Professional Bike Fitting

Last Monday my bike and I went in to be professionally fitted to see what could be done to fix my nerve problem. Turns out I was riding “too short.” I was also told that I was pushing forward when pedaling and using my calves and ankles too much rather than pushing through with my quads. My seat was moved forward about an inch (which is a lot) and a longer stem now replaces my old one. So my body is now siting directly over my feet instead of being slightly behind them and my core is more extended. My current handlebars are also 2 sizes too wide, which explains the tension in my upper shoulder blades, as my shoulders measure 34” wide and the handlebars are 40”. New tape is also going to be applied and it has an extra gel layer inside of it. Because my new handlebars are a bit shorter than a standard size, the tape will be wrapped thicker near where the placement of my hands will be and taper out towards the ends to provide even more padding. I was sent home that day with my bike to test ride the two major adjustments to my core while the handlebars were being ordered.

At only mile 18 my left hand went numb again, but this time it was a bit different. Instead of the fourth and fifth fingers being affected it was my whole hand, but it only lasted a few minutes and it didn’t happen again for the rest of the ride. I really tried to focus on what muscles I was using to propel myself and I found that the more I used my quads the faster I would go, and with less effort - what do ya know? But it was easy to revert back to my old pedaling habit because my mind would naturally drift to other things or I’d have to search for a good spot to pee for the umteenth time. I swear, I have a bladder the size of a blueberry and I really do have to pee about every thirty minutes, I timed it. Sometimes less. This is all the time, not just when I’m riding my bike by the way. However I’ve gotten pretty good at designating well-hidden roadside pee spots, but I don’t even want to know how many random drivers by have seen my va-jayjay. It’s unfortunate though when riding through a heavily populated neighborhood. You can’t just pee in someone’s well-groomed bushes next to their mailbox, behind the air conditioner on the side of their house, in the middle of their front yard in a low-lying pine, or in the shade of their wooden fence (as if the shade makes you invisible (it doesn’t)). So you ride, clenched, fanatically searching for any kind of public establishment with a bathroom. Finally you find a place, but then you have to lock up your bike! Doubled over and about to explode, you stumble with your lock during those waves of intense pee sensations and do the potty dance on your tip toes like a drunk ballerina all the way to the toilet. I bet that’s funny to witness. Unfortunately I’ve always been the star of those episodes. 

Today I was supposed to go pick up my finished bike but I instead got a phone call from the bike shop concerning my gears. I had mentioned on Monday that my gears were shifting funny, and they assured me it was simply due to a dirty chain and that with a good cleaning the shifter would be happier. But upon further investigation my shifter was actually skipping gears. For every one click, it would shift two or three, which is particularly hazardous and annoying when going up a steep climb and your feet lurch out of the straps because your gears decide to shift down 3 for no reason. So there are two solutions; switch it to friction shifting, which means there wouldn’t be any more “clicks” and you’d have to shift gears based on feel, or get new shifters altogether. The new shifters are of better quality than my current setup and they come complete with new cables and guides which is great because mine are a bit rusted. Plus, with new shifters I’ll be able to switch to the friction setting as a backup plan out on the road if the shifting mechanism fails again. Since I’ll be totally on my own this time I figure it’s worth the hundred bucks. 

When I get back on my bike tomorrow it will be like new, and I’m so excited! It really needed to be adjusted and have a proper tune up so with this checked off my to-do list I feel a lot better about this trip. 

Observer

You could say I’m rather shy, or quiet may be a better way of describing it. Reserved perhaps, soft-spoken. Many people do in fact, make it a point to tell me I’m this way. As if I didn’t already know, as if it’s something I’m doing on purpose. The fact that people notice this about me only heightens my awareness of it, making it worse, making myself feel more awkward among others. This one little trait I possess defines me of who I am.  It is the one reason (in a nutshell) of why I’m choosing to live my life this way. I’m purposefully forcing myself into situations where I can develop traits that I lack, and expanding myself as an individual through trying times. But sometimes I need to be reminded of this.

