Arizona, Nevada, and California
7.27.10 – Today was tough. We’ve reached an awkward stretch of land that seems to tessellate off into the distance. Every mile looks precisely like the last. It reminds me of how terrible cycling inside the gym can be. You pedal and pedal but don’t move an inch. Wheeler, TX appeared on the horizon like a mirage. The road we were riding on dead ended at the county courthouse that rose out of the center of town like a non-illuminated lighthouse emphasizing to travelers that yes, life actually exists out here. Tonight, like many nights of the trip, I took an hour to detach myself from our traveling commune and explore the city streets. I’ve slowly learned what I should expect on these outings – a water tower, a volunteer fire department, a few bipolar cats, locals who give me a quizzical stare, the small town newspaper, and a few shops that sell products that could only be summed up as ‘stuff.’ When I was on my way back to the church I noticed a train had been abandoned on its tracks just a few blocks down the road. While I was taking the detour a pickup truck pulled up behind me and I wanted desperately to build a giant brick wall to stop it from continuing on its way. The family inside had faces that were begging to be photographed. They were classic, piled into the front seat like an image that only existed, for me at least, in antique photographs celebrating the old west. Sadly they drove by me as I stood in silent wonder. I’m still not good at asking strangers if I can take their photograph.
When I finally circled the block back to the church I couldn’t help but take a moment to appreciate the wonderland we’ve created on this journey. It was that perfect time of day, just after dinner but too soon to sleep where we all finally have a moment to breathe.
Everyone was settling down and I felt like I was viewing life in montage, like the end of a movie that feeds you short clips to remind you that each character’s life continues moving forward in their own little pods of being. Or like that scene from Darjeeling Limited where the camera pans down the train and you see, just for a moment, into each train car and feel uplifted by the diversity of life. As I walked up to the church I passed a group of people lying on sleeping bags waiting patiently for the stars to appear while another pair desperately attempted to remember and execute some classic yoga positions. There were a few loners strolling slowly down the sidewalk speaking with loved ones and attempting to recall all of their daily adventures. When I opened the doors to the front of the church I was hit with the sharp twangs of popular country music. Two of our riders were trying to coax the two church ladies out of the kitchen so that they would join in on the ‘Boot Scoot Boogey.’ Another group was laughing and playing cards at a table while Adam setup his computer and our projector to screen Jurassic Park. Walking down the hallway I could see people passed out in various places – the nursery, parlor, sanctuary. I eventually walked in on Gillian, one of our leaders, playing the piano as beautifully as ever.
Gillian practicing in Wheeler, TX from Michael George on Vimeo.
8.3.10 – If it were possible to craft the perfect bike ride it might look a lot like today’s descent into Carrizozo, New Mexico. This morning after waking up in Roswell we were treated to breakfast at Martin’s Café, thanks to Rita, the over-the-top local who essentially had the entire town catering to our team. After scarfing down a full breakfast neatly packed inside a quesadilla we set out for the 91-mile day. After a slow but steady ascent my friend Brandt realized his spoke had busted. While waiting for the van to bring a replacement we debated how hard it would be to hike to a windmill we could see in the distance. But before I was able to propel myself over the barbed wire fence a random cyclist pulled over and struck up a conversation. We soon learned his name was Tim and he had joined up with our group last year when they came through. Once back on the road we were soon descending at 35+ mph into a valley. As the mountains slowly rose up around us I couldn’t help but feel incredibly lucky. We continued on a road that slowly winded through the valley and eventually arrived at a small white Post Office where one of our leaders had setup lunch. One of our riders, who was injured a few days ago, told us we should hike the mountain that towered over the road. Without much debate we set out for the hour and fifteen minute hike which wound up providing us an extraordinary view of the surrounding landscape. As we began to clamber down the rocks I noticed a few storm clouds forming in the distance. It was time to go. Quickly. We began a race to outrun the rain and as we’d wind our way across plateaus the clouds would open up behind us. Eventually the strain was too much to handle and we slowed our pace, taking a break at a gift shop that sold nothing but large black wooden silhouettes of various animals and cowboys. About thirty seconds after I strolled inside to find a water spigot the tin roof lit up with the sound of pouring rain. We continued on, slowly getting soaked, and passed through the small historic town of Lincoln. At our second lunch of the day we stopped inside the Smokey Bear Museum where we paid our respects to Smokey’s grave and learned the history behind the famed character. The rain had cleared and I was feeling exhausted. We still had 20 miles to go and I wasn’t ready to continue the ride up and down the mountains of New Mexico. However, just as I had a hundred times before, I took a deep breath and hopped on my bike telling myself it would all be over soon. The road began to cut sharply into the mountains and suddenly I realized I hadn’t been pedaling for more than a mile. The last leg of the ride was a 15-mile descent out of the mountains and into Carrizozo. I coasted for most of it, peering to my left and watching the cows pass quickly underneath the watchful eye of the surrounding cliffs. At one spot I was so overwhelmed by the landscape I stopped to shake off the chills and drink it in with my eyes. It was funny because I thought to myself, this might be one of the few times I’ve ever had something I would consider a spiritual moment. Soon I spotted a small hut that said, in bold lettering, Raspberry Cider. To the delight of my taste buds I soon learned that this specially labeled Carrizozo cider was crafted by an 81 year old man who refuses to let anyone near the backyard of his farm where he brews the concoction. It was one of the best drinks I’ve ever had the pleasure of chugging. Eventually the ‘ride to end all rides’ came to a close when I pulled up to Carrizozo High School with Gillian and Allison. By the time we pulled in I couldn’t wrap my head around everything we’d seen in a mere twelve hours.
