Our bikes are strange creatures — souped up commuters cum all-mountain destroyers.  Cross country bikes with down hill wheels and cheep hybrid tires; and the glaring and essential deviation, the mechanical coup d’état we ride Xtracycles.  Suffice it to say that while they (we) don’t fit into any of the existing ghettos of the cycling world, one thing is certain however.  Our heavy-duty-longwheelbase-mountain-touring creations are not designed for road riding.

   Road riding despite it’s pleasant monotony, is a world governed by lines and signs, and (worse) is irrevocably entrenched in the world of automobiles.  Even on the quietest of country roads, the cyclist can’t escape the ominous omniscience of the four-wheeled polluting machines.  Neither our bikes (with their low gears and wide tires) or our psyches jive well with road riding — and as a rule we make every effort to avoid it.  Plotting our course to follow the rough and remote.  Even so, we have been confined of late, to the domain of giant and inexpertly piloted vacation craft, tainting the indescribably beautiful surroundings with fear and road rage.

   In the vicinity of Jasper we discovered a system of trails paralleling the highway, and jumped at the chance to indulge our hybrid steeds and delve into the off-road
universe.

   Eagerly, we turned off the smooth pavement and headed for a series of “advanced” hiking trails.  And plunged immediately into serpentine singletrack bliss, The surface was moderate and the incline gradual, and not a cursed machine to be seen or heard.  We cruised up-stream, remembering (or learning — myself being the only experienced Xtracycle-mtnbiker) how to turn quickly, shift out and balance.  But, just as we were beginning to feel cocky and in control, the grades got steeper the turns tighter and a whole lot rockier. For the first time on the trip perhaps we were really using our lowest gears, and wishing for more rubber, to guide our wheels through the minefield of upended cobble stones and aspiring boulders.  The arduous ups were redeemed for a while by tight circuitous downs, but we were soon aching from the unfamiliar exertions, working harder in 10 minutes that in a good day’s road ride.  All two soon we were off the map, and confronted with a forking trail.  Optimistic and not ready to abandon the joys of trail riding, we chose the path less traveled, and headed up.

   Up, being the operative term: the trail continued it’s profusion of loose cobble stones and junior boulders, but now was rather overgrown, adding moss and protruding tree roots to the milieu, all the while grinding relentlessly up hill.  The riding increasingly becoming a desperate test of endurance and balance/navigation as we inched uphill. Bucked repeatedly by the treacherous trail, we became intimately acquainted with every awkward nuance of bodily hauling our cumbersome steeds endlessly upwards.  Eventually the trail, more or less dead-ended into a rocky creek bed, forcing us to backtrack.

   As we blasted down the track we had so recently clawed our way up, l got an inkling (my first) of what downhill mountain biking was all about: Flying over/down steep and rough terrain, aided by the wonders of suspension, is incredibly exhilarating.

   All two soon however were back at the fork and speed was a thing of the past, we forded a stream and hauled our bikes up the embankment, where the trail flattened out but if possible became more technical. We crept along plotting a serpentine course through the rock field, a good number now grown up into full-size boulders; around a beautiful lake and into a cliff. little did we know it was the first of several, all nearly vertical and ranging from 5 to 20 feet in height.

   Defying gravity we dragged/pushed our loaded and unwieldy bikes, sliding down again as often as we gained any ground, eventually the force of will would triumph and we would collapse panting at the top. These obstacles were randomly interspersed with lovely down hills and rolling flat-ish sections, which were taking decidedly less technical turn. Almost with out warning, the trail spit us out, and we were exhausted exhilarated and sharing the pavement once more with out favorite ten thousand pound death machines.

   We were in truth, a little shocked that our bikes had weathered such a savage beating with such equanimity — my left foot was bleeding and both knee and shin were nicely bruised. But there had been no flat tires, our brakes still seemed to function — so suffused with adrenalin and excitement we pressed on at record speed dreaming of Banff, and the start of the great divide trail.

   Confidence buoyed up perhaps, by our bout of trail-riding, we camped at the foot of Columbia glacier — the largest tourist attraction in the whole national park — across the street from the huge hotel/buss terminal, and right next to the road the souped up tour busses traversed on the way to drive tourists around on the glacier. Our luck or audacity won out and we were not awakened by either RCMP or wardens.

