50 Mile Radius Adventures

Bike Touring is not for everyone. The idea that you would spend the next couple days or even months sitting on the same tiny, slightly padded (or even huge and plush for that matter) bike seat, spinning your legs, burning up whatever food you can carry and then some, staying on the verge of dehydrated with every drop of water you can carry (1kg for every liter, or 8.3 pounds for every gallon), sleeping on the ground in a small tent that is getting hotter by the minute from the heat generated by your overworked leg muscles, watching the hills disappear under your tires at a painstakingly slow pace, sometimes wondering how you can ride so slow without tipping over, wondering with every passing (rented) motor-home if this will be the one driver watching the beautiful scenery or yelling at shitty kids instead of the bike in the road with little to no shoulder that ends it all, tensing up with every loudly approaching motorcycle, knowing that the thunder in your chest as they pass will at least hopefully come with a split second of blaring music to get stuck in your head for the next half a dozen or so painful miles of hill climb, is considered utterly reprehensible - to - downright silly to most normal people. And that includes most of the bike-cyclists I know out there.

Not me - I absolutely LOVE this shit!

It is not without its nuances that's for sure, both positive AND negative! Which why I dig it so much! I pay a little price that in the grand scheme, when its all said and done, and Im sitting down to share it with you, is hardly worth the very deep personal growth and humility I experience at its threshold.

What did I leave out? The troublesome stove that means your unable to re-hydrate your lightweight calorie rich backpacker food? Or the impossibly putrid farts generated when you are able to heat and eat your lightweight calorie rich backpacker food, momentarily causing you to think, upon waking at first light, still groggy and stiff, that you mistakenly pitched your tent in the sewers of Calcutta and not some pristine roadside turn-off just over the boundary line of national forest land? Ignoring all the bear training you had in Alaska to turn around and try to take a picture of two bear cubs, causing them to spook, and their Mama Bear to charge you through the blackberry bramble, the pins and needles - hair standing up - taste of aluminum in your mouth subsiding as you pedal on. (yes this happened!)

There's also the OTHER stuff. The overwhelming feeling of freedom, that its just you and your sexxy legs that are gonna get you up over that next hill, be it a small rise in an otherwise glorious descent, or the 16 mile hill up and over Mount Mitchell. Its the whistle of wind in your ears almost drowning out the birdsong as the only sounds you can hear, sometimes for a moment, sometimes for long lonely stretches of little used back roads. Its the satisfying crunch of gravel under tires as you slowly pull off the road to take a break and just take in the views.

Its the views, my god the fucking views are sometimes jaw dropping, spine tingling, throat clenching, watery eyed, nostalgic for everything you have ever been in this life and the past lives, fucking GORGEOUS! The views that let you know life is both meaningful in its beauty and meaningless in the struggle. The views that remind you of your privileged status, and the millions who wont get to see it because of their own. The views that leave you ready to get back on that tiny saddle you been sitting on all damn day and see whats around the next turn, or over the next hill. There is the overwhelming feeling, the fists in the air, the snap of fingers and nod to self as you start down the backside of a big climb, the climb you kept wishing for another lower gear, the climb you swore at moments earlier, the climb you thought would never end, the climb you discussed with yourself out loud to see how it compared to all the other memorable climbs you pedaled an overloaded touring bike over through the years of loving this stupid sport and waste of vacation days. The climb you will remember. The climb that defines the personal challenge, and the slow crest that defines your own very personal triumphs, another mountain just over your shoulder, that glance at your history that leaves a pridefully sly grin on your face, knowing you got this! Its the sound of absolute silence, that fleeting moment that exists between when the chirppy calls of birds stops and the metallic pulsating rhythm of the cicadas begins, when every crackle of twig reminds you are in the wild, and you feel overwhelming ready to crash out for the night in your much loved tent.

Its the roadside questions from passing tourists that remind you what you are doing is known about, but that most people don't know someone who does it. Its a chance to elaborate or downplay, depending on your mood, the story of "where you coming from?" "how far ya goin?" or "How much does that set-up weigh?" Its the questions that remind you that what you're doing is a rare feat, and it does in fact set you apart from others. Especially when other cyclists stop to ask, or admire, or pass you and respond to the question - "Wanna race?" Its the people who will slow down to almost a complete stop, just behind you in their big scary van, on a straight-away with plenty of room to pass and no oncoming traffic, and you think to yourself they are gonna yell something, or worse throw something, as you brace yourself for conflict or worse, impact but instead a sweet young lady rolls down a window to gently hand you a cold water bottle and an encouraging smile. Its the guy on a motorcycle who stops to wait for his friends where you have pulled off a grueling climb to eat, of all things, some salty crackers and a tin of mackerel fillets in olive oil (you would not believe how good that tastes when you need it!) and offers to refill your water and hands you a kids fruit snack pouch full of pasty sugary goodness.

My three day ride to Asheville was all of these things and so much more. Its been a hott minute since I did anything overnight by bike, and a long while since I challenged myself with that amount of climbing, having Grandfather, and Mount Mitchell on back to back 40 mile rides. It was an awesome trip, with amazingly rare perfect high country weather, and relatively little traffic. I spent the last day on an easy sub-20 mile coast into Asheville, popping out right downtown and ready for my morning cappuccino (or two) and cornetto. The plan was to link up with Lauren Couee, the new sales and marketing manager with AMB who was in Asheville for a can promo in store and visiting accounts, the first of which was the always bacon-y delicious SunnyPoint cafe. After which I felt it was time, and I had just enough of that post-challenge-met accomplishment ego to brave a visit to my past and stop into New Belgium AVL and actually go hunting for a few faces from the past who have moved to NC from Colorado to help open the new brewery. I was met with some amazement, some hugs, a lot of smiles, and the true nature of some good people from the past. A gallery and another coffee and we were off to find some food and of course beers! Lauren and I shut down Burial Beer with a few unexpected faces from Boone (the THIRD set of "Boonies" I had run into in a short day!) once again reaffirming the notion that this is starting to actually feel like HOME to me.

Get on yer bikes this weekend, even just for a cruise around your own home!

Scotito Du Nord (Carolina this time)