Suzie” in the soft sandstone. There are still those places where fewer people have tread, and the spirit of the Shawnee who sought shelter in the Red’s rugged canyons can still be strongly felt. I’ll always return to them.

After the hike we came out of Tunnel Ridge Road, and Matt’s 1969 Galaxie 500 was parked right in front of us. Another perfect hookup completed, it was time to say goodbye to Andy and Steve, then time to prepare for the continuation of our journey.

1-3-00
Touring with another person is about compromise, and that’s a good thing. Matt has taught me, through his wealth of experience, almost all that I know about backpacking and especially bicycle touring. We first toured together in the Canadian Rockies in 1995, which was my first multi-day back country bike excursion, and I came away from that trip with an unequaled reverence for Matt Johnson. So, I was thrilled when he said that he wanted to join me for a crossing of the Sheltowee. As usual, we had slightly different takes on just about everything, but it’s the middle ground that’s probably best anyway.
Finally loaded, thinking that we’ve got too much crap and him wishing for a couple more amenities, we reentered the Trace. Not wanting to miss an inch of the trail, Matt thought that we should ride through the remaining sections of the Gorge. So much for law-abiding. What the hey, it’s January. Starting at the Whittleton Branch trailhead on route 15, we dropped in and headed toward the normally tourist-laden Natural Bridge State Park. We crossed over route 11 and sniffed out the trail within the park. This maneuver was the most blatantly illegal thing that we did, but we paid for it, even though no one caught us. Natural bridge itself is a large ridge top arch that the Sheltowee crosses over, and it’s not exactly an easy crossing with a bike, especially a bike loaded with forty pounds of gear. Lots of steps and a narrow called ‘Fat Man’s Misery’ made it impossible to get through with bags or even front wheels on our bikes. About three trips each got us and all of our gear to the top of the arch. Shortly after leaving Natural Bridge, the Trace exits the State Park and gets back to some good riding. The first taste of the eastern slick rock (large stretches of exposed sandstone trail surface) came at this point, and it made all three trips up the steps worthwhile. Unfortunately it didn’t last long and neither did those handy trail blazes that point us the way. Matt and I, considerably lost, scrambled to find a suitable campsite amongst the private properties that we passing while on forest road something-or-other. The sun fell and the rain moved in, but a dense hemlock grove and a running stream were reached with some easy bushwhacking. The most exciting part of this adventurous day was the swirling storm that whipped the trees overhead, bending them in every direction. Some big timber could be heard falling in the distance, but one loud crack in the nearby darkness had both of our headlamps shining into the void from which we fully expected to see some monster tree coming to squish us. ‘Must not have been as close as we thought. Both of us made it to the break of day.

1-4-00
Apparently, MJ and I were slightly more lost that we thought. We headed due south, navigating strictly by compass, since we hadn’t seen a trail blaze for thirty miles or so. Eventually popping out on route 52, we second and third guessed ourselves and went west in search of the trail. The Crystal Trading Post was the indication that we were off course and needed to head east, but it was a nice place to stop for some warmth and an Ale 8. “Ale 8 One” is a highly addictive and peculiar green bottle of soda that’s brewed in Winchester KY, and it’s a staple of life in the eastern mountains of Kentucky. (I’d liken Ale-8-One to a flat mixture Ginger Ale and Mello-Yello).

Back on track, we headed east to find a fire road with a trail blaze and followed it south only to be further discouraged. This time it wasn’t just a ‘no bikes’ sign. We were faced with an enticing section of densely wooded trail and an elaborate sign explaining that it was private property and through hikers (bikers) were to go back to route 52 and follow the roads to Heidelberg. Naturally, we had to ponder it, but those ‘dueling banjos’ always seem to twang from the back of my mind, forcing me to choke down even more of that hard to swallow pride.

As good, little non-trespassers do, we took the fire road back to 52, then headed south on route 399 to Heidelberg. The blazes showed us the way back onto some nice trail heading to Arvel, and it seemed as though we were back on track. Again, we were shown that the appetite of the trail should never be underestimated, as it began devouring our equipment. MJ noticed his rear wheel disengaging with a loud popping noise. Cassette freehub body? Freehub spline? Bolt? Then, it would miraculously fix itself. Matt is an outstanding mechanic, but I thought that he might have been falling victim to a little bike-hypochondria because I hadn’t seen what was happening. I was pedaling along behind him, and everything was looking perfect, then POP! His wheel is suddenly flopping violently, still rolling, but banging the sides of the frame. All he could do was stay smooth and keep pedaling, not letting it freewheel for fear of the mysterious disengagement. We had to get somewhere, preferably riding instead of walking our bikes, so MJ nursed it the best he could and kept rolling. Once the trail intersected route 587, we headed for a high point so that MJ could try his cell phone. It worked. Although not one of our potential support people could be reached, we left the same message everywhere - “We need a wheel !!!”

I talked Matt into making the Turkey Foot campground our destination, as opposed to shooting for S-tree, which is where Amanda was scheduled to meet us on the following night. The only problem was that she knew nothing, at the time, of our mechanical woes, and we still had to make it to S-tree. Regardless, Turkey Foot would provide a nice waterside campsite on War Creek and we would have to be content hoping that someone received our distress signal. Snow started to fall and the temperatures plummeted.

1-5-00
The goal for this day was to simply make to S-tree, hopefully securing a replacement wheel along the way. We followed the Trace out of the hollow, but knew that we would again have to detour on the road to reach the phone that would be our lifeline. It’s a gradual, rocky climb out of Turkey Foot, and Matt’s smooth pedaling got his bike out in one piece, but the damage was done. Once on route 89, I could see his wheel flopping with every pedal stroke, bouncing off his chain stays and sending Matt and his gear flailing side to side. We headed south, into McKee, for a badly needed stop at the grocery/general store/local hangout. Since Amanda wasn’t supposed to be at S-tree until much later, and we didn’t know, for sure, that she had a wheel for us, time wasn’t much of an issue. So, we blew three-hours making phone calls, eating junk food, and fielding questions from the puzzled McKeeans.

It sounded as though Amanda had gotten the messages and would have something resembling a bicycle wheel in her car when she rolled into the campground. We talked to our friends, Coach Chris “Big Dog” Schmidt and Adam Roe, at Lindsey Wilson, also Wanda Tucker (Amanda’s mom), and it sounded like the cavalry was on the way. Having done all we could by phone and having completely gorged ourselves on food, we made the push for S-tree. It’s a short fire road climb to reach the campground and the wheel made it. As usual, the entire place was ours, and the skies were crisp and quiet except for the occasional shrill howl of a coyote. All we had to do was wait, and we passed the time playing some Frisbee. Just before dark, the Neon rolled up, and another warm hug was walking my way. She had gotten the messages, gotten us a wheel, and gotten herself to middle of nowhere to save our trip. Later that evening, around the campfire, Matt asked Amanda if her car had a name. It didn’t. “I think you should name it Scout” suggested MJ, and so now it is.

Matt and I were facing a dilemma of monstrous proportions and were bailed out by the combined efforts of some wonderful friends that all would have dropped anything to help keep our journey alive. Especially Amanda. I don’t know where I’d be without that girl.

