yes i am home.

yes i am home. but perhaps i wish i was still out there. perhaps i could have gone on and on and on into oblivion. perhaps the journey lives now inside of me as before. perhaps the moments were too sincere for me to write of yet. perhaps i shall venture off again, this time into the woods, and the not so quiet streets of portland. oregon after all. oh how she sings to me. my biggest thanks to christian for his time here. you are loved my friend, you are loved.

Coming Home

Over the weekend I receive a call that Jefferson Dean Pitcher is sitting at Kristina's parents' house in San Diego, having sat in the park on the U.S. side of the border and looked over at the Tijuana bull ring. Dave on his way back to Canada at this point. Kristina and Jefferson headed back home, perhaps they already are.

The mind boggles. It's a big map, and the numbers are raw guesses at best, but the idea is there. Meditative and strange. The ass numbs. The mind grows cold. Butterflies.

Or More

Or more ridiculous is the idea that Jefferson Dean Pitcher will, indeed, actually and triumphantly, sit on that hill above the bull ring in Tijuana--maniac that he is. 45 some odd miles north of San Diego after riding for 17 hours. My ass is sore just at the thought. Jeff Pitcher: you are the man.

Possibility

Santa Monica. Is it possible. This after numerous falls, scrapes, getting lost, 13 hour days. Jesus Christ! But yes, it's possible and it is true. & more so.

M(i)e

Christian Kiefer here again (lest anyone get confused). By way of my own news (and yes there is an Above the Orange Trees linkage here), my own drummer, the incomperable Jason Sinclair Long, has returned from his most recent stint with Blue Man Group only to come down with kidney stones, making his presence at my upcoming show on Monday July 21 at the Make-Out Room in San Francisco an impossibility.

The good news--in fact the best news of all (for me)--is that Mie, famed drummer for your favorite Orange Trees, will be filling in. How's that for inbreeding? So come out if you can and check out Mie and me as we burn the Make-Out Room to cinders on July 21. Show starts at (I think) 9 or so. We're on first.

Not exactly the equivalent of riding 1,000 miles on a bicycle, but what the hell.

The Upshot Is

Jefferson tends to leave messages that are extremely long. In fact, they aren't so much messages as dissertations--or rather huge free associations. Generally speaking, they start with a greeting. Then a sentence, or more likely a fragment of a sentence, which is abruptly stopped by an observation: "There's a beautiful bird outside my window." Something like that. Then a completely different subject, following by an observation, another subject, another, etc. until the machine decides that it's listened to Mr. Pitcher enough and cuts him off. Occasionally, he'll then call back, complaining about computer voice attempting to dictate his message length, and then will begin again.

The point of all this is that Jefferson left a message yesterday, the upshot of which is that (I think) he and Dave spent the day in Morro Bay, taking a much needed day off. Of course, even on the day off they had to ride 50 miles to find something to eat (what's the point of taking a day off then). So it goes with the absurd Mr. Pitcher.

Then there's the weird issue with Dave, the French Canadian who has fallen in with Pitcher on this trip--the issue being that Dave and Pitcher somehow lost each other on the road. That's the issue, but not the weirdness. The weirdness, kind reader, is that each thought the other was lost behind. Then, upon waiting, somehow they passed each other again and switched places. Good god.

Late that night, Jefferson finally arrives in the campsite. Much hooping and hollering ensues and the travelers are reunited. Ah you.

So more mileage tomorrow one hopes. Ride on, ghosts.

Helicopters Ripped My Flesh

This evening I watched Rob Morrow as the "bad coach" in The Bad News Bears. One staggers at the idea that this was the top grossing film of 1976. It's also staggering that I know this information. I could say, of course, that I wanted to show my son a film that I enjoyed as a child, but who's kidding who here? I wanted to see the damn thing. (My son, by the way, enjoyed it.)