8.6.10 – I’m almost hesitant to write about a place like this because its wonder can only be experienced. This morning we departed from Pie Town, New Mexico. Pie Town’s population is a meager 52 but it somehow has character as deeply resonant as New York City. After crossing the Continental Divide we arrived at what is known as the Toaster House. While I was pedaling up the dirt road I wasn’t sure what I should be looking for but just as that thought was passing between my ears an arched gate came into view that was covered in (you guessed it) toasters. I was the first to poke around the house and I got an immediate sense of history. Many travelers had passed through this place and left their hearts behind as a thank you in the form of carved stones, postcards, knick knacks, books, jackets, and printed snapshots. It was one of those moments that you arrive somewhere and immediately know that there’s something special to be learned from it. In the backyard was a chicken coop (fashioned from the top of an old VW Beetle) and a man with a large white beard and even larger spectacles stood feeding them in his overalls. To the right was a firepit and to the right of that was a pile of wood that was taller than me. A little sign on the window said “WELCOME to the toaster house Pacific side of the Great Divide. Please make your hiking biking self(ves) at home on the porch.” Cleverly, at each spot that there were double i’s (Pacific, Divide, hiking, biking) the writer added a curved underline to the bottom, which created a subtle set of smiley faces throughout the letter.
Our adventures in Pie Town were numerous. We gathered with the locals for dinner and every house we stumbled upon was a tiny piece of art. We climbed to the top of a natural dyke (“a vertical or near-vertical wall-like body of igneous rock intruded into cracks in older rock”) and watched sunset over a valley and view that made me feel spoiled to be alive. Later we gathered around the fire to sing songs, eat s’mores, and gaze at skies that were so dark it looked like God decided to empty his saltshaker into the atmosphere. I’ve never seen more stars in my life.
I left Pie Town feeling renewed. I could no longer ignore the magic that is to be found in simple living. And yet I can’t decide if I would ever be able to survive in such a place. Many of the towns we discover exist as perfect little refuges in our minds because we aren’t able to spoil them with longevity. We arrive and then we leave. I was hoping that, throughout my trip, I would learn where I belong. Since I moved to NYC I’ve never felt right. But it seems impossible to understand what it’s actually like to live anywhere when you’re blinded by its salience.
Often these towns feel trapped in the past. The locals make offhanded comments like, “I try not to spend too much time on computers. I feel like my soul is draining.” They’re detached from everything that modern life forces us to feel is important. A few years ago I decided to start ignoring the local news. When the media decided to vamp up its “fear-mongering” tactics I simply ignored the warnings of swine flu or the impending doom of the economic recession. I was no longer aware of the rapes and murders in my hometown but I was also no longer scared to simply walk outside and talk to strangers. In a similar vein, the people of Pie Town manipulate their own emotions. Some might argue that this detachment is an illusion, that they’re not in tune with reality. But they’re living and living happily which is everyone’s end goal anyway. Their Utopian bubble, unlike ours, is permanent.
8.10.10 – It’s 11:34pm and I’m sitting outside underneath a light that tonight is helping me scribble my thoughts but last night I wanted to shoot with a BB gun. We are currently in what is known as a ‘dark sky’ part of the United States, which means stargazing is a premium activity… So much so that we had what the locals call a “Star Party” last night. One of the directors of the local Habitat also happens to be an avid participant and board member of the Astronomy Club in Cottonwood, AZ. And thus the club showed up with nearly ten telescopes last night and set them up in the parking lot. As the sun set, the astronomers began their search for objects in the sky. In an instant our group became the equivalent of a sixth grade science class. There were oohs and aahs when someone would point out a constellation with a green laser beam that shot nearly 26 miles into the atmosphere. People gasped as they pressed their eyes against the telescopic viewfinder and saw a perfectly shaped Saturn, complete with rings. The crescendo of the party came when one of the astronomers pointed to a patch of sky and told us that at precisely 8:37:34pm a satellite with incredibly large solar panels would be at the perfect angle to reflect the sun’s rays at the point where we were standing. Right on cue a small speck of light appeared that slowly grew into what looked like a very slow moving sun and then disappeared as quickly as it had flared up. If you were simply staring at the night sky there’s no doubt you would believe in UFOs.
