Final Thoughts With No Ending

Afternoon's like these don't come around too often anymore it seems. Perhaps it's my usual schedule that keeps me away from the house until after the sun has set. Maybe it's winter's slow but impending approach. The silence in the house is hinted with the somber tones of loneliness, yet there is a conviction to it. It's more than silence. Through the jaded facade, it's peacefulness. You just have to let yourself see it. Let yourself feel it. The late afternoon sun is streaming through the southern windows. Everything it touches turns to gold. Where the silence and sunlight meet, there is perfection. A perfect harmonization - union - of two forces that often go unnoticed. Our lives carry us away every second. We operate on auto-pilot for the most part. Too busy to take a minute and notice. Too scared to confront our fears. Too lazy to come in to the present and allow ourselves to just be. Too content in our miserable well-worn paths. Misery is comfort these days. There's too much effort that goes into doing nothing. Allowing ourselves to come into balance is tedious. Perhaps the force of gravity has been tweaked over the years and our whole equilibriums are in a perpetual state of flux and conflict and we could never find our balance anyway. I don't know.

My dreams have been consistent as of late. Memories from my past converge with the unanswered questions I grapple with today. I'm searching, searching, searching. Every night I come up empty-handed, and every morning I feel exhausted. "Just let it go," I tell myself. Sometimes in my waking life my brain rushes - surges - back and forth through old scenes. It zips back, speeds forward, juts left, angles right, and comes to a jarring stop just shy of any resolution. And while I continue to search for answers to some things, I chuckle during those moments where I realize that point in my life, in the grand scheme of things, was so trivial and fleeting. I almost utter out loud, "Now what was her name?"

I've waited through all of the transitions in my life since August when I returned from my solo bicycle ride around Lake Superior for the perfect thoughts to enter my head in order to write my final post to this blog. As always life swept me away, and in the chaos, every other unresolved thing comes bursting through the doors screaming, "Don't forget about me! Don't forget about me!" All this commotion and noise distract me from the peace (and misery) of that ride. As I have explained to people recently, it was the most awesome misery I could have ever imagined. Every part of me hungers for that feeling again. Unless one has experienced similar, it's hard to even put it into words.

The last year and a half since I started this blog has seen a tremendous amount of change. Change came in the form of new experiences, doubt, fear, realizations, epiphanies, heartache, heartbreak, growth, healing, health, learning, discovering, revitalization, remembering, honoring, emerging, balancing, resolving, conquering. I'm sure the list could go on. The point is, no matter how much I think about what it was like to travel back to my birth country in August 2009, or ride my bike around the largest body of fresh water in the world this past August, out of the moment, they are memories that cannot be captured in rewind. To try and "recap" such life-changing experiences would feel wrong. There is no summary. Instead, I sit in the dimly lit dining room of my house, typing out these last words of this blog, watching the fading afternoon light. Just as my dreams allow me to remember and relive parts of my life with such vividness and clarity, so too shall this blog provide me and whoever else, a glimpse back into the many moments that have allowed me to be born into this one moment of the purest presence and clarity about where I've been, and where I am right now.

Tomorrow? Who knows...

One Month Later

It's been just over a month since I returned from my bike ride. A lot has happened. While part of me can still see that impressive landscape, feel the breeze and warmth of the sun on my skin, and hear the hum of my tires as they cycled over 1200 miles, it seemed the second I got home, literally, life swept me away. My memories of this epic journey are still there, I just have to dig deeper for them. It makes me sad to think that the realities of every day life have so much power so as to drown out that which was only but one monumental accomplishment in a whole universe of keep on keepin' on. But this bike trip, as with my trip back to Korea just over a year ago - they are both secure bases and launching points to which I know I can always return in heart and in mind. While the salience of those experiences in some ways have faded, new meanings and realizations emerge, sparked and ignited by the trajectory of my life and the connections - both familiar and new - that seem to be forming right before my very eyes.

