What a bunch of jerks.

The jerks I'm referring to are not the chiseled land grabbers photographed below, but the the ones at Sellwood Cycle Repair who put me on a Kona too solid to use as a good excuse for packing up early and catching a bus home. Also, one could say Wade at Vulture Cycles is equally a jerk for building a bulletproof bike that even Dan can't seem to break. Instead of sitting at home, fattening up on beer and pizza, Dan and I are faced with the last thousand miles before we can call it a day. Truthfully, if you want a good excuse, don't go to these guys. Jerks.

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At the end our last bout with forward motion, we perched ourselves on the perimeter of Badlands National Park. For our Sabbath, we huddled into our tents to avoid blowing away in the gusts, occasionally emerging for the occurrence of digestion. Each time we appeared, the photogenic rock formations looming just down the road seemed to be calling, which led us to wonder, "Why aren't we on a hike today?" To our benefit, the fifty miles we traveled after our rest day turned out to be one of the more picturesque stretches of the trip.

Our originally planned route from the west end of the park would have required us to carry a day's worth of water, which we intended to obtain along with some snacks in the town of Scenic, SD. To our unfortunate realization, this township is more or less shut down. As we learned, almost the entire town was recently purchased, and the new owners had not yet arrived to get the place running again. In our search for potable water, we met the man now responsible for maintaining the facilities in this town of one citizen, one post office, and vacant, boarded up storefronts. He not only steered us in the direction of clean water, but also invited us to camp out pretty much anywhere in town. We chose the lawn of the Tatanka Trading Post after seriously considering the jailhouse. He also provided us with important intel on a questionable 40 mile stretch of dirt road which may or may not be maintained. In light of this information, we redirected through Rapid City, which led us into the Black Hills National Forest, past Mount Rushmore, and into the oil rich plains of eastern Wyoming. The ride through the Badlands and the Black Hills made for a satisfactory ending to the already great time we had traveling in South Dakota.

The one challenge we experienced in the Black Hills had nothing to do with the climbs, but instead what the land once was, and now represents. In response to a post 1849 gold rush within the Black Hills, the US government broke a treaty with the Lakota tribe and assumed possession of their sacred land. To rub salt in the wound, about fifty years later the US government funded a project to carve the likeness of four great American leaders into Mount Rushmore. The carvings on Mount Rushmore have succeeded in attracting tourism and thus turned the surrounding hills into an endless oasis of go carts, mini-golf, and other carnival amusements; nothing is sacred. Lucky for us, the entrance fee into the Mount Rushmore Memorial is waived for cyclists, allowing us to avoid paying directly in support of the obstruction.

The history behind the Black Hills brought forth critical considerations of the treatment of Native Americans, both past and present, and all over the country. Coming from a mixture of European migration, my existence in this land will always be marred by the truth of what it represents. If my ancestors hadn't crossed the Atlantic to find opportunity at the expense of others, I would not be alive, nor would the majority of us Americans. However, we can't accept responsibility for such things beyond our control, we can't pack up and go back to Europe, so there's no use in looking backwards. Instead, we should consider the opportunities looking forward, which honor Native American ancestry and culture, preserve the land they still have, negotiate the return of sacred ground, and stop waiting for these people to waste away.

The obvious contrast.

Over this past week, we've been preparing for, and saying goodbye to the Midwest of America. Riding west out of Des Moines, Iowa, we saw the beautiful rolling hills which give credence to the infamous RAGBRAI. We then took a quick trip across the Missouri River into Nebraska, and headed north along the river to reach South Dakota. It is my understanding that we officially entered the great plains after crossing the Fort Randall Dam; our third and final Missouri River crossing. As mentioned to us, and we confirm, South Dakota is geographically partitioned into two sides; east and west of the Missouri. The eastern portion having more precipitation and corn than the arid and grassy west. For us, reaching the western side has meant less traffic, with more seclusion and space between areas of civilization, but mostly a welcome change to the two or three previous weeks of overabundant corn and soy crops.

If one simplifies the concept of endless rolling hills and plains, the longterm monotony may seem much too uneventful to enjoy from the seat of a bicycle. I conclude this generalized simplification to be wrong. For westward travel (i.e. Leaving the populated eastern portion of the continent) it represents the wild western frontier, and resembles the experience of the Oregon Trail travelers. Dan suggests our instincts may find pleasure in scenery which contains livability, including bountiful plants and animals. Perhaps for us modern day explorers, the appearance of less cultivated soil provides the experience of 'roughing it.' I would also not shy away from associating our pleasure with a closer proximity to home.

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If our route and tempo eastward was indirect, unpredictable, and off budget, our route west could thus far be considered much more calculated. Simply put, we resembled Kerouac and friends heading east--give and take--and westbound are the new age Lewis and Clark; on a mission to find the passage to Oregon before the British do. Again, simply put, 5,500 miles out in five months will earn many valuable perspectives into the culture and people of this country; 3,200+ miles back in two months will contradict one's preconception that this country is immense in size, which it is.

As the hours of daylight in the northern hemisphere slowly dwindle, so do our feasible riding hours. Our distance goals, however, have been loftier in the past weeks. This means we had to wake at dawn, complete our morning routines, and begin riding each day before noon--usually before nine. Even on such a schedule, we've been finding it harder to reach our daily destinations before sunset. Luckily, we're far enough west at this juncture, to confidently establish a finish date on a less aggressive schedule, with hopefully more free time to enjoy the national forests and parks in front of us.