8.13.10 – We have entered a part of the country where the landscape begins to consume people, not in its wide-open expanses like Oklahoma and Texas, but in its great rock structures that erupt from the ground. From Cottonwood we traveled through Sedona on our way to Flagstaff. I visited Sedona last year and had what I’ve now accepted as a life-changing adventure. Many people move to Sedona for its spiritual qualities. Before visiting, one of our rider’s was told, “look out for the crystal people.” Looking past that stereotype it’s easy to see how people can be incredibly moved by the epic formations. When surrounded by intense valleys, rock faces, and other natural wonders it’s impossible to ignore a spiritual connection. I also think it’s a draw for adventurous types looking to conquer the intimidating structures. Last summer while walking one of the many hiking trails my friends and I discovered Bell Rock. Before we knew what we were doing we had climbed ¾ of the way to the top and made a decision to reach the summit. To be completely honest I thought I was going to die. The rock face is straight up at some points and narrows in on itself so the only way to climb up is to brace your arms and legs against the sides and essentially crawl upward. It’s also made up of smooth red rock so any handholds are crumbly and there’s nothing jagged to catch you if you fall. After reaching the top I told myself I would never do something like that again and yet there I was, almost exactly one year later, on the same rock, doing the same thing. If I could only look back at my past self to tell him “Next time, you’ll bike here.”
When we reached the summit we decided to go even higher to the smaller rock spires that litter the top of the rock. At one point you had to reach up and hold onto the outcrop above in order to shuffle sideways to the next platform. I made the mistake of looking down only to realize if I even thought about letting go with my arms I would fall backward for a very, very long time. I swallowed my stomach, which was now in my throat and made it to the top. Across the gap on a further spire we spotted a small metal box that we soon clambered over to and opened.
Inside we found a large pile of crumpled letters and a weathered journal. All of the entries were from people who had survived the trek to the top. I felt a bit sheepish when I turned the page and saw that a little girl had written, “I’m eleven and I made it!” The entries were a mix of triumph, personal reflection, and good will towards other hikers. People seemed to climb to the top in times of trouble, for celebration, and simply to marvel at the views. There were little drawings, poems, and even some religious praise. Once again I knew I had discovered something special because, as we looked back on entries as far back as 2005, I could tell that each word was written from the heart. It was like a pile of a thousand diaries hidden in the heavens, stashed away in a location reserved for the courageous and wounded.
It wasn’t long before we found ourselves at the Grand Canyon, which looked like a hologram and left me with an arresting feeling of vertigo. While standing on the edge I kept imagining myself falling into it. How long would I fall? Would I do a backflip? Could I survive? How many times would I bounce? Would I be scared? Would my arms flail? I kept looking sideways to the other overlooks where curious tourists would scooch on their bellies to the very edge. I would cringe and turn away knowing that if I continued to stare I would be scarred, standing their as I helplessly watched their final moments after they accidentally slipped and plummeted to the rocky wasteland below. After successfully ratcheting my adrenaline up to an uncomfortably high level I walked away thinking the park’s new motto should be: “The Grand Canyon – Where Morbid Fantasies Abound.”
_________
8.18.10 – I think my feet are dead. At least they look dead. The skin is crumbling away into flecks of dark hard flesh. I don’t really know what to do other than smear them with petroleum jelly and hope for the best. Regardless, my feet are a good representation of group morale lately. A few days ago we entered the desert and since then rides have been a “giant ball of suck.” The road is like a furnace waiting to cook our little bodies every afternoon. We’ve also been camping or staying at hosts with no A/C, which is fine but after a long day of riding all I want is to lower my body temperature a few degrees. It doesn’t help that with the desert comes the feeling that all of this will soon be over. Nobody’s talking about it but I can sense it when we’re all together and people show a quiet smile of contentment that says, faintly, this is perfect. We were granted access to the community pool so a group of us biked there once the sun began to set. I could sense it there as well. That itchy thing that brings people together when they know they’re about to part from one another. It was in the air but you couldn’t see it. You could just feel it in the laughs and jokes that rose out of the pool and dissolved into the air like all traces of vapor do in the deathly heat of the Mojave Desert.