The day after I got back from my trip, I was dumped. How was that for a welcome home? This after I had many realizations and inspirations to keep going in the relationship. Not that I was questioning it at all, it's just that relationships have always been hard for me and for once I was willing to dig my heels in and remain present no matter what because I believed I could do that for myself. The news came out of left field. I had no idea at all that there was anything wrong. Talk about apparent gaps in communication on her part! Wow! I decided at that moment, I wasn't going to give another ounce of my energy to it/her. And, I didn't and haven't. I used that, and a few other things that have been transpiring in my life that involve shitty people essentially, to completely turn this new page in the book. Once again, I left on a major journey, had much time to think, feel, process, realize, close, etc., and I came back new and different in some ways. This was my chance to, in a sense, to begin again. Now that page is turned and I feel like an artist with a new canvas before me. I have an idea of where I want my life to go. I know the tools I need to do it. And I am at peace with the fact that it will be a long process to create my masterpiece that will also evolve and change over time.

Two great journeys have connected my life in the last year. I have set sail on my next one as my doctoral program has officially started. This too will be an incredible journey that will span out over 4-5 years. I've cleaned up myself. I'm cleaning up my life and throwing out those who I put too much negative energy in, those who are too emotionally immature for me, and those who have no concept of a two-way street when it comes to friendship. One of the most salient messages that came through to me on my bike trip was the importance of human connection, and human connection that feels good. I spent alot of time alone. At times it was quite sad and quite lonely, but it made me grateful for the good connections I do have with people, and it made me aware of the work it takes to maintain those connections. So, the page is turned and I'm leaving a number of people behind. They've proved to cause more damage to me and my life than I am willing to ever let happen again. They don't feel good to my spirit and without them, I'd say my spirit feels pretty damn good!

With life taking me away, I still feel like I haven't had time to process fully my ride. With my doctoral program starting and engaging again in research, dialogue, and experiences that connect me with my adoptee identity, more feelings and questions are surfacing once again and I am feeling the connection back to Korea. I know the processing will be slow. I see every day how the impact of experiences of both of these two journeys in my life have significance to even the most mundane of activities. I know the final package will never be final. I know its shape will not be a nice, neat, tidy box. Rather, I imagine it to be some sort of globulous cluster that is always shifting in shape, density, size, and color. But all along, the evolutionary process is constant because no matter what, I will never throw my hands up in the air and say, "I quit." When we do that, it is in that moment that our evolution stops. And I will forever hear and use my sister's words, "I have seen you try harder because you believe all things are possible," and my own mantra of, "I believe I can do this," to continue to do and succeed at that which I set out to accomplish for myself, be it a trip back to my birth country, an epic bike ride, a PhD program, and whatever multitude of adventures still await me. Bring it on.

Back Home

1 Shawyn
1 bike that I affectionately nicknamed "CT"
1 freak rainstorm that lasted 10 minutes, when I was 10 minutes from the hotel. Figures.
1 thunderstorm (2nd to the last day)
1 blown tire (which I changed standing in a ditch in aforementioned thunderstorm)
1 ride into horrendous headwind (30 mph sustained with 40+ mph gusts) on the last day.
1 dead snake
3 worms
Much sweat, tears, and a little blood
2 retirees that made the best sag team in the world
And 1 BIG lake

In 20 days of back to back cycling, with 32.4 lbs of extra weight in gear (which was 17.2 lbs more than what I trained with), I pedaled my bike 1,207.93 miles following the Lake Superior Circle Tour. I traveled 3 states (MN, WI, MI) and 1 Canadian province (Ontario).

As I sit here in my office, surrounded by all the comforts of my home, it feels odd to be back home. At the same time, it feels like the last 20 days of my life never happened. As we were driving home from Duluth, even though I had biked nearly 60 miles in terrible headwind the whole way, as the car hummed along the highway, I felt like today's bike ride never happened. Since I've been home I've gotten everything unpacked and a load of laundry done. While all feels familiar, it also feels very strange - almost like I am a stranger to my old life. People remember me, my old life remembers me, but I barely remember my old life or my old self. It's hard to describe. I'm sure the magnitude of what I accomplished will hit in a few days. In the meantime, I've just got to sit with everything, adjust, process, and heal my sore, chaffed, and exhausted body.