Rather than labeling my timidness as a negative quality, I prefer to convince myself that it is a positive thing. I prefer the term observer. It’s not an excuse either. I can and often do spend hours sitting in silence, just looking around me, letting the chunks of light and dark seep into my eyes without forming shapes. Without opinion I sit transfixed, delighted to accompany the romance of color and sound (or lack there of). I am easily entertained by the meander of a young ant, roving aimlessly from stem to leaf to stem, covering ground but never touching the forest floor. I don’t need to say anything, I can just watch. Thoughts are automatically erased and I can breathe, damn it. I’m quiet, and I like being quite. I like what silence sounds like. I will often observe my surroundings this way when I’m in the company of others as well, and people sometimes consider my lack of contribution to the situation as me being introverted. But on the contrary! I’m really just taking it all in, trying to be consistently aware. Most of the time when I’m speaking with someone I’m focused more on the way their face is arranged rather than what they are saying. It’s hard for me not to be captivated by the way a face moves, or not get lost in peoples’ eyes. 

It’s been a while since I’ve written so I’ll back up a bit and quickly catch you up. I found myself home this past holiday season regarding a series of unfortunate events that I won’t bother going into. The ultimate decision being that I came home from my time at sea, as it was clearly necessary. During the last four months at home I have done some work for family to make some cash. I’ve been living at my parents’ house to avoid paying bills and rent (THANK YOU MOM & JACK) so that I could save everything I earned. Having a small financial cushion in the bank feels pretty good, like I could go anywhere or do anything I want (travel-wise). But then should I spend it traveling, it would no longer be a cushion, would it? 

A most delicious Boston Cream Pie

So (as much as I hate to admit it) I’ve decided to be normal for a while and get a job over the summer to make a little more cash. I'll be working as a pastry chef on a Dude Ranch located in the Colorado Rocky Mountains. I’m happy to have landed this job, because as far as working goes I appreciate being on my feet all day and providing a meaningful service to others who appreciate what I’m doing. I love to bake (I've been doing a lot of practicing lately, see picture) and I’m looking forward to further developing those skills. And in my free time on the ranch I’ll have the freedom to ride horses, camp, and explore the Rio Grand National Forest to my heart’s content. The position ends in October and by then I’ll really have some cash saved up to travel with as well as the current cushion I have now as my reserve for emergencies or over-the-top, on-a-whim expenses like getting the extravagant tattoos I’ve always wanted. The job starts in mid May and I plan to ride my bike there (YAY!!) so my departure date is creeping up on me fast. Though the ranch is only 800 miles from my front door I am going to give myself 4 weeks to get there, just so I don’t feel rushed and I can take my time and enjoy the ride. I’d like to give myself ample time to get lost, break down, and mosey as much as I please. This time I’m doing the whole ride alone and I’ll have to go through the mountains, so it’s likely to be a whole different ball game. I’m quite excited about it!

There are still many important things I need to do before I leave. I need to get professionally fitted to my bike and fix this whole nerve problem thing with my left hand. My hand has regained full function and mobility for everyday use but I can tell my ulnar nerve is still slightly damaged when I leave it in the same position for too long. Even after a short 30 mile ride it begins to go numb. Adjustments will be made to my bike so we fit each other better, which might mean ordering a new stem and set of handlebars all together. My weight needs to be shifted more to my ars and less to my wrists, and I should probably buy some of those padded shorts that real cyclists wear. I’m sure people don’t wear them just to look cool, because we all know the second anyone squeezes into a pair of the diaper-daunted spandex shorts their Awesome Meter spikes to ridiculous heights. Can the world handle one more? I also need to start seriously training again and get myself physically and emotionally prepared for this trip and change of lifestyle. 

Thoughts of my training and emotional preparations are what led me to my blog today. Lately I feel as though I’ve regressed back to my old self, or that all the growing I did during my time on the road has been buried again. I’ve dried out and shriveled back beneath the surface, hiding from the sun. It’s almost as if I don’t feel accepted here in modern society, where people are full of quick judgments and mindless talk. I’ve put myself in awkward situations and handled myself poorly, and I too can’t help but judge myself. When I was on my own I forced myself out there, to make bold decisions and speak before spoken to and make a real effort to connect with strangers and learn from my surroundings and experiences. And when I'd foul up I accepted it as a learning experience rather than regretting it and letting it consume my thoughts. When I’m home my shell consumes my speech. My home town is a vacuum that sucks my voice out. I revert back to the way people expect me to be. That person I was becoming on the road, if just barely there before, has faded into the reflection of hot air and turned invisible once again, like the way the hot distant pavement seeps with steam into the sky. I can’t see clearly, I can hardly focus. My body feels as if it’s in a whirlwind and I’m spinning haphazardly amid the moments. What I choose to acknowledge and ignore doesn’t make sense, and my motives seem confused. People look right through me, and I can’t engage. I can’t connect! So I am hoping that with my reentry into living nomadically I can again find and further develop myself and be happy with my progress. 

