A "Cyclist" Gone Rogue: No Code, No Rules, Just a Keen Sense of Adventure

When I hear the word cyclist, I envision one of those fancily clad guys wearing the skin-tight clothes with bright neon colors. In addition to this, they'll usually have the made-for-cycling shoes, gloves, flashy sunglasses, and aerodynamic helmets. Their bikes are usually dubbed the lightest and most efficient two-wheeled machines in the sport.

The way I look at it, a cyclist is like the kid at the local basketball court who showed up with the fresh, out of the box Nike's that supposedly makes him jump higher. He's also usually sporting the newest jersey of that player who just got traded to your favorite team and seems to continually boast about how much better he is than you.

It is for this unrelatable image, that I am disassociating myself as a cyclist. I am simply a guy who enjoys riding his bike (not cycle) around the neighborhood. My neighborhood just so happens to be the world. I don't need the helmet, the new bike, uniform or sunglasses. I need a body of metal with two circular tires on either end. Give me that and I'll simply have a wonderful time. 

I'm out here on a mountain bike, wearing running shoes, a wifebeater, and a little green hat. I like to be able to walk into a bar in the middle of nowhere and not nonverbally scream "asshole" to the average joes around the room. I'm a biker. I just like to bike. I'm not obsessed. Obsessions promote unhealthy mental fixations on things. 

Perhaps I've just alienated myself from the only other group who would have claimed me as one of them. But... as Groucho Marx once said, "I don’t care to belong to any club that will have me as a member". 

That's my rant. Sorry, I've just had numerous people act surprised that I'm a cyclist because I don't look like one. So I guess I'm not. Just an average joe with a curiosity that leads me to strange places.

So! I woke up today and said goodbye to the kind bikers of the MS group. We'll all be friends on facebook and in contemporary America, that might as well be real life. Sad? but true. I got ready to hit the road and go north an hour after they all left. Or so I thought.

As I left the park, there was one of the two MS vans sitting in the parking lot. There was one of the few ladies in the group in the drivers seat of the van; it had broken down.

"Yeah, I'm going to try and limp my way to Hutchinson. If you hurry, you can probably catch up with the guys up there", she said to me.

"Nah, I'm parting with you guys today, heading north to meet up with a good friend of mine who's going to Colorado."

"Ah, that makes me sad... Don't you get lonely on your trip by yourself?"

"...Well, I think the word lonely implies a sadness or yearning for other human beings... And I haven't felt either of that... So no, I don't, really."

"I've been thinking of doing it alone but the other guys think that's... weird."

"Nah, you should totally fucking do it."

And I departed.

The ride north was very calming and different. It was exciting to get off the TransAm route. Like I was Lewis... &Clarke going to foreign places that few other bikers have gone or seen. I eventually made it to McPherson where people aren't as used to the cyclists coming through. It's nice not to be represented by a whole other group of people that share no similarities with you other than sitting uncomfortably on a two-wheeled instrument and pedaling across the country. In McPherson, I am an individual.

So I relaxed and ate my fair share of bad food at the McDonald's in town (yeah). The gift card's done though so I'm done with feeling like shit after my meals. 

Michiel Personaire, one of my best friends from Pitt, arrived at 2:00. I took the two wheels off my bike and we burned rubber across the Kansas plains, passing... nothing; flat, green grass and windmills. 

I was the happiest man in the world, meeting up with an old friend and going on a road trip hundreds of miles away... Things wouldn't stay that way.

Michiel was on a mission to go see his girlfriend in Boulder, CO and I very quickly fell into a mental block. I relapsed into an awful old habit and bought my first pack of cigarettes since before the trip. Anxious thoughts began to occupy my mind as I sat restless in the car, passing town after town with individuals with stories, lives, and purpose. It didn't feel right. I continuously attempted to dismiss these antsy thoughts but they only seemed to come back with more force. After two hours in the car, I let my thoughts spill free from my head into the small space of the car. Michiel could sympathize, saying he even kind of expected me to feel this way. This made me feel even more strange.

At the junction of Interstate 70 and Highway 40, I got out, we said our goodbyes, and he drove off to fulfill his goal, just as I have mine to achieve. I can't really shake this feeling of letting him down... but deep down, I felt like I was letting myself down.

More drained than I've ever been on a bike, I checked into my first motel since Chilhowie, VA. It was there that something rather magical happened. 

In the parking lot where Michiel dropped me off, I slowly put my bike back together and wearily crossed the dirt lot to the lobby of the small motel. An Indian man with poor, broken English gave me a card for room 17. As I walked my bike over to the room, I slipped the key into the electrical slot and opened the door to my single bed space. Then, I heard the Indian man yelling something. I looked over to him but couldn't interpret him so I jogged toward him.

"Room 11! Room 11."

"No, it says right here Room 17", I smiled to the forgetful owner.

He shook his head, took my room card and repeated said "eleven" as he walked back to the lobby. I got my bike out of the tiny, decrepit Room 17 and walked back to the lobby. There, he gave me the card to Room 11. Confused, I gathered the rest of my things in the grass that bordered the gravel and dirt parking lot. I shifted one foot in front of the other to my new room, slipped the key into the door and pushed it open. Inside was a room twice the size with two beds, a refrigerator, and new television. I smiled. Turning toward the lobby where I hoped the man was still watching me, I gave a wide grin and a thumbs up. I walked into my relaxation chamber for the night.

And here I am in Oakley, KS. To get back on route, I need to bike directly south 53 miles to Scott City. I'm going to get a nice bath, wash my clothes, and get back on my feet tomorrow. Tomorrow, I start anew. 

From left to right: Norman, Anthony, Rob from England, and Duncan.

                         The Team

This is the car that the children of Buehler, KS paid $1 for: 3 hits with a hammer, $2: 2 swings with a baseball bat, and $3 for 1 shock with a sledgehammer. One of the bikers, Sam, a grizzled Swedish looking guy with a Mohawk, paid $3 for 3 hits with the sledgehammer. After 3 hits, his whiskey-driven mental led him to also pound his fists into the old car's hood until his knuckles were bleeding. This picture was actually taken by him... it was only right.

As I left to stray off the path North, I saw a race of cyclists pass South that inspired my rant. This person was in last :(

Everything is closed, and everyone is at church on early Sunday morning.

          McPherson in the distance

Michiel Persenaire, my tall Dutch friend who I missed all last semester. He went to Italy. I stayed in Pittsburgh. It was wonderful to see the guy, if only for a bit.