Begin at the beginning

Blogs tend to move chronologically. If you'd prefer to move in the direction of time, best begin here at Day Zero: Getting to Virginia on the Cheap.

If you're the sort who prefers pictures (aren't we all?), maybe this is will be more fun.

The Second Train. Nearing The City. Gary, Indiana. People in Quantity. Ok. Back in The City.

Time has passed between this happening and this writing. I do hate to give away the ending, but I am back in New York, sitting on a park bench, the poor victim of being whisked from one social event to another without much pause for You, reader.

I was lucky on Amtrak. My train was so late they let me catch an earlier direct connection to New York. Traveling with the understanding that you are magically arriving five hours earlier -- even as you chug through timezones -- pleasants things.

My neighbor on our full train was a nurse practitioner who was in Chicago to move her daughter into nurse practitioner school. She was busy reading a pamphlet that digested next week's soap operas for her. I left her for the snack car and she left me for Cleveland. Still, I remember this: early in the morning she offered me her blanket and we huddled away all the cold Ohio and Amtrak could throw at us. A nurse even in sleep, she left at dawn.

I ordered my 25th Gardenburger in the snack car and celebrated with a 26th. I sat down with a family of mom plus two happy little girls, and a young woman moving herself to Vermont. We talked bears and the environment and stayed up way later than everyone's bedtime.

I had a new neighbor when I woke up after Cleveland. Kitao is a New Yorker like me, or I should say better than me. The guy is just cool. He studied upstate with the photographer Joel Sternfeld (whose book on failed American utopias is perfect, as is American Pastoral (?)) and is interested in bike touring. We talked some, I put my contacts in, talked some more, probably slept, and then Kitao invited me to half of the ramen he was going to cook.

I love ramen and here's how to make it right.

Kitao's Ramen Recipe:

Ingredients:
Soy sauce
Cooking sake
Bonito dashi powdery stuffy
Scallions
Veggies
Boiling water
Fresh ramen noodles

To do:
Simple enough, cut anything that needs to be, mix all the soy, sake, and bonito according to taste, boil water and add noodles. When they're soft, strain and add to sauce.

We were joined by Bob from a Bay Area pharma shop who was retiring whether he liked it or not it. We talked body mechanics, overnight parties on islands in Argentina, the world's worst museums, about the trapeze institute Kitao studies at in NY, great American documentary filmmakers, monastery life, and how a human being twists when he dives or trampolines.

Here's the trick. Everyone can do a half twist with their feet. While the body moves around, the hands and head are already gone and into the next turn.

My hands and head were still very much in my last turn, my turn west. The train ride back was not a very concrete bookend to my trip. It was more movement.

Fortunately, an awful woman got on in Albany and reminded me of all things bad on the east coast. She spoke loud enough for the entire train to hear, although I still can't figure out to whom. She was impossibly pregnant. I use this adjective doubly. She was impossibly large and it was impossible that someone willingly made her so.

Here are my notes on her:

Awful woman getting a tattoo of her babies footprints on her breasts. She laughed like thunder. Believes her child is a 'schizophranay' because she is moody. 'All my babies have different scents, scents; see, I'm Victoria Secret, but she [her 8 month old] is different, Poison or Clinique, I don't know. Repeated this nine times on her cellphone: "Going to see me at Auntie Asia house! Going to..." before she moved on to complaining about something else like how long the train ride was, the air temperature, or the Chinese ticket taker ("A Chinese...") she didn't like ("...gonna get dropped."). To be fair, Chinese man did ask her if she was 2 people. Couple with matching t-shirts scared of her. Everyone is. She has the ability to loudly embarrass anyone who asks her to be quiet. Convinced she thinks I'm a racist. Only hope is for a sudden diabetic coma to wash over her. Look at those arms...

We lived. We pulled into Penn Station. I walked off. My friends were there waiting for me. It was late. I ate a lamb burger. I went home. I lingered in the living room to see how long I could stretch their excitement before going into my room, feigning surprise, and then finally sleeping in my room, surrounded by my new pink walls and the tasteful array of penises they printed on them. I'm actually quite impressed by the level of detail in the prank, if not the new level of immaturity. And I am glad to have my dear, dear brother painting.

It is odd being back, my room included. There is so much sound. I spent an entire day walking around and listening to people whinge about small matters (not getting into clubs, not getting weekend off, not getting...). I heard a new jingle on the ice cream truck -- The Entertainer. I went to an unpopular bar and heard great song after great song. I heard powerlines getting fixed directly outside my window at midnight. I heard some kind of music at the art museum I went to. There was an Olafur Eliason piece that reminded me of the mist at the base of Bridal Veil Falls in Telluride. I bought and heard Baby, Let Me Follow You Down a thousand times until it stopped reminding me of that morning in Kansas. And I heard myself putting off this post (and the next and final one) until I got sick of listening, biked around town, and settled here in Tompkins with the same Blackberry I wrote everything on.

