Doored!

For those of you not familiar with the concept of “Dooring”: v. To Door. To be so closed off from the world that as you exit your big steal bubble (ie: car/truck) you throw open the door without looking, without so much as glancing in your mirrors, and inconveniently snag a passing cyclist. Often, said cyclist’s wheel will connect with said door and the rider will pitchpole over their handlebars, momentarily learning to fly. Alternatively, if your bubble was for example, a big delivery truck, said cyclist’s wheel might roll under the door, slamming the rider front-on into your metal barrier, using instead their body to stop their 15mile an hour momentum.

Saturday morning, on my way to work. Same route, same time, same bike – everything is normal. I’m cruising along at a good clip, down a bit of a downhill. Less than a foot away from me, a door opens into my bike lane. A huge metal truck door. My bike flies under it, my body slams into it, and I bounce off sideways into traffic, hitting my head on the bitumen as I land. Lying in the middle of the road clutching my bleeding, potentially broken hand, I think: Oh shit, I just got doored!
I’m fine. My hand wasn’t broken, just jammed and bent a little. My neck didn’t fracture either, just sprained. No helmet on my head (wear your helmet!!!), but it’s fine too, no major concussion. The swelling and bruising everywhere else are on their way down and my neck is freeing up. 5 days off work and my paycheck will feel it. I can type this post using my right hand finally, though making a fist still hurts. As soon as it fully heals, I’ll be shaking a clenched fist at every delusional, unobservant vehicle out there.

For christ’s sake – LOOK FOR BIKES. Seriously.

 

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Settling Down

Snow collects on the branches of the bare trees, pulling them down towards earth, cars roll slowly over the icy roads and the neighborhood whispers quietly.

I’ve been outside, bare and exposed, for a long time. Sleeping in tents or buses, boats or warehouses, community couches or blow up mats or carpeted floor. Open to life around me, rarely having to design a direction – instead just following in the footsteps of what seems right. Which is to say – I’ve been free. But wandering is a limited freedom. What about food choices? Or the freedom to choose what I’m exposed to? Rambling means the ability to ramble on, but is it ever a chosen destination? I can ride my bike to the next town, but the only real question thereafter is – who do I want to be? Beyond that, I’ve already made the choice to be open, so then I must be with whoever is there, eat what they eat and sleep wherever they don’t.

Now, off the wandering highways, I have new lessons to learn. In a lot of ways, I’ve been closing doors. A sailing trip to Mexico? Nope, settling down. Building and beaches in Hawaii? Nope, I’m settling down. Bike touring New Zealand? Close that door too. And it’s surprisingly liberating. There’s no doubt it takes strength to allow options into your life, to be open to the possibilities – but I’ve found the hardest is in fact in the narrowing down again.  It requires a great power, the power of love for example, to select just one of those choices.

Now I wear pyjamas to bed, drink the same tea every morning and even have a drawer with six (6!) pairs of socks in it. I’ve been given slippers to keep my feet warm, beanies, scarves, gloves and boots – and just built my first snowman!

The weather here, in Madison Wisconsin, is grounding. Snow sticks to every surface and our hearts stick to our homes. It piles up outside our doorways – so we stay indoors. It offers time. Time to eat well, to write, to sew, to read, to learn, to develop. It’s a new found freedom. I can join the co-op and know my farmers. I can begin month long projects and acquire new skills. Especially, I can be myself, with the qualities I’ve found on the road, but simultaneously discover deeper aspects of ‘me’ that only a close community can help me find. We need both worlds I think, the road and the home, to maintain balance – but I sure have a lot of the latter to catch up on. And now, the space to do it.

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North Dakota

Leaving Fargo, Oak and I prepared ourselves for an easy 50 mile day. We rode about 5 before fate changed all that. On a little side road with hardly any traffic, we pedal on. To our left is a trainline. Sure enough, about 10minutes down the path, a freight comes ricketing past. I’m watching it glassy eyed as it rolls on, as I always do, and mentally checking possible riding spots. There are two cars on it that could fit both our bikes and our gear. Towards the end of the train and a nice big well. Ridiculous though, hopping a freight with not one, but two fully loaded touring bikes? I don’t think so!

Well, she pulls up right along side of us, and that well-car is just about parrallel. It’s with a quick glance at eachother that we’ve made a decision. Pushing our bikes through the tall grass, hoping no cars drive past on this stretch. Oak jumps in, and I start madly handing him bundles. I fear our gear will ride off without us if we don’t hurry. It’s all in and over in a little under 5 minutes. I jump in and the steel starts to rumble on. Ahhhh riding the rails, it’s been a while!

We jump out at Grand Forks, and happy to have made 80miles progress without too much muscle effort. Waiting around for another heading West, pretty soon we give up on that and decide to just pedal on. Bikes are fun too! The next morning we wake early and hit the road. We met another cyclist R.C on the road, heading from Minneapolis to Seattle. Rode with him for the day. Got to our planned destination, 80 miles away, and realised we still had energy for more. First though, a jump in Devil’s Lake. I asked a guy sitting on his porch if we could take a dip in, and he said “oh, with an accent like that, of course!”