1-6-00
The pukey day. I was awakened this particular morning by some harsh diarrheal urges in my abdomen. Lucky for me, there are some facilities at the campground. Once relieved, I crawled back into my sleeping bag for some more zzz’s. When I finally drug myself out of my tent, Matt had already finished working on his bike, but I was feeling much more nauseous than before. We kicked around the campsite and prepared for the day, but every time I took a drink of water (I didn’t dare eat anything) I felt a little sicker. Soon I was hunched in the woods vomiting green liquid. That’s not good. Thoughts of giardia, food poisoning, and flu ran rampant in my head as something else was running rampant in my intestines. Something as detrimental as giardia would make continuing an impossibility, but I got my gear together and tried to nibble on some granola. Surprisingly it stayed down, and we headed out.

Luckily, we didn’t need to carry the forty pounds of gear that makes the miles so laborious because Amanda was meeting us with supplies at the 49er, which is where the trail crosses over Interstate 75. She rode with us for a few miles before heading back up to Scout. There isn’t much trail that’s worthwhile between S-tree and I-75, and I suffered badly all day due to a high fever and loads of mud and water crossings. I got thigh deep in Horse Lick Creek and was already freezing and frustrated with my lack of strength. It’s days like these that make it so valuable having a partner on the trail. We reached a trail blaze redirecting us off of a road and back into the woods for some more treacherous trail. The daylight was dimming and I was barely moving, but, unable to bare the thought of missing another inch of trail, Matt looked me in the eye and convinced me that I had the strength to pull off one more stretch of trail. We were both absolutely hammered. Matt could ride most of the terrain slowly, but I was barely capable of a trudge. He coaxed me the entire way, stopping and reassuring me that I was doing good and that we had to keep moving if we wanted to see Amanda or, at least, to not freeze to death in the forest. Eventually, we hit a fire road, and I spotted the historic marker for Wildcat Mountain, which is the site of a historic civil war battle. I had ridden through this section before but I was struggling to get my bearings. So, I decided to ask some sketchy looking guy that was standing in the woods, two fisted with Budweiser cans. He steered us the right way. There was virtually no light left in the sky, but it was all-downhill from there, literally. Once relatively sure that we’d be seeing the Scout, I proposed to Matt that we get a hotel in London. No objection.

We pedaled harder into the cold air fueled by thoughts of showers and beds. The smell of the diesel fumes convinced me, in my barely conscious state, that we were actually riding over the highway and approaching a trace of civilization. When we rolled up and told Amanda that we were getting a room she thought we were joking. I had spent five hours in the saddle, running on a cup of granola, it was below freezing, and my internal temperature was surely in the hundreds. No joking. The Economy Inn was no joke either at $35.00 a night. After showers, Matt and Amanda chowed down at Pizza Hut while I forced down a soda. The day had taken its toll on my spirit, but I just kept telling myself that it was one of those twenty-four hour flues.

Back in the motel, we got a call from Chad Irey who had just returned from his millennium trip in Costa Rica. He had his bike and gear ready and was itching to get on the trail, but hadn’t heard from us and possibly wouldn’t have if we hadn’t gotten a room that night. Irey is always ready for an adventure and was heading down from Cincinnati immediately after getting our whereabouts. He came in around 4 a.m., but I didn’t hear him. My person was in shut down mode trying to purge its illness through its pores.

1-7-00
We busted out of London early. This was a big day. My mind and body seemed to have been reconnected and the gremlins in my stomach were taking a break from reeking havoc. I actually had an appetite, so it was back up to the 49er for some greasy spoon breakfast. Some biscuits and gravy and four cups of coffee and I had all but forgotten about the previous day’s punishment. Chad rejuvenated us with his ambition and it was back on the trail.

Amanda was to meet us on this night, which meant that we could fly light, leaving her with all the gear. Irey was itching to try out his new panniers, but I’m sure that he was glad not to have them on this day of high mileage that’s full of wicked terrain. Still ignorant to just how tough this trail is, we made another gross underestimation and projected preposterous times for our “first” meeting place. “Maybe 2 p.m. at the latest. Heck. We might be there by noon” were just some of the idiotic things that were blurted out while we were eyeballing the map.

Will we never learn? The going was incredibly slow, and we watched the day slip away as the unrelenting terrain kept on beating us back. It’s wonderfully wild country through this stretch containing everything from fire road to slick rock to singletrack and everything in between. It’s also one of the longest stretches without hitting pavement. We left I-75 and headed directly into the trail on the networks of 4×4 paths that offer many wrong turn opportunities. Besides crossing over highway 80 directly between nothing and nowhere, we didn’t see a road until we reached the parking area at route 192. The three of us finally reached Amanda by about 5 p.m., just four or five hours late. Having the entire afternoon to swim in her own thoughts and fears for our threesome took its toll. Amanda broke into tears when she saw us emerge from the woods. Just as I had jokingly been telling her the whole trip, in a much more serious tone, I said “Don’t ever listen to us again. We’re stupid.” She eventually pulled herself together and drove down to the waterside to join us in camping on the shore of Laurel Lake. Chad, thoroughly wasted from his first day, kept using expressions such as “beat down” to describe his hurtin’ condition. He put forth an outstanding effort for his first day, and I’m sure that he gained a new appreciation for the Trace.

1-8-00
As we loaded our bags, we prepared for a section that MJ and I knew, from having ridden it, would get harder as the day progressed. The trail starts out as an easy doubletrack that rips along the contours of Laurel Lake’s shoreline, then crosses over route 1193 into some steeper terrain leading to route 896 and the headwaters of the Laurel and Cumberland Rivers. Up until that point the sailing was smooth and Irey was getting a gentle introduction into the discipline of riding with panniers. From there, we dropped into ten miles of wickedly technical singletrack that is only partially feasible on a good day without the burden of carrying gear. Matt and I know the section well from past excursions, but we couldn’t have imagined how much more challenging every obstacle would be when loaded with an extra forty pounds.

Apparently we were still a little green or just had a blatant disrespect for the trail, because, at the start of the day, we talked about camping beyond Cumberland Falls. As the day grew older, we were faced with more sections that required the push-pull-drag method, but it didn’t go unrewarded. Frozen booming waterfalls, bigger rocks and increasingly higher cliffs loomed as we inched our way south. We passed by beautiful Dog Slaughter Falls, and were running out of day when MJ finally talked Chad and I into camping in a recess cave with a sixty-foot ceiling. The idea of one more day of falling short of the proposed destination had me itching to keep moving, but it was a prime spot that sheltered us from the rain that we knew was coming. We slept on the rocks, and stayed toasty and dry while listening to the booming thunder of the mighty Cumberland that was accompanied by the rolling thunder of the overnight storm.

1-9-00
Time to make decisions. We woke up to a light constant rain. We weren’t even close to the previous day’s destination of Cumberland Falls, and we really needed to make it passed Whitley City to camp for the last night. Monday had to be our last day due to work commitments for Chad and Matt, and because Amanda and I were already missing a day of classes.

The day greeted us with more portages and more miles than we had expected to reach Cumberland Falls, but that didn’t keep us from blowing an hour at the falls to take pictures and use their facilities to wash off a little grime. It was time to take one more swallow of that awful tasting pride, as we decided it would be best to skip a small section here in order to ensure a shot at the southern terminus the next day. Amanda was bringing supplies and hugs on this night, so we needed to set a destination then phone her with the plans. Alum Ford looked like a good enough place to begin our final push, so we set out from Cumberland Falls State Park on route 90 instead of taking the trail. The other section that we had bypassed, because of the bum wheel, was one that we’ve ridden dozens of times. Missing this section was a real heartbreaker because it was unknown territory, but the vision of reaching the terminus having skipped a few miles here seemed much more reasonable. So, we rolled on towards Whitley City. We followed route 700 west and stopped at a burger pit, or something, to gorge on some badly needed grease. I chalked it up to a restful day, and we all got ourselves psyched for one final push.

