So, want to swing this by you, just because its been on my mind and the olŽman just sung a lyric Žwe’ve all been burnt before, we all know how it hurts, but if you hide, youŽll never make it out alive…’ or something… anyway
quŽelle est ton trajet? Which direction do you plan on heading in from mastricht? Only that we are not so far away from eachother, and i was looking at the map and thinking i could do a little round trip ride from frankfurt to the border or nearby, if you were heading south. I think the sense and sensibility thing to do would be to leave our chapter closed… but i dont much feel like being sensible, so if you somehow want to figure into a plan that figures me into it too… make love under a blanket of stars for one last time and dream together a little more… let me know. If not, i more than understand… just putting it out there. The idea of seeing you without a beard! Goodness gracious!
In my mind, as in my reply, there was really no question. As soon as I read it my imagination exploded and my heart started reaching. Paul regarded the news with a wise knowing grin – he had been a “follow the girl” advocate from the beginning. Little did I know just how drastically the “plan” would change.

Suddenly I was rushing again! But this time it was to meet the woman I was in love with – which makes it all okay. Right? Well I can’t think of a better justification, and, as it would turn out, I was only rushing to slow down….

I tried to use a super-detailed xerox map to get to Germany, but in the Netherlands it really isn’t necessary to try and avoid heavy traffic; there are separated bike paths everywhere. After following some gravel farm roads and dirt hiking trails, a pleasant waste of my afternoon, I jumped on the direct roadside bike route to Aachen and the border. I met three girls who had decided on a lark to go camping on their bikes – the type of thing seen only in the Netherlands.

My body, after a week or more hanging about eating and drinking, did not agree with rushing. After one particuarly long hill (a sign I was close to leaving the Netherlands) I overheated and was forced to take a break. But while I was laying there waiting for the hydration to kick in and the stomach to calm down, I noticed a poetic-looking abandoned train track leading into the wilderness, which of course reminded me of Lily. Back on the bike, boy!

The hills had come back into my life with a vengeance. By the time I reached the Rainbow Gathering, I knew it would be a close call to reach Lily by Friday at 3 pm.

I missed the sign for the Gathering but a nice fellow named Twin at the parking lot asked me, “Are you looking for Rainbow?” I said yes, and he gave me a big hug with the words, “Welcome Home.”

Welcome home?!? How could you be so insensitive! Don’t you realize I already have a home, and Imiss my home, and I can’t even imagine anywhere replacing my home???

I admit this line of thinking was an over-reaction, but suddenly I realized this Rainbow thing might not be for me. At least not right now…. I mean, I was really just being a tourist, stopping for one night. I wanted to check it out, I’ve heard a lot about the Gatherings — my sister met her husband at a Rainbow Gathering. And I love hippie stuff like that, hugs for strangers and everyone is welcome. But I wasn’t prepared for a serious experience; my mind was elsewhere. I guess this tinctured my reaction a bit — when dude said “welcome home” to me, I actually felt a little insulted. Gee, I guess I really do love Wisconsin!

The Rainbow Gathering was about how I pictured it – a gorgeous river valley setting, one huge circle of hippies holding hands and singing about love, a misty tent village with lanterns glowing amidst the silhouettes of pine trees, a woodfire-heated bathtub on the river bank, nudists chopping firewood in the rain, a massive music jam in the teepee with offerings of India chai and Dutch joints, and one crazy old German Rainbow dude, naked except for his huge white beard and his bronze tan, jumping over the bonfire and yelling what I assume were jokes at the top of his lungs. Yep, this was hippie heaven, just respect the natural spring source and Hey we need people to help carry ash to the shit-pit! I could totally see my sister falling in love at a place like this.
When I arrived, the dinner circle had already started, so with a wistful glance at the deserted welcome tent (I had some questions about the whole deal), I awkwardly joined the party at a random spot. As they came around with the big pot of soup I noticed they were being very careful about sanitary feeding procedures – good to know. I ate as much as they would give me, ravenous, eagerly hungry, raising my hand “yes I want a mandarin” until the buddhist guy switched to English and told me the fruit was for the children only. But I’m a kinder too! Thankfully my hunger impressed the people around me and they handed me a couple oranges.
After dinner I went back to the welcome tent. It was still empty, just a smouldering fire, a teapot, and a couple cushions under the sagging tarp. I sat down to wait for someone to come – I really wanted a welcome. I felt lost; the first question I had was “Is this anarchy?”
But nobody came to enlighten me. In fact the only people that passed by were newcomers, and after the first group returned my smile with extra warmth I realized they thought I was the welcomer! So I did my best to answer questions and make people feel welcome – though I didn’t say “welcome home.” I even got to be the first to welcome three people arriving by bicycle! Their flute player was really interested in the long pocket on my drive-side Arkel pannier.
Eventually one of the naked woodchoppers came over to put his clothes back on, but by then I had come to my own conclusions. Yeah the email said to leave your electronic devices at home, but people use flashlights. I could put my tent wherever there was space. It’s a hippie gathering, no need to wait for someone to tell me the rules!
The next morning I got to be a part of the whole food-circle phenomenon in full new-age spirit. It took about an hour for everyone, about a hundred people all told, to gather in the big open lawn around the main fire pit. We held hands and chanted love and peace for what seemed like a little too long – I was starving again – but I suppose it was like, “the song continues until the time is right.” I can dig that. Only the little kids and the crazy old man were doing their own thing, making faces at each other. When the time was right we moved to stage two, chanting with our hands over our heads, as a kiss on the cheek was passed around the circle a couple of times. When this petered out everyone bowed to the ground for a long time, offering thanks and respect to mother earth and her humans. Then, finally, everyone sat down on the damp grass and the hippie cafeteria vibe took hold. Another twenty minutes and the meusli was brought around, by which time I had mentioned how hungry I was enough times for my neighbors to have given me personal stocks of apples and chocolate. Thank you beautiful people!!!

I wrote in my journal and met some nice people, but I had to leave that day, with just enough time to meet Lily. Robin hadn’t showed up – I don’t blame him, he’s been on an intuitive slow-travel when-the-time-is-right tip for a long time – so I left my happy birthday wishes on the message board by the entrance and saddled up.

Up. The Gathering was located at the bottom of a valley, which meant a serious climb UP to continue on my way. No big deal, really… it’s not as if that was the last hill on this little adventure. In fact the roads in that part of Western Germany are all steep and winding like mountain passes, only not as long and more numerous. I tucked in and hustled as best I could.
I’m pretty sure I passed some beautiful views, but the mist was so thick those two days I couldn’t see the other side of the valleys. Anyway it was okay; I wouldn’t have seen them anyway – my only thought, every pedal stroke, every hasty food break, was Lily. Head down, push – I’m going to see Lily. Lily, Lily, Lily, up every slow hill, around every sweeping Spring curve. I’m going to see Lily! What will it be like? What will we do? Will it be like it was before? Will there be another first kiss? It would’ve been a great opportunity to practice being “uncomfortable with uncertainty,” if I had been capable of thinking of anything more profound than “Goodness gracious!”

We had made plans to meet in Koblenz – a city somewhere in Germany, a city neither of us had ever visited, never heard anything about, just a city halfway between us. Of course there’s always a public library, though, and about two thirty in the afternoon I was cruising down the last hill towards the riverside city center.
There was some sort of public holiday happening, and everyone I asked for directions told me the library was closed. “That doesn’t matter, I’m just meeting… someone… there.”