Later, Rob Morrow was chopped into bits by a helicopter blade on the set of Twilight Zone: The Movie. One imagines that such a death would be fast but who can say. How strange it must have been--running through the fake Hollywood swamp, Speilberg yelling shit through his megaphone and then your perspective is so strange. I'm underwater. Where's my body. And as the blood evacuates the head and the neurons slow and then stop firing altogether it must be something like becoming, for a moment, a fish, thinking fish thoughts through that one last bit of cortex before falling under.

Of course I understand that the name "Morro Bay" has nothing to do with Rob Morrow, or with the process of being chopped to pieces by a rogue helipcopter, but so are the ways my thoughts ramble. The point is that Jefferson is in Morro Bay. A 95+ mile day yesterday, peppered with 20 miles riding in the wrong direction. (Following signs is sometimes a bad idea. Better idea: Stick to the book, Mr. Pitcher.)

Of course, being insane, Mr. Pitcher tells me that his new goal is to ride on down to San Diego and beyond to the border with Mexico. Good lord. What a fucking maniac that guy is.

So a prayer for the nuthatch: One day soon, you'll be sitting on a hill overlooking the bull ring in Tijuana. Godspeed you.

Brother Henry

Ah. French Canadian Dave and Mr. Jefferson Pitcher continue to ride. South south and south. A stop at the Henry Miller library. Ah.

Sunset and Strawberries

A short message, calling card almost out of time. Excitement in his voice. Ah--smooth sailing. I didn't get to speak with Mr. Pitcher, but I would have told him Ron's report about the new album. Great news.

Campsite #1 closed. Campsite #2 closed. Sunset State Beach open. It's good to have a shower. Picking strawberries for breakfast. Andre is left behind. Now, riding with Dave.

Off to Big Sur. Henry Miller. Big cliffs over blue seas. No stop in Monterey. No sir. Moving on down the road.

The red star is Sunset State Beach, where Jefferson Dean Pitcher camped last night.

Bean Hollow

It is nice to hear, yesterday, a message of joy. My phone has been broken all day long but Jefferson, ever the resourceful Gilligan, dials the mobile.

I feel like I am riding a bicycle, not trying to stand on a tightrope.

Last night was a little rough. Campsite #1 was closed. Campsite #2
was disgusting and awful and they wanted $22 to pitch a tent.

The new bike, the clunker, is a dream. Stable, solid, and built specifically for this endeavor. And now cruising southward. Map to follow. Somewhere on the coast. Ah Jefferson.

He has dinner with an old man named Andre. Beautiful.

This guy's fucking great. 65 years old.

Bean Hollow is the big red star. 45.62 miles. The motherfucker can ride.

Clunk

The bike, I am told, is a bit of a clunker, but then again it's a touring bike so this time at least the equipment is right. This morning: changing the seat, and performing other feats of bicycle maintenance and repair. Panniers on. It's all zen at this point.

And then off, one hopes and assumes. Meanwhile, silent on the board, although he is holded up, I am told, at home. Or perhaps gone already. This time south, with the wind at his back, and no itinerary other than to continue southward. Big Sur. Or wherever. Maybe we'll all get postcards from Tijuana. Or maybe not.

Through the Sunset District to Highway 1 and then on south. Some of it terrifying but then again, we don't know the road stories quite yet or even if the journey is underway. Soon, dearest reader, and we will know.

Suddenly I realize that I have become the royal we. Perhaps this is why our sleep has been wracked with nightmares. A divergence.

For lack of better words

Jefferson calls. Looking for a bike that will work. The trouble not being lack of determination or strength but rather sheer lack of proper equipment. The kick ass racing bike, you see, just isn't the machine to carry weight, particularly not into the wind on the coast road with a cliff on one side and trucks dragging boats up the other. The wind shakes the machine so badly that one has to concentrate bodhi-tree style just to keep from crashing into the concrete, off the cliff into the air, or into one of various on-coming vehicles. New plan: get new bike, head south to Big Sur. (Hence quoting a famous, never-produced fortune cookie: If not Hemingway, then Henry.)

