the week of the seven centuries, that all fell apart

and there i am, sitting in some cafe in nebraska, listening to rough mixes from my new record for the first time. these moments, the ones where i am thrust back into the world of old, are the strangest of all. a wind, that carries us. i'm not sure what i think of these songs anymore, as they feel like memories from some other time...sometimes, i just wish to play the piano and sing at a whisper in the confines of my bedroom...perhaps only for myself and my beloved keri. you may of course" listen if you wish...there are even some "bedroom recordings" as well.

and as the land, the states even, fall behind us, this missing of keri grows in waves. i know not what else to write of, as all else pales. the days on the road have spun recklessly into themselves, a handful of sand, all mixed in with a handful of sand. it is the feeling of 18 rain soaked days in a row. the ground full of water, realeasing nothing but itself. a fist curled in. at some point, each day becomes every other day, and days no longer have their meaning. the missing becomes the mountains that i've left behind. the missing becomes the oxygen i yearn for, which my lungs pull into themselves. they rise and fall, they rise and fall, the moving of curtains in the wind. i find myself fighting off the urge to run sprinting to the airport, any airport, and i practice perhaps the most difficult thing there is to practice. patience. patience, patience, patience. as i finally give over to my dreams of life with her more, i feel myself literally short of breath as my heart reaches out. this being away from her, is unquestionably the most difficult aspect of this trip. so as the time moves by, drifting back behind my wheels, i allow myself to drift off into thoughts of the future, though i still try so diligently, sternly even, to live in the belly of my moments. oh my, such a terribly difficult task.

i sit now writing all of this from omaha, nebraska, mere miles from the iowa border. night before last last we slept in a field of mud, beneath hard rain all night. yesterday, my pants covered in dried mud, some in my hair, a strange woman handed me her change. one dollar, twenty cents. she apologized saying it was all that she had. my god, could i really look that bad?

and so we go back...back to the leaving of denver.

day 32. 79 miles. denver to somewhere west of fort morgan, colorado in a man named dave's field.

denver gives us love. an internet cafe, the most spectacular of " organic markets and a trip to a " bike shop for new tires and brakes. we need these things. oh yes. they of the shop, are so generous and amazingly kind. we love this celebration of our trip, and it reminds us of the inherent beauty living in this journey. the new tires are 'skinnier' and we glide more gracefully. we leave denver and ride through the bad neighborhoods in the east side of town. the sad lives of whores on the street corner, in the hot afternoon sun {97 degrees?} drinking soda through straws and throwing their world to the sickness of the earth. i feel myself swimming in gratitude for my existence. we see taxi drivers at gas stations with long curly hair, buying twelve-packs of beer and ice. he has two companions that ride in his taxi, who speak loudly and swear too much. we drink apple juice, which has become one of the gifts we give ourselves at these gas stations. it is of course "from concentrate" but cool and refreshing nonetheless. before this post is done, you will most certainly hear me complain of the hot water in our water bottles, which is anything but refreshing. we ride all afternoon and evening {into the wind of course} hoping to make it further, but give in to the skies growing dark. there are nothing but fields owned by families who farm them. we knock on a door, asking if we may sleep in one of these fields, rather than being woken by shotgun at sunrise. dave is young, and somewhat confused by the facts of what we are doing, but says yes. "knock yerselves out guys." sleep comes quickly after the dehydrated pasta. peanut butter cookies and ginger tea. it really all feels spectacular somehow. "east" feels somehow so much closer from here, on the other side of the mountains. that which can be accomplished.

day 33. 101 miles. somewhere west of fort morgan to somewhere east of sterling, colorado.

we wake and ride without wind for some time!!!!! we giggle at the miracle of this. no tailwind, but an hour or two with no wind is really rather shocking at this point. ghost towns are abundandant. far too abundant. every town on the map where we plan to buy water is boarded up. a strange sight to see such an endless trail of lives left behind, the memories locked in behind plywood. the streets all look so dusty somehow. after riding 89 miles, we finally stop for dinner in this miserable little town where nothing is open. all of downtown shut, though not boarded. closed. dammit. we go to the gas station intending to eat there once again {feeling really quite miserable about this fact} when we notice a mexican restaurant across the street. we lean our bikes against the wall and are blessed with an outlet outside where we charge our things.

