Ride to End Family Homelessness

7/06/08 - Denver Post article

http://www.denverpost.com/frontpage/ci_9790973

It has been 2 weeks since my tires first touched down on the moist San Francisco pavement. I have thought about writing this “reflection” piece everyday since my arrival in Frisco, but each attempt was deterred by fear. A “reflection” piece would mean I was done, that the final chapter of the most enjoyable, and spiritually rejuvenating, experience of my life had been written. In addition to fearing the end, I was also incapable of writing the unknown. You see, when I arrived in San Francisco the anticipated overwhelming sense of accomplishment didn’t arrive with me; instead I was greeted with warm, soft, slow tears. I was saddened, and so confused by this unanticipated emotional coup d’état that I was unable to process the meaning- why exactly did I feel the way I did?

I returned to work on Tuesday, on Monday night I lay in bed until 4:30am searching for whatever it was that I was looking for; I didn’t want my expedition for meaning to be compromised by the negativity that being in the real world was sure to breed. I found it. With my eyes wide open, and a smile stretching sideburn to sideburn it hit me. I had been yearning for this triumphant “I can’t believe that I did that” sense of accomplishment– a totally flawed desire for two reasons: 1. I can believe that I did it, never once did I think I couldn’t 2. It was never the accomplishment that I was after, it was the adventure. I didn’t spend my summer dispersing drops of sweat from the Atlantic to the Pacific so that I could say, “In the summer of ’08 I rode my bike cross-country.” I did this because I wanted to live in the now, to appreciate that with each pedal I was in a place I had never been before. I did this to meet cool, interesting people, and share unforgettable moments with complete strangers. I did this to be completely free. I guess that achieving what I was looking foris an accomplishment in itself, but I choose to look at it more as an experience; I experienced a higher level of living.

Undoubtedly, I will carry memories of this trip with me for the rest of my life. Massachusetts is where the wheels started turning, figuratively as well as literally. In a recent discussion with my friend Jared, he told me that in his mind the most impressive feat wasn’t the physical, but rather the mental courage it took to step outside of the norm. I had a good job, the biggest handcuffer in society. Rather than subscribing to what people expect me to do, I took the initiative to pursue what I wanted to do. Furthermore, like many people, I have said I’m going to do this, and do that, but often times the thises and thats go unaddressed. Not this time, I made it happen.

In Connecticut I stared adversity in the face, gave it some HGH, and still kicked its ass. I spent my entire second day constructing ludicrous “bail-out” plans, and determining how much of my weight I should send home. The problem was that if I returned to town 2 days after my departure there is no way I’d be able to show my face. So I decided I’d just take a train to Colorado, and camp out in the woods for a month and a half. I could pedal the last few states, and people would believe that I didn’t fail. Sweet plan. I spoke with my parents that night, as well as a few great friends. The words of encouragement that reciprocated my every complaint were exactly what I needed. I woke up the next morning and had an unforgettable ride that took me all the way to Rhinebeck, New York. I didn’t bail, nor did I send any weight home, in fact I went to the grocery store and added to my cargo. Beat it adversity.

Hanging with the Amish in Pennsylvania is when I recognized the beauty of the freedom I possessed. I cruised through Lancaster County, rocking liberating reggae and projecting an immovable smile. I childishly swerved whenever I felt like it, carving imaginary letters in the pavement with my bike. I mooed at the cows, and barked at the dogs. I threw huge peace signs at the Amish farmers. The sun struck everything so perfectly that I forgot I was riding my bike. Maybe it was being amongst the Amish, watching the way they functioned on their own terms in a larger, manipulating world, but on this day in Intercourse, PA I remembered how good it felt to live unrestricted.

In New Jersey I felt the exhilaration of pedaling through smothering cornfields with a pack of hungry Rottweilers in pursuit. While in Maryland, I sat riverside with my feet soaking in the Delaware River. Trout nibbled on my toes, and deer danced on all sides of me; I had been accepted to wilderness’ fraternity.
Leaving Maryland, I headed for the District of Columbia, where good friends Cael, Stacey, Anna, Taylor, and Warner greeted me. We spent 4 days laughing at old stories as we created new ones.

