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Thanks for all your hard work Living Water Staff! Looking forward to 2012 and watching the number of the thirsty shrink! www.water.cc
Now that we ride east we watch every sun ride and witness our shadows grow long in the evenings.
The ride wears on, the daily grind sometimes becoming so mundane and mechanical that I loose sight of its purpose. We seem to have streamed across the north in the blink of eye. Once over the Cascades and the Rockies the only natural obstacle in are way at first glance would be weather. To ride the prevailing west winds home to Wisconsin was the dream, however nature has it’s own aways of testing a mans soul. When the winds were with us life was good 90 miles in no more then four hours averaging 22 mph but often cursing between 27 and 30 mph. When I cursed the heavens and screemed into the wind it was usually because it was all up in my face. A head wind is no friend to a cyclist and on one of our longest days (120 miles) the wind proved to be relentless. Riding across Montana and North Dakota was a big mental challange, the length of the state’s where unbearable, we pressed on, and on, and on. Along the way I lost sight of the purpose of this ride. Perhaps it was blown away in the wind or perhaps I had just become to self-absorbed in my ailing body and found some sort of relief basking in my own self pity and misery.
Early Morning Ride across North Dakota
Nevertheless Paster Ron turned my mind set back to what has fueled this passion of endless miles. When I first saw Paster Ron he was making us dinner, a big pot roast with a number of side salads and dishes. As we sat down he served us, making sure we had everything we needed. Not having met him yet and assuming he was just an elder who enjoyed cooking and helping out with people who came through I introduced my self. When told me his was the senior paster I was set back. The church was huge with a number of actives going on including the housing of disaster relieve workers for the recent flooding. As we sat down and began eating his direct cofidence and humble way peaked my curosity. A man has to have seen a lot in a life time to be able to carry him self in such a way. As the conversation bounced about he mentioned that his son was raised in Cameroon, Africa. I immediately asked “did you live their or did you just ship him off?” The humorous question held what I really wanted to know. He was a missionary in a small village south of Maroua for a number of years. “I bet you have some crazy stories to tell.” He danced around the question not really wanting to get into the whole thing but eventually said “well I guess I have a few to tell” Once he started the mesmerizing stories kept coming one after the other. In hind sight it is amazing to see how God works and moves and reminiscing the transformation he witnessed over the years in the muslim people brought him to tears. His passion and aw evident.
A framed photo hangs in Paster Rons office of his African friend over looking the school they just built. Joel head for the open door to start another long day on the bike. There efforts worlds apart yet connected.
The next day I asked if there was any specific water projects he would be interested in supporting. As if he had been waiting for year for someone to ask that question he gave a direct answer. He had started a christian school among the Muslim culture east of Maroua during his time in Cameroon and had dug a well with a shovel and bucket. He said he had been trying to find an organization to help establish something better but he just hasn’t had any luck yet. Years later they still use that same open well that he dug long ago. Paster Ron’s passion brought my focus back to what it should be, his compassion for missions inspired me to continue my sometime’s seemingly useless efforts. His humble servant way’s intrigued me. What does it mean to be a humble servant of the Lord? I hope to find out some day but for now you can just ask Paster Ron of Minot North Dakota.
Driving around the flood zone with Paster Ron. 4,000 home gutted, everything on the curb to be trashed.
Despite the community loosing 4,000 homes do to major flooding Paster Ron’s Church donated $2,400 to Living Water International in one sunday morning. That is 400% more then any other church has given on our ride so far. His passion for missions is contagious, he lives to serve others. I hope with the help of Living Water International we will be able to get fresh water to the small christian school in Maroua, Cameroon. The water crises is real and for those who have seen it, they are for ever changed.
Sunday night worship on the grass, Eric rotating his tires (every 1,500 miles)
As the Sierra Nevada Mountain range came into view I knew that our days in the desert were coming to an end. Still caped with snow they rose before us like an impassable fortress. Pleased to leave my 23mm tread marks in Nevada I welcomed the change in scenery with wide eyes. Our routine of constant cycling, constant forward motion, had put the past month into a blur. The natural obstacles of wind, heat, and elevation seem to be a relentless presence and any attempt at escape proves to be only momentary.