I came upon a crowded city square and saw an old feller with an upside-down three-speed bike fixing a flat tire. I knew the library, and Lily, was close – within one more time asking for directions – and this guy might need my help. And I always ask my directions from cyclists if I can help it.
I communicated that I wanted to help him fix the tire, despite not sharing English or German. He seemed glad to have a young guy helping him, though perfectly capable himself. He talked to me while I worked; about what, I wasn’t really sure except for the Catholic holiday, but when it came to the Dunlap valve in his tube, I tried a little harder to communicate and learned some tricks for my future of fixing German flat tires. I did the patch-and-pump work, and he installed the repaired wheel while I tried to ask about the library. He told me where to go, and then, just before we parted, I must have said “muy bien” or something, because he started speaking in Spanish! Suddenly the door of communication was opened, like a magic switch throwing wide the connection between us. (Always try all your languages before resorting to cherades!) I explained the romantic situation that was about to come to the verge, and he corroborated his directions in a language I could understand and wished me luck.
Smiling with serendipity, I turned to push my bike through the crowd… and there she was.

The verge, pushing her bike towards me, just around the corner from the public library.

I didn’t have to look around to know that she was the most beautiful woman in that crowded Koblenz square. That day I just knew, from the first moment our eyes met. The whole city washed away around us, and all we did was… reunite. Suddenly I was deeper in love with her than ever before, and I knew: I was past the verge now, I was in Lily-land. Floating along sublimely justgrinning.

* * *

Three days and three glorious nights found us at a crossroads. On the bank of the Rhein, just before the river Main splits off and goes back to Frankfurt. It was just a simple lunch break on a shady park bench, facing the water flowing past.
But something big was happening: we didn’t want to say goodbye.
We came to talk about it so naturally, I couldn’t even tell you who “brought it up first.”
These are the facts:

Lily would cycle East to join the bike path that runs along the Danube River, and follow it all theway to Budapest(that’s in Hungary, 1000 kilometers away), either alone, or with me.
My mother would be coming to Budapest in a couple months — her plan was to fly to Madrid afterwards to see me.
I was in no hurry to get to Madrid, and
I was absolutely in love with her.

I’m afraid I flinched at the immensity of this idea. I couldn’t even mention it directly. My first answer was “I’m going to go to Madrid.” It had to be okay, but it wasn’t — with either of us. Lily cut her finger opening an avocado after I said it, and as I helped her patch it up, I realized I wasn’t being true to either of us. I wanted to go with her, plain and simple. What else really compares to that? I was nearly totally one hundred percent completely positively convinced that it was just fear preventing me from doing it, but I wasn’t quite sure either. I took a walk.

Let’s see… Danube to Budapest, it’s supposed to be flat the whole way. [go] Nice river views. Get to see more of Europe – what’s that, Austria and Hungary on the list of countries? Go with her. Maybe Italy on the way back? Doesn’t sound too bad. Mom’s gonna be [go] there, less travelling for her… hey, [go] she won’t have to take an extra Go With Her! airplane to see me, nice. Madrid can wait, I’m already too late [go] to attend the Criticona. Everything seems fine. Say Yes!But wait — this doesn’t feel like my tour, it feels like her tour. I mean, what are people going to think when I tell them I detoured my “solo” world tour just because a beautiful woman [go] wanted me to bike with her… across Europe… hey, wait a minute. That actually sounds really good. In fact, hey hold on — wouldn’t I be a complete fool, not to go? We could make it our tour…. go go go go go GO GO GOGOGOOOOO FOOOR IIIIIT

Lily was laying in a sunny patch of grass when I got back, watching the water flowing past.

After, all I remember is her smiling face, above me, silhouetted by the blue sky.

A couple more days at the squat in Leiden…. working the security-barricade door at a huge techno party; “Whaddya mean everyone has to have invitations? Nobody has an invitation!”…. an impromptu scavenger hunt, conceived on a whim, with our legs dangling over the canal: one broken inner tube, some cat hair, and a poster with Dutch written on it; one white flower, a high-pitched noise, and one shoestring; all found within 45 minutes on the brisk Spring streets of Leiden…. a speech, requested by our host after a Wednesday night eetcafe, about my trip and my philosophies…. one final, quiet dinner with Sandor – an oldschool squatter with the use of only one arm(still rides his bike – coaster brake – still rolls spliffs no problem and still cooks vegan gourmet deliciousness)…. some city sights we didn’t discover till our last day…. aah Leiden – one of the gems of Holland.

A couple more days in Amsterdam… to say goodbye I suppose, though it isn’t hard to find reasons to stay. I was just getting back to Casa Robino with a big load of dumpster dived vegetables as Lily and Mandi were coming out. And as we were dividing the goodies on the street, Robin just happened to return right at that moment from a big hitchhiking trip to Slovenia(the Casa operates just fine without him). He was shaven-headed now and wrote “HITCH HIKE” in huge chalk letters on the sidewalk, his whole body beaming with pure joy of life. Hitchhiking sounds like a lot of fun, in a serendipitous magic-of-people kinda way. Wish I could try it… but for now I am all bike.
I scored an interview with the Netherlands national press agency, the ANP. The kid said it was his third or fourth interview – I guess they don’t send heavy-hitter grizzled pro reporters to interview American bike bums. I told him, “That’s cool, I’m new at this too.” His Engels was, like most Dutch people’s, excellent. Coffee was on the agency and there was a photographer too. The next day, an article(in Dutch) about my tour and my principles was published in dozens of online and hardcopy papers. But of course, despite saying he would, he didn’t notify me when or where it would be published – those reporters, can I trust ‘em? – so it was only random chance I was able to get hold of a copy. “Ik ben tegen snelheid” : “I am against speed.”

Leaving Casa Robino – this time for real – was a slow process. Natural. The snail in me couldn’t bear to hurry, especially after such a momentous time there.
The scheduled day of departure didn’t feel quite right. The day after, it still felt rushed and I wanted to do a little more around the house. On day three, as the sun came up over Amsterdam, I was finally ready to leave. The time was right, and the way had opened itself. Having been out all night, I woke Lily with a kiss and a cup of tea. We said goodbye to Robin – all other nomads were asleep – and after a few final adjustments, we were on our way to Paris!
It reminded me of the day I left home, a little – low on sleep, emotionally taxed, but ecstatic to be on the road again. And not going to make it very far that first day – we stopped in Leiden for some more final goodbyes.
On my way to meet Josta, my first Dutch friend, I passed a group of squatters I knew, outside the local police precinct. They were exercising their rights, giving away free vegan dumpstered food(Food Not Bombs) and banging on djembes right there on the steps of the copshop; one of the crew was inside, in jail, and they were there for support. What a nice feeling it must be, to be sitting in jail, and every time the front door opens, you can hear your friends shouting and making music, just for you. Later the homie was released, and we all sat on the roof of “the Couch” drinking beer and getting the scoop. The cops had taken his fingerprints but still don’t know his name….

