YOU THOUGHT IT WAS OVER!!!

FOREWORD:

            Oh, my faithful entourage of literary friends!!! I have heard your wheedling. Liz has been a bad little blogger. It would appear that I vanished from the face of the internet somewhere in Montana. But! That is not so! I really did make it the whole way! I just…got very bad at documenting it. You know the feeling of every day minutiae not being important enough to report? Well, this trip spoiled me. The most fantastical things were in front of my nose every minute of every day; Mountains! Rivers! Waterfalls! Alex Pearlman! Yes, the world was golden and magical.

            The return to real life was staggering, I was without my bicycle for an exceptionally long time (I count any period longer than a day as “exceptionally long”). Mostly…I lay. On couches! In bed! Heck, the floor works too! The stagnancy of being a normal person was unbearable. I would go to sleep in Naples—and wake up in Naples. This whole living-in-one-place deal had become quite stale.

            And so my thoughts returned to the summer, to the mountains and the trees and the crushery. Well. Mostly the crushery. I do not pretend to be Ernest Hemingway. Or maybe I do. SO. My dearest darling-est compatriots. I will post the final adventures of the first-ever Bike the US for MS Northern Tier, in a few parts….because if I leave it for one post it will be like 20 pages long. Here’s number one:

***

            It appears that I am getting worse at this as time goes on. What can I say, my lovely reader friends? I am in Washingon. I rode my bicycle to Washington! My little knees are stiff and there are hammocks all over the place. Sometimes, writing is a difficult concession. But! I do it for you, my babies! 

            Anyway. I have had a few adventures in the past week. Let’s recount them as chronologically as my addled brain possibly can. Mrow.

ST. MARY’S

            The story of St. Mary’s (or, the journey to Glacier National Park) is also the story of Cut Bank—you see, Cut Bank was insane. I mentioned that Savannah and I crushed all day in a semi-tailwind to arrive in Cut Bank at a gloriously early juncture—BUT! The keenest of readers will remember that the wind got its undies into a bunch later that afternoon, and proceeded to howl through the night. Oh, wind. We couldn’t even get my tent set up. We tried everything—piling bags in the corners, weighing it down with boulders—my most intelligent efforts were for naught!

             NOTE: the rocks were my most cerebral attempt at tent stability. I think I am a caveman at heart.

            Anyway. We decided to sleep inside (good ol’ Uncle Kev sweet-talked the camp manager into allowing it) because the Emerald Palace simply would not survive the typhoon wailing through the valley. She’s at the end of her rope, for god sakes! I had to have a little pity—she’s done well, considering her pedigree. I threw my sleeping bag into a corner and listened to the toothy shrieks of the wind late into the night.

            When we (Kathryn, Cassie, Kevin, B-Weasel, Uncle Kev, the other Liz, and myself) all awoke inside the next  morning, there was a common confusion—the wind hadn’t taken off yet. In fact, it looked like he’d kicked off his shoes and socks and was waiting to be served with coffee and desserts in the parlor. Oh, that ingrate. He was screaming due west, directly into our noses, at gusts of over 30mph. We ate at a little diner on the main street, postponing what would be the most elaborate sufferfest of the No’Tier to date—but we couldn’t hide forever. No, it was time to dance with destiny! So we finished our deeply discounted breakfast burritos and slurped up the groundy bottoms of our coffees, and set out.

            My chivalrous determination died quickly. Oh my gosh, it was impossible! I could go only twelve miles per our at the most ardent behest of my now-disgustingly huge quadriceps. I’m talking, head down, hands clenched in the drops, really pushing—twelve. And we had sixty-five miles to cover. Dear God.

            After about two hours, we reached the first rest stop—ragged and filled with desparation. We had covered barely twenty miles. “We’ll reach Glacier around—oh, maybe midnight!” I joked, and then remembered that at our current pace, that estimation bordered on reality.

            “Okay,” I announced to all those at the rest stop, “The Liz Gerrity train is leaving the station and will be chugging along at a consistent 10mph. If anyone would like to board, now is the time.”

            There were a few takers, Kathryn, Leigh, and maybe someone else but I sort of forget what was really going on at that point because I was so traumatized. Everyone fell off of my train! Everyone! I decided to throw my stupid body to the wolves. Boom! I tucked down and pushed. Soon, I’d caught the SAS. “Jump on, little biscuit!” I genuinely feared for her safety—the wind was so strong, it was blowing her little tiny body all over the road. We crossed an overpass, and I genuinely thought the cross breeze might send her into orbit. Hot damn,.

            After much soul-crushing agony, we’d passed two-thirds of our comrades, and reached Brownsville. We had a cross-tailwind for about two seconds—I hit 34 without pedaling. We pulled in at a gas station to attend to our particulars. I turned the handle on the ladies’ room door, and an older woman ran up, waving her hands—“Wait! that’s for women!” The vein in her temple pulsed like a chipmunk through a boa constrictor.

            “I AM A WOMAN! I HAVE BOOBS AND EVERYTHING!” I shouted. She frowned and slunked back. “All the boys wear the earrings these days,” she mumbled.

            After SAS and I had refueled, we set out once again against the terrible ire of the wind. The noise is the worst part, I think, it gushes across the flaps of your ears and makes coherent thought impossible. I saw Scott in the distance, and dropped Savannah in pursuit. Not intentionally, of course, I just feel this intense need to chase people and things. It’s awful! I’m like a greyhound!

            After evading several angry campers (they drive like hell! Really! I am tiny, and you are huge. Have a little heart, you recreational demons) We reached the second stop, not really sweating because the clouds were beginning to spit on us, adding insult to injury, I must say. Leigh and I departed, and soon realized that we’d be adding a 20-ish mile climb onto our 40 miles of unreal headwind. Oh, joy.