1-10-00
For being such a big day, we didn’t get too early a start, but that’s just our style. Get going late and race the darkness to safety, it’s more exciting that way. Luckily we had Amanda supporting us for the day, so we could go without the extra gear. This day was to be all about making time. We finally wised up and chose an earlier, more realistic meeting place for our first stop, which was the crossing of route 92 at Yamacraw. Following the Big South Fork of the Cumberland, the Trace was dreamy, and we actually beat the Scout to our meeting place. We waited a few minutes for Amanda and then set our next destination, which would be Hemlock Grove campground, a mere ten miles from the Southern terminus. MJ and I gave a hurtin’ Chad a little head start, and it would be the last time that we’d see him for about six hours.

Confidently, we jumped into the next section, not expecting to find the Sheltowee Trace so devastated by dead fall. As we redirected ourselves towards more passable terrain, we realized that we were on a powerline clearing which was the culprit that devoured the Trace. Every tree that was cut down to make the clearing fell directly over the trail, so we just plowed along hoping that our beloved singletrack would reappear. A ‘section closed’ sign, at the next trailhead, confirmed what we were afraid of, more destroyed sections. As it turned out, Chad was smart and took the road straight to Hemlock Grove. Matt and I, frustrated by having missed a section the previous day, decided to follow the unbelievably vague ‘alternate route’ signs to stay on the trail. In doing so, we encountered some of the most topographically challenging fire roads that I’ve ever had to ride. Ten sections in all, labeled ‘A’ through ‘J’, were closed due to storm damage, we presumed. We hammered over Grassy Knob, then Piney Butte, and finally ran along Laurel Ridge until we came to the section J trailhead. Of course, it was closed, but we were only a couple of miles from Hemlock Grove by trail. If we took the alternate route, then it meant going passed our destination and backtracking to the campground. No way. We were on a ridge top, the hook up was down at the river, and it looked like we could just follow a tributary that would lead us out if we got lost. The trail was too enticing and that awful taste of pride was just too much for us swallow. We went for it.

This was the beginning of one of the darkest, most trying times, both physically and emotionally, in my life. When they said closed, they meant closed. But, being the hardheaded mountain bikers that we are, we couldn’t turn around at the sight of a couple dead falls. We trudged through the most heinous, dense section of forest that I’ve ever seen. We waded through streams, and fought helplessly to rip ourselves free of the tentacles that latched on to us with every attempt at forward motion. It was all-downhill, but it took us three hours of throwing our bikes over and dragging them under trees just to see the light of day. We were separated for most of hell-trip. I emerged with a flat tire, which was somewhat of a mystery since I hadn’t been on my bike at all. On the brink of tears, unable to rummage up a single positive thought, I wheeled out my lame steed. Once reunited, Matt and I broke into uncontrollable laughter. Laughter of joy, laughter at the stupidity of our attempt, maybe just laughing not to cry, it was a moment that I’ll never forget.

We repaired my tire and headed down the road a quarter mile to Hemlock Grove. Irey, with self-inflicted illness setting in, was laid out on a picnic table, completely wasted from his four days on the trail. MJ was ready to be done. He was pulling out cotton clothes to change into. Amanda was helping me, lovingly, and I was snapping at her for it. The whole crew was at its wit’s end. I pulled out the map again. It just couldn’t end like this, ten miles from the terminus, pissed off, and coming off my worst mountain biking experience ever. “I’m gonna try it”, I said, trying to sound confident. MJ couldn’t believe it. “I can’t believe your going to make me do this.” I wasn’t going to try to make him go, but I surely wouldn’t object to having his agility and wisdom along side me as we entered the unknown for one last push in the very late afternoon. Knowing that darkness was coming fast, we hammered down the road to the Tennessee State Line and the crossing of Rock Creek. I had even mentioned that if it looked too be impassable then I would just be happy with crossing the whole state, and Matt liked the sound of that. I crossed the river while Matt hung out on the other side, awaiting the verdict. “Looks good. Let’s go!” I hollered across the river. Matt came across with his bike and walked up to me with a look mixed of disgust and readiness. He said something that I can still hear clearly in my head. “You’re a stubborn mother f#@*&!. You never used to be like this!” With only 30+ minutes of daylight left, in we went.

The John Muir Trail parallels the Sheltowee once in Tennessee, and a new blaze was a reassuring sight, at least for a little while. Although, as we both had somewhat expected, things got bad. Really bad. What had started out as a well marked, bikeable trail turned into more of a 4-hour orienteering, survival mission with lots of bushwhacking. We hadn’t taken provisions for the night; no food, no water filter, not much clothing, and it was virtually black in the woods. Occasionally we would pass a sign or something that looked like a blaze, but the trail was non-existent. Without Matt’s strength (and flashlight) during that last section, I would have probably spent that night in the woods. He kept his bearings and kept dragging me along. I was bonking badly, and Matt was muttering stuff about wanting to see his wife and baby again, when we finally hit a road. It had to be the end. There was no where else to go, but there was no indication that it was the terminus either. We took a wild guess and hung a left to try to find Amanda, Chad and the Scout. After about thirty minutes of riding, lost, in Pickett State Park, we found them. They were at the actual terminus according to a park ranger that had helped them out, and we had missed it by about a half-mile. No disappointment in that, just a huge sigh of relief. I had never dreamed that it would be so anti-climatic, but that’s how it was. There was no sign, not even a trail blaze or much of a trail for that matter, but it almost made it more rewarding to know that we persevered and got there anyway. Hugs were shared all around, we loaded down the Scout, and with no trail left, we drove away from the Sheltowee Trace. -Matt Hoyes
I had about four hours in the car to reflect on the highs and the lows, and, like always, even the lowest of lows turn into the fondest memories in the triumphant and delirious haze of retrospect. I returned to school, a tattered and emaciated shell of myself because of what I had left on that trail. And, once classes started, the cabin fever hit bad. I could only think of being back out in those woods. When I tell people stories about this adventure, I always go on and on trying to give them a vivid picture or an appreciation of those most difficult moments, but I know that no one will ever understand. No one can see those pictures but me, and that’s why I’ll forever cherish my memories of crossing the state of Kentucky on the Sheltowee Trace.

Take a trip like this, riddled with seemingly insurmountable obstacles, and all of life’s challenges are put into perspective. Although it was under two weeks long, its lessons on fortitude, coping and over-optimism will affect every decision for the rest of my life-mj

enjoy the pic’s from this groundbreaking journey

August 1, 1999 on 9:00 pm | In Mountain, Touring | No Comments

8/4 - Jackson - I enjoy the freedom here but long for a place to call my own. Joe and Jason are thinking of staying here, getting a job and making Jackson home for a while. Sensing that I will soon be on my own, I start thinking of what I really want to do. Where do I want to go? We find a real place to camp tonight, a nice quiet, isolated spot at Cache Creek.

8/5 - Jackson -  So now here I am in Jackson, Wyoming, trying to decide on south with Jason or west by myself. Joe is out of time and money. Jason wants to haul ass, wake up early ride til noon, break til four, ride til dark. I simply don’t want to get up that early. I feel drawn west, a feeling that took hold sometime yesterday during the time when I was under the impression that Jason was staying here. With Joe heading home and Jason staying here, or so I thought, momentum stalled and in the interim, in the space and quiet, I heard the west calling. Camp at Cache Creek.