Next on our way was Delft, where we had some other friends to visit at another krakhuis. There I was contacted by a Dutch TV show requesting an interview – they had seen the ANP article somewhere – so we delayed for a day. We made vegan pizza from scratch – the secret is hummus in the sauce – and Lily screened her documentary for a house full of folks. I fixed a coffeetable. And there was this bike dude Jason, an American doing PhD work at the huge engineering school in Delft. “Bike handling” – what a program! Live in Holland, the center of the bicycle universe, and study bikes all day every day with other bike nerds. Wow. He has a totally bike-centro blog on http://www.moorebicycles.blogspot.com/

In the morning I went to the train station to meet the TV crew for the interview. My television debut, how exciting! While I was waiting, I spoke congenially with an elderly couple – seeing my loaded bike there had reminded them of their youth, and a few happy weeks touring across Europe on bikes. Then the charismatic producer appeared – I think he had been spying on me beforehand – and bought me coffee and food. A couple minutes later, a smooth TV personality in a black suit and red tie arrived with the camera guy, and we went out into the rain to do the interview. This slick fella, a Turkish-descent, well-manicured celebrity, standing with the coldsore on his lip away from the camera, was one of “De Jakhalzen” – a small, comedic relief portion of a show called De Wereld Draait Door – The World Keeps Spinning, Holland’s most popular primetime show. He offered me to stand under his umbrella with him – “Uhh, no thanks… when it rains, I just get wet.” And so he put up his umbrella and got wet too – probably his wettest interview ever =P
They put a mic and wireless battery thingy on me and began rolling. Within minutes I got the gist – they weren’t here to give me an opportunity to promote alternative methods of transportation; I was the opportunity. This wasn’t unbiased journalism, this was comedy television. He started asking me questions about Americans thinking they were heroes and leaving messes behind – read: US foreign policy – trying to get a rise out of me or hoping I’d slip up and say something they could shamelessly edit for millions of Dutch people to laugh at over their dinner ofstampot. I didn’t slip – I was actually surprised how cool I was on camera. He prodded me on my trust in humankind – “People LIE, man!” – and tried to get me to ridiculously ask people at the station if I could stay with them tonight. Then, as we’re talking about what I eat and what equipment I carry, he gestures behind him – “Your bike, I mean, it must weigh a lot… hey – where is your bike?”

Oh. My. God. My bike was gone.

Minutes earlier, out of the corner of my eye, I had seen someone move it, but I was almost positive it was the producer, and I just thought he was putting it somewhere better. I could tell it was a gag – no wonder the producer was dressed like a bike thief – and they had been planning it the whole time. The camera kept taping, but I don’t think I gave them the reaction they were hoping for; I told him to call his producer. “Oh he’s putting money in the meter, is he?” “If this isn’t a gimmick, then yes, I do want you to call the police.” The jackal tried to keep the joke going, but eventually the guy came back and we had a laugh. Dicks.
The only fun part was when they taped me riding, shadowing me in their car. They had already told me it was okay, even encouraged, to swear, so when there was another cyclist coming, I told them, with genuine rancor, to “Get the fu€k out of his way, give the man some room!” And they got some good shots of me saying, “I’m not in any hurry.”
In the end, they seemed like pretty cool guys, despite the whole rape-you-for-laughs veneer; I think they were actually feeling a little guilty when they left. And I learned an important lesson – a dubious prospect for promoting my message is not worth my integrity. I’ve got a good sense of humor, and my dignity isn’t much of a foundation for my ego, but still – the last thing I want is to make bicycle touring seem laughable.

Their bigwig emailed me and said they’d air it in one or two days. I wanted to see it, of course, but we decided to hit the road and just try and find a TV to watch it on wherever we happened to be. I picked up a little leather case from the squat’s free-shop, for my spice kit; we said goodbye, and pedalled off in the drizzle.
We passed through Den Haag and Rotterdam on our way to the coast, and followed the North Sea Southwards, battling the wind – it’s not a good sign when there’s a hundred huge wind turbines, all pointing in your direction and spinning like mad – and crossing the mighty dykes that hold back the sea. Fifty percent of the Netherlands(literally the “low land”) is below sea level, and much of the country’s land was actually manufactured – as in: erect a big wall, fill the sea with dirt, drain off any leftover water, and build houses. And somehow it works; they used to use old-tech windmill-driven pumps, but now it’s all electronic I guess. Hope global warming doesn’t wipe ‘em out!

First night out, we stopped in Renesse for water and to try to find a TV. Water was easy, but people weren’t offering their cozy sitting rooms to two dirty hobos. We did, however, get a lead on a Christian vicar whose home is an official stop for pilgrims on the famous Santiago de Campostela trail – which is actually in Spain, but people head there from much, much farther away. We found his house and his wife was appropriately welcoming. She invited us in, fed us coffee and biscuits, and spoke politely before going back to what she was doing. When Peter the Priest got home, he gave me the official Santiago de Campostela bike-pilgrim stamp and agreed to watch De Wereld Draait Door with us. And we were treated to a great family dinner! Their son said it was great to have guests – “Mom always cooks better food when there are guests.”
But my segment didn’t show, and after the credits rolled, sitting there a little embarrassed, Peter told us that he and his family “had their own program for the evening.” It was a polite eviction. We were more than a little surprised – what priest kicks out two poor travelers after dark, anyway? Maybe he thought we were just conning him for a meal and a place to stay…. But they had been more than hospitable already, and anyway, we had a tent. We found a sign out at some rural crossroads that said “Camping –> 2 km” and the grass under the sign was looking pretty lush… we pitched up right there in the ditch and laid in our winter hats and gloves, looking at the stars.

The next day we passed through Goes and stopped at the library to check on De Wereld Draait Door – the bigwig said she would email me – but the library was closed. There was an intercom though, and after I brazenly buzzed it, someone actually answered! After a quick explanation, she agreed to let me in and use the internet – in a closed library! I love public libraries, hot damn! But of course there was no info on my segment. Shyeh, media.
Next door at a cafe we decided to have a hot cup of tea – it wasn’t warm in the Netherlands, by any definition, in early March. We passed a pair of beer-bellied and bearded old codgers outside; they asked where we were from(America! No! Australia!) and I complimented one of them on his crystal pendants. Minutes later, he comes inside and approaches our table with almost zero English, proffers his card(Bert – he’s a drum-maker), gives Lily one of his pendants(!), a rose quartz, and intimates that if we ever come to Katendijk, he will find space for us. Nice! Thanks old dude! Now, where’s Katendijk….
We found it on the map and it really wasn’t too far out of our way. We figured this was a chance to hang out with some locals – Bert was true Dutch for sure – and maybe even have a warm place to sleep for a change. Lily, having grown up in Vanuatu and Australia, is accustomed to tropical paradise – her first time seeing snow was last winter – and despite a few tricks up my sleeve to keep her warm, she was hurtin’ in those frosty nights.
So we pedalled to Katendijk to look for Bert. It wasn’t a big town but we didn’t see the street, so we went back to the bar to ask for directions, and who’s there drinking beer but our friend Bert! Of course he’s in the pub!
Lily bought him a beer and we chatted, but soon our common language was exhausted, and an awkward silence settled over the afternoon village pub. It seemed Bert couldn’t put us up in his place – some big mess, I gathered – and his girlfriend was sick or something…. He made phone calls, he spoke to the other brooding clientele; he looked embarrassed, he looked apologetic; we tried to tell him that any dirty corner of the floor was more than enough, but by the end of the beer, it was obvious we’d be out in the cold again. Thanks anyway Bert!