            But really! Not sarcasm! Oh, joy! It was beautiful! The Rockies! We were riding through the dang Rocky Mountains, for the love of Moses! I almost don’t believe that it happened. We chugged along admirably, the two of us, screaming things like “HOLY CAMINO!” and “OH, UISHQUEBAH-BAH!” during the more laborious sections of the climb..

            Our efforts were rewarded with, by far, the most fun either of us have ever had on a bike—the downhill was spectacular, and wound around the edges of the mountain for almost five miles. We cruised above forty without burning a single calorie. Blamo!

            That descent brought us into Glacier National Park—the Glacier National Park. We were here. We pulled into a resort-style lodge to get something to eat, but I couldn’t afford anything on the menu, so I headed off to camp in poverty-stricken shame. I couldn’t even afford the Cheeseburger! Augh! Starvation tickled my belly at camp.

            I took especial care to hammer down the Emerald Palace that evening; I recall because there were inklings of storms of the horizons and I hate being damp. I threaded three stakes (stolen, aquired, and otherwise borrowed) through each anchor-spot. If this tent blew away, I could do no more for it.

            The next day, we’d be trucking through Glacier, over Logan pass. There was some sort of rule about bikers being through before eleven—where, exactly, we were supposed to reach was unclear. We set our alarms for five-forty five A.M. and tried to sleep. 

NORTH DAKOTA and the things that happened there. Blamo.

            I will begin by apologizing for the long hiatus that seems to have wedged itself in between my postings. Truthfully, being a wilderness blogger-girl is taxing. One must wear a variety of hats: WiFi ninja! Intrepid typist!  And so on, you see.

            Anyway. I suppose one of the reasons I didn’t post much in North Dakota was that it was a tiring state. We were nearing the end of our trek through Minnesota when a few of us—Geordie, Margee, Brandon, and myself—decided it might be fun to race a 5k in Bowlus before riding the hundred miles to Battle Lake, MN.

            I swear, biking really fractionalizes the way you view distance. I was plodding along like a sad, fat puppy in a stranger’s shoes (I can’t stride in my Sidis, now can I?), but it felt shorter than any other run of my career. I do have a running career. Really. Mostly, I was reminding myself how much I will hate my life when cross country season comes around if I don’t get back into shoes with laces when this is over.

            The four of us ran, bought some Nut Rolls (a delightful indigenous candy!), and saddled our noble steeds for the century ride out to Battle Lake. I must admit—at that point of the day (I think it was around 9 am), I was still filled with cheery joy and happiness at a decent performance in the 5k. Heck, I won my age group, and a business-sized envelope with ten bucks in it (I won’t mention that it cost eighteen dollars to enter)! But, the day would get the best of me—soon, I was frowny. We got lost and missed the first rest stop. I spent six of those ten dollars at a gross Burger King. The wind continually slapped me in the face! I will say that I felt like four percent of a human being. The other ninety-six had been whittled away by the TRAVESTIES of this day.

            We arrived at camp after a full eight hours on the bike., only to discover that our compadres were campaigning to double the next day’s mileage in order to secure an extra rest day in Fargo. I was a grumpy bear. I assaulted several innocent bystanders in my lactic acid-inspired fury. Why! I would have never run if I knew I’d be doing double centuries! Well—I don’t think I would have. But I might be that dumb. Let’s leave it a mystery.

            But! There was water skiing in Battle Lake, AND cheese cubes. Those kindnessses made me smile.

            The next day, the plans to double into Fargo were dashed by reports of horrible storms brewing in the area, complete with tornadoes and golf ball-sized hail. I celebrated my vindication in silence, with homemade newspaper confetti. We rode instead to Pelican Rapids, where we spent the Fourth thrashing around in a lake and trying to invent a drinking game to go along with Bananagrams. We were unsuccessful. The attempt to the avoid the storm was a failure as well—around ten, it became apparent that it would be unwise, if not suicidal to remain outside in the elements. The valiant Mr. B-Weasel knocked on a window of a nearby old folks’ home and pleaded for assistance—mostly on behalf of the other Liz, who has a paralyzing fear of tornadoes. And storms with the potential to become tornadoes. It is a quite logical, really. I am trying to develop a similar phobia.

            Anyway. I spent the remainder of the evening sprawled on the tile in that retirement home’s ladies’ room. My classiness grows with every breath. I returned to the Emerald Palace at about three AM. The poor dear was just a little crumpled mess. Really—and I say this with the utmost respect for the tent—she’s just not going to survive another storm like that. I suppose the only real complaint I have (besides the fact that she struggles to remain upright) is that water pools in the corners, soaking anything that happens to be lounging there. In one instance, for example, the Emerald Palace thought it prudent to give Kathryn’s $200 camera a bath.

            The next day we set off for Fargo—North Dakota, at last! It was painfully slow. “I don’t feel like the champ that I normally do, Liz!” I wailed to the amazing Liz Dymond as my quads cried out in protest. Three hours of sleep with have that effect, I suppose! We rewarded our sleepy bodies with two nights in the Fargo Ho-Jo—once again, negotiated by the fabulous B-Weasel. He is a devilish negotiator, that boy!

            Anyway. That’s how we got to North Dakota. Crazy, huh? We’re in Montana now, and I’m still trying to catch you up! Gosh! I will go through each of the cities we stayed in chronologically, I suppose. HERE WE GO!!!!EXCLAMATIONPOINT!

