The BOAT is named Ninni. It’s a name traditionally given to girls in Sweden, and applied affectionately to the boat by her Finnish skipper, Mikko, who was just completing his own three-year world sailing tour. She’s a 40-foot glass-fiber cruising sloop, an IS400 designed in Finland by Hans Groop. As an accomplished traveling boat, it’s equipped with the de-salinating watermaker(the water from which doesn’t taste too bad, actually), energy-efficient LED lights(for both navigation and interior), solar panels on the roof of the doghouse, a towing generator(a sort of propeller on a rope that makes electricity) and the crowning piece of equipment, named “Peter” and making our lives tremendously easy: a self-steering wind-pilot, an ingenious sailboat invention which employs secondary rudders, wormgear, and windvane to automatically correct the boat’s course if the wind changes direction. Brilliant.

The CREW consisted of Mikko, a 62 year old retired Finnish photographer; Irek, a 35 year old Polish building-company manager; and me, a 29 year old student of foreign cultures. My first real introduction to international people, and an intense change from all that lonely bike riding.
Mikko is old salt. He enjoys a joke or a beer like the next guy, but he is very set in his ways, and after a few days living on a cramped boat, certain aspects of his personality started to get ugly. He was overly meticulous about his gear, for one; disallowing a plastic scrubbie to be used on a teflon pan, for instance; and for two(something that would eventually prove to be quite distressing) he was rather obsessed with doing everything himself. He’d made the Ninni up as a project boat, carefully crafting every bit of woodwork by hand, and replacing winches, blocks, and lines, adding extra stays to the mast, and various other personal touches he can trust. Then he sailed away from his wife, saying “I’m going sailing for a while.” (He never said “I’m going to sail around the world,” and advised me that it would’ve been wiser for me, too, if I hadn’t declared my intentions to ride my bike around the world. I guess he’s not into point-of-no-return drama.) On the way he’s had various different crews, mostly strangers he met on the internet(like me), and apparently learned not to let anyone touch anything on his boat. I started calling him “DIY Mikko,” watching him handle everything himself, from deckwork and sail reefing, to steering and entering the course, to cleaning… he even cooked almost every meal we ate, leaving Irek and I sitting with nothing to do, in danger of being seen as lazy. Once, I was graciously allowed to cook dinner, and when I innocently asked him how the unlabeled rice is cooked(instant or normal?), he nearly jumped out of his seat to take over, saying, “I can cook it!” instead of answering my question. This epic struggle, just to let me figure out dinner, was plainly visible on his face. Needless to say, the skill-building and sailing practice I had been looking forward to did not include the assistance of a teacher – only rarely, when “absolutely necessary,” did he explain things to us. But many sailors will agree that it’s better to train your crew before that big black cloud hits your boat….
Since we were to be stuck together on a little boat for so long, I thought maybe I’d be able to pick up a little Finnish or Polish. “Since you fly a Finnish flag, technically we’re in Finland, right? And we should speak Finnish?” Nope – English was the official language on the Ninni, despite Mikko admitting that he “can’t English” and Irek having only intermediate command of the language. But he still seemed to expect us to read his mind, despite investing as little time as possible in training. I suppose it would’ve actually been worse if we all tried to talk in Finnish.
Of course I did learn a lot, even without his help. Irek, who flew down for the voyage just to gain experience(in hopes of one day becoming a yachtmaster himself), would go out on deck and simply start doing things he thought needed doing, often drawing blustery criticism from the captain. But at least he was practicing, and eventually I grew comfortable enough to do the same. It was the only way to get our hands dirty – if we were to confer with Mikko first, he’d just end up doing it himself!
I will admit, I should’ve maybe expected such fierce independence. In one of his first emails, Mikko told me “I can do the sailing myself, but another person is nice to get good sleep.” Indeed, Irek and I were only really useful as watchkeepers, and really only at night. On any boat, it’s standard practice that the person coming off watch wakes up the person coming on next, usually early enough to make tea or breakfast. But Mikko would often let me sleep in and take my watches himself. Sounds great, yeah… but in reality it was aggravating. It enforced his apparently pre-determined image of me as a lazy American, and it screwed up the watch schedule. Nevertheless, when I begged him to wake me up on time, he angrily vowed not to!
I think I grew a few new gray hairs that first week, but eventually I got used to feeling useless, and though I was always energetic and willing to help if asked, and learned all I could on my own, the voyage took on a more “on vacation” feeling.
After that it was nice to be lazing about, reading or watching the sea, being served meals(most often described as a “sea mess” – canned fish, beans, and vegetables with garlic and onion; most fresh food only lasted the first week), maybe having a conversation. On occasion someone would spy a passing ship on the horizon or some sort of animal, and we’d all rush up to get an eyeful of something that wasn’t sky or sea. The ocean rolled steadily by beneath us, and each day brought us a tiny bit closer to the rising sun.

