many gunshots

Day six. 28 miles. Placerville to sly camp{?}

Why oh why do I find myself afraid in the woods? Is this the work of suburbia and our cultural movement away from nature {the agrarian lifestyle} or is it simply in some of us to be scared in the woods? Some biological mechanism to protect us from danger. Or? Well I happen to be one of those afraid of the woods, which thusly means that I sit here in my tent typing away and feeling scared. Somewhat soothed by the fact that I am in my tent {yes I know how completely absurd that is} and longing for sleep to come on strong and fast. I can’t decide whether listening to music will make me feel better or worse. Hmmmmm. I confess to feeling rather embarrassed by this fear, and have in the past pretended that I am completely comfortable in the woods, but quite frankly I am not. Ah well. just after 9 pm i hiked up the ridge hoping to find some reception for the cell phone which worked {albeit poorly} but meant that i had to hike back down in the dark. i was lying on my back in the middle of the road, speaking on said phone, when a car came speeding and squealing around the bend. i leapt from where i was, ran to the small incline over which i had climbed, and dove, sliding my body down into the brush.

thought #1. this could be a park ranger and as mike and i are camping illegally, do not wish to get caught. we had attempted to sneak into a group site at a campground a few miles back as they wanted to charge us each $16 for the night, but were met with a fat, relatively stupid woman from wisconsin, whom we interrupted watching her sattelite television. mike said, "they don't usually have a miserable fat woman from wisconsin at these groups sites guarding them." alas, some peoples' lives are so different from mine. their souls, living in some other atmosphere.

thought #2. this could be the tough guys who earlier in the day {about three miles back} had yelled "get off the road you fucking faggots" at mike and i. Why? Why do they do this? it makes me feel such a powerful mix of anger and sadness and despair for this culture of ours. needless to say, i did not wish to encounter them either.

thought #3. it could be some couple driving out into the woods to drink a bottle of wine and have sex in their car. envy.

thought #4. this could be some deranged wacko. i should hurry back down the ridge in the event that i find mike hog-tied, his face pressed up against some tree, while said wacko buttfucks him. hurry jefferson, hurry. enter the hero.

and now built to spill comes on itunes. i move my body about to the power of three electric guitars. the the sliding bass line and punching of the snare.

It is 9:57 pm on Wednesday night. Tomorrow is that day that mike and I act in character as Irishmen {I am jerry o'keefe and he is franklin mcguinness} and to be completely honest, that isn’t going well at all. Amazingly difficult to do for long periods of time. We seem to find that more often than not, we remain terribly quiet. more on this in time.

We sat in Placerville for quite some time this morning typing away. We finally left town at about 1:30 and began the climbing. It seemed as though we were stopping every few miles, so we finally embraced the fact that perhaps today was supposed to be an easy day full of stopping. Photos and caramel covered apples and laughing about various things. There really isn’t all that much to say about the day, that wants to come out. I mailed package #2 home to my folks in an attempt to lighten the weight a bit, which I’m sure helps but remains unnoticeable.

and the sleepiness arrives. we had salad and pasta for dinner and hot chocolate and pim's cookies {biscuits} filled with raspberry. and as i prepare for sleep, the mind rambles. thinks of hearts. happy ones and sad ones. oh these fragile but seemingly indestructable hearts of ours.

and the world cariies on in, as it always has and always will. my, there is something so strangely beautiful about sitting out in the woods, typing on my computer and listening to miles davis. our world, so full of such rapid change. the spinning of a spinning planet.

day seven. 38.7 miles. sly camp to kirkwood. estimated 10, 000 ft. climbing. now at 8000 ft. elevation.

day seven begins with mike standing before me and waving his arms about. i sit listening to music. i hit mute. "many gunshots. very close by," he says tersely. we hurl our things into our bags as quickly as we can. run out laughing. i give my whistle a few tweets, hoping that the gunmen might slow their fire as yes, there are other humans out here. their shooting is fast and frantic. erratic. too many shots, too close together. and then the climbing. as we wind up the mormon emigrant trail through the sierras, the roadside is littered with red shotgun shells. the empty, empty road. empty empty empty. which brings us to problem number one.

la lista. {number two} more problems.

1. the adventure cycling association {whom is linked to from the links page of this site} has overlooked some things when making their maps. their rather expensive maps. first of all, their milage seems to be offbase quite often, which is a problem when one is physically, and emotionally spent, making decisions based on these not so small details. secondly, and perhaps the most important point here, is the fact that i really feel they should tell people when they are going to be riding 40 miles endlessly uphill, with no services along the way. no food, no water. none. come on you motherfuckers. you charge me $150 for what are basically road maps {with incorrect milage and nearly non-existant info. about restaurants etc...} and you cannot mention that i should buy something at the last gas station for 40 miles. needless to say, when we ran out of food and water and ran into some trouble with mild {somewhat mild} elevation sickness, i felt their oversight to be absolutely cruel. which brings me to #2.

2. for whatever reason, or collection of reasons {see #1} i shat my pants a bit yesterday. just a bit, but just a bit is far too much in this context. one pair of cycling tights. three pair boxers. just a bit though. cut me some slack.

3. my mouth is full of cankersores. my father has passed this on to me genetically, a fact about which i am not thankful. nor am i thankful that i clear my throat all of the time as he does. i love you dad. i know it's not your fault. anyway, the cankersores are the real problem here. my body reeling from the fall of such change, and strain both physically and mentally.

4. we have not showered since monday. while the handi-wipes help, they fall a bit short.

5. if one were on a long bicycle trip and wanted to masturbate, what would one wipe up with, choosing not to soil their sleeping bag?

6. maine is amazingly far away by bicycle. i believe this is only beginning to settle in now. feelings of mild despair arrive like turkey vultures. looming. creeping at me. staring me down.

7. snow. goddamn it is cold up here. the beauty though, not to be overlooked. how absolutely majestic it was to break the turn and see the mountain ridge exploding through the sky to our right.

i listen now to ryan adams. "i wish i had a sylvia plath..."

the sadness of clear cut forests. animal skulls picked from the roadside debris and attached to the back of a black touring bike. a man who misses his guitar {s}. dirty, dirty, finger nails. a horseshoe pit. memories of playing horseshoes in davis with dana. men on motorcycles laughing at the men with computers. the repeated shaking of a head as the hills seem endless. a black bird on a brown post, watching the trucks roll by. gliding. they drift along the cement light lights on water. how fast they all go. my world slows and crawls and curls in upon itself. there are moments where i just want this trip to be over right now. right fucking now. while i am having such a great collection of wonderful moments, i am so tired, so early on. i wish to write that i could ride for years, but it just doesn't feel that way.

i say to keri today, that i want my writing on the site to be great, and it doesn't feel that way. i feel heavy footed. cumbersome. don't we all want to be great? she tells me to just write. stop thinking about greatness. wise words.

and the bikes await. one leg up over the bar. the hands on the brake hoods. the feet click in. dirty socks. helmet. there is love and truth and joy in this, i must simply dig deeper. while it may not seem as such, i know that time is a tameable beast. the love is there jefferson, it is there. it is in your heart, you must simply trust and run. run run run run run.

{new day} and now it is day nine. we sit in an internet cafe in carson city nevada...limited time. words about day eight, and our night spent in ed and donna's front yard and the pot belly pig and the ninety pound bulldog that looked like a seal to come soon. and really, i'm having a great time. it may not seem as such, but i am. trust me. download below files for a bit of singing. ah yes. singing.

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Posted by jeff pitcher at June 12, 2004 12:36 PM

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