during dinner {which was fucking awful} we will watch a man who works at the restaurant walk outside, inspect what we are doing with his outlet for a minute or so, shake his head, and come back inside, clearly angered. hmmmmmm. so we eat. the food is terrible, as is so often the case out here, and mike at some point spits his out, saying that he is feeling a bit funny. as am i. we pay and leave, contemplating how and why one would leave a tip when they brought our food and then never came back. we had to get up for water, more chips, and the bill. i find myself continually stunned by how much people seem to be afraid of/dislike that which is different from what they are. it is so very sad to me. we then proceed to ride our bikes as quickly as we can to the pancake restaurant, and literally run from where we have locked our bikes, to use their restrooms. we both proceed to have a mess of diaharrea explode from us. this is funny yes, but ever so sad at the same time. oh, this food. somehow, after lying out in front of the restaurant for an hour or so, we both find it in us to ride another 11 miles. during that time we are quiet, as our stomachs scream and yell. we are chased by a dog, in the dark, which we kick and yell at, and the bugs attack our eyes in the dark. we set up camp about ten feet from the road and about ten feet from the train tracks. this is not optimal. before sleep, i will hear the voice of my dear keri, and mike will shit his pants a bit. the sleep is too short, and too interrupted by trains and trucks and planes, but such it is.

day 34. 81 miles. 107 degrees. somewhere east of sterling, to ogalalla, nebraska.

we awake to being "crop-dusted." it is that simple. the plane flies low, breaking over the fields spraying as it goes. as you may imagine, this is not an enjoyable feeling. it is a relatively complete attack of the senses to be honest, but at this point it just sort of blends in with everything else. the degree to which we have let go of many things is amazing. it is rather curious to me how bland some of these experiences can seem in the wake of so many others. so we ride through more ghost towns. we stop for lunch and wiffle ball on the lawn in front of a courthouse, where the sign reads "105 degrees." oh this heat. the main problem really, is the water. with such a great lack of towns along the way, we are forced to drink warm water all day which is simply not refreshing. the water is definitely hotter than some cups of tea i've had. pouring it on yourself feels awful. thusly, these little places, these markets in these little towns with their majestic refridgeration become a gift of the gods. we bask in them, buy far too many cold beverages and litres of water, but this is blissful. we pour the water on our heads and drink it quickly. we eat watermelon and juice bars, and fruit. anything cold. we play wiffle ball on the lawn, where mike somehow hits five homeruns in a row, pulling ahead by four runs. this challenges the competitive man in me, but i grow and grow as i ride and ride. we eat finally in some restaurant that we do not like, but revel in the fact that we've not had dinner at a gas station for days. we walk out of the restaurant to black skies. i have never seen anything like this. the entire sky is jet black, and a mess of lightning. the entire sky is filled with white snakes, as far as the eye can see. this is both beautiful and terrifying. shocking. we are completely awestruck. feeling as though we should move as quickly as we can to a hotel, but wishing to stand there all night soaking in the absurdity of it all. the arresting strength of nature. the fact that one can indeed ride their bicycle all this way. sometimes i'm not sure how we've come this far, but we have. sometimes, it is that simple.

day 35. 95 miles. {18 in the back of a police car} ogalalla, nebraska to gothenburg, nebraska.

MY NOTES FOR THE DAY BELOW~

headwind. write about the miserable headwind. all fucking day. 30 mph? 40? we draft to save energy. sing silly rhyming songs. lunch at a grocery store. yoplait {custard style} and fruit. we stop for dinner in north platte and eat at an applebees. decide to ride interstate 80 to save miles. cops. they drive us forward 20. we ride another twenty, and the sky changes. mike and i are surrounded {possibly struck} by lightening. mike is awake all night, unable to sleep. i talk to keri for hours. we do laundry. both feel jumpy and strange. how does one describe this? how am i still out here? what the fuck are we doing? why does my journal focus on the difficult stuff not the joy? keri mentions that i am a really funny man. why is my journal not funny? write about this!!!!!

