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.
Keep on truckin'--Bruce
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