We never did find a warm place to sleep in Zuidland, but we huddled close and kept the pedals pumpin’. And we never did see the segment on De Wereld Draait Door – maybe they decided I hadn’t acted enough of a fool to make anything out of it. Probably for the best.

We traveled. We smiled and joked and flirted and said “hoi dag” to everyone we passed. We met strangers and were given stroopwaffles and pannenkaken. A woman delivering mail said she’d invite us for coffee if she wasn’t working. There were no hills, just gloriously flat bike paths along the dykes, with Dutch village roofs sticking up over the ridge and a cramped Dutch countryside full of sheep and horses.

Nearing the Belgian border, we were confronted with the Westerschelde, the huge estuary that connects Antwerp with the North Sea. As far west as we were, there was only a ferry service… but with one look in my eyes, Lily agreed to cycle east and find a different way. Farther on, we found a tunnel that goes under it – you can take your bike, and it’s free, but you and your bike have to get on a bus… sorry Lil, I don’t take buses either. A bit inconvenient, perhaps, but this just meant that we had to cycle all the way to the bridge crossing over the River Schelde, and in lieu of visiting Brugge or Gent, to reach Brussels via Antwerp instead.

Shortly before this massive industrial port city, we came to the town of Putte – the border town. We weren’t sure if this was pronounced like “putin,” the French word for asshole, so to confirm I asked some random girl, “Excuse me, which village is this?” I caught up to Lily, reporting, “That girl just called me an asshole!” They speak French, as well as Dutch, in Belgium – maybe the town got its name from border arguments year after year… “Putin!” “Tu putin!” “Non, tu putin!” “Mais non, TU putin!”

We didn’t see any huge sign saying, “Welcome to Belgique,” so I asked another cyclist if we were in Belgium yet – oops, it was a quarter mile ago. We went back for photos – no Belgium sign, just the Antwerp Province sign, but we still took the obligatory border shots. As we were preparing to continue – Lily was actually in the Netherlands, and I was in Belgium – tons of police started arriving by car and van-load, Dutch and Belgian both…. at first I was confused, but then I remembered which border this was. “The Netherlands…. riiiight. They’re setting up a roadblock to check for drugs.” Most of the cops just eyed us with passing interest, but one young buck approached me, saying something in Dutch, then English: “Where are you coming from?” Uh oh.

What I said was “Madison, Wisconsin,” which, thankfully, confused him slightly and pointed him in a “Wow, a world-wide bike tour” direction instead of a “We’re going to search you” direction, which is probably the way it would’ve gone if I had answered with “Netherlands,” or worse, “Amsterdam.” And I think they wouldn’t have been too pleased with a couple of the particular Dutch souvenirs I had stowed away in my panniers…. close. Too close for comfort! But before things got too involved, we saddled up and took off, and the Belgian police wished us a poorly translated “Good trip!”

Now why don’t they just say “bon voyage” like any other English speaker?

* * *

I arrived on the morning of New Year’s Eve, bundled against the cold and ready to ride. I had a couple of plans, heaps of enthusiasm, and eight hours of daylight. At the terminal I queued politely behind a few cars, but was soon motioned around by the customs official. I thought he might want to see my passport, or at least ask me something, but he was busy checking in motorists, ignoring me. So I kept pushing on past, behind the office….
Walking by a couple of cig-smoking customs guys, I nodded, and their conversation(in Dutch) didn’t even stop. I passed through the gate as easy as a breeze.

And then,

I was in Holland.
IJmuiden, Noord-Holland, Nederlands.

It was 25 winter kilometers from IJmuiden(“aymowden”) to Amsterdam, through the thick mist and dusty snow. “They drive on the right side here!” I often had to remind myself that first day; and several times, nearby random pedestrians shouted something to me in Dutch, directing me off of the street(where I am accustomed to riding), and onto the bike path… which is everywhere!
I had a little map to the city center, and I didn’t even use it. There were bicycle signs at every corner, separate from the roadsigns, and of course people on bikes to ask for directions. I passed a cold couple of fellas on the way, one pedaling and the other sitting side-saddle on the rear cargo rack of his old Dutch bike, holding his mittens over his ears. Through his scarf, he said to keep cycling, keep cycling and I left him with an amused “Only in Holland!”

Downtown Amsterdam was bustling with trams and cars and bikes and tourists. The Station Centraal was teeming with travelers coming and going, waiting, or rushing to catch a train. I went there hoping to find a tourist info office and a free map of the city, but it was so hectic there, I was momentarily paralyzed, overwhelmed by all the sheer busy-ness. It’s Amsterdam, where the city posts “Beware of pickpockets” signs and hundreds of thousands of bikes are stolen each year; and not only that, but it’s the train station – generally the riskiest crowd to be in, no matter which city it’s in. There was no way I was going to leave my bike and gear alone, my first day in the city, among who knows how many bike thieves; even for a second, even to have a map. I’d just have to wing it.
So much for a map then; on to the next priority. I found the coffeeshop I was looking for, Homegrown Fantasies, and ducked in for a quick purchase before heading South to Leiden. It was a nice atmosphere in there, with a deliciously intoxicating aroma and a gregarious cashier behind the menu, rolling joints and shouting at tourists.
“It’s okay to roll tobacco in it,” and “Don’t leave, I didn’t mean to scare you, I just wanted to sell you drugs!”
I wanted to be impressed with the cannabis expertise in downtown Amsterdam, but when I asked him to recommend something that would chill me out, versus send me flying, his response was disappointing. He didn’t even really know which ones were Indica and which were Sativa. In the end I chose two grams(12 euros) of something called Euphoria, and I sat outside on the cold patio seating, next to my rig, and had my first smoke in Amsterdam. Not your average pre-rolled, walk-outside-in-a-haze Amsterdam coffeeshop tourist experience; it was more of a new take on an old hobby. Bike tour style – after finishing my doobie, I faced to the South, and with a deep breath, started riding. Down broad boulevards seething with big-city activity, through narrow criss-crossing alleyways, over canal bridges, and out of the city, using only my compass and those handy bikepath signs.
Fourty kilometers of car-free fietspad(bikepath) without a map, sailing past sunset in a foreign land… with the Homegrown attitude adjustment, it was one of the most entertaining rides I think I’ve ever done.

And then there was Capers! Capers with a song on her lips, Capers with that bounce in her step. It was as if Fate had decreed that we should meet with success, and had carefully watched over our every step and pedal stroke, guiding us inexorably together.
The air vibrated as we hugged; cats purred on plush cushions around the world and luscious fruits dropped ripe from their branches. The ink of a thousand poems in a hundred languages finally dried at that moment, their pages fluttering under the eager breath of cloud-chasing romantics and giggling children.
Like we were in a moonlit dream, we struck out into the night. With Josta, our gracious host in Leiden, we skipped down to the Turfmarkt in the center of town for the fireworks. We were like a couple of little kids, laughing and jumping about, celebrating everything. Imagine Capers on my shoulders as we play beside the canal, pyrotechnics blazing in the sky and reflecting in the water, the old windmill silhouetted against the fiery night. Sparkler-trail vision streaks in circles, thousand-string bangers unleash in deafening staccato. The smoke from a fresh spliff in the winter air, and a cold bottle of champagne to ring in the new year… it was pure magic.