day 36. 135 miles. {35 by bicycle, 100 in the back of four different trucks} gothenburg, nebraska to york, nebraska. york, to lincoln, lincoln to omaha, and it is all al bloddy mess of confusion regarding when, why, how, etc...

we leave the hotel late, as mike was up most of the night, likely having been struck {or at the very least surrounded} by lightning, and i slept in. somehow, it seems like i simply cannot get enough sleep out here. it is an absolute impossibility. we arrive in york be vehicle, wishing greatly to avoid spending the night in the middle of nowhere and find ourselves by the highway amonsgt the chain hotels. i cannot quite remember in whose truck we rode, but mike fell ill the day before or after, and we rode in a number of people's vehicles in attempt to stay on schedule. yes, we do have one. this, and all of its reasons will soon be revealed. i hardly remember any longer, but we rode with a man who called himself "two dogs." we rode with chrystal, who is 29 with 9 children. this woman was strong and grounded and alive. we ate pretzels in a mall while her daughter received a haircut. we rode with cathy, and gene. how odd, this riding in trucks with your bicycle. how odd this. all of this. this sleeping in fields of mud, and women who offer you rides, causing you to spend yet another day in omaha, putting yourselves in quite a pinch because she calls to cancel with a rather strange excuse. {read: lie?} you spend an afternoon in lincoln before reaching omaha, where you meet with the mayor and she agrees to judge your lincoln look-alike photo contest. " {see mike's journal} oh the strangeness of it all. but the stories, they all grow into each other. the are bones that somehow mend themselves. they are cracks in a wall.

we currently sit in omaha, nebraksa on a streetcorner, watching the gray skies remain gray. they do nothing. they only remain. the rain falls hard as it did last night. we camped in front of some corporate office building, and amazingly {thanks to good tents} all of our things {excepting the bikes} stayed dry through the night. today, due to our lost ride, we rent a car to get ourselves to des moines, so that we may reach madison by wednesday night. the brick road here reminds me of paris. spain. places far away that i love. today my friends, we will rocket the highway. we will fly. we will roll down the windows and listen to music. we will go ever so fast.

the great shirt

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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.

all i do is miss things these days

the heart lunges.

the center of this man, beneath skin and bone, seems to be growing by the hour. the fastest growing thing there is, it moves as ice melts. the wings of a hummingbird. the pulling in of breath. air. there are angels and other eternal flying things, spinning around inside of me. there are no words, no thoughts or metaphors, that can convey this love. there are no hands gentle enough, no fingers with the perfect grasp. it is the missing of her and the longing for her. it is the collection of hours out here, spinning these wheels up these hills, into this wind, past these other peoples' lives. past the houses and dreams, the children in the yards. it is the slow procession of hours, the counting of days, the cars going by so fast, that make me ache ever more. the love that swallows the road, but chokes now and then, as she is still so far away.

i lay in my tent at night with my left hand clutching the right, imagining that it is her i hold. my arms, heavy and light in the same instant, feel confused without her there. a lack of gravity.

so we have pedaled and pedaled. i have been searching for a moment to write my half of the story, but the balance of time has shifted. my heart seems to be pushing my legs, with great force, as i cannot bear this distance from her. i spent the last week {?} celebrating and acknowledging all of the warmth that tumbled in. she and i are so filled with joy. we revel in it, bask in it, bathe in it. it is the most beautiful thing that has ever happened in the world. i believe this. and while i have moments of complete despair, a complete unravelling, the falling apart of thread, i somehow find it in me to keep pedaling. somehow.

but the despair. oh, the despair. the despair comes from the missing, the endlessness of the longing. the feeling of helplessness, that i cannot move to her any faster. oh, but you can jefferson, you can.

i write to you now, from Gunnison, Colorado. and i've a million thoughts, but so little time. the days have been big ones. long ones. we left the desert just after the last bit of writing, and my soul rejoices still at the small towns and the people. the cars going by, some that yell "fuck you," and others that thrust hands to sky with exhaltation. the bike lanes are narrow, and the gravel abundant.