   Naturally our next move was to ride our bikes on the glacier. The approach was rather more difficult than we had expected, but with a little more hauling we got out bikes to the edge of the ice, where we had the pleasure of watching the tourists cram into the tiny coned-off area which had arbitrarily been declared safer than the rest.

   We shifted into low gear and headed out onto the steep rough glacial ice, we were making good headway towards the false horizon, when Jacob’s pedal exploded, in a shower of sheared and broken bearings, which no amount of skillful oakie-rigging could fix.  We eventually admitted defeat, and took the down hill run toward the tourist area — Jacob walking his wounded bike.

   Jacob was rescued from attempting a one-footed ascent of our highest pass to date, by another of his unconventional guardian angels, this time in the guise of the Mills, an awesome couple from Nevada City, who gave him the pedals off one of their bikes.

   Calamity averted we weren’t sure what to make of the sudden failure — was his bike rebelling against the rough treatment of the previous days?  The unanswerable question slipped to the back burner as we continued to cruise through the picture post card scenery on our way toward Banff and freedom from cars. Slipped to the back burner that is, until 30 miles from Banff riding on smooth pavement of a back road, Jacobs extracycle frame suddenly snapped.

   We limped into Banff in search of repair, Sean and l carrying Jacobs stuff while he gingerly rode a bike whose frame was lashed together with parachute cord. The message seemed clear — our bikes were made for dirt, but after 3000miles they needed a little TLC.

By Sean   

    Towns are growing in size, road traffic choking our precious air supply, and the presence of civilization in the way of threatening signposts, electric fenced RV parks, and the infinite types of tourist processing stations have been a strain on ‘roughing it’ campaign. As a consequence we’ve exhibited the utmost brazenness –or perhaps insolence- in our choosing of appropriate grounds to cook and pass out. As the inhibitions of a more popular world mount, the bike nomads have become more defiant to the safe and comfortable method of hiding at the threshold of where normal behavior would permit a member of society to venture. It is not always easy. Drawing near the great city of Grand Prairie one night, we were coasting swiftly over a four lane highway when suddenly, at the top of a hill our nocturnal eyes recoiled in horror at flood of city lights; it was like reaching the peak of Sepulveda pass at Sunset blvd and seeing the glowing expanse of Los Angeles. We were quite incapacitated upon being confronted with this unappealing iridescence, so we immediately dragged our bikes up a huge embankment off the highway shoulder and laid in thick grasses till the tide of traffic lulled our senses to sleep. Yet, the shift in our behavior was evident a few hundred miles before, upon our first visitation from the Royal Mounted police. Feeling famished from a long uninterrupted ride we searched for a place to set up a stove and settled upon a wide slab of foundational concrete, with our backs against a portable architectural command office. After ten minutes of dicing potatoes and frying the first cuts of meat, two patrol cars surrounded each side of the construction site. We were not, however, being confronted for trespassing, as one of the four hovering officers explained, “Someone had complained of noise resulting from glass shatteringâ€?. After blinding us with heavy light beams and being reassured of our imminent departure, they searched diligently the premises for the remains of a glass nuisance. All the time we looked around the neighborhood, feeling the disdain of the local residents as they leaned cautiously on doors slightly ajar, waiting for the police intimidation to restore the quiet ambiance.

    From Grand Prairie we would follow a small logging road to the small town of Grand Cache. The Road was paved and enduring the strain of heavy construction machinery; several road kill corpses littered the shoulder. The second day Jacob and I peddled furiously up and down hills trying to avoid the looming specter of storm clouds heading in our direction. When we stopped for lunch, rain caught up with us just before a drenched Goat resumed our company. He had not managed to outpace our gloomy pursuer and had been “stuck under his own personal rain cloudâ€?. Next morning the rain turned to sleet which stuck to the decaying autumn leaves rendering the outside of our tent into a frosty white wonderland. We reached Grand Cache just as a heavy snow descended upon the road. In a Chinese-American cuisine café, amidst cups of coffee and eyes fixed to a glowing all-knowing television screen, a quick weather forecast for the area confirmed our fears; a large red block encompassing the entire area of our current location to Banff predicted snow fall for the next three days. We bought food at the grocery store and headed off into the storm. Stopping for the night, snow was kicked away and the tent pitched upon a muddy flat. No one desired to deal with the labors of cooking and we tried our best to ignore the worsening conditions. The snow piled up on our pyramid tent in thick layers. Jacob managed to destabilize a stake from the ground while trying to knock the snow from the roof. The entire night I suffered the sensation of being buried alive as the tent walls sagged down and soaked sleeping bags with condensation; perhaps the tent would collapse and force us out into the miserable cold.

