Changing Paths While Staying on Course

Plans. I consider myself a planner. Full on. I like to put everything in my Google calendar to the minute. When I launched my Year on Other Things, I bought butcher paper to make big visual lists of all the things I need to do; I have to give credit to my sister-in-law, Meredith Hicks, for inspiring me to bring butcher paper into my personal life. Before deciding to quit my job, I made a Google doc titled, "quitting my job," with a complete run-down of how I would get health insurance, what professional projects I could stay involved in and what personal projects I could expand to. The list is two pages long and during the last two months since quitting my job, I have referenced it maybe once.

But, that is just it. The plan is not the action. There is a reason that it is so impossible to follow a plan precisely. When you plan, you are setting out the intention of what you would like to do. If while you are doing, you are constantly looking at the plan, you are probably not following it and you are probably not achieving its goals. For example, when I would plan for a session with my students, if I followed it step by step, the goal of fully engaging student voice would be lost as I would not be looking around me and responding to the needs of the students in that moment.

I used to think the points of plans were to map out your exact course, now I am beginning to see that they are something else. They are the thing that give you the confidence to take the first step. The second and third steps may not be in line with the plan, but it is hard to start walking if you do not have confidence you can get where you intend to go.

The bike trip got me thinking about this because, as it turns out, we did not sleep where we intended to any night of the trip.

This was the final route we took: Madison to Madison
295 miles (less 10 miles that Rose drove us during our mechanical mishap)
Day 1-Madison to Barneveld
Day 2- Barneveld to Soldiers Grove
Day 3- Soldiers Grove to La Crosse
Day 4- La Crosse to Reedsburg
Day 5- Reedsburg to Madison

This was the route we planned to take: Madison to Madison

285 miles (less 0 miles as we did not plan to have any mechanical issues)
Day 1-Madison to Spring Green
Day 2- Spring Green to Ferryville
Day 3- Ferryville to Sparta
Day 4- Sparta to Baraboo
Day 5- Baraboo to Madison

The only thing consistent about our two plans are the start and end point, Madison to Madison. Despite changing paths as we went, our goals were certainly met. We visited Taliesin in Spring Green. We rode all day in beautiful weather as the leaves turned around us. I left the LSAT behind. My dad left work behind (for most of the day). We reflected on next steps and past accomplishments. We listened to Radiolab and This American Life episodes to occupy our minds when the hills got too tough.

Thus, we may have changed paths, but we never got off course. This realization that many paths can lead to the same destination is nothing new. People have discussed it for centuries. Still, it struck me as I pedaled through Wisconsin. I knew that my dad and I could not have set forth on this trip without knowing it was possible to bike from Madison back to Madison in 5 days. That is what the plan did for us. It told us it was possible. But the plan was not the trip. Our intentions, our goals, our worn out bodies, and the too-busy roads that forced us to reevaluate are what ultimately guided the way.

As I set forth on this nontraditional year, I have felt the discomfort people (including myself) have when I cannot exactly say how it will all fall in place. I do not have dates for my travels. I do not have much nailed down concretely. But I do know what I want and why I am where I am. I have a course with many paths and the confidence I can reach my destination. Biking around Wisconsin taught me that is all I need.

And...I always have my Google doc.

Bicycle Capital of the World

Day 4 is always an exhausting day (written on 10/6/11).

10/15/11
That is all I was able to write on the 6th prior to passing out. I hate to leave a post unpublished. Thus, I will revisit this day if for nothing else but to recount the one and only severe mechanical hiccup we had.

We had just stopped in West Salem, WI for breakfast. The "Immediate Seating" sign indicated we would get in and out, but the only thing immediate about the restaurant was the seating.

This could perhaps be due to the very important meeting happening right next to us. The only thing I could name it would be the Southwestern Wisconsin Retirement club. Sally was home sick that day with strept. Al came late and ordered an egg sandwich. Joan was clearly the ringmaster. We learned they had a healthy budget and they would be funding members to go to an exciting conference in Wausau, WI. The meeting started and finished with perfect adherence to Robert's Rules of Order before we got our two omelets and Belgian waffle to split. We were biking.

As we biked away on the LaCrosse River trail, I pondered Robert's Rules of Order. Robert was one powerful guy. How many small town retirement organizations and big corporate boards are successfully meeting in an orderly fashion due to his rules? We do not thank him nearly enough. Though, I was pleading with my dad that we ought to be able to incorporate icebreakers into his rules. They are a bit dry as is.

And on we biked... thump... thump

"Hey Jess, why don't you get off and see what is stuck in my wheel," said my dad more as a statement than a question.

