Day 2 – Carmel To Lucia

Day 2 – Carmel to Lucia
A Closed Highway is Good News

A good traveler has no fixed plans, and is not intent on arriving.
  -  Lao Tzu

When I first planned this trip, the first day out of Carmel was 110 miles down the coast to Cambria. I figured I’d have tailwinds, and why not start off with a bang? But spring rains washed the highway out, (as they often do), so the road was closed at about 60 miles or so south of Carmel.

At first this messed with my head – making me change the route and the schedule. But the more I thought about it, the more I kind of liked the change. It let me dawdle a bit in Carmel, and dawdle a lot in Lucia. Why burn down the coastline all day, when I could sit at Lucia and enjoy the Pacific?

I start the day with arm warmers and leg warmers on, as well as my warm rain jacket. That’s how I’ll end the day as well. It’s chilly all day long. And that NW tailwind that always blows this time of year? Not today – a south wind for Neil today. Hmmm, I’m having troubled memories of last year’s ride across Kansas against winds all the way…

The further south I go along the highway, the more the traffic thins out. This makes me realize how lucky I am to have a road closure up ahead, since it reduces traffic. The road is narrow and curvy in places, and I love less traffic! It almost makes me forget the headwind. Almost.

As the day progresses, the wind swirls and shifts, and eventually I’m able to tune it out. Of course, the fact that I’m riding through some of the most beautiful countryside on earth makes it easier to tune it out.

I had assumed that the road followed the coast all the way, but there’s a section that moves through a state park in Big Sur, and you’re away from the coast for 5 or 10 miles. While the coast is beautiful for sure, it would be a tragedy to ride along this highway and not get to experience the deep and lush Redwood forest in Big Sur.

Ancient Wisdom
“Trees are sanctuaries.  Whoever knows how to speak to them, whoever knows how to listen to them, can learn the truth.  They do not preach learning and precepts, they preach undeterred by particulars, the ancient law of life.”
-  Hermann Hesse,  Wandering

“Why are there trees I never walk under but large and melodious thoughts descend upon me?”
-  Walt Whitman, Song of the Open Road

It’s an interesting mindset change that I notice as I’m moving through the forest instead of the coast. I feel more relaxed, more complete. I stop a couple times in places where I can touch particularly large Redwoods, and stand there touching them with my hand. I really do think ancient trees share a wonderful energy that vibrates at a different wavelength than we’re used to. Their time horizon is beyond what we can imagine, and the things that feel significant to us are generally trifling to them I imagine.

I close my eyes, and can imagine Ents talking in deep and slow voices…

I’m reminded of a grandfather and a grandmother of mine – from different sides of the family. He lived to be almost 100, and she lived to be 101. Sitting with them always wrapped me in a different sense of time and significance than sitting with other folks. The world they were part of was much bigger and broader than the world I was part of. I hadn’t lived enough years yet to have such a broad world.

Yet, sitting with them, I could always feel their world. The breadth of it would wrap around me and make me feel a small part of it for the time we sat together. At 57 years old, I can only begin to feel that more broad world inside myself. The things that seemed to urgent and critical to me when my children were young have a different perspective to me now, and aren’t as urgent and critical. I’d be a better parent today, I think, than I was 30 years ago.

That’s why we need extended families. That’s why we need grandparents that help in the raising of children. Our perspective is more broad, and we’ve (hopefully) gained a bit of wisdom and understanding along our journey. While our eyes have often started to dim a bit, we see much more clearly than was possible when our world was so much smaller and our eyes so much more clear.

I miss those grandparents, and I think of them as I lay my hand on the trunk of an ancient Redwood. I feel as-though some of that “big view” energy is flowing within me, and I imagine them quietly and patiently touching me back through that trunk, nodding slowly and smiling, staring from a world too big for me to imagine…

I stop at a little settlement of sorts – really just a place where there’s a restaurant and small grocery. A bit touristy for sure, but a homey feel to it. The gardens are just covered in plants, and I’m reminded again of the steady, moderated coastal climate here.

I’ve been passing other cyclists to this point – folks who appear to be supported based on the lack of gear on their bikes. While I’m at this little stop, several of them ride up and dismount. Listening to them talk to one another and others, I ascertain that they’re part of a group that’s riding from San Francisco, down the coast to a bit north of LA, then heading east, back through Colorado, and eventually all the way to Newfoundland. It’s a 2 or 3 month journey for them, organized by some company who’s done this in other countries as well. I think about going over and talking to one of them, but decide instead to get on the bike and head up the road.

The road climbs and falls a bit while it’s back in the forest. Nothing long or too steep, just nice gentle grades. Of course, with the extra weight on my bike, everything is feeling steep to me on this second day out. I continue to pass cyclists, who I assume are part of this group. By the time I get to the top of a fairly long grade, I’ve probably passed about 10 or 12 of them. I watch in my mirror as one of them seems to hang several hundred yards behind me – sometimes coming closer but then falling back depending on the grade. At one particularly nice place I pull over to take a picture by the side of the road, and wait for him to catch up.

