Madtown and Mothers

I woke up in Chicago on a Tuesday. “Shit. Today’s Tuesday”. I had told Pamela, Charlie’s mum, that I’d be rolling into Madison today. I sent out a quick email, re-set the date for Friday and hoped I hadn’t just blown my chance to ‘impress the parents’.

Pedaling in from Milwaukee was a pleasant ride, rails-to-trails almost the whole way. It made for pretty boring landscape though, just an endless tunnel of trees, perfectly flat, perfectly unremarkable. Still, I overnighted by a beautiful lake, just 30miles out, and it was a clear blue sky that opened itself to me as I cycled in the next day, around 8am. Birds chirped, chipmunks ducked, and rabbits bounced as I meandered along the smooth bike-path leading straight downtown.

My friends had taken to calling Madison “the promised land”, which might give you an idea of how much I anticipated my arrival here. I had dreams of endless crisscrossing bike paths, roads with narrow lanes for cars and twice as wide brightly painted shoulders for cyclists… two wheeled machines piled into the myriad of bike racks, and every spare post, pole, table leg, used to secure a bicycle. Ideas of vegan bakeries on every corner and homegrown hippies jamming next to community gardens. Basically, I saw Madison as a vegan-tourers mecca.

And I wasn’t far off! This place is magic. Within three blocks of where I’m staying is a local diner, a printing co-op, a huge food co-op, an organic local bakery, a vegan coffeehouse, a fair-trade coffee roasting non-profit, an info-shop for all your anarchist information, and a huge local bike shop in a CASTLE! That’s just this one street. Damn! And yep – bikes everywhere!

I found 417 s. Dickinson St pretty easily, it’s just one block away from the “Bicycle Boulevard”. The address had served as my postal point for several months, so was well etched into my mind. Rolling up to it, I noticed Charlie’s ‘World Bike Tour’ flag on the porch and chocked up a little. I prepared myself for two weeks of Charlie memories, Charlie stories, Charlie photos… and wondered how comfortable I would feel in his house, with his mum, and his cat. The back door wasn’t left open, as Pam had promised, so I sat under the pear tree and relaxed the afternoon away. It wasn’t until I’d done a tour of the town, had a tea, said hi to the bike boys, and returned back to the house – that I realised today wasn’t Friday at all… it was Thursday. Shit.

So by now I’m definitely looking like the most disorganised, ditsy, daughter in law ever to have existed – the only consolidation coming from the realisation that I’m truly in the bike touring ‘time doesn’t exist’ mindset. Thankfully it’s a warm hug and a smile anyway when Pam get’s home, and it’s not long before I’m feeling settled and welcome. A pile of packages greets me too… thank you all SO much for the love – the words are all worth their weight in gold. I even got a “welcome to Madison” postcard from Charlie’s mate Day, who became a great ambassador and friend.

Now it’s been almost a fortnight and I feel like one of the family. The motherly love I’ve been given could never be described in print… every need has been met, every part of my body/mind/spirit re-energised for the rest of the road ahead, from repaired shoes to repaired soul. I got to make a trip out to Johanna’s (sister) farm and picked up pieces of info on native herbs, what to eat and what not to eat, while listening to the soothing creek running through the beautiful ‘drift-less’ region. Juno has had it good too – Charlie’s old bike buddy Derek tuned her, lubed her and loved her, and she’s never felt stealthier.

I got a chance to set up a new Lightfoot Sustainable Post box (Madison would be lost without one!) at Mother Fools, the vegan coffee house. John, one of the owners, has been so enthusiastic and into the project, I can already see the letters flying in.

Lightfoot Box Madison!

And now it’s time to pedal out. I’ve had a 23rd birthday, rested and recuperated, and am ready for the Bicycle Film Festival and Josh Ritter gig in Minneapolis. As itchy as I am for the open road, it’s going to be a hard town to leave. In a lot of ways I feel closer to Charlie here, his history and memories is in a lot of the landscape. It’s a reminder too though of the distance between us, and I’m looking forward to centering myself again, to becoming more present. Hopefully this time I can keep track of the days though! Adios!

Alan, a fellow bike tourer i met on the trail. Picking mulberries!

My camp before Madison. Right off the bike trail, and by a lake!

Yep, i’m happy! Almost there!

But a little tired too!

Breakfast preperation

Ready to eat!

Charlie’s sister, Johanna, is a herbalist… yummy cammomile!