HOPE, ND

            Hope was a very strange place. We pushed the destination thirteen miles further from Page, ND, because Hope was, apparently, a bustling metropolis of magic and wonderment. And there was a pool. It ended up being a slaughterfest of mosquitoes. I hid in my tent and watched The Shawshank Redemption. Oh, Tim Robbins! You’re so much better than DEET! Side note—I awoke in the night to pee. I barefootedly hobbled over to the janky pool area and saw, with my questionable-without-glasses vision, a parked car on the grass. “How odd!” I said to myself. The light was on and the blob where the door should have been looked like it could be open. I squinted a bit more, and saw a bald man. Think John Lithgow in season five of Dexter. This man was so scary. As I approached, Trinity slammed his car door and the light blinked out. I promptly began hyperventilating and sprinting to the bathroom. That was—and I say this with utmost confidence—the most exhilarating pee of my entire life.

PEKIN, ND

Pekin should not qualify as a town. It’s more like a hamlet. Or a playpen. We arrived after smashing in a tailwind for most of the day—we probably averaged between twenty-six and twenty-eight on some stretches. I was famished, and staggered into the only business for miles—the local bar! I asked for a cheeseburger, and, to my dismay, watched the bartender remove a packaged one from plastic wrap and stick it in an off-white microwave in the corner. My starvation made unhappiness with any sort of food impossible, though, so I ate the darn thing in about three bites. Yee! Most of us stayed in the Prarie View Inn that night. What can I say—I love showers and beds. Mmm, clean sheets! 

RUGBY, ND

            The ride into Rugby was tempered with a strong cross wind that caught my dished rims and dragged me all over the road. How polite of you, wind. There was one radio station on that say, and it played only Native American tribal pieces—I am certain they were cursing the white man with much musical TALENT!

            Rugby is the geographical center of the entire North American continent, by the way. Yes! We took pictures by the monument—a weird little cobblestoned pyramid thing. I don’t know who designed the thing, but maybe they should be fired. Or stoned. In Rugby, we were given free pizzas and some members of our clan narrowly avoided being arrested for scaling a grain silo. Fight the power!

SURREY, ND

            I can say without hesitation that Surrey is the black hole that the entire world will eventually crumble into. Flooding in Minot necessitated our stay here—when we went to explore “the town,” Margee and I discovered that Surrey had hoped that a gas station and a divey bar would qualify them as metropolitan. Surrey was also overrun by scary, anarchist teenagers who frowned excessively. I was thrown out of the bar when I asked for a glass of water. I suspect it is because of these bad, bad children and their terrible mischief.

MINOT, ND

 We didn’t overnight here, but we did investigate after we evacuated Surrey—apparenly, the Canadians mismanaged water levels in a series of dams (something to do with snowfall and also being Canadian), and ended up sloughing huge amounts of water over the border into North Dakota. The place was devastated. Entire buildings were gutted, and whole neighborhoods condemned. One house had a scotch-taped sign in the window, with “Goodbye house” scribbled by some little hand. It was depressing, really—such a careless mistake reset so many lives. Moral of the story: Down with Canada!

WILLISTON, ND

            Williston is where North Dakota suddenly became insane. There are, I guess, some huge and hereunto hidden pockets of oil out here in North Dakota. This is just now being discovered, and as such, the roads that Adventure Cycling routed us on are swollen with enormous oilrigs and every other kind of enormous truck in existence. This kind of riding is THE BEST. I am telling you, nothing is more fun than being slung forward by the eighty-mph draft of a ten-ton oil tanker! Nothing! Sure,it is horribly dangerous, and we were told by several truckers that they did their best to spot us, but to update our wills—BUT THE SPEED! THE SPEED, I SAY! I know of no other way to go so fast with such little effort. Besides blood doping, of course. The riding around Williston got super sketchy on the way into town. In retrospect, perhaps lethal is a better descriptor—many of us were nearly buzzed by mirrors or, in the cases of douchier drivers, the truck itself. Really! I’m in neon orange, for the love of Moses! You don’t get trucker points for having my blood all over your bumper, you mustachioed villains!

WOLF POINT, ND

I rode into Wolf Point cursing the time-old adage that requires the sun to set in the west. My nose is severely sunburned. This town sported a lovely brewery that doubled as a breakfast place in the mornings and had free popcorn. I was instantly sold. The campsite had a pool with more prison showers (yay for bathing fully clothed!), and there was a ferocious storm, apparently, but I slept through the entire thing. I sleep like a champ.

GLASGOW, ND

I spent the entire day thinking about ABBA’s classic hit, Super Trouper:

I was sick and tired of everything / when I called you last night from Glasgow!/ All I do is eat and sleep and sing/ wishing every show was the last show

We aren’t even going to that Glasgow. But I suppose that is irrelevant. We are here now, after a short fifty-six mile day, camping outside of a perfectly good hotel like hoboes.

MORE LATER, MY DARING READERS! I am hungry for waffle crisp.

One Sandwich to Rule them All...

The thirtieth of June was a magical day. I awoke in the Bayliss abode (in the master bed, actually), where we’d weathered our double-rest days in the Twin cities. The other, grander Liz’s wonderful (and sometimes, she tells me, under-celebrated) Dad was slinging pancakes like it was a full-time profession, or they were projectiles or something. But good projectiles, of course, no shortness of positivity! I ate three. This was the morning I would begin my abdication of caffeine—ours had been a tumultuous relationship, and I decided that the heart palpitations I’d been experiencing in the heat of my daytime bicycle crushing were the final,cosmic clue. We’ve been separated for three days.