Turns out his name is Jim, and he’s from Canada. He’s part of the group, and he fills me in on more of the details. Turns out they’re following almost exactly the same route I am back to Colorado, although when they get to Colorado they’ll cross the center of the state rather than the southern part of the state as I will. Rather than staying in motels, they stay mostly in campgrounds, occasionally staying in a hostel or motel. Jim seems to like the idea of camping most of the time, though in my mind I’m thinkin’ that’s gonna get mighty old mighty fast. Most of these folks I’ve been passing aren’t 25 year-old studs, but middle-agers like myself (though I’d guess Jim to be only 35 or 40.)

Jim and I talk a bit now and again over the next miles, eventually arriving at the little town of Lucia. It’s starting to rain a bit, and Jim has another several miles to ride to his campground. We say our good-byes and good-lucks, and I watch him ride off into the mist, delighted that I’ll be spending my night in a warm motel room overlooking the coast, eating food prepared by someone else…

While Lucia shows up as a town on some maps, it’s really not a town at all. It may have been an actual town in the past, but now all that’s there is a lodge and restaurant. Seems the property has been in the same family’s hands for several generations. They have a great spot – right on the coast – and they offer lodging and dining in a beautiful setting.

In many ways, it’s a shining example of free enterprise, the declination brought on by nepotism, and the arrogance and sense of entitlement that “ownership” inspires all wrapped into a single stop along the highway.

If you ignore price and attitude, and just look at the place, it’s a quaint little spot with a beautiful view. Of course, you’re in Big Sur, so it’s tough to find a spot along the highway that doesn’t have a beautiful view. The food in the restaurant is OK but certainly not great – about what you’d expect in a cafe along the highway. The rooms are tiny little things cut out of a strip-style building – quaint, quite small, and very old. The room I stay in is very run down with a pretty lousy bed and plumbing that not only doesn’t work right, but is in a state of “half-repair”. Whoever takes care of that sort of thing will finish the job when they get around to it.

But hey, that’s OK with me, my standards for motel rooms are extremely low. I’m usually happy to stay in a small-town motel that costs $35/night, knowing full-well that it’s gonna be just like this.

The problem is, this room is a couple hundred dollars a night. Really. And the meals are proportionately overpriced. There’s a sucker in every crowd, and this night I resigned myself to being that sucker. I need a warm place to stay for the night, and they have a warm (well mostly) room for me to rent. I’m able to look at the proprietors in a light that accepts that they’re running a business, and they’ve made choices about how they want to run that business. I don’t like it, but I want what they have to sell, and am willing to pay for it.

Through the evening, I come to see balance in the situation with the Lucia Lodge and the family that runs it. The Lucia family isn’t perfect, and they could use some lessons in customer service for sure. They’re prices are too high by a lot, and they appear to have been blinded by the arrogance of “ownership”. But they’re a family business trying to make a living in a remote area, and I’m OK giving ‘em my business tonight.

After I order, a fella at a nearby table starts up a conversation. Turns out he’s a cyclist too. His name is Dave Meyers, and he lives up in northern California. He’s following the same route I am to Paso Robles tomorrow. We share a bit of good conversation over supper, and I learn quite a bit from him about minimalist touring on a bicycle.

When I started out on this trip, I thought I was carrying a pretty small pack of gear. Something between 15 and 20 pounds. I’d included some “nice to have’s”, but felt justified as I kept the total weight down to under 20 pounds (without water of course). Dave carries a tiny little bag that weighs in at about 7 pounds. Less than half my weight.

I’m fascinated by Dave’s approach, and when this trip is over, I’ll continue to correspond with him to learn more about how he travels. For tonight, I’m feeling somewhat cocky – as I was able to pass quite a few cyclists during the day who were far less loaded than me. I’m not yet aware of the attitude change I’ll be experiencing tomorrow, so I simmer in my cocky arrogance while finishing desert…

Lucia Lodge and the Arrogance of Ownership

As soon as the land of any country has all become private property, the landlords, like all other men, love to reap where they never sowed, and demand a rent even for its natural produce.
~Adam Smith, Wealth of Nations

On my bicycle ride across the West this summer, I ended up in a little lodge along the coast at a place called Lucia. This was my second night out, and came at the end of a wonderful day of enjoying the Big Sur coastline.

While Lucia shows up as a town on some maps, it’s really not a town at all. It may have been an actual town in the past, but now all that’s there is a lodge and restaurant. Seems the property has been in the same family’s hands for several generations. They have a great spot – right on the coast – and they offer lodging and dining in a beautiful setting.

In many ways, it’s a shining example of free enterprise, the declination brought on by nepotism, and the arrogance and sense of entitlement that “ownership” inspires all wrapped into a single stop along the highway.