8/6 - Jackson to Swan Valley - We all split up. Joe is heading back to Asheville and Jason is going to haul ass down to Durango. I am on my own somewhere in Idaho, Swan Valley actually. We said our good-byes at Caffe 245, fitting seeing that we spent so much time there. I know that Jason was a little bummed when he decided to continue south and found out that I wouldn’t be joining him. But once I felt that pull west, I knew that if I went south with him, I would be looking over my shoulder to the west. I had to listen to that voice. I am glad to have escaped Jackson’s gravitational pull.

As I passed through Wilson, the town immediately after Jackson, I could see that there were clouds up ahead over Teton pass. We had climbed it a few days before as part of that “Black something” ride. We had climbed it on an old unused road rather than the road I chose today. Anyway, as I climbed the wind grew stronger and the rain started in and then lightening. Under normal circumstances I could have handled the storm, but the gusts of wind were growing more violent and unpredictable as I climbed and more than once almost pushed me out into traffic. Getting blow into 60 mph traffic was no joke. So I pulled over, suited up for the increasing rain and squatted down, prepared to wait this out.

Lightening crackled and struck around me. Rain poured, wind blew. I was in it. It was awesome! Eventually a good Samaritan pulled over right in front of me. Principles be damned. I didn’t care if I hadn’t ridden in a car for over a month; the streak would end now. But instead of asking me if I wanted a ride, the cowboy hatted driver reached into the back of the pick-up and lifted his dog out of the bed, put him in the cab and jumped back in. I laughed out loud. It was so absurd and perfect. But then the cowboy jumped back out and hollered over, “Would you like a ride?” His female friend opened her door and echoed the question. “I would love a ride!” I exclaimed. I disconnected the trailer from the bike and with the cowboy’s help, loaded both into the bed. And with that I was smuggled through the pass storm and delivered to Victor, Idaho. Along the way I was introduced to Duke and Chiara, two wranglers at the Trail Creek Ranch in Wilson, Wyoming.

Two things stuck in my mind from my brief 10 mile ride, the truck a new Dodge V8 was very smooth and I miss music more than anything else. We arrived in Victor at and old style soda fountain and by the time I got my rain gear off (the sun was shining in Victor) and my bike situated, I found that C & D had treated my to a Hucleberry milkshake. By all rights I should have bought their shakes, and they were buying mine! It is worth noting that the original purpose of C & D’s trip was to go to this place of a milkshake. “The best in the world!” they had been told. So over some damn fine milkshakes, we talked about hometowns, summer jobs and how the west seems to be populated by some damn nice people. I told C & D about the website and got their address so I could send them a postcard or two. And with that they took off and I hopped on my bike and headed to my new destination Swan Valley. At the town store, I picked up an an onion, some garlic, a banana, 14 cents of unleaded for my camp stove and directions to a beautiful, free, legal and strangely vacant camping area 5 miles out of town. An unexpected bonus was probably the most beautiful night sky of the trip. Under the stars I dozed off, ending my first solo day.

8/7 - Swan Valley to Idaho Falls - The morning was a long lazy one as I waited for the sun to dry out my dew soaked everything. Some early tailwinds gave me sustained flat speeds of around 25 mph, always a good way to start the day. Around noon I pulled into a rest stop and enjoyed coffee and cookies, courtesy of the Christian Motorcyclist Association. A hint to Pat Robertson and the like; if you’re looking to increase the size of your flock, coffee and cookies t’aint a bad way to do it. Beats xenophobia everytime.

Suitably jacked on caffeine and the genuine positive energy of the CMA, I made it to Idaho falls around three, despite my tailwinds turning to headwinds. Following the advice of the CMA folks I found a free, albeit populated community camp site. It is intended as a one night only stop over for through-travelers. More cities should definitely have those. There I enjoyed the company of a family from Payette, Idaho. There were two boys in the family, maybe 12 and 13, (who always referred to me as “Mister”) and they were very interested in my trip and peppered me with questions. They had never really had any experience with anyone doing a trip like this and were blown away that it was possible to cover as much ground as I had on a bicycle. A quick cloud burst gave me a chance to practice throwing up my tent ASAP and cooking in the tent’s vestibule. It cleared quickly though and I enjoyed a cool, clear, early night in bed.

8/8 - Idaho Falls to Arco 70 miles - Slept hard and well, finished last nights dinner for breakfast and rolled out. Almost trouble as I went to adjust my saddle height and the seat binder bolt snapped. Replaced it with a bolt from my stem and off I went, into 70 miles of hot, no shade anywhere, dead coyotes by the side of the road, desolate Idaho plain. Most of this stretch is occupied in some way by the Idaho Engineering and Environmental Laboratory which is more of an area than it is a particular building. Referred to as “the site,” by those in the know, this sprawling “X-Files” looking place, with fences, antennae and all manner of no trespassing signs contributes to a surrealness that takes over the landscape. By the way, the worlds first nuclear power plant is located out here. The road was smooth though, with a nice spacious shoulder on which to pedal and practice in-the-saddle meditation. It was actually rather perfect. The heat was something to try to escape and the barren landscape contributed to a cycling trance. Rolled into Arco, the first town in the world to be powered by a nuclear power plant. Ate dinner and chatted with some Harley folks in front of the grocery store. The guy at the RV park wanted $14 to let me pitch a tent so I talked to a woman at the local gas station, getting 7 cents of fuel for my camp stove. She recommended sleeping in the town park. After 70 miles through the desert, I just want to stop, drink water and sleep. I go to the park, wait for a Kareoke party to wrap up, make more food and crash. Appreciating what the bike does; Rolling into a small town, invisible, quietly watching lives, eavesdropping, sitting tired in a park, waiting cautiously for everyone to leave so I may sleep and not arouse concern. Who is that stranger man in the park?

8/9 - Arco to Fairfield 90 miles - The 18 miles to Craters of the Moon went by pretty fast. Craters of the Moon is something like 80 square miles of large dark volcanic rock strewn all about. A “short cut” on the Oregon trail, it is hard to imagine that this area could ever be passable with covered wagon. I’ve sometimes looked at some of the longer climbs on this trip with dread. I think of what these people dealt with. Forget it. I’m traveling in 1st class on a 747 compared to what those people survived. Before I left on this trip I was talking to my uncle, an old hardened goat farmer, and mentioned that this trip might allow me to appreciate what the pioneers encountered. “You never will,” he stated simply. How true.

Leaving Craters, I headed downhill and caught a delicious tailwind. I absolutely hauled ass, topping out at 46 mph. Amazing given that my highest speed on a bike is 54 mph on an unencumbered road bike with narrow 120 psi tires. That I came within 7 mph of that on a bike loaded for a 2 month self-supported tour is a testament to the aerodynamics and stability of the BOB. And never, ever underestimate the power of a tailwind.

The tailwinds kept coming and for the next ten miles I found myself cruising at an average of 30 mph. That was an anomaly certainly, but it was fun while it lasted and the Karmac gods would call in my debts only hours later.

On my map I spotted Moonstone campground. It was at the 70 mile mark and I figured that that would be a good place to break. Thanks to the hauling pace I set earlier in the day though, I got to Moonstone pretty early, the sun was still high in the sky, blazing away. And rather than being the oasis I envisioned, Moonstone more resembled a sandbox. No shade to be seen anywhere, the sun still high, I realized that the wisest thing for me to do was probably to keep going. A problem though was that stupidly I had planned on being able to get water at Moonstone so I passed up the last opportunity to fill up my bottles. I had 20 miles to go until I hit a town called Fairfield, no services between here and there and one bottle of water. No problem I assured myself; I just had to focus and knock out the miles. So I started to move. In a matter of minutes, a car flew by honking a friendly greeting with hands waving, it was the family from Idaho Falls. In two days I was 140 miles from where I had last seen them. I imagined that the boys were spinning, thinking of where they might be able to go, the world open to be explored by them on their bikes.

