The great slump

       Have you ever done a YouTube binge? I'm not sure I qualify as a YouTube binger, I lack the time necessary for hours long binging but I often do go through tangents. A tangent may last weeks while I view and listen to the music of a particular artist or composer. Lately it's been the violinist Hilary Hahn. She's young, beautiful, and plays with unusual power and virtuosity. My favorite video is of her playing Bruch's first violin concerto with the Frankfurt Radio Symphony Orchestra. I recommend you watch it too if you're into this sort of thing. I love the way she smiles and sways during the orchestral passages when she's not playing herself. When she is playing her expression becomes serious. She throws herself into her playing with tremendous intensity. That's the part that has me smiling ; the part where she's playing. The music fills her as a sail fills with wind, and she, in turn fills the theater with it. When Hillary puts her bow to the strings you know something wonderful is happening. 
      Bruch wrote this piece in 1866. Beethoven was long dead but his influence is still apparent in this concerto. It's still with us. In Bruch's time ,as in Beethoven's, if you wanted to hear the great orchestral work of the period, or of earlier periods, you had to live near a cultural capital such as Frankfurt. If you lived in the hinterlands you were out of luck. The invention of the phonograph in the early 20 th century changed all that. Then came radio, then came television, then came the internet and it's stepchild, YouTube. Put it on the long, long list of things we often enjoy ,that are drop dead wonderful, but which we all typically take for granted. Watching a performance on YouTube may be slightly inferior to having attended the actual concert yourself, but it's not far off. As far as convenience ,YouTube wins hands down. In the past if you enjoyed something the orchestra just played you might be able to convince the players to saw away at it again by clapping, stomping your feet, and shouting " encore". With an internet streaming service you only have to press play. You can have them repeat it as often as you like.
      I wish it were all good news on the cultural front. It's my impression that as fast as improvements occur in the ways we access art in all it's many forms, the faster we become the kind of society that is no longer capable of producing it. We still produce art, it's just not as good as it once was. If you haven't tuned into a top forty, popular music station lately, just try it. If after an hour of that you think you're still up for more punishment, put on a country station. It's no fair if it's a country station that throws in a little Wily or Garth, or Dwight. I mean a country station that just plays  current billboard of hits. If you haven't tried this lately you're in for a shock . Classical music has not been spared. The debasement just happened there much earlier. It's been fifty years since most of us  expected to hear anything listenable in the " contemporary " category. Classical music stations, and performers have long ago turned their attention to playing the oldies.  Audiences are understandably reluctant to hear anything post Bernstein or Barber.
     If history is a guide, slumps like this are not necessarily permanent. There may be a great flowering of creativity ahead of us. Even during a slump ,such as this, there is great music being produced. There are still great performers such as Hilary. What has changed is not entirely a matter of artistic excellence. What has changed is the level of the culture itself. It goes much further than music. I'd include the plays being written, the novels, and movies. I'm always proud when a movie showcased at our own film festival , often first seen here ,goes on to achieve special recognition from the Academy of Motion Pictures. We've had quite a good streak lately scoring top picture in ten of the last eleven years. At the same time I can't help feeling a little let down when this honor goes to films that are not really great but only good. I'd put the last two winners in this category. Both pictures did a great job of highlighting people who live outside the mainstream. Bravo for that, but what else have you got?  No recent winner comes even  close to matching the greatness of past best pictures such as Copalla's  Godfather movies, or Apocalypse Now, or One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest by the late Milos Forman. Do I really have to think back forty years to remember when motion pictures were at their best?
     