The fairy tale continued as we explored the town and Dutch culture over the following days. Josta took us for drinks and authentic Dutch cuisine, and cooked the best “stampot”(they love to mash everything together over here) I’ve had this whole time, with language lessons and quirky side-notes sprinkled throughout. We meandered over the old cobblestones of Leiden, soaking in the history and the happiness. We visited the public library, we sat on the sidewalk and photographed people on bikes. We wandered and wondered, taking it free and easy.
Josta rented a bicycle for Capers, a classic Dutch single-speed coaster, and we took a trip back to Amsterdam. I couldn’t follow the route I took the first time, so we adventured onward with my compass, following perfectly flat bike paths toward the horizon along arrow-straight canals, detouring through quaint little villages, taking breaks, sharing fruits, and discovering life together.

In Amsterdam once again, this time I had a destination. Capers had set up a place for us to stay for a couple nights before we returned to Leiden(nice to let someone else worry about the accomodations for once!); a kind of dumpster-diving hitchhiker nomad base – more on Casa Robino later.

I asked if anyone had any recommendations down in the center of town, but all I got was “Get lost.” As in, ‘Getting lost is a great way to see the city.’ That fit snug with Capers and I, both being very try-it-and-see, faceful-of-optimism, adventure-around-every-corner livers of life; so off we went to see what all the hype was about.
It was a Saturday night, the perfect setting to witness Amsterdam’s world famous Red Light District. It was easy to find; it’s even shaded in and clearly marked on the free maps the police provide. We walked along that oh-so-famous strip full of neon sex shops and brothels, where scantily dressed, perfectly manicured prostitutes lay on their beds with their legs open and on display, or stare through the glass alluringly at the passersby. The aroma of marijuana could often be caught on the breeze from the coffeeshops and street corners, and lecherous drunks stumbled to and fro, wondering if they’ve got enough money left to get laid. On one particularly shady avenue, a small dark man dressed in black weaved through the crowd, subtly whispering “Coca?” to anyone that might be interested, and other rough-looking characters whistled from doorways and alley mouths to get your attention. I was of course targeted by the hoodlum type of drug dealers(I ignored them like a good tourist) but Capers, with her vibrant smile and her blonde dreadlocks, was approached by a bouncy dready hippie chic saying, “You’re not from here, are you? I was just wondering if you’d be interested in some LSD.” When Capers declined, she smiled and waved, and with a “No worries, have a nice day!” she disappeared. I guess Amsterdam has every kind….
It wasn’t long before we had had enough – the place is actually rather disturbing; even just window-shopping, we were rather disgusted by the sex industry(apparently most prostitutes are still working against their will) and certainly not interested in backdoor white powder. We split a paper cone full of fries and decided to call it a night.
We weren’t actually lost at first, but before long we realized we were a little underprepared to find our way back. We were 80% sure we had the street name and number right, but it’s a tiny street, and we hadn’t memorized any nearby landmarks. We didn’t have a cellphone, nor even the phone number. We had no map, no money, and no motor vehicles, just each other and a strong determination bred from principle – can’t give up just because the going gets a little rough. It was late, and the only people out were drunks; no one knew where Callenburgstraat was. And after an hour of wandering around trying to find something that triggered our memory, even the drunks were gone, and the streets were empty. Eventually Capers did flag a taxi, but only to ask for directions, and after another round-about detour, we stumbled upon a street corner we recognized. Hooray! We celebrated in relief with a big hug. Back inside, after a hot cup of tea, we slept with the sublime contentment of an adventure accomplished.

We returned to Leiden for the last few days of Capers’ stay. After meeting up with Josta, we took the rental back to the bike shop that’s attached to the train station. We’d be one less bike on the way back, so we rode Dutch-style, with me pedalling the rental and Capers sitting side-saddle on the rear rack – an experience I will never forget. It’s one thing to have a girl on the back of your bike(classic Dutch romance), but when Capers slid her arm around my waist to hold on, it felt so good I couldn’t stop the joy that bubbled up and burst forth in blissful laughter. What fun, cycling in Holland!
Josta’s kitty-cats finally got used to me the day before I left; silly scaredy cats – don’t they recognize one of their own? Then for our last night in town, we stayed with a guy named Niels who inspired me to build a bike-generator-powered battery charger from scratch. Still workin’ on that one….

And then I was walking with Capers for the last time, to the train station. We navigated the way effortlessly, with all the mystery and truth of the cosmos bouying our steps, and made it to the platform just in time. With a hug and a kiss and a toast to the future, we said fare-thee-well, and the marvelous fairy tale of Capers and Charlie in Holland came gently to an end.

And they lived happily ever after, surrounded by vibrant memories of inspiration, love, and joy.

Until we meet again….

No time for fear. Honesty and reality, mixed with a whittling down of that less exciting chaff that surrounds the diverse gems of travelling, be they shiny or subtle. My life is strange on the road, and though even my “every-day” experiences are unusual by former standards, I cannot write about them all. I’ve pared it down, for your sakes and mine, but still retain a record of other items of interest, to be documented as they amass.

I left Madison on Sunday September 16th, having postponed my departure one day, so that I could visit the Wisconsin land that my family is buying at least once before I left. The days immediately preceding my departure were quite hectic, as could be expected. The bacchanal send-off & gear display (read: going-away party) was a huge success; almost everyone I invited showed up, most bearing lightweight anti-homesick charms, as requested, to stave off loneliness on the road. It was a night to remember, for many reasons.

The next day, after all that Pabst and whiskey, I was glad to have decided to postpone. I didn’t get a whole lot more done toward leaving prepared, but my body got a little chance to recover, and my spirit spent its weight where it wanted to. That night it was as if everything superfluous had already been stripped away, leaving only those rawest of things that surround my beating heart. Nothing else mattered. I should’ve been going over final checklists; instead I was saying goodbye.

The morning of my departure found me scrunched up, too neurotic to eat. I still had a multitude of loose ends to tie off, but only the most precious were even attempted. Most are still dangling. And I still had some tough goodbyes to make.
Back at the house, I sat with my cat, Horatio, who was cleaning himself and decided I needed cleaning too. I let him lick my forehead and hair for… a long time, until my phone rang. Maybe I was just dirty, but it felt as strong as a goodbye as any I’ve gotten. My lil’ Ho.
D-Rock, Sketchy D, Chris, and Emily showed up to ride me out of town. They watched, probably in sentimental amusement, as I jammed and pried, compressed and folded, stretched and bent, until all the gear was packed and on the bike. I used more haste than organization that day, but I figured, “As soon as I leave, I’m going to have more time than I know what to do with.” The important thing was not to delay any further. To cross that point of no return.
Whoo…getting close now. One last check around the house, and it better be a good one, because this ain’t no two-week vacation to Mexico. The finishing touch: my greasy bike-shop toothbrush shiv, gorilla-taped to the down tube, including an easy-off tab in case I need to quick-draw that shit. Thanks Ruckus.