So, that brings us to now and east. I have yet to have my movie day or my last hamburger. I kind of don't want either. All I have done, when not with friends, is sit down and write. And wasn't that what I wanted more than anything? Time to write, a room of my own, a stiller mind, space to make things for the people I care about.

My final (written) thoughts on the trip are fast coming. I'm going to see the waterfall they've added to the east river and to venture to my first ever yoga session. I figure it's cheaper than a massage.

2 Slideshows of Repeated Occurrences

Once upon a time, the slideshow was this awful thing you had to slog through when your best acquaintances returned from adventuring in some place exotic like Europe or Mexico. Not any more. With clever clicking, the modern man can breeze by two months sojourn in six seconds.

Still, let's pretend we're back in simpler times. Poetry still rhymes and I'm wearing polyester. My wife, Flan, has kindly prepared deviled eggs as a canape, and since cholesterol has yet to be invented, I'm six in the hole. After some shots of me in dangerously short shorts and Flan's near fatal sunburn, we come to my experimental phase which I have kindly streamlined for you. So, lean back, have a seven and seven, and keep your grain elevated.

A. Farm Equipment of Kansas.


B. Cars of Bazine.

A Slideshow for the Lazy

I ended up getting this to work. Still, I must stress that America was 10-12 times bigger than this.

Photos from Across the Country

I give up trying to get you a slideshow here on the website. You'll end up having to click through to this larger, lovelier slideshow of some of the nicer moments on the trip. Can I recommend full screen? No? Well then I insist you turn Info On (top middle of the screen)

Note, one tends to not to pause and photograph when things are going badly, when hail is coming down in frosted clusters, when one is hailing down a mountain, or when one is surrounded by trees. Kentucky and Missouri could seem non-existent to those incapable of reading boring, boring text. Let me do them quick justice here.

Kentucky was hard to photograph because the smoke and trees wrapped around me and never really left any open vistas to shoot from. That said, one of my fondest memories was coming out of that into wide open western Kentucky, east of Berea, and having an early afternoon ride past sharp brown cliffs covered in thick green trees.

Missouri was a challenge because my camera was in the bottom of one of my bags and I'd honestly thought I'd lost it. It's a fine looking state -- much more so than Nevada -- and so I apologize. It was also the first subtle break in continuity from oaky green forest to red piney trees that burned holes in your nose with saw dust.

Day 51, done

And it's over. I am in San Francisco, 68/58F. Like with a good book, I want to turn back towards the other cover because I'm not so distracted in wanting to find out how it ends. I miss the middle. I miss the second to last page. Did you know the Napa grape is so loved and polished that it sparkles like sugary tinsel? Did you know that Kansas had the prettiest sky, but that once in Illinois it scared me so much I cried?

I am in a flop off of Van Ness. The dollar has given us Europe's tired and weak and it seems all they want to do is bicycle tour, buy iPods, or mouth breathe on me in dim internet cafes. They have jacked up the price of every place to stay. Good I say. San Francisco is America's most romantic city and your faithful narrator hopes they remember that to their friends. Farming, fishing, gold, shipping, insurance will ebb and flow into a town with the times; it is casual accidents of geography, architecture, cold fog, and the movies that give a city such impossible romance. New York looks up at your hills with envy she'd never confess to; for she is the City of nay-sayers, while you Californians say yes for no reason at all.

I passed through Petaluma yesterday; I mention this because I forgot to yesterday. Petaluma could be the most amazing synthesis of all cities West of the Mississippi. There is a large grain elevator for chickenfeed, a small river for transport and loft living, an historic downtown based around being an historic downtown, and a series of homes built when American architecture was at its most homegrown and tasteful. Before we imported ugliness into our academies and built rows of Mies Van der Roes, we had Queen Anne homes. Queen Anne was a style of assemblage, pieces ticked off my owners from catalogues and then shipped West -- always West -- in boxcars. The owner built the house according to his or her own rumblings, and the good people of Petaluma had good rumblings, as did the hippies who came north and saved these homes from flood and neglect.

I woke up with the idea of the sunrise and a light case of TB. I was in a dugout in a baseball field in a low hanging cloud. I biked south with the AAA map Pete gave me. As I made it further and further west I tore off the ground I'd already covered. The piece I held in my hand was the size of a coupon.

I passed by more vineyards with brunch tastings and some blah golf courses. On one green I saw twelve men in khakis sizing up twelve different putts like they were assayers. This is how we spend our precious free time and our (obviously) unprecious money. Can't we be more creative with our fun than put the ball in the hole? Does a walk need a purpose to be ruined by impatience and a reminder of our minimal athleticism?

I began to see cyclists, then I began to see lots of cyclists. People wake up early here in the Bay and they spend their Godless Sundays in nature and on their calves. I managed to catch up with a cyclist my age, Jordan, and we rode together for ten miles while he shepherded me safely and scenically to Sausalito and the top of the Golden Gate.

