Caveman Cycling For Earth » About

Art Gallery

charlie — Fri, 26 Mar 2010 15:51:20 +0000

Some of my arts & crafts since I left home, and a couple pieces from others.

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Selling the Bike Philosophy: advocacy evolution

charlie — Thu, 06 Aug 2009 15:49:27 +0000

When I started this bike tour, my reasons were simple. It was no high endeavor; there were no power-lunches with sponsors; no reporters were knocking on my door. I just wanted to see the world.

All these foreign places that I had only heard about, and never experienced, during my progressive, yet sheltered, upbringing in Madison – I never felt as though I had a right to share in conversations about them; any opinion I formed would doubtless be wrong, in large part or small. I have always believed in giving the benefit of the doubt – it is the basis of a non-judgemental attitude – and I try never to form opinions based solely on the words or opinions of others. One truth is elusive enough. But at least I can always trust my own personal experiences. So if I could see these places with my own eyes… if I could ride the roads, meet the people, eat the food, experience the troubles and the joys, even for a short time, well then, I would have something to say. Simple. See the world, travel, have adventures. “But why a bike?” is a common question. Don’t ask, ’cause I don’t really know. Maybe it’s too many hours sitting in an uncomfortable car, maybe it’s just a gargantuan Atlas-scoped respect for the simplicity of bicycles, maybe it’s the freedom that comes with bike touring, maybe the ecological impact of driving and flying, maybe the breakneck time-is-money convenience of car culture illness… maybe it’s even just because it’s so much cheaper to travel by bike. Whatever the reason, I always knew it would be by bike. I didn’t think, “Now how am I going to travel the world?” I didn’t start looking for cheap train tickets and flights. I thought, “Now where am I going to ride my bike?” and decided to aim as high as I could – the World. So I left, and my only real plan was to pedal around the world, back to where I started. When I reached the ocean, this plan changed to pedal and sail around the world, back to where I started. And at some point, I started really thinking about what I was doing… riding a bike all the way around the world…. To me it was simple. Natural. “But isn’t this the type of thing that people do to raise money for cancer research?” I’ve never been much of an activist, but this bike tour has a lot more potential than a simple vision quest and epic adventure for personal reasons. Sure, I believe that the best way to make the world a better place is to make yourself a better person – if I elevate myself, my own understanding and values, then everyone around me becomes elevated as well. But even this wasn’t enough – it wasn’t proactive enough, it was happening every day just by pedalling to new places. I started to feel like I was being selfish; that I could, and should, be doing more. So what then? I could pick a charity out of a hat, but if my soul wasn’t in it, it just wouldn’t feel right. I have to really care about whichever cause I put myself behind. “So what do I care about?” I asked myself. There’s leukemia, which has affected my life more than I’d care to admit, and that one might still be on the horizon. But the first thing that came to mind, without any searching or brainstorming, was alternative methods of transportation. Obviously. But how do you ride for alternative methods of transportation? Is there a society set up for it? Okay, yeah, there are probably dozens of organizations and companies making efforts around the world that I could help. But I’ve never raised any funds, I don’t know how to do it. And do I even need to? Since when is money the point, anyway? What is needed isn’t more money for bikes or facilities or whatever – what is needed, in our society of technological convenience, is awareness. Many people just don’t realize what they’re doing, because their way of life has become the norm. That generation that didn’t used to drive cars, the generation that watched the frightening auto-future envelop the world during the industrial revolution, the generation that remembered a simpler time – it’s as if that generation is no more. Nowadays, people know only that cars are everywhere, and to most, it might as well have always been this way. But in fact this monstrosity is extremely recent; so recent that it’s doubtful that even the brightest scientific minds have predicted all the ramifications. And forget the unknown future – there are many proven consequences that even non-scientific minds already know about. Yet society