    Our tent held together and we biked once again through the downpour of wet snow and gusty winds. At one point I began losing feeling in my fingers, the thin fabric of my bike gloves achieving little in means of insulation. As I stood on the edged of the road, breathing into my numb hands, a man pulled over to check up on my condition. He offered to drive me back to Grand Cache, an offer I nearly accepted upon a quick analysis of the near-insanity attributed to this expedition. The driver, returning from a hunt in the mountains, allowed me to warm my hands on his radiator for a few minutes, and then gave me a battered pair of winter gloves. They were ancient, yet they looked as good as gold to my soar eyes. I thanked him profusely, and biked on in good humor till five minutes later when the mouthpiece of my camel back slipped off and a stream of cold water came gushing from the dangling tube. I attempted to contain the flow with my left hand, and my precious new glove quickly became saturated with my drinking water. The leak fixed, I reassured myself that at least I hadn’t yet had the misfortune of sliding off the road into a marsh or stream as was the case with a few cars and a semi-truck that I had passed earlier on.

    Thirty kilometers outside of Hinton we found a closed ‘official’ campsite which we proceed to make our home. There was a large supply of firewood kept dry beneath a tarp and after soaking a few logs in gas a roaring fire was produced and our spirits elevated with the fragrance smoke swirling among snow flakes. Jacob and I tried drying out all our wet clothes on the flames, with the effect that socks and shirts were still soaked in the morning only with a rank smell of smoke mingling with the usual scents of sweat and mildew. Jacob also managed to melt the rubber tips in his bike shoes, damage which caused much discomfort and cut circulation to his toes while riding.

    The storm began to let up while en route to Hinton. Not much can be ascertained as to the qualities of this town. Walking aimlessly through a Safeway grocery store I was accosted by ten High school girls dressed up in Halloween costumes and soliciting flavored condoms for two dollars. Confused with the pomp of such a spectacle, I mumbled that my tight budget wouldn’t allow it, to which they chided me for not having the heart to contribute to a good cause. At this point, I felt the drive to move on, the mystical land of Jasper National park looming but fifty miles ahead.

By Jacob
An interested observer who happens upon our campsite would find a variety of footprints. Sean and I both wear a larger shoe and leave imprints characterized by the latest sandal fashions. Chaco and Keen leave a very distinct mark as it’s etched into the ground, our tent leaves soft square print and our tires leave a cyclic pattern of geometric shapes trailing along the contours of their path.

Goat, however, might leave clues that would baffle even the most astute physical anthropologists. If one were to pass upon our campsite outside of Grand Cache they would find a series of paths, trails and footprints that would offer some curious insight into our adventure.

The first and most obvious would likely be our bike trails, attempting to burn their way through the snow. Upon closer observation, they would certainly notice the tell-tale signs of cyclists more than struggling. Fallen snow angels, marking clumsiness and a general inability to glide through the snow upright, as it were. Following these tracks, an expert anthropologist might likely be inclined to imagine the path punctuated by a variety of screams, spawned by frustration of repetitive falls.

The wheel is an invention that has altered the course of history, to the extent that we cannot fathom life without it. While living in snow, one would hardly be inclined to extol the virtues of the wheel in all its roundness. Quite the contrary, smooth flat objects empower the individual across snowy surfaces.

Bikes hardly fit into that category, which explains why our paths were not clean, precise lines cutting through the foot of soft powdery snow, and away from their tent.

Leaving a large square shaped footprint in the snow approximately seven feet by seven, the tent’s footprint provided a tangible clue about their experience the night prior. Piled around the edges of the print was about 3 times as much snow, a shallow and oddly square shaped crater filled with mud. Having set up their tent with relatively little snow on the ground, one could estimate that the amount of snowfall would surely offer a hardy challenge for any temporary lightweight housing construction. Testing the strength of the seams the fabric and the stakes plunged into the ground, the snow had slowly built up over the night. Starting with a gentle sag, inching the roof closer, only to develop into an oppressive curve, placing physical and psychological pressure on the inhabitants inside. Eventually, one of the stakes failed pinning down one of the occupants inside (Goat) with a foot of snow. The only solution was to venture out into the blizzard in all our naked glory to re-place the stake and attempt to restore the tent’s integrity. The anthropologist would certainly have ascertained their preference to sleep in the comfort of a wood framed house complimented by a nice stove and hot cocoa.