I obediently followed his direction only to find the thing to be the wheel itself. It appeared that our front tire had grown a tumor between West Salem and the two miles we had managed to bike. My dad immediately got on the phone to our on-call bike mechanic in Cincinnati. As he was explaining the problem, a leaking, whistling surrounded us. Before we could really make sense of it...

BAM!

The tire exploded, leaving a sad flap and a useless tire. Our Cincinnati adviser could not save us from this one. But Rose could.

Rose and her husband own Speedy's bike shop in Sparta, WI. My dad called them after our explosion and 30 minutes later Rose and her pickup truck met us at the picnic shelter in West Salem. Rose was tight-lipped, but plenty accomodating. My dad interviewed her about her childhood on a dairy farm, her three sons, the bike shop business and Sparta as we drove. Perhaps the most interesting nugget learned is that Sparta, WI is known to the locals as the Bicycle Capital of the World.

As we biked into Madison the next day through their extensive trail network, it was hard not to chuckle. Sparta did not have a single bike lane. They had one bike shop. Most people in town were not avid cyclists or commuters. They were deemed such a title due to their central location between the 100 miles of four connected bike trails going from Reedsburg, WI to Trumpelo, WI. These trails include the famous tunnels of the Sparta-Elroy trail pictured below.

I do not discount the beauty of those trails nor do I discount Sparta's central location. I just might scale back their claim to perhaps the Bicycle Capital of Southwest Wisconsin.

Guest Post: A Word From Dad

Her crumpled dollars emerged from a Junior Mints box. Jessica's friend was a tiny grey haired lady who sadly explained that the downtown stores in Viroqua had almost all closed. She savored the little dollop of whipped cream on her pancake as she talked. Another character to add to our list. The day started in Soldier's Grove and we climbed steep hills on a beautiful county road on our way to Viroqua. We reached the Mississippi in late morning and made our way along the river to meet my cousin Mike Holler for lunch at his favorite restaurant in LaCrosse. He seems like a great model of energized retirement. The sun performed for us from our box seats in a park on the riverbank near yet another war memorial. Wisconsin has done a great job of building monuments to commemorate those who have died in wars (one monument even listed a soldier who died in the War of 1812). On to the Sparta -Elroy Trail tomorrow. More diners. More characters. More adventure with my daughter!

Click here to see our progress so far (points D-G were today).

Truth Against the World

The family motto of the Lloyd Jones family (Frank Lloyd Wright's mother's family) was "truth against the world." Our tour guide cited the reason for this motto to be that their family was progressive for their time and thus needed to fortify their principles with the concept that their ideas were truthful and worthwhile despite the lack of agreement among their contemporaries. While, this may be true, the motto seems a bit arrogant. Though, it was clearly fuel for the Frank Lloyd Wright fire and a foundation from which he was able to create over one thousand buildings.

For hours after visiting Taliesin, my dad and I debated the merits of having a family motto, what exactly a motto serves to do and then what the Gingold-Gerhardstein motto might be. We arrived upon themes of service, commitment, boldness, impatience, but have yet to coalesce them into a tidy motto. Motto creation is a healthy exercise I would recommend to families far and wide. Though, you may arrive at the decision to hire a consultant to figure it all out.

Other things learned today include:

• When Frank Lloyd Wright was 17 he changed his name from Frank Lincoln Wright to Frank Lloyd Wright to honor his mother, whom he sided with in his parents' divorce at the time.
• Frank Lloyd Wright had three wives. The third of which, Olga, was a devout follower of the Greek mystic, George Gurdjieff. Her devotion led her to believe many ideas, one of which was that 99% of people are sleepwalking. I plan to research him more for guidance during my year on other things.
• Taliesin, Frank Lloyd Wright's home for 47 years, was built just below the top of a hillside, hence the meaning of the word taliesin which means "brow." He did this on purpose as he felt if you build on top of the hill, you lose the hill. All of his buildings attempted to respond to the nature around him. He was using the word organic far before the hipster-hippie movement of today.
• In any tour group, there is always one finnicky person who grates at your happiness. Such an event proved true today when one lady mocked the Taliesin literature demarcating their 100 year celebration after we completed our tour. We are all happy and inspired, settling into the shuttle that will take us back to our bike when the lady assumes a high-pitched tone harkening back to the teasing of junior high and says, "100 years for Taliesin, isn't that nice, oo la la..." I guess she did not like the tour.