            Anyway. So, if any of you four people who read this have ever tried to quit the coffee habit, you probably know how damnable it is—you get the shakes, a terrible headache, and so on and so forth. The first twenty miles were sad and sweaty! We arrived in the cute, little riverside town of Stillwater after several miles on some bike trail whose name escapes me. I was irritable and slightly starving and convinced that my somewhat-low average speed could be blamed on some mechanical malady afflicting my bicycle. I slathered the drive train with degreaser and scrubbed viciously.            

            After Samson was once again sparkling and I was convinced that there was nothing actually wrong with him, I joined several other Bike the Us-ers for lunch at Leo’s downtown. Well—I guess I didn’t really join them, I kind of stalked them there and then sat down at a booth that wasn’t totally full. But hey, I do what must be done! My boothy conquest housed Geordie, Margee, and Mr. Alex Pearlman. I was quite pleased with my selection. Skylar shouted from another table, “Liz! You’ve got to get the Double Jumbo!” Double Jumbo, I thought! What is this! SOME SORT OF TRICK!?

            I opened a menu and there it was—a sandwich. No! Not just any sandwich. This was the sandwich to sandwich all other sandwiches—Bacon! Onions! One, greasy pound of hamburger meat! THREE SLICES OF OBESE, SOURDOUGH BREAD. It was thirteen dollars, and if I ate everything on my plate within twenty minutes, I got a shirt. Margarine Ankles and I discussed the outcomes of the contest. Could we eat such a sandwich? Was the shirt bombastic enough to warrant such gastrointestinal unhappiness? It was red, and had a cherry over “O” in Leo’s. HOW COULD I SAY NO? Margee decided against the challenge just as she ordered. I said, “Bring me the Double Jumbo, please!” The waitress looked a little excited. I would like to think that I made her shift slightly more exciting. After ordering I was excited—filled with confidence, you could say. I could eat this sandwich! Clearly my fat belly could fit such a morsel inside! But then, as I sat in the booth, I started to really think about it—a whole pound! What if I failed—the shame! I became intensely nervous and sweated a little big more than is socially acceptable. The ladies at the table next door frowned.

            Well. Soon, the moment arrived—our little waitress brought the plate bearing my culinary destiny. It was massive, and whoever had slung the burgers pierced a broad steak knife through the burger’s drippy, bacon-crumble heart.  The rule with the Double Jumbo is that you’ve got to finish within twenty minutes. That sounded like an excessively long amount of time, so I was hardly worried. I drew the sword from what would probably become my kidney stone and sliced horizontally. The twenty minutes began. The first half was easy—I was starving, and it actually did taste pretty good! Nom, nom! The difficulty really entered in around 75%, I’d say. The burger sort of stopped tasting like food, and as I tried to swallow, little baby bites were still stuck in my esophagus, begging for expulsion. BUT! That red shirt looked so darn cool. So I stuffed my mouth with more sandwich.

            I finished in thirteen minutes and fifteen seconds (the entire thing is on video if you don’t believe me—but it is rather gruesome). I felt like a champ. The champ of champs! I waved my red shirt of victory above my head. Alex Pearlman tweeted my victory to the world. I was king for the entirety of the next five minutes. After that, the horror of what I had just done seemed to register within all of my biological systems, and each of them began to rebel against my obvious incapacity to rule. I stumbled outside, and back to the trailer in agony. It was like someone had filled my entire body cavity with bacon bits and mashed potatoes.

            I tried to keep moving around, looking for someplace I could go into a coma. I flopped down beneath a large tree overlooking the river. It might’ve been scenic if I could have ignored the powerful urge to die.

            I decided that it might be a good idea to sip some water, let the food settle—MISTAKE! The second I put that waterbottle to my lips, I knew that there was no going back. I dove almost entirely into a garbage can and the Double Jumbo became the Double BALGASFNHASLFKHAMHALKMFHFFFFFFFFF.

            But I still have the shirt! THAT MEANS I WIN.

            OTHER EXCITING POINTS OF THE DAY:

1)   1) swimming with Geordie and Margee in the swollen river

2)   2) cycling shirtless for thirty miles

3)   3) becoming so sunburned that I could neither sleep nor wear enough clothing to go into public.  

WAH. SOMEBODY CALL THE WAH-MBULANCE

Wabasha, MN – St. Paul, MN. Distance 80 miles

Total distance covered through today: HECK IF I KNOW! A lot.

Miles ridden on my bike: All of them. AND THEN SOME.

It’s happy time, my friends! Yes! Today I slept in. In fact, mine was the last tent standing. The absolute last. I don’t need to start my days early. If I started any earlier, I would finish before I started. Because I am that fast. 

            It was supposed to be a difficult day today—we’d be doubling our mileage in order to make it into the twin cities early and grab an extra day. This is really bull-shit! Who rests!? WHO? When I rest, I cry. Because it means I am not crushing out on my bicycle.

Anyway, they told us it might be difficult. HA! Maybe for some old person! BUT NOT THIS (young) CHAMP. There were like two hills. They were like the tufts of bunnies’ tails. SOFT. AND FLUFFY. I devoured them like Pringles. OH. And there was a headwind, gusts of twenty-five to thirty mph. I laughed in that headwind’s face. Because that headwind had never met Liz Gerrity. No, sir, it did not know! It could not anticipate the bicycle mastery! The sheer crushery that would be! I rode so fast, the wind dissolved. Like Kool-Aid on my tongue.

           

            My first grievance—so tomorrow we aren’t even riding. We are not even getting on our bicycles! I average 33.2 mph on any given day. In any sort of terrain. Hills, mountains, oceans! I don’t even look for bridges. I literally ride across the water. Because my bicyclery defies physics and all sorts of laws of science. If a spry young chicken like myself does not bicycle each and every day—well, I won’t lie, it’s ugly. I twitch, I convulse. I tackle strangers. I am filled with youthful hormones and energies! WHY DOES THIS ENTIRE TRIP NOT CATER SPECIFICALLY TO ME!? RIDDLE ME THAT!