And then I stopped. I left something for Brenda overlooking the harbor, somewhat per John's wishes, called my brother, and then patted Rocinante on the side as we rode down to the red bridge. Red is the color of American rock and you probably want that in a bridge.

There were a lot of tourists on self-guided bike tours of the North Bay. This isn't what I'd expected. I'd expected a solitary ride down to the water. Did this cheapen the experience? Not one bit. I love cycling too much not to want to share it with farmers in Kentucky and Latvians in bleach-sprayed jeans and gelled hair.

And it was over. I biked down to the water and dipped my feet and wheels in the Pacific. I ate my last hamburger. I had to find lodging. I biked to the library and when that was closed I went to the Apple Store. When that was swamped I went to an internet cafe, and when that was a failure I went to the hotel I'd stayed at during a failed job interview out here. I showered. I bought coffee. I bought books. I bought train tickets. I bought long pants. I bought shirts with sleves. I bought a 150 dollar bottle of champagne, a 5 lb burrito, some chocolate, and other bric-a-brac only to have the cashier wave me through, gratis.

I ate my food, called friends, read, drank a small glass of champagne, poured the rest in the shower like an F1 racer, and I did a victory lap of the city. I went up-didly-up-up, and I went down-didly-down down the hills with ease and no bags. I tried to talk with everyone, but we are in a city remember and that is just not done.

And it's not over. I have to reread what I've written for errors and themes. I have a longer piece on what I've seen and experienced outside of myself that I want to give more thought. I have a short story to finish. I have a long story to start. I have a job to find. I have a connecting ride from DC to NYC to arrange. I have contact solution to buy. I have dinner with friends tomorrow. I have lodging to arrange tomorrow. I have so much more to do than get from point A to point B. Much of what I have to do has no point. I have to get an espresso machine. I have people to thank.

Stay tuned to this space for my list of top tens, likes, favorites, desert island states, and hidden gems.

Well I suppose I can get some thanks out of the way. Thank You. I wanted You to come along, I tried to give you some sense of the country and adventure, and having You with me made the experience richer because it was shared. Metaphysical question: if I fly up and over a mountain in hail and lightning and no one is there to hear me chatter, did I chatter? You'd better believe I chattered and, if this is a tautology, I chattered in large part because You made me. So thanks.

-- G.

Day 50, above the bay

I am in Rancho Nicaso, the bar where Huey Lewis cut his chops, and where tonight's entertainment is some peppy, uptempo jazz. As I can't go any further, I've resigned myself to eating in rhythm. And bless uptempo jazz, especially standards, because it can warm you when you're cold and in a cloud.

We have a responsibility to our dreams: they are our burden. I had three hours today to decide whether I was going to carve my dream of crossing into San Fran over the golden bridge or just follow the maps and ride the ferry. I knew getting to the bridge would be longer, but I didn't know it would be one of the hardest days of the trip. Good. Nothing is hard when you are almost done and you have no place to be but slightly closer to the end.

And nothing is prettier than Northern Californian farmland. Napa county is stunning. Sonoma is stunninger. And Napa city has an In-N-Out burger which got me through an awful ride on a highway without a shoulder and all of Saturday's tired wine tasters. The wind pushed me off the road a couple times. Once it pushed me into a particularly paltry golf course. The man at the caddyshack had this to say to me:

"The wind, she's a bearcat."

The women's marathon is on TV. People are drinking odd drinks in the jazz section: sambuca rocks, plain kir, vermouth with a splash of vermouth, gin with two mothballs.

I'm dead tired here, but I should mention this: I plan on illegally camping in the dugout of the little league field opposite the Rancho. I hope no gray hairs head out to the park to get saucy. Speaking of gray hairs, this trip has started (or coincided with) the graying of my hair. Add to that the cracking of my knuckles, the pain in my back and knees, the fact that I'm up at 6 on a Saturday, and that I take leftovers of everything and I think we'll find that for all the weight I've lost I've gained some age.

Some bigger thoughts will come, but I'll wait on them. Tonight I'll rest. In the morning I'll head down to the top of the bridge and pause.

Day 49

Do you remember how I said I wanted to end my trip with comfort and dignity? Well, here I am alone at PF Chang's family style low-wattage hotspot waiting on my almond chicken. I am in Sacramento. I think I must have insulted the 'concierge' at the hostel because this was his recommendation when I asked for an unassuming place nearby where I could eat by myself.

The hostel is surreal. It's in a 19th century flour magnate's mansion. The downstairs is kept immaculate and in period dress. The concierge sits behind an oak dress and blasts thin Britney Spears through his computer speakers. Two separate sets of young couples, bankrupt, are eating noodles in testy silence. Upstairs, dance halls and dining rooms have been converted into barracks. I am in room 2, bed 10. A Spanish guy was sleeping off what looked to be a bad case of ebola.