Wind Warrior

         The wind is blowing. It's been blowing for days. It blows at night too. I'm happy for a well designed tent that sheds the wind and holds it's shape come what may. It's during the riding part of the day that it's a problem. While riding I'm either fighting it or being carried along with a giant smile on my face. I prefer that to fighting it. Its not a fair fight. I can eek out an pyrrhic victory of sorts, but the wind never suffers from our occasional bashes while I'm  left sore ,exhausted, and reeling. 
       Did I mention that I'm on a bicycle tour? I'm riding from Denver to Telluride. I know that shouldn't include parts of Arizona or New Mexico, Utah, or Nevada, but it's spring and it's off season, so it's my time to tour. I'm going to make the most of it. 
        Five months ago I crossed by here on my way to the East Coast. I did a lot of smiling then, as most of the way I had helpful winds to push me along. Now that I'm on the return leg I'm having little  luck. On the first full day of riding I passed from  Evergreen to Kenosha pass. It was uphill and the wind was either straight into my face or worse and picking up strength throughout the day. The worst winds come at you from every direction but behind, Northwest one moment, then Northeast before you can react. It's the blasting wind that is just off center that drives you crazy and wears your body down as you try to keep your little piece of the road and continue moving forward. The wind has other ideas as it tears away at your ability to steer while just turning a full peddle stroke becomes in itself a Herculean task . 
      At the end of the day I was hammered. I managed to squeeze my bike through the gate of a winding forest road on a steep mountainside and set my tent up on the first switch- back that concealed me from the highway below and offered at least a little wind protection. I could barely stand without feeling very week and dizzy. Was I sick, I wondered? Was I coming down with something? Or was I just getting very old, very suddenly? Maybe I'd pushed this thing too far and expected too much from myself? Maybe it's time I hang up my cleated shoes, or what ever it is cyclists hang up once they've reached the end of the road. No, I wasn't falling ill, or becoming suddenly old, I was just too fresh to the ride to be taking on so much. I'd been cycling through hellish conditions. In another week I'd be able to storm any mountain pass or overcome any wind, but not yet. I'd have to be broken in first. I'd have to be burnt and blasted, chilled, and strained. There's no other way to prepare for the harsh conditions of riding than experience the harsh conditions of riding. It doesn't really get better, it just gets easier to take. Let me change that. It always gets better, and someday it will get  better still. Why else would you ever cycle? You have to at least believe it's true. You have to experience the good side now and then too .Once in a while you must be surprised with how good it can get, otherwise you'd trade your wheels in for something easier, in other words, anything else.
        It's day six now and I'm in Walsenburg Colorado. As I said, the wind is still blowing. Today it's from the Southwest at about 20 knots. That's been the prevailing direction and speed since Evergreen. Sitting here in the library writing this column seems preferable to trying to take a bite out of that wind yet again. This morning I had it with me. This afternoon I'm headed into it's path. A wind like this ,with so much strength and personality and duration deserves a name of it's own. I can't keep calling it " the wind". If I'm going to curse it, or bless it, I need to give it a name. The song from Paint Your Wagon called the wind Mariah. Maybe that will work. I'm looking for something less dramatic like Steve or Sally.
     Can you tell I'm stalling for time. Can you see that I'm just saying anything that pops into my head to avoid going out there again and facing Steve in all his awesome power. My weather app says not to expect anything better ever. Steve is with us and he's not going anywhere. I'll just have to live with Steve.