In addition to time with Frank, we enjoyed the enchanting countryside of southwestern, WI. We changed up our route several times throughout the day, each time finding ourselves pleasantly surprised with the sheer beauty of it all. I was slightly convinced that Wisconsin planned it all out for us in preparation for our arrival. The blue sky, the rolling hillsides of autumn hues, the windy roads with barely a car in sight. This was a perfect day. All 73 miles of it from Barneveld to Soldier's Grove.

Day 1: Madison to Barneveld

"How was the ride?" asked the guy at the bar who had clearly been there for more hours than we had been riding and had not seen us on our bike.

"How did you know?" I asked.

"You have the look. That refreshed look." He responded.

Maybe he is right, though I have to admit that after only 35 miles today, I embarrassingly feel far from refreshed. Granted, I began the day with sore muscles. It could have been the return to ice skating I embarked on Wednesday night or the pickup kickball game I threw together to celebrate the completion of the LSAT or the insane number of hours I have spent sitting and studying. Regardless, I was sore. And 35 miles later I am still sore.

But, the soreness is not the overarching feeling inside of me. Neither is the pool of fat from the meal at the only restaurant to be found in Barneveld, WI (Half a fried chicken, iceberg lettuce with cheddar cheese, steak fries, and a cheese curd appetizer). No, the feeling that is triumphant is gratitude.

This is my fourth multi-day ride. The third one on the back of my dad's tandem bicycle. I know that most people consider this type of adventure to be insane and hardly a vacation. While I (more specifically, my body) can understand that perspective, this is my bliss. On every trip, I understand my dad more, I gain clearer perspective on my life and my goals, I eat a whole lot of crap, I drink good beer, I experience parts of this country that most urban dwellers never set eyes on, I meet an old person who enjoys life to the fullest, and I am inspired.

The plan for tomorrow is to ride 80 miles and go see Taliesin on our way to the Mississippi River. Hopefully, I will retain that refreshed look as we explore what Wisconsin has to offer.

Click here to see the progress so far.

My bed

No matter how decadent the Best Western, how ornate the Bed and Breakfast, how grand the continental breakfast of Comfort Suites... there is nothing that matches the warmth and security of my own bed.

So here I lie. 320 miles of bike riding from my parents stoop to my bed. I am a lucky woman. I cannot recount the number of times men we have met have shook their heads hearing about what my dad and I do, "ooee, I wish my son/daughter would do something like that with me." But, I am the lucky one. There is no one else I would rather bike 320 miles with. I honestly do not know if I could bicycle tour without my dad. I feel like such a child even writing that. But, bike touring is dangerous. Trucks come close. Potholes appear out of nowhere. Tires are flattened. I am reassured by the fact that my dad is there. I shared this sentiment with my dad, who of course assured me I would be totally fine on my own. I'm still not so sure of it, but if my dad says so...

Today was the final day on the road. It was a hard day. We only went about 55 miles, but we drove on very busy roads with very small berms. There was some point while biking through Gary that I was really considering stopping. I was just going to get off the bike and obstinately insist that we go no further like I was still a 10-year-old girl refusing to leave the barbie section. But, I am actually a 24-year-old woman so I biked on.

When we hit the south side of Chicago, we felt an ease overcome us. The south side is often painted as a sort of war zone. But, compared to the war zone of Hwy 12, the Chicago south side was a Shangri-la. As we biked up Ewing Ave., one woman looked at us in our matching outfits, and said to her friend, "oh, that's cute." Biking past a small catholic school, a young boy shouted out, "cool bike!" The city beckoned us into it. We stopped on Promontory Point and took in the view. We stopped at my office for a warm hello. We were heading on to our last stop before home, the bar.

1.5 miles from the bar, what do we hear? BUMP, BOOM, WHOOOOOSH. Flat tire. That is right. The first flat of our trip, 1.5 mile from beer. In 15 minutes, it is fixed and we are on our way. Beer has never tasted so good.

Thank you dad. Thank you tandem bicycles. Thank you trucks in Gary for not killing me. Thank you body for not giving up. Thank you Indiana for giving me bike paths at the moments that I most needed the respite. Thank you bed for being hear at the end of this journey. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Happy Bikers at The Map Room (photo: Chris Brunn)

Oh yes, this day...

After three full days of biking, that fourth morning is tough. As I eased onto the seat to start the ride, my butt literally rejected it. It bounced up and floated in the air above the seat for a few seconds looking below at the taunting triangular black sliver that clearly had no give and no concern for my pain. I tried to settle in again. This time, the reaction was a bit less harsh, but I still wasn't ready to be fully planted. I started to empathize with my mom's claim that if she had a sofa on the back, she'd gladly bike, but the seat as it is just won't work for the way we are built. After a few minutes of riding and readjusting, my butt and the seat had finally found their groove. But on day 4, that routine happens every time you dismount and remount. Your legs also start to rebel. And the exhaustion catches up; there was a moment today where I actually thought I might be able to sleep and bike at the same time. I made sure not to relate this feeling to my dad, but I spent a solid few minutes contemplating how it could work.