I'd rather describe Sacramento. This is the state capitol. It seems to be on the up and up. There is a summer concert that has gotten everyone from the surrounding area into the city center. Half of them biked in on these chopper-style beach bikes that are quite neat. Everyone is good looking and poorly dressed. I saw a couple of drug deals on my ride down 12th. I saw many more families, some of which were headed to what sounded like a Beach Boys cover band in a downtown cathedral.

I started today in minor redwoods. In hours I was down in the valley. I rode along fields of strip malls. In one mall, I saw an ad for a smoothie bar/tanning salon which actually seemed popular. How? Perhaps for miners to keep up with everyone else. Everyone is tan here. Everything is tan: the grass is bronze, the paint is faded, the road is faded. And everything looks hot.

I rode on a fairly long bike trail today down the American River. There were wild turkeys and deer. There were powerlines. There were riders in all kinds of leotards. It was like the procession before the Palio.

I'm back at the hostel. There's a nice painting of the Matterhorn in front of me. As I am braindead, I'll leave you with the Mark Twain quote hanging from the entrance:

"Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry and narrow-mindedness, and many of our people need it solely on these accounts."

Sounds nice.

Day 48, part two

I am very, very tired. I'm sure there are numerous possible why's, but I can't put my finger on it. Was Carson Pass steeper than I thought? Did I stay awake too late yesterday talking about American food policy and what will happen when an entire generation doesn't know where its French fries come from? Has the desert caught up with me? The heat certainly has.

No matter. No matter at all because, give or take a few bumps in the road, it is all downhill to San Francisco. Fundamentally, not constantly, but still fundamentally downhill. That gist pleases me to no end.

I am also really happy to be in California and her mid-high Sierras. I'm sitting surrounded by redwoods, which will always remind me of the movie Vertigo (and La Jetee). Looking upwards at them does make you a little dizzy; thinking about how old they are is dizzying still. To think: some of these trees could have been at Woodstock.

To celebrate, I made what I hope is my last Pasta alla Mansfredo.

Ingredients:
Whole wheat mini-macaronis
Excellent olive oil (I found mine in a vitamin shop in Dolores)
Freshly ground sea salt

1 Bring water to table.
2 Put pasta in water. Warm with gas stove.
3 Take off before boiling to save fuel. Drain water.
4 Add oil as if you were filling up a pickup.
5 Add salt as if applying fake snow.
6 Enjoy.

I just realized that the salt shaker I took from our kitchen in my mad dash to the Chinatown bus must weigh a good 5 pounds.

Sitting in an RV park really makes you wonder about dysgenics. I know this is a very ugly topic -- justly so -- but let me tell you what I'm staring at.

Man stands astride fire. White truck is next to man. Woman sits in awe of man, US Weekly. Man and woman's eight children incapable of sitting, too in awe of fire and Gameboy. Woman asks man how he plans to start fire in California's dry north. Simple he say. He holds up red jug of gasoline. Altitude slows burning down so man throws gas on fire to beat altitude. Man also throws gas over fire and into surrounding area. Man misses family. Fire miraculously dies, man doesn't.

Meanwhile in Metropolis, a college professor and his corporate lawyer wife decide the world is too cruel to raise children in and get both their tubes tied. They invest the savings in a pretty impressive wine collection and a fierce organic food habit.

So I don't know how far from the end I am or when I'll get there. Sacramento is in a 107 degree heat wave and that might slow me down. On the plus side, I'll be biking along a river and I could always jump in.

I leave you with the end of an inscription on a shaft of granite at Carson Pass.

"...dedicated by the noble E Clampus Vitus...the Transierra Roisterous Alliance of Senior Humbugs"

*Addendum: The Times has an interactive piece on the noble Clampuses.

Day 48

I am 7000 feet up in California. I have 9 more miles to go and then I will have no more mountains to cross. From 8573 feet up I can look down into the valley, pick a point in the distance and hit it as I undo a nation's worth of climbing.

I am taking my sweet time. I will make this the slowest 9 miles of my trip. I have stopped in every diner along the east side of the mountain. I will probably stop in more. I won't stop when I roll over the top.

Day 47, one more thing

There are many ways to have a great finish. One is to end comfortably and with a feeling that you've gotten better at this thing. Another is to limp across the line like you've got nothing left because you've given it all away.

I've dreamed of both for this trip, and I think my bike and I will have both. We rode across the desert and collapsed at help; when we ride across the bridge, we will wear proud faces.

Day 47, redemption

I am repaired, safe and sound, and well-fed beyond belief at Pete and Barbara's in Carson City. I am proud to say that the bike, my fair Rocinante, is back in good health too after 200 odd miles of bad limping. Let's backtrack.

I burst my tire on the smallest, darkest follicle of a truck tire while riding through a meteor shower. The hole was the size of a letter a -- a as you see it now. Duct tape did the trip. I headed to the next bike shop 60 miles away only to discover the shop no longer existed. The hole was the size of a bullet wound. I went to the next town with a bike shop. This was Fallon and it was 110 miles away. I was beginning to dislike Nevada through no fault but mechanical.