Upper Yosemite Falls
A view of distant waterfall in Yosemite National Park
A red waterless wash leading into Lake Powell
Thursday, July 7th we crossed yet another boarder, rolling past the great Lake Powell and into what is now known as southern Utah. We sleep in Kanab for the night before continuing on to the Canyons of Zion. Upon entering Zion I must admit that in all my travels have seen anything quite like this place. The red sandstone canyon walls tower above, sometimes so narrow that the road is shaded by a noonday sun. What amazes me the most is the green. Its contrast with the red sandstone saturates the landscape with dense color. It is a rare place, where there is no horizon only sky. As we descended down the flawlessly paved switchback road to the canyon floor, I thought the place heaven. The Virgin River speed along the canyon floor, carving and having its way with the soft yet firm sandstone. Dropping an average of 72 feet per mile its current is swift and its course, like ours, already decided.
Zion land of green canyons and waterfalls
We camped in this pure beauty for a full three nights time. I occupied my spare time by lounging in my hammock in the evenings, writing and reading between unexpected naps. On occasion when the canyon swelled with too much heat and I could bare it no more I made my way down to the river to swim. The river was cold yet pleasant and refreshing after spending an adequate amount of time in its company. One could spend weeks here hiking to waterfalls and deferent lookouts. I had my fill of views for the week and was quite content to spend the weekend analyzing the view from my hammock. However, Zion having much more then just view’s offered waterfalls that fell hundreds of feet off the canyon walls. A waterfall always intrigues me and is quite possibly the only natural, or unnatural occurrence that could pry my worn body from its stat of leisure.
A rising moon from a hammock view
This being said, I went with the others on a small morning excursion to find what they called the emerald pools. The hike was short in length and two miles later we came across the first of the three pools. Do to it being the dry season only a trickle of water fell from the cliff that jetted out so far that the hiking path actually went under the waterfall. The path of the water intrigued me more then the common hiking path and so I veered off it with every intention of finding streams source. A mile later the riverbed dried up completely, the last of the water bubbling out from under a large rock. I returned to the path and joined the others at the upper pool and quickly became content with simply walking around the area, climbing rocks and searching for the best view of the canyon and the turquoise pool.
The upper emerald pool from the view of the cliff wall. In the spring a waterfall crashes down onto the foreground rocks from hundreds of feet above.
The sun illuminated half the canyon shinning its ray’s on a single side leaving the other in shadow. However by evening it would completely switch sides illuminating the other in an equally impressive manor. I observed this pattern during our stay and by the sixth illumination we were packed and on the road again.
The miles that brought us away form the enchanted land where wet. It rained, not for long but long enough to watch it trickle off the end of my noise and turn cycling clothes from dry to wet. The following miles through Nevada remained quite uneventful. And although I always try my best to find beauty in a place, I found none. Only the sky intrigued me but the sky cannot be owned or confined. Therefore I find it hard to give Nevada credit for its beautiful sunset. Nevada has the most mountain ranges of any other state and when not climbing to anther summit we were flying down the other side or crawling across another twenty-mile blank valley floor. Conversation, influenced by the myths of area 51 and the extraterrestrial highway revolved around alien. However for a vast majority of the endless stretch I occupied my self by listening to “Around the world in 80 days” and “Pride and Prejudice” in there entirety. I am quite aware of the lack of safety this brings to a cyclist nevertheless the lack of cars and miles of infinite straight drove me to disregard the recommendation. Besides there were times I would have very much enjoyed being hit by a car thus putting me out of my current state of misery.
A setting sun over the endless road west
When we did find people they were kind and overly generous, intrigued by our mission and unable to fathom such a journey possible. We summated boundary pass, which skirts around the edge of the tallest point in Nevada, Boundary point 13,145 feet in elevation, and shot down the other side into California. From the state boarder we will go straight west over the White Mountains to the foot of the Sierra Nevada Range. The white caped mountains fascinate me and I anxiously wait being consumed by there overwhelming power and beauty. 28 days and 1,800 miles have brought us from the flat of Texas to within reach of the breathtaking Pacific Ocean. Only mountains and miles stand between us, both of which patience and persistence will erase completely.
Hello from the road.