Virginia is where I discovered the Transam; the camping, the generosity, the trust—this is what being on your own is all about. I had to trust complete strangers, as well as my instincts. I’ll always remember one Virginian summer day in particular; the sun beat down upon me, and tickled the thermometer until the mercury rose to 104 degrees. It was hot. The kind of hot that makes you want to do nothing but lay on your back, with your hand pressed up against your forehead and arm extended to the side in horizontal “V” fashion, and just talk about how hot it is. As I sat with my back against an abandoned bridge post the lyrics “All the tired horses in the sun, how’m I supposed to get any riding done,” echoed in my headphones, “All the tired horses in the sun, how’m I supposed to get any riding done,” over and over. I forgot I had Dylan’s “Self Portrait” going, but it felt as though I was watching a movie with myself as the protagonist and Mr. Dylan providing the soundtrack. I’ll never forget that day.

Filthy Meth addicts craving a fix, and dogs so freshly dead that the Chevy Murderers are still within eyesight, evidence dangling from their rusty bumpers: Kentucky.

I spent so little time in Illinois and Indiana that there wasn’t the opportunity for great experiences to cultivate, but my maps tell me I was there.

Missouri was an unexpected highlight. The landscape rolled toward the horizon like the edges of dry lasagna; the climbs weren’t defined by their elevation, but they were the steepest collection of uphills on the journey. The hills never stopped, from the eastern border all the way to the western border. This sort of relentless jabbing can really bring a guy down. But for reasons I’m unsure of, Missouri just never felt like an opponent, more like a friend introducing me to a new lifestyle. I enjoyed the struggle, and refused to recognize the pain. Missouri is where I learned to not be a prisoner to the mileage. At the base of a mediocre downhill, I met the most gorgeous river—crystal clear shore to shore, the floor lining pebbles glistened in the morning sun like Morse code. I don’t have any experience dissecting code, but the message was certainly an invitation. I got off my bike, and within minutes was leaping from some adjacent rocks into the refreshing water. It just felt right. I did it because it just felt right.

I attended a New England boarding school for grades 9-12. One of my best friends transferred in at the beginning of our junior year from a Kansas public school. While deep into the bore of Kansas, I sent him a text letting him know I was in his homeland. His response was, “Imagine being a kid growing up there, you think you can see to the end of the world.” Maybe it was because Kansas isn’t a very thought provoking terrain, or maybe it is because of the amount of respect I have for the author of the text, for whatever reason, I thought about his words for the entire duration of Kansas. I thought about how your environment molds you, I thought about friends, I thought about my experiences in high school and what they meant.

Colorado provided my first bit of trip-reflection. I stood on the top of Mount Monarch and looked down in amazement on where I had come from. The altitude lightened my thoughts, I didn’t acknowledge the hail pelting off my helmet, I just looked east and realized how far from home I was and all the adversity that needed to be conquered for me to be standing on this summit.

Utah was frustrating. The meandering desert roads and the 100-degree days had me wishing for a more direct route. But there was nothing I could do to make things easier; I just had to deal with it. Like so many times before, I was able to turn the frustrating circumstances into a reward. I’ll forever remember one day in particular where I traveled 105 miles. I’m sure the scenery was beautiful, but I didn’t even see it. For 5 hours I starred at my rotating front tire. I didn’t think about much, I just stared; I was in the proverbial “zone”. I held the fastest clip of my life, moving my legs up and down like a machine. When I was within 4 miles of my destination I hit the “off” button, got off my bike and let out a bellowing scream that echoed for minutes in the encompassing canyon.

In Nevada I got the family support I needed. I spent time with my uncle and his family. For 3 days I thought about my family, and how fortunate I was.

California, (cue the Mamas and the Papas) the end of the road… kind of weird.

The experiences are what defined the most amazing 2 months of my life; accomplishments had nothing to do with it. I was able to experience something that I always thought would serve as a dream, hopefully the funds raised will give others the opportunity to do the same.

