So i am filled with weird feeling today. I am filled with endorphins, as I am now doing 2-a-day VO2 intervals and my existence is marked by suffering. But in a good way. Every time i go out, i just pretend that I am battling with the forces of evil and I must crush them or resign all that is good and nice to an untimely destruction. It is empowering.

But it is so easy to see an article like THIS one and feel like everything is just a waste of time. If Emma Pooley can't keep herself on a team, what is there for a little lizard to reach for?

It is easy to say it is unfair. It is easy to quit. But I cannot. What else is there?

Up on my wiggle.

Meow, my friends! Do you get the title? Like...up on my grind?! DO YOU?

Today is yet another day in a series of days that have all become mostly the same, but also different. I find this comforting, the pattern of it all: Get up. Insert caffeine IV drip. Crush. Go to work. Drive around in a golf cart. Rescue lost dog named Mowgli. Knock self out with Melatonin. Repeat.

Since Mr. Scot of bicycle house advised me to stop eating corn syrup, I've lost like...15 lbs! That's practically the weight of a fat baby. Or....Don Pedro. To be fair, he also said to stop drinking 5 beers every weekend night. TRUE WISDOM!!!!! When I finally reach my birth weight, my power to weight ratio will be like...10,000 watts per kilo. I will be unstoppable, like Robert De Niro in Cape Fear. (Imagine a lizard hanging from the undercarriage of your car....BWAHAHAHA.)

So I am currently in the training. Yes. It is fun. There is a calendar, constructed by my marvelous coach Mr. Brady Irwin, of the great and wonderful Science of Speed, filled with boxes of activities. I simply do the activities and transform into a monster. I can say "Sorry, I cannot go eat crepes with you, I have to go put in 80,000 more miles," to people finishing the group rides. The look of confusion they give me is glorious and empowering.


It seems that with this sort of lifestyle, it is impossible to see other humans simply because my whole day is blocked into little sections like a jenga tower. I found this frustrating at first, but then I started talking to my bicycle, and now I live in the pointy part of Maslow's pyramid. OR DO I?! 


Work is truly soul crushing, but I use the time i am not on the golf cart screaming at children to get out of the pool to work on my masterwork of fiction that shall become the next children/adult craze. IT. WILL. SWEET LORD, if only one did not need money in order to bicycle. I swear, I feel my soul being plucked out like a little eyebrow hair, follicle and all, SO SLOWLY EVERYDAY ASDSADG.


When I am wealthier than God, I am going to make some company design me a bike and call it either "Lizard Whip" or "The Wiggle." Tour of the elk grove is in 9 days, and little charlotte and i shall depart in the trusty minivan in 7. 


Also, I got a large pile of Gu items from the amazing Promotive.com today. FREAKING YAY. Here is a picture of my new socks:

Bad bad bopping spokes

Hello, my bicycling minions.

Today was a first in my bicycle handbook, and a terrible first indeed. Like the first christmas you realize  Santa is actually your mother and an embarrassing facial hair thing.

Yes. I broke a spoke. My easton wheels now fill me with negative emotions such as terror, horror, nightsweats, and hallucinations.

I began the day at the buttcrack of dawn, joining the naples velo crew. We were to go peel around Olde Naples at breakneck speeds, head east back towards the Gerrity palace, and then loop up to Bonita and back to the Naples Cyclery for the Tour. And a cookie, for the weak and gluten tolerant.

The mornings in South Florida are not nice so much as they are bearable, but next to the prospect of going out riding during the heat of day, they seem comparatively divine. After 8 AM, Naples becomes a bog.

I am saying this as a preface to my woe; the group ride split up/I was dropped and humiliated don't look at me after about two hours. Me and my new buddies Leslie and Kurt decided to make a Walgreens stop (GATORADE!!!!!! I'm plugging Gatorade.) and then they headed back to the shop to watch Peter Sagan's butt menacing all the civilized world in full HD. I still needed another hour and a half before I reached my 3.5 hour quota....and so on I went. Into the bog.

I think the sound is the weirdest part about riding in naples--not because it's trafficky, but because it's just Naples. It's a combination of weird bugs shrieking and elderly drivers laying on their horns when they notice a bicycle in/on/near the street. I went along at a modest clip, as my soul had just been thoroughly crushed.

 Then--! suddenly! my tire was trying to make out with my fork! LIKE GROSS PDA MUCH. So I stopped, cursed my life, and noticed a spoke dangling from the hub, cleanly cut from the little indenture at the rim side. WHY. WHY DO TINY NINJA SWORDSMEN CURSE ME.

So then I sat there. HM. I said. How convenient for this to happen when I still need to put thirty minutes in. Is the world convinced to see this lizard fail? Maybe. I took off my shoes and resolved to walk to the nearest bike store...five miles south.

