L'il Abner, Nicolas Cage: Therapist, and Realistic News

Day: 13 (Virgie, KY to Buckhorn, KY)
Average Speed: 10 MPH
Miles Cycled Today: 89.7 (with 9 major climbs*)
Miles Cycled Total: 701

Dogs Encountered Today*: 16 (*This refers to anytime I need to dismount or speed up due to a dog. And if you think you can't bike 20 MPH uphill with 40 lbs. of gear when Cujo is chasing you, you're wrong.)
Mood: Relieved

Hanna's Texted Motivational Pic Using Play-Doh and the Bracelet I Gave Her Before Leaving

"I Think I Can!"

I haven’t showered. My clothes all reek. And my personal hygiene is questionable. In other words… I fit right in!

Damn, am I happy to put some distance between today and yesterday, both literally and figuratively.

My Alarm Clock

I got an early enough start- the ten hours of sleep and the wakeup call from the neighborhood dogs circling my tent were a big help there (on a side note, check out the new dog statistic I posted at the top)- but I still had a bit of a “misery hangover” from yesterday’s awful ride.

 Looking at my map, I saw six major climbs if I wanted to make my destination. *I’m defining “major climb” as any uphill of at least one mile where I am traveling at 2-4 MPH, grunting, sweating, swearing, and thinking I’m going to die.

After yesterday, six major climbs will be impossible, I thought. 

So I did nine instead. 

Today's Route

Check out today’s terrain (okay… you can call major climbs 8 and 9 half-major climbs if you want, but at the end of 90 mile day, they’re just as hard as the others. Trust me). 

I was dreading the first and steepest of them all, Mt. Abner, and the cashier at the gas station where I bought a Red Bull said something I heard at least six or seven times throughout the day: “Oh, dear lord! I don’t want to drive up that crazy mountain in a car!”

I don’t want to do it in a car either, lady. I want to do it on a bicycle.

Me After Major Climb #1 (that's sweat)

But how when I’m so mentally spent from yesterday?

Just before I hit Abner, I was purposely stalling and I read a message from a wizened mentor of mine that did more for me today than that Red Bull could ever do. The truth is, this is all a mind game now with these mountains. My legs are strong… like really strong. They are the least sore part of my body as a matter of fact. 

Me After Major Climb #9 with Donald Trump Hair

I’m not saying The Appalachians are easy- they’re not at all. These are the mountains of storybooks- craggy and twisty and narrow and steep (I half expect to find a troll at the top), but if I find the right mindset [ONE…], and stay focused on the short-term goal of climbing 100 feet at a time [MORE…], and tell myself there’s no such thing as a break [PEDAL…], I’m good to go. 

As long as I swear and grunt and sweat.

Today's ride, while potentially gorgeous, was consistently punctuated with scenes of absolute poverty as I travelled from one hopeless town to the next. 

I’ve seen poverty before, but not like this. And something about slowly meandering through it without the luxury of a car's AC made it much more real. 

Hundreds upon hundreds of rusted trailers and RVs with makeshift patches are actively serving as homes. 

Storefronts exist, but finding one that is open for business is the exception rather than the rule.

 And the ones that are open are all but barren. 

In one town (or “sparsely populated area” I should say…), I passed by a girl walking on the side of the road, crying. Not your problem, I thought. Ignore it. But the middle school teacher in me kicked in. U-Turn. I hopped off the bike and walked with her a bit. 

Between sobs, she told me her name was Brittany. She’s 17. She’s in high school. She warmed up to me quickly and opened up. 

“It’s my dad,” she said. “Every mornin’ he wakes up quarrelin’ ‘bout somethin’. Every day. It never ends."

As if on cue, I heard him yelling from a few hundred feet away, using the same tone of voice and language that one uses with a dog. "Britt-nee! Git on back here! Britt-nee!" Brittany rolled her eyes. Dad was drunk. Without a doubt. At 12:30 PM on a Saturday. 

“I work so hard,” she went on. “Two jobs, and I have to give him all my money…” And he spends it on booze. “And it’s never enough for him, and I have to do all the chores or he gets mad while he just sits there and…” 

Drinks. 

Dammit. What do I say? Do I say “Well, Brittany, I was brought up by two amazing parents! So go find yourself a couple of those!”

 No. 

After some more idle talk about New York and Kentucky and whatnot, all I could come up with was “It gets better,” and urged her to get out of this dead town without looking back as soon as she could safely do it- words of advice I never thought I would give to anybody: Leave Your Family. 

She said she planned on it. And it looked like she meant it. 

The crying had stopped. I made her laugh a lot. I was getting ready to head off when she asked me what my name was. 

Now, if this were a movie, and some shitty actor like Nicolas Cage were playing me, he would’ve said “People call me The Green Saddle” and cooly thrown on his sunglasses and pedaled away, with his stupid LED blinking taillight fading into the horizon. 

But I just told her my name instead. 

Before I left, she uttered the two words I’ve heard most so far: “Be safe.” I never tire of hearing this. But from her, they had a different tone. Like she really meant those two words. She said them deliberately, and she looked me in the eye. 

Also, it’s the first time a kid has said that to me. 

Symbiotic therapy. 

When in Rome...

So anyway, I biked more after that.

And grunted. And swore. And sweat. And made it to a campground where I am currently enjoying a tiny taste of Kentucky. 

Yes, I Donated.

By the way, I’ve been blissfully unaware of the news over the last two weeks. I mistakingly asked my mother this morning if I was missing anything. 

So before you go and switch on CNN for the day and hear about how awful people are, I’ll leave you with this: 

On climb #5, my top bag fell off my bicycle mid-mountain. I had no clue. A motorist going the other way named Paul Collins came across it and assumed it was mine. He picked it up, turned around, and brought it back to me.

Thanks Paul Collins!

Without that bag, I’d be screwed. 

Did he ignore it? No. Did he rifle through it? No. He just did what most people in our society do in real life every day: The right thing. 

Are you going to see him on the news? No. 

And I threw a bungee cord on that fucker immediately. 

Nicolas Cage would never lose his top bag. 

P.S.

Click Here to view the link my mom sent. Ugh. Humiliating.

Congrats, Mom! You made the bottom of the post. 

And there was a lot to compete with today.