Of course, not knowing or understanding these things, various people comment variously, i.e. "why can't you keep your eyes on your feet while you're walking." Jefferson is always conscientious about not commenting on such things. But I am, of course, not Jefferson. More on this later.

The idea of riding a bike 1,000 miles is ludicrous to me. Ludicrous because I'm a lazy ass who enjoys sitting. I have to say that sitting, the act of sitting, of actually being seated, is one of the primary sources of joy in my life. I quite simply don't like to stand, let alone move. This is not to say that I don't do a fair amount of hiking, fishing, biking, etc., but for the most part I have to say that sitting in a comfortable chair with a good cup of coffee and a good book beats the crap out of any kind of physical activity, period.

Which leads me to the utter absurdity of Jefferson's journey and why most of the critics around here should at the very least temper their words with some caring and logic.

On the one hand you can look at it this way: day after day, the operator of this site writes about himself. Indeed, it is an act of ego. It is an artistic "Look at me!" But all art is essentially this, is it not? Sharing the art is, by itself, an egotistic activity.

But it is also an altrustic activity as well, an act of sharing. Americans suffer, as a culture, from a sense of emotional reservedness which is one of our defining characteristics. We don't talk to strangers (in fact, for obvious reasons, that's one of the first lessons we teach our children). We don't know our neighbors (or worse, we distrust them). We are racist, sexist, and homophobic. We fear change and lack of resources.

At least for me this website is an andidote for these fears and this emotional hollowness. Many people would not have mentioned anything about the trip until it was completed. Many would not let you in on the dirtiest secrets (like the nail clippings jar--I mean Jesus Christ, if that's not fucked up then I don't know what is). Pitcher, though, tells you chapter and verse of each thought, of his training, of his various fears. You read this, one suspects, because you like to share in these moments with him. It is, in this effect, the same draw as all the various reality t.v. programs--a sense that you are viewing someone else's life through a peephole. (Yes, we may not trust our neighbors, but we love to find out what they're doing.)

I can only assume that many of your responses are meant to be supportive in weird ways. That you are trying to spur the trip on through something akin to tough love. Jefferson is a man who often bites off more than he can chew. This much is true. Yes having realistic goals would perhaps make life easier. But then again, you wouldn't be reading this because that wouldn't be Jefferson. A man can have only one destiny alone for if that destiny were changed, what man would he be.

A simple question: how many of us have had the courage to even attempt something as outlandish as a 1,000 mile bike ride? I suspect that those who can answer in the affirmative are mostly silent here. It's those on the sofa (folks like me) who have things to say.

A better idea: revel in the problems, the changed plans, the weirdnesses. And wish him home safely.

I have to say further, that, as a reader of this journal, I am often amazed at the amount of rancor in the air. Does Above the Orange Trees bring out the worst in its listeners? Is Jefferson Pitcher a magnet for anger? Rather than a supportive community, I often feel the journal comments are akin to a group of angry dogs fighting over a dry bone. Why is this so?

It is long, it is short

The upshot of the message is that the journey is done. The bike just isn't made for this kind of thing. Some dreams we must put in our pockets and others we leave on a roadside by the sea.

But I'll let Jefferson tell you about that later. Perhaps tomorrow, when he'll be home.

Backwards

And so Jefferson calls and tells me that I am a wise man. Why, you ask? Because I suggest simply that he turn around. Not that he give up but my feeling is that if one finds himself riding into 30-40 mph winds, one is clearly going the wrong direction. Not in a figurative sense, but in a dead literal sense. Life is too hard already--our days off should be easy, no?

So in Gualala, Jefferson turns around and heads, wind at back, towards Point Reyes again. From there, who knows. Either home to Albany or on to points Steinbeckian. Hemingway wrote lots of bad novels, after all, and while Steinbeck sometimes stepped off into the saccarine, even those novels one wouldn't necessarily call bad. At least not in the way some of Hemingway's books are bad.