The hot Utah sun sucked a bead of sweat out from his burnt dried skin but the strong cross wind carried it off before it had a chance to roll down his spine. I followed close, within inches of his spinning tires that were propelled by his pumping quads and steady cadence. Caught in a daze of watching the pavement streak by and listening to the hum of a chain, miles passed. The hum occasionally interrupted when he dropped his right hand and with the slightest movement he changed gears, I changed gears. The ground rose slightly adding to the drag. My eyes rolled down to the odometer that read 18.2 mph, 58.4 miles. He stopped pedaling, I stopped pedaling, he reached for a water bottle, I reached for a water bottle, when his hand connected his legs began pumping once again. My shoulder blades and neck begged for a new position. I lifted my head, my eyes with it and saw the towering red rock formations, blue sky, and waving grass that covers southern Utah. He must have been feeling the same discomfort because he rose out of his saddle pressing, pulling, pressing, and pulling his bike rocking side to side like a pendulum. The music stagnate noise, wind, cars, gears. 17.2mph, 60.5 miles. He settled back into his saddle, looked over his shoulder and veered out into the lane and dropped back. His work was done for the time being. I looked over mine as well, half expecting to see open road, half expecting to see three others. They were their hiding in the tunnel of nonexistent wind. His absence left me with a new view; the cost hit my face and then my chest. My quads picked up the workload and I put my head back down.
Leaving Lake Powell during a late sunrise.
The hot Utah sun sucked a bead of sweat out from his burnt dried skin but the strong cross wind carried it off before it had a chance to roll down his spine. I followed close, within inches of his spinning tires that were propelled by his pumping quads and steady cadence. Caught in a daze of watching the pavement streak by and listening to the hum of a chain, miles passed. The hum occasionally interrupted when he dropped his right hand and with the slightest movement he changed gears, I changed gears. The ground rose slightly adding to the drag. My eyes rolled down to the odometer that read 18.2 mph, 58.4 miles. He stopped pedaling, I stopped pedaling, he reached for a water bottle, I reached for a water bottle, when his hand connected his legs began pumping once again. My shoulder blades and neck begged for a new position. I lifted my head, my eyes with it and saw the towering red rock formations, blue sky, and waving grass that covers southern Utah. He must have been feeling the same discomfort because he rose out of his saddle pressing, pulling, pressing, and pulling his bike rocking side to side like a pendulum. The music stagnate noise, wind, cars, gears. 17.2mph, 60.5 miles. He settled back into his saddle, looked over his shoulder and veered out into the lane and dropped back. His work was done for the time being. I looked over mine as well, half expecting to see open road, half expecting to see three others. They were their hiding in the tunnel of nonexistent wind. His absence left me with a new view; the cost hit my face and then my chest. My quads picked up the workload and I put my head back down.
Leaving Lake Powell during a late sunrise.
Lighting bolted across the open sky as a black cloud the size of Texas attempted to chase us down. Pelting rain drops and out of control tumbles weeds added to the intensity. I had been pressing the pace for a good ten miles now attempting to out run the storm front and reach high way 98 which would take us north. Troves caught up to me and I attempted to draft off him. It was pointless the cross wind was too strong. Even though the road was straight as an arrow both of us leaned to the left as if rounding a tight curve, searching for the fine balance that would allow us to keep our bikes on the narrow shoulder and not get blown off. Reaching 98 we turned north and began to sore like an eagle catching an up draft. The road was freshly paved, smooth like a freshly sanded piece of oak. We felt the front breathing down our neck and then exhale letting out a guest of wind on our backs that accelerated our self propelling two wheel frames to a sustained 40 plus mph on the flat. The sand swirled on the black top resembling the way freshly fallen snow dances on the frozen roads of the north. Snow and sand the difference, color and the taste on your tongue. Lizards came out to the black top to check out the action, most of them darting into the ditch at the last possible moment. Only one out of the fifty or more got a taste of my new gator hard shell tires.
Troves snapped this picture on his first try as we attempted to out run the front.
Monument Valley
A kayaker hits some rapids through Durango Colorado.
It is hard to believe we have already ridden across most of New Mexico. We seem to have left the bumpy roads that plagued Texas and traded them for the smooth wide shoulders of New Mexico. Eastern New Mexico’s vast nothingness boggles my mind every time I cross it. During one stretch we didn’t make a single turn for over sixty miles. Brown prairie grass as far as the eye can see in every direction contrasted the blue skies only interrupted by an occasional lone tree. The mornings have been wonderful, cool and still. By noon the winds start to pick up as if trying to blow the heat away. It never works and in fact seems to make matters much worse by causing an open oven like effect.
The road west through the desolate eastern New Mexico landscape.