continues shading its eyes, chugging along, sucking the oil from the earth and turning it against the skies. I realized that I already was riding for alternative transport, just by being seen on the highway. I was already leading by example, following Gandhi’s “Be the change you wish to see in the world.” Even if one person out of a hundred sees me riding on that shoulder and says, “Why is he doing that?” I am making a difference. But I can do more – I can reach more people, open more eyes than just those that see me directly. I decided to contact the press. “I’m Charlie and I am riding my bike around the world – is that newsworthy to you? Oh, it is? Sure, I can meet your reporter…” That’s how it started. It created a conflict within me. My modesty battled with this new power. I don’t care about being famous – I could happily cycle the entire world unnoticed, I’m sure – and actually I have never bought into the whole “famous for famous’ sake” thing. But now I had to use myself, my achievements and my opinions, my virtues, my very personality, to sell something. I felt like I was pimping myself. And even with something as pure and true as bike philosophy, I wondered if I had a right to publicize my beliefs to such a degree. I don’t like making people uncomfortable. What’s more, I knew that the bike-riders, the recyclers and the organic farmers, the already-aware of the world – the people that would say “right on” – they don’t need to hear my message. It’s the people that think it’s impossible to ride your bike back home from a big grocery run, and the people that haven’t even considered the possibility of cycling to work, that would be my target audience. The ones whose perspective I want to change are of course the ones most deeply addicted to their cars and their convenience. The ones that think people on the highway riding bikes are crazy…. Despite the daunting emotional wrestling and potentially adverse reception to my ideas, I continued trying to publicize my tour. It’s worth being famous if I can get more people on bikes. But something my eco-guerrilla friend Derek told me in Florida, during my mission to find a sailing boat across the Atlantic, when I was psychologically battered and considering giving up, kept coming back to me: “It’s the critics that you need to convince, and if you take a plane or a motorboat across the ocean, that will be all they need to discount you completely.” Yes, riding my bike such long distance is impressive, but he was right – if someone wanted to ignore me(car addicts are often intimidated by me), they would find it easy to do as soon as they learned of the smallest little discrepancy in my principles. At this point, starting my international press exposure, I had already stuck it out and succeeded in sailing across the Atlantic Ocean, using wind power. But once again, I knew I could do more. My integrity, and subsequently my message, could be stronger still. Deciding not to get into cars or trucks or trains or buses was easy – I already did a whole year boycotting in 2006, and I do have a bike, after all. In Ireland, after the ambulance and the bus and all the rest of that difficult compound-fracture compromise, I swore off all motor vehicles, citing not only their ecological impact, but also their social degradation. “Cars cause loss of trust.” No more side trips in cars, no more cross-town jaunts on public transport, no more down-time speed. A world bike tourist is one thing, but a world bike tourist that won’t even get into a car? Now that’s news. The real difficulty is traveling over water, and I admit I made some compromises in this area. In Northern Ireland and Scotland, Christmas is simply not the season to go sailing, though I tried my hardest to discover and convince hardcore winter sailors. It was a no-go, unless I wanted to spend the rest of the winter waiting. Could I have done that? Sure – somehow – but in an all-around sense, considering everything, not just my mission to raise awareness and the health of Mother Earth… would it have been best? My friend Robino might say, “Hold to your principles, but not too rigidly.” Balance, in all things, even this. I am rigid about motor vehicles: so much so, that I can actually sense an acute disconnection, a widening chasmic distance, from car commuters or airline patrons. I am finding it harder and harder to remember what it’s like to live with petroleum fuel, the longer I separate myself from oil culture. Maybe this is unbalanced; maybe this constitutes “too rigid.” But I’m not so fame-hungry that I’ll let myself be driven to depression or insanity by some strict boycott in the name of publicity. In the end, as in the beginning, I just want to see the world. By BIKE!