we were in monticello utah, and then dolores, colorado, and then telluride, colorado, and then montrose, and now here. there were three more truck rides for jefferson while mike rode the hills alone. there was more sickness that kept the legs from running. there was food that would not stay in me for more than an hour, and there was a day off in telluride, the most beautiful of places.

but the days all blur and spin into themselves gracelessly. clumsily.
wooden-legedly.

oh, but these wooden legs can ride. today, in mere moments, we will begin the trek up over the highest peak yet. monarch pass, resting in the mountains at 11,400 feet, a gradual 30 mile climb, and then a gain of nearly four thousand feet in ten miles. good god. but then, we coast. yes, my dear readers, today mike schwartz and i will cross the continental divide. we will crest the top of the mountain, and descend for nearly fifty miles, taking us tonight {fingers crossed} to a small town called cotopaxi, where we will break off and head for colorado springs. and then denver. and then nebraska. a world without hills.

in some way, as i think incessantly of keri, the bicycle becomes irrelevant. simply a place where i store my thoughts all day. i currently listen to rafael riquini, and miss my guitars. sometimes, it seems all i do i miss things these days. and that, my friends, is the challenge for jeff pitcher. the moment. how do i live in the moment, when i so long for another moment? how and where do i find the patience to await her arms. how do i live now? these are big questions. as big as mountains, but not as big as love. not even close.

i thank you all so, for your well wishes. i have never been so thrilled and excited about anything in my life. for after all, what else is there really? what else is there?

the moment is there.

canada.

we are there on the couch, tangled into a ball. it is night. the lights are out, and only the faint glow of the city drifts in through the tall windows. she is thirty-four today. the first moment is an explosion. she is there, amidst the sea of people and the man pushing luggage, making his beeping noise {with his mouth} to clear away the crowd. she yells out, cries into my heart really, and throws up her arms. her white shirt and her brown skirt and her black shoes. we hold each other, and do not move. but it is now night. we have laughed at the airport, found ourselves waiting in the wrong place for the wrong bus, distracted by each others' lips and eyes and hands. we have ridden the bus with the slow talking man, and we have walked through the busy streets. oh the beautiful clutter of a city. {how terribly different from the desert.} we have walked to dinner and eaten wine and pizza, and sat on a small street that reminds one of st. marks place in new york. we {i} have eaten ice cream from some cafe, where a woman with the biggest of bellies scoops for me. i wonder if her child will be allergic to ice cream as i was. we walk. we ride the streetcar. we buy something to quench our thirst. we make our way back to the hotel and become one body of tangled limbs. we collapse onto the couch and breathe together. her arms around me, my hands upon her face, covered in her hair. there is nothing else in the world. i look up at her, and know the moment is there. it comes into me like air and i speak slowly.

"keri smith will you marry me?"

her eyes do something which i have never before seen them do. they come alive in a different way. she says, "yes." we fall into one another. we do not let go.

we spend the week celebrating. looking for rings. walking in the woods, and stepping in the mud. we lie on the couch watching movies. we cook dinner {the pasta with shrimp was the meal of the week we decide.} we have bacon with breakfast, and cook it to the perfect degree of crispiness. the tea is superb. we watch the mouse eat mookie's {the cat} food. we laugh endlessly. it is all a blur, and the moments come in now and then {quite frequently} and tickle my belly. it was, without a morsel of doubt, the best week of my life. we are engaged, and the joy flies from me like birds. it flutters across the sky and paints the world entirely new. and there is no way i can explain it all. no way. there are some things in life about which one cannot really write. i have been sitting here for some time now, trying to find a way to adequately explain this week of my life, but know inside that it is ultimately impossible. in some way, it feels so deeply mine, that i have no desire to share. this, my friends, is life. this is what it means to me. this love.

and then i am on the plane. where oh where am i going?

day 18 {only counting days on the road...i will not specify this again} cedar city to panguitch lake. 47 miles, 6500 ft. climbing.