The tube inside my tire pressed its way through the bullet hole -- at first like a zit, then like a tumor -- until at last the lump popped. Tube 1 dead. Fixed on the side of the road in 100 degree heat. No one slowed down. That's a lie: one woman slowed down to laugh.

I made it to 4 miles outside of Fallon and had a liter of soda at the 1st gas station. When I got back on my bike my tire was flat. Too weak to fix it. So I inflated it, rode a mile, inflated it, rode a mile, inflated it, rode on the rims for a mile. I lost 6 spokes in the process. I stayed at the first motel I saw, which was lovely. The Indian manager and I talked about his priest and the guy's many real estate holdings. I cooked everything I owned and ate it.

Of course, there was no bike shop in Fallon. All there is to Fallon is the Naval Air Base. The inland desert is an odd place for a naval base. I didn't see any soldiers. All I saw were the sad kids of soldiers, moping around in parking lot after parking lot because all kids have in Fallon are parking lots. The adults have casinos.

Sprinted to Carson City on a WalMart tire and fumes. Rode across a bit of the desert where you had to turn on your headlights because you'd be nothing but a shifting black object without them. The heat was real.

I passed a town that was just cathouses or kitten ranches or whatever you call those places where you walk in and pick a woman to screw like you would a happy meal -- number 5, please. Personally, I find nothing less unmanning than walking into a double-wide trailer and acting like you own the place.

Like the best gambler, I just knew my luck would change on my next roll. Pete spotted me from across the street and offered me a place to stay. The bike shop stayed open late, fixed my tire, and told me that we were all settled when I offered to pay. I biked through a neighborhood where the streets were all unfashionable women's names -- Ann, Ida, Marion.

Pete took 5 years off, sold his company and house, and set to traveling the world by bike. He took time off, time off to teach agriculture in the Ecuadorian rainforest or to work in an orphanage. His wife Barbara walked the length of Nepal. Nepal is the opposite of the United States, she feels; they are rich with spirituality and poor in stuff. I haven't been to Nepal, but, yes, we are very rich in stuff.

They raise chickens in their back yard.

Pete just lost a primary run for mayor on the central premise that we need more places for community than casinos. Some old boy won, but not for long. Nevada won't remain a tax free haven of ignorance forever, I think. It's too close to California for one.

And so a change has come. I feel a little guilty about breezing past Nevada because these two generous people are from Nevada, frustrated but here and living by example. More generous people are moving to Nevada. And tomorrow, I will leave it.

Day 47, a bad start

Of course there wasn't a bike shop in Fallon. Fallon is a Naval Air Base service station, and I don't see our boys in blue spandexing around the desert too much. High Desert Cyclery is a chop shop that recycles steel, thank you maps.

WalMart to the sort of rescue. I still have 6 broken spokes, but I have a new tire and tubes and should make it to Carson City. A very large part of me wanted to screw today -- it's already 100 out -- and stay in with a Lego Star Wars set I saw on sale. As a compromise and much needed morale booster, I bought a cheap lightsabre.

Day 46

Complete disaster in the desert. I'm too tired to do it justice (does it deserve justice?), but a teaser follows.

When I was a child, the Guinness Book of Records was the most fought over book in library class. There was one photo of the record setting hottest place on earth (Death Valley I believe) and I remember worrying to myself later that this would be the worst place to have your car break down.

Our worst fears tend to repeat themselves, over and over and over, but it is the lucky few who get to live them out like a masque; luckier and fewer are those who get to do this twice.

Today, I was the luckiest man on the loneliest street in America. But I am safe now. I have used a revitalizing motel shampoo and it works. I'm cooking as much food weight off as I can using the Mr Coffee, an iron, and a microwave in small concert.

My duct-taped tired held up, then broke, then held up, then broke, then held until 4 miles out of Fallon at which point I decided to ride on the metal rims because I could not hold my head up any longer. The head is the first to go. Good night.

Day 45, my longest day

I think I left you in Eureka. My plan was to take a nap and then head out at night. I vividly remember saying to David, the cyclist I bumped into, that I was disappointed that there would be no more challenges and surprises left on the road. I might as well pointed a gun at the sun and fired.

I went to the park. Two guys were building something to the sound of the sappiest country music I've ever heard (something about it's so hard being poor or it's so hard being rich because you aren't poor any more). To make up for their wet music, the men took to swearing and using a power saw. I took to finishing The Road. It moved me, I loved it, and You will too. If you hurry, you can find a copy on the L park bench where I left it.

I drank my coffee in a can and pushed off into the sunset. The sun was orange and in my eye line; then it dipped behind a mountain and turned the sky colors; once the sky looked like the box to Nicolas Roeg's Walkabout; then, imperceptibly, it became something different; and then it disappeared. The stars start turning on one by one. Some of them shoot. Some of them do twinkle. And they all distracted me long enough to blow out.

