Me, Myself and I

6:10 am

I had decided early on in my commitment to this ride that it'd be a good chance to let myself go.

My vanity had no small part to play in saying yes to a trip that'd involve riding around 2,600 miles, not when I realized what the benefits of that could be to a belly that's been fattened by beer and soft living. Getting my health together, 'gettin' back into fightin' shape', as the kids say, has been on my mind for a long, long time. This whole thing seemed like a great opportunity to start back on that road, to regain the shape I was in prior to my current gig, back to my courier days. That probably isn't going to happen, I have to go home someday and do some more standing, probably followed by some beer drinking. I do feel stronger, though, and the muscles are getting just slighter tougher, at least in the lower half of my body. I simply need to continue working at it when home, and avoid falling into habits both pleasurable and deadly. Really, I just need to live like we're supposed to. So simple, yet so impossible.

Anyway, I digress. Despite my newly clean lungs, lower alcohol intake (so easy when not in MKE), and daily abuse of my legs, I haven't had a haircut or a shave since a month before leaving. Being a Barber, this is something you simply don't do unless in my situation. Even Barbers with long hair keep it neat, that's just part of the trade. I originally planned on getting a cut a week or so before departure, and shaving before I'd leave, but it never happened. Like the mechanic whose car collects grass on the lawn, a barber getting a haircut can be almost impossible at times. So here I am with bunches of growth along the sides, not much more on top, and my version of a beard, which is really a goatee with scattered patches here and there. Luckily, we've been able to clean up pretty regularily, and wash our clothes every once in a while. Everything's easy when you feel clean, even biking from one border to the next.

We slept in separate rooms last night, which gave me a chance to think, escape the snoring, and look at myself, honestly. Despite racooned eyes, arms still scorched from Florida (which is why I have the sun screens on my arms), and numerous bug bites, all I see when I look in the mirror is a man who needs a haircut and a shave.

 

11:20 pm

I realized today that I've been talking to my legs. I'm not sure if the guys have noticed it at all. It seems like we're all developing little routines, little quirks. I know we've all developed a non-linguistic form of communicating, cave-man style, when roads are good or about to get bad-Jeff has a deep grunt, George has a longer groan, and I give a death-rattle sigh. We all know what the others are saying. But as far as the legs are concerned, it started with a morning greeting, "Morning legs! What do you feel like doing today?", then became a firm command, "Alright legs, time to get leggin!", and then today, the hills we ran into made me aware of real communication going on. This was our first real encounter with serious rollers, and we spent 30 miles going up hills, straining at 8 mph, then down hills (I topped out at 38, 1.5 below my high of 39.5 mph so far), over and over and over, and it took a good 10 miles of torture to get the rythym back. I got a little ahead of the others, and started to hear myself telling my appendages what to do, to tighten up, relax, or let the thighs work, rest the quads, whatever. At least they didn't respond. Yet.

Tonight we're sleeping in Fredricksburg, and tomorrow we'll roll into D.C., where we've decided to stay a day and decide on a route, though I think we've got one picked out.

The route has been on everyone's mind for two days now. Continue to Bar Harbor and ride for another 3 weeks? Head north-east to New York, then turn left to avoid the mountains on the way to Buffalo? Cut right through those mountains and shave a few days off in return for unimaginable pain? These ideas bounced around our heads all morning as we rode through hills whose roads were packed with unforgiving drivers and rain poured down from above. After the first twenty five miles, we were already beat, and stopped for breakfast. It was a dismal start to the day, and no one was able to reignite any positivity. Finding a place to sleep is pretty much our only real mission for any particular day, besides eating and riding, and we were having mo luck with the churches, probably a result of being further North, where no one is trusted. So we sat, digesting and wanting a nap, not sure of where we'd end up, or how we'd survive the mountains after dealing with these little hills, when it all turned around. A good friend from Milw, Chris, sent me a link to a trail leading 325 miles from DC to Pittsburgh, following old rail tracks up the Potomac river, and what seems to be the flatest route imaginable for the area. We were elated, finally having discovered a way through PA that wouldn't cause any of us to die, when Jeff got a callback from a minister whose church was too busy for us tonight, but decided that they'd put us up on a hotel. Everything changed then, and we were in a mood so good even the next 30 miles of punishment hasn't gotten us down.

I've got a little under 1,500 on the cyclometer now, and with around 5/600 left to go now, the finish line is in sight.