Written in Dallas on april 20th

The city lights you put here
Did you realize they would yellow with time?
What about this building you erected
You knew maintenance would cost a pretty dime.
The trees controlled by landscapers
Their branches dent your cars
Water used to cool off in this heat
Will never be solid enough to call it ours.
This city was built to house an army
One which fights for green
Then home again after the busy workday
To dream of simple Sundays.
Is this cycle a battle worth fighting
Who is on the winning end?
Can dreaming of better resources
Be the way to win the game?

Iowa!

When I was in Boise, I went to check in at a homeless shelter. As I walked through the doors, the smiling teen told me she would take my weapons, and lock them away. My backpack would be put away in a locker for the night. She would have to take my cell phone, check my arms for track marks, my hair for lice, and I would have to shake my bra to show I wasn't hiding any drugs.
I don't have the feeling of complete panic overtake me often. My gut felt frozen. Is this how it is? Is this how we treat those on the street? Is there a chance this place could do worse for me than good?
I sputtered some words to the sweet girl that reminded me of my sister's friend Kimberly. Curly hair, braces, round cheeks.  I turned and left so fast, fighting back the fear that had overtaken me. I may not have a home, but that doesn't mean I'm a junkie. I may not own a shower, but I am not that dirty.

Last night, I had a warmshowers host that didn't get back to me. In a mix of realizing I needed new tires, to get a job in order to buy the tires, and also find a place to stay, I was trying to remain calm.
The small town I ended my 45 mile day in has a homeless shelter in the old YMCA.
"I'm looking for a place to sleep tonight" I told the receptionist, who asked if I was aware it was a shelter. He slowly walked me through the steps of an interview, background check, and kindly asked to lock up my weapons for the night. Lights out at ten and on at 5:30, I got to shower, and wash the stench out of my stained clothes.
I didn't have the panic rise in my gut, but I did have the shelter kitten Bootsie to snuggle with.

The bike shop in town didn't open until 9, but i had to replace my tire no matter what. Killing time was a mix of writing and dozing off on a park bench in the quickly rising heat.
"Where are you travelling to?" an older gentleman with a police hat on cheerfully woke me from a doze. "You make us look so lazy! We're retired though. We only do about ten miles a day". He chatted on, making it easy to mirror his smile. They wished me luck and headed down the trail.
As I talked myself into heading to the bike shop, I was about to cross paths with them again
"Watch this girl go! She's heading to the Gulf of Mexico!" he yelled through cupped hands, getting five people to clap for me as I peddled past them. "Thank you" I giggled, spreading my smile to other morning walkers and joggers along the riverside park

I happen to be in Iowa during the week of The Register's Annual Great Bicycle Ride Across Iowa. I have heard the cyclist count is over 10,000 for this years RAGBRAI, which ends saturday in the town I'm currently in.
One of the owners of the bike shop, Jean Harper, kindly sold me the tire. In trying to save money I was only going to buy one, but on closer inspection realised the good tire wasn't far behind the nearly destroyed one. I changed the tire in the shade by her display window, and was using my hand pump when she said I could use their hose. She also offered me a place to fill my water, use the bathroom, and gave me a map of Iowa.

While we were looking at the map, more people poured into the shop with flat tires. "You're going to have to wait 'til ten, everyone is on RAGBRAI" she informed them. A man walked in she knew, and he offered help on the directions in comparison to the book I've been following.
"I'm going to show her where 91 starts" he shouted to his wife, as he offered to drive me in his van to the intersection. I learned that Muscatine used to be a button manufacture. We passed Monsanto, many cornfields, a large distillery for vodka, and nuclear power plants that use the river for energy. The road was a bit intimidating. Shoulders aren't consistent in Iowa, and the heat of the day was steadily rising, already causing me to sweat.
After turning around, we noticed an MRT sign, the first I've seen in over 200 miles. We followed it to find it almost paralleled the highway, but was less frequently used. I felt more at peace with this route for this section of trail, and thanked him as I learned about him and his wife.