I owe endless thanks…

I’m back in civilization! I’ll try to provide a detailed account of wild 2 weeks in the desert.

Utah was like nothing I had ever seen before. The endless miles of tangerine, wind-sculpted canyons made it very easy to forget I was pedaling through the desert with limited water. The most difficult stretch was 104 miles of meandering, single-lane highway in 102 degree heat; there were no gas stations, no homes, no random water stops, nothing—I was accompanied only by the scurrying scorpions, and the hungry vultures licking their lips overhead. I rode the final 30+ miles with empty water bottles. I knew little about my target destination, only that it was located on mammoth Lake Powell. I had visions of a tourist town, complete with full services and a hip scene; I even thought I would probably have the opportunity to test drive some rare Utah microbrews. I reached the destination dehydrated, but overwhelmed with accomplishment (I was able to crush 48 miles in 2 hours); much to my disappointment, I was greeted only by a running hose, over which hung a homemade, duct taped sign, reading “pretty good drinking water.” I filled and chugged 8 bottles of the scorching hot hose water. Finally hydrated and coherent, I set up my tent and reflected on an unforgettable day.

Utah was beautiful, but I was anxious to enter Nevada. The second I saw the “Welcome to Nevada” sign my emotions shifted from content and stable to an utter whirlwind. I was getting close to the end, Nevada is supposed to be extremely difficult, my ass is killing me, I was getting close to the end. Every eastbounder I spoke to warned me about Nevada, “Nevada blows man,” two twins from Chicago told me in Utah. As far as I’m concerned, they couldn’t have been more wrong.

I spent my first night in Nevada in the tiny artist community of Baker. I shared an awesome conversation with an aging artist/ restaurant owner as I enjoyed a delicious Lagunitas Pale Ale. The day was tough, but when it ends with a comfortable conversation with a complete stranger the fatigue is forgotten. The following morning I unzipped my tent and went right back to the same restaurant (didn’t really have a choice, only one in town and I was out of oats). As I enjoyed cup after cup of this dude’s awesome coffee I perused the NY Times. There on the front cover was a story regarding the MA State Senate. I read the story. What struck me wasn’t the content, but the fact that I was completely unaware of the story and the paper was dated a week prior. A story significant enough to grace to the front page of the New York Times concerned my office, and I had no idea—couldn’t be happier out here.

My daily mileage is determined for me; I simply ride from one town to the next. Unfortunately, the towns are on average 80 miles apart, 80 miles of desert, waterless terrain apart. I’ve been traveling on the infamous Highway 50, a road titled “The loneliest road in America” by Life Magazine in 1986; AAA even suggests that one should avoid utilizing Highway 50 at any cost. It’s been tough in it’s tedium, but overall I choose to appreciate the peacefulness of the traffic-less travel. My most enjoyable night on Highway 50 came in Eureka, NV.

I pulled into Eureka around 6pm, and headed straight for the first diner I saw. Minutes after my food arrived a rowdy group of 30-somethings sat down at the adjacent table. One of the dudes patted me on the back and showed me a picture of me rolling in to town that he had taken minutes earlier. The “show and tell” was followed immediately with inquiry; all the dudes were genuinely interested and fascinated with what I was doing. It became clear that these guys were not Eureka natives. “What are you dudes doing in Eureka?” “We are here filming a show for Animal Planet.” Awesome. I love the AP! These dudes were fascinated with me? We shared some stories for a while before I announced it was time for me to retire to my tent. We said our goodbyes, and I left the small Chinese/American diner. Before I could even unlock my bike Brian, the head of the camera crew, interrupted my departure. He gave me his hotel room key and told me I could use his shower, and I could even crash with them for the night if I wished. The generosity and trust was overwhelming. I went back to Brian’s room, showered and watched Batman Begins before heading to the local watering hole to meet the AP gang for a beer. Hanging with these dudes was exactly what I needed.