If you ignore price and attitude, and just look at the place, it’s a quaint little spot with a beautiful view. Of course, you’re in Big Sur, so it’s tough to find a spot along the highway that doesn’t have a beautiful view. The food in the restaurant is OK but certainly not great – about what you’d expect in a cafe along the highway. The rooms are tiny little things cut out of a strip-style building – quaint, quite small, and very old. The room I stay in is very run down with a pretty lousy bed and plumbing that not only doesn’t work right, but is in a state of “half-repair”. Whoever takes care of that sort of thing will finish the job when they get around to it.

But hey, that’s OK with me, my standards for motel rooms are extremely low. I’m usually happy to stay in a small-town motel that costs $35/night, knowing full-well that it’s gonna be just like this.

The problem is, this room is a couple hundred dollars a night. Really. And the meals are proportionately overpriced.

It’s the free market at work. This is the only lodge and dining along the highway for miles, and there will be a certain number of tourists that won’t have any choice but to pay those prices. Many will book online, with high expectations for the price, and will just have to live with disappointment. Their cancellation policy is quite strict – you can’t check-in until 3:00, but they don’t accept cancellations after 2:00. If you show up and are outraged at the price, you’re past the point you can cancel, and your card is charged, so you might as well stay.

I’m on vacation, and I’m OK with a reasonable fleecing now and again. So tonight, I’m getting fleeced – I might as well enjoy it. At least I’ve got a warm room to sleep in, and a beautiful view. The warm shower feels wonderful, though their wireless isn’t working, (sorry, no discount for that additional insult). I do a little writing, then walk up to the lodge for an early supper.

It’s warm and quaint in the cafe portion of the lodge. It’s less than half full – a highway closure has dramatically reduced the tourist traffic. A couple walks in, obviously looking around for a place to sit. I listen as the waitress asks them if they’re here for dinner, and they say they’re probably just going to sit and have coffee. They’re an older couple, with a Scandinavian accent. In keeping with their culture, they’re extremely polite as the waitress tells them they can get coffee at the general store next door, making it plain she doesn’t want them taking up dining room space if they’re only going to spend the price of coffee.

It seems everyone who works here is “part of the family”. They’ve developed an arrogance over the years, and a sense of entitlement to use this little piece of paradise they “own” to take every possible penny from every possible traveler. They’ve been blessed with a wonderful place in a beautiful location, but their connection to this wonderful little corner of paradise has been twisted. They don’t seem to see it as a gift and blessing that also allows them to make a living. Instead, I get the feeling they see it as a cash cow to milk for all it’s worth.

Many years ago, when I was immersed in Corporate America, I sat in a meeting where the CEO was railing at his management team about poor profit performance. It was a smaller company by today’s standards, and there was clearly frustration around the table at economic conditions that were making it difficult to get the profit margins we had seen in previous years. The CEO was more frustrated than any of us, and he slammed his fist on the table as he stated with absolute conviction that, “we have a moral right to make a profit.”

I think he truly believed those words when he spoke them. He was a decent and “good” man, kind in many ways. He had built a profitable enterprise with many years of hard work. I think he truly believed that he was “entitled” to make a profit – it was his moral right as a hard-working entrepreneur.

At the time I was stunned, but over the years I’ve come to accept this attitude as pretty darned common in the culture and economy we’ve created. We’ve evolved (or devolved perhaps) back toward the feudal mentality that was common before the Enlightenment period when our country was conceived and born. Back in those olden days when there were Lords – those with property and wealth, and there were the rest of the common chattel – those who had to just eek out a living at the pleasure of the Lords.

We’ve come to believe that as we build wealth and “own” things, our rights and privileges increase proportionately. Especially as it relates to ownership of land and property. “Owning” property makes me almost divine, as a little piece of Creation is “mine” to control and do whatever I want with. Such power!

The Lucia family “owns” this wonderful little corner of creation. A tired old couple from another country is enjoying our country’s beautiful coastline, and wants to sit by a warm fire and enjoy a cup of coffee and maybe a little desert. There are those of us in the room who’d love to sit by them and share their story. Their presence will help fill the mostly empty room, and warm it with human kindness. The “owner” sees none of this – she sees only a set of pockets, and weighs only how much silver she can move from their pocket to hers.

I’m conflicted by this, as I suspect any American reader would be. On the one hand, I absolutely support free enterprise, as well as the marketplace pricing and property ownership principles that underpin it. At the same time, it’s clear to me that there’s a selfish streak inside most of us that will allow lust for profit to rapidly turn the steering rudder of our life toward tyranny under the yoke of ownership.

In many cases, the free market will weed out those who succumb to that lust, as somebody else will just build a place down the road that offers a better product at a lower price. Unfortunately, this process is often corrupted by regulation that protects those who already have the property and ownership. In this case, I have no idea why someone else hasn’t put up a couple double-wide trailers down the road to take advantage of the bonanza, but have to assume there must be some regulation that prevents this, but has grandfathered in the Lucia property.