Yesterday, as I sat on my haunches in the wet forest without a care in the world except for a flimsy little ant, I remembered how effected I am by nature. With wide eyes I looked around and listened to only the raindrops fall through the leaves, just a few managing to reach my face. I observed the trees conversing, I was a witness without being watched. I didn’t have to do or say anything, and I felt more alive than I have in a long time. I studied the new curled buds beginning to bloom, so tender and vibrant. The little ant walked on top of the water drops that stood upon the leaves, skating over them with glee. They seemed permanent and solid, like dried globs of hot glue. The ant’s pace was steady but directionless. It seemed lost but without worry. The ant often retraced it’s footsteps, shamelessly circling, and eventually it would find it’s way to the next leaf, stretching across a gap wider than the length of it’s body. Almost flying through the air, the ant was so small it seemed to cling to the molecules of air surrounding the leaf itself. I want to have the same motion as that ant, content adrift the fallen drops from the sky, accompanied by a constant petrichor to the air. 

the nature of nature

The jungle doesn’t judge. As you weave your way through it’s lush umbrage, moving aside the greenery invading your path, it welcomes you. Even though your deep breath and snapping footsteps destroy it’s loud silence, it doesn’t hush you, but harmonizes with laughter and vibrance. The sticky gold oozing from a tree’s skin leeches onto yours as you ascend it’s branches. Barefoot in an effort to soak up the prosper of it’s blood, you climb to the canopy seemingly weightless. You nest in the tree tops in awe at the span of the sky, and smile.

The sky doesn’t lie. It won’t cheat you, or make you for a fool. With boundless color and fervor it entices your senses and screams your name. It invites the smell of freedom and peace to your nostrils and you literally breathe in it’s glory. It’s baffling breadth awakens you while the sun sets to sleep. A dome of dark hues settle inwards and the stars begin to twinkle into a broad band of luminosity stretching from one horizon to the other. Guided by constellations you are confidant to your path. With deep night the winds increase and blow through your body to push you forward as a sail, to back you, to keep you balanced. Almost as if to soothe your mood, the winds change and whirl you in all directions. You have the responsibility to decide where they will influence you. The clouds roll in and mask the night sky to deliver the most miraculous gift of all, and you stick out your tongue, thirsty.

The sea seems to rise from beneath you as the droplets start to fall. Rain kisses your cheeks and rinses away all the worry, fear, and sadness as it soaks to your core. You become a part of it all, encompassed in the showering reign. Pitter patter, the melody of mist offers the soundtrack to accompany the tramp of time. The estate of space will sing to you, and it’s better if you’re quiet. Your thoughts don’t matter, they simply get in the way. With breath and sigh you communicate with the present. Time to head ashore and dry off. The air you breathe understands, and settles. And the sand is soft to your toes.

The ground you traverse exists, and you bear upon it, and that’s it. That’s all there is. With nothing asked for in return it boasts with unimaginable variety, offering you a bountiful resource. Your steeped skin begins to quench as you bake next to the fire. The flames perform for you, strutting in cadence like a marching band. And you don’t have to entertain in answer, you don’t have to tell a story to the sleeping coals, though glowing so grand. You don’t have to speak to engage. They ask only for an attentive audience, a wide-eyed soul to whisper to. Your blushing skin almost too hot from those flirting flames. You are entranced.

With a sharp crackle and a loud POP from the fire you snap from your daze and shoot your gaze up, no, further up. Again the sky overwhelms your being as you absorb every star, every droplet of water in the sea, every grain of sand on the beach, every tickle of the flame. The frenzy of the instant engulfs you inside of it, and you remain timeless...