At around 4pm the next day I arrived at my destination, Middlegate, NV. There wasn’t much to Middlegate, just 6 trailers and a bar. I walked into the bar and was greeted by a stale old man in cowboy hat. He told me his name was Greg, interrupting every syllable with a drag of his Marlboro Red. I ordered a beer and sat down to check out the menu. There it was, occupying the entire middle page—”The Middlegate Monster,” a 3-pound cheeseburger challenge. Greg tells me that if I eat the whole thing, pound of fries included, I win a free t-shirt. I didn’t need to look at the rest of the menu, let’s dance Greg.

The burger arrived and I have never been so intimidated, this thing was a beast. I took the first bite with Greg peering over my shoulder cranking cigs, and exhaling the toxin in my face, “you got no chance boy.” Greg underestimated me; I destroyed that thing, all but the two olives starring up at me. I hate olives; just the smell makes me want to puke. After some mental preparation I choked the green golf balls down. Greg presented me the XXL t-shirt. I’ll probably never wear the shirt, but it will forever serve as a reminder of a trip of unforgettable experiences. I own you Greg.

Today I’m kicking it on a Lake Tahoe beach with my Uncle Kevin, and his awesome wife Susan. I couldn’t be happier. They have two kids, my cousins Quinn and Sarah. Unfortunately, Sarah now lives in Phoenix where she is studying to be a nurse so she’s not around. Quinn’s the man, he and I are going to catch the movie phenomenon that is Dark Knight tonight— can’t wait. As a family these guys are awesome, and just a total blast to be around. It’s such a reward to be able to kick it with family, and to love every minute of it.

I’m days away from San Francisco. I’m not sure how I feel about that. My friend Jared called me the other night, and asked what the trip has meant to me. I couldn’t answer the question; I imagine that when I arrive in Frisco I’ll have a better idea. I do know that I can’t wait to be greeted in the Bay Area by my awesome high school friend Perry, she’s a cool chick, and I know she’s going to show me the perfect welcoming. In addition, my college roommates Nick and JDP are awaiting my arrival in LA. While I’m unable to grasp all the lessons I have learned on this trip, I can confess that I have new respect for the importance of both good friends, and a strong family.

I’d like to also send some warm congratulations to a foursome from Newburyport who just completed a Washington to Newburyport trek. I don’t have an existing relationship with this gang, but we are united by a summer spent on two wheels. I couldn’t be happier for you guys, Congratulations on an awesome accomplishment!

In addition, I want to quickly address some of the comments left on the website. Cooper, that dude did have his shirt off at midnight, but Garrity had his off two hours later. Cait and Angee, Ahoy! Awesome to hear from you both, I’m making it as south as LA; shoot me an email if ya’ll want to come up to Hollywood for a Praha rendezvous. TC, come on kid, I could pitch with my sweaty feet and you still wouldn’t be able to touch me. Maria, thank you for the kind words, your encouragement is greatly appreciated. Wayne, you’re the man! Erica, again, congratulations, I would love to meet up with you guys, if you head down to the Grog chances are pretty good I’ll be there enjoying an Ipswich.

I’m days away from the finish line, I’m literally incapable of explaining what this trip has meant to me thus far. Thank you to all that have made this possible, I am forever indebted to you all.

I can’t wait to see Batman tonight, but let’s give some love to X-Files. I’m huge X-Files guy, Mulder and Scully back at it, come on—it’s going to be sick. David Duchovny is the man, and totally underappreciated, the dude is hysterical. For the record, just because I like X-files doesn’t mean I’m a Trekkie.

I want to Believe.

Brendan

Check out some more coverage back in MA!

http://www.newburyportnews.com/archivesearch/local_story_196231415.html

In an attempt to minimize the severity of the climate, terrain, and lack of services out west I have mailed my computer ahead 1000 miles. It was a reluctant move, but I had to make more room for water.