             I just don’t understand why we have to stop all the time. I mean, on this trip, we’ve seen all types of wonders of the world, such as Niagra Falls and Wal-Mart. This is unacceptable! A reporter asked me, “Liz. What is your greatest memory of this trip?” I punched him in the face. And then, standing over his pressed khaki pants, I shouted, “When you ride like Liz Gerrity, YOU DEVELOP AMNESISA!”

             I don’t want to see the vast greatnesses of America! I want to be in so much pain—such utter suffering!—that the only thing my addled brain can perceive is my Gatorskins tearing at the pavement. “I rode across America and looked at junk!” What kind of memory is that?! I would much prefer, “I CRUSHED ACROSS AMERICA LIKE A TWO-WHEELED DEMON.”

I will now take a moment to complain even more. Because nobody on this trip is sharing my exact experience and finding goodness and wholesome joy in it. Preposterous! I am the only one with hurty legs, or a sad, tired brain. Nobody else could possibly be sore, unrested, or stiff. Or else they would bitch about it as much as/more than me!

            We have four route leaders: Kathryn, Leigh, Alex Pearlman, and Geordie. Typically, (or, typically as of late) the boys take turns together and the girls do the same.

           

            They are so good. Why—they are too good. The mastery with which they complete their tasks astounds and baffles me. I feel like an inadequate human being compared to the pinnacles of their awesome. I will list things now:

            LEIGH: The way Leigh brings me packets of Kool-Aid is complete bull-shit. I cannot believe a person could be that nice. I am sure she is just full of it. FULL OF IT!

            KATHRYN: Kathryn drove and analyzed HER ENTIRE ROUTE in depth, of her own free will, on her spring break. What! Is she trying to make me look bad? She specifically did this amazing thing to bother and upset me. And not to be helpful and/or wonderful. You will never convince me otherwise. She taught me to read a map! But I am sure she taught me incorrectly so that she could follow me in the van and laugh as I became increasingly more separated from reality.

            ALEX PEARLMAN: Nobody can tell me that Alex Pearlman is trying to be a kind gentleman when he is letting me draft off of the Bike the US for MS van. FALSE. HE IS TRYING TO KILL ME. With rest and relaxation. THAT CONNIVING LITTLE MAN! Alex Pearlman is suave and excellent!  ALEX PEARLMAN IS A GEM.

            GEORDIE: Geordie might possibly be the worst of all. This man is the route leader MVP. He specifically calculates ways to one-up me in terms of preparedness and route mastery. I think that Geordie Dye lays awake at night, defining the possibilities of each day in exact proportions. Geordie makes coolers of crystal clear water appear with the snap of a finger. He drains 64 oz. Margaritas in one smooth sip! Who does that!?

STOP BLOWING ON ME

Oh, wind. Let me tell you something about the wind. The wind is like a tetherball that you satisfyingly punch only to have the thing swing back around and puree the cartilage and bones of your poor, sad little nose. Yes! The wind is the most frustrating thing in the world to me. This is how I operate: I see an obstacle, and I [attempt to] crush it with brute force. This is how my life is. I play the sword-slashy-muscled-axeman in every RPG video game. I open bottles with my teeth. It’s just what I do!

            So the wind. The way I work is so straightforward. I tell myself, “KICK THIS WIND IN THE FACE LIZ. DO IT RIGHT NOW.” and I then begin to fight nature. This is so stupid because the wind does not have biology or sweat glands, and the wind will never get tired. The wind doesn’t have knees or tendons or little parts that can stretch or tear. But in my brain, the only solution is the one that involves me pushing the hardest. If I hammer harder on the pedals, I can win the race. If I pull a little more forcefully on my sweater zipper, I can uncatch the snag. But, alas, more often than not these solutions leave me in last place with a sweater that must hang from my shoulders, forever agape.

            The little birds that live in this wind, the little black ones with the bright crimson aprons, know what’s up: they struggle for a bit into the wind, their tiny wings flapping wildly against the gusts, and then the air currents suck them upward and they turn around and fly in the opposite direction. Are they giving up, or are they just being efficient? Are they accepting reality or defeat? Or both?

            In other news, I am in a tent yet again. There is a baseball game going on outside and it reminds me of my childhood, playing softball. Except these are high school boys. So people are actually watching, and there is an announcer and the field does not look like a sad desert with dusty Chiclets hiding in the corners.

            The white team is destroying its opponents, the red and black team, and this also reminds me of my team! We were the black and red team in this scenario. An outfielder just dropped an easy pop-fly—hey! That’s me! MAN this is weird déjà vu.

            I don’t know where we’re going tomorrow—but, then again, I never know where we’re going. Heck! Half the time, I don’t even carry a map! It’s funny, because I feel like I can tell which way I’m supposed to be traveling. “It’s weirdly intuitive!” said the girl who spent forty-five minutes lost in the side streets of upstate New York.

I am sleepy. Can you tell? I am stopping now. Meow.

Some reasons why walmart tents are bad-wrong!

            So, last night, we were in Odell, Illinois’ town park. It was relatively sweet. The sun was out! Matt’s family had camped out by the swingset, and clapped for us as we rolled in! Such camraderism! Is that a word? It is now.

            Betsy, Drew, Brandon, and I were the first to reach camp—we delicately stacked our bikes along the perimeter fence, and set out to investigate the shower situation. We ventured through the painted, white brick of the pool building and found a wall with chain-activated spigots and a large sign reading, “All visitors must take a NUDE, SOAPY shower before entering the pool area!” The words, “nude” and “soapy” were capitalized for emphasis and retroactive psychological terror.