I’m further conflicted here because this is a family operation. It’s a business that a family runs together. I love this. I run a family business with my son. I write and lament often about the loss of the family business, about how big companies have driven the small family operation out of existence. In my own life, I’m usually happy to pay more to do business with local merchants. I’ll always choose a locally owned restaurant over a chain – the prices are comparable, the service is usually fine, and I’m supporting a local family rather than some big multi-national conglomerate. I’ll always look for the hardware store rather than the big box for the same reason. I avoid Walmart’s with a passion.

Here’s this little family operation, and I want to support ‘em. It appears they have 3 generations of folks working at the place. It may be that as their family has grown, they’ve continued to simply expect the business to generate bigger and bigger piles of cash to support more and more people, and the way they’ve done that is to just keep raising prices and spending as little as possible on upkeep.

Every farm family across the country has faced this issue over the last 2 or 3 generations. Increasing farm productivity has meant that prices for farm goods (adjusted for inflation) have dropped continually for dozens of years. An acre of farm land supports fewer and fewer farmers each year. As farm families have grown up, the vast majority of the kids have had no choice but to leave for the city to find work – the farm simply can’t support them.

The difference may be that in the case of a place like Lucia, they’re not producing a commodity like beans where “the market” will define the price. In Lucia, they can keep raising their prices, because demand for a little place to stay right there on the coast is high enough to support their continued increasing prices. The only way a “market” would start to set their price for them is if a competitor opened down the road.

In many ways, it is like the farm analogy I referred to earlier. On the family farm, the dollars of profit from the operation will support a dwindling number of family member, because of dramatically increased productivity. The Lucia clan appears to have many family members that they’re trying to keep employed from an operation that is essentially locked into a particular size, so net “productivity” may have decreased over the years, and they’ve correspondingly continued to increase the price.

The outcome seems fairly predictable. Either someone will offer competition, which will drive the price down and force better service, lower prices, and fewer family members on the payroll, or they’ll collapse under their own weight, as bad reviews slow the flow of folks willing to endure poor service at high prices, and their continued low efficiency grinds things to a halt.

Of course, I’m conjecturing all of this off a very few observations. For all I know they’re business is great now and will continue to be great in the future regardless of what appears to be poor service and efficiency. But it strikes a real chord of contemplation inside me as I sit in the dining room. I’m such a huge fan of small, family run businesses, and here’s an example of one that I’m not a huge fan of. Ten years from now, this place might be gone, and some big multi-national hotel will be on this site, and I’ll lament the loss of the little Lucia Lodge, forgetting the poor service and efficiency.

There’s a balance in all this. There’s no perfect solution to anything. With any way of doing things, there’ll be both bonuses and penalties. I need to realize this whenever I fall into the natural human tendency to long for “good old days” or “that better way” I know about. The Lucia family isn’t perfect, and they could use some lessons in customer service for sure. They’re prices are too high by a lot, and they appear to have been blinded by the arrogance of “ownership”. But they’re a family business trying to make a living in a remote area, and I’m OK giving ‘em my business tonight.

The Space Between

It’s in the space between one thing and another thing where life’s defined. Those times of transition, where we gather pile a ceremonial cairn of what got us to this point, and turn toward the next. Dorothy and her retinue in Oz needed to make a harrowing pilgrimage to end up on that dais, only to watch in disbelief as what she had believed with all her heart would be the method of her transition floated away without her.

Only in that moment of heartbreak – the space between the hope of the previous moment and the promise of the next –   could she see the bubble of transition, and where it needed to come from.

“Click the ruby slippers 3 times and say …”

I just published a post at Prairie Eden’s website, where I talked about this little window of transition our perennial gardens are going through this time of year in Colorado, mentioning that for the designer of physical space, it’s often the space between things that’s more important than the things themselves.

I recently made my own little pilgrimage of sorts, though I didn’t look at it that way when I planned it. It was simply an adventure – a bicycle ride from Monterey, California back to Colorado where I live. The first 2/3 of it I rode by myself, and the last third with a friend. I’ll be blogging about that ride quite a bit in the upcoming weeks and months, and have posted a summary from which I’ll link to all the other posts as I write them. So far, I’ve only published the summary and first day.

When I arrived at Monterey, I dropped my rented car off at the airport. That point of transition between the drive out and the ride back stands out clearly in my mind. I turned in the keys at the Hertz counter, and got my bike all arranged and packed up. After a quick stop in the mens room, I dropped the jeans and t-shirt that I’d worn on the drive out into a trash can, and rolled my bike out through the sliding doors of the airport into the California sunshine.