Having spent a good amount of time in school learning about how humans adapt to their environment, the academic would would be shocked and delighted to come across a particular temporary fossil that just might challenge some schools of thought.

It is not often that you would encounter bare footprints, resembling those left by human, on stark white snow. Throughout the ages, humans have invented highly sophisticated padded apparatus to walk on. These, of course, are collectively referred to as shoes. Something that we have become so accustomed to, it is not only considered uncouth to walk inside various establishments without these on, it is too often illegal. As for the footprints left at the campsite, our friendly anthropologist would be left to wonder if these in fact were the result of a human, and questions of motive and symbolism would follow throughout the day.

If it were me, I would easily dismiss the sighting as a result of the legendary Sasquatch, or “bigfoot” as it is known in other parts of the world. I’ve already convinced myself that one late night outside of Watson Lake, my sleep was disturbed by a legendary Chupacabra grunting and snorting it’s hideous nose in anticipation of sucking my blood.

However, academics do not have the luxury of such convenient explanations and are compelled to seek more “reasonable” answers. If I were still around I might offer the opinion that my friend is nuts and I can surely not explain his behavior. I would probably continue to explain that during the few days we biked through the snow, I was certain my feet were blue and about to fall off, despite being entombed in three pairs of socks and what goat refers to as “foot coffins” (aka SHOES).

Has this creature and it’s ten toes evolved into a more functional human species capable of greater weather extremes? It was patently clear that I was whining far louder and far more about my feet than he was (in fact, he wasn’t whining at all). As I sat on the road attempting to revive the circulation to the ice blocks below my leg, I cursed my own feet and circulation for forsaking me.
Personally, I’d rather leave the Anthro person alone with these footprints and their imagination. It would surely offer some food for thought and would leave them hungry for more.

Our experience can never be understood or explained through physical evidence. Pictures and words can not do justice to the some of the scenery we’ve pedaled past. To the mountain faces that have been arranged in impossibly incongruous geometrical patterns. A cubist illusion of beauty that eludes the mind and inspires the soul. Riding through the Icefield Parkway, peering down at crystal lakes whose clarity has been infused by the electric blues of the sky and the vibrant greens of the forest, leaving the beauty of the colorful in between, settled by the winds and currents.

Currently in Jasper.   The internet costs a ton and that will preclude our updates with any substance.  We hope to find something less costly in Banff. 

THe long and short of it, is that we got hit by a rainstorm late one day which drenched our entire gear and soaked our morale.  We woke up to white flurries and windy conditions which advanced into near blizzard conditions.  We were hardly prepared for the icy/snowy conditions that would not relent for the next two days.   We have a ton to write about, but will have to wait until we have cheaper internet access.  Check back in 4 days. 

 

 

Hoping to briefly update the blog world.  

We reached Summit Lake on the AlCan, the highest point on the highway.   The drab flat scenery exploded into a curious assortment of bald mountains combed back by the treeline.  Teetering rocks and large columns of rock precariously penetrteep mountain sides, kicking little rocks down onto the highway and us.  Caribou seemed unphased by the endless stream of cars, but inevitably, king around the world.

   
In Ft. Nelson we heard there was a Slovenian passing through on a bike journey around the world.  We kept our eyes open but did not see him while in town. Before leaving we got lunch at a Subway, and Goat was accosted by a drunk girl from the Northwest Territory who insisted on giving him the NWT plate (shaped like a polar bear) she had stolen from somebodies car so that they could drive legally into town with a plate whose registration expired boldly in 2002.

       We found our progress was moving along quite quickly on the flat and smoothly paved AlCan.  I couldn’t resist the partially eaten Oh Henry candybar that I encountered on the road.  I greedily consumed the free 400 calories and tossed any concerns aside with the wrapper in my pocket.

      We got sketched out by the cars blasting by us in the darkness and set up camp in an isolated gravel pit.  We cooked up our usual dinner of oats, granola, butter, dried fruit, apples, etc.  All conversation ended until the meal was consumed and our mouths had room to let air pass..

    I woke up early and felt really weird.  Not just because I woke up early, which in of itself, is..rather weird.  But my stomach was surely not agreeing with some choices I made recently.  It attempted to settle the disagreement by expunging everything from my intestines, including what wasnt there.  As I celebrated the disagreement with dry heaves I was able to see the lovely dinner under a whole new light.

