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!