I remember looking around a bit as I dropped those traveling clothes into the trash, wondering if the action would look odd to folks. Nobody was looking. The moments of transition I was moving through only had significance for me – not for anybody else. To everyone else, I was just a strange guy wheeling a bicycle through an airport.

I think spaces of transition in our lives are like that most of the time. They consume us as we’re transformed by them, but to those around us, we’re just a strange guy with a bicycle…

 

Monterey to Carmel

Tour of the West – Day 1

Arriving

I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain.

-  Bene Gesserit Litany Against Fear, Frank Herbert – Dune

Pulling into the airport in Monterey, I’m a little surprised to feel a touch of dread creeping into my mind. For the past couple of days, this rental car has become my “base camp” as I’ve traveled out here from Colorado. I expected to feel excited at this point – dropping off the one-way rental to begin my journey – but I feel a bit of reluctance to give up the security of the car.

Over the past couple hours of driving up California’s Central Valley, I’ve felt the hint of doubt tickling the back of my mind. I’ve driven a lot of miles to get here, and the many hours in the car have me wondering about whether I’m really up for backtracking those thousand-plus miles on a bicycle – most of the way by myself.

Am I nuts? What on earth makes me think I can do this at 57 years old?

I park the car, and start to rig up my bike for riding. Back in Colorado, I was careful to make sure everything fit. The only “extra” things I brought were the old jeans and t-shirt that I plan on throwing away at the airport. As I rig up the bike, though, I find a few “extra” things that ended up with me. My truck keys for example, that had been in my jeans pocket – not something I want to throw away.

I get stuff bundled up, and decide to move away from the car. I take all my gear and my bike with me to the Hertz counter, drop off the keys, and do my final arranging there in the airport – away from the security of the car. A quick stop at the men’s room, and I drop my jeans and t-shirt in the trash can.

That simple gesture – dropping those clothes in the trash can – seems to lift a weight from my shoulders. As-though I were releasing the last remaining connection with my security and connection to the journey that brought me to this point. Releasing that connection illuminates the place the fear had occupied, and allows me to look forward toward the journey now in front of me.

 

Departing

What we call the beginning is often the end. And to make an end is to make a beginning. The end is where we start from.

– T.S. Eliot

The automatic doors part for me as I walk out of the airport terminal to the sidewalk outside. It feels pretty right for me – releasing my connection to the past, turning, and walking into the sunlight of the future as the doorway opens for me.

At Monterey Airport - Mile 1 Still Ahead Of Me

I lean my bike against a post to take a picture of the bike at the beginning of the trip. I strike up a conversation with a young woman sitting on the bench, who offers to take a picture of me with the bike. My white and untanned legs shine brightly in the picture, but I feel pretty neat documenting this beginning point.

The young woman has come out to Carmel for a writers conference that lasts all week. Ironic, I think to myself. I hope to write about this trip when it’s over, and I start the trip with a conversation with a young writer who travels clear across the country to learn more about how to write.

I leave the airport, and immediately start a little climb. I’m surprised at the weight of the bike, and figure I’ll get used to it as the trip goes along. I feel little pangs and pings in my knees and hips as I climb, and worry about whether or not they’ll develop into real problems in the coming hundreds of miles.

Worry – it’s a deep black hole into which enjoyment of the present falls, never to be retrieved. I’ve learned this lesson throughout my life, and I think of it now as I feel the deep pang in my right knee each time I bear down on the pedal. I’ve always been the “designated worrier” in our family, but I’ve gotten better in recent years. I’ve come to realize that unless there’s something I can do to change the situation, then I need to focus on where I am. In this case, I’ve spent reasonable time getting myself in shape, and what I can do right now is gear down and take pressure off the knees. Take it easy, and put it out of my mind.

The hills are steeper than I expect them to be in the short jaunt over to Carmel. Are they really this steep, I wonder, or is the load on my bike that heavy? Climbing, after all, is where you most notice the extra weight when you tour on a bicycle. Have I brought too much with me?

Worry again.

Neil's Bike at Night 1 Lodging - The Green Lantern Inn

I crest the final climb, and begin the wonderful descent down into Carmel. In the short distance, I’ve climbed over 800 feet, and descend every one of those feet plus a few more. I wind my way through the quaint little tourist town of Carmel By The Sea, and find the Green Lantern Inn, where I have reservations for my first night. I put up my bike in my room, shower, change into walking-around clothes, and head to town for dinner.

I like Carmel. It’s surely the land of the Beautiful People, as they say, but it’s cute and homey, and gives me a warm and comfortable feeling for the start of my adventure. It’s Erik’s (my brother) birthday, and I call and wish him happy birthday. He’s not at all happy about me taking this trip, and has been trying to talk me out of it for months. He has the worry gene too, but much worse than me.

I stand on the beach after dinner, talking to Erik, reassuring him that I’ll be fine. After we hang up, I sit on the beach and think about Erik and I, and consider the difference in how the cancer of worry has manifested itself in our separate lives.