And the tour was on! Still in the hood, my first planned stop was Machinery Row Bicycles, where I had a few more hugs and Nate gave me a huge smoke-bomb. I’ll find a good use for that one. Good luck at work guys!
Up the capitol hill(via the Convention Center ramp) to State Street, for one final stop at the good ol’ Irish Pub. My favorite watering hole. There, Daniel awaited me with Powers Irish Whiskey, straight-up in a shot glass, and a bottle of Pabst Blue Ribbon. “Ah, my last shot at the Irish,” I say, and we retire to the patio for a few rounds. Outside, my most esteemed and closest friend proceeded to bestow gifts upon me. A tooth, “to cut my way through anything.” A crystal, “to cleanse my passage.” A flag, a scarab necklace, an armband, a journal, a brownie, an earring… the list goes on. D.
Before I got too drunk, as tends to happen at the Irish, I went inside to say goodbye to Michael Richards. “Ah, now this is my last shot at the Irish,” I say, hoping it really is this time. A simple toast, with no words wasted between us. Man, I love that place.
And on, to stop number three: Budget Bicycle Center. My other bike shop.
I ride in, lean up the rig, and Vee hands me a half-full bottle of Three-Buck Chuck. Josh handed me another, this one full. Alex had a cute little thing of Tiger Balm for me; that should come in handy – I know my knees are going to need some breaking-in.
While I found the helmet I needed and swigged on the wine, Roger Charly himself posted my flier: “Today in Survival History: Heavily Loaded Bicycle Touring.” It’s an honor and a pleasure to have worked for the man. I’m sure I will again some day.
A guy named Tim, who happened to have been a mechanic and bicycle tourist, just happened to be in the shop at that time, and drew me a map with an invitation to his property that night. He handed me a cash donation with the best of luck. Never made it to his place, but thanks Tim!
Now quite flushed with alcohol and emotion, I let my escort find the way out of town. I’d look at a map tomorrow.
We took the bike path to Lake Farm Road, which happens to be the exact same road I took out of town on my last bike tour to Mexico. Very fitting. At the sign that said “Welcome to Madison” on the back, we stopped for photos and goodbyes. With a few heart-crushing hugs and a kiss from a beautiful girl, I finally left town. Sparkles, bless his soul, decided to ride with me a ways farther.

We went over my first rollers of the tour, nice Wisconsin farmland. Derek was taking it easy so I could keep up. We aimed for a park in McFarland, but the Lake Waubesa loop is way less convenient than the Lake Monona loop, and at dusk we stopped so he could turn around.
I tested my wine opener(a drywall screw gripped with my Leatherman pliers) which worked superbly, and we sat drinking and smoking in some gravel pull-off. I got directions from a nice minivan, which Derek confirmed with my map, and then he was off to burn home in the failing light after giving me his trusty well-used Planet Bike helmet blinker. He had fifteen minutes of light and a nice long warm-up ride to get him started; I’m sure he made it fine.

Alone.

I took some time getting my lights working, and was off. At some point later, beyond a reasonable backtrack distance, I realized I had forgotten the wine bottle(half-full), and the cork with my wine screw in it! Ah, well – I can get another wine opener. And perhaps someone will find evidence of that final toast some day.
It was easy to get to the park. I scouted the whole of it in no time, chose a site, and pulled up. No park ranger around, office closed. Not that I wanted to pay 22$ for a campsite, but I did want to buy some firewood. Instead I walked around collecting oak tree detritus that hadn’t been raked up yet, and actually made quite a nice pile. Enough to cook by twice, and that’s all I really need. I pitched my tent as far from the site’s driveway as possible; maybe I’d be overlooked in the morning.
After a quiet while of wishing I had some wood to just burn,

Elizabeth

It was wonderful, as always, to just be with her.
She arrived with wood, and wine, and we >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

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<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<< slowly drove off and I had to sit down. I left a lot behind when I departed, but leaving her… it makes me feel more insane than any other crazy aspect of this trip. I was missing her before I even left.

I was still seated motionless, just… pining, when the park ranger came by for morning rounds.
“Did you sleep here last night?” he asks me. Damn, here we go. “That’s 22 dollars!” he scolds. “Ah, man, come on – I’m on this bike tour, and I don’t even have a car.” I might as well try. After a slight hesitation, he asks, “Are you Charles?” He had seen me in the WSJ article, and he was getting out of his truck, conceding: “Okay, I’ll give you a freebie.” We talked for a bit, he goodlucked me and drove off. Nice.

Despite my emotionally drained, sleep-deprived, hung-over and hungry state, I found myself enjoying that first real day of biking. I remember yelling “Yeee-hah!” at some guy as I scored a new max speed down a hill. My first night of camping was remarkable; the shady afternoon nap in the breeze of a soft prairie had my mind waxing poetry; the stars took my breath away when I finally laid back after dinner – I had forgotten about them; and the paranoia of being alone on strange land after dark came back to me in strength. Is someone trying to steal my bike??!? Oh no, that’s just a rusty gate hinge, go back to sleep.

I decided to ride through Beloit on my way down to Chicago, and made the mistake of asking a woman at a bus stop for directions. She takes the bus, duh. The bank teller was much nicer, much more intelligible. The cop at the museum was envious (most cops tell me that) but he gave me some great directions. On my way out of town I stopped by the Schwinn dealer / outdoor supply shop and shot the breeze with the owner Ted for awhile. He said he didn’t like kevlar tires, they dropped a whole mile per hour from his average, but then he starts talking about how many flats he’s gotten, and how bad the Beloit roads are with broken glass. I told him I had the most armored tires I could find. He gave me a Wisconsin “Share the Road” sticker which I applied to my rear rack.
Somewhere along State Line Highway outside of town, my rear tire started slopping out, side-to-side with all the weight – a slow leak! I was worried my conversation with Ted had jinxed me, but I got the wheel off(without removing the panniers) and discovered a tiny hole right by the valve – not a glass puncture. I guess it’s my fault then, but anyway, it’s weird… this, the first flat tire of my tour, was the same type of flat I suffered at the very end of my last bike tour. A good sign, or a bad? I guess I’m just picking up where I left off.

I stopped for a rest one day, right on the side of the deserted road, and, laying down to ease my aching body, putting my hands behind my head, I realize I’m under an apple tree. Yum! I was able to jump for one that hadn’t fallen yet, but then it was down to either throwing apples at apples, or climbing, and I was way too tired to climb it. First toss, almost straight up – Bam! I got it!! “One hit – Whooo!” I yell. Nobody heard me. That big red apple landed right next to me, and I saved it for later.
I didn’t get to eat that apple though. I visited an equestrian park the next day, carefully riding my steed down the sign marked “HORSE PATH.” The first person I asked, a young woman in riding gear, with snobbery under her nose, informed me that “I don’t think bikes are allowed. I don’t think you’ll get too far.” But nobody hassled me, and the Mexican guy at the entrance to the stable let me go inside no problema. The animals were gorgeous. I knew I had that apple, and I just had to do it. A mare named Melita got it, both palms up, just before she was led off to compete. “Good luck!”