      The raisins seemed to bloat into grapes and accented the pile of oatmeal puke nicely with gold and purple colors.  Unfortunately, t relief.  I just lay in the dirt, in a fetal position wondering what I had done so wrong.

    I directed my problems at Subway, claiming the corporate entity had poisoned my meal and was attempting to sabotage my attempts to enjoy life.  I cursed their Where fresh is the taste motto and simmered in pain simultaneously attempting to keep a fixed gaze to maintain my delicate balance.  Just looking at my bike made me ill.

      We saw the Slovenian pass, but we were unable to mobilize ourselves to catch up with him.  I could see Seans nervous energy taking grip as he watched the biker pass.  Overwhelmed by the undeniably strong urge to continue, to progress.  Under normal circumstances, without the sickening delay, Sean’s mindset is generally present to a certain impatience that reinforces our momentum.

       As the sun began setting I felt like I could get an hour so in on the bike, and was becoming more sympathetic to Sean’s eagerness to move forward.  But was thoroughly wiped out without any calories to burn.  The reality of how vulnerable we are on these longer stretches quickly set in.  Being a couple of healthy days ride away from any kind of help becomes up to a week of unhealthy riding.  I felt betrayed by my body, convinced that I am healthier than this, I’d dare say impervious to illness.  I worked a year in a school district and did not get sick, despite the presence of hundreds of youngsters and all the germs they can collect.

       About 10 minutes into the ride we crossed paths with Rosie who is running around the world.  She hauls a trailer behind her, built by the British military, capable of housing Rosie and all her worldly possessions.     She is a delightfully cheerful  English lady who stayed in her tent while she chatted with us, offering us her wardrobe to keep warm.  We were dumbfounded and thoroughly humbled by her mission, having taken 3 and a half years already, she is quite the inspiration and loads of fun.

      Feeling energized by the interaction I thought to myself, that if she can haul that cart around, then I should be able to pedal my sickly self down the road.  I did my best, but my stomach was always teetering towards the inevitable session of dry heaves.  Having spent the last two months chronically hungry from over-exertion, it was an awkward sensation to not feel that yearning for food.  I hoped the short evening ride would inspire a larger appetite.

      We camped and enjoyed a beautiful display of northern lights.  I was able to eat a few spoonfuls of oats without puking and felt quite proud of my accomplishment.  I had high hopes for being able to ride a bit more effectively the next day.

       I woke up without having to puke and felt mildly hungry.  I was able to eat almost a bowl full of oats and felt confident I could hold it down.  The ride was painful that day as the flats bent up and down a bit more than I was prepared for.  I spent a good thirty minutes expunging a precious few calories from my caloric deficient body.  I did my best to get back on my bike and attempt to catch up with my fellow riders.

       I kept my head down and zig-zagged my way along the freeway, beyond exhaustion.  Each hill I told myself that I would take a nap on the other side, hoping my company would be waiting.  Soon, I approached the final hill that my consciousness would allow.   Attempting anymore would surely result in an exhaustion fueled crashed.

       Even descending the slope felt painful.  My legs refused to cooperate and my eyelids were holding up the weight from hours of riding.  Keeping a straight line proved challenging.  My riding felt more like a clumsy stupor more than anything else.  After reaching them, I threw my tarp down and passed out with my helmet on.

      I awoke hearing Sean asking Goat how many more miles we might be able to go that day.  I grumpily mumbled that he should let me puke the rest of my guts out and wed be ready to go.  After sleeping, I developed a bit of an appetite and was able to consume some more food and successfully hold it down.

       That night we saw the moon rising, a golden hue stretching itself above the mountains.  It disappeared into the clouds and reappeared in an artificial horizon, staged by the clouds.  They formed a pool of water reflecting the image of the moon below the strip horizon that played with the shape of the soft night light.  Pulling it into a oblong circle extending it’s light across the sky.

       Gradually, I felt better and was able to return to our usual regimen of biking.  My mileage is currently above 2300 miles.  We should be leaving this town today and finally departing from the AlCan highway with too much traffic.

For all you speakers of Portuguese out there, here’s a journalistic work about the trip written by one of its very riders. Eco, a Brazilian magazine concerned with environmental issues has graciously decided to publish a story about our experience along the Dalton Expressway -which sadly is no longer accessible since British petroleum discovered fifteen miles of its pipeline to be grossly corroded. I don’t speak Portuguese so I can’t verify the accuracy of the translators’ rendition myself, and the original English version… well that’s a rather irrelevant matter.