We got back to the bike shop, where I made the decision to buy the other tire and extra tube. When the mechanic heard what I was doing, he said "so you heard about this RAGBRAI thing and was like 'pansies, I'm riding the whole length of rhe country!'"
After friendly banter, I asked about cheap food, to which he pointed across the street. I walked in and asked about a lunch special, where they pointed to the buffet.
I was in deep contemplation of a late start, or staying in town to try and find work for a day. I was also concentrating on ignoring the fox news channel, as I looked up to see the wife (who's name I never learned or embarrassingly quickly forgot) of the man who drove me around. She smiled as she set down my prescription glasses on the table in front of me, taking a second to push my nose like a button. As she left, I think I got a "thank you" out of my laughter.

So here I am at the library. I have asked about jobs online, to the host, and the shelter. It seems like there isn't much gig work in this factory town. I do have a place to stay with the warmshowers host tonight, where I'm hoping to get a good night's sleep before I force an early start. I have about 100 miles left of Iowa before I'm in Missouri!

Thanks for following, I really appreciate the texts, emails, and kind thoughts sent my way. I hope you have a great week!

Find the beauty in this world ❤

Lost and found

(or how my maternal grandfather would be proud)

I've had this amazing cycle of losing things and gaining things as I travel downstream. I strongly believe I have only what I need, so when I lose things it's for a reason.
My first day on the trail, I miraculously didn't lose anything, but I did find something. I noticed something black and shiny on the side of the road, and after picking it with up my garbage Grabber I realized it was a roll of 5 unused black trash bags. One has held my backpack, one my food, and one my sleeping arrangements when it rains.

I found a really nice bungee in a ditch a few weeks in. Before I was gifted a new cart, it was used to keep my rain cover down. The other day I made friends with two cylcers looping from Madison to the twin cities. Their camp was up a massive hill, and these legs have a hard time pulling 80 lbs of counterweight behind me.
A very nice man on a motorcycle stopped and offered to tug me up a hill with his bungee. The first attempt, the bungee sprang off my bike and shattered his break lights and cover. I apologized profusely, but he was not deterred! Second try was a charm, and he pulled me the second half of the killer hill to my new friends. He told me to not fret about the light, and I gave him the bungee as a "thank you/I'm so sorry" gift.

Craig, a name you probably know since he helped me consistently for 3 weeks straight, gave me more than I can ever repay him for. Endless bike help, places to stay, food and good entertainment... The list goes on.
As I pulled into a small town, the weather was getting brutal, and there was no where to camp. I was in such a sour mood, but he was pretty close because he was working on someone's house. He's constantly fixing things, my bike being one of them. He came and met me 25 miles north of where he offered for me to stay for the weekend. The next day, I got to bike sans trailer for my makeup miles, and on the way found a really nice, almost new cinch strap. I wound it around the frame, and presented it to him at the point where the Mississippi river trail splits. I know it was not the most amazing gift to show my appreciation, but I felt so happy being able to exchange something.

A few nights ago I left my phone charger at my warmshowers host's house. I woke up and was ready earlier than usual, and was racing to get out while I still had the energy. I almost left my sandals, but he noticed before I walked out the door, thankfully.
I was pulling onto highway 52 when I realized my charger was 4 miles and a hill behind me. As I turned a corner, the sun was glaring in my eyes and I wasn't about to remove my helmet for my floppy sunhat. I came across a seemingly clean looking baseball cap in the grass, and thought "what are the odds?" It fit perfectly under my helmet, while also keeping the sun off my face.

While I'm aware I find too much joy in usable trash, I also find the joy in picking up discarded items and bringing them to the next garbage can. Somebody's got to pick up all this trash...