I followed the Illinois Prairie Path from McHenry, IL, down to Crystal Lake where my aunt Sarah, uncle Dave, and cousin Katie live. Charged my phone at Wheel Werks on Main Street, then surprised Sarah at work, and as I finished every scrap of food she gave me, Katie came down and convinced me to take it easy and stay with them that night. “Take advantage while you can.” And indeed, shower, email, laundry – all wonderful amenities I know I’ll miss. They took me to an Irish Sports Pub(no Powers) for a huge dinner and a half, and I got to see some TV! Don’t even get that back home. It was great to see them all, and a wave of nostalgia came over me as I bedded down on the floor in their furnished basement, exactly where I stayed on my way through Crystal Lake last bike tour.
In the morning Katie took me out for breakfast, and we talked about Africa. I’m almost convinced to extend my time there; Egypt does sound like too much to pass by. Northern Sahara, what?
Back on the I.P.P., I realized I was pretty close to my next destination. Good – I go slow. I stopped for lunch at yet another of the confusing, legendless maps on that trail(the ‘You Are Here’ tags are pinned down with two different colored thumbtacks, in two different locations) and eventually a local jogger told me what to look for. I made it to The Bike Shop in Glenn Ellyn and met up with Andy Breun. He hooked me up with a new cyclometer, and back at his house I installed it while drinking a Chicago beer. Refreshing. He also gave me as many CLIF bars as I could carry. When the kids got home, he and I and his wife Patty drove into the city with his kids Drew and Ben for dinner and drinks. I won’t say much about the traffic, because I realize some people need to drive cars, but Damn we should’ve taken the train! Two hours later we made it to the Handlebar in downtown Chi-town, and met up with Nathan Bluestone. I had Ichibod pumpkin beer from New Holland on special and fish tacos. I love fish tacos.

The Armpit of America
The next day was going to be a big one; I planned to ride from Glenn Ellyn to Michigan City, through Chicago, Hammond, and Gary. A friend of Andy’s who had ridden it before emailed us a step-by-step list of GPS directions, including the foreboding words:
“The area he’ll be riding through is probably one of the toughest urban areas in the nation to navigate on a bike. In some areas there is nothing but industry, rail lines, and highway… it’s no man’s land.”
At the end of the trail in Maywood, I checked the GPS directions, and discovered a portion that said “Interstate.” No thanks, I’ll find my own way.
Looking around at my options, a nice old black dude named Tommy on a Diamondback hybrid stopped to say hi. My personal travel repertoire definitely includes asking for advice, if not skill with GPS coordinates.
“You familiar with this area, Tommy?” I ask him.
“Most people that ride, I think, they take Washington. Yeap, you could take Washington. Most people that ride into the city, it takes ‘em about thirty-five, forty minutes. Dependin’ on how you ride, acourse.” I thanked him, and asked him if there were any problems with his bicycle I could fix. Apparently not, so I was on my way.
I took Roosevelt, East toward the skyscrapers. First, I saw the nearest ones outlined in the hazy smog of the city. Slowly, block by block, the huge Chicago monoliths became more defined, larger, until I was amongst them, towering over me like gates to utopia. I’ve been to that area before, but doing it on a bike was absolutely, amazingly, different. Pedal Power! My heart was singing as I rolled down to the lake.
The first thing I saw there, with the sailboats’ masts bristling behind, was a sculpture of the globe, maybe six feet in diameter, painted with a guy riding a bike. Serendipity. There were a ton of other globe statues all along the path, all painted in different artistic ways, all adding to my cosmic confidence.
The Chicago Lakeshore Path is beautiful. Lake Michigan is beautiful. I had hoped to buy some postcards somewhere right on the path, but I was instead forced to dash into the Shedd Aquarium gift shop and hurriedly purchase whatever jumped out at me, while my bike and gear were outside, in peril for every second I spent inside. I wonder what it’s like inside the actual aquarium… ah well, I suppose I could’ve found a way to take my time there, but I still had Gary, Indiana to contend with before dark.
Down the Lakeshore a bit, between all the triathletes and big-assed fitness walkers, I met my first other loaded bicycle tourist! “Where you headed?” I ask. He tells me. “Where’s that?” I ask, and he points the way he had just come. Hah! Same as me. That’s how we do it, you dig? Around and back. David Gitride (www.gitride.com) was a man with a schedule. He had six miles to go before lunch, and twenty to go after lunch. Not a terribly strict-minded guy, though; I don’t think loaded bike tourists can afford to be strict with themselves. It was great to talk for a bit, and exchange addresses. He said we need to turn this into a sport. Hmm.
The Lakeshore Path in all its well-kept glory eventually ended, and I navigated South Shore Drive(using those green bike signs and asking one old lady for directions) to Calumet Park, right on the border of IL-IN. The streets had already become less well-maintained, the buildings more run-down. It was only about noon, so there weren’t any crackheads in evidence yet, but I was still a bit worried about the upcoming route into Indiana. I saw a guy backing his fishing boat into the water as I ate lunch, and decided to try for alternative transport. “You wouldn’t want to take me across the water, would you?” I ask, prepared for barter or perhaps even cash for passage. He didn’t want to take me across the water, and actually succeeded in flustering me even more, by pointing across the bay toward the hazy industrial silhouettes of Indiana – Gary was almost farther than I could see, and I still had to take a circuitous route. “Better do it in the daytime!” he let me know. Yeah, thanks.
I didn’t fret too much though. I finished my lunch while poring over my maps. I still had GPS directions from there to Michigan City, but again I found myself not quite ready to use them. I don’t know if it’s my aversion to technology, or my desire to test my limits, or what, but something about the GPS leaves a bad feeling in my chest. Sorry Anthony, but thanks anyway! I decided to go old-school, using only a Google map, heh. I memorized the route I would try to take, packed up the PB&J, and headed for the park exit and Indiana.
The first thing I did was take a wrong turn. I should add that the signpost for “Calumet Bike Route” was bent almost all the way to the ground and the sign itself mangled by some vandal or auto accident. Really though, in hindsight, I think I sensed I wasn’t taking the right way. Maybe I thought I could “just bear left” and I’d make it to a city street eventually. But no; no city street. Glass-strewn railroad frontage. It led me right into the entrance gate for some humongous industrial park. The buzzer button thing was broken, but then I noticed a security guy in the booth. He wouldn’t let me through his monstrous complex, but he did say there was a gravel road next to the tracks outside his fence. “I’m sure it leads somewhere,” he says, and I was glad to not have to backtrack. Over some tracks and – oh, shit.
No man’s land. On one side, rusty portions and discarded parts of whole trains, left in disuse, a concrete wall behind. On the lake side: oh no, it wasn’t the lake… industrial fences, with smokestacks rising beyond. And between, the tracks, with gravel and sand that was at times unrideable, forcing me to walk on one track, pushing my loaded rig like a muler with a stubborn ass. I passed a lakefront casino, complete with airport shuttle-buses, valets, and rich people taking an afternoon jog; all glimpsed through the twelve foot fence of course. A world apart.
After passing various interesting debris, like an empty cigarette pack with some copper scrubbie sticking out of it, and somewhere in there, the state line, I saw my first Indianans! I went around the old guy peering confusedly at the electrical box, and approached the opening in the city-side fence, where a very loud construction site was under way. Five or six construction workers in orange vests all turned to look at me in surprise. I didn’t have to shout. I just signalled, asking if it was okay if I just zipped through – I could see the streets of Hammond just across the broken concrete of the de’struction area. At first I received a “no, no” hand signal, but then the big one yelled over the noise of the machines, “I guess you’re already over there, you might as well come through.” Okay, good, so I start to harangue my load onto the treacherous hardpack, when one of the construction workers, the short one, yells “Five dollars!?” as if to tax me, and pulls a lockblade from somewhere, brandishing it threateningly!
I stopped in my tracks. His knife looked just like mine, there’s a knife-fight right here in my pocket… then my racing thoughts went to the shiv taped to my bike, but no… no, the look on his face didn’t scare me… he can’t be serious. After a tense moment, the big one gives me the “come ahead” hand sign, and I breathe a sigh of relief. “No money” I yell as I go by them, and passed the gauntlet, depositing myself squarely into urban Indiana.
The first person I saw in Hammond was a bent old man with a cane, dressed in a navy blue workman’s uniform. Too old to work, but still headed for the factory. The second was a guy with a prosthetic arm and hook manipulator; perhaps he had had a little too much work in Indiana. From there it was more security fences and industry, cargo trucks and smog. I quickly found the road I wanted, and though it was bumpy from (not-so-)frequent repairs, it was rideable.
Past the airport then, trekking on and on through the dirty armpit of industry. As I entered Gary I tried to remember not to smile. People who’ve lived hard lives, people who make others’ lives harder, they don’t appreciate pleasantness from strangers.
The place was shabby. Broken streets and boarded-up buildings, security bars over storefronts, 40 oz. bottles left right on the curb, aged graffiti in conspicuous places. Sort of surreal in the daytime; I rode through wondering just how scared I’d be if the sun weren’t around. Hopefully I won’t have to figure that one out, but my guess is: not scared enough.
I had to stop somewhere in Gary for water; I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to make it all the way to Michigan City, and if I were going to camp, I’d need resupply on the H2O. So about halfway through town, when the dollar menu called to me from beneath the Golden Arches, I said, Why not. It’s been good calories before. No, sorry, it’s been lots of calories before.
Inside, I was out of place. As usual, but more so, being the only caucasian in the place. The effeminate guy at the counter said he’d have to ask his manager if they’d fill me up. I told him I’d buy something, I’m not just a bum! I bought a double cheese for $1.06 in coins and pounded it while the old black guy across from me, dressed in another navy blue workman’s uniform, laughed into his coffee at some hilarious and enduring private joke. He never stopped laughing.
I had to ask twice, but they did fill up my three waterbottles, with ice even!
“You’re the man!” I tell the manager.
“I try to be.”
Outside, laying in the grass, I noticed the old cackler come out and head for some indeterminable destination across the parking lot. I decided to ask,
“Hows it goin’?”
“Eh?” He looks towards me, realizes someone is talking to him.
“Hows it goin’?” I repeat.
He didn’t answer, instead offering, “Interest you in some roly-polies today? Some reefer?”
I wasn’t quite sure I had heard him right, since he didn’t look like any drug dealer I know. I said “No thanks” just to be sure; then some other guy that was on his way into Mickey D’s, and had overheard our exchange, turns to me and gives me the thumbs up, as if to say, “Good job! Say no to drugs!” A daytime dip into Gary drug culture; and I was just stopping at the fast food joint. Wow.
My next stop was the local gas station, right on the edge of town, to fill up the 3 liter water bladder and the bottle I’d drank since that cheeseburger. The place was hoppin’, with gangster rap coming out of several cars, and straight Gs rolling in and out: baggie pants, high tops and timberlands, sports apparel, baseball caps, big rolls of cash. I leaned my bike up just outside the clear glass doors and grabbed what I needed. Criminals all around me, I was sure, but I felt aight about leaving my gear out there. I didn’t see any crackheads, just gang bangers, and real gangsters don’t just steal a bike or a bag from outside a gas station.
While I filled up on water at the sink in the corner, the line at the checkout grew, so by the time I turned to go, I faced a whole crowd of homeboys, blocking my view of the bike. They stepped aside for me, that’s right; and revealed in their midst a wiry little white guy who looked way more scared than I felt. I nodded at him.
Outside I took some minutes resecuring things, and meanwhile some guy behind me was rapping along with a chorus I wasn’t familiar with while he filled up on gas. “Talk to ‘em, talk to ‘em…” I must have said “Whatsup” or “Whats happenin’” to at least five players on their way in and out as I got ready to ride. Much respect.
As I turned the rig about and started rollin’, my head was bobbing to the bass-heavy hip hop beats, and the G that was rapping the “Talk to ‘em” song saw me jammin’, and pointed at me, laughing and yelling, “Yeheah! Now there’s my man! He likes it!” And I finally smiled at somebody in Gary, Indiana.

