On The Road…again

Version 2

At the starting line: Seaside Reef in Cardiff, California

I first drove across the United States during the summer of 1982. My mother and I loaded up our family’s 1970s-era American station wagon — you know the kind: huge V-8 engine, body big enough to land planes on, trunk/jump seats in the back..the kind of station wagon the Griswolds drove to WallyWorld — and headed west to my brother’s wedding in Utah. I was 16 years old and my mother had insisted I get my driver’s license as soon as I was eligible so I could help with the driving.

Once we got past Philadelphia, I drove every mile of the trip. And it created a character trait/flaw that persists to this day.

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The part of SoCal they don’t show in the tourist brochures

Over the recent Memorial Day weekend I packed my Subaru Outback — a slightly smaller wagon than before — and drove from San Diego to northern Massachusetts. It’s about as long a drive as you can make and still be in the United States, and it was the latest of I-don’t-know-how-many mega drives I’ve done to this point in my life. By “mega drive” I mean something covering at least a couple of thousand miles; something requiring multiple days of all-day driving, so this includes my drives between Alaska and the Lower 48. I’ve done mega drives in that beast of a wagon and a rented Ford Escort wagon, a pair of Subarus, a ’73 Volkswagen convertible and a ’78 Volkswagen camper van, a Ford Ranger and a beast of an F-250 pickup. I’ve done the drives in high summer amid thunderstorms and blazing heat, and I’ve done the drives in a Wyoming white-out blizzard where the snow was door-deep. I’ve covered (from north to south) I-90, 80, 70, 40, 10 and 8, and I’ve covered (from west to east) I-5, 15, 25, 35, and 95. And en route to and from Alaska, I’ve covered the northwestern U.S. and western Canada from the Calgary-Edmonton corridor west to the coast. I’ve done the drives leisurely (that first drive with Mom we stopped each day after six to 10 hours of driving and got a hotel or stayed with friends of hers) and I’ve done the drives with full-on white-line fever (the legal kind: none of that pixie dust for me ever): from Idaho to Anchorage in three days; 19 hours from the East Coast to Des Moines, a six-hour sleep in a rest area, and 17 more hours to Park City.

And so on. My point is: I’ve covered a lot of miles in this country in a wide range of fashions. And every time I’ve done a mega drive I’ve sworn: never again.  But despite the wearying fatigue that results from such trips, I keep packin’ up and headin’ out. Why?

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Who knew Arizona could be so green? This isn’t even the good part.

Because just as that trip in 1982 was an eye-opening journey, the drive a couple of weeks ago reminded me of what a great way to see this amazing land a cross-country drive can be. Because even if you’re going 100 bleary-eyed miles an hour, you can get a sense for this continent that you’ll never get from 33,000 feet up.

You’ll see that there’s a lot more non-urban area than you think. For instance: westerners have an image of the northeast as one paved-over cityscape, but the reality is that just 25 miles or so outside of New York City, you’re in the woods. Hell, parts of Pennsylvania and New York and Connecticut are practically jungles. There’s a lot more land out there than people think. No, it’s not wilderness in the Bob Marshall sense of the word, but it’s still pretty green and full of non-human life. And a drive at this time of year was particularly green, with trees in bud, wildflowers lining the highways, and crops and fields emerging into summer sunshine from beneath winter storms and spring runs.

You’ll also find some interesting surprises every single time you drive across the country. On this drive, I learned that Arizona is not all one big desert; the mountains of central Arizona are high and green and forested and wild. Who knew? I learned that Oklahoma is way greener and wooded than I expected; it’s not a grapes-of-wrath dust bowl (at least not in May 2016, it’s not).

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Along the way, you just might find out what your true calling is…

On the other hand, you’ll see that malls are taking over this country and they all look the same, with the same architecture and having the exact same stores. From Orange County to Oklahoma to New England, we are becoming so homogenized in terms of our experiences that all the chest-thumping regionalism is self-delusional. Nowadays, we all go to the same stores and eat in the same restaurants and hear the same music and see the same signs. Yes, food stuffs will differ slightly, but only if you get out of the TGI Fridays and Chilis (never mind the fast-food chains and Starbucks).