             Hm! Perhaps a shower is not so important, I thought in an attempt to lie to my dirty, dirty self. Oh, the wall of spigots. There was no way I was getting naked in that public restroom. Well-without being paid, that is!

            I eventually rubbed some soap on my head while still partially clothed. At least I could carry on the façade of cleanliness. A large group of us then went out for dinner at a bar called Richard’s Pour House—where, ironically, there were no beers on tap. Cassie made the mistake of requesting an IPA; the waitress looked at her like she’d ordered a basket of deep-fried baby puppy.
            But, more importantly, today I learned the value of expensive camping equipment. I will admit—I was  once the first to trollop through the aisles of elite backpackeries and scoff, “Hah! Eighteen dollars for this toothpick? What is it made of, adamantium?”

            Alas. The Walmart brand does not always equal, or even rival, the real product. Yes. I must sound like an infomercial. But really! Really, friends! This is for your own safety and comfort!

            The night was a mild one, I put the rainfly on my tent just because it looks neat and I like the color green.  WELL! Destiny, it would seem, was on my side. Because around four A.M., the wind became upset or something and decided to physically remove my tent from the earth. Or, maybe it thought that my tent had always dreamed of being a space cadet as a wee tarp. I don’t know! I like to find the good in things!

            So I was sleeping, and Kathryn was next to me on her little sleeping pad, also asleep. Suddenly, the tent stopped being a room and started being more of a pancake, or like, a strangulation machine of sorts. For about ten minutes, I legitimately thought I would die. But, being the Wilderness Girl that I am, I sprang into action! Yes! I grabbed hold of a tent pole and became a human stake of sorts!  Kathryn helped as well, and quite valiantly I must say. The tent didn’t like being manhandled, and it fought vigorously to be all over the ground. It was not unlike handling a belligerent drunk person.

            The tent fought with all of its vinyl-polyester might, but we were able to restrain her. Him. It. It was an awkward ten minutes of suffering. Rain peeked in through the spots in the walls where we’d leaned against the poles. Our sleeping bags winked with tiny tears. I flopped over on my pool-floaty/mattress and wished profoundly that I had spent more on a fancy tent with neat brochure-worthy features. Such as the ability to repel water, and/or remain upright.

            Anyway. Tonight, scarred by the wind and the rain and the lightning, we overnight in the Henry Harbor Inn. It is spacious and the beds are skirted in striped bedsets. I am very comfortable and dry! 

NIGHTTIME BLOGGERY

It’s fun to stay at the YMCA. No, really. I promise it is. My wonderful Aunt Mo hooked it up for the Bike the US crew yesterday—we’re talking noodles, bread, inside sleeping space! My gosh, my rustic natural instincts barely knew how to handle all of the indoor luxury!

            Today was filled with unfamiliar bits of Ohio; the ride was weirdly disparate from the nostalgic trip into Cleveland—all of my childhood haunts were gone. The only truly dependable things were the corn and the headwind. At one point, Leigh and I agreed that the wind was strong enough to knock us off of our bicycles—but not the strongest we’d ever encountered. I mean, we are champs after all.

           

            Some things that I did today that I have never done before

1) Bicycle race through a field of barley (I think, maybe.)

            So. We were pace-lining through a relatively strong headwind in Middle-of-Nowhere-Farmy-Town, Ohio. Skylar raced up to Matt and I (we’d dropped most of the group) and suggested that we take a picture thigh-deep in barley, holding our bicycles above our heads like some sort of bicycle baptism (I mean, I thought of Simba in The Lion King, but Disney has poisoned my imagination, so take that as you will). Obviously we all agreed. After the photo, Skylar challenged me to a race through the stalks; I am a glutton for challenges and accepted. We lined up—I promptly hit a pot hole (how did a pot hole get into the middle of a barley field?!)  and flopped over. Skylar was christened King of the Wheat Fields. We chose to ride away and ignore the tattoos we’d made in some poor barley Farmer’s crop.

2) Ford a river. On a bicycle.

            So when you’re biking the US for MS, you’re on a route. Sometimes you ignore the route—like when it leads you through gravelly canals, or, more pertinently, when it’s underwater. Yes. A group of us made a turn onto some tiny farm road that looked like it had maybe seen the wheels of two cars in entire lifetime—in the horizon, there was a weird sheen. A gloss. “Well, that’s odd!” A few of us said. We pressed forward. The sheen was an ocean that the rain had sown right in the middle of the road. How convenient! Some opted to walk across; I stuffed my Sidis down my jersey and clambered back aboard Sampson (my Serotta). The water was, at its deepest, about sixteen inches deep. Oh my lord.

3) Eat an entire pizza.

            I would sensationalize this too, but it sort of speaks for itself.

The long days

The long days are the weirdest. You wake up and see eighty-plus (in script, in case you don’t appreciate my long-hand, 80+) miles plotted out, waiting to be ridden,  and there is a certain expectancy. It’s almost an expectancy of pain. I don’t know if this has toothily attached to me because I race, and thusly a bicycle on some level does remind me of suffering; or because I am a whiny baby and I get scared when I realize that there’s something hard to be ticked off on the day’s to-do list. Either way—I see those big numbers and quake in my grandpa slippers.

            But then you get out on the road, and it’s buttery smooth and the hills roll gently beneath your wheels, Sure, there are uphills, but you sit your butt down and climb those things! What else can you do? Sit at the bottom?  Hardly.