These are reasons why I took to the road alone. To connect with the colors, and brighten them. To free myself from the radical dramas of the blind. To come to terms and accept myself and (hopefully) flourish in the world’s bounty without greed, without mockery, criticism, or deceit. To be in control of myself, and not merely in the lee of another. So I guess, I'm seeking the truth that is so commonly found in nature, and just as easily lost in society. To only connect.

Here's to you

I wake up early with the sun baking me inside my tent. The chill of the night is long gone and I’m now a sweaty mess twisted deep inside my sleeping bag like an ant in a cinnamon roll, eager to escape it’s sticky cling for fear of a surely suffocating death. I manage to peel it off like a wet sock and take a deep breath of sour air. I need a shower. Where am I again? What day is it? With a quick unzip and a slow and sore departure from sleep I fiercely do a deep eye rub as if to snub the dreams out from my mind and accept reality again as I stumble into the sun. I’m rarely camped at a real campground but this happens to be one of them, a KOA just south of Montreal. I take a seat at the complimentary picnic table and spread out my map of Quebec to decide where my feet will lead me that day.

Most of the time it’s been relatively obvious as far as which general direction to pursue. Thus far, my route had taken me right around Lake Ontario. Starting from Niagara Falls, I walked about 180 miles in 12 days to a little town called Grafton, which is situated about 78 miles west of Toronto. Following the shore line it was pretty hard to get lost, and the only time I strayed from the water was when I found a host for the night and had to deviate from my route a little bit. Some days I’d have to tack on an extra 10 miles just to assure myself of a safe place to sleep, but it was always worth it. Today however, the decision was a bit more difficult. I could either walk 26 miles south to a no-name town just over the border into the United States, where I’d have unlimited phone access again as well as the comfortable familiarity of being back in my own country. Or I could opt for 21 miles north to Montreal where I’d have a sure place to stay for free for up to 10 days, as well as the chance to meet up with an old friend. I know, it seems like a no brainer, right? Go north and romp the streets of Montreal with a Tarzan of a man or sulk my way south so I can remove myself from the world of French speaking, metric measuring, confusion.

The thing that made this decision an arduous one was that I was ready for solitude again. For the past two weeks I had hung up my walking shoes and put on a pair of rubber boots as a WWOOFer in that tiny town called Grafton in Ontario. It was a great, rewarding experience to lend a hand on the farm, and the family I was fortunate enough to stay with was amazing.

By the end of my stay I think I had met their entire extended family and I totally felt like one of their kids. It was really interesting to experience the dynamic of another family, to be tossed into the mix of their daily life. We were WWOOFing virgins on both ends of the deal, so hopefully my hosts appreciated my labor as much as I appreciated their warm hospitality. I know I’m looking forward to doing it again in the near future on another farm. But man, the second those rubber boots came off, my walking shoes practically sprinted themselves onto my feet, giddy again for the open road, for the silence of thought.

So after one night of sleeping under the naked stars again I wasn’t sure if I was ready for another plaster ceiling quite yet. But if there’s one thing I’ve observed by being out on the road, it’s that with every choice you make in life you learn a little bit more about yourself and the world around you. The tricky part is being aware of these discoveries. Embrace them, and allow them to teach you something. Good or bad, the experience exists. So I figure, it doesn’t really matter. I’m not a religious person, but I do believe everything happens for a reason. So I’ve become very lax nowadays when decision time comes. Let happen what will. Only connect. I went north.

Montreal was magic. Simply supreme. That’s all I have to say about that. I don’t want to spoil things, now.

Ya know those brief moments when time seems to get stuck, and you just float there in space...I live for those. Everyone does, I’m sure. They only seem to last long enough to notice that it’s happening and then by the time you realize how special the moment is, it’s past. You try to reach back for it, to regain that absolute ambiguity, but now it’s merely a breath of color, a mood. Like for that instant you didn’t exist.

Kind of like the way the gentle tap of rainfall on your tent and the sharp crackle of a camp fire sound exactly the same. But you keep your eyes closed anyway so you never find out which it is. It can’t be both. Or that flicker of time when your sailing on the open ocean and suddenly the wind dies, the seas cease, the boat floats on air, and all is completely still. Utterly quiet. Then a second later it all roars back to life, and the world starts spinning again.