The positive energy flowed and I pedaled on, the wide shoulder giving plenty of distance between me and the 70 mph traffic. WHACK! I was tagged by a bunch of something as a Large Ryder truck flew by. What it was I could never find out. It felt like a handful of rocks though. A couple nailed my back, one right on my spine, another on the back of my neck and yet another hit the back of my head just under my helmet. Thrown off balance by the sheer force of whatever it was, I struggled to maintain my balance and deal with the pretty intense pain that I was instantly confronted with.

Maybe something thrown up by the wheels of the truck? No, the trajectory was all wrong. I looked up as the truck moved off, and I could see the passenger hanging out of the window smiling. He had thrown something at me. I was in pain. My mind snapped into a reaction mode and I was now absolutely furious. Having regained my balance, I sat up no handed and let both birds fly. “Motherf#&!*r!” I shouted, “Come on! I’ll kick your f#&!ing ass!” Obscenities spewed forth. As he flew out of sight I could see his smile dim. Perhaps he was just beginning to calculate the physics of what happens when you throw a handful of something at someone at 70 mph.

Perhaps though calculation of any kind was beyond his brain and he was simply disappointed that I hadn’t crashed. Regardless, I was so profoundly angry, not just because he did this but because he was the first person on this trip to do anything mean. Up until this moment everyone had been so cool, so generous. I was blown away, so disappointed. I couldn’t for the life of me understand how anyone could have justified an assault like that on a total stranger. Why did he have to do that? No cars were around to see it, the only cop I had seen in days had just passed five minutes earlier and I wasn’t injured enough to warrant the involvement of anyone. Aargh! I cursed a blue streak and hammered on. I wanted to catch these guys, but going 15 mph on a bike rarely catches a Ryder truck doing 70.

Hot, thirsty and thoroughly toast, an hour or so later, I pulled into Fairfield and up to the town convenience/grocery store. I scanned for the truck but it was nowhere. Inside, I picked up two bottles of Gatorade and some beans for dinner. At the check out lane I asked the woman if she had seen a Ryder truck come through, explaining what had happened. She hadn’t. I then asked about camping spots.

“Hey Jill,” she inquired of a friend who was shopping, “Do you think it would be okay if he camped in the 4-H park?”

Jill came over, affirming that the 4-H would probably be cool. “But,” Jill continued, “We’ve had cyclists who were traveling through stay over at our place, take a shower and sleep in a bed. I’d have to ask my other half first, is that something you would be interested in?”

“Oh yeah!” was my enthusiastic response.

“Okay, will you be at the park? I can come get you there,” she continued. I told her I’d be there and pedaled off to the park. Only five minutes later I was there draining the last of the two Gatorades, I sighed in relief to the end of such a day as this and tried to let all of the bad energy from the Ryder truck flow away. And off to my left, down the main street in town, the very same Ryder truck drove by. My eyes widened in disbelief and I contemplated chasing after it. But my luck had changed and I didn’t want to breathe any life back into that event. I let it go.

Soon Jill and her brother-in-law Dave showed up with his 5 year old daughter Douglas and a mystery child of unknown (to me) parentage. Jill introduced us and then took off. Dave and I chatted while the kids ran around and I made dinner #1.

It seems that Dave works for the Forest Service in several capacities, as a surveyor of sorts I think. He surveys the wildlife in the area (Dave, if I’m totally off-base please drop me an email and set me straight) and also works with farmers in the area convincing them and then helping them to rehabilitate creeks and streams that run through the area. It seems that over a century ago beavers were a very important part of the ecosystem around here, building damns and creating wetland area. Given the double whammy of having the beavers trapped almost out of existence and the introduction of cattle, the waterways are pale representatives of their former selves. Dave also works and hunts with falcons. Very cool. While we talked I offered Dave some food but he gallantly declined. Famished, I killed the entire batch of beans and rice.

Tending to his parental responsibilities, Dave took a walk with the kids, taking “unknown” home and returning with a pick-up truck. We loaded up my bike and trailer and drove out of the back of town up to Jill and Steve’s farmhouse up one of the backdrop hills. Along the way we picked up some beer (buying a twelve was the least I could do given the hospitality). Once we hit dirt road, Douglas climbed into Dave’s lap and took over the steering. By her comments, it seemed that she had been doing this for quite a while and she was pretty skilled at it. I couldn’t believe how quickly I had been welcomed and included into these people’s lives. I felt very privileged. And it only got better.

Soon after Dave and I arrived, Steve and his buddy Trevor showed up. Introductions all around and Steve manned the grill, fixing what would be my first steak in ten years. This trip thoroughly ended, or at least suspended 10 years of vegetarianism. Anyway, despite having just feasted on a huge beans and rice dinner, I sat down to another, far more tasty meal of green beans, some middle eastern grain dish (Jill and Steve didn’t even know the name of it) and of course the steak which was fresh off the hoof.

Seems that one of Jill’s mom’s cows had a bum leg. Steaks all around. We talked all about the area, about my trip and road trips in general. After dinner we all hit the hot tub. At Jill’s bequest I showered first. I even shaved. Beer, food, friendship, shower, shave, hot tub? Forget it, this was nirvana. At last I crashed into the bed so generously prepared and drifted off to sleep wondering if it wouldn’t be better to sleep outside under the stars.

8/10 - Fairfield/Galena Summit to near Bonneville campground 70 miles - I awoke sprawled wide in a bed of cotton sheets, well after sunrise (outside I usually wake up with the sun which is not always a good thing) and realized that sometimes sleeping inside is not such a bad thing. I arose absolutely drunk on sleep, dopamine that happy natural thing. Jill and Steve were already up. Coffee brewed and Steve whipped up scrambled eggs. Good morning. Days before, an unfortunate cow, or was it two, wandered out into the road and was nailed by a semi carrying all manner of dairy aisle products. Steve happened upon the scene where the company’s clean-up efforts amounted to allowing passerbys to help themselves to whatever was salvageable. The orange juice we drank that morning, and I think the yogurt, was courtesy of the cow’s misfortune. Steve announced to me that he had been thinking of where I was planning on riding and thought that I should be further north, on the other side of The Sawtooths, so I might experience a greener and friendlier Idaho. He would drive me back through where I had come from. We took the back gravel roads, up past the madness that is Sun Valley (home of failed restaurateurs Bruce Willis and Awnold). Development proceeds, apparently unchecked. Everything is oh so bright and brand-spankin’ new. Along the way on the gravel roads, before we were near Sun Valley, we stopped briefly to chat with some of his buddies who were building a hay-bale house. On the way out of there we were jammed up in traffic. Sheep traffic that is. It seems that this area had at one time been one of the largest sheep raising areas in the world and today still has a significant sheep population. I wasn’t quick enough on the draw with the camera to capture what would have been an award winning photograph, certain to bring me fame and fortune. Guiding the sheep were a dog, a young Peruvian and the very image of a cowboy. Sitting atop his horse, his feet out of the stirrups, his face coated in brown dust save for the triangular swaths of flesh around his eyes, wiped clean with the back of his shirt sleeve no doubt. His clear, bright busy eyes shone outward, taking in every movement around him. An image from another time. We climbed and climbed in Steve’s old-school 4-Runner, essentially lateralling me north and back east a bit. We arrived at Galena Pass. We pulled out my bike and trailer; I hooked everything up and bid farewell to Steve. I knew we had all connected. I’m already wondering when I might make it back to Idaho, looking forward  to rolling into Fairfield to visit old friends. After Steve left I met a couple of Harley guys and hung out with them for a while, discussing the Harley rally in Sturgess. It seems that the cops are pulling over a hundred at a time and running drug dogs through the crowd. Not exactly a sporting hunt. So I mounted up and rolled down the mountain. Clouds over head kept the sun at bay, a welcome reprieve from the blazing heat of the last two days.