I’m currently using a computer in the Montrose, CO library with an annoying “Minutes Remaining Countown Clock” starring me down. Please forgive the lack of organization as I best try to recap the previous week…

July 3rd in Denver, I made it. I arrived at my friend Paul’s apartment shortly before 9pm. We met up with some our Denver-based college friends Josh and Beatty for some dinner and drinks at a local Red Sox bar. After sharing a solid meal and many laughs, Paul, Josh, and I headed out for some more drinks. It wasn’t before long that I was outside engaging in a conversation with some homeless dude, as I often do. I helped him find his Walkman, and we briefly discussed why he was homeless. The conversation was going fine until he asked me for beer money. I refused, had it been for something else perhaps I would have delivered, but the last thing this dude needed was more booze. He became upset with my refusal and started calling me Jim Rome. Several thoughts ran through my mind; how does this dude know about Jim Rome? Do I really resemble Jim Rome? Jim Rome, come one man, I can’t stand that dude.

The 4th was amazing. Paul gathered his cronies and we all headed down to Washington Park for some volleyball and wiffle. It was a blast to be able to let loose, and not think about my excruciating saddle sores. Unfortunately, it was during the wiffle game that I realized the negatives of riding your bike 3000 miles– my pitches were gone. My fingers have been so manipulated by the constant gripping of my handlebars that I can no longer form the proper grips. I can live without being able hold a pen, I can get by without being able to use silverware, but not being able to pitch a wiff?! the though of ending the trip right there, and enrolling in hand-rehab crossed my mind.

Needless to say, I pressed on. I spent the night camping in a beautiful Canyon with some white water raft guides I had met at the local gas station. I set my tent up 10 feet from the Arkansas River, grabbed a pre-cut log, and sat and starred in amazement. These were the Rockies, I was camping on a river in the Rockies– life couldn’t get much better.

We woke early, and headed out for our first summit- Mount Monarch. At 11,400 ft. Monarch peered down on us for miles. (I would love to go into the struggle of reaching the top, but time is ticking!!!!) Anyway- I made it to the top. Snow caps to my left and right, hail in my face, and a below freezing temperature greeted me at the top, but it didn’t matter- I was at the top. It was incredible, and unbelievably rewarding to look down at the miles of terrain I had trekked across to be on top of this monster. I spent the night at the bottom of Monarch in a tepee on the river, yes a tepee on a river in the Rockies. The hail and rain broke and the most tangible triple-rainbow these eyes have ever seen stretched across the valley.

Things are pretty awesome these days. Tonight I’m planning on staying in the famed ski-town Telluride, where I hope to get some Internet and an opportunity to elaborate. Utah tomorrow.

Brendan

The wind whipped at 20mph in my face, nothing to do but pedal, no hills to climb, and no turns to navigate—just pedal, seemingly without getting anywhere.  This is the Kansas I had heard so much about.  It was brutally frustrating. 

I rode the majority of the day by myself, exchanging thoughtless noises with the cows.  The day was longer than I had hoped, but I reached my destination.  Such is life. 

As the others rolled in, we devised our plan of attack for the coming morning.  We decided to get an early start in an effort to compensate for the slowing winds.  We spent another difficult and taxing day in the hot Kansas sun, but we were able to bust out 80 miles.  Although I had reached my goal for the day, something didn’t feel right.  All I could think about was arriving in San Francisco; such anticipation is extremely detrimental to the psyche out here— one day at a time, one minute at a time, appreciating the fact that with every pedal you are venturing into foreign land, this is the only way to think if I’m going to complete this task.  With so much on my mind I retire to my tent early for some reflection and reading.

I woke feeling 100% better.  I had some granola at a gas station in Nickerson, KS and was ready to dominate.  Danny and I rode ahead.  Danny is an awesome dude, and the type of guy I could talk to forever.  He’s been teaching me a bunch about art (he’s an accomplished sculptor) and nutrition (the kid eats oats all day).  While I value his lessons, I can’t deny myself a cheeseburger at the end of the day.

As I pulled into the only gas station for 45 miles I realized I had blown two more spokes.  There was a chicken running around the parking lot, I had to restrain myself from ending its life with a drop kick. Dead spokes aren’t supposed to be rode on—I looked around, and realized I didn’t really have much of a choice.  At the climax of my frustration a women pulled up alongside my bike.  We exchanged pleasantries.  When I told her I was on my way to Newton, KS she proudly informed me that she has friends there, and she was certain they’d put us up.  She gave me Dave and Cookie Wiebe’s phone number, and told me to give them a call when we got within 20 miles of Newton.