Or the way your body surges from the inside out when someone tells you they love you for the first time.

Yup, life is worth living for those few seconds of perfection that happen every now and again. Here’s to the universe and it’s sorcery. Here’s to you.

I can no other answer make, but thanks, and thanks...

Traveling by foot is down right sapping! The relation between distance and time has been playing games with my emotional state. I've had to get used to the fact that I just can't cover much ground in a day's span. Riding in the saddle all day served up it's tasty share of aches and pains, but walking dishes up a $6.99 buffet of soreness for my body to feast on, and it never seems to get full. So I'm a tugboat constantly pulling along the chain of emotions and pushing physically against the barge of pain with each step I take.

I've been covering about 20 miles on a good day, considering time for a rest and refueling every few hours, chatting with folks along the way, and providing myself ample time at the end of each day to find a suitable post for camp. By four or five o'clock scouting out a decent place to pitch my tent is more urgent and time consuming than I ever imagined. I've found myself frantic many times at dusk with no safe place to go, and have ended up camping along roadways and behind convenience stores. Needless to say it's a wondrous and enlightening experience, and even though most nights I'm clutching my knife in one hand and pepper spray in the other, I always awake excited with the new sun to see which path will be shone bright.

Speaking of bright lights, I've only had one encounter with the police. In Toronto I set up camp on a point by the water in a thicket of trees, well hidden. At midnight I unzipped my tent to see seven flashlights shining in my groggy eyes, with an equally stunned set of bike cops behind them. They seemed tickled to see a young girl camping out there alone as I told them about my journey. They ran my Missouri license and asked me all kinds of questions, mainly about tattoos or any other identifiable markings I may have on my body. I felt like Mitchy from Dazed and Confused when they asked if I had any pot, and I kid you not they replied, "Well, it'd be a lot cooler if you did! "They joked around with me for half an hour and told me to bundle up and stay safe, but not to camp out there again. That pretty much sums Canada up right there. Very lax, these folks.

It's interesting to see the difference in ways people react to me now, with a 40 lb pack on my back in comparison to a fully-loaded touring bike. While riding I'd get noticed in a supportive way, receiving encouraging ges

tures and looks of awe as I peddled by. It didn't seem to matter how much I stank or how sweat-ringed my neon clothes were, my bike kind of spoke for me. Most seemed to have an automatic amount of respect for that way of travel, and people knew what I was up to. Now as I limp into a place all haggard and dusty with a perm-a-squint on my face people assume I'm up to no good. They look at me with discern as I clumsily squeeze through the tiny isles of the variety store, my pack knocking off product all over the floor. They see me as a bum, a loaf, a poor lonely girl who's lost her way. On my bike I was approached at an overcoming rate, always the same questions of "Where are you from? Where are you going? How long have you been gone?" Now people yell at me from their cars screaming "Where you runnin' from, Girl!" And, "Does your mother know where you are?" Sometimes I feel as if I am being avoided, or even treated as a threat. Almost as if I get to close, they'll discover something missing an hour later.

Actually most people I run into are quite amazing. If they just give me a chance they quickly realize I am not a bum. I'm a motivated traveler who's choosing to live this way. I have dream, an everchanging itinerary, and a force inside of me that keeps me moving forward. Even though I may be rummaging through the dumpsters for food (not much luck there), I still have decent equipment and clothes, an education, and a bath every once in a while. I'm sure as shit never going to steal from anyone. I'm more like a skunk, I should be more afraid of you than you are of me. I also stink, I do have spray, and I'm not afraid to use it! There have been several instances when strangers have offered me free coffee, bought me meals, or just shoved money in my hand. Those situations are rather awkward, but much appreciated! Thank you! I never know quite how to handle those surprising affairs. It's hard to refuse something when it's insisted upon you keep it, when contributing makes them feel good. They get to be a part of my journey. My gratitude to their beneficence runs deep, and it's the compassion of a stranger that keeps my journey advancing. For anyone who helps me along my way I take their name and a picture and when appropriate I ask for their address so I may send them a postcard and let them know my whereabouts. I want to remember them, all of them. Here are only a few...