On this day, you also start to forget things. At a stop where we were reassessing our location I dropped our headphone splitter. This is a prized possession. It is the device that allows us to simultaneously listen to the same book or music. This is crucial during the long afternoons full of headwind that we tend to encounter. I remember looking down and noting it was dropped. About 10 minutes later we decided to listen to our book. We looked in the bag and of course, no headphone splitter... Turns out I only psychologically picked it up. On this day, you most certainly do not turn back. What is passed, is passed. This also applied to a moment later in the day when we were searching for our motel. Just a mile down the road we realized that we had passed it. Did we turn back? Of course not. We biked an extra 10 miles to another hotel. You just cannot go back. Miles gained are miles gained. (In full disclosure, we also probably didn't turn back because the place was called "Al & Sally's Motel", and we have been on high alert for bed bugs)

That being said, this day is the best. It is the day when you really realize you are pushing the limits of your body. It is the day you most face yourself and prove to yourself you can do it. I think our society does a lot to divorce people from their bodies and nature. This is evidenced in the place we are currently plopped. We are at the Best Western in Chesterton, IN. The hotel is by the freeway because there is no place to stay in the heart of town. To get to the K-Mart (where we went to try and find a new splitter...no luck), you have to cross the highway. There is a stop light. There is no crosswalk. This was probably the most dangerous moment of our day. No one walks to K-Mart.

I have to admit that if I had a car here, I probably would have driven--I'm that tired. But, that is what I mean; this experience forces you to be with your body. I feel so fortunate to be exhausted to my bone. I am full of mediocre Italian food, delicious Dairy Queen Blizzard (now available in mini-size!) and a caramel that my dad said "accidentally dropped" into our Walgreen's bag. I have biked another 70 miles. I have touched lake Michigan and looked out at a silhouette of Chicago. From this angle, Chicago looks more like an island of jagged rock formations than a major metropolitan city. It is nice to see it dwarfed by nature.

Tomorrow we bike into Chicago. We will indulge in good beer and good food. We will have reached our destination. But, as I answer my many work e-mails and commute to the office in the coming week, I will not forget this day.

Discovering Indiana

From I-65, Indiana looks rather dull. I have seen Indiana from this perspective almost exclusively. I know the exit with the Wendy's and Starbucks well. I always enjoy passing the wind farm. I regularly mess up when going through Indianapolis, and welcome the scenic rolling hills that usher me into Cincinnati. However, this trip has taught me that Indiana has much more to offer than what can be seen from one of its main thoroughfares.

We began our day in Marion, and soon found ourselves on the Sweetser Switch Trail, a modest 3 mile trail, but full of civic pride. Little placards decorated the tree lined trail. It was clear the community valued this path, and we felt it as it energized us for what would turn into the most beautiful day of biking yet.

From the first little trail, we found ourselves traversing county roads that hadn't seen cars in days. The soy bean fields, tomato groves, fluttering wheat smiled as we passed. The wind had not yet picked up full force. My dad hypothesized that when it is cooler out the wind is less harsh. I was not convinced, but then he brought up some argument about the different temperatures between the air and the ground. Knowing neither of us had any facts on the matter, I let his reasoning stand, and felt blessed to not be battling the wind. Instead, we settled into more of a flirtatious dance with it. Right as the wind picked up, we hopped onto the Nickel Plate Trail.

The first person we met on the path was a man in an electronic wheelchair with two American flags waving from each arm, and a veteran ball cap. As we approached we saw him joyfully popping wheelies. We did the obligatory nod and smile. As we rode away, he jokingly said, "don't break the speed limit." Those little moments are just the fuel I need to keep going. We got a bit too immersed in this beautiful trail, ending up beyond the google maps directions. That is where I have to give my shout out to GPS smart phones. Yes, that's right. I love it.

The phone helped us chart a new route into Logansport that took us along the bank of the Wabash River. This might have been my favorite part of today. The river on one side. A windy road that actually had a few hills. Horses and cows decorating the other side. Lush forests. It was truly divine. The strip malls of Logansport and the semi-trucks carrying supplies for them were a harsh awakening after such a delightful interlude. I was ready to just get lunch and go. My dad's bike cleat had other plans...