i am a mess of fatigue. i slept only three hours after flying and flying and driving from salt lake back to cedar city in the middle of the night. i am a mess of emotion. i am so amazingly happy, and so terribly sad. i miss her beyond any capacity to explain. it feels so absolutely wrong to be away from her right now. but we ride. we ride uphill for 26 miles and i am a complete whirlwind of tired. everything is tired. i cannot quite deal with the fact that i am back here on this fucking bike, riding up this goddamn hill, a mere 24 hours after i was in a bathtub with my future wife. how does one deal with such a thing? we stop somewhere along the way to get water. it is some birthday party or something in some lodge. we stumble into the kitchen amidst stares. i fill my bottles and take a banana. they do not like this. they confront me, but i am too tired on too many levels to deal with any of this, so i simply shake my head and leave. we reach the lake as it falls dark and eat at a market. we camp. i sleep perfectly. my heart aches. lunges, but she is still so far away.

day 19. 65 miles. panguitch lake to somewhere east of henriville in the middle of the utah desert.

we stop in some little town after descending for 20 miles, where lannie {the man whoom we stayed with in cedar city} meets us as a guest rider on the great sitting for a few days. erin {his wife} drops him off and we eat pizza and ice cream. we fly off into the utah desert, the mountains of sandstone. we camp in the middle of nowhere and listen to music beneath the stars. lannie and i cuss at our useless cellphones, as we cannot call the women we love. the phones tease us with one bar of service, but it comes and goes by the nanosecond. it is hopeless. we sleep amidst knats and mosquitos. no me molesta senor mosquito. por favor.

day 20. 46 miles. east of henriville to boulder {utah}

i am slow. i drag behind lannie and mike all day. we find ourselves stopped at a gas station on a hill, with the sun dropping slowly. a valley. green pastures scattered with horses. mustangs. we see commotion of some sort in a field by a restaurant {one of three establishments in town} and give up on the idea of riding over the 10,000 ft. climb in the dark. and the night is all a blur of the perfect meetings. we meet blake who owns the devil's backbone grill. she offers her yard for us to sleep in, and gives us free dinner and wine. boulder, utah is a beautiful place. we watch the tailend of a talent show, and tell stories. we are on a large piece of grass, beneath a cloudless sky, on a blanket. it quickly becomes life without the bike trip through the middle of nowhere. we are in love with this night. i find myself, hours later, playing guitar and singing for a roomful of people in the restaurant. i immediately remember how much i love this. i sit about, telling people about my future wife, and my joy. we ride the mile down to blake's house and i go to sleep, while lannie and mike go to a party. i toss and turn. i wake and shower. call keri. we eat at the restaurant, whcih is a true oasis, and savor the wondrous breakfast, which blake gives to us for free. some humans, are so full of love and life and generosity. we are amazingly grateful for this. it is without question, the best stop of the trip thus far. it is filled with magic.

day 21. 48 miles. boulder to torrey.

we rise and climb the hill. we are joined on the climb by blake's friend margaret who is without question one of the greatest female athletes alive. she completed her double century in utah in 8 hours, 44 minutes. how? how, how, how? we make our way into torrey, planning to ride further, but the dark skies, and the continually growing gap between myself and the others, compels me to compel them to stay there for the night. we eat at some terribly expensive restaurant, where lannie has rattlesnake. mike and i do not embrace the possible karmic retribution of this. no way. we sleep in the desert after long payphone conversations to the loved ones. i sleep like a king, but begin to question why i feel so bloody tired and worn out. hmmmmm.

day 22. 52 miles. torrey to hanksville.