Not that worry is a wholly bad thing – it can certainly help in the decision-making process so long as it’s moderated. In the case of this trip, there are surely things I should worry about – crossing hundreds of miles of desert on a bicycle in the worst month of the year for example – but should I let that worry keep me from a great adventure?

That old Bene Gesserit litany on fear has stayed with me my whole life: I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain.

I can easily substitute the word “worry” for the word “fear”, and the litany would still apply. Makes sense after all – worry is just another form of fear. The difference in my mind is that worry is fear of something poorly defined and theoretical, and I usually have very little ability to sway the outcome of the object of my worry. Nothing healthy about that, is there?

Sunset, Sunrise

Either you decide to stay in the shallow end of the pool or you go out in the ocean.

– Christopher Reeve

I’ve lived in the middle of the country my whole life. Mountains and prairie, Ponderosa Pine and oceans of grassland and wheat, this is what home looks like to me. The ocean is a thing of grandeur and magic to me – a real novelty.

I enjoy the sunset on the beach at Carmel, walking around, taking pictures of people, taking pictures of the sunset over the ocean. There are folks out in the water surfing, and I see a couple guys trotting down toward the water.

Confession: I don’t like cold water. I can’t imagine what enjoyment a person could get out of swimming in cold water. This water is cold – way too cold to swim in as far as I’m concerned – yet folks are splashing out there on surfboards and acting like they’re enjoying themselves. It’s just plain crazy, since the best you can hope for is a little wave that might carry you 20 or 30 yards.

After taking some nice sunset pictures, I walk back to my room at the Green Lantern Inn, do a little writing and a little reading, and fall asleep, looking forward to tomorrow. They don’t serve breakfast until 7:00, and I have a short day, so I decide to sleep in until 6:00, and enjoy breakfast. Today marks the beginning of this journey, and the sunset I just enjoyed seems the perfect way to begin.

The Setting Sun to Begin A Journey

Tour of the West – A Bicycle Adventure

Sunset at Carmel - Day 1

For three weeks in June, I rode my bicycle down the coast of California through Big Sur, turned left to cross the mountains, rode across the Mojave and Sonoran deserts, then northeast through Navajo, Hopi, and Ute lands, finally crossing southern Colorado and the Continental Divide at Wolf Creek Pass, ending up in Walsenburg, CO. I rode the first 60% or so by myself, then met my friend Dave in Flagstaff for the last 40% or so of the ride.

Big Sur Coastline Climbing Out

This ride connects with a ride Dave and I did last summer across southern Colorado and Kansas. Our hope is to extend the ride next year on to the east coast, completing a coast-to-coast journey over 3 years. Here’s a link to a summary of that Colorado and Kansas ride last summer.

A coast-to-coast ride is a nice thing to check off “the list” for sure, but I’m learning the checkmark on the list is something that gets the ride started, but the ride always turns into something much bigger than the checkmark. The goal of the checkmark is a good motivator to get me into the saddle, and get me planning and executing the trip, but it’s never the “why”. Continue reading “Tour of the West – A Bicycle Adventure”

Twentynine Palms Rest Day

Sorry for the lack of posts. I’ve been in the midst of a nice little bicycle ride, headed down the cost of California from Monterey, turning left at LA and heading east across the desert.

Sitting in Twentynine Palms today, on the edge of the Mojave Desert and the Joshua Tree National Park, enjoying air-conditioning and a nice pool.

The ride down the coast and through Big Sur was pretty amazing. Definitely a ride anyone should consider. I’ll do some postings on the ride soon with pictures, but this is my quick rest-day update.

The thing that had the greatest impact on me over the first few days was the trees I think. On the western side of the range, it was the Redwoods, but then on the inland side of the range, and through the Paso Robles wine country and along the way up into the mountains again at Frazier Park, there were these massive Oak trees that I couldn’t get over. These things must me many hundreds of years old to have grown so massive in the climate. I couldn’t get enough of spending time with both these types of ancient trees.

Now, in the desert, things have changed dramatically. Spending time in the shade by the pool this morning, I noticed several little (warbler type) birds that I haven’t noticed as I’ve been riding, though I’m sure they’re around. And hummingbirds of course.

The wind here is insane. In can come up suddenly and ferociously, and I can tell you it’s something you don’t want in your face while you’re peddling a bicycle. Have had several stints of barely maintaining 7mph into the teeth of that deafening wind, curse words pouring out of my mouth.

Tomorrow I end my day in AZ, after crossing a pretty big section of highway with no water (about 100 miles or so). Cross your fingers for a west wind – I know I am!

Another update soon.

The Male Ego, Bicycles, and Snow

The sub-zero temps recently in Colorado have me thinking back to the days when manly man-ness spent way more time in the driver’s seat of my life. I remember a winter, (Kansas in ’78 as I recall), when I rode my bicycle the 10 miles to work every day of the winter. The snowy and slushy days were wet, cold, and dangerous but somehow I avoided disaster.