 “Hi Cookie, my name is Brendan McGonigle, you don’t know me but …”  The Wiebes informed me that they would be out of town until midnight.  However, they would leave the back door open for me, and there was food in the fridge. Awesome.  We arrived at their house and were met by a note telling us where everything was in the house, and to please make ourselves at home.  We acted accordingly.

I woke to a plateful of unbelievable cornmeal pancakes [editor’s note: not necessarily this precise recipe], and a full cup of coffee [editor’s note: not necessarily this specific cup of coffee].   We finished breakfast and Dave took me to a local bike guru who fixed my bike pro bono. Thank you Wiebes.

As we rode through more tumultuous winds, frustration began to creep its ugly head back into my mendulablangada. At the very moment that I was preparing to tell Ryan I needed a break a cheerful shriek echoed from behind.  We simultaneously turned our heads—a set of boobs was staring directly at us.  A classic roadside flashing.  The vehicle that provided the laughs sped off and left Ryan and I awe—Did that just happen??

We arrived at our destination, Rush Center City Park, and headed straight for the adjacent bar.  While we devoured our monster burgers, two meth-heads were causing a distracting ruckus.  This guy started kicking the video game machine, claiming that the game had cheated him—in actuality he just sucked at video games, and was high on meth.  The owner of the trailer/bar came out of his bedroom/kitchen drunk as skunk.  He hobbled around the bar, nearly tipping with each step, but was able to successfully kick the 50 year old Meth addicts out of his home/bar.  The entertainment was priceless.

Today we finally caught a wind in our favor; it was only running at 5mph, but it wasn’t in our face, and that’s all that really matters in Kansas.  Within the first 4 hours of riding I had 65 miles kicked.  I rode one mile at 25 mph clip, a pretty sweet pace considering the weight (I’m patting myself on the back).

All is well on the road, July 4^th in Denver is looking pretty promising.

I’ve been receiving a bunch of questions from readers.  I was thinking the next blog could simply be a question and answer piece.  If you have an inquiry simply leave it here as a comment, or email it to me atbrendan.mcgonigle@gmail.com

Danny, Ryan, and Justin– great color scheme fellas

breakfast routine

We spent the day with a cloud of anticipation hovering overhead; for 2 weeks I have been floating the idea of a 24-hour ride to my cohorts—judgment day was upon us.

Danny was experiencing severe bike malfunctions so he saw it appropriate to get everything taken care of prior to our monumental “Jack Bauer.”  Unfortunately, the local bike shop, “Tailwinds,” was about as cool as David Caruso.  The dude running the shop paraded around like Horatio Caine, tilting his glasses down every time he spoke, as if preparing himself to give us a ground-breaking prophecy that would alter the cycling landscape for all of time, only to deliver some ambiguous comment attempting to make us look like a bunch of 2-wheeled neophytes.  He thought he was the best thing in the biking world, but he probably had those flashy florescent streamers dangling from his handlebars.

He made me realize how fortunate I am to have such a cool bike shop back home.  Thanks a bunch Riverside.

Horatio’s “lessons” delayed our departure time, and we weren’t able to get rolling until 7pm.  Everything was going great as we cruised through backcountry farms and flat, postcard landscapes.  When the sun tucked itself behind the most distant farmhouse I could feel the excitement the 5 of us shared… this was going to be awesome.

Less than 3 hours in we were faced with our first roadblock.  Due to flooding resulting from an unusually high amount of rainfall this spring, several of the roads we intended on utilizing were blocked.  After considering our options we decided to stick to the route and hope that we’d be OK.  We swerved around opossums and armadillos, but otherwise the “blocked” roads didn’t provide too much trouble.  The highlight of the evening came just before midnight.  We cruised through a heavily wooded area decorated with millions of fireflies.  We killed our lights and silently watched the luminescent insects dance around as if functioning in their own city routine.  Internally I was revisiting “FernGully” for the first time since 3rd grade.

We stopped at a 24-hour Wal-Mart for fuel.  20 Bobby Bouchers employed the store.