Why letters are better than email

charlie — Sun, 10 Aug 2008 11:41:56 +0000

I feel a little bit guilty, writing now, at a lab-top computer. I only have a vague idea how it all functions; how the internet can do what it does, or how these keys, laid out in an arbitrary configuration, turn into letters when I push them. To my imagination it’s still very fantastical – I have images of green circuitboards covered in silver right angles, decorated sporadically with tiny space-station technology. It’s like a toy trainset in my mind, or a dollhouse. And then it fills with electricity. Like a dam was opened, its water flows into an intricate system of irrigation canals, bringing life to the fields. It makes getting this message to you extremely convenient, in contrast to, say, shouting, or building a signal fire. Or the international postal system.

However, it also carries a sinister sense for me. It makes me uncomfortable sometimes, not knowing how it all works, yet continuing to rely upon it. Its convenience is a little red flag, a muted alarm in the back of my head – should I really be dallying in forces beyond my comprehension, merely for convenience’s sake? What if there are ramifications that even exceed my qualms? I hear they’re importing junk computers for salvage to poisonous dumps in Ghana….
Though I cannot ignore its power, and have an immense respect for its potential to change the world for the better, the inter-web is not my preferred method of personal correspondence. Only in its undeniable, complex convenience does it compare with a handwritten letter.
First of all, a letter comes right to your house in an envelope, and probably with a stamp with a tiny picture on it! The stamp’s glued on there, and you can brush across the knobby edge with your fingertips, like fondling a masterpiece relief. The ink from the post office usually tells you a little story, with a date, and a place.
Opening the envelope is like tearing into Christmas giftwrap. Some do it neatly, and reservedly fold the paper respectfully to retain every memory; some rip and rend the wrapping to tatters, and relish in the mad liberation of a coveted prize. They even make decorative knives for opening paper envelopes. Knives!
Now you’ve got a letter in your hands. Perhaps a little token fell out of the envelope with the letter; maybe a doodle, a sticker, a coin; maybe a dried flower, or even a check. Maybe you hold up the envelope and flex its creases to get a good look inside, to see if there’s anything else in there. Maybe the letter is upside down in your hand at first, or maybe the back page is facing you; maybe you can catch a glimpse of the signature, like going to the last page of a novel first.
The handwriting is unique. Like the tiles of a mosaic, even all the same letters of the alphabet aren’t perfectly identical. Maybe you recognize the style immediately, and it brings a hormonal sense of comfort or excitement to you across the miles. It could be so messy you have to decode certain words via context. There could be blotches of ink that soaked through the page during a moment of intense thought; or squashed mosquitos mixed with the actual blood of the writer; or crossed-out words and evidence of erasure. Spaghetti stains or coffee-mug rings. It could be thick, grainy, watercolor papyrus, or it could be nigh-transparent, delicate rice paper. Maybe it’s folded in an interesting way. Maybe it’s written on the back of some pertinent publication.
Perhaps it’s just a quick note, torn from a journal, and enclosed hastily with the real piece of post. Or perhaps it’s a personal letter, filled with emotions and risky secrets, charged with the adrenaline of trusting it to the postal system. Perhaps it’s been crumpled into a ball, then straightened out and mailed after all. Perhaps it’s a love missive, the only copy in existence….
In fact there is no limit to what your imagination can do inside(and outside) that envelope. Email, which to my dismay seems to be taking over the correspondence industry(for some, utterly completely), can boast only a decisive efficiency – even the same message, a letter or a poem or a thank-you, would lose its personal effect when transferred to text, this mind-boggling, alien series of ones and zeros. No digital font could compare with penmanship. No emoticon could compare with a doodle.