And everywhere along the way you’ll see that our infrastructure is in grotesque shape. Yes, grotesque. The interstate highways are an embarrassment and dangerous, and despite the complaining everyone will do when held up by a construction zone, there aren’t enough projects underway to get our roads and bridges and such back into safe, efficient shape. Political sidebar: If we took those billions we’re spending on the new fighter plane that gets outperformed by existing aircraft, or on a new nuclear submarine in an era of non-state threats, and directed that money toward our infrastructure, we’d not only get our transport systems back up to snuff but we’d also put thousands of Americans to work. I call that a win-win and well worth tacking on an extra half an hour to the drive.

You’ll realize that Americans are shitty drivers. In this culture where driving is treated like a right instead of a privilege, rude and downright unsafe driving habits are the norm. Drivers speeding up when they start to get passed, slow drivers living in the left lane, people making turns across several lines or not merging (or allowing a merge) when lanes constrict — and don’t even get me started on the dearth of turn-signal usage — you see the same shitty driving everywhere. I used to think that there were more shitty drivers in California than elsewhere, but I now realize that the percentages are about the same everywhere. It’s just that in California, where there are simply so many people and such a car culture, the raw numbers are so much higher. But percentage-wise, California is no worse than anywhere else in the U.S. (and after a couple of weeks being back in New England, I’m actually coming around to the mindset that the percentages are higher here). I, for one, can’t wait for the driverless automobiles. Our traffic will disappear when the machines are doing the driving for us.

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Made it. And in time for game one of the Stanley Cup finals, too.

My recent drive was actually pretty straightforward: three days (of 13, 14 and 12 hours, respectively) from central Arizona to home at Plum Island. The traffic was light until I hit northeast Pennsylvania and southwestern Connecticut, and the weather was fine the entire way. My Subaru ran like a top and I didn’t wind up with a back that felt like I’d been through medieval torture. And I wound up back home for at least the time being for less money than a one-way plane ticket — AND I don’t have to rent a car while I’m here.

Oh, and for you Californians reading this: the rumors are true. Gas IS affordable in America. Once you get east of the border, into Nevada or Arizona, gas prices drop a full half-dollar or more.

So it was a relatively easy drive this time but I once again declared, “Never again” when I pulled into the driveway at home. That is, until I get that wanderin’ jones again and head out on the highway. I’d say…July, at least.

Getting in Shape is Easy!

Luke H. Smith 2008 Fireweed 200 in Alaska

It doesn’t look like it but I was actually in shape in this photo taken during the 2008 Fireweed 200 in Alaska. I made it, finishing in 11 hours, 35 minutes. That was then, this is now…

It’s been a half-assed effort, but I am slowly getting my whole ass — and the rest of my bloated form — back into shape. The good news is that the workouts are easy. It’s getting to the workouts that’s hard.

Take today for instance…

I rode my bicycle off Plum Island and into Newburyport for the Tuesday evening group ride. I got there about 10 minutes ahead of the ride’s scheduled departure and grabbed a spot on the little wall outside the bike shop that hosts the ride. I removed my helmet, pulled off my gloves and reached into the pocket on the back of my shirt for my iPhone.

Only it wasn’t there. It was gone, along with my driver’s license (ID in case I get smooshed by a truck) and a $20 bill (for emergency rations). @#$#! The only thing I could think of was that it had jumped out of the pocket when I hit a bump. And since I didn’t want to lose a second phone in a matter of a couple of months, let alone my driver’s license, I hopped on my bike and started back to the island, keeping my eyes peeled on the far side of the road for a small, black rectangle.

As I rode, it occurred to me that the likelihood of me not noticing the phone jumping out of my pocket was pretty slim, and that’s when the hopeful thought that I might have left the phone at home crawled into my head. And after a 10-minute ride, there was my phone: right on the stairs by the driveway where I’d left it. Whew!

But hey! It’s only 6:01 and that group ride NEVER starts on time, right? Let’s go for it…maybe you can cut them off at the town green, about a mile or so into the ride. You can make it, right?

So I hopped back onto the bike and made my third trip in 30 minutes over the causeway linking the island and the mainland, this time really pouring the coals on (for me), hoping to link up with the group. I made it to the town green, pulled out my still-there iPhone and checked the time. 6:11. Hmm, not likely but maybe…

After waiting a few minutes, it was clear I’d missed the group. So I took off on a shorter solo ride. And truth be told: I probably got a better workout than I’d have gotten with the group. For starters, there was no one for me to draft. I had to do all the work. And as those of you who know me are aware, I’m too hardheaded NOT to pedal full-tilt — especially with no bike computer to tell me my speed — rather than be smart and pace myself for the long haul. I just go till I fade, cruise for a bit, then go some more. For an enchanting finish, I had a nice seabreeze for a headwind on the return trip home, when I was already pretty tired (oh, and it was snow-covered and uphill both ways, too).