No Norte do mundo – por Sean Monterastelli*

 By Sean

      It’s been an exhausting past few weeks; whole days spent bearing the asphyxiating sauna steam in the recreational center at Watson lake, or just managing to not roast alive in the boiling mineral waters of Liard Hot Springs, or held immobile by the captivating page turners found stuffed in the damp recesses of neglected book exchanges, some bearing the approval of Oprah’s authoritative club stamp.

                  Traveling south the next day we encountered a small herd of wild bison. At the point when all three cyclists stopped to stare in wonder, the largest of the beasts emerged from his sedate crouch, it emitted a thick cloud of dust after shaking his fur and slowly it advanced into the seclusion of the woods. Later in the day we found ourselves facing Lake Mucho –or big lake- from the vantage point of a hill that had been groomed to offer a more vivid view of the upcoming gas-station/café than of the peculiar jade-green waters. The sky was densely overcast and next to our resting spot the deep rumbling of an R.V. generator assured us that our fellow B.C. travelers were more warm and illuminated than the breathtaking scenery outside. We cycled down hill a few kilometers to have coffee at the gas station just before it closed for the night. The proprietor locked the café doors, jumped on a souped-up ATV and made a mad dash for home. We figured that a small table just on the threshold of ‘Private Property’ would serve as a good kitchen. No sooner had we began boiling water for pasta than the rain began falling. It became cold, windy, and soon the rain fell heavy enough to transform the large parking area into a small lake. Our little stove sounded as demoralized and defeated as our hearts were in response to the worsening conditions. The water took an eternity to boil, and soon I was ready to toss my worn and worthless Gortex rain gear into a large fire just beyond the ‘no trespassing’ sign that was blazing along unattended despite the rain. We huddled underneath a short projection of the roof, turning the soggy pages of our novels until lunch was ready. Wolfing down the food in minutes, we packed up our wet belongings and peddled slowly down the coastline of the lack –a thriving head wind pounding at us. Finally we settled down in what was basically the back yard of the next café up the road. It turned out to be the only official post-office between Watson Lake and Ft. Nelson, it also turned out the best homemade bread on the Alaskan Highway –although according to Jack, the lone man who ran all operations, the German tourists couldn’t buy his bread because “it wasn’t heavy with a thick crustâ€?. Jack had his hands full that day. To every guest seeking accomidation he would spread the word; “I’ve been going at it since six a.m., it’s well past noon now, I’ve got to get this bread made, it just keeps crawling away from me”. One lady seeking a gruel breakfast offered to clean the man’s dishes for him, two other ladies -whom presumably jack had encountered before- beseeched Jack for the privelage of his showers, to ‘rid the grime of traveling’. a female truck driver trying to choke back tears entered the cafe solemly reflecting on a terrible sight forty miles up the road. On Summit Lake -our destination for the day- a truck carrying aviation fuel exploded after its driver had suffered a heart attack. The regulars at Jack’s industrious cafe/gas station/ postal station all threw in their emotional weight to console the observer of such tangible horror. Driving trucks along the ALCANs proves risky business indeed. The striking scenic beauty offers a deceptive comfort to the driver confronted with endless steep grades and passes marked with signs of caution ‘very dangerous curve’ and such.

By Jacob:

It seems that bicycles are viewed as being somewhat hazardous, hence the helmets and safety precautions. I would imagine there are quite a few folks who take the vulnerability to heart and avoid the activity altogether. It is not the bike to be afraid of…. it is them you should be afraid of.
We all wear our helmets, in habit, with little conscious awareness at this point. It’s like putting on socks with your shoes. Often enough, we are wandering around our campsite, or town with our helmets still attached, looking like soldiers suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder. With luck, one of us will remind the other that he looks ridiculous walking into the grocery store with his helmet. Without luck, one of us will laugh at the other for leaving the helmet on.

My first observation that elicits a rise of fear. Beer cans littering the highways. First viewed about 100 miles south of the Arctic Circle, indicating that we were closer to civilization noted by the apparent carelessness of the sight. These roads we’ve travelled have largely been out in the middle of nowhere. At best, the collection of beer cans could be the result of some inconsiderate construction workers detailing the roads. At worst, and what my imagination largely attributes this to, they are being thrown out of a big rig or RV as it recklessly speeds through the countryside.

