what it is to be wet.
there are always forgotten things.
leaves dropped in the moving water of the raingutters, along the roadside. the laughter of a grandfather who has come and gone. one who was made of light. blindingly so really. but you are still out here. there is no question about that. and you seek out the memories. the ones when you were on your bicyle, still feeling ill, {a week ago now?} moving up yet another hill, and then seemingly so suddenly, you were leaving the desert behind. it was like being on an airplane and watching the land turn into that familiar patchwork quilt. there were trees. so many of them. they were everywhere. they were ants on an anthill. five of them comprised a forest in your mind. they were endless and they were perfect. you and mike were laughing and yelling and spraying water on each other. the weight of your hearts, ligthened instantly by this realization.
and then the rockies. how was it that you could see the rocky mountains there, there, off in the distance? how was it that you have ridden your bicycle here? was this possible? alas, the distance of it all finally begins to set in. the time spent.
and the desert is what it is. history. it becomes the past. swallows the past. smothers it. will you ever discover what it took from you, and what it gave to you? will you ever understand its slow devouring of your soul? its hands upon your heart?
and then you remember sitting in the miserable bathroom, at the sherriff's campground, the food flooding from you, pouring as a river pours, while the young boy jiggles the handle incessantly. finally his mother comes and knocks on the door at which point you reply, "i'm having a bit of trouble in here. out in a little bit." why is she angry at this? so it took until telluride for the bug to leave your body. it took medicine. rest. oh, there are so many words that wish to fly from me about these last days, but there are places we visit, and then do not visit them again. people that drift in and then back out. quickly. like boats moving upon water. {sailboats. freshwater.} all of those days, with all of those moments have somehow become one long day, of one long bike ride, in the middle of one really long bike ride, in the middle of one really long day. and so forth.
but i try. i confess to being preoccupied. preoccupied with love. oh.
day 27. 67 miles. telluride, to montrose.
the day begins with us soaring down the hills, redefining them with our wheels, and it feels good to be on the road again. the day off in telluride so absolutely necessary, the cellphone service so absolutely perfect, the river that became the laundromat, so abundant. and the movement now, is equally important. i have concluded that there is a balance, a terribly fine line, between taking one's time out here, and taking far too long. the movement, is thusly imperative at this point. mike and i have discussed with great length, that if we had not been cursed with about 90% headwind, we would likely have been in chicago by now. oh the wind. it continues. i can recall with gret clarity, the three times we have had a tailwind. once in nevada, and twice in colorado. all about one hour each. i try to love this headwind, but find it completely unloveable. demoralizing. so we leave telluride behind. the rich people and the fifteen dollar burritos, which are mediocre at best. the bland $75 pasta dinner. the young men walking a tightrope in the park. the place where we finally bought a wiffle-ball bat. later that night, on the lawn in front of some awful KOA campground, amongst the trailers, and permanent residents, we played three innings. we set up tents and slept, as the wind shook our canvas homes. we rose early, but left late. such it is for us. the great importance of tea in the morning. some comforts never lose their strength.
day 28. 65 miles. montrose to gunnison.
one begins to wonder when {if ever} the hills will bend and give in to our tired legs. we ride up them and over them, these endless rockies, and find ourselves at a brewery in gunnison, the wind pushing us back to whence we came the entire way. oh this wind, it is a wonder of science. why, oh why, do the gods of wind conspire against us so vehemently? endlessly. we eat chicken sandwiches and drink much water. they give us no napkins, so we wipe our hands on our filthy shorts. really people, the etiquette is hopeless at this point. the blowing of one's nose, no different than the taking of breath. where it falls, is where it falls. it is that simple. the woman who brings our food is enamored with mike and he with her. by the time we leave town, they will have breakfast and swoon. i will order three fresh berry crepes in the morning, and type away while i eat alone, in the seat by the window. a woman who used to live in davis {named erin} will recognize mike and say hello. we will shower at her house and sleep in her yard. i will make a flood of the bathroom, by neglecting to shut the curtain all the way, and we will rejoice in this cleansing, and thank them with big love. we will go into a bike shop in the morning, and renew our route. we will shave 70 miles from the toiling climb to denver. we will giggle at our good fortune, as mike will talk all day of jennie. i will try to listen, but i will talk all day of keri. such it is. jefferson, the sometimes {perhaps often} bad listener. i try though.
day 29. 61 miles. gunnison to poncha springs.