Rideover Country

      The heartland of the US is often called flyover country, and for whatever reason, I was sick of flying. Why not make it rideover country instead and just take it's shortcomings in stride. I'd seen much of this area before but this time maybe I'd see more than on past rides and drives. Surely there were discoveries waiting for me. God only knows how many wonders were out there.  Daylight hours would be short so I'd have to stay at the pedals all day. Camps would be rudimentary, without much to offer beyond a thin screen of trees for privacy and a flat place to spread my tent, but in the dark all camps look about the same. Maybe, just maybe, flyover country, no, I mean, rideover country would surprise me. Suddenly I realized my ride could be more than just connecting point A with point B. I had a mission. I'd make this a voyage of discovery despite the unpromising prospects.
     Before getting to the center of the country I had to get across Colorado. I'd start at my Telluride home and swing eastward toward Kansas. Working in my favor would be the weather. There was no rain and no snow apart from a few inches already on the ground around Monarch pass.  Whenever the wind blew it was in my favor. Getting across my home State, which is famous for its tall peaks and deep snow, turned out to be pretty easy. This was my first surprise, not a discovery really, just a fortunate turn of events. By the time I reached Kansas, following the Arkansas river, my legs were well broken in for whatever was to come. I was riding strong and fast while enjoying the daily tailwinds.
    In Kansas it blew even stronger, at first directly from behind then gradually veering to cross winds from the north. Riding against these ferocious winds would be hopeless, having them from the side was proving difficult. Making some route adjustments to avoid the 40 mph crosswinds  took me straight into the heart of the Flint Hills range. Outcrops of chert, a very hard stone used by the first Americans to make arrow heads and tools, accentuated the higher hills and deeper gullies. The same stone, just under the surface of the prairie explained why this area of Kansas is so blissfully undeveloped. The rock is tough enough to brake plow blades. Instead of Kansas wheat fields, cattle have been brought here to fatten for over a hundred summers, replacing native herds of buffalo and preserving the largest stretch of tall grass prairie in the U.S. in all its primeval glory. That was a pleasant surprise, and the lack of traffic or towns and sweeping prairie views made for great riding.
     Western Missouri was something else again. There was no avoiding the traffic. Rural roads were narrow and the frequency of small hills meant often having an unwelcome train of trucks and cars behind me on each climb. Missouri traffic wasn't just hard on me. I began noticing that the edge of the road was a slaughter ground for wildlife. Deer, raccoons, possums, even owls littered the verge. To be fair , the abundance of roadkill wasn't evidence of the poor driving skills of Missouri drivers. It was more a testament to the profusion of Missouri wildlife. One possum- like creature stood out among the carnage. It was scaled, and had an armored carapace . It was an Armadillo . I'd never thought  Armadillos had a northern range outside of Texas and Florida, but here was one in far away Missouri. Was it someone's escaped pet? This pet theory was destroyed when I noticed others. None were alive.
      If the rest of Missouri was going to be anything like the first twenty miles I'd be lucky to get out alive myself. Salvation came in the form of a trail. It was a new section of Missouri's famous rails to trails system. My state map confirmed that it was the Rock Island trail and following it would bring me to the Katy trail which crosses the state.  Over 240 miles long it is the longest stretch of railroad right of way converted to trail use in the country, and  still growing. The trails are not paved but have a smooth well packed fine  grit  surface. It would be slower riding, but wilder countryside would surround me, far more attractive and peaceful than anything the roads had to offer. As a bonus all the wildlife I'd now be seeing was still alive and not motionless and rotting. 
      I've got to back to those Armadillos, they're too wonderful to just leave flattened and stinking back there along the side of the road. I said I was surprised to see them in Missouri. For a seemingly slow moving beast they have nevertheless been on the move for the last century since showing up in Texas. They are in Florida too, but were introduced there like the Anacondas and Cockatoos that inhabit its swamps and palmetto forests. Texas Armadillos walked there from South America, by way of Central America, generation by generation. They also swam. Armadillos are unique in many ways, not least for their strategy to cross streams and rivers. To cross a river they suck air into their lungs and paddle across like a living inflatable. To cross a smaller stream they rely on the weight of their armor to keep them submerged while  walking across the streambed. They're able to hold their breath for over six minutes. The more I learned about Armadillos ,the more they amazed me.
      South America contains eleven species of Armadillo. One is able to roll itself into a ball exposing nothing but impenetrable armor to any interested predator ( all Armadillos have soft chests and bellies ). The only North American Armadillo is the Nine Banded. Their best method for avoiding a predator is to run into thorn thickets. If thorn bushes aren't handy they'll dig themselves into the earth with astonishing speed. They are also known for hopping when startled, and can jump four feet into the air from a standing start. This may confuse a bobcat or coyote and scare them away but against cars it's suicidal. That's part of the reason they are more often seen as roadkill  than living creatures. Despite the danger of our highways and back roads they are thriving and steadily extending their range. Expect to see them soon in Ohio and Pennsylvania. Just don't expect to see them alive.