8.22.10 – It seems like the end is all people talk about now. The thoughts have moved from the subconscious into the forefront of conversation. It’s over. It’s ending. We’re done for. It sucks. It’s terrible. You’ll cry. I’ll cry. “If you don’t cry, you’re an idiot.”
In an effort to buffer any thoughts of impending doom we’ve chocked the last few days full of fun events. Six Flags, a Talent Show, Scavenger Hunt, etc. It reminds me of Welcome Week for the freshmen at NYU. An exaggerated attempt at distracting people from inevitably sad emotions. The other day I stopped at a gas station and was greeted by an old man who gave me some great advice, “If it ain’t fun don’t do it.” On Bike & Build it’s very easy to live by such a motto. In real life, it’s quite the contrary.
8.25.10 – Yesterday we arrived at the Pacific Ocean. When we rolled up on our bikes, stripped off our clothes, and sprinted into the ocean I was ecstatic with accomplishment but also felt incredibly empty. As each rider, friend, and family member sped past me and crashed against the ocean waves I imagined our bodies bursting through the walls of the Utopian bubble we’d slowly created over the past few months. No longer were we safe in this traveling pod of people where everyone knows you, everyone is interesting, and everyone cares about others. Many of the rider’s family members and friends gathered with us on the beach and it immediately felt different. We were no longer Bike & Builders. I was Michael George, the student who lives in New York City and has a life full of responsibilities to return to. There was no adventure to be had the following day. No more discovery, no more salience. I was no longer biking across the country. I’d officially biked across the country.
The next day I was detaching, like we all soon would. I could see the holes in our bubble but it wasn’t destroyed yet. We had a perfect day off with a nice dinner and a thousand jokes. It already felt like a reunion. I had been so consumed by these people that I had almost forgotten about my previous life. This was all I knew, and it was about to disappear. I tried to pinpoint when in the past I’d felt like this. When I went to high school? When I lost my Dad? When I went to college? When my freshmen moved out at the end of last year? All major senses of loss, but nothing had ever felt quite like this. I think it was, once again, because I knew this experience was impossible to capture. It was special. We were blessed with a perfect group of people, countless days of beautiful weather, and we’d arrived safely. I started to remember why I had taken this trip in the first place. It was the first time in five years that I hadn’t had to worry about money, my food, my friends, and my future.
The goodbyes were strange. They came at random times. It felt, like someone said, “they had just gone to do laundry.” They would be back any minute. But they wouldn’t.
I said goodbye to one of my best friends at 2:30 in the morning. Goodbyes are easier when you’re exhausted, but a whole lot more confusing. When I woke up the next morning and it was my turn to hop on a plane I felt like you do when you leave the house and realize you’ve forgotten something of vital importance.
I packed what was left of my stuff into my little white plastic bin and taped it shut. My friends Steve and Courtney were there to see me off. I kept telling myself “you will be fine, you will be fine, you will be fine” as I waddled to the bus stop with my bin, peering backward to see Steve and Courtney waving their arms. I turned the corner and at 6:50 in the morning on a terribly foggy day in Santa Barbara California I dropped my bin onto a bench and couldn’t help but cry. Not the kind of scrunchy face, woe is me, life sucks, cry. But the kind of cry that forces out tears because your body is so swelled with memories that it knows no other way to deal with them. When I got on the bus a few people asked me why I was carrying a big white bin. I told them I had been living out of it for two months. I told them I had biked there. I told them I was about to board a plane to return to New York City. I told them stories from the trip and I felt like I was reading from one of the wildest fairy tales ever written. I felt like an old person who, in the last stretch of their life is asked to tell stories and then won’t stop talking because recalling memories is the only way for them to connect themselves to a place and time that they know is better than anything they will experience in the future.
9.4.10 – Real life isn’t good enough. Over the past week I’ve been trying to figure out what it is precisely that made the past two months seem so Utopian. Everything was pure. I was always around people I was comfortable with. It was like living with an unusually large family. Now I’m always dealing with acquaintances, professional relationships, and failed friendships. New York City is the worst place to be when you’re trying to understand closeness.
It feels cliché when I say that the trip changed my life, especially considering I’ve known for a while now that NYC will never likely be my permanent home. But I do wonder if it’s possible to ever live somewhere amongst a community like those I lived with this summer. Kelsey, one of our leaders, would exclaim every once in a while when we were doing something so insanely fun it didn’t seem fair, “This is not real.”
…
But it was. If only temporarily.
Michael George :: Sep.04.2010 :: My Photography :: No Comments »