Vicious headwinds frustrated my every attempt to nurse speed out of the slope. Although I couldn’t feel too bad since I hadn’t climbed the lead-up to this hill, in general there is probably nothing more frustrating on a tour like this than climbing a hill and then being denied the reward of a ripping descent. You think, “This is no fair! I paid my dues. This hill is mine!” But sometimes you are faced with the Yin of the Yang that allows you to cruise at 30 mph on straight-aways. Working hard to hit 10 mph, downhill, seems mighty unjust but it’s part of the whole equation. Rolling out of the wholly unsatisfying descent I noticed more and more cyclists heading the opposite way as I was. I found out later they were part of a group of 100+ cyclists who were out on a fully supported tour in the area. I think they were doing Boise to Idaho falls. Turning left at Stanley, a small town that really amounted to a couple of tourist oriented shops and restaurants, I started a climb that would take the rest of the day. I got in a groove though and the climb cruised by. My legs felt surprisingly good, given that I had ridden 90 miles the day before. As I neared the Bonneville campground, which I had picked out earlier on the map, I noticed that all of the campgrounds on said map were fee spots and heavily populated. Scattered about along the way there were many other spots not on the map, that were less crowded and more scenic by far. So I took an educated guess that Bonneville and the hot springs there would be very occupied and chose to stop at the next no facilities/no charge spot. It was set back from the road, right on a stream and totally empty. I rolled in, made dinner, made a fire and kicked back.

As darkness fell and I was writing postcards by the fire I caught sight of movement around camp. Peering through the trees I spotted a couple of coyotes checking me out. Coyotes are perfectly harmless to humans by the way so this “encounter” was a purely positive one. Camping in the midst of the wildlife, I slid into my bag and fell asleep.

8/11 - Bonneville to Bank 65 miles - At first it was easy since I had spent the night near the summit. I pretty much pedaled 50 yards and then went down hill. I checked out Bonneville and indeed it was automobile and RV central. The hot spring there was very occupied so I decided to just move on.  Soon after I busted back onto the road I realized that what I needed more than anything was a day off. While I felt okay yesterday, my legs had really wanted was a break. I found it hard to get settled into a spin. The sun was hiding behind the cloud, putting a chill in the air that kept my dragging legs from warming up. Frustrated by my lack of energy, I kept stopping to rest and eat. I wanted to just stop and camp but kept passing by spots that might have sufficed for one night. Wherever I stopped, I wanted it to be nice enough to hang out for an off-day, someplace where I could relax. My mind set on a nice low key spot. I was out of National Forest so this was hard to come by. Finally I came into Bank. There isn’t much of a town to speak of and the campsite on the map has been gone for two years. Upon finding out that I was riding my bike, the guy at the local store/restaurant instantly became more helpful and pointed me out to a small tent village used by local river guides. If I “bullshitted” with them he said I’d have no problem and they probably wouldn’t even charge me. The only problem was that it was two miles back on another road that proved to be the most dangerous of the trip. Very windy, little to no shoulder and highway speed traffic. I was glad to make it to the site alive. I pushed my bike down a steep embankment, over a log bridge and into a wooded area populated by maybe a dozen tents. No one was around though. I wouldn’t see or talk to anybody until the next day. Off and on drizzle forced me into my tent with the rain fly on. Before bed though, I waded into an eddy (a quiet spot on the shore where the water slows) in the river and took a bath. The water was surpassingly warm and even though it had only been two days since a shower, getting clean again was absolute joy. As I lay in the tent, falling asleep, knowing that I wouldn’t ride tomorrow made me smile. And I started to fantacize about the food that I would treat myself to. Chicken. It was all I could think of, and my mouth watered. Chicken sandwich. Chicken. Chicken. My body cried out for it.

8/12 - Bank - Off day - So I rose early and left immediately for the store/restaurant/ where I had gotten directions to the campsite. I walked instead rode though, convinced that this stretch of road was far safer on foot.

Lumber trucks whizzed by, their multi-ton loads held on by two chains. At one point a wide load came by, forcing me to jump up on some rocks off the side of the road. Off to the right, I noticed railroads tracks on the far side of the river which ran right by my camp. The tracks ran high by the campsite, crossing the camp access road via a trestle. I could have scampered up the side of the hill that the trestle joined. I quickly put the pieces together and wondered if the track was accesible from the restaurant. Perhaps I could walk back on the tracks, more direct and far from the traffic of death. Until then, I still had to make it to the restaurant alive.

And alive and very hungry I arrived. For the sake of making an informed decision, I looked at the menu, but looking at the breakfast menu did nothing for me. I was so hungry, I could feel it in my shoulders. I looked at the chicken breast sandwich and my mouth watered. “I’ll have that,” I said to the waitress behind the counter, “and a salad and fries.”

I read the paper, drank countless cups of coffee and destroyed the salad. And then the rather large, grilled breast sandwich of goodness came. As I ate, my blood grew warm, every bit of my body responded, I almost laughed out loud out of sheer pleasure. Shortly the sandwich and fries were gone.

“Wow!” said the waitress, “You enjoy that?”

“Yes I did!” I said, “I’ll have another, with fries”

Her eyes went wide, “Are you sure?”

“Yes Ma’am.”

She ducked into the kitchen and shortly afterward the cook leaned out, looked at me and then went back to work. And I killed that one too. No question. It wasn’t even an effort. Oh my god! Brimming with satifaction, I left the restaurant and hiked up the hillside to the track.

I’d walk back with the river to my right and traffic whizzing by on its far side. Just me on the tracks.

Feeling like and idiot I smiled and laughed as I felt my body devouring the sandwiches. I almost want to cry I was so satisfied. But instead I started to belt out Kerouac. “Skid Row Wine” is a poem I memorized for the sheer hell of it and it seemed like a damn fine time to enjoy it.

“I coulda done a lot worse than sit in Skid Row drinking wine. . .” I hollered out for all to hear. None did I’m sure, but traffic whizzed by fifty yards away, drivers’ eyes focused securely on the narrow twisty road ahead, deviate and die.

“. . .And nobody saw me, just my bottle and what they saw of it was empty.” And as I recited, I learned to walk, balancing on the rail. It really is much more efficient to walk on one rail, than kick the gravel and ties. Eyes looked further and further ahead, and soon it was so easy. Fifteen, twenty steps, soon I stopped counting, looking back, seeing my dusty footprints stamped on the shiny steel line. I remembered Rocky and his friend whom we met early in this trip and I wondered where they might be. The railway killer has been caught and their mode of transportation has probably been returned to normal.

And then I stopped and looking for a way down to the river, I back-tracked and walked through knee-high grass down to the water. And in clear view of the traffic, if they could look, I stripped down to nothing and in the river I went. I grabbed a rock under the water and hung out behind it, like a windsock. I stood up and rubbed my legs, breaking the dust loose and getting the blood moving, and in the water I went again. I thought of everything that had happened to me since I had first thought of this trip. I thought of girls, drugs, alcohol, school, jobs yet to be had, and realized that right here, right now was great. It was what I wanted. My belly was full and I knew a Jack Kerouac poem. I sat in the dry grass, in the sun and dried off, watching the drivers whiz by.