I ran over a shred of tire and the steel braid ripped a hole in my tire and took a spoke off. I think. So, in the shoulder of the Loneliest Road, I worked by dark. Duct tape now holds my tire together where kevlar once was.

This was all my fault. See this was my first flat. I got it into my head that I was going to go the entire country without a flat. To avoid jinxing, I did not rotate my tires midway through, nor did I ever really look at the things as they peeled thinner and thinner. Now, I've got 110 miles to go before I can swap it out. Everything is ginger.

Still, the night ride had its moments. The moon lit the road once so it looked like a white river; occasionally, the white light made the desert look like the moon itself; and I saw a meteor shower or shooting star fest. The stars fall fast and explode like blue magnesium.

I'm tired. I slept for four hours. The Early Show is on and they're trying to convince me that men are going to start wearing makeup. A small price to pay for nice pancakes.

Day 45, more

I would like to add that Eureka Nevada is a lovely town, completely justified in calling itself The Friendliest Town on the Loneliest Road in America. They've offered me their library, pool, and town park. People come up and talk to you and are lovely. I just wish there were more Eureka across the state, one every twenty miles, like spiritual rest stops. Oh well.

Day 44

Eureka, Nevada.

"He would have made it if he'd lasted just one more jump. But that was a mean horse. Well, I'm pretty proud of that boy."

The old timer talked out of the side of a smile, holding a picture of his grandson at the rodeo riding a wild horse to a gallery of open mouths. The boy came fourth, but he did have his photograph land on a bottle of local wine.

I forced myself to sleep late. The purple light from the neon signs kept me awake later than usual, but the sun woke me up regular. I left up into the hills and can't say I really remember anything. There was a DOT truck or two, some dumb cows who insisted on eating right on the side of the road, mild heat, then a small dust kickup on a bit of unbrushed road. At the base of the last hill, another cyclist, conversation, running out of breath from talking, thirsty, then downhill into Eureka, a fish hamburger, chocolate milk, my book.

I will nap. I'll wake myself up at 9-ish and bike by night to Austin or beyond. I don't get physically tired anymore. I just get bored.

There is a reason we bomb ourselves here. Nevada is not our prettiest place. It's our gallbladder. I wouldn't really mind if the basins did fill up with water. I think an archipelago in the mid-West would do wonders for the look of the country, provide a nice visual contrast for Maine and Florida's pointy points.

Las Vegas might serve a social function. Every country should have a space for luck-seekers, cheap-hope, and second-rate theater. It should be bright. We should go there on intervals, eat violently, have fun or else, and then leave safe in the knowledge that what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.

But Las Vegas is a bright dot. It's actually a very thirsty dot and it wants water from everywhere across the State, water for those who do get stuck and live and who require green lawns, swimming pools, water spectacles, and other things reasonable from a city in the unreasonable desert. We can always move Vegas south or east or west or north because it has no real business being where it is. The rest is stuck here.

You don't mind Nevada. It's not really that bad. It's just not that anything. Nevada is in its name: say it fast. Nev-ada, N-vada, Nada. There's nothing here.

There shouldn't be a place of nothing in America. It's un-American. There should be a city to house next year's Hannah Montana memorabilia, a city made of corn, a massive waterpark, military bases, I don't know. Just fill it up. Every inch of New York is filled up so you can hardly rest your eyes without seeing an ad for something you need. Move that here.

I'm on US Highway 50. They call it the Loneliest Road in America. It's not. Road's don't get lonely; that's pathetic fallacy. It goes from coast to coast. It has all the good gossip from California and it's plugged into the Washington scene. Lots of other roads intersect with it and it probably knows what kind of terrible drivers they have in Chile. The Road is far from lonely. The people on it aren't lonely either. They're waiting.

Day 43, ice cream in the desert and my Coke moment

I am horizontal in Ely. I'm reading The Road and I've got women's synchronized diving on mute in the background. The feed is from Salt Lake. In between dives, we have commercials for one stop missionary clothes shops and for stool softener.

Ely is an old western town of the type that might warm Wim Wenders' heart. I'm staying in the Hotel Nevada, once the State's tallest buildings, and as I look down at the drag I see cowboys, bikers, the downtrodden, and the odd tour group. The wind kicks up and a tumbleweed or Starbucks cup floats down an alley.

I had a great bit of coffee cake and an espresso for breakfast in Baker.
The guy there brought me cream with my coffee and I tried it out. Espresso and cream is fantastic!

I had another long stretch between water and people. So I got to singing. Home on the Range is a really annoying song. For starters, I can't see any deer or antelope -- standing anyways. Secondly, a discouraging word is seldom heard because nothing is heard. It's just you, thinking to yourself, often discouragingly.