But I then realized that Don Pedro was more gimped than I had guessed at first measure! I couldn't just roll the bike next to me, it was too out of true. So i picked him up and saddled him over my shoulder, in the style of firefighters rescuing children, or a sack of potatoes. And so it began.

Just kidding, that got old after like three squares of concrete. I got out my phone and called my mother.

"MOM PICK ME UP," quoth the lizard.

"Oh dear, we're already to the Charlotte airport...."

Ironic, because it was due to the braininess of my little sister, also called Charlotte, that the pair were in the car speeding off toward Gainesville being wooed by the Gators. I needed a new plan.

"I AM HANGING UP, MOTHER." Lizard resolve, level nine.

I called my dad. He did not answer.

"I will just call my friends!" I said. I looked at my phone. I looked up at the sun. I looked back at my phone. I dialed my father a second time.

"Dad," I said "Can you come pick me up?"

"I gotta jump in the shower!"

I could not respond to this, and so resolved to die on the side of the road. But wait! There's more!


This is the moment a nice woman named Tina rode up next to me and took pity on my plight. She called up her husband (I think....?!), Mark, and bade him come collect the sad little creature she had found. And come he did, with his Ford F-150. It was even white.


 I was like, "you are my knight in shining Ford F-150!" and Tina was all "BACK UP OFF MY MAN." 


Just kidding, that didn't really happen.


So that is how I ended up barefoot in the truck of a total stranger. Um. See, my thing is, how can I trust these wheels again!? When it really comes down to it...and the sizable real estate that is my butt is balancing on my 15lb machine...they could just POP OFF. When that day comes....I will tell you all of my asphalt facial. 


UNTIL SOMETHING ELSE HAPPENS TO ME,


adieu. 

I'm going to start writing in here more because college is over, and I am a real live adult and I do what I want.

So i woke up today, and I said "HM! HOW CAN I BETTER SERVE MY BLOG FOLLOWERS (all nine of you)!" Note that I said it, and did not ask it, because the Lizard knows all and asks nothing.

ANYWAY, I decided I would tell you all the recipe for a magical smoothie. Yes. It is filled with ingredients. One might even say that it is more like a little liquefied creature than a fruity drink. Yes, you can call him fruity. He is secure in his sexuality.

So here it is.

LIZARD SMOOTHIE OF GREEN POWER AND ORGAN FURY!!!!!!!!!!!

(the exclamation points are part of the title, so you must shout the smoothie's name whenst you refer to him)

STEP ONE:
Get dat blender.
       This is an integral step. Your veggies are not going to puree themselves.

STEP TWO:
Get them bananas.
       Just one actually. Peel that thing.

STEP THREE: Other vegetables.
       Put in some kale. And some other green things you would normally look at and say "That is what food eats." EAT IT, WEAKLING. also, add a lemon. And the secret!? CINNAMON. put it in. DO NOT QUESTION THE LIZARD

STEP FOUR: some fruity junk
      Now you can put in any fruit that you like. DO IT. You need vitamins, little nugget! I like mango. Generally just add whatever you like.

STEP FIVE: put some liquid in there! and ice!
     because if you just try blending dry things, your blender will catch fire or explode. trust me,  I KNOW.

STEP SIX: taste it
      is it disgusting? if you said yes, slap yourself and apologize to the smoothie. If you said no, then get a straw and drink that thing.

Sometimes, i put protein in it too, but be warned, this will make the smoothie revolting no matter what is in it! TRULY REVOLTING, the taste of yucky fruit milk! I am not lying.

ENJOY!!!!!!

Love,

A person with happy organs

SPEEDWEEK: Athens Twilight

            TODAY! What a day, great in the way that puppies are great, or a sandwich is. You know that feeling of starvation—the glucose levels are crying, and then that savior sandwich slides down your esophagus.

            A strange metaphor, but yes, that was today.

           

            I had not raced a bicycle since the Brevard Criterium, a soul-crushing affair. But this was a new day, a new race, with (some) new bicyclers. ‘Twas time to crush.

            Dear old dad picked me up from my dorm this morning, and we hit the road around 10 am. The drive went quickly; stopping for charming diner food didn’t hurt, either.

            We checked into the Fairview Hotel in Commerce, GA (slightly out of the way, but this place is a glorious palace) and headed to the racecourse around five o’clock. I drank hotel coffee and prepared for glory.

            The amateur finals were going off just as we parked; it did not take long to discover that most of Athens was more enamored with booze and funnel cakes than they were with chiseled, hairless man-legs and the thrum of Madfiber wheel sets. Fools!

            I made my way to registration—more trying than it might sound, since most of the spectators seemed like they had been pregaming for Terrapin Twilight since birth. I discovered that I had not been registered…like the reject that I am. But no matter. I killed them with politeness. AND THEY OBEYED. I was number 260.