32

            I think that the racing thing is pretty deep in my belly by now. I see a bike and I think RACERACERACERACCEEEEEEE. If I see that my speedometer reads under about seventeen miles per hour or so, I am immediately disappointed in myself. This craziness makes touring difficult, because I want to crush past all of the pretty lakes and mountain tops. I want my legs to burn with unholy lactic acid and I want to feel the sting of sweat pouring past the remnants of past crashes.

So—this trip is hard for me. Not in the physical sense, really, I suppose it’s mental—how do you slow down? How do you enjoy the world?

I am in a church's basement

Their fridge is filled with biscuits and cookies. I swear I am getting fatter by the second. Maybe typing can burn calories if I, like...do it with some kind of crazy enthusiasm. TYPE TYPE TYPE.

I could dance and type?

But. Really. The things I did today! Let's list them. Because this is my blog and damn it I do what I want.

1) Margee and I met several animals. They were what one might call "cool." The slickest of the barn set. There were three skittish donkeys (they ran when we tried to say hello) and Abner. Abner is a cow that jumped out at us from beneath some sort of foliage. His home was a sort of shack that was a little bit maybe decrepit and falling down. He was desperately awaiting discovery. I think. Anyway, Margee climbed over the single-threaded wire separating us from Abner's little nose and petted him. I am allergic to cows, but I had to follow suit. Abner was fonder of Margee, but who could blame him for that? I promised Abner we would return for him one day, to rescue him from his life of squalor and future of VEAL!

2) We climbed a mountain. Again! Yes. This one was called Bread Loaf, and it was steep enough that I could not turn my pedals (in the lowest gear) without standing up and heaving against the handlebars for some semblance of leverage. Boom. It was either crush to the top (AT A STAGGERING 6.5 MPH) or fall over. So I was forced to be slay. Meow.

At the top, the sweet awesome ride leaders were waiting with hot cocoa...but I didn't have a cup. So I decided to descend immediately and ALONE. Like a panther. It was sweet. I like descents that are aggressive enough to make you fear for your life--and I almost skidded out three times! That is the right kind of downhill, people!

3) We're sleeping in a church! YES, AGAIN. These church people are so darn nice. It fills me with happy fuzzies. I just want to put money in their donation plates! but I don't have any. so like, figurative money. They made us delicious spaghetti, and we got to meet Pepe (a dog) and Susie (a girl).

Now everyone is out at a bar and I am sort of by myself down here. It is a little lonely and sad and I can't sleep because I AM IMAGINING THE FUN

THINGS I LEARNED IN MAINE

            Maine was a very educational state. A few of my discoveries:

1) Airports can, in fact, double as tiny log cabins.

2) If you ask politely enough, someone will give you a lobster.

3) If you wake up early enough, you can race the rain. 

Riding has been easier than I suspected...we stop about every twenty miles and have picnics! Current food of choice: granola bars dipped in Nutella. I am waiting to become obese. 

Basically, we sleep where ever we can--in tents, on floors of hostels, in Churches--ride the allotted number of miles for the day, eat, and sleep! It is a simple existence.

I am sort of tired and can't think of anything entertaining to say, so BYE!

I HATE THE AIRPORT or SEVERAL REASONS WHY TSA EMPLOYEES ARE IDIOTS

            Well. Today is the day. Yes! I awoke to my father and brother violently puking, and my mother frantically pleading with our fancy, single-cup coffee maker to give her enough caffeine to survive through the morning. I called and cancelled plans for a goodbye-breakfast with my friend Leah and promptly began running around looking for things that a smart person would have packed days ago—toothpaste, sunscreen, etc. I hastily threw these items into a bag, and ran to the minivan. I dropped li’l sis, Charlotte off at school and broke basically every traffic law getting home.

            I took care to remove my keys (the excessive jingling might awaken my poor, sick baby bro-bro!) and ran upstairs. I lost my wallet, found my wallet, realized that I had left my sketchbook and fabulous one-dollar sunglasses at work the previous evening, and then tore out most of my hair.

            I finally arrived at the airport after driving halfway to Barefoot Beach and then, deciding that I couldn’t make it in time to catch my flight, making a spontaneous U-turn that angered most of the mid-morning traffic within a one-mile radius. I parked the minivan, patted her goodbye, and began to haul my one-thousand pounds of “essential” traveling and/or camping materials. I waddled that two hundred feet with a newfound appreciation for penguins and ducks and other gimpy-legged creatures.

            I checked my larger bag without much trouble, and then headed to security through the sterile white of the terminal. The line was, of course, overlong and being attended to by a single TSA agent, a youngish-looking girl with a frantic look in her eye. She’d reach out for tickets and I.D., if the traveler took too long, her brow would crease and her fingers would ripple, pinkie to forefinger, impatiently. I presented her with all of my official documents and half-smiled. After making sure that I was, in fact, Elizabeth C. Gerrity, she waved me expressionlessly through.

            I began to “airport strip,” if you will—belt, pocket change, shoes, and so on—placed my items on the belt, and watched the blue-shirted guy on the other side of “the porn scanner” (as conservative media so fondly refers to it). Without ever looking at me, he waved, and beckoned with two fingers. I, of course, did not beep because I am an outstanding American citizen, and why should I! I shuffled over to the opposite end of the conveyor, reaching for my computer,  shoes, and belt. But—they did not come! No! The operator woman had a smug look on her face—smug like your fifth grade teacher when she finds you reading Lemony Snicket under your jumper when you are supposed to be learning the names of the Great Lakes. Hm!

            “HOLD UP WE GOT LIQUIDS HERE!!! LIQUIDS!!!”

            Oh, God Bless America. Did I pack my toothpaste in the wrong bag? Two attendants scrutinized the thermal imaging of my pink duffel bag. “We’re gonna have to search this bag.”