Watching the MARINE LIFE was one of the most rewarding diversions. There is an amazing microscopic plankton in the water that produces a small amount of light when agitated. After dusk, the wake behind the boat begins to glitter like the stars, and if you’re staring transfixed over the railing on a dark watch some night, it’s quite exotic and surreal. If the wind is really pushing and the boat is crashing into the waves, their sparkling brings to mind a grinder wheel, spitting out sparks. And when the sea is calm and you’re gliding clean through the water, it’s as though some gentle hand is spreading a carpet of fairy dust below the boat.
There are no mosquitos at sea; it’s nice. In fact we embarked a day earlier than Mikko had originally planned, just to escape the bloodsuckers that had been eating us in the Antigua harbor.
Flying fish are a common sight, exploding out one side of a wave and skimming along the surface, sometimes as far as twenty yards, before splashing back into the sea. Sometimes they land on the deck at night, and in the morning there are little cigar-shaped cartilage-boned breakfasts waiting for us.
By simply running a jelly-fish lure behind the boat as we sailed along, we were able to catch quite a few bigger fish, and stayed in fresh tuna and dorado(mahi-mahi) almost the whole trip. The biggest one we got, an albacore, was about 2.5 feet long and weighed about 13 pounds. Every time, Mikko would reel in the fish, then lean over the side and stab its underside with the gaff, a wicked-looking extendable sharpened hook. As the blood began to flow, he next clubbed it on the head with a big piece of wood he kept, for this express purpose, hanging on the lifeline near the rod. The poor fish would jitter and twitch at each blow, and finally die with one rather sickening and extended convulsion. At this point the dorados, which are normally a beautiful bright opalescent orange-green, would lose their color, and their scales would fade to grey, almost as if marking the passage of their soul. Next, with the cold remorselessness of a lifetime fisherman, he cut them open at the neck and plopped them back into the water to bleed out, while he went to collect his knife and bowl. Then, using a fold-down cutting board mounted to the railing, he would expertly clean the fish, producing chunks of pale boneless fresh fish. Many times, I saw this old fisherman pluck a piece of meat from behind the fish’s head and eat it raw right there in the middle of cleaning it; usually he would also serve a sashimi raw-fish appetizer with soy sauce and wasabi. Mikko let me clean the catch once, a very slimy procedure and quite precarious on a heeled-over jostling boat. I got to cook it once, as well, and (despite almost losing the privilege because I asked a question) produced a delicious blackened mahi mahi over olive-oil-n-oregano spaghetti with crushed tomatoes. The guys were impressed, I think, and I thought maybe I could become the boat’s cook, but the next day we were back to Mikko’s sea mess.
I never saw any sharks, but several times a pod of dolphins would catch up to us and romp around nearby, racing along the bow and obviously playing. Wonderful creatures. There were even baby dolphins once – very cute. Every time, I would welcome the sight of the dolphins; they always made me feel protected, and somehow welcome.
We saw a whale once, about 100 yards off the starboard side. It blew water as it sounded, shooting a geyser into the air, then majestically banked a bit and rolled over as it began to dive, revealing a humongous flipper, then a humongous tail, and then it was gone.
There were Portuguese man-o-wars floating near the Azores islands; little puffy, semi-transparent, purplish-pink blobs with long slimy tails, floating on the surface and being pushed by the wind. Sailing jellyfish!
And finally, there were birds. Frigate birds, petrels, fulmars, gannets, shearwaters, and gulls of many kinds. It’s crazy to think how far they must have flown, to be here in the middle of the Atlantic. But then you realize that they actually sleep while floating on the water – they spend almost their whole lives at sea. Although once I happened to pop up from the hatch one afternoon to the sight of a tiny, cute, intensely yellow canary having a rest in the rigging! I guess we must have helped him make his journey – do they really fly from boat to boat across the ocean?
The fishing birds were soothing to watch; they skim incredibly close to the surface, in a sort of dance with the water: up and down, along a trough and over a crest, following the waves and dipping below the surface for fish. Once, a pair of fulmars were trying to eat the fishing hook, and one of them got caught before we could reel it in. “Oh no…” I thought, “We’ve killed a bird.” Mikko stood back, saying that removing a hook from a bird would surely spell its death. Irek reeled it all the way in and on to the deck, and I realized with relief that it wasn’t hooked, it had only somehow got its wing wrapped up in the line. It didn’t fight me as I gently pinned it down and unwrapped it, and I held my breath as it plopped off the side of the boat back into the water. After a few moments of praying, “Please survive! Please survive!” it took to wing and rejoined its mate in the sky. Whew!