For the most part we are still without any major incident however the minor issues are starting to stack up. Our 109-mile ride into Willard began racing the numerous trains that roll across this wide-open space. As a slower train passed by I flipped old Tex into a low gear and accelerated up to 32 mph. I rode neck and neck with the train for a good mile before I hit a downhill and sped up to 41 mph. My victory was short-lived and my endurance no match for the strong and steady locomotive. Out there in the wide open we did come across one of the more strange sightings thus far on the trip. An older man pushing a lady in a wheel chair across the prairie, one suitcase rested on the lady’s lap and the other stuck out from under the chair. They wore normal street clothes and declined any kind of snack, water or help. They were heading to Arkansas. I have a strange feeling we will see them again on tail end of our loop. The long miles concluded with lighting bolts flashing around us over the open prairie and a driving rain that flew with the strong head wind. We had lost Breckinridge for the last 70 miles or so and were happy to see him at the Willard café fresh of his gutter shower.
As we slowly rode through town following the support crew we realized that the town was only slightly bigger and somewhat more populated then a ghost town. The passing storm cooled the hot earth and we were now thankful for the wind that we had been fighting all day. The church was down a gravel road only a few blocks from the main drag. A couple of goats trotted down the sidewalk ripping up the weeds that squeezed through the cracked cement. I could barley make out the words of the weathered church sign. We got to the small two-room church and knocked on the side door, it was empty. Joel found the front door open and took out the two by four, that acted as a lock for the side door, to let us all in. The building didn’t look like it had been used as a church or anything else in some time however it was home sweet home for the night and exceeded our low standards.
The Sandia Mountains rose in front of us like an impassable fortress wall. In Tiwa, the Pueblo Indians native language, the mountains are called posu gai hoo-oo, meaning, “ where water slides down arroyo”. The range peaks out at only 10,678 feet which is not all that big in comparison to some of the other mountain ranges but after riding through nothing but flat rolling hill for hundreds of miles day after day, it was an intimidating sight.
the road to Cuba New Mexico, beautiful sweeping landscapes
The day’s only incident was probability caused by me, as a staple lodged into my tire my tube went flat. I told Troves who was riding next to me and he slowed to help check it out. Neither of us bothered to tell Breckinridge who was behind us. As he passed me he stared at my back wheel and asked, “is everything was okay?” The next moment he was riding over the unaware Troves and his bike. Thankfully the bikes were all okay and they both walked away from the crash with out too much bodily damage. Troves did scrape up his hands a bit but all in all it wasn’t too bad.
A rest stop in the plains, one of the many trains rolls across the empty in the background
The climbs and head wind made the short 64-mile day a challenge and we are all excited to make it to Foothills Church. The sight of a tradition I had never heard of before. Every year the youth group makes ice cream Sunday’s, the catch is that your scoop of ice cream and toppings are coming from the top of a two story building at speeds unknown. We had the privilege of serving the ice cream. Although some people were able to catch a good amount of ice cream and toppings in their bowls their hair and faces caught a vast majority as well. The sweeping view of Albuquerque valley and the setting sun was amazing from the rooftop; it was a fun end to the random day. We were later able to share are mission with the group and hang out for a while after.
A quick stop at the continental divide to strip the cold weather gear off.
In the morning we set out with Ruth Ann, who would be joining us on the 83-mile ride to Cuba New Mexico. The ride turned out to be my favorite day so far. The elevation kept the weather a bit cooler and the wind was not as prevalent as days past. Although Cuba is 1000 feet higher in elevation than Albuquerque the ride seemed to be all down hill. As we rode from Foothills Church around the edge of Albuquerque the road sloped off the side of the mountain and peddling was quite unnecessary for the next five miles. The red and tan striped plateaus and sweeping canyon views all made the day pass quickly. It was fun to meet Ruth Ann who is an ultra marathoner first and foremost so it was fun to trade ultra stories with her as the miles passed. We stayed in the cafeteria next to a catholic church/school. Ruth Ann took us out to eat at El Bruno’s before she left. I tried the a green chili cheese burger. Green Chili is very popular in New Mexico and it seems to make its way into most of the dishes. They even had a local Green Chili wine.