On the map #2 is Gualala and #1 is Point Reyes. Jesus that's way farther than the distance between my ice cream and my television. The mind staggers. My legs tire. I need to sit down.

Dante

Jefferson calls me. He laughs at his misfortune. Three flat tires in 24 hours. 30-40 mph wind blasting him in the face. Hordes of other bikers, all going the other direction, all voicing their surprise that someone would want to do the route in the most difficult possible direction. A lost fuel cannister. And the extreme difficulty of pulling the trailer.

But he can tell you all that. Lord, Jefferson, how you get yourself into the situations you do. Divine comedy all around.

He's giving himself until tonight to decide whether or not to continue. Meanwhile, "one more flat tire and I've had it." Seems the ultralight racing bike just isn't made for the punishing ride that Jefferson's asking it to do. Like a horse, one can ask a bicycle to give up its life. But is that really what you want to do? Better to read about it from a safe distance. Never let the remote control get too far away from the television.

An hour away and getting dark and cold

Kristina's report:

He called me last night......a flat tire totally miserable, the most exhausted he's ever been. It was 8:00pm and he was still an hour away from his camp spot.....getting dark and cold, unsure of what to do. He encountered many many very step hills(greatly harder to climb with a heavy trailer) besides the fact that there was an incredible amount of wind that almost knocked him down several times.

So, the first day did not go so well. If the second day is miserable to, I might go pick him up. We will see.

Jefferson's tendency is so often to bite off more than he can chew. Recording: let's do 18 songs in one day. Riding: let's ride to Idaho. There's just nothing leisurely about the man. I have to give him credit for that. The problem, though, is that he periodically ends up in absurd situations, as now. But I digress. Think positive thoughts and godspeed him on his way. Think of it in terms of the code of life, mainly WWHD (What Would Hemingway Do). Would he stop and have the pretty cellist pick him up and then spend the rest of the week drinking wine and reading Lorca, or would he ramble on against wind, dark, cold, and motorcycles?

As I understand it, I am the ghost

As I understand it, I am the ghost, which is to say that I am not Mr. Pitcher but rather Mr. Kiefer, the ghost writer of this journal while said Mr. Pitcher is off on his bicycle riding, at least right now, northward to Oregon and then to points unknown. (Breathe.)

Now that was a long sentence.

Today, the lovely Kristina dropped Jefferson off at Point Reyes with bicycle and new bike trailer to begin his ride. I will be periodically posting here as Jefferson will be calling me from the road. It's a heady job as I know Mr. & Mrs. Pitcher will also be looking to this journal for relevant updates and information. My responsibility is grave and grand.

In any case, as far as anyone knows now, only one thing is certain and that is that, as I understand it, I am the ghost. Sending positive thoughts of long roads free of buzzing motorcycles.

july 5th

so here we are. july 5th. day one of the tour du france. oh to be in the hills of france. day one of my tour du ? where oh where will i go? july 5th. dana catanzaro masters' birthday. the sun has just broken through the clouds. the wind is playful. and i am off. if you happen to find yourselves curious, christian kiefer will be writing here, my updates from the road. phone messages left here and there like dreams. like gentle words, from old lovers. i leave you with some tom robbins~

"upon those travelers who make their way without maps or guides, there
breaks a wave of exhilaration with each unexpected change of plans. this
exhilaration is not a whore who can be bought with money nor a neighborhood
beauty who may be wooed. she (to persist in personifying the sensation as
female) is a wild and sea-eyed undine, the darling daughter of adventure,
the sister of risk, and it is for her rare and always ephemeral embrace, the
temporary pressure she exerts on the membrane of ecstasy, that many men
leave home."

fuck the panniers

fuck yes. fuck yes i say. home from my extremely long excursion to rei with trailer attached to bike. which means that the problems have been solved and i will leave in the morning. goddamn. no longer a small bird carrying bricks but a deer pulling behind its pencil legs a life to unfold. hell, i can even take my shoes now.