I’ve been seeing several postings by cyclists this winter talking about their rides in the cold and snow. Each time I read one, I reach down deep into my psyche, and wonder whether that manly man-ness agent wants more time in the driver’s seat than he’s been getting as I’ve moved into the back half of my 50’s.

He ignores me. He seems to think I’ve got a screw loose or something. He reminds me of the fingers that have been frostbitten, and how heavily I need to glove them to keep them from severe pain when cycling in really cold weather. He wonders if there’s something I think he wants to prove, assuring me that he doesn’t.

It’s an interesting evolution to look back on – the evolution of a male ego through the first half (or at least the first 56 years) of it’s life. That ME (Male Ego) has helped me to do some amazingly stupid things through its history and evolution. I have no doubt at all that it will continue to cause me fits of both stupidity and insanity in the years yet to come, but it has certainly become more collaborative as I’ve gotten older.

And that collaboration has led to some refreshing wisdom in some cases.

We’ve all got those bits and pieces of us that can become our self-destruction if we allow it. We’re amazingly complex and multi-faceted beings. Finding a way to bring all the different “voices and drivers” to sit at the table and collaborate is important to our individual health, and it’s a critical prerequisite to our ability to nurture wisdom in our life.

Each voice is given to us as a gift that can help guide us into greater wisdom, and can open doors to growth of mind, body, and spirit. Collaboration within ourself is critical for health.

Think of it like a business enterprise. If the CEO is an insecure individual, he’ll make sure to fire or silence any voice that doesn’t agree with him. His staff will be filled with people who are good at saying yes, and stroking his fragile ego. Decisions are easy, since he makes them all with input only from people just like himself. The enterprise isn’t likely to grow and prosper in the long run, but the guy at the top gets lots of fuel for his starving ego.

A healthy enterprise, in comparison, will have a CEO who is secure. He’ll seek out voices on his staff that disagree with him. He’ll reward behavior that challenges him. Decisions will sometimes involve wailing and gnashing of teeth, because all facets of the decision will be explored. The enterprise will become stronger and more vibrant as it grows.

So it is within each of us as complex individuals. The healthiest among us will nurture diverse internal perspectives. Rather than deny something as absurd and destructive as a ME, we’ll incorporate it into the many voices that make us complete. Just like the bullies that sit at the table of the wise CEO, powerful need to be managed – they can’t be allowed to make decisions on their own.

But with wise collaboration, the powerful voices like the ME can help to fill a life with adventure and challenge and growth. Moderated with the wisdom of time, experience, and many scars, voices like the ME are essential to the whole and complete person.

So, I’ll continue to hear and read about the exploits of the young lions as they strut their feathers and pound their fists against their chests on the cold winter rides. I’ll send words of encouragement, and admire the degree to which the ME will push us into discomfort. I’ll admire their spirit, and look forward to the wonderful wisdom their spirit will someday be a component of.

And my fingers will stay warm as I spend my winter hours on an incredibly boring (but warm) trainer indoors, trying to keep the strength up for a few days of riding in February if I’m lucky, and maybe a few more in March. By the time May rolls around with the glorious weather, I’ll be trying hard to keep up with those young lions, but only a tiny little part of me will regret the loss of riding time in the cold weather.

Photo From Original by Johan Samsom

And yet, maybe a chilly ride now and again, just to give that ol’ ME a little of the attention it craves?

Somebody tell me I’m not alone in this struggle…

Review – Bicycle Dreams

The context of this film is the Race Across America (RAAM) that happens every year, where cyclists race their bikes from the west coast to the east coast. Unlike the big and well-publicized grand tours of cycling, this race doesn’t have daily stops and starts, stages, and all that. It’s really simple – everyone starts in San Diego, and the first one to get to the appointed spot on the east coast wins.

How many of the 24 hours in a day can you stay in the saddle and pedal? How fast can you keep going? These guys usually sleep an hour or two a day, and pedal the rest of the day – at least the ones that finish first do. The winner generally makes it in about 9 days or so. Read it again – 9 days to ride a bicycle from the west coast to the east coast.

With this in mind, it’s easy to see that while this film uses the RAAM as the context, the story is really a story about the ability of the human being to push himself to the absolute limit and survive. The riders are hallucinating in extreme states of sleep deprivation. Their support crews are fashioning devices out of duct tape to help them hold their head up as they ride. They’re pushing their minds and their bodies to the absolute edge of survival.

The bar is high to qualify for this race. You need to prove through previous events that you have the physical ability to excel at ultra-endurance cycling, with strong finishes in other races that require hundreds of miles of nonstop cycling in brutal conditions.

Even with this high bar to enter, only about half the folks who begin in San Diego will finish the race. For the rest, they find that limit to the suffering their body and mind can endure.