Make no mistake, however – I recognize and respect this modern method of communication. I make pretty heavy use of it, actually, and beyond that nagging sense of discomforting mystery, I can’t complain too much. And the results are spectacular – here I am, in a town whose name I can barely pronounce, six time zones from home, composing a message that I’ll be able to send instantly to dozens of my friends and family all over the world. And in this message, I have been able to state my personal views; I have imparted a modicum of unique style to it. And it will tell a story.
“I once crafted an address book. It was a cute little thing, with crooked, uneven pages, on which I could only write in tiny block characters. It was frankensteined together from my previous batik-print address book(which was too big), some printer paper, and a grip of black thread. It was of no minor practical and sentimental value to me, and it served and comforted me well for many months. I was slowly filling it with new friends and interesting connections, entries that held whole stories within their allotted three lines. It had a place of honor in my cargo pocket, next to my quick-quote notebook, wrapped in a red armband, all day, every day. It had a place of respect in my mind, and ranked high against the rest of my gear.
This priceless, “home”-made relic was lost to me, while traveling across the mighty hills of Cornwall. The last time I saw it, I was in one of those famous red British phone boxes in Looe, getting final directions to Windsworth, but I swear I remember mindfully replacing it in its usual spot. Yet when my stay at Windsworth came to an end, and I was re-packing all my pockets, it was nowhere to be found. Nowhere – I painstakingly retraced all my tracks. It was neither in nor out on either side of the roads I traveled since then; it was not anywhere inside or around the phone box, nor had it been turned in to any of the nearby businesses. It may be in the rubbish bin somewhere, it may be swept under some kleptomaniac’s rug, or it may be in the belly of a small inquisitive terrier named Sam. It was a hard loss, but one from which I should be able to recover, if only my friends and family have read this far….”

August 10, 2008

Populatechnolog and Decree

charlie — Sun, 03 Feb 2008 05:38:11 +0000

It was the Wright brothers, those enterprising Ohio bike dudes of history, that discovered a way to keep airplanes in flight. They believed that flight technology would make wars of attrition obsolete – a noble scientific aim. But the inventor of dynamite, the inventor of the machine gun; they too believed the same thing of their own never-before-seen technological accomplishments. High hopes for the cutting-edge geniuses of our progress-hungry society.
Of course the airplane only changed the face of war – to something more expensive, more demanding of resources – it did not reduce the casualties of war. Technology, by its very nature, is complicated, and tends to require continual advances, in a snake-biting-its-own-tail relationship, akin to how alcohol tolerance requires increasing doses to get you drunk.
Flight technology brought the way we travel, for whatever purpose, to a new level, the world over. They say that once the human race imagines that something is possible, it achieves it. Knowledge follows imagination. Flying machines have made it possible for us to imagine ourselves as larger than this Earth, able eventually to leave the atmosphere on titanium wings, able to use the depleting natural resources of this planet to find other planets untouched by, and ready for, our industrious spirit.
The invention of the airplane was probably inevitable; and though it portends, as one of the most earth-shattering discoveries ever made, an escalation of our consumptive appetite for progress on a galactic level, a wasteful decommissioning of less ravenous technology, and the death of a certain way of life in the name of convenience, I cannot say I wish it had never happened. Progress seems to be an attribute intrinsic in humankind, trailing on the heels of population growth like an eager squire; and since I consider myself part of the human race, I cannot protest too strongly to the advancement of our technologies. Indeed, many lives have benefited.
Yet I still feel the urge to resist. I’ve got a spirit that yearns for simplicity, for a time before e-mail conquered my beloved hand-written letter, before all the suffering caused by the popularity of automobiles, before the advent of all these complicated machines with even more complicated demands. The Earth would last forever if we had never found a way to stay warm with wood, a way to remain free with guns, or a way to travel fast with oil. But such hindsight is moot; these technologies were invented, and similar technologies will continue to match our exponentially increasing population. Unless we as a global race of humans find a way to plateau our virus-like sprawl, ever-newer technology will always be our savior.
Indeed, we’ll need it, just to survive.
I’m sure once we’re being forced to colonize other planets, abandoning Earth like cockroaches from a dilapidated house under demolition, I’ll have nothing to say about all this; I’ll give up when it’s too late. But it’s not too late to tincture the progress of technology with temperance; it’s not too late to look back. It’s never too late to learn from our mistakes.
And so, during this World Bike Tour, I reject the notion of commercial flight.
Postponing arguments as to what’s less environmentally destructive and further discussion of the “whys” of our modern culture of convenience, I hereby vow not to succumb to the ease of flight technology. I am riding my bicycle in lieu of driving or riding in a car; and now, across distances where a bicycle cannot be ridden, I will endeavor to take ships instead of planes. I will remain as close to our Earth as I can, utilizing alternative methods of transportation only. Even if it amounts to months of delay…