Jay from Devil’s Lake and his family turned out to be heroes. We swam, and then were invited into their cabin with a huge buffet dinner spread out on the table. More than I could eat of the most delicious home cooked food, seconds, thirds, they told us to eat up and we shared stories. Jay gave us a bunch of cool history on the area – like the place we were heading “Church’s Ferry” was called so because an old guy ‘Church’ used to ferry people across the lake (before the bridge). Now the lake has risen a lot very quickly, and the town is more or less dead and dying.

Great little place though… a tiny shack of a wooden building with an old worn down sign that read “public school”. Slept in the grand lawn in the middle of town and didn’t see a soul. Couldn’t have made the 110 mile day without Jay’s hospitality – the lake, the food, the family warmth… it powered us both on.

The next day we decided to push out another 110, for Minot, North Dakota. Long stretches of nothing out here, 20 miles between water stops, and even then it’s an old ghost town with one place open called “The Branding Iron Saloon”. A waft of cigarette smoke comes out the door as you pull it open, but the woman behind the bar fills our bottles with icy cold water, and the two guys drinking have the classic ‘farmers tan’, with a sunglass line on the side of their face. Nice friendly people, and I’m humbled again by this honest, open, middle America.

Sometime that afternoon we hit “Rugby – Geographical Centre of North America”. I rode up to it thinking of it as just some crappy tourist attraction – but found myself, and Juno, standing under it and feeling a little emotional. I pedaled more than half the distance I’ll be riding a while ago, but to have something so tangible, so there and obvious… made me proud and amazed that I have made it this far.

And we sure are powering through the miles. 220 miles, or 350 kms in two days. Woh! We have been so lucky with the wind – hardly any and mostly from the south – so are pushing on when we can, while we can. A nights rest in Minot with some CouchSurfers, Kate and Lisa, has re-charged us and we’re ready to ride on. It’s the statefair here and apparently kind of a big deal – KISS played last night!? Time to pedal out!

An alternate to flying?? Bikes? Cool sign!

riding the rails… with bikes!

North Dakota by freight.

Steel for the day.

camp by the tracks. Tomorrow we get back to rubber.

a growing lawn in a dying town

Wheow, 115miles in a day will wear you out, but keep you happy!

Geographical Half Way! Rugby!

Oak enjoying an icecream celebration in Rugby

free camp where I woke up with a migraine…

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Stuck in Paradise

Four months on an island 20kms long and 5kms wide. Four months, 120 days, a whole season… As someone who is rarely preoccupied with time, I was a little surprised by the anxiety gripping my chest as we sailed into Tortola. The Caribbean, not long ago, evoked images of a distant wonderland – where pirates danced on sandy shores and coconuts fell to feed them. My ignorance failed to inform me of the location of the Virgin Islands, let alone their British, American and Spanish settlements.

Now though, I had their coastal contours mapped out in front of me, and since U.S soil remained forbidden (temporarily), my life would have to fit within the wall of palm trees marking the confines of English territory. A northerly sail awaited me in April, but until then this would be home.

And although furthest away geographically, it was closer to ‘home’ – to the country I’d say I’m ‘from’ – than expected. The similarities to Vanuatu were an exciting discovery. I recognised so much of the flora (unfortunately mostly introduced) – Breadfruit trees, paw paw, banana, guava, banyan trees and what I’ll always know as ’christmas trees’ – wide shady branches with bright red flaming flowers. To bite into sugarcane again for the first time in almost a decade, it’s sticky syrup on my lips, set me into a fit of giggles for over an hour. And at 30 degrees, everyday, this was my kind of winter!

No pirates yet but pretty close to paradise, and it’s hard to get bored in paradise. I spent two weeks on the most Easterly point Wwoofing (Willing Workers On Organic Farms) with Arragorn, a local artist I met at the full moon party (it’s a small island), did some painting on the most Westerly point with Charlie, a guy who used to race on ”Ramble” (it’s a really small island), some varnishing for John, and the rest of my time in between at Cane Garden Bay with a man named Mike.

He’s from a slightly bigger, slightly colder island – Vancouver Island, Canada – and says ’boat’ so that it sounds just like ‘boot’. A longtime lightfooted traveller, he cycled down from the north west to New Orleans, sailed the east coast and is here spending three months hitchhiking around while studying online. He charmed me with his calm humility, witty humour and indiscriminate compassion. It’s been a welcome distraction for both of us – time never lasts long with lovers.

We went to an open mic night in town recently. Walking in, I recognised a dozen familiar faces, sat down next to another peddle powered friend (Scotland – China), ordered a Carib beer and realised, smiling, that I’d found myself a nice little community. It’s a very small island, but turns out it’s just big enough for me!

View from my Wwoofing hut, Trellis Bay

inside the loft

View from the farm, Trunk Bay

The Good Moon Farm

biciamoci... bikes bikes bikes

Richard and I getting into sugarcane

happy with sugar cane after so long... too long!

and the remnants... for the ants

Richard, wwoofer i got to work with

The enemy... cruise ships in Road Town

Anegada, a very low lying island... it's all reef

We sailed there and rented bikes! Perfect island for cycling!

road, or bike path?

Mike and John at lunch... you collect and clean your own food/dishes here!

mike in the cabin of ramble... dusk off Anegada

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