In any case, the half-assed effort continues. When I got home, I installed the bike computer I’d bought a few weeks ago when I last did the group ride so now I can pace myself, right? At least on those days I get to the workout, that is.

A Little Above Average, Not Quite Competitive

This post has been several weeks in the making. It started on a Wednesday in late June. I had decided to join the local bike shop‘s Wednesday night group ride. It was labeled a “competitive” ride and even though I’d only been on a bike twice in a couple of years (once in November and once in March), I thought I could at least hold on to the back of the group and tag along.

Wrong.

I got dropped about a third of the way into the ride. Up to that point, I’d felt good. I was having fun and enjoyed being in a group ride again. Not knowing the exact route, though, I eased up at one left turn to look for traffic. I made the turn and looked ahead to see the pace line now about 30 yards ahead of me and accelerating away. I never saw them again.

Oh well. It was humbling, sure, but given my absence from the saddle, it was also totally understandable. I finished the ride on my own, averaging about 20 miles an hour over the 22-mile circuit.

The following week, I showed up on Tuesday for what the shop called the “average guy ride.” This ride rode the same course, and a couple of shop riders led the group much of the way, keeping the pace down around 17 miles an hour or so. I hung at the back, not knowing what to expect or what course we’d take, and given the wonders of drafting, that meant I spent a lot of time coasting, especially on the first half of the ride. The pace picked up a bit over the third quarter and then there was a 30-plus-mile-an-hour break for a final few miles before a mellow spin back to the shop. I stayed with all the shaved-leg freaks and felt pretty comfortable. Apparently, I’d found my level.

I’ve ridden the average-guy ride each Tuesday since, being one of the leaders when the pace picks up and always being among the top couple of riders for the final sprint. Every time we’ve been cruising along the tree-lined back lanes of Rowley and Georgetown, I’ve thought of various angles with which to present my experiences here on TerraStomper. Most of them were of the “it’s been so long since I’ve done XYZ and now I’m back at it” variety, but I never gotten around to posting any of them (obviously). Until now.

So what changed? Well, this past Tuesday’s ride was a continuation of my experiences every Tuesday: the ride is super mellow for the first eight miles or so, and then it ramps up a little bit for the middle eight miles and then there’s the sprint and warm down. Frankly, I haven’t been getting pushed enough. Yes, it’s a fine workout and I’ve been having fun, but there wasn’t any limit-pushing going on. So yesterday I returned to the Wednesday competitive-group ride to see how I’d stack up.

In addition to seeing how I compared, it was interesting to see how the rides compared, too. Where I’m able to casually pedal along for much of the first few miles on Tuesday, on the Wednesday ride I was constantly spinning. And where the Tuesday group cruises at 16 to 18 miles per hour, the Wednesday group was running in the mid-20s, the pace picking up steadily and swiftly as the ride progressed.

I made it past the infamous left turn. And I stayed with the group for another couple of miles. But on the series of little, rolling hills in Georgetown, the peloton pulled away. And this time it was truly humbling: there was no left turn, no looking for traffic, on which to blame my drop. The group simply had more in the tank than I did. I just slowly dropped off the back and watched as they faded out of sight.

This time, however, I wasn’t alone, and the other cyclist and I teamed up for the ride from Georgetown through Byfield and back home. Truth be told: it wasn’t much different than my solo ride as I did all the pulling for the other guy on the flats and the uphills before the final, slightly downhill hammer section. He felt strong enough to lead that one out after I’d maintained what he called a good, steady pace (which he said was about 22 miles an hour; my bike computer blew up on this ride) and, to my mind, done all the hard work. Oh well.

We finished the circuit about five minutes faster than the Tuesday group but I got that tougher workout I was seeking. No gliding and very little drafting on this ride.

I’ll return to my average-guy ride next Tuesday. But don’t be surprised to see me out there again on Wednesday, too. This time I’ll be shooting to make it just another few miles in the peloton.