Athough we've been covering much more ground since NYC, I'm finding no shortage of anecdotes to consider sharing. Like the night we crossed a closed bridge (don't worry Moms), to randomly happen upon a campground, to wake up with frost on our tents next to a steaming and picture perfect Missouri River. Or that other night in the wildlife refuge when some locals parked and proceeded to find themselves in the grips of a passionate frenzy, unaware of the proximity of our involuntary, sleep distracted ears. Or the all-you-can-eat breakfast where we earned two compliments while likely consuming the day's profit. This and more within the course of seven days, you get the point.

At about 1,200 miles from home, we will likely have three more rest days. Therefore I'm likely to post three more times before reaching home, then probably one final salutation at the end. I've been happy to hear praise from a number of you, and I'm more gratified in knowing this effort isn't unnoticed. Thanks again for your support and for reading.

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Last, but certainly not least, I want to give a big thanks to the Stone family in Des Moines for stepping up and giving Dan refuge while I was off observing the matrimonial ceremony of two fine folks.

Enjoy it twice.

Before giving you the traditional photographic account of our experiences from Huntington, Indiana to Des Moines, Iowa, I'd like to offer one of the easiest "vicarious" opportunities yet. Imagine a field of three and a half foot tall soy bean plants on your left; on your right, a field of seven foot tall corn stalks. Now, imagine this as your constant experience for 80 miles each day, with a daily offering of a new temperature, humidity, wind direction and strength.

Dan suggests pasting a picture of corn on one wall, soy on the other, and sit on a stationary bike in-between. This scenario will produce an accurate depiction of our experience crossing northern Illinois and Indiana by bicycle.

However monotonous the experience may sound, people can always make a difference. In the case of our seven day trek from Indiana to Iowa, we were accompanied by a special guest, my father. Having his first breath in Galesburg, Illinois back in 1956, he felt it appropriate to ride through the region where he spent his first ten years. Witnessing his observations of life within the buckle of the corn belt, we enjoyed stimulating discussions both relevant and irrelevant to the abundant plants which find their way into seemingly all American made consumer goods, and encompass this portion of the heartland.

Galesburg has always been a place I've known about, but had yet to remember visiting. In our short tour through town and visiting family, my father pointed out his birthplace, where he played baseball, and a number of other points of interest. I felt my familial connection to the place where half of my genetic makeup was established. My existence relies upon Galesburg as much as it does any other place. However, in considering the miraculousness of life, I find myself pondering a vast universe of variables, beyond Galesburg, and this country.

With even the simplest understanding of the human reproductive system, the nearly infinite combinations of sperm and egg are enough to astonish the mind. With these ever so slight probabilities in mind, it would be futile to deny the luck of those of us in the living community for having a chance at life. Furthermore, I, and my fellow citizens are part of a select group of over three hundred million, out of over six billion humans who can call themselves Americans. This is obviously off the usual topic, but one I often consider as I continue to enjoy my existence. It's a perspective which helps me appreciate the entitlements I've never had to fight for; embrace the rearing and influences which have guided me to this point; and as I mentioned, lucky to have been a successful combination of sperm and egg.

Frackheads and gasholes. Part two.

From Waverly, we chose to leave route 17 and New York state for Pennsylvania's state bicycle route Y, which occupies the shoulders of highway 6. Immediately we could tell we were in fracking country. New York has yet to approve of this spreading industry, but it's obvious by the yard signs that this is a controversial issue, in the process of moving forward. In Pennsylvania however, these trucks are needed to transport water, equipment, and waste to and from the natural gas wells. For us, riding this narrow, winding highway with these trucks through the hills of Pennsylvania's Appalachia was unpleasant. Two years ago, before the fracking boom, this route must have been a peaceful tour through the lush green landscape--with the occasional quarry truck. Now, I can't really say because I spent the whole time looking over my shoulder and trying to stay as far to the right as possible.

Although unpleasant From the perspective of a tourist on a bicycle, the positive economic impacts of fracking trump any income from a few cycle tourists. For this reason, I suggest the state of Pennsylvania remove or redirect bicycle route Y, as well as any other routes affected by fracking traffic. Perhaps it would be unpopular to suggest they also use some newly generated dividends to develop and alter the current bicycle route system.

As we moved west along highway 6, the volume of trucks slowly dwindled, and the shoulders grew wider. By the time we reached Port Allegheny and turned south of highway 6, our minds were returned to the calm of the open road, and looking forward to our first rest day since NYC.

All totaled, our path from the city to the western edge of the Allegheny Mountains consumed eight days of riding and one day resting. On a map, the northern Pennsylvania section of Appalachia appears meager; I challenge those who agree to pedal through the region on a loaded bicycle. By day nine we reached Ohio, and the scenery quickly rolled out into Midwest agricultural land, which we welcomed happily. Having adjusted to hilly riding, the easy miles over flat Ohio countryside put us far ahead of our intended schedule. In only two and a half days, we had reached the Indiana border; in five we covered the ground we intended to cover in six.

Looking forward, we face the fertile plains of the Midwest, before reaching the open rangeland west of the Mississippi. We've begun to plan our path home and the timeline to complete it. We hope the weather will adhere to our plans and allow us to see a more northern part of the west. As for the next few days, we plan on seeing a lot more corn and a lot more beans.