This woman bought me a Gatorade and gave me $20! First day walking.

The woman on the left gave me $10, and the one on the right gave me free coffee and a donut!

Bruce and Tracy found me on the beach and invited me for dinner and a bed to sleep in. They even gave me a goody bag to take with me of the leftovers! So much fun!

Stayed with couchsurfers in Toronto! These two were so sweet.

Rick gave me $20, referred me to a woman to stay with in the next town, a book recommendation, and advice on life!

It's funny because of all the wonderful people I've met 80% are extremely worried for my safety. I know there are a few rotten apples out there, but I'm awe-struck by the bushels of Golden love, sweet Grannies, and Red Delicious seeds of wisdom that blossom from this Tree of Life. Their generosity, concern, compassion and hospitality reassure my belief that people are good. It's exciting to wander through a town and find people to talk to, to inspire you. You never know when the next person you meet may change your life. I have found that no matter the impact, there is something meaningful to learn from every encounter be it person, plant, or animal. That's the great thing about walking, the pace is slow enough to really soak up the surroundings. I start to realize how huge the planet is and how unnoticed the majority of things are. Even though the tress, stones, flowers and blades of grass line the roadways, have they ever really been looked at? Have they ever really been appreciated? Sometimes I catch a glimpse of a tiny mouse scampering under a rock, or see a pallid flower forcing it's way through a crack in the shoulder of the road, and I wonder if it has ever been seen with human eyes before or if it ever will again after mine have lain upon it. I begin to feel special, privileged, as though I now have a purpose, to acknowledge the beauty. If only to give thanks for the charm of bark on a roadside tree. Many thanks, indeed.

chin up!

Mr. Bonner (4-14-11 to 8-18-11)
Beloved companion of the lonely road. I'll never forget our 900 miles together.

Water is heavy!

In the most positive of ways, I've learned that you can't really plan for anything. No matter how much time, effort, money, or training, things just change. It's a goal of mine to always find the good. Even when your dreams are crushed.

It's about a month into my new life,and it's been a great experience to say the least. My mother, step-dad, our good friend, Ryan and I cycled together from Osceola, WI to St. Ignace, MI, roughly a 500 mile trip. We pushed hard in that first week, endured some hefty pain, and bonded through the hills and winds. As they are all responsible, successful adults, the three of them had to return home to their loved ones and resume the daily life. They sure did one hell of a send off, though. I owe my life to these people, without whom I could not have made it this far. The gratitude runs deep. They changed my life.

From St. Ignace, MI, which is the most southern point of the upper peninsula, I cycled solo going south along hwy 23 all the way to East Lansing, which is where I am today. Along the 900 mile ride my body decided to do some stupid things. Things I had no control over and that could potentially effect my art career, should I ever decide to try and get one. After hours of repeated vibrations and pressure on my hands during the ride everyday, the nerves in my left (dominant) hand started to fail. My hand would go completely numb every few minutes, and I was constantly shaking it out to regain feeling. At the time I had no idea that this problem was something serious. I did my best to ignore it.

When I reached East Lansing to my aunts' house 2 weeks ago my hand was in really bad shape. I had a severe "claw hand" and lost complete function of my 4th and 5th fingers. The muscles were weak and I couldn't do simple things like pull up my pants, button and zip things, or pick my nose. It was impossible to write or draw, which was really frustrating considering my desire for daily journal and sketchbook entries. I could not close my fingers together, making it difficult to do simple things like cup water for a drink, or accept change from the scary lady with no teeth at the run-down petrol station on the corner of Murder Ln. and Chainsaw Ave. Then having to strain to pick up the fallen coins off the red-splattered sticky floor, rising again to find a sudden and awkward companion to the wiry-haired woman; a very hungry looking pig of a man, sweaty and breathing heavy from ravenously feasting on wandering nomads and wayfarers like me.