            By now, it was nearly six. My race was to begin at 7:45. I decided it was as appropriate a time as any to begin the pre-race scurrying. The first order of business: spandex. Put that junk on. Check. Next, dowsing. It is truly absurd that these high-calibre races supply beer more readily than water. I was forced to break into the Hilton Garden hotel, fully-kitted, bicycle in hand.

            “Hello, hello,” I said, squeezing past patrons. “Don’t mind me.”

            They did mind—but the trick is to smile and run to the water fountain before they can summon a burly man to kick out of the building. I did this like the stunning, lime green professional that I am.

            My warm-up consisted of riding up a parking garage for about thirty seconds, and then descending the same length back to the ground floor. 7:25, now. I gave faithful dad my second bottle to hold after drenching most of my head. 7:30.

            My Kenda comrades were aligned in the staging area that had been arbitrarily decided by the various riders mulling about. We were one of the largest teams, putting six riders into the mix. I must become stronger, so I can be a better work slave for them.             BUT I DIGRESS.

            So it was the six of us, hanging about. I recognized several friendly collegiate faces, including the lovely Pepper Palace ladies and Steph from King…joy! I felt less like a lone warrior. Which may or may not be a good thing. Some official men then announced that we all HAD to go sign in at the Muscle Milk Tent SO HELP US GOD; I was filled with dread as there were only eight (eight! how paltry!) minutes until we were to begin. I wailed as I rode next to the Olympians running their Terrapin mile (and 5k!). Let me tell you, it was the most frantic sign-in of my life. Perhaps, of all time. I am not one to judge such matters. I scribbled LIZ GERRITY in an empty block (because, of course, I was not registered and thus had no actual space) and then picked my bicycle up and ran back through the barricades.

            By now, everyone was stacked along the starting line. I chose a humble spot on the inside, anticipating the first turn. Call ups happened, I cheered obnoxiously for the big names of Ladies cycling (including Kenda’s own Kathryn Clark!).

            The announcer, the same from Delray Beach, said something along the lines of “GOOOOOO LADIES!” and we all vaulted forward. My foot caught pedal at first try—an excellent sign. And then, we were off. The goal was to ride conservatively, smoothly. I remembered the redline sufferfest I put myself through at Delray, braking at every turn. This time, Don Pedro carved through those apexes like a knife! A SHARP, SHARP KNIFE.

            I dangled sort of near then end, that point of the race where you turn around and realize you’re the back of the peloton and you’d best not dillydally, sunshine. I refused to brake through the turns. I pedaled like the leggy beast that I am. It was turning out splendidly.            

            Riders were being trimmed each lap, like fat from some unfortunate Thanksgiving turkey. I could see three teammates upfield, and knew I should be there too. Manuvering, though….is so hard….I mentally ticked through things I could improve: Cornering, bike handling, sprinting, acceleration, tactics and now teamwork. I am supposed to be a super domestique…or at least, that is how my collegiate friends insult me when I attempt to sprint. Today I behaved like Mark Cavendish. Sit in. Do ...very little.

            Riders between me and the superstars (Erica Allar, Debbie Milne, etc. etc.) began exploding, some in the fashion of fireworks displays, others, IEDs. I realized at this moment I had not ridden aggressively enough through the halfway mark. The wheels I’d be following would slow, and I’d have to jump through. Girls would break through the corner, then another jump. There was a slight incline after corner two; this was where I finally stuck to the back of the “main” peloton.

            Aerobically, muscularly, I felt fine. I could hear the announcer, reach leisurely (okay, maybe not leisurely) for my bottle. The announcer called three to go, and it was time to jockey for position.

            I began doing just that, moving closer to the front (as close as I could, with all the turn-braking that was going on). There was a prime on the second-to-last lap, I shot through the turn and held onto the wheel in front of me. We glided through turns one and two, and launched up the slight incline on the backside for a fortieth time. But I was doing it! I was moving up! And then…ON THE LAST LAP several riders clattered to the ground.

            “EEEEK.” I cried, rather unheroically. I swerved, unclipped, squealed some more. I saw my teammate Melissa on the ground. To stop blinked through my mind momentarily, but to do so safely was not an option. I remounted, trying to preserve momentum.

            I was about the last rider safely through the residual gap, but I monster crushed for the benefit of my lizard pride.

            In the end, I finished 25^th, feeling like I had a lot more matches left to burn. The difference between Sampson, god rest his soul, and Don Pedro is truly ridiculous. Or maybe I have just been riding more consistently. Either way, I felt like a leggy stallion.

            On that note, I leave you, faithful blog followers. EXPECT UPDATES ALL WEEK!!!

with love,

your bicycle lizard

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.