The Origin of Insanity: a tour’s incubation

charlie — Mon, 03 Sep 2007 06:04:27 +0000

Somewhere in the last year, sometime amidst the craziness that is my regular life, my subconscious slid across a nebulous threshold, and on my behalf it decided: I would travel soon. It began as little pecks on the inside of my skull; hints of this wisp, this not-put-in-words-yet, this leap. The idea scratched to get out in the dark moments: when I was struck with loneliness, when I experienced loss, or when I examined the skeletal shadows of my life.

As my intellect began to form itself around this embryo growing inside it, I mused on where I would aim for. “How high do I want to reach?” I wondered. “My own success will not frighten me,” I replied, and the seed of the World was planted in the imagination-rich recesses of my thoughts. This idea a kernel now in my mind, its maturation was given direction. Basic building blocks added weight. But still it remained on the fringes of my reality, a deniable escape route for the indeterminate future, a fantasy of adventure glimpsed only from the periphery. Despite the as-yet incorporeal composition of this tugging in my mind, I became aware of the presence of the bicycle; aware that the bike had been there, growing with it, from its very conception. In every wet dream of exotic travel, there was a bike between my legs. It was assumed; no other option even occurred to me. I guess some trips evolve into flight plans and car rentals, and some grow up to be ditch-camping bike tours. It’s in the genes of the thing. Eventually, after much fantasizing and daydreaming, I found it had developed too far to be contained any longer. With an audible power, it wrenched itself from my subconscious: “I will ride my bicycle around the world.” And as I spoke this into the universe, I felt momentum accelerate; I was going over the crest of a hill, with a great view of the world below. A shift in perspective. When those words passed my lips, suddenly I was regarding it realistically. No longer an internal figment that I can choose to abort, now the bike tour was looking serious, determined to hatch before the next snow. So, come hell or high water, I was going to ride my bicycle around the world. Even if I wasn’t prepared, I would leave. Some few major things were necessary(passport, bike), but as for the remainder of the infinite preparations one could make, I’d just have to do my best before I leave, or I’d still be stuffing sacks and studying maps when I’m 64. Not having a particular comfort, or even being injured or in danger, and not being prepared for it, can be hell. But suffering on the road is something I know I can handle. Moving backwards, and reneging on my declaration – now that just can’t happen. Even pushing it back to next spring would taste like failure. But is it worth it? This stubborn integrity, could it be the death of me? I may find that a little more research, just a little more, would have saved my tour. Ah, well, roll them dice Charlie – at least it will be an interesting story. I didn’t leave everything up in the air, however. I already had a passport, so that left the bicycle as priority number one. I’d need time to ride, to work out the kinks, to get to know the bike before committing to such an important union. I see a lot of bikes come through the shop. I fix them all; road bikes, tri bikes, mountain bikes, cross bikes, kids bikes, hybrid bikes, cruiser bikes, BMX bikes, 3-speed bikes, fixed-gear bikes… and once in a while, touring bikes. I have blessedly expansive exposure to the full spectrum, and the option to play with almost anything I see. I choose touring. That’s my sport. I don’t have to request off of work every Sunday to race the mountain bike circuit- I’ll just save up and just before winter rolls around I’ll take a leave of absence for a few years. But I need the right bike first…. Many of my co-workers take full advantage of pro deals and employee purchase programs, owning ten bikes or more. I would love to have such a fortune, but saving money has never been my strong suit, and even at 40% off, a good touring bike would cost a full paycheck. I salivated over the bike I wanted while wanderlust slowly infiltrated my chest. I saw people buy the same model and take it home, while I’m stuck with my fixie. I did tune-ups on these bikes that had been out on