Coupled with an absent bike lane, you experience moments where your life is on the line. A thin white strip separating the wilderness from the strip of asphalt and gravel that melts over the land. This white stripe offers a bit of safety, if not merely the illusion of such. A line of demarkation, something familar and recognizable to the vehicles; something for them to avoid. This is reinforced by fear of losing their own lives as their vehicle could lose control and crash.
On your left side of this line is often enough a tremendous machine powering its way at a speed fast enough to kill you a hundred times. They are programmed to understand that if they cross over that line their safety is not guaranteed. On your right is often enough a steep bank, which vehicles hope to avoid so they can preserve their heartbeat at a healthy pace.

My observations of their behavior has been reinforced by their inability toeven cross the center divider. On a road that offers its services to half a dozen cars per 100 miles, it seems legitimate that if they were to pass a cyclist, that they might take advantage of the huge lane that is apparently without traffic for the next few miles. But alas, this might give the cyclist ample room to ride comfortable on the highways and they face a risk of another vehicle spontaneously appearing in front of them on the long flat stretch.
So.. many of the drivers stay in between both lines and naturally maintain their speed a couple dozen kilometers per hour above the speed limit as if they are operating a video game.
Somewhere in between those two commanding lines, is the cyclist, infinitely more vulnerable to the precarious elements pressuring from the sides. A slight swerve to the left during one of these perilous situations would leave the cyclist wishing the helmet came with life insurance, because it would surely not help. A slight swerve to the right, could send you into the heavy gravel, where you could lose control and quickly come crashing down, appreciating the helmet, and cursing the driver. Hoping nothing was broken, especially if you are hundred or so miles from any help.
The fear of the beer cans, has been that those precious lines that delicately balance the safety of the cyclist on the road could potentially bend the line enough to add a bicycle hood ornament to the vehicle. I don’t think that I would make a good hood ornament. I’m definitely not shiny enough or symbolic enough.

MY SECOND FEAR, has come from my observations of the many signs along the street.

Having not grown up in the countryside with the liberty to shoot guns and drink beer on a daily basis, I have not come to terms with the countryside antics of blasting away signs. I have yet to see a sign that has not been considered a legitimate and useful target. Whether it is a mile marker, service sign, or wooden caribou I have seen every variety transformed into swiss cheese.

This fear..or revelation or what have you ocurred to me after leaving the town of Chicken where I noticed a fond fascination of firearms. As I became interested in my distance for the day, I noticed that every mile marker was conveniently shredded by bullets of every caliber and variety. Bird shot, cannon shot, rifle shot, etc. There were a mere handful of them that could still be read along the 60 or so miles I paid attention.

The thoroughness was remarkable. It was as if there was an unpsoken vengeance against these signs. A war against the diamond shaped metal objects which obviously must have wronged somebody to deserve this kind of retaliation.

I consider myself a pacifist in this war and do not operate my bicycle with an armed rifle at the ready. Though, I can’t say I haven’t thought about the possibility. In any case, I started to notice which direction these bullets were flying as I winded along a twisted mountain road. I pictured a bunch of good ‘ol boys with rifles in the back of a truck hootin’ and hollerin’ throwin’ their beer cans out the side and taking aim.

I’m not only an optimist, but a pacifist as well. Now, I’m sure everybody who is operating these weapons is fully qualified to use them safely and responsibly. How else could they enlist in this war against informative metal placards? Despite my optimism, I kept noticing that the signs were right about head level, which often allowed me to look through the bullet holes to see where they would go after they penetrated the sign.

My mind filled with geometric lines tracing along the canyons and mountain roads filling my mind with a web of bullet paths. It was amazing how often we could get caught in this web as we calmly rode our bikes up the mountain. I imagine, these “qualified” gunslingers would surely not shoot at the sign if they saw a car coming from the other side.

However, I remain doubtful that they would see the haggard bicyclist huffing and puffing his way up a hill. When I’m feeling particularly good, I like to balance my positive emotions with this paranoid delusion, if you will. It is probably a very low possibility of danger, maybe about the same risk as getting hit by a stray bullet shot up at New Years. But on these long stretches of road, you gotta keep your mind occupied, gotta worry about something.

I know one thing, If i hear bullets being shot, accompanied by a drunken howl. I’ll stay far from the road, and will probably still wear my helmet for good measure.