Find joy in the little things

Fact vs fiction

I've always found it easier in a library to wander towards the fiction isles. Bright books with winding stories of romance and adventure intrigued me starting at a young age. It was too boring to read the honest stories about people's lives, no matter how spectacular the person.
Why would I learn about Theodore Roosevelt's rise to power if I could read about Dragons that loved humans? What's the point in following the story of the mightiest river in the united states if just seven books away I could fall in love with Merlin and hear about his struggles?
So here I sit, in a library at a college campus. I'm taking as many notes as I can about the past month of my life, and nothing has been made up. It's all real, the layers of sweat, bug repellant, and sunscreen. I don't have wings to take me the 40 miles a day I aim for. I don't have a sweet romanic man that is waiting for my letters. I have real, honest people that I have met that want to hear about my progress. What used to be stories that come out of my mouth are reality, and I'm madly in love with every word.
I now want to sit in a library and read biographies and histories about those who struggled to help change the world. There is no embarrassment in wanting to escape for a few days to a different land.  The fanciful places that used to be my everything still exist in my mind, and I hope they never leave. I still need a shire to see beauty in a skyscraper. There's no shame in gazing into a barn, wondering if the farmboy would become a pirate in hopes of finding his lost love.
So I tell myself to keep writing, and let this adventure become what it will. Maybe one day it will sit on a shelf and help someone out of their comfort zone and into the wild world that's full of amazing people and beautiful stories.

Travel on.

Potosi, Wisconsin

I focus on my breath as I try to pull my cart up another winding hill in Wisconsin. The cornfields surrounding me have been the focus of my silly songs that I make up as I go to not count the minutes or rotations of my wheels. I look down at my hands as my nails come into focus. They are getting longer, I realise, as they dig into my palms.
I'm pulling into a bar in Potosi when an older couple asks about my bike. We have a short chat and I head to the tap. I realize as I order my second beer that I shouldn't be spending what little money I have on liquid that does little to help my progress. My new years resolution was to not purchase any alcohol for myself, or sugary sweets. I sigh as I contemplate my dinner of the remaining cherry jam Craig gave me. I have the ends of the bread to eat, which have somehow become my favorite part of the bread.
My cell service has ceased for the most part, but wifi is helpful for sending messages to those who are keeping track of me. I look at google maps to find public land to hang a hammock on. The large plots of land that were abundant in Minnesota have quickly disappeared, but I spot a graveyard. The birds-eye view gives me an idea of two trees that seem like they would be perfect to hold my hammock.
I meet the couple again in the museum of the brewhouse, learning that Curt and Kristi are both teachers. I get asked for what wont be the last time what I am going to do for school. Curt tells me that when he was going to college, northern Wisconsin was short on teachers. The schools would pay half the tuition if you were going for a teaching degree. What really hit me was the tuition the students had to cover was $150, which has greatly increased over the 40 years since then.
I took a deep breath and said "I have an odd question", which I asked if they had two trees I could hang a hammock in for two days. A heat wave with highs of 115 is sweeping through, and the last thing I need is to make myself sick pushing hard through the weather. They were very kind, and helped me fit my little rig into their car.
They offered the option of hanging my hammock, sleeping in the workshop, one of their grown daughters rooms, or the tree house. A bed is such a sweet feeling after the miles of repetitive leg movements and terrible posture.
They built the house in the early 70's, and it's consistently been called The Shire, which fits just perfectly into the feeling of the all-wood home filled with plants, hand spun wool, and pottery.
I joined Kristi to the local campus library, where I'm borrowing wifi and air conditioning to catch up on some writing.

Thank you for keeping up with my not-always-consistent posts. Who knows what the days will bring, but they have been nothing short of magical thus far. Stay safe, trust in others, keep your heart open, and trust your gut.

Written next to pool #9

Don't you get it, don't you see
You're exactly where you're supposed to be
This life of structure and order is meant
To keep you here until you're bent
On changing your ways and setting things right
You'll stay up through the sleepless nights
With dreams of handguns and riots in the streets
How are we supposed to keep
Our feet on the ground when the earth throws us violently
I miss the days when you were surrounding me
Like a spider web, draped in iridescent colors
But now I'm here to realize we're going to
Suffer and struggle through what we call progress
In fear that we might digress
If we don't move forward and fight for our lives
As the days that I could call others mine
Fade behind hours of sweat and pain
Because what I've become is not a pawn
In your game if life and your game of defeat
Cower now with your retreat
I forgive you for not believing in me
But a girl never forgets being seen as weak.