A hot humid day in the garden

Johanna and Raven sorting the weeds from the weeds

Charlie on the fridge

waiting for someone?

Heading out… bye home.

Plenty more corn. Its growing with me as I ride west!

Charley THREE, the dad! An amazing photographer.

Jim built AND designed this house, a Frank Lloyd Wright architect.

Solar warming

Charley Dad at work

Unloaded again for a couple of days

I met the Social Forum Bicycle Carivan (going from Madison to Detroit) on the trail... and they wrote me letters to deliver!

Drop and write! Lightfoot in action!

And some photo’s from Charley III:

A photo of a photo, muckin' around with Charley

An awesome interview with Jim. He and Maxine did a bike tour in 1950 on a 3 speed!

Hitting the road again. There is a photo of Charlie fully loaded, leaving from this exact spot. Weird.

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The Friends

Fully loaded, I pedal up Manhattan. It wouldn’t feel like “the beginning” until I crossed the George Washington Bridge, but I was on my way. Somewhere uptown, on Amsterdam Avenue, a smiling cyclist cruised up to me. “Where you headed?” For the first time on the road, I say I’m cycling cross country. He did it two summers ago and with such warmth and honesty, wishes me a good trip. It’s my first hour, but I already feel blessed.

40 miles out, up the Hudson river, a ‘roady’ slows his cadence to have a chat. With a sparkle in his eye that I recognize as lust for the open road, he asks me my destination. I fill in the blanks as we ride the next few miles into Nyack, a charmingly liberal country town. James, a frequent tourer, cycles Europe, Cuba and North America when he’s not flying for a commercial airline. A pilot with enough eco-conscience, but not quite enough incentive to give up the childhood dream of machines in the sky. He introduced me to another James, owner of the 30-year local one-man-show bike shop, who’s pure love of bicycles was reflected in his free and comforting demeanor. They directed me to a dreamy campsite, mossy grass by the river. While setting up my tent, I chatted with locals out for a run or walking their dog, even the police, none of whom seemed to mind my audacious lodging location.

The next morning was cold and rainy, but a hot shower, cooked oats and the warmth of a home, offered by the pilot James, was a boost to another bleak day. His farewell and good wishes again made me feel magically cared for, and I pedaled off with a song in my soul.

Three days later, I rolled into Albany, New York State’s capital. My couch surfing hosts Abe, Charlie and Ashley were a dirty bike bums fantasy. Within an hour, I was scrubbed up and stuffed with delicious vegan dinner, watching my clothes spin in the wash. There was even beer. Their apartment was in a royal old building, top floor, and their huge rooftop proved perfect for drying out my tent, sleeping bag and other damp travelling gear. Matt, a downstairs neighbour and old school bike fanatic, gave me a real 80′s cycling jersey while recounting enchanting stories. The morning of my departure, Ashley, a vegan baker, rose early to send me off with chocolate brownies and peanut butter cookies. Heavenly!

Sometime during my 3 day rest in Albany, I managed to convince Jon, a basement housemate, to join me on the ride to Ithaca, 170miles away on the finger lakes. His bike was in good shape and he was bundle of energy, so the perfect candidate. We took route 20, though another cross-country cyclist advised me not to based on the steeeeeep hills, and Jon flew to the top of every one, powering through the miles and only stopping when I insisted. He was a positive vibe at the end of each day, despite the tiny tent and rainy weather. I enjoyed the company, and was proud to have facilitated a confidence boost in his touring ability. I was reminded again though, of the pleasure of solo touring, and the difficulties in finding someone with the same rhythm. Our farewell in Ithaca (he took a ride-share home) was quick but warm, and I counted myself one friend the richer.

I met another Jon on route 20, on a day when Albany Jon was well ahead and a few hills away. His loaded Xtracycle rig eased up to mine while I was fumbling with camera gear. He had ridden from Virginia to Boston and was now heading west, towards Buffalo. The curious thing: This was his job. He carried an amp and guitar on his two touring pedals and was a travelling, cycling, musician and lecturer. A kindred spirit, we slowly took the slopes and chatted the day away. His understanding and insight into bike travel was intriguing and refreshing. Our roads diverged but only to converge again soon: He is doing a gig in Ithaca, tomorrow, Monday night. I’ve stuck around another day or two to hear the man play and in such an incredible ‘Gorges’ town, it shouldn’t be too difficult.