Long story short, after a few doctor visits and a couple different opinions my hand has made a decision for me. Though I tried to remedy the problem with a heat-molded wrist brace and thick padding added to the handlebars, both failed to prevent further damage to the nerve. Apparently ulnar nerve problems are very common among cyclists and it's a relatively easy fix. Get out of the saddle. Har har, easy! To the daily commuter cyclist let's say, this might not be a big deal to wait a few days for it to recover and then resume riding as normal. Just take a few sick days or go on vacation. Or drive. But with plans like this, plans to cycle an average of 60 miles a day, everyday, for years, it becomes somewhat of a let down.

After the initial shock of my preparations and dreams being slid out from under me, I realized the table was still set. Nothing had spilled, just a few tears beaded on the linen napkin. I can't give up, I sure as hell am not sulking my way back home! So the only other option I see fit is to walk. I'll have a walkabout, yes indeed! My mom has shipped me my hiking pack and I've done a few practice walks around town, trying to once again mentally and physically prepare myself. One of the major adjustments that I'll need to make is the amount of stuff I can carry. It's one thing to peddle around a 110 lb load on wheels, a whole other to carry that weight on your back. I need to learn to perfect the art of minimal living. No more camp stove, cooking equipment, water filter, or multiple changes of clothes. No more emergency kit, full sized towel, or inner tubes either. Just a little food and water, one change of clothes, my tent and sleeping bag, sketchbook and harmonica. If nothing else, at least my creativity can thrive. Maybe I'll be starving and smell like poo, but the best art is produced from pain and suffering, right?

I have convinced myself that there are quite a few pros to walking rather than riding. I won't have to worry about my bike getting stolen, for one. I can fit through smaller spaces, and traverse on beautiful hiking trails that I would have been restricted from before. I will walk facing traffic, so the likelihood of being intentionally run over by a heart-broken, middle-aged man drowning his sorrows in a liter of fine, aged scotch he was saving for their 50th wedding anniversary is slim to none. I just need to hone in my cat-like reflexes and learn how to be agile with an extra 50 lbs and bulbous tumor of gear on my back. Easy peasy. I'll also be able to get a little more creative with my modes of travel. Though I'd like to rely on ecological ways of travel as much as possible, I'll be able to easily catch a train or bus, or hitchhike if need be. It will also be much easier to find a suitable boat to crew on, and I won't have to worry about stowing, shipping, or selling my bike when that time comes. Besides, six months down the road when my hand is completely healed I may be able to take up cycling again, you never know.

Speaking of selling the bike. I'm getting that out of the way today. An ad will be published on Craigslist to sell beautiful Bonner, and other camping equipment that I'm doing without. The money will be extremely helpful, so hopefully I'll make it a few extra months without having to worry about making more. The extra money and time will allow me to get by while my hand heals and I can then work on a portfolio of sketches to sell along the way.

I'm a little behind schedule, and it's going to take me three times as long to make the same distance as I would on a bike. So I'm also going to use the extra cash to get a bus ticket to give me a head start on the next leg of this journey. I'll be taking a bus from here to Niagara Falls, ON, tomorrow. My route takes me north around Lake Ontario to Montreal, then southeast through New Hampshire and Vermont straight to RI. My goal is to make it there by October first. I hope to spend a week or two there, maybe make a little more cash at my old landscaping job, and then start searching for crewing opportunities as I make my way south along the coast before winter hits.

All is good. Tomorrow stage two begins, and I can shed the weight of luxury as well as the extra 10 lbs (no exaggeration) I've gained from being spoiled and well fed at my aunts' house the last couple weeks. Ruth and Terry, by the way, have been amazing. I am extremely lucky to have been welcomed into their home during this time of transition so I could recover and plan for the next phase. I greatly appreciate their unconditional hospitality and love, without which I would be in a totally different state of mind and health. On the same note I'm ready for the road, and I'm looking forward to the hardships I'll endure and learn from, as well as the glory of freedom once again.

Special thanks to all the families I've stayed with along my way so far. You will never be forgotten. Love you all.

These are the Johnson's. They are a family of cyclists I ran into on the road who invited me to camp out with them on their site at Tawas State Park, MI.

Meet the Wheeler's. They took me in and even made me a feature of their weekly paper in Standish, MI.

Then I stayed with the Crissman's through WarmShowers. They even had a pony I got to ride!

And of course my awesome aunts, Terry and Ruth, who let me crash their place for a whole week during recovery.