The Dunes Highway after that was fine, no problems. I made it to the West Beach of Indiana Dunes National Park by 3:00 pm, and decided to take a swim. Sitting there afterwards in my boxer shorts, shades, and armband, drying in the sun and breeze, I really felt like I could conquer the world. I had successfully navigated South Chicago and Gary, some of the most notorious places in the Midwest, by my wits alone, and come through unscathed. I had made more mileage than any day so far, and was only a few miles from a family reunion(mom’s side) at some friends’ vacation home on the beach in Michigan City. There’s nothing like loaded bike touring; maximally gratifying.
That afternoon I rode past another stretch of the National Park, and suddenly it gave way to more damned industry on the lakefront. It just pisses me off to see such monstrosity, right in the middle of the park; huge steel factories and lake-dumping machines. Spitting disgustedly on the road just didn’t satisfy my rebellious feelings, so when I got to the other side of industry-blasted-land, to the part of the National Park with camping, I decided to backtrack a bit and ditch-camp on corporate land. A bit of dissention that my compassion would allow. It actually was quite green that close to the park, and nicely secluded. I spent the rest of the afternoon adding sticks to the fire and writing.
The next morning I was up and out, on a nice empty bike path that led right to the city, and pulling up Turner Court to the reunion by 12:30 in the afternoon. Passing by the landmarks and streets on my directions to the place, my elation grew and grew. “There’s the zoo she mentioned! (Hey, is that zoo free?) Oh man, there’s the cross-street, I’m almost there! Yes! This is the address…!”

And so I arrived, happy and hungry, sun-drenched and sweaty. I’ve been here a few days now, vacationing with family and going over all the details I skipped before I left Madison. I get a whole screened-in porch to myself, so I’m still sleeping outside, but I can spread my stuff out to all corners of my little domain. A comprehensive equipment list with photos will be forthcoming before I leave for the east coast, for all who love the gear. I know I do.

As for my plans from here, I think I’ll shoot for Norfolk, VA next, and the ships that dock there, though it is a priority for me to stay south of the winter. I don’t know, maybe I’ll go to New Orleans or Atlanta instead. I’ll at least start heading southeast. Anyone have a good lead on free or working passage across the Atlantic?

I’d like to thank you for reading this; I know it’s long. But believe me, I could’ve made it longer. So many tiny details, and only so much downtime. This is a bike tour! =)
If anyone has any questions, or would like to leave a comment or send me an email, please do!!! I love the comments, they’re like additions to the story. Your support makes me bolder! And make no mistake, I’ll need all the boldness I can get. Emails are always greatly appreciated as well, when I roll into a town and check after a week on the road. So keep ‘em coming, and thanks!

If you’d rather give support with a monetary donation, please send a check made out to:

Pamela Alsum
417 S. Dickinson St.
Madison, WI 53703 USA

She’s my mother, and will see that it gets into my account. You could also send her hardcopy letters, which I adore, and she’ll try to get them to me.

Thank you to everyone, my god there are many of you that deserve it; and apologies to anyone I missed in any way. Please let me know of any discrepancies that are noticed, and advice is always welcome. I love you all!

-Charles Ilsley Brigham IV

Wisconsin State Journal Article:
http://www.madison.com/archives/read.php?ref=/wsj/2007/09/15/0709150230.php