We rolled up to the diner. I dismount, my dad has his left foot out, but his right foot is literally stuck to the pedal. He had to untie his shoe and pull his foot out leaving a rather ridiculous scene. It seems one of the bolts had come out of his cleat, and the clip out function of his cleat was shot. But, not to fear, Jim rolled up on his motorcycle ready to save the day. I have a theory that there is a special bond between touring bicyclists and motorcyclists. Our experience with Jim definitely added data. It seems we had our malfunction directly in front of a "bike shop." I put that in quotations because this bike shop was really more of a guy's tinkering garage. But this guy, Mark, was one hell of a guy. Mark and Jim made it their personal mission to fix our problems free of charge. They accomplished their mission and when we offered money, Jim refused telling us to just pay it forward.

So we biked on. We found ourselves on a busy road we did not like, and went to find an alternative route when we accidentally happened upon the final bike path of the day, The Panhandle Pathway. This took us all the way to our final destination, Winamac, IN.

In Winamac, we went to the local pizza joint, strapped a pizza to the back of the tandem. We then rolled across the street to the grocery store and picked up a bottle of wine we stuffed into one of our paniers. And we rode 3 miles to the Tortuga Inn. The Tortuga Inn is owned by two artists who are clearly artists first, and then B & B owners. Everything is a little rough around the edges, but there is character here. It sits on the Tippecanoe River, and we could sit outside to enjoy our celebratory feast.

I will never again judge Indiana by the views from I-65.

Back in the saddle

On Thursday night I was in Boston reuniting with my good friend Ari. On Saturday night we were in New York City where we giggled/cried/therapized late into the night. Sunday night I was in Cincinnati "ooing" and "ahing" at what is quite possibly the best fireworks show in the world (an unbiased opinion of course). Three cities, spending time with loved ones does not necessarily add up to sleep. Having agreed to a five day bike trip from Cincinnati to Chicago starting Monday, I was looking for a way to delay.

On Sunday evening, I sheepishly mumbled to my brother Ben (who would be joining us for just day 1), "maybe you and I could just hang out in Cincy on Monday, and Dad and I can leave for our ride Tuesday..."

"Aha, dad said he was worried that you might say you would be too tired. We aren't going to have it. We leave tomorrow," Ben replied.

I had made my bed. I had to lie in it. Or ride in it.

So, Monday morning came, and at 6:45am, I was rubbing my eyes, pulling up my spandex and getting ready to ride. We drank coffee, lots of it. We ate eggs, fresh from Kathy's farm. We packed up the bikes and we left our home. No loading bikes into cars or planes. This trip is a door to door ride. My parents' home to mine.

We set off. Dad and daughter reunited on the tandem bicycle that had previously carried us from Mobile, AL to Cincinnati, OH. Big brother riding solo. Never mind that tickle in my throat. Richmond, Indiana was calling for us. The ride was beautiful and serene. Apparently, not many people leave their homes on Labor day, making the roads clear. The weather was ideal. We barely broke a sweat. We rolled into Richmond around 2pm with 62 miles accomplished. A short day for us, but it was day 1.

After eating a gluttonous Italian linner (where the lunch portions could feed two), Ben left us and I died. The four days of flux had truly caught up with me. Stuffed up, feverish, lethargic, I laid down in my bed and breakfast bed (dad was scared of bed bugs, so we splurged) and slept from 4:30-7:30. I awoke and filled myself with drugs, we perused the maps for a good hour, and I was back asleep.

This morning I had the expected crusty nose and itchy eyes, but the worst had certainly passed. And so we rolled on... 80 miles to Marion, IN. Today was truly a treat. We spent the majority of the day on the Cardinal Greenways, soon to be the longest bike path in Indiana. Parts of the path we were treading were freshly paved, making it seem as if we were the inaugural riders. The path is beautiful. The tree-lining protected us from the terrible winds we encountered briefly as we rode between Gaston and Jonesboro. We expect a duel with the winds tomorrow. We found our rhythm on the bike, we began listening to the ever-so-popular Girl with the Dragon Tatoo, and we talked to strangers (or at least my dad did).

Now, we are settled into the Comfort Suites. We considered the Economy Motel across the street, but when I called the Comfort Suites man, he warned me that the Economy Motel was "basically a crack house." Obviously the source is tainted since he was talking about his competition, but my dad and I decided not to risk it. We made a night of Marion's offerings taking in the local steakhouse and the 5 dollar movies. I am thankful for this bed and my dad's heavy breathing in the bed next to me, but I am also thankful to be moving on across the state. There is something to biking through less than compelling towns--it keeps you moving.

On we go. Man, it feels good to be back in the saddle.