SURVIVAL is often on my mind, as one of my favorite pastimes, but at sea it took on a wholly different context. I had learned a lot about maritime survival during the STCW course in Florida, and was happy to see all the appropriate gear onboard the Ninni: the self-inflating liferaft, emergency water supplies and rations, the EPIRB beacon, dan bouys, flares, life vests and life lines, hand-held VHF radios, and a first aid kit. In my travels on the East coast I spoke to a lot of mariners, and can clearly remember certain phrases, such as “Boats just disappear,” “Any less than five crew on a transAtlantic and you’re playing with your life,” and “Every hour, somewhere, in some ocean, someone is sinking.” Then I started reading some maritime survival and adventure stories someone had left on the boat, and by the time I got a good sense of the pure vastness of the Atlantic Ocean, a constant (exciting!) sense of danger had settled over our little boat. I had my own personal ditch-bag, ready to throw into a liferaft, with full water bottles, CLIF bars, signal mirror, compass, fishing kit, wallet, and passport. Just in case.
I took a swim in the 5-kilometer-deep, royal blue water one day, with nothing but my fingers’ grasp holding me onto the Ninni, and thinking about the sheer magnitude of the ocean left me in humbled awe. There is so much massive force, so much power and energy beneath the waves; not to mention sharks or pissed-off whales, or floating cargo boxes or exploding propane tanks or hurricane-force gales that rip your mast off… it pays to take precautions when you’re a thousand miles from the nearest land.

Way out there in the ocean, the POLLUTION is different as well. It’s no less than on land, perhaps even more, actually(think New Jersey garbage barges), but everything except plastic sinks, so I guess most people are going with “out of sight, out of mind.” But sometimes it’s not out of sight. I’ve seen Coca-Cola bottles floating, I’ve seen BP oil drums floating. There is a place in the Pacific where all the plastic in the ocean collects – they call it the Great Pacific Garbage Patch(http://www.mindfully.org/Plastic/Ocean/Pacific-Garbage-Patch27oct02.htm). It’s the size of a continent. The plastic absorbs chemicals and interferes with the hormones of marine creatures, among other problems. And so on a boat, appropriately, it is illegal to throw anything made of plastic overboard. MARPOL actually pays people who report boats that break marine pollution laws – half the amount fined. Not that that stops people – it’s much like litter laws on land: ignored when no one is watching. What really frustrated me, though, was that beyond three miles from land, it’s completely legal to throw almost everything else overboard! I was forced to jettison aluminum and tin cans, glass bottles, cardboard and paper – almost all of which could’ve been recycled. I tried to save my beer cans – but Mikko wouldn’t let me. “We don’t have room to keep that” and “What if they don’t have recycling in the Azores?” Bah!
In Antigua I said “I’m using wind power to cross the ocean, instead of gasoline,” to a guy who builds sailing boats, and the response was something like, “Do you know how much waste there is just to build a sailboat? A lot.” Critics love to try and shoot me down, I guess. Actually, though, he had an interesting point – take a minute and think about how much energy is used, not to run, but just to manufacture your car, the siding on your house, even your solar panel, or (eek) your bicycle. But like anything else, it’s a lesser-evil type of situation – out of all the boats in the world that you can fit a bicycle onto, the sailboat is still the most ecological.
One type of pollution that doesn’t exist at sea is light pollution. The stars, the milky way, and the planets were all absolutely amazing. One night I was even lucky enough to witness a meteor shower, where shooting stars streaked across the sky, leaving a trail of light for several savored moments after each precious one. And the moon; aah la luna. I was able to see, for example, a crescent moon, as normal: a perfect sliver of silver, shining over the vast sea, directly illuminated by the sun; but it was so clear out there that I could also see the rest of the moon, darkened in the Earth’s shadow but still catching a few light rays reflected off our atmosphere. It was the most breathtaking celestial view I’ve ever seen, and I’ve looked at the stars from some pretty remote locations.