The Sun Sets in Cornucopia

As I sit at the kitchen table of my cabin in Cornucopia, a very small town in Northern Wisconsin, right on the edge of the south shore of Lake Superior, the mid-evening sun is beginning to set over the lake. The rich golden lights floods through the bay windows that face north. Highway 13, the only road that runs through this town next to the lake is quiet - maybe a car or two every now and then. In one of the bedrooms I can hear the two box fans I have going in order to dry out all of my gear and bike bags. It rained most of my trip today from Ashland to Cornucopia. There's still grease caked under and around my fingernails from the blown rear tire I changed just outside of Bayfield. I had made it almost this entire trip without any rain (except for the freak 10 minute rain shower in Terrace Bay, Ontario) and no flat tires. I guess my luck had to run out sooner or later, and well, why not have both things happen today right?

It feels weird to think that this is my last night on the road. Only about 55 - 60 miles stand between me and the end to this amazing journey. While I've had moments of realization, understanding, and closure - especially in the last several days - on this last night, the end still seems so distant. Part of me is excited to return home, to see the family and friends I left behind who have been so encouraging and supportive of me for the past almost 20 days. Part of me can't really fathom what it will be like to return home. It's a similar feeling to what I had right before I left Korea. I'm having a hard time imagining my life back home and if and how it will all make sense to me again after what I've done. Another part of me isn't ready for this to be over. There are so many transformations and breakthroughs that I feel are just beginning to happen while I've been on this ride. It's almost as if my mind wants to keep riding to closure. I know that as soon as I return home, the day to day routines and tasks will sweep me away no matter how hard I try and keep this ride close to me. I worry about losing what I've gained - well, maybe not losing it, but that it becomes dulled and eventually just blends into the sometimes chaos that is the backdrop of my life.

The air in this cabin is a bit thick and seems to stands still. Time ticks by slower than normal, yet the sun sets just as quickly as it usually does. Tomorrow morning will come quickly enough. The miles I need to put in will constantly roll by. I remember when I was biking the 45 miles into Sault Ste. Marie, thus ending the Canadian leg of my trip, I took my time on purpose. I was ready to be done with Canada and halfway through my trip, at the same time, what I had endured, given, and gotten during my time on the TransCanada Highway - it had worked its way into the deepest part of who I am. It was hard to let it go. I feel similar knowing that tomorrow will bring the conclusion to the ride of my life.

I've gone beyond so much physical pain, rode with and through emotional pain, and pushed through much mental anguish to succeed at this huge goal I set out for myself just 4 months ago. Riding my bike around Lake Superior was a ride I have wanted to do for a while. I promised myself I'd do it before I turned 35. When I cross the Highway 53 bridge into Duluth tomorrow, I will have fulfilled my promise a year and 5 months ahead of schedule. Although I have sacrificed much, I have also gained that much more. I have connected so intensely with believing in myself. I've found strength and courage. I've refused to give up even when I wanted to and was so close to doing so. I've felt loneliness, grief, heartache, triumph, inspiration, and solitude. My purpose and my place have always been doing what I have been doing in each and every moment.

Tomorrow, I will be writing from the comforts of my own home, I'm sure with very mixed emotions. It's been quite a ride!

My Dad

I think I am finding my dad on this trip. I see him in the beauty that is all around me. He is in my thoughts. His energy becomes my energy. Every mile has its own way, its own character, its own details. In that moment that I am riding through this mile, then the next, and the next - it's as if everything that that mile is contains such purpose and significance. It was meant to be as it was for me to experience. I take it in through all of my senses as I am biking through nature's canvas. As an artist, my dad frequently found his inspiration in nature. I remember the fall that he passed away, the foliage was particularly brilliant. We found our comfort in knowing he painted the trees for us that year. It was his way of letting us know that even in loss there is still beauty and memory all around. I'll never forget those fall colors.