This film was compiled from footage of the 2005 RAAM. The race has been occurring since 1982, when Ron Haldeman and 3 others decided to race from the Santa Monica Pier to the Empire State Building. They called their race “The Great American Bike Race”, and Haldeman won it in 9 days and 20 hours. It’s grown since then, to become the premier ultra-endurance cycling event in the world today. For cyclists like me who feel good about a long day in the saddle when we can average 15 or 16 miles an hour over a hard day, then go home and relax, think on the fact that the record speed over the 3000 mile event is 15+ mph – that’s AGGREGATE, meaning you start the clock on the west coast, stop it on the east coast, and figure the average. Includes sleeping, eating, hallucinating, arguing with mailboxes, taking punches at your crew when they push you, all that stuff. Kind of humbling, isn’t it?

While not intended for mass-marketing, this is a film that will be loved by cyclists in general, and especially by long-distance cyclists, endurance cyclists, and ultra-endurance cyclists. I highly recommend it to all my cycling friends. But I also recommend this film to anyone who’s interested in learning more about the madness that many people succumb to – this madness of finding the limits to our sanity and our survival.

New Magazine Article – Bicycle Touring Across Colorado and Kansas

I’ve got an article in the newest edition of Adventure Monkey magazine. It’s the “Touring Edition”, and there are some great stories in there of some really fun bicycle touring that folks have done! Nothing about Lance Armstrong in there, no RAAM updates, but good articles about real touring adventures.

The article I contributed is about the bicycle ride Dave and I took across Colorado and Kansas last summer. The chronicle of that ride is morphing into a book that I hope to publish next year.

Here’s a link to where you can download the issue electronically.

Here’s a link to where you can purchase a hard copy if you want that sort of thing…

Eric Benjamin is the fella who puts this magazine together. He does a really great job of it, and I’d encourage you to take a look at his work. You can find his blog post about this issue here, and from there you can look more if you want.

Thanks for reading!

Shifting Winds

I’ve got a special fondness for bike rides that let me have a tailwind on the way home. This week here in the Flint Hills, I’ve had some great out and back rides in the wind, where I get to work hard on the way out into the wind, then turn around and ride the wind home with a smile on my face.

I find that very satisfying, getting the hard work out of the way first, then enjoying the easy half of the ride.

If only everything in life could be so predictable and plan-able.

Like kids. We have ‘em, and we figure we’ll get the hard work out of the way early, then things will get easier as they get older, then they’re grown up and the work’s all done. Right?

Spoiler alert: If you have young children stop reading now while you still know the above statement to be true.

My kids are all grown. I’m not changing diapers anymore, so that sort of work has certainly stopped. (Of course, I suspect there’s a time coming when I’ll be doing that again for their children…) I’m not getting calls from school principles in the middle of the day, so that’s an improvement. I’m certainly not getting calls from the local constable late at night asking me to come down and pick up a son, so that certainly feels like a bit of a tailwind.

But I still know what 3:00AM looks like in a quiet house, worried about my kids. They’re out in the world on their own now, (well, mostly…), and there’s nothing at all I can do to help as they journey down their path. It’s them against the world, and all I can do is send love from my heart and prayers from my soul.

The wind shifted on me…

Or writing. I’m working on my next book these days, and finding the same thing I found with the first – there isn’t that turnaround point where you get a tailwind. I would have thought that once you get the first draft done, you get to turn and get a tailwind, but that just doesn’t happen for me. Sure, the first draft of the first draft is done, but oh my does it need improvement. Reading through it makes me doubt what I was trying to say, or doubt that I’ve said it well. Pretty soon I’ve rewritten most of it several times, and while I hope it’s an improvement, I’m not convinced. Soon, I’ll have to give it to the editor, an then I’ve got not only a headwind but a hill to climb…

When I’m riding the bike out and back, I find that when I’m working against the wind – on my way “out” – my head’s down and my focus is on producing work. Then, when I make the turn and get the wind at my back, I sit up and enjoy the ride. I take lots of pictures, and notice all the things I missed on the way out.

The mind and body are open and receptive. Beauty is more apparent. I find lots of little side trips to explore just for fun.

Maybe, for me, writing is the opposite of how I like to do a bike ride. Maybe the tailwind is the first part of the ride, when I get to just let ideas flow out onto the keyboard – sort of like I’m doing right here. I’m enjoying it, I’m open and receptive, I find lots of little side trips to explore just for fun. (If you read much of what I write, you know I find lots of side trips…) Then the early part is done, and it’s time to start the real work – time to turn back into the wind and put my head down.

I wish it were the other way around…

But today, if it clears up, I’m gettin’ on my bike and ridin’ into the wind ‘til my lungs and legs are beat, then turnin’ ‘round, puttin’ my back to the wind, and screamin’ my way home on the crest of a tailwind!