In the middle of the dryness, a bar. I had a real Coke moment here. I open the fly screen, I'm covered in sweat, and I plunk some change on the counter.

"Make it a Coca Cola."

I gulp it down, plunk the empty can on the bar, and realize that I don't really like Coke. My commercial was ruined. And if Coke is America in a can, what does this say about me?

The lady who ran the bar was lovely. She gave me a Snickers, filled my water bottles up with wonderful tasting water, and she gave me a chocolate ice-cream cone. I'm much more of a chocolate ice-cream fan.

I've spent much of the day reading. Still, I did read outside and chat with a man who owns the vitamin shop down the street.

"Man what you're doing is crazy. But you gotta have your hobbies. You gotta have that. What's my hobby? Tattoos. See?"

This is actually not so unreasonable.

"A hobby's got to have meaning. Every one of these tattoos has meaning. I did some of these on my forearms. I designed the rest."

I don't quite know what the meaning of a snake and a wolf fighting under the full moon is (avoid the full moon?), but I nodded as this all made sense to him and as I expect people to nod when I talk about biking.

Two sad gamblers, a man and a woman not in love, sat in the booth once removed from mine at the casino's 24 hour restaurant. We were in section 1, Dana's section, although judging from the artwork it belonged entirely to Dale Ernhardt. I ordered the bbq pork and shrimp. When the treff was gone, I sat listening to the gamblers talk. Faintly, in the background, the sound of country and fruit machines clanking. Dana left me the jug of coffee.

"She had my system beat."
"I know what was that?"
"Pour me some coffee. Every move I made, every card I played, she knew it. It's not my week."
"No it's not. And you're driving us back."
"Christ."
"We've got Reno or Vegas it's your pick."
"Vegas is closer, but you know."
"Yeah."

I spent the afternoon reading. I did approach a girl my age who was staring intensely at a wooden replica of a cowboy.

I begin:

"You know that's 16th century."
"Is it now?"
"Don't touch. It's priceless."
"Oh I won't. What's your name?"
"I'm Richard. Richard Nixon. And you are?"
"Charles Bronson."
"Charles? That's a funny name for a --"
"Lady."
"Well I'll be the judge of that."

Charlie and I get to talking, and then her party headed over.

"Well, if you're out and about, I'll be over at the low roller's table by that woman with the gray hair."

And I might be. Currently, I'm smuggly wrapped in my blanket and in slight awe at this fact: I have one week to go.

Day 42

Goodbye Utah or, if you prefer to be maudlin about things, hello Nevada. Or, if you wish to remain neutral but imply progress, I'm in the Pacific timezone.

I slept in Millford's pavillion yesterday. I stayed for storytime at the library and the nice lady gave me string cheese and two apples. The story was about dragons.

I went to bed early. I woke up in a little while to the sound of four teenagers either eating junk food or doing drugs. It's amazing how, if you take away the visual element, you would not be able to tell the difference. Consider:

[Bubbling sound or sound of slurpy slurped]

Ow my brain.
I know dude.
Man Mike got busted fighting. He beat his best friend up.

[Snorting sound or sound of really enjoying a smoothie]

I can't touch that stuff. It makes me shake.
Dude let's go. Some homeless guy's in the corner.
Ok. Who wants to watch the new Batman?

[I do!]

Much of my night was jake brakes and gravel screaming, but that gave way to the sound of wild dogs picking at the trash. I screwed waking up early.

Today's ride was 84 miles between water and people. 10 cars passed me. I skipped up along the Nevada-Utah border and it was interesting riding. Since this is what I have to look forwards to for the next week, here's a brief description.

Imagine riding from island to island in a small Caribbean paradise, except that a thousand year drought has dried the trees and seabed to hard rock. You start up at the top of an island, quickly dip down to the old waterline, and then crest along the dried harborfloor for 10 miles before resurfacing and climbing the next island. Repeat until any beauty is lost in a hail of cursewords and boredom.

I'm at Silver Jack's in Baker. Baker is Silver Jack's. There's a public shower, a cheap laundry, very little shade, and a senior center. Terry of Silver Jack's has kindly allowed me to sleep for free provided I eat at his establishment. As it is all filling veg food, I see no short end to this stick.. This is an even stick.

I made one mistake today. I picked up a copy of Cormac McCarthy's The Road that someone left in the laundrette. It's sad, moving, incredibly readable (if you don't stop to wonder what an 'autistic night' is), and might weigh me down heading into Ely. I think I'll try and go to sleep just so I can wake up, beat the heat, and spend my casino day reading at the buffet. I might combine stargazing with riding and head out at 4.

Day 41, goodnight Utah

This is my last night in Utah and all I want to do is watch the Olympic Games. As this was a completely nondescript day of cycling, save a much-needed trip to WalMart, I'll take the time to answer some reader mail.

Cletus, 42, from Vatican City, Vatican City (the city so nice they named it twice) wants to know, "How do you go to the bathroom when camping?"