tours, feeling the need for something more appropriate than my old mountain tourer. I “test-rode” the floor model all the time, and perched like a vulture whenever anyone bought a touring bike from us. I built several out of the box as well(at my shop this is a very comprehensive process), learning the tiny intricacies before I even had my own. I knew it would be mine. Finally, as a particularly green-scented spring bloomed, with my 28th birthday around the corner, I decided to let the other bills slide for a month, and ordered it. I built it at the shop on my birthday and installed a cyclometer, and the next day took it for its first ride. It was glorious! My alley bike was put in the basement with the mountain bike; it was all touring break-in from then on. Time wore on, into the summer. I found myself picking up reasons to leave with increasing frequency. Not that my relationships or circumstances weren’t still fulfilling, or even enviable; but some things happened, some people got hurt. Myself among them. I usually try not to run from my problems, since, well, you know. But I must admit, ‘escape’ is on the same list of reasons as ‘quest’ is, if not quite as high. Dysfunctional? Sure, why not. I also realized I needed to defend my crazy idea, so vulnerable in its early stages of life. I would say, “Yeah I’m gonna ride this bike around the world,” and most people did not believe. Perhaps I could have been more convincing, but I think it’s just the nature of such an adventure – “I’ll have to see that with my own eyes.” Well, you will. Gaining confidence now, eyes fully open to the world, the plot transformed into a plan. My first route was mapped on the glass display case at work with four colors of Sharpie and a hazy recollection of world geography. Set into my mind that day at work, it was a first impression that I always went back to. East into the rising sun. In order to be properly immunized, I had to narrow down which countries I would be going to. I gave the doctor my best guess, and added a few to be safe. I was dosed with antibodies of rabies, yellow fever, Japanese encephalitis, polio, typhoid, and hepatitis, and filled a scrip for various malaria meds. “This will make your arm sore for awhile, and you’ll feel sick for a day or two,” intoned the nurse practitioner. Over and over, and over. So many shots. And then there was money, I’d need money. Hmm. I could save up, so I could purchase what I need to stay on the road, and maintain my self-reliance. I could join a cause or get a sponsor and ride off of donations, turn it into a charity ride. Or, I could stray cat my way across the world, stealing to eat and charming old ladies for a warm place to sleep. I’ve been ignoring financial planning as much as usual, irresponsibly trusting it will work out. Now it’s looking like it will be a mixture of the three, though this part of the plan, like most parts, remains flexible. In fact, most things are still up in the air, to be decided much closer to their actual occurrence. I won’t look at a map of Illinois until I’m a day away. I don’t even want to know how I’m going to get across the Atlantic Ocean – I’ll just go to the dock and see someone about a boat. Does that sound crazy? Sounds a little stupid to me, but it’s crazy, not stupid. I will get across that ocean. I’ll find a way across the Pacific too, and that little task will probably be carried out in a country for which I do not have the native language. I can’t wait. Now it is September, and the winter is around the corner. I sit on the verge, almost completely consumed by this tour. It is so very large now! Hard to believe it was once just a twinkle in my eye. The process was always exhilerating, from motivation to implementation. Soon I will be alone, on the road, all things familiar left behind, with nothing but light-weight mementos to keep me company. I wonder… ah, so many wonderings, it really is time for me to fly, to just get out there and do it. I depart on the 15th of September, 2007. Shall I weep a tear for the wind, or shout at it to bring the thunder? Shall I whip the infidels, or show them the truth of their folly? Shall I speak another charm, a ward for balanced pain? What shall become of my soul’s deep desire, my love, my joy? Shall I claim the wretched’s prize? We’ll see. We will see. Crazy?!? I’ve come to the right place then.