My dad suffered from alot of health problems. Over the past couple of days, conversations and memories of him have been shared between Helene, my mom, and me. I remember his intentionality and discipline in trying to eat better and lose weight after his first heart attack. Just yesterday my mom was commenting on how much he was riding his bike right up until his sudden passing. He biked from our home in Oakdale, Minnesota to River Falls, Wisconsin one time. I remember the photo that was taken when we went to pick him up. Much like I am doing on this ride, he had a sign that showed the date, miles, and time it took him. I didn't get into biking until I was 17, a year after he died. I am just realizing the connection that my dad and I shared with our bikes as not only a form of fitness, but as a means of finding, creating, and establishing meaning, purpose, and place. We use our bikes to grow and heal ourselves. Almost 17 years after his passing, I am finally biking with my dad.

Memory:

It's the day of my dad's funeral. As is tradition, our family is the first to arrive at the church. As we step into the vestibule in the front entry way, just beyond the doors, I can see the open casket. What's left of my dad lies there. I remember when I first saw him at the funeral home during the visitation. We walked into the hall where he was. He was all alone in this big room. I wondered how long his casket had been there with no one around to offer him comfort. I remember the days leading up to his death, my dad was scared. When he died, he was home alone. I have often wondered what his final moments were like. Was he scared when it was happening or did it happen so suddenly that it was over just like that? I think for any child, to see parents or caregivers sad or scared is unnerving. These are the people that we depend on. They are our foundations, our rocks - always steady, always sturdy, and always protective. Seeing them reduced to such sadness and fear is scary. As kids, we don't yet always know what to do when our foundations are shaky. While standing at the opposite end of the room, I focused my eyes down to the other end where he was. I was scared, nervous, extremely uncomfortable, and sad, yet refusing to show emotion. My insides twisted and tumbled and wanted to jump out of my body and run away. I made my way to the front of the room with the rest of my family. As I looked at my dad lying there, all I could think was, "this doesn't even look like him." I kept staring waiting for him to open his eyes, sure I had seen his hand twitch or his eye blink. He couldn't be dead. Not my dad. This doesn't happen in my family.

At the church, we walked in. Again, I wondered how long he had been there all by himself without his family by his side. As we took our last looks, my mom said that this was the last time we would see him. I couldn't believe that sort of finality. It just couldn't happen. What do you mean we'll never see him again? I understood but I didn't understand. I didn't want it to be true. We all had some things to leave in the casket with him before it was closed. Of the few small tokens we placed on the pillow beside his head before we entered into the pastor's chambers, I remember most vividly that my sister had brought that little white teddy bear - the same one that he held on to so tightly when he was being wheeled away for heart surgery. As we sat, very cramped, in the pastor's chambers, pastor came in and said a prayer with all of us. I couldn't even concentrate on what was being said. I knew that while we were in there, just a few feet away on the other side of one not-so-sturdy wooden door, my dad's casket was being closed. I really would never see him again.

As the service went on, two of the cousins on my mom's side sang a duet version of How Great Thou Art, one of my dad's favorite hymns. I sat rigid on the hard church pew. I didn't move. I think I barely breathed. I had worked so hard for so long to hold all of my emotions in. Everywhere around me were tears, sadness, devastation. Someone had to be strong and carry this family through. I took it upon myself to be that person just hours after I had found my dad dead in our home. As our cousins sang and their harmonious voices entwined, raw with beautiful emotion, and filled every space in that church, I put my head down and cried. I did this as silently as I could filled with a mixture of feelings of sadness, guilt, embarrassment, and exhaustion. My world was shaken less than a week before when he died. Now, it was crumbling.