            OH AND SEARCH THEY DID. The grumpy old man flung my bike helmet, shoes, Allen keys, and pedals into a grey bin. He rummaged around in my underpants until he discovered the offending items: an unopened tube of toothpaste (still in the box) and a brand new, sealed can of sunscreen. He smiled, pushed the remainder of my belongings toward me, and carried the banned substances away. Repacking my items, I noticed that the agent had not taken my brand new box of Guus—THEY ARE THE SAME AS TOOTHPASTE FOR THE LOVE OF MOSES—or a lighter that a friend had given me as a souvenir from a trip to France. Now, I don’t know about you—but between toothpaste and a lighter, I think I could do exponentially more damage with the latter. DRUGSTORE DEATHMATCH: Oral hygiene versus fire!! WHO WILL REIGN SUPREME?! Dumb.

            I am now on a plane writing this and wondering if, somehow, the overlords of air travel will intercept my complaining and arrest me for my debauchery. I will fight to the death! I just watched Mr. and Mrs. Smith on cable. Once I find a really sexy man to team up with. I will take down Continental airlines. #ITWILLHAPPEN

IT'S TWELVE OH-NINE

My flight is in twelve hours and sixteen minutes. I am not tired. I am thinking about Lady Gaga again and how my stuff is still in a pile on the floor and not neat in some sort of suitcase and I never went and bought a camera.

Maybe it will pack itself? GIRL CAN DREAM. I might start hashtagging everything because that seems like it might be the cool, hip blogger thing to do. EVEN THOUGH IT IS TOTALLY FUNCTIONLESS. #NOFUNCTIONS.

See? I am instantly more modern and internet savvy. #knowlege. RIGHT?! I can't stop #itsadisease #iwasbornthisway OH GOD

OH WOW ITS ALMOST TIME

So I leave tomorrow. My stuff is in a large pile on the floor. I should probably pack it. My flight leaves tomorrow from RSW at around 12:30, and I get to Bar Harbor around 8:45 in the evening! YES. Things that I think I am going to forget but am trying very hard to remember:
1) sunglasses. because...being blinded is a terrible thing
2) socks. i bought an extra pack of sweet on-sale biking socks, but i can't find them...maybe they are in the over-sized Lady Gaga tote bag that I tucked into my bike shipping box? I hope.
3) Headphones. I pledged to listen to Born this Way all 4,295 miles, DARN IT!

Beyond that, I am pretty excited. I know I am a monetary/fundraising failure, but I'm not ashamed! I tried! Let's see you paint 10+ custom pairs of shoes! IT IS HARD WORK, OKAY!?
Anyway. I should have charged more. I also hate asking people for money. I am a proud little girl. Although I shouldn't feel bad asking for money for this, because I can honestly say that they need it more than I do!

LIST OF THINGS LIZ DID TO GET MONEY:
1) Paint shoes. Yes! Lady Gaga shoes, burn notice shoes, dexter shoes, etc! So many shoes!
2) Spam facebook. I am sorry facebook friends, but it was time you gave me some sort of benefit in my life.
3) Spam the Florida State University email system. I think I may have made all of my classes hate me because I emailed them so often.
4) Restaurant fundraisers. I'm not going to say that these were a horrible failure, but I will say that SO MUCH WORK + uncomfortable interpersonal contact with business owners = $61. YAY THAT'S LIKE NEGATIVE FOUR PERCENT!!!! Why am I not a business major?
5) Sold my dear sweet campus cruiser. She went to a loving home, though, and I am sure I will get to see her sometimes. Sniff.
6) Grovel
7) Made free business cards! Do you know how much spam you get from those companies, by the way? I should have just bought business cards...


ANYWAY. I am going to try to buy one of those baby cameras (I think the sony bloggie looks cool, but the name is dumb enough to deter me...) and vlog semi-daily throughout the 68 days. Also, I was thinking about making a fake companion blog from the perspective of some sort of character...it would be made up and solely for the purpose of being funny. I'm foreseeing a lot of extra time in my life if we finish riding by 2pm everyday as was projected. 2pm! FINISH BY 2PM?! WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO ALL DAY.

So check back here for daily updates. YOU KNOW I'LL DO IT! Unless I fall into a ravine, or get eaten by a bear.

NUBERRI!

So the nuberri fundraiser is over...we made 31$. Um...I suck at this.

Liz Owns!!

yes! look at her crushin' up this hill!

Like Jack Kerouac...but sober. And on wheels.

So this is my Bike the US blog.
For those of you who are just jumping in now, I'm taking part in a program called BIKE THE US FOR MS! Yee haw! I'll be biking 4,295 miles from Bar Harbor, Maine to Seattle, WA to get, get, get that MONEY for MS research. I am a noble person.
Yes. I am creating it now, because my Dad suggested that I did. So here it is. Anyway, I haven't left yet, but there are a lot of logistics to get figured out:

• How to get to Maine?!
• How to get bicycle to Maine?!
• WHERE AM I GOING TO GET 4,295 DOLLARS?!
• Will there be plugs where we're going?
• Am I going to be cold?
• 4,295 miles?!

So far family and friends have been great. I'm at 57% of my 1$ per mile goal. That's a lotta moolah! I have lined up two local fundraisers with my friend and fellow BUS4MS cyclist, Savannah! She is great. Anyway, the fundraisers will be at Nuberri Frozen Yogurt (April 10th-16th) and Mr. Roboto's (April 27th). I'm hoping to get a big number of people into both events. 

Well. It's late and I should be sleeping. I will dream of bicycles. 

Goodnight!