and this day is a motherfucker. good god. we wrongfully believe going into this day, that it will be the last of the climbing. the death of the mountains. the end of some degree of misery. the first thirty miles are wondrous, save for the headwind of course, and we stop for lunch at a gas station, which have sadly come to make up about fifty percent of where we dine. we sit outside on the bench drinking ginger beer, and feeling the wind grow from infant to lecherous, muderous, beast. plastic chairs are hurled across the gas station lot. women argue with their husbands, refusing to leave their cars. and we sit, on the fucking bench, wondering in absolute amazement, just how it is that no matter what direction we ride there is a headwind. it really is amazing. practically unbelievable. i ask the woman inside, if the wind is always like this {hoping to retain just a small piece of my optimistic spirit} and she says, "yeah, but it's usually blowin' the other way." and so, we climb the highest peak yet, into the fierce wind. 11,300 ft of this hill. the continental divide. though i will not divulge, let me say that this was miserable for jeff pitcher. miserable. no smiling at the photo on top. nope. we descend the mountian in the rain, and stumble exhausted into a hotel. we sleep like kings. again. the pillows are brilliant. absolutely brilliant. the phone works. these things, these phones and pillows, are truly priceless.
day 30. 72 miles. poncha springs to jefferson.
can this day be a motherfucker too? yes it can i say. yes it can. the only moment worth metioning really, was when at 6pm, we arrived in some small town {gas station} at the top of a hill. we see the sign that reads, "elevation 10,100 ft," and begin laughing riotiously. we had been wondering all day why {not counting the obvious headwind} we were so tired. it's called a 40 mile 1% grade uphill gentlemen. trust me: at some point the road is a simple mess of thick black, thin white, thin yellow. up and down are only noticeable in more extreme cases. we celebrate with dinner. gas station dinner. we ride on into the dark, and camp in a town called jefferson. i debate riding up to one of the farms, knocking on the door, and asking if we may sleep in their house or yard, considering that my name is the same as their town. but i am tired. we camp in some abandoned parking lot full of detritus {old washing machines, car tires, bricks, etc} and listen to the rain and thunder all night. we relish having good tents. they are angels for the night.
day 31. 78 miles. jefferson to denver.
rain. the word is rain. the first twenty five miles are easy. we are gliding. we stop for lunch at a gas station, and watch as the skies grow black again. we leave and the rain begins slowly. as we climb the hills {THE LAST OF THE FUCKING HILLS!!!!!} the rain begins to fall harder. we finally crest the last of the hills, but the rain has become a falling of water. a flood of the sky. we stop in one of those self-service car wash places and bag up our things. put on the wool socks and leg warmers. and then we discover the meaning of what it is to be wet. what it is to be wet. good god. we spend the next four hours riding through a deluge. i ride through glass, and find myself changing a flat tire on the roadside. flat tire #1, amazingly enough. at some point, we stop laughing at the cold, wet, day. we arrive in downtown denver, and stumble through this strange dream. it is inexplicably surreal to have ridden our bicycles here. to be standing amongst the tall buildings, and streets overwhelmed with cars. it doesn't make sense to my brain, this giant collection of humans moving about. how can there be so many people in one place, and so few in another? we eat dinner {not at a gas station} and ride to lisa and dean's house. we met lisa in telluride, and she offered a place to stay. we arrive at 8pm, everything we own {except computers, phones, and cameras} soaking wet. it is laughable. we shower and share stories. learn the first details of these peoples' lives. there are two boys {jacob and zachary} and they are effluviant and witty. they are so very alive. how refreshing to see young boys, so full of joy. the next day we rest. we play baseball with the children. we laugh with lisa and dean. we eat dinner on the deck. the sky grows dark, and the day ends. mike and i pack. sleep. toss and turn to be more precise. we rise, and bid our denver heaven farewell. what gifts these people out here have given. i am constantly amazed.
and first this morning, it is remedios amaya. her voice cuts through everything, if such a thing is possible. everything. and then i am listening to my dear friend reid sing, and i am instantly on that rooftop in new york. it is summer, and the sweat drips from me. the moon looms in the sky, haunts the black, and the people below on the streets play in the heat; a screaming, laughing, world of lives being lived. i wonder if new york knows i'm coming back? i wonder if new york knows about the great sitting? i wonder if new york knows about the desert? perhaps they were lovers in another life. nothing and everything, sleeping peacefully. goodnight they would say, goodnight.
Posted by jeff pitcher at July 18, 2004 09:28 AM
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