Not even 8 months before my dad died, his mom died. My dad gave the eulogy at her funeral. For as long as I can remember, my dad's relationship with his mom was a challenging one. As she moved from an apartment on her own to senior housing, and finally to a nursing home, he visited her weekly. He took care of all her finances, and even though their relationship took alot our of him, he was loyal and faithful to her. During the eulogy I remember listening to my dad talk about his mom - recalling special memories and speaking with such ease and grace. He made it through almost the entire thing, and then, at the end, his voice cracked, and he cried as he finished the last of his words. It was in that moment that I understood, as much as a 16 year old could understand, the love between mother and son, within family, no matter how difficult the circumstances. It was unconditional through and through.

Memory:

In the weeks, maybe even months, following my dad's funeral, we buried half of my dad's ashes and kept the other half to scatter in some virgin prairies in Southwestern Minnesota. On many of our camping trips my dad could be found sitting out in those prairies painting and sketching the wildflowers, the fields of waving grasses, and the distant landscape beyond. In my parent's bedroom, the chair with his clothes on it stayed untouched for a long time. My mom would walk around the house clutching one of his shirts burying her face in it crying and trying to keep him close by breathing in his scent. I remember evenings at the dinner table where she would sit across from my sister and me. As we all picked at our food, unable to ignore the grief and heaviness in our house, missing dad at the table with us, she held onto the brown plastic box that had the other half of my dad's cremains in it. She sobbed so hard I thought her body was going to break. I don't think either my sister or I knew what to do. We lost one parent and now, the other was falling before us. I thought all of us would be destroyed by our own grief, our collective grief, and our emotional absence in each others' lives in this time of great need.

I left for my trip 17 days ago not knowing at all what I would find on my journey. When I push off each day my mind always asks, "what will we discover today?" Most of the time it races through a million different thoughts. Some are connected, others are not. The thoughts are completely random and rarely do I ever stay on one subject or hold on to a specific memory for very long. But, the other day, the memory of being at the hospital when my dad had heart surgery stayed with me all day. Today while biking, I didn't think at all about anything having to do with my dad. It wasn't until I was journaling tonight that the memory of his funeral popped into my head. After almost 17 years, I thought I had done all my healing and moving on from his untimely death. Clearly there's some stuff still in there.

Tonight I realized that on this trip, through my experiences and what and how they are impacting those who are following along with me through my blogs and Facebook updates, that I am teaching, healing, and inspiring not only myself, but many people around me as well. There have been so many parts of this whole trip that have not been easy - seemed impossible even. I've lost count on how many times I wanted to give up. On the other hand, I have seen great beauty, experienced intense clarity and drive. I've reached a few milestones and felt the wash of victory as it radiated out of me. I've come to some hard realizations, challenged myself to push through, go further, drive harder. I've mourned the many losses I have experienced in my life. I have pep-talked myself through the newer things starting for me. I hold so dear the words that you all have shared with me. They carry me through every day. My hope is that whoever you are, wherever you are, and on whatever journey you are on, that through my words and experiences, you can share in my mantra and believe in yourself - that you can do it. And, in the words of my sister, "push harder because you believe all things are possible." In pushing myself beyond all of my physical, mental, and emotional limitations, I am finding myself and realizing that indeed all things are possible. I'm finding my dad in many ways, the crux of many of the complexities in my life, and connecting with him in ways that we couldn't when he was still alive. I am healing, finding my strength, finding my purpose, and together, my dad and I are riding side by side. I feel you dad. Thank you for a tremendous trip, and now, for leading me home.

Out of Sync

I hitched a ride the 50-some miles back to Houghton from Copper Bay. I was thankful to not have to re-bike that stretch. With a belly full of breakfast, the mid-morning sun streaming in through the windshield, and the hum of the car, I was lulled almost back to sleep. I fought it knowing in a short amount of time I would have to mount up and bike 60 miles from Houghton to Silver City. We pulled off at a roadside BP in Houghton. I loaded up my bike and set out into a strong headwind. Unfortunately this wind stayed with me almost my entire ride. I headed south to Greenland where the road turns northwest to Ontonagon before turning west to Silver City. As I plowed into the wind I knew this was going to be a long haul for a more average ride. My body was exhausted, my muscles ached from yesterday's longer ride to Copper Harbor, and the wind kept my speed around 7 mph.