From my hopeful heart to yours

I woke up on an air mattress in Minneapolis. Walking down stairs, I was offered breakfast by my host, a simple orange juice with wheaties and a banana. It filled my stomach, and I filled my water bladder to get back on the road.
Bruce was kind. A stranger I met over couchsurfing.com, he cycled to the place I was staying in southern Minneapolis so we could convoy back to his place. He's been retired for a few years now; he was previously a librarian for the majority of the time I've been alive. He cycles and scuba dives and takes trips to see things that are new to his eyes.
It was 17 miles from Kristen (my previous host) to his place, and I was going at a steady 7 miles an hour. The weight from my cart and my tired body fought up hills and against wind.
When we arrived, he made me a sandwich with Portobello mushrooms, avocado, and onion. I can still taste the mustard he used, and I'm still thankful for every bite.
Leaving his neighborhood, I was lost countless times, and pulled up my phone map more times than I would like to admit. I don't have mountains and an ocean to tell me the cardinal directions way out here.
I peddled up to a stop light as a van was being pushed out of the intersection. Kick-standing my bike, I ran to the back and helped these strangers roll into a lot, shouting good luck to them as I jogged back to Miss Zippi.
Miles later, Minneapolis was disappearing behind me as St. Paul was coming into view. I followed a bike path next to the highway that lead me to an un-marked intersection that I couldn't locate on my directions.
After many loops of checking google maps, my MRT book map, and spinning in circles, a car pulled up behind me. A woman got out and helped me get my bearings, telling me that if I kept on the same road it would intersect with the others on my MRT directions. Her name is Anne, and she told me she was about to embark on an adventure as well. Her daughter Paige is half of an all woman team who is paddling the Yukon river, and Anne is driving the car in support.
"Do you need anything? Maybe money or food?" she asked.
"I have peanut butter and protein powder" I laughed, and she offered to meet me with snacks from her house.
She met me with bananas, almonds, juice, lunch meat and more. She also handed me two bent paddle beers, a company that is sponsoring the team. The thankfulness I felt as I ate that roast beef on a curb was deep and warming.
That night, after over 50 miles of repetitive leg movements, I found myself in a town called Hastings. I was looking for a place to hang my hammock, but most of my surroundings were wetlands with big "no trespassing" signs. I circled back through the neighborhood, where I met a rowdy group barbecuing and enjoying a few drinks.
I've never had a hard time walking up and introducing myself to strangers. After meeting puppies, eating food, and talking about my travels, Gary "the hammer" Holmgren told me he had a cabin that traveler's stop at often.
His home is a cabin over 100 years old, with a cave that was pick-axed into the sandstone. Originally, it was used to hold gun powder when the natives and soldier's were at ends. When the prohibition was in effect, a hole was drilled up the hill. A pipe was placed so bootleggers could smuggle moonshine into the cave. The pipe would feed into barrels, which would later be smuggled onto barges and brought up towards the cities.
Hammer is a kind mannered man who walked me around his house, showing me the little treasures he's collected over his life. Neon beer signs, autographs, pictures of his family, and antique weapons.
After a rough childhood of foster homes and standing up to bullies, he was put into the military. As life continued, he fought in the golden gloves, was a fireman, and traveled the world for boxing tournament's. He was a first responder to a woman collapsing, who he later realised was his estranged mother. He showed me newspaper clippings and photographs of his boxing days. He was inducted into the Minnesota hall of fame years ago, and his pictures of knock-outs were bright snapshots of his earlier life.
He showed me a book his daughter made him, scrap booked online, showing how much she adored and was proud of her dad. His smile as he talked about her and his son was so warm. The stories and tales rolled on, and I listened to them all.
In the morning, he made me coffee and an amazing breakfast, as he used to own a restaurant in Prescott, WI. After showing me how to properly stand to throw a punch, and telling me the best places to hit an attacker, he dropped me off not far from his old restaurant. I locked my trailer back to my bike, and started what would be the most hills I've encountered yet.