Eventually I tore myself away from the water and returned to the rail. I walked along and wondered if there was even a train that used this anymore. Probably yes I thought, the weeds were held at bay by something.

Nearing the camp, the trestle stretched out before me. And I continued to balance, the edge only a foot and a half to my right, forty feet down. Soon enough though I was across though and I halfway slid down the steep embankment, down to the road. The river guides who were in bed when I awoke were now gone, they were off working or just having fun and the place was mine alone. I wished I had some company though, wanting to talk with someone.

I got in my tent and took a nap.

Later in the afternoon, I walked around, trying to check out my surroundings without putting my nose where it didn’t belong. This was for the most part, home to these guides and I appreciated that I was allowed to stay here. I didn’t want anyone to return and find me snooping around.

Eventually though, a few guides returned to there tents at the periphery of the camp and finally one very attractive guide from New Zealand named Carol (I think), approached me. She was the “volunteered” person to approach the stranger who had made his home here. We chatted for a while, and as has been fairly typical of this trip, when she found out that I was riding all the way from the Canada/Montana border, her guard went down and everything was cool. The guides hit the sack right away though so I sat by the river and read and wrote and watched the paddlers go by until the sun set.

Off on a nearby hill, mybe 500 yards away, a deer climbed up to the peak and was silouetted perfectly by the evening sky. A perfect Bambi image.

I crawled into my bag and settled down. And it dawned on me that today was the first day in five weeks that I hadn’t ridden my bike. For a moment I thought about getting up and riding my bike around the camp, just to keep the streak going. But that’d be stupid; riding for the sake of a streak. I stayed in bed as off in the distance a coyote howled and chattered. I have grown quite fond of that sound, the sound of something that you rarely see. I drifted off to sleep.

8/13 - Bank to Vale, Oregon, 95 miles - Hurried out of camp by threatening rain (it did rain briefly and hard) Wanted to stop in Payette but there was nowhere to camp that I could find, not to mention that it was so busy and noisy and populated. So I kept going until Vale and that meant a 95 mile day. The road out of bank was twisty and scary. My legs felt good coming off the rest day though so I hammered till Payette. Payette led me into Ontario, Oregon. Lots of traffic funneled onto a main drag with all sorts of major strip mall stores/truck stops etc. With the sun still high I pedaled on with large hills in sight. Perhaps I could find something there. Arrived in Vale fried by the sun and worn out by the wind. Vale seemed to be the only town of substance that I would hit for at least 50 miles and I knew that I had lots of climbing ahead. Bummed by the lack of public campable land, I ended up at a RV park type place for $10 which wasn’t so bad since I was ready to spring for a hotel. Haven’t done that yet but sometimes at the end of a long day it is too damn tempting. Roll into a room, buy some beer, collapse on the bed with a TV remote on my stomach (this coming from a guy with a “Kill your TV” sticker on his car) order a pizza, and moan in relief. Sometimes thinking about such things are a formidable carrot on the end of a stick, pulling me through headwinds and up hills. But inevitably when I finally reach a town or some other oasis, the reality of spending money on a hotel shames me and with a little more effort I am able to find someplace to lay my head for the night. Tonight I pay for a spot, only the third time on this trip. Not too bad.

8/14 - Vale to Unity, 70 miles - I paid for the excesses of yesterday’s miles and was never really able to hammer. Left Vale fairly late with clouds heading at me from about 10 o’clock. They looked like rain, which for today didn’t thrill me and were blocking the sun, which when your worn out keeps you from warming up well. It drizzled then stopped, then drizzled then stopped, then rained. If it had been warm, it wouldn’t have been a problem, but given the temp, I had to keep pulling on and off my rain jacket. Stopped to eat at a restaurant in Unity. Talked to a couple who had passed two cyclists 35 miles before they passed me. According to them one of the guys had panniers and the other had a trailer. Obviously this description matched that of Joe and Jason. I knew that there was no way that it could have been them, but it was fun to think about the possibilities.

Left the restaurant and rolled into Unity’s small and rather scenic park. The sun was gone, the wind was whipping and dark clouds were moving in fast. I threw up my tent in record time, and secured my bag and bike, expecting the rain to come at any moment. A family camping near me struggled with a very large tent. They had a tarp thrown over it which slapped loudly and constantly as they moved things inside and debated whether or not to set up their second tent. Despite the sure-bet conditions, rain never came and the sky cleared dramatically. Despite having eaten only two hours before, I grew hungry again and fixed myself another dinner; the old stand-by, rice and beans. I’m still hungry and now I’m tired. I have to remember that these mega mile days are relatively new to my body and it is trying hard to adjust.

One of the park hosts is a very cool older woman. She’s by herself & retired w/ an RV and a VW bus. She rolls up to my spot on her mountain bike and is very interested in my journey. We talked all about moving around and she told me stories of her and her kids years ago piling into their bus, traveling around. Somehow we got on the topic of coffee and discovered our mutual love/obsession with the liquid loveness of caffeine. Quite a few of the campers at this spot have been hunting and have the carcasses hanging up to dry. On of them was a younger girl of 17 or so who took her buck on a back road around here. She is with her brother, maybe 12, and they gladly shared stories of hunting and camping. They are both self-assured and very confident.

8/15 - Unity to John Day, 54 miles - Boy it got cold last night. Cold and clear. I think I will ride today and aim for John Day - around 50 miles. Kids out here, a lot of them at least, are raised very well. Very independent and alive. More so than I was at their age, very sheltered and clueless. Today’s ride was a ride of transformation as the weather of indecision that marked the last 5 or so days lifted and the sun shined bright. The two dinners I had last night seemed to do the trick and my legs were renewed, recovered from the 95 mile Banks to Vale day. I powered up today’s 2 mountain passes. Cresting the Dixie summit, the second and last for a while, the Strawberry mountain range unfolded around me. An awesome reward for a gratifying climb. Worth mentioning is the small bar and restaurant located on rt. 26 at the Austin turnoff. A basket of fries and a free bottomless cup of coffee did wonders for fueling me up the hill. Crabs and Caffeine; hard to beat.

Stopped and overate in the town before John Day. I didn’t mean to gorge myself, but the portions available at the grocery were kind of big and I wanted to finish off what I bought. So I’m now bloated and not feeling very mobile.

Bedded down for the night in the backyard of Lyle, Lynda and their daughter Lauren. I met Lyle and Lynda when I was  cruising through John Day looking for a place to camp. I saw them outside a church and asked them if I could use their hose to fill up on water. I then asked about campsites and soon enough we were having a conversation that included their pastor, about where to camp. Lyle and Lynda then offered me the use of their backyard. Yet again proving that all is right with the world.

8/16 - John Day to Mitchell, 70 miles - Woke up with the sun and found that Lyle and Lynda were preparing breakfast. We ate and then I cruised, hitting the road around 9 a.m., pretty early relatively speaking. Soon the green of the John Day area gave way to the dry Oregon plain. Sage and scrub brush returned with a vengeance. Cruising along, the road took a hard right toward a gap in a rocky ridgeline. The gap looked like a hole blown through the rock and I remarked outloud “Well they just blew the hell out of that thing didn’t they?” The road entered the gap and I immediately realized that this was no man made hole. The road joined up alongside a stream which quite naturally had etched out Picture Gorge. I had heard of the gorge but still new very little about it. And without a topographical map, I couldn’t really see what was coming up ahead. What came up was a 20 mile climb through an incredibly beautiful desert gorge. Imagine a scene from Road Runner/Wiley Coyote. RR screaming through the desert, the road ribboning out behind him. That’s the desert I was riding through.