It took me 5 hours and 40 minutes to bike 60 miles with an average speed of 10 mph. This is pitiful. I've done these miles in about 4 and a half hours all the rest of this trip. I felt every second of that last hour and 10 minutes everywhere. The first part of the ride was really quite hilly - nothing unmanageable, but annoying nonetheless. The last 15 miles or so were flat, but I still couldn't get my speed up to more than 11 mph. Even when I finally caught glimpses of the lake, while my mood calmed, my body still didn't want to work. Thoughts about calling for the sag wagon to come and pick me up paced back and forth in my mind before finally parking it right there in the front so I could think of nothing else. Luckily I didn't have any cell service or I probably would have called. Everything hurt and although I have been sleeping alot better since having my own space each night, I think my body is still playing catch up to the cumulative exhaustion.

I tried my best not to think about my near 90 mile ride tomorrow into Ashland, WI. My body and my mind were not in sync with each other all day. Never finding a rhythm that felt good, my emotional balance sank as well. I am 3 rides away from being home. It feels defeating to have everything feel so out of whack so close to being done. I knew that I needed to finish my ride today. I just kept pushing those pedals over and over. I quit paying attention to how slow I was going and kept my eyes on the pavement watching the broken shards of glass and pebbles roll on by. I knew as long as I kept rolling forward, I was getting closer. It's all I could do. My sister's words, "I have seen you try harder because you believed all things were possible," motivated me to keep going, to keep pushing through the pain and exhaustion, to believe that I could make it to the end of the ride for the night.

When I was about 4 miles southwest of Ontonagon I kept my eyes on my bike-o-meter. I knew I was going to break 1,000 miles today. Three miles, up a mile-long gradual incline. Two miles. Headwind. One point nine miles. More wind. As the tenths of a mile kept turning, a brief surge of energy overcame me. I passed the barn with cartoon animals painted on it with a wooden sign that said, "critters." A few more feet up the road, the numbers rolled over. One thousand point one miles. I stopped my bike. With the early evening sun beating down and the dog across the way incessantly barking at me, I took a moment to realize this accomplishment. I took out a piece of few days old pizza that I packed in my bike bag for lunch. Now luke warm from the day's sunlight heating it up, it was the best meal to celebrate this milestone. After 17 days of consecutive biking around Lake Superior, the largest fresh body of water in the world, on my last day biking through the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, I rolled my bike over 1,000 miles. It was a brief moment of awesomeness on a long and difficult ride.

Tonight will be my final night in Michigan. It's taken me just as long to bike through the UP as it did to get through Canada (8 days). I'll cross into Wisconsin tomorrow at Ironwood, some 50 miles into the ride. Tomorrow's ride will be the last long ride of the trip totaling close to 90 miles. While Canada saw alot of physical pain and the victory of my one and only century ride through the mountains, Michigan saw alot of emotional rawness and breakdowns before starting the breakthrough to inspiration, strength, and gratitude. The official countdown has begun. Three days left!

Small Towns & Jacuzzi Tubs

Right now, I can't think of anything better than what I am doing. As I am blogging, I am sitting in a very large jacuzzi bath feeling my muscles give out happy sigh of relief and thanks as the jets of warm water massage them. This is a true gift from the Universe - it only took 16 days of riding around Lake Superior, with a 76 mile ride just today to find this perfection in Copper Harbor. Who knew?