We still had 60 more miles to pedal before the next available water stop.  I could feel my eyes slowly shutting, sometimes pedaling for 10 second intervals without looking where I was going.  I observed everyone else to gauge their fatigue.  My four friends were bobbing their heads up and down, the way one does when attending a 9am European Lit. class after a festive Thirsty Thursday.  Doubt set in.

We pulled into Toronto, Kansas around 7am with a little over 100 miles already conquered.  We decided it would be in our best interest to get off the bikes and rest on the curb for a few.  We woke up 5 hours later.

We decided to ride 25 more miles to Eureka, KS and call it a day.  I came up short of my goal.  Normally “failure” to meet my goal would eat me up inside, but no such frustration was felt.  I think my body was just too beat up to perform, and it would have been foolish to chase a relatively valueless accomplishment.  We rode 130 miles and I’m OK with that.

I have 7 days to ride 520 miles in order to make it to Denver by July 3rd.  If I don’t make it inability to execute won’t be dismissed so easily.

Totally exhausted. Brendan

I turned to Ryan and told him I didn’t have it today. I was having one of those “who am I?” days, and didn’t feel as though I had the mental fortitude for a big mileage.

We were supposed to do 57 miles, we did 90.

People frequently ask me, “what do you think about out there?” The answer is usually simple: whatever I want. During my regular-day life I don’t possess that ability. I’m forced to think about work, about what I should be doing, about what I “have” to do. On the road I choose: friends, families, high school flashbacks, college flashbacks, music, architecture, past, future, Prague, Boston, beer, wiffle ball, beers while playing wiffle ball, whatever I want to think about I can. However, not every pedal is complimented with such mental freedom. On this particular day I was worried about my future, will everything work out the way I want it to?

After spending a few miles with Ryan and Danny I was back. It’s incredibly helpful to be surrounded by awesome people; friendship is a strong vehicle for motivation. Before I knew it we were in Golden City, MO, 33 miles further than our intended destination.

We were granted permission to tent in the City Park. It’s impossible to cruise down Main Street and not think about what Golden City once was. The city of 900 bears the wounds of a lost economy: dilapidated buildings, lonely streets, and three-legged dogs—I was waiting to see tumbleweeds cross our path. I couldn’t help but picture Golden City as a thriving, active, mid-western community, similar to the one featured in Back To The Future III; unfortunately, those days have long since passed.

When we arrived at the park it was reassuring to see life. The entire town was at the Little League Park to watch the local nine take on a rival town. We positioned ourselves in the bleachers and watched some softball. Bostonians love ripping Grady Little for leaving Pedro on the hill in ‘03, what I witnessed on this particular summer evening dwarfed any Grady blunder. With his team leading 8-2, the manager for Golden City’s rival went to the bullpen. He brought in a 200-pound southpaw to close the game out. She proceeded to hit 8 batters in a row, sparking a legendary comeback and bringing the Golden City faithful to a standing ovation. For one night in June, Golden City was alive again. The hefty-lefty was consoled with an oversized chilidog— everyone was a winner on this night.

Today I’m in Pittsburg, Kansas and completely out of the Ozark Mountains. Sometimes I feel like I’m playing that city/state/country identification game that concluded every Carmen Sandiego show—placing my bicycle on different locations, trying to figure out where I am. Tomorrow will be my most difficult day on the bike of the entire trip, not because of the terrain, but because of the duration. I’m going to attempt a 24-hour ride. I’ll leave Pittsburgh tomorrow at 6pm, and arrive somewhere at 6pm on Thursday. We’ll see.

I’m hoping to spend July 4^th in Denver with my friends Paul, Lindsey, Beatty, and Cooper. I think the anticipated visit has generated bad memories for Cooper; the kid threw me a knuckle ball on an 0-2 count, I delivered with an enormous Dumpster Ball, sealing a victory for Watts and I in hotly contested wiffle duel.

—That Shaq rap on Kobe is hysterical

Keep living, Keep donating,

brendan

There was no way I wasn’t jumping off this guy

final rolling hills in the MO

Random water just in time

Kansas, I’m going to own you