The double edge to the desert’s beauty is its hostility to humans. Riding for hours, there is no shade to speak of which means no satisfying breaks. As a matter of fact, it seemed easier to remain on the bike and enjoy the breeze.  Stop to rest and you simply start to cook, the sun hammering down and radiating up. Again my white, long sleeved Capilene shirt rocked, providing my arms with much needed shade while still allowing a breeze to blow through. The desert is tough. It is beautiful but it is hostile. I’ve come to the conclusion that the popularity of living in desert climes (check out all the chic desert homes in Architectural Digest) is in no doubt thanks to the availability of a/c. With it in your home or car, the heat of the day is easily defeated, transforming the scenery around you. In a way it is perhaps similar to the difference between viewing a rattlesnake at your feet or behind a pane of very thick glass. Certainly one could argue that you miss out by not seeing the rattlesnake in the wild, which is true. I had a rattlesnake cross my path once, only a couple of feet away, while I was hiking in the smokies. It was awesome; I’m glad I got to see one in its native habitat. But as far as having an opportunity to appreciate its beauty, I was too busy high stepping it back out of striking range. I guess there is a balance to be achieved. I detest the notion that the wilderness is an amusement park, to be enjoyed from a climate controlled, 5-way adjustable seat. But the next time I hit the desert, I want a/c watching my back. We all have issues which bring out the wimp in us. Heat is it for me brother. It knocks me down and beats me with a humble stick. Picture Gorge wound around for hours and while my water lasted, I enjoyed it. Near the end, I passed an old abandoned shack, off to the left, worn down and open to the elements. Stopping to take a picture, I wondered if it had ever held a family. Unknown history always gets my mind going, as do thoughts of all the history that has passed while this shack stood silently. I finally emerged from Picture Gorge, not knowing quite what to expect. The climbing fortunately stopped but the heat continued. The road straightened and I rode past a cattle range to my right. Ranches appeared off in the distance. I paused to fill my water bottles, filtering from a stream which unfortunately ran through a rather expansive cow pasture. I ride and I ride and finally the hill breaks. I’m expecting to encounter Mitchell either at the top here or down at the bottom of the hill. Rarely does a town spring up in the middle of a downhill. Mitchell does and in my pursuit of speed thrills, I almost cruise right by. As a matter of fact I do a bit and have to back track fifty feet or so and turn onto the business route running through the town.

8/17 - Mitchell to Bend, 80 miles - I hadn’t ridden ten minutes when a small problem which had bothered me yesterday, got much worse. Yesterday, I had a couple times when my chain shifted off my big ring. This is usually easily remedied by adjusting one of the set screws. I ignored it though, writing it off to an anomoly that would right itself. Set screws don’t often just come undone for no reason.

So today right off the bat, as I hit the first major downhill, it happened again, with an authority that told me instantly something was very wrong. I got off the bike and inspected the front derailluer and its relation to the chain rings. It was very off. So much so that I knew there was something greater happening here than set screws. I looked closely at the cranks and my stomach sank as I saw that the none drive side bottom bracket cup ha backed almost all the way out allowing the cranks to slide to the left, completely changing the chainring/derailluer alignment. I had no bb tool and no crank puller, which I would need before I could have used the bb tool, if I had one. So I tried to tighten it back by hand but failed miserably. It wouldn’t really help to adjust the derailluer since I was sure the cup would back out the remaining few threads in only a few miles of the climb which I knew awaited me. Hmmm. Think! I’m a mechanic! I get paid to fix other people’s bikes.

Thinking . . . cup won’t tighten against bottom bracket to push it back . . . crank offset too far to the left. . . how can I get the crank back? . . . kick it!!!! So whap! I kicked the left crank right at the crank bolt and it popped right back in place, seating back into the right cup. And now that the left cup was no longer bound by the crank/bb assembly, I was able to tighten it almost all the way back in by hand. Shifting returned to normal and off I went. I figured I could keep kicking until I got to a shop where I could borrow some real tools.

About 9 miles later, about a mile into the following climb, I was chuggingslowly up when a guy came flying down on a bike. In the middle of nowhere,anyone else on a bike is a brother. He stopped and pulled over and I crossed the road to join him on the shoulder, sitting on the guardrail. Carl was his name, he was in his late forties with a well weathered face and he lit up a cigarette as soon as he could.We shook hands and quickly shared where we were from and where we were going. “I’m just finishing and your just getting started,” Carl said, referring to the fact that he had started much earlier in the day. He was a migrator, moving with the seasons, not the first wanderer I’d met on this trip. He lived down south in the winter and rode north in the summer. I had less equipment than he did, but his was bare bones and low dollar. That isn’t a slam at all, it’s more admiration. I looked at his ride, then mine and was humbled by the miles he had put on a bike that I wouldn’t have wanted to ride around the block. We talked about where to crash at our respective destinations. He would love Mitchell’s little park and I, he said, would be able to find a spot in Bend with only a little effort.

We enjoyed our conversation but it soon grew too hot to sit any longer. So we shook hands again and said goodbye. My climb was just beginning. My goal was to get to Bend by the end of the day. As interesting a mental challenge as a climb can be, it is a hard to translate the mental journey onto paper. For ten miles I climbed, the desert behind me. The winding gets to you sometimes, hiding the road ahead. Am I almost finished or is this an all day affair? Fortunately Carl did give me an idea how long the climb was going to be so I paced myself just right and stopped at the top to eat. “Please give me this downhill!” I pleaded. “No headwind, Bad headwind!”

While eating, a semi which had come up the other way, stopped right at the top of the pass with its engine racing and smoking. It had a tough climb back where I was now heading, downhill. Sweet!

I passed through Prineville and Redmond.

I arrived in Bend just before sunset, so I had no time to debate the subtleties of the campsite that I had just found, right in down, on the edge of the Deschutes River. After 80 miles and a lot of climbing, my day was done and I had pretty much decided that Bend, Oregon was going to be the last stop on this trip. I was tired. Emotionally, physically, motivationally, financially, I was done. I was cruising into town when I saw to my right, a shrubby, wooded area. There was a small dirt driveway/ turnaround right off the road. I pulled in, dropped the bike and sat down to eat a snack, something to tide me over til I could cook. There was a small canal, diverted from the river which ran under the road I had just left. I stepped into the water and washed off my legs. If you’ve been there, you know how good this feels. Dirt, sweat and sunscreen washed off my legs while I massaged them, bringing blood circulation back to the surface. What I loved so much about this trip was the extremes. Absolute exhaustion followed by good food and the sleep of the just. A motorcycle was parked there with no rider to be seen. I dropped my bike and scouted the area where I found a number of suitable squatting spots, the best of which overlooked a drop-off down to a wooded area which fronted the shore. I got out of my riding clothes just as the sun set and nestled into the spot and made food and laid back, gazed upward as the stars emerged knowing that this was probably my last night out here. I was tired. A long trip, I’ve met so many people, time to sleep.

-the 3 guys broke up somewhere on the road. something about a  dame. As of 2007, they are all alive & well, but probably have not talked with one another since this trip. Such is life.-mj
Please enjoy these final pics.

Great Divide Tour, Part 2

July 14, 1999 on 8:58 pm | In Mountain, Touring | No Comments