The ride from my first hosts house, Marvin’s (a perma-culture, plant identifier and masseuse), follows creeks and forests down a VERY steep, endless hill, and yet is only 4 miles from the town center. Yesterday, at the fiddle playing pub, my “revolution cycles” Madison sticker attracted two other tourers, a couple from Wisconsin, Emma and Chris. Their love of their hometown fused with mine when I explained my (Charlie) connection and unconditional, unverified love for the bike capital. They have become my second hosts in Ithaca, and while we bake Baba Ghanoush and vegan treats, their stories fill me up. Twice since, I’ve been offered other beds in homes and the abundance of care, consideration and community here continue to surprise me.

A journey is only a sum of the people who colour it, and every connection, no matter how brief, provides me with fuel and fire to carry on… one revolution at a time.

Jon, my first riding buddy

food not bombs, albany!

free food!

Ashley, magical vegan baker!

crazy old abandoned house we camped next to...

Our new Teepee friend!

Big teepee on route 20, with two lovely owners! Brother and sister.

It was cold and rainy - we got warm with free chilli

Jon making our strange raw food... lentils in seaweed..? whatever the dumpster provides!

Camp number two, with jon...

Riding between two lakes, pretty pretty pretty

Rolling into Ithaca

Marvin, one of my amazing Ithaca hosts.

Back on the road, what a perfect day out of Ithaca...

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Adventures in Northern Italy

Friends and Family for Fun:

totally joined the bicycle revolution!

charlie at work

An old friend made a meet, on his hitch through

Lightfoot love letters

we set up a lightfoot box in Vicenza... get writing guys!

three bicycles in love

Even a sister to see! And she rode 40kms this day! woot!

Solo Stories…

hitching home

Back on the road - SOLO... feeling good!

baked bread! Pasta madre! Thanks robin!

Romanian truck drivers brought me home

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Slovenia

a campsite in the forbidden national park ... thanks to Grga for inspiring this journey!

yeeeha, and then we go DOOOOWWWWNNN

wooo, here we go!

a night's rest by the clearest river I have EVER seen

muckin' around

what lay ahead

thanks for the hammock bapsi!

Six months ago, my friend Mandy and I had decided on a trip to Slovenia. We imagined walking up snowy mountains, chasing eachother through forests, climbing trees and playing in the leaves. She contacted a host through Couchsurfing, and we made plans. A day before leaving though, things changed and we never made it to Slovenia.

Half a year later, now in summer, I was finally going to get to this little European country. Having decided that a hop across from Rijeka to Trieste was just too little of Slovenia (20kms) for either of us, we set our sights towards Ljubljana. First, I learnt how to spell it. We had been staying with an amazing host, Grga, in the north of Croatia, who with the help of google earth, convinced us a mountain pass through the Alps was where we should be heading. I figured the best way to cure my hilly phobia, was to tackle the highest stuff around – so I agreed, a worried smile across my face.

We mounted our bikes for one final farewell to the Croatian Coast. Crossing the border into Slovenia, everything changed. Suddenly, I realised we had left the Balkans. Little perfect houses popped up, with little perfect flowers on their little perfect window sills. Lawns were well manicured, roads pothole free and even lots of little perfect bike lanes! It was quite a marked change from this years travels. On either side of us rolled green hills, neh, mountains, and we could see the Alps nearing in the distance.

15kms outside of the the capital, we met another cyclist. A young Irish guy, Cillian, who had biked all the way from home. Charlie began recounting his debarkle (a broken foot and 3 months of recovery) only to be cut short by Cillian, who had seen the story in the newspaper and recognised Charlie as his bicycle inspiration. Moments later, we were discussing how to survive on few funds, and hence, dumpster diving. I dug out a copy of my dvd, and was about to hand it to him, when he says:
“Oh hangon, you’re on couch surfing right?? Didnt you make a documentary about dumpster diving? Yeah yeah, I’ve already seen it.”

It really is a small world sometimes. Comforting to know that our little community spreads so far and wide.

We spent a few days in and around Slovenia’s capital with great hosts and good adventures. Live music on a mountain top, a squat in an old Bike Factory, a silly drunken night that ended in bathtubs… it was a lot of fun! Finally though, the time came to head out. We peddled a couple of days, through some beautiful lakes and up into the foot of the Alps. I lost my wallet and had to hitchhike back for it (to no avail). We met two french cyclists who inspired us to get to Lyon, and a touring family with the youngest age 5, carrying his sleeping bag on the back of his little bicycle! Beautiful!