The sun shining over the distant hills on a rare NM creek
We wrapped up our riding week with another 100-mile stretch to Farmington that crossed the Continental Divide. On my run across America last year I came through these parts from the West. You know you have been through the west before when giant rock formations and mountain ranges help with your sense of direction and geographic location. I spotted Ship rock in the distance, which lies west of Farmington. Our biggest climb of the trip to date came in the last ten miles. When we crested the Plato and turn back to look over what we just rode, the view was massive. The road looked like it dropped off the edge of the earth and you could see the last thirty miles that we had just ridden far below. The descent back down the other side into Farmington was steep and winding. To be honest it was a four-mile adrenalin rush that ended in a parking lot where Chad meet us. We loaded up our bikes and drove North towards Durango Colorado where to stay in his hand-made adobe style home for the weekend. Two weeks of riding has brought us 955 miles from our start and 955 miles closer to our ultimate destination.
An old wall with the word "water" written on it. An unexpected scenic stop.
An early morning sun sparkled in the spokes of our ten spinning bike wheels. The five of us still readjusting our chamois, putting on sunglasses, and settling in for the 109 mile ride. Although it was the coolest part of the day the Texas town had still not come to life and the roads remained desolate. We rode out of formation over the bridge that led out of town, taking up half of the road. Along side a glistening irrigation ditch lay several lines of sleeping trains that filled the tracks below the bridge. Even I, who had not been in Texas more then a week, knew that the clear gradient cloudless sky meant we where in for another hot day.
Its was fun riding with everyone from the home team! Thanks for all your hard work back in Austin!
Our hubs hummed at slightly different tones as we assembled into a double pace line with the prayer rider in the back. During this first week of the ride I have found that I really enjoy going fast. The distance and speed we are able to cover in a single day on bikes compared to running continues to amaze me. Most of the highway roads we have been riding on are made of a bumpy chip seal. But today’s stretch was smooth like warm butter and with the wind at our back life was good. On one stretch Breckinridge and I were cruising between 25 and 29 mph for at least twenty miles. The day’s average for the first hundred miles was 18 mph, an average that we could only dream about the following day.
photo by Joel Farris
On day six, one hundred miles stood between us and our first day off. By the end of it we would have kicked the last of the Texas dirt off our boots and entered New Mexico. New Mexico will be our second state of the thirty-six we will be riding through. As fun and fast as the 109 miles was the day before, the route to Clovis, New Mexico was quite the opposite. Large plowed fields along side the road will sometimes cause clouds of dust to kick up, the hot head wind carrying the fine particles across the open planes. I rode with my lips sealed but still found myself crunching dirt between my teeth.
A much needed rest stop on a hot late june Texas Highway. photo by Michael Way
Coloring on some down time with Audrey, I have enjoyed getting to know Audrey during my first few weeks on the team. She has an amazing imagination! We can literally just sit on the couch and talk about imaginary friends and scenario for an hour straight. I also enjoy her pickled ice cream that is always for sale (or donated) out of the RV window at rest stops.
Over the past two days 176-mile ride took us from Brownwood to Big Springs Texas. We have left the hill country and have entered what is referred to as west Texas. Now on the edge of desert the larger trees have disappeared opening up the sweeping views that come to mind when an outsider thinks of Texas. When I am not staring at the skinny backside of another rider I have made it a point to notice what we pass by. A field of sunflowers, beautiful but small and stunted in comparison to well watered Wisconsin sunflowers. Newborn calf drinking milk from her mother, hiding in what appears to be either over sized bushes or small trees with no trucks. The aftermath of a raging forest fire, the house that did not get touched. An oil pump working overtime to keep up with the cars that zoom past it barley noticing it’s existence. A high school football field made of artificial turf in a town with a population less then 1,000. A bank clock that reads 102 degrees at 2:13 and the popping noise of bubbling tar as we ride over it.
Morning Shadows
The team is starting to gel and work through the tedious tasks that can be time consuming and frustrating when a pattern has not yet been established. With each passing day over all soreness intensifies. A cycle I have gone through many times never the less is still painful. For the most part I continue to move around a lot on the bike searching for some kind of elusive comfort. It is starting to come full circle and dawn on me that the best position is simply sitting on the saddle normally and peddling. As soon as I come face to face with this reality the more time my saddle will have to reform my butt. I do apologies for talking about my butt so much however in all honestly it is what I have been thinking about 80% of the time. The other 20% of my time is still spent counting how many times everyone say’s y’all. I must admit I was starting to get used to it until towards the end of a rest stop Troves asked “all y’all’s ready?” That was just a little to much and I burst out laughing.
A head wind on a bumpy 90 mile ride to Big Springs