There is also a RADIO that bounces signals off of the Earth’s atmosphere – the HAM radio. It’s old technology, but still in wide usage. The longest piece of metal on the boat, the backstay(16 meters), which helps hold the mast up, doubled as Mikko’s antenna. The electronic guts of his system were coated in spray-on varnish to protect against corrosive, salty air, and he never had a problem with it despite using it every day, at sea and in harbor.
There is a whole sub-culture of geeks that really get into amateur radio. Some collect callsigns of different countries(each country has different ones), some collect only callsigns from islands, and some collect weird callsigns, like the maritime mobile station on the Ninni. Mikko’s Finnish callsign was OH2NIN/mm: “Oscar Hotel Two November India November stroke Maritime Mobile.” My gawd, I heard that callsign so much – imagine, if you can, the Finnish accent – I was hearing it in my sleep. Most times he would contact random people from across the globe – it really does bounce its signal off the atmosphere, so its range is, well, anywhere on Earth – but there were a few memorable ones.
Once he talked to an Algerian, and since both Mikko and Irek had become quite interested(and skeptical) as to how and why I would cross that particular African country, he took a moment to describe his crazy American crewmember and ask Mohammed’s opinion. Thanks Mikko, but I don’t think Mohammed understood your English – he didn’t respond.
Another time he contacted a bicycle mobile station! Some crazy guy on a bike in Blackpoole, UK was riding down the beach with a tire-rubber generator system, a 3 meter aerial sticking up behind him, and a trailer full of batteries, yapping away into a microphone! I was tickled. The guy had actually tuned his radio to resonate through the steel frame of his bicycle to amplify his signal. Apparently he had the strongest signal in all of Europe, and was very popular on the airwaves that day. Mikko again told him about his cyclist crewmember, and I heard the radio voice, bounced all the way from England to our boat in the middle of the ocean, say in a British accent, “I hope Charles enjoys his cycle trip here in the UK.”
But the most impressive use of the amateur radio was an American organization called Winlink. These guys have set up stand-alone radio stations, connected to computers, in various strategic points around the world. Any radio amateur with the (free) software can contact the station, and have a very reliable way to send or receive email or faxes. For maritime mobile operators, you can also download weather reports. It’s like an indirect sort of internet, without web-surfing, that relies on inexpensive, tried-and-true technology instead of $25,000 satellite uplink systems. Pretty amazing. Except I wasn’t allowed to use it! Oh well – he did actually let me send a few short “I’m still alive” messages to my family during the crossing.
Mikko didn’t like the weather reports he got from Winlink. He had a better source, a personalized, daily weather strategy that all but completely replaced older methods, such as looking at the clouds. This god-send is named Herb. “Southbound Two” is his callsign, and he’s a German mariner living in Canada who decided after a few rough transAtlantic passages that there should be something better than weatherfaxes. He’s not a meteorologist, but he talks directly to any boat(on the Atlantic) that needs his help, for free, every day at 4:00 UCT. He queues everyone up, then goes through the list, from Caribbean to Europe, listening to their position and weather conditions, and then delivering concise tactics and a waypoint to head for during the next 24 hours. I can’t believe he’s allowed to do it – shouldn’t some asshole have sued him already? – but everyone on HerbNet seems to know that his advice is “suggested course only.” Irek and I certainly would have preferred a little more do-it-yourself weather tactics; we were still learning. But this was the one thing Mikko didn’t do himself: he placed complete and utter confidence in Herb, saying “We’ll just see where Herb tells us to go.” Good thing the radio didn’t break!
When we were finally within about 100 miles of Europe, we were able to tune into FM frequencies. The BBC and its warm British accents and prestigious news reports were a welcome sign that we were getting close. But no music – the only music Mikko ever listened to was “The Best of Queen,” more specifically “Bohemian Rhapsody,” though he did play the bicycle song for me once. “Biiiicyle, biiiicyle, I want to ride my bi-see-call, I want to ride my biiiike….”

Indeed, by the time I arrived in Falmouth, I was out of shape, a bit tubby around the waist, and more than eager to get back on the bike. It was a total of 40 days at sea, ten twenty ten. Think about that for a second. Twenty days straight.

I can’t really even believe it myself.

The terra firma was so very, very enjoyable then, after such a long journey over the waves. I savored the act of pitching my tent, surrounded by the intense green of the well-watered English forest, getting soil under my fingernails and listening to the birds… Aaah, the whispering trees, swaying in the wind, yet anchored still to the deepest of roots; poetically balanced in elemental forces, reliable and grounded in the stillness of this Earth.
I have landed in this exotic land with a greater appreciation for everything: for solid ground, for pavement and rubber, for plants; for wind, for boats, and even(especially?) for water. For leaving my comfort zone, for purposefully breaking the routines dictated to me, and trying something so new, so uncertain and unfamiliar, I’ve come to appreciate all of life, more than ever before.
So try something new today! It makes life taste better.

I went back to my bike.

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

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.