I pretty much slept through the whole night last night. Think it's the best night's sleep I've had thus far. I wasn't quite awake yet at breakfast and was a bit overwhelmed knowing today was a long ride. I have been spoiled since my century ride from Wawa to Batchawana Bay in Canada. All my rides since then have been around 55 - 60 miles. It's funny, back home, a 30-miler was a good workout for the day. Now, 60 miles has become the norm! Packed and ready to go around 10:45am, I set out for Copper Harbor, which I believe is the northern most point of Michigan.

The ride was fine until Houghton - home of Michigan Technological University, where my uncle went to school. As I rode through town, alot of the students were moving back to campus getting ready to start the year. Flashbacks from my first year of college at UW-River Falls poured into my head as well as the week leading up to school beginning at the University of Minnesota. I felt excited and a little sad watching the students and their families bustling around campus. A new school year is just around the corner, and for first year students, I'm sure this is an exciting time. I felt a bit sad knowing that this also means that summer is almost over. Perhaps I wouldn't have had such a reaction if I weren't going to be a student for the first time in 6 years this year as well. I am nervous about starting my doctoral program. It seems like such a big deal. It IS a big deal! Soon enough I'll be well on my way and in 4 years, you can call me doctor!

As I headed out of Houghton, bound for Hancock, I was faced with a very steep, very windy road that led out of town. I would compare this to biking up the hills of Duluth or Stillwater, Minnesota for those of you familiar with the area. Not quite San Francisco hills, but bad enough for sure. The view from the top was great. I could see all of Houghton nestled below on the water's edge. Beautiful. I continued for about 10 more miles to the small town of Calumet. I pulled over at an abandoned gas station. The storefront was boarded up. The gas pumps were boarded up. I sat down against one of the pumps and ate my lunch - much needed fuel at that time. I watched the cars traveling in and out of town. As the sweat evaporated from my body and the decent headwind continually cooled me, I eventually grew cold sitting in the shade.

It was interesting to notice, once I got going again, how on either end of these small towns there are blocks of houses that have seen better days, trashy unkempt yards, and broken down rusty vehicles. The poverty is clear. Once in town, every house has a white porch and flies the American flag. Large SUVs and boats sit patiently in each driveway - all of which are nicely paved by the way. The quiet streets are creatively named - Church St. with the church on it, School St. with the school, Golf Course Rd., with the golf course. It makes sense. On the other end of town, the tidy and cozy homes change once again to run-down dilapidated old structures. Sadness and years of wear seeps from every seam. It's almost as if you can hear them moaning and sighing heavily with exhaustion as they creak and shift under their weight. I passed through several towns like this today on my ride, each time noticing the obvious division of class.

A few miles north of Eagle Harbor, some 56 miles into the ride, Highway 41 changed. It turned into a very narrow single lane road with no shoulder. It snaked its way up and around the Keweenaw Mountain. There was rarely a section more than maybe 50 feet where the road was straight. Constant curves and small but steep and frequent hills guided me up the mountain. I met an older gentleman while biking. It was just him on a bike, no panniers or anything. He saw all my bags and asked where I was headed. We had a nice chat about where I'd been and where I'm headed to. He did the same route back I think sometime in the early 90s...maybe late 80s. He desperately wanted to give me some information on more scenic routes coming into Silver City, which is my destination tomorrow, and Ashland and Bayfield, which will be the following two days. We climbed to the top of a hill and pulled off the road. I can't remember what he told me. He wanted to mark up my map. I told him I didn't mind, but he seemed reluctant. I found it funny. He was kind of a weasily looking guy - very skinny with a weasily face - like the animal. Every time he spoke, some new particle flew out of his mouth. He was very friendly and I enjoyed our chat, although admittedly, I was distracted by the projectiles careening out of him as he spoke. I did my best to stay out of their flight pattern.

At the bottom of the hill in Copper Harbor he was waiting for me at the stop sign. He wanted to tell me about Brockway Mountain a few miles up the road. He said it had great views of the lake. The hill was a 23% incline so he suggested driving. As he turned to look at me, I could see one of his oral particles had affixed itself to the side of his mouth. I couldn't bring myself to tell him to wipe it