the complicated world of bicycles

this is growing absurd. i was incorrect about the weight of the panniers. twas not how much i had in them, but how they fit on my bike. due to the need to mount the rack to the seat post, the panniers were sitting FAR too high, therefore raising the center of gravity, and making the bike rather dangerous to ride. usually, the bottom of the panniers falls about 3/4 of the way down the back tire. mine were at the top of the back tire. so, i read and read. at this point, my options have evaporated to a mere three as i can see it. off to the bike shop now, to see if my frame can handle pulling a trailer. if not, i may attempt to ride my green schwinn {one speed} from the 70's, which is currently in pieces in my back yard. if that too is unable to carry the bags, i believe i will load up my pack tomorrow morning and begin walking. i certainly wouldn't get one tenth as far, but the journey would still live. thinking.

test ride #1

just arrived home from test ride number one with the bike fully loaded. SHIT. not more than fifty yards out the door, i decided that i will take only sandals, no shoes. cotton pants, not jeans. one t-shirt, not two. one pair of socks. the bike feels so unstable with that much weight on the rear, that i laughed and laughed and laughed. i feel like a hummingbird, flying through windy skies, with a brick on its back. also found myself thinking that i should buy more gauze, for i cannot imagine it possible to keep the bike {with me on it} from tipping over at some point. time for a lesson in extreme minimalism. time for a lesson in balance both metaphorically and literally. time for many things i believe.

s l e e p?

sometimes sleep frightens me. like now for example. quite sleepy, but doing all that i can to stay awake, thusly avoiding my drifting off into the sea of slumber. i think this comes from the nightmares of my childhood. drives me mad.

one lost clipping

i have been saving my finger and toenail clippings for some time now. i keep the jar in a drawer in my desk. though i would like to tell you how it all began, this would only serve to justify what is probably perceived by most of you as rather strange and disgusting. which is completely understandable. sometimes, i think i will stop. but i don't. sometimes, i think that i will mail them to someone. ben or christian perhaps. but i don't. sometimes i think i will paint a painting and glue them all over the canvas. but i don't. having done this for more than ten years, the habit itself of clipping, then scraping them into a jar, would probably be rather hard to break. i tend not to tell people about this habit for obvious reasons. actually, i'm not entirely certain why i've decided to make this fact public knowledge at the moment, but it feels necessary for some unforsaken reason. there was a time years ago, during my study of flamenco, when i had to refrain from cutting the nails on my right hand. i recall well feeling a sense of frustration and loss in the fact that i would be getting one fourth less yield out of my work. {if you can call it that} sometimes, i giggle to myself as i scurry about on the floor on my hands and knees, searching for one lost clipping. it is probably one of the most foolish things i ever do on a regular basis. at some point in time, i have somehow talked nearly every {if not every} girlfriend i've had in the last decade, into smelling the jar. which admittedly is almost cruel. and while i confess that the jar smells quite strange, it doesn't really smell bad per say. though i will admit that it does smell fucked up. what i find most perplexing, is the small number of clippings that i have actually compiled. they certainly don't look like a decade's worth of nails. not at all. but then this is entirely new to me. there is no book on the subject. {that i am aware of} i will say though, that if you shake the jar up a bit, they spread out, essentially standing on top of one another and thusly look much more voluminous. but i often find myself rather dissappointed at the small amount of them that i have amassed over time. it seems to me, like i should be keeping them in a giant jar, the size of an infant. somehow, i think they look beautiful in this photo. oh, the things we humans do. good god.

spoke to christian today and he asked my why why why idaho jefferson? wouldn't it make more sense just to go straight up the coast to washington state? vancouver maybe? hmmmmm. we often make the folly in life, of sticking to things not because they feel right, but because we told ourselves that is what we would do. so i ponder and ponder. perhaps hemingway's grave will have to wait. perhaps i am supposed to see that giant sand dunes of southern oregon. thinking thinking thinking.