     During the day there was only motion; spinning wheels, spinning pedals , spinning chain, and rushing pavement. Translating sustained rotation into forward motion becomes second nature. Perhaps I could do it in my sleep. I haven't tried that yet, but maybe. Meals were quick, whether something dug out of the saddle bags or ordered at a counter. I'd scoff it down then be off again. Every day was an effort to make as many miles possible before the sunset.  Late season travel is like that. Sunsets come early. There's never any time to waste.
     No surprises in Illinois or Indiana, not even when I had to take shelter from a looming tornado. I'll skip over them then. Ohio was nearly as unremarkable ,then came the Hocking hills. Tucked down into Ohio's southwestern corner they look nothing like most of the rest of the state. It's as if all the best scenery of the Appalachian mountains was miraculously dropped into the otherwise prosaic heartland landscape.  Waterfalls, cascades, caves, cliffs, and magnificent forest surrounded me. The only drawback was the scale. There were no tall peaks or long ascents. The Hocking hills passed by in a morning's progress despite my best efforts to take it easy and enjoy it while it lasted.
   Crossing the Ohio river brought me to West Virginia. If I'd missed long ascents in Ohio, or any of the rest of the heartland states, I was no longer missing them here. Soon I was wondering why I'd missed them at all. After a few days of climbing and descending, then climbing again, almost endlessly, I have to admit that I  had thoroughly had my fill. Maryland offered something different. From Cumberland to the District of Columbia, one of America's earliest and most scenic canals follows the Potomac river from the center of the Appalachian chain to the tidal waters of the mid-Atlantic coastal region. The canal itself is no longer in use but it's towpath is now a National trail. It's easily rideable and avoids both hills and motorized traffic.
      On the second day of C&O trail riding my weather luck ran out. The speed of the trail ,which is not great when it's dry, becomes far worse when it's covered by two inches of rain water. The amount of branches , late season leaves ,and other forest debris brought down onto the trail by the storm made conditions even worse. Night came early under dark storm clouds. I found a camping spot along the trail with a picnic bench and porta potty in a small clearing created for hikers and cyclists and apparently slept very soundly.  I somehow managed to sleep through an epic tempest during the night without noticing it till the next day.  Dawn's light revealed  fresh layers of fallen branches on the sodden path. Wind felled trees blocked the way. One particular fallen tree was so forminable  that detouring around it involved a quarter mile of backtracking then a long slog through the deep mud of a nearby cornfield.
       Pennsylvania offered another challenge. The Pennsylvania Dutch countryside around Lancaster with it's quaint horse drawn buggies and old fashioned farmhouses gave way to faster traffic choking the roads , and complicated navigation to connect the easier roads. It helped considerably to be following a designated bicycle route across the southern portion of the state. Bike route signs showed the way to the more rideable roads, always the ones with the widest shoulders.  Just before turning in for the last night I somehow lost the bike route. The last days ride through the northern suburbs of the greater Philadelphia area I'd have to rely on dead reckoning and careful map reading. Adding to the challenge, this was to be the busiest travel day of the year, the day before Thanksgiving. 
       Crossing the Delaware river into Trenton brought me to the last state, New Jersey. You can't enter New Jersey from the west without crossing the Delaware . That's a problem since most Delaware bridges bar bicyclists. I had to pass up many for this reason and jog far to the north. A sign on the Pennsylvania side of the Trenton Makes bridge insisted that cyclists walk their bikes on the walkway. I pretended not to see it. I was in no mood for walking. From here if I was to reach my family's home before dark I'd have to continue to hustle. My phone was out of power, and I had no other map to go on, just a distant memory of riding this way long before. That memory was almost useless. I was more often lost than found. The pre- holiday roads were even more crowded and busy on this side of the river than in Pennsylvania . I found myself racing through fading daylight unsure of the way and surrounded by hostile traffic. Close calls, impatient drivers, honking cars, and my own impatience to finish marked the journey. I sometimes have nightmares that run exactly like this. I pinched myself, no, I was still awake. This really was happening.  I wouldn't  arrive till after dark.
      My story would be complete if I  could report that instead of a Thanksgiving turkey I was served a scrumptious baked Armadillo the next day. Better still if this had been the first Armadillo to slip across the Delaware before being struck dead while crossing the Jersey turnpike when it made an illtimed leap into the undercarriage of a passing semi. Unfortunately life is not this perfect. I ate a turkey like most other Americans. I reflected on my blessings and considered all I had to be grateful for. That's what Thanksgiving is for afterall. At the top of my list, I'd managed to stay alive. I'd cycled some 2000 miles without accidents or incidents. I'd had some great exercise, seen some great places, had some wonderful camps, met a few great people, and had a few surprises along the way. What more could you ask from a quick ride over rideover country ?

Out for a Ride

   Looking forward to getting back on the road again.  In two weeks I'll be in Denver and riding southward from there to Northern New Mexico. From there its east to Arizona and Utah, then north through Nevada, eventually back again to Telluride. Plan on arriving there ahead of Mountainfilm. Can't wait to feel the road again under my peddles.

    I've taken a long vacation from blogging, but I'm back again and looking forward to posting again. Hope I can remember how.