[fullwidth backgroundcolor=”” backgroundimage=”” backgroundrepeat=”no-repeat” backgroundposition=”left top” backgroundattachment=”scroll” video_webm=”” video_mp4=”” video_ogv=”” video_preview_image=”” overlay_color=”” overlay_opacity=”0.5″ video_mute=”yes” video_loop=”yes” fade=”no” bordersize=”0px” bordercolor=”” borderstyle=”” paddingtop=”20px” paddingbottom=”20px” paddingleft=”0px” paddingright=”0px” menu_anchor=”” equal_height_columns=”no” hundred_percent=”no” class=”” id=””][two_third last=”no” spacing=”no” background_color=”” background_image=”” background_repeat=”no-repeat” background_position=”left top” border_size=”0px” border_color=”” border_style=”solid” padding=”” class=”” id=””][fusion_text]We pick up water and snacks at Red Mesa, about 13 miles down the road. Dave and I both find ourselves pretty self-conscious about how different we are from those around us. There’s a certain amount of difference that comes with riding a bicycle down the highway anyhow — dressed in spandex and cycling gear as we are — but the difference runs deeper than spandex today.
We’re white. Nobody else is.
We’re the only non-Indian folks at the combination grocery/gas station where we’re gathering food and drink. I imagine it’s a bit uncommon for white folks to ever stop here — a little hole in the wall place in a little hole in the wall town in the middle of the dry and dusty high desert. White folks who are wearing wild cycling gear steps it up yet another notch on the “different†scale.
Not that I feel worried or threatened; quite the opposite. I’m acutely aware of my difference, but feel like everyone around me is politely trying not to see that difference. This might be part of the Navajo culture: respect for the privacy and self of someone else. If a Navajo walked into a swank all-white suburban cappuccino bar, I doubt he’d get this same respect.
Eighteen miles down the road we come to a crossroad where US 160 takes a left, putting the wind at our back. The milkshake abuse I heaped on my gut a couple hours ago has had time to heal, and we pull into another of the combination grocery/gas stations for more water and calories.
I hesitate to call these places we’ve been stopping at as we’ve crossed the reservation convenience stores. Like so many we’ve stopped at, this one was a full-fledged grocery store, albeit small. There’s no branding from a national chain, and feels like a family run business. It seems to be a place where local folks gather everything they need from a grocery, and spend a few extra minutes socializing with other patrons. Truly a “general store.â€
I’m fascinated by a corner packed with bundles of herbs, all sorts of different medicinal herbs that you’d be hard-pressed to find elsewhere, desert plants and sage and that sort of thing. I wonder how much of this stuff is sold to folks who live around here, who use it in their daily life, and how much of it is for the benefit of touristy folks like us. Judging from the dearth of touristy folks, and the wealth of local folks, I have to imagine at least some of it’s used locally.
There’s not a standard soda machine, with ice for my water bottles. I ask the guy at the counter if he has any ice, and he tells me to walk into the back and take whatever we want. “The back†is mostly the butcher counter, and the fella back there is cutting meat. He points me to a big bucket in the corner where there’s ice, and I grab enough to fill my bottles. I thank him, and he gives me a nod and one of the most heartfelt smiles I’ve ever received.
Sitting outside in the shade of the front porch, I’m a bit ashamed of the satisfaction I take in sensing that Dave is as worn-out as I am. I was beginning to think he’d taken on superhero qualities with his steady pace in that nasty crosswind. Sharing a sleeve of Fig Newtons, we talk about how unusual it feels for us to be the “different ones.†As a white middle-class male, it’s been rare in my life when I’ve stuck out as “the different one.â€[/fusion_text][/two_third][one_third last=”yes” spacing=”no” background_color=”” background_image=”” background_repeat=”no-repeat” background_position=”left top” border_size=”0px” border_color=”” border_style=”solid” padding=”25px” class=”” id=””][imageframe lightbox=”no” style_type=”none” bordercolor=”” bordersize=”0px” borderradius=”0″ stylecolor=”” align=”none” link=”” linktarget=”_self” animation_type=”0″ animation_direction=”down” animation_speed=”0.1″ class=”” id=””] [/imageframe][separator style_type=”shadow” top_margin=”50″ bottom_margin=”10″ sep_color=”#71b5dd” icon=”” width=”” class=”” id=””][fusion_text]
“Wisdom comes only when you stop looking for it and start living the life the Creator intended for you.”
~ Hopi Proverb
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Pilgrim Wheels Excerpts
This post is part of a series of posts, representing excerpts from Pilgrim Wheels, a story of a cycling journey across America. Pilgrim Wheels was released on March 1, 2015. We’re honored and grateful for the awards the book is receiving, including the following:
- 2015 National Indie Excellence Awards – 1st Place
- 2015 Great Southwest Book Festival – 2nd Place
- 2015 International Book Awards Finalist
- 2015 Next Generation Indie Book Awards Finalist
- 2015 LA Book Festival – Honorable Mention
- 2015 San Francisco Book Festival – Honorable Mention
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