I have been listening to the news and hearing snippets of what is happening in Nice, Dallas, Minneapolis, Baton Rouge, Istanbul, and other tragic moments around the globe. To quote Amanda Palmer- "everything is relative and everyone's related". The world is an absolutely terrifying place sometimes, but that does not mean we should hide and be afraid.
Know what you believe in. If you can't handle what's going on in the world, I encourage you to take your stand.
I've vulnerably put myself out there for the world to dissect. The kindness and compassion I have been shown is nothing short of amazing. The experiences I have had these past few months have kindly taken me apart. The view I have of the world is changing, and the people in it that I surround myself with are the reason why. Even on the road, in a strange new place, there is good. Give blood, help a stranger, write a poem and fearlessly post it for others to scrutinise. Take your comfort zone and bring it to new levels. Look at what you want the world to be, and help form it.
I love you. I want what is best for you. I want you to be happy.
Keep moving forward.

Flat tires and high hopes

Bend in the River Park in Rice, Minnesota, was a beautiful way to start my morning. I was up and on my bike before 8, and I was so excited to make progress. As I pulled out of the lower parking area, I noticed the drag from the right cart wheel.
"I've never fixed a flat before" I remember thinking as I looked up and down the long stretch of road. It was too early for people, so turned back into the lot and grabbed my tools.
I pried the rubber off pretty easily, the dry rot and cracks made it pretty malleable. I pulled out the inner tube looked as thoroughly as I could. After inflating it, but still not finding the hole, I thought back to spending time in Virginia.
I was helping Julio replace a water heater when he told me to put soapy water on the hose to find a leak. He mentioned putting the hose underwater if it were smaller.
I grabbed the pump, tossed the hose over my shoulder, and made my way through the trails, down to the canoe launch along the mighty Mississippi River. I fought the spiderwebs and early morning mosquitoes to the rivers edge, where I submerged the simple piece of rubber that's helping me along my journey. I laughed when the bubbles reviled the flaw that had caused the delay in my morning.
Walking back to my bike and trailer that I left along the fence,I thought back to when Ben in Texas was saying how great it would be to travel on bike instead of foot. I was so stubborn in my want to go exactly the way I wanted, I'm fully aware how much I didn't believe him. I remember how strong it felt to prove him wrong, that I could walk this trail and not use wheels. I looked at the pump in my hand and said to it "he was right". Though there was no response, I felt the tension in my shoulders lift. He wasn't trying to be right, he was trying to help.
I sat in the gravel and removed my tire repair kit that was a last-minute buy at the Lake Itasca bike shop. The instructions were minimalistic, and I bit my lip thinking of what to do.
A car I thought was empty made it's way from the back corner of the lot towards where I was contemplating my repair. I looked up to see stickers with symbols I recognized, and smiled as I waved. The eye contact was short, and the tires spun gravel as the car zipped out of my sight.
"I can do this" I heard my voice say, and in a matter of a minute had the inner tube back in it's home, full of air and holding weight.
I looked down at the black marks covering my hands. A Clear Vision of my dad popped into my head, him standing in the garage, wiping his hands on dirty grease rags. I visualized him his fingers clean, blowing his nose on the towel, and tossing it in a bucket. He always makes silly noises when he does things like this, similar to a "hi-yah", and it always makes me happy.
Back on the bike, back onto the trail, I looked at the map and saw the next 7 miles would not have a shoulder. I took a deep breath and felt my feet start moving.
I can keep moving. I can do this. I'm not alone.

state of mind

Today, I went looking for an item in my cart and realized it was no longer there. I searched everywhere, in places I knew I had never put it hoping that maybe it would show up.