Then the climb. Vrsic Mountain Pass is the highest in Slovenia, and had been well threatened to us by locals. By now it was the only way through though, so of course we set to tackle it. Up early in the morning to avoid midday sun, a quick snack and off we went.

It was steep. I knew it would be long (a few hours climbing) but didnt imagine an incline so great. Although in my lowest gear, I wasnt able to just keep pushing – several breaks were taken along the way. Even some of the cars meandering past didnt sound like they would make it up. Together we trugged along though, and I truly enjoyed the challenge. It was definitely tough, the toughest climb yet, but every minute was relished. It was really fun. Like some great impossible feat (in my mind it had doubled in height), accomplishing it would be bitter sweet.

200 metres from the top, I caught up with Charlie and we peddled over the pass. On top at last. Motorists clapped, other cyclists (none fully loaded!) smiled and cheered. And the view – the view was spectacular. Looking out over Slovenia, Austria, and even Italy, my bike and I were pretty proud to have done what their President has said – “Every Slovenian should do at least once”.

Lief Knopje still having fun Thanks mandy!

i rock

soooo blue, or green, or clear... intense! River Soca

it rained. A lot!

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Finding Friends

I got off the bus an hour to midnight. Waving goodbye to Bapsi through the glass, a chapter felt finished. Cycling into town the moonlight shone over a sign that read “Zadar”. The temperature was perfect, a warm summers day had left a heat in the air.
I peddled around for an hour or so, looking for Charlie, but enjoying the friday’s festive atmosphere too. Meandering down the coastal boulevard, I could hear the sea organs, a musical sculpture which hums and bellows as the waves lap at the land. Past the streams of tourists, up against the park wall, lay two loaded tourers, asleep. Still no Charlie and ready for some slumber myself, I join the line and lean my bicycle beside theirs.
At 3 am the sprinklers wake us with a cold wet welcome, but allow me the chance to meet these two wanderers. We spend the early hours swapping maps and stories in excitement. They had travelled from Barcelona to Croatia then onto Athens and I was about to set off on the same journey, in reverse. We whispered until 6, the darkness hushing our voices. At dawn the two left on a ferry, and I finally got some shut-eye, a couple of friends richer.
By 5 that afternoon I had met up with Charlie. A sparkling smile under his still rough beard, but a shorter haircut… he looked more beautiful than ever. We shakely held eachother under the clock tower in the mainsquare. His smell the same, his hug the same, his voice a well-known tune. A close heart, on a long road, home felt nearer just by his presence. Two months of history untold, we set straight to story-telling, our adventures recounted over beer at a local cafe. A swim in the sun, a dry in the shade, our eyes continued their discourse as we cycled on towards our host Iva’s house.

No one around, we nestled into the couch and carried on our tales, the beer adding to our giddyness. We remembered. How close we could be, how much love there was, how fun flowed when together. It’s a hard thing to say no to, and indeed, we couldn’t. Our bikes would find company in eachother on the road to Barcelona.

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Radlers on the Road

Screeming Bob Dylan’s ‘Blowin in the Wind’ as we zoom down a hill so fast my eyes tear up, seems somehow appropriate. Breeze through my hair, Charlie’s t-shirt fluttering as he coasts past.
There’s an uphill on the other side, but I’ve learnt it will only come down again and so life keeps flowing.

Germany isn’t quite ‘one big bike path’ as I was told, but almost. There is plenty of river routes and seeing other cyclists, touring ones, is common. Green rolling hills are abundant, forests not hard to find. As I sit on the edge of a plantation, fields spanning the distance in front and the setting sun as a backdrop, our tent and fire shrink into the shadows behind. Another little spot to call home for the night. All are different, most are beautiful.

I’ve gained a shade or two in colour, but can’t tell if it’s tan or tarnish. Dirt beneath my nails and behind my ears, things feel like they’re getting done. It’s a ‘leave (almost) no trace’ lifestyle and it suits me well. Meals are sometimes Freegan, otherwise Vegan and what our bodies waste, the forest floor makes use. We power on peddles and potatoes with a little wind energy if luck strikes. Days are energetic, nights calm… almost lonely, but the weeks are rewarding. Budapest is still a ways away, but Frankfurt has sunk well below the horizon and friendship, companionship, grows ever stronger.

We are moving slow, but smelling the roses… and still seeing plenty of snails.

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