This is a fair and valid question. In fact, I hope this opens up an entirely new avenue of scholarship. There are the metaphysical aspects we can skip by -- does the Pope shit in the woods? -- and let's focus on ugly facts. You dig a hole as deep as your forearm, toss it in, and then use any of smooth objects nature can provide to finish your toilet (this is hard to do in the desert). Then you close the hole and bury your secret in the ground.

Mary Kate, 13, from New York says, "What animals have you seen? What was your favorite?"

Wild animals are notoriously fast and tough to see. Luckily, intrepid naturalists and truckers pin them to the road so that cyclists can better see and smell them. I have seen an entire Looney Tunes stable of roadkill: Speedy Gonzales, Bugs Bunny, Foghorn Leghorn, Pepe le Phew, Andy the Armadillo, Tweety, Wil E. Coyote, and Sylvester. Today I saw a heart and lungs with no animal attached, although my suspicions are egret.

I happen to love birds of prey. Today I biked with a condor floating beside me for a small while. I also saw an eagle dive down and pick up a mouse from the middle of the road out of the goodness of its heart. I also like deer. They are graceful, fast, playful, and run alongside of you if there are no cars. Fields of sheep are nice things to pass by, especially the one I saw in Western Colorado where every bell was tuned to a different, lovely note.

I do hate bats. I wish more truckers rode at night. Desert ants scare me, but there is something beautiful about them when they swarm into their giant anthills. It's a bit like a broken beer bottle coming together and reassembling itself underground.

Sleve Pillow, 64, from Detroit is curious: "Are you doing this for a cause? What's the point?"

I hate this question, Sleve. The purpose, I assume, is self-evident. If not, read the blog and you might find some areas that are evident-evident. If it still isn't evident, might I ask you to pause and consider what the purpose of anything is. If, after you decide that there is none and that curiosity is not its own reward, can I then recommend any of the thousands of cliffs I have crossed as a perfect space for further contemplation.

Here is my issue with "are you doing this for a cause?" This is fun. Honest. You can't have your friends and family sponsor a charity for you to have the time of your life crossing the country. That doesn't scan.

I like this subtext. You think you can cross the country but you know there are times when you'll wish you were elsewhere; then, use the fact that you have the Clean Air fund relying upon you to carry you up that hill. Fine. I've done this but I've done this differently (I've brought You along; I told too many people so failure would be too embarrassing). There are some pursuits in life that are inherently solitary, but the pursuit of those pursuits needn't be. We can get by with a little help from...

I hate this subtext. Running a marathon is hard. Chronic fatigue is hard. Do these sufferings equal each other? No. First off: running a marathon is the only time a regular adult can have a crowd of 200,000 people cheer them on. It is beyond fun. Second off: it's not that hard.

So why does "I'm doing this for myself" sound so selfish? It is, isn't it? Is that wrong?

That may be why I'm doing it, but that's not what I tell people. I know when people might find an answer of some value, so I say this: "I'm not doing this for anything specifically, but I hope the people I talk to will want to see more of their State or the Country, or maybe ride a bike somewhere new, or maybe just get to say "You'll never guess what I saw today!""

Cheese McMillan, 28, of the former Luxembourg, offers his two cents: "I wish could ride a bike across country, but you make it seem so hard and awful. Is it? I'm a former Olympic medalist who is training for the Ironman. Do you think I have what it takes?"

Probably not.

Jaime-Lynne Banderas, 74, writes: "What have you found indispensable on this trip?"

The backside of hills. Milk. Sleep. The joy of showering. Coppertone Oil Free SPF 30 Broad Spectrum UVA UVB Odorless Sunblock. Life on the Mississippi by Mark Twain. The ACA maps. The big gears on the front part of the bike and the little ones on the wheel. Oh. Water. The kindness of strangers. The Blackberry. EMS' 35 degree sleeping bag the folds down to the size of a credit card. The bike. Lots and lots of hair product, especially in this dry heat.

Darby O'Russell of Tel Aviv wants to know "where the prettiest sky was."

Pretty skies usually come with or before rain. I liked the sky in Kansas a whole lot just before that really long day. It was broad and very rich in orange, probably as a result of all the methane. I liked the sky in Colorado when you were up at cloud height, but oftentimes that was accompanied by hail and lightning. And Utah, colorful Utah, has had the most variety in it's evening sky: one end of the horizon could be pink and pale blue, while the other side is bright red and starry. I do, however, hold out for Nevada on all things stargazing and skywatching.

John Tesh, 18, gets the last word: "So you've got eight easy days left. Give us a sneak peak and let us in on one thing you want to do when you reach the end?"

That's a good question. I want to find a bar with a good jukebox and give that Bob Dylan song we heard at Elaine's in Bazine, KS another listen.

........................

My cellphone reception will be spotty from here on across Nevada. I'll try and keep current, but I can't be certain of anything.