This weekend, a person I met in Bemidji on my first night of the trail took me in and helped me work on my bike. He showed me his lake cabin, boated me around, and worked with his neighbor on a trailer hitch that will no longer pull on my axel. I went and celebrated the long holiday weekend with his really nice family. I met his niece-in-law who adamantly persisted that I write a non-fiction book about my current lifestyle. I had an over-the-top weekend, full of good food and fun.

This morning, I was miserable. The one little thing that I wanted was gone. Where did I drop it?

I was standing feet away from the most amazing thing I have ever seen. A force of life that has fed and housed and is never still. I was in Aitkin, Minnesota, where I crowded the night before with townspeople at a carnival to watch bright explosions fill the sky.

But that thing. Now it's gone. Did it drop out of my cart into the car as we transported it back north for the weekend? Did it drop on the side of the road as I bumped along 3 miles of gravel? A raccoon took my food the second night we were at the lake. Did he steal it?

I sighed. I packed up my hammock, ate some breakfast, and walked the riverbank. I couldn't get it off my mind, but there was no way to double back two car hours north to search the cabin. I couldn't check the car that was now almost equidistant south. I could only do one thing.

Keep moving forward

With every rotation of my wheels, I left the town with bright lights and home-made desserts. I kept going, and ticked off my miles as I turned left or right.

8.7 miles on 4th st.

4.7 miles on CR 30.

3.8 miles on cr 31.

I found myself thinking about my mood this morning. I had received so much this last weekend. Food, a place to sleep, laughter, hugs, smiles and well wishes. But all I could think of this morning was how upset I was for losing a small plastic item. "It's just a thing" I heard myself tell the miles of road in front of me. "I can keep moving without it."

I can, and I am.

It's not about where you are, or what has happened around you, it always comes back to what is inside. I could dwell on that item until I find a place to buy another one. I could lament and shake my head every mile I go- but what good would it do?

We don't have control over much. We can't control the weather, or the people that we meet, or the kindness of strangers. All we have control over is ourselves. We have to find happiness in what we have, no matter how small or messy it looks. I don’t want to be a person that dwells on the little thing that I no longer have. I want to cherish what I have and move forward with full force. We are what we choose to be.

Be happy. Keep moving forward.

 

Struggling

"Just give me pavement"
I can't tell you how many times I said that.
"Please, just get me off this gravel."
I had two options. 6.8 miles of gravel road, or 9 of paved, smooth, perfect highway.
I forgot to mention, that highway doesn't have a shoulder. I didn't know that until I was a mile into HWY 169. Three separate people told me to take it, but I didn't know to ask about my personal space away from speeding semi's.
So I turned right onto a road that from google maps looked like it could be paved. I was wrong.
Foot after foot I bumped along, stopping what felt like every three feet. I was making excuses to alleviate the feeling rushing through my body. "I should eat. When was the last time I peed? Will those horses let me touch them? Time to drink water"
I know those were separate thoughts and deserve their own quotations, but they all muddled together as I shook like a bobble head on a dashboard.
The horses didn't let me touch them, but they stared at me while I asked where the pavement started. I lost count of how many times I stopped.
"I have to get to Aitkin" I mumbled as I looked at the miles of sky. I turned around to look at the highway I left behind. I shook my head, and reminded myself It's a holiday weekend.
I'm trying to save phone battery, since I left my battery pack on the train in Dallas. I finally gave in and pulled out headphones. Amanda Palmer's voice over came me in waves as I fumbled to grip the handlebars. She told me about her loss of her best friend, her fears surrounding her baby, and all of her flaws. I kept moving, song after song.
Then it hit- Pavement. And I exhaled. It was less than 4 miles of gravel, but it felt like purgatory.
I know I have so many more rough roads  to handle. I know it wont be all fun and strawberry picking. I went 4 miles yesterday without a rear break because my tire wont stay centered. But I made it.
It got down to 40 degrees last night. I just got rid of my long sleeve because I figured I was past cold nights. This wont be the last time I'm wrong.
I can do this. I love you.