the day is shit. i simply cannot keep up with lannie and mike. not even close. for the first time since leaving home, i fall so far behind that they drift out of my vision. i miss keri and feel so alone. i wonder how people ever cross that desert alone, for i think it would ruin me completely. we stop at the most miserable establishment of the trip for lunch. later that night, as i huddle over the toilet vomiting for hours, i come to despise the place quite a bit more. the taste of thos disgusting beans, will simply not leave. we stop in hanksville, and i feel worse than ever. mike wants badly to press on, but i don't feel like i can. we sit about for a few hours, laughing with lannie and erin, feeling quite sad about his departure, but ever so grateful for his presence. our dear lannie achord is a great man. i finally confess to mike that i don't feel well, and simply cannot go any further. we stop at a campground and set up our tents. we shower and i call keri. my stomach begins to twist and turn itself into a mess of anguish. i feel dizzy and feverish. i lay on my back in my tent groaning. i come to accept that i have either the flu or food poisoning, and feel myself falling deeper and deeper into the chaos of sickness. and at some point it begins. i unzip my tent, and walk painfully and slowly to the bathroom, the firts of many trips, where i spend my night vomiting and shitting. the vomiting is awful. one forgets how violent of an act it is. i am covered in sweat. i am shaking. choking. the vomit leaves both my mouth and my nose. it is in my hair and on my chest. it is precisely the same color as the diaharrea. my face is littered with tears from the choking. it continues through the night, these painful walks back and forth to the campground bathroom. i lay in my tent, attmepting to find solace in the fact that i am here, and not in the middle of the desert. i think about my future wife and find pieces of grace amongst the disgust of sickness. i sleep maybe a half hour finally as the sun is rising, and i am weak. i am pale and unshaven. at some point, after the worst of the vomiting, i stood there staring into the mirror, wondering who i am and what the hell i am doing here in the middle of nowhere. why am i not in canada with her rubbing my belly? placing a cool rag on my head. why am i here? why am i here? this is miserable, this sickness out here. this is simply not the place for this.

day 23. 135 miles. {40 by pickup, 95 by motorhome} hanksville to blanding.

we rise ever so slowly, and i tell mike that i simply cannot ride. i am still suffering a fever, have not eaten in nearly 24 hours, and have no strength whatsoever. the problem is, that we have a stretch of 135 miles without services, and cannot imagine staying in hanksville for another moment. so again, we hitchhike. we cover the first forty miles in a giant red pickup towing a boat to lake powell. roger and his son nate, who wants to be a businessman. something has sucked the life from this young, just finished college man. he is half-asleep in his world. they drop us at an intersection, and i feel like hell. it is hot and there are no cars going our way for over an hour. and then it comes. it is an angel. a giant motorhome. we leap from the roadside and flag them down. they are dutch, and cold. he was really only checking if we were okay, when i began walking to the door of the motorhome saying, "let's see if we can get these babies in there." he doesn't know what to do. we load the bikes and gear. he asks us if we are going to kill them. we say, "no." the conversation is stilted and slow. i fall alseep. they drop us off at the first inkling of town and we rejoice, thinking that we could have been stuck on the roadside all day. we find a hotel. shower. i call keri. my mom and dad. i take a four hour nap. i go to bed three hours later and sleep another nine. it is mecca this hotel room. it really is.

and we are currently sitting in a hotel in blanding, utah. i push the tylenol down the throat, and nurse the belly, which still turns a bit. perhaps a short day. 20 miles or so, as the body still feels so very weak. i would prefer a day off, but we cannot imagine staying in this hotel all day. so slowly we will move. colorado looms a mere thirty miles or so from here. the vomiting has stopped, but the fever remains. damn. and yet the heart swells. as we near colorado, and grow closer and closer to being halfway across the united states, we grow excited. i listen to catpower covering the velvet underground. i listen to joni mitchell. i listen to louden wainwright. old smashing pumpkins b-sides. {la dolly vita} i daydream of the fall. the changing of leaves, and the wearing of sweaters. the holding of hands beneath the night sky. the discovery of ice. a wedding ring on a finger. it finally feels as if i am riding home now. this feeling is priceless. eternal. it means everything to me.

for more details, photos, etc, go to mike's journal. onward.

"contrast" she would say.

and the time is a dizzying blur. the most beautiful things, inexplicable really, come to pass in canada, and this man returns with his heart swirling and spinning and dancing. leaping from his chest, a tail of light trailing behind. and yes, my dearies, the words shall arrive.

for now though, the road calls. we are late for the climbing of an 11,000 ft. summit, and tents beneath a full moon. the head moves slowly, reeling from the curviest of flights and the somewhat graceless slip back into this world of slow movement; the bicycle. the lack of comfort. contrast she would say. there is magic in the contrast.

oh, oh, oh. how can someone miss someone else so much?

but alas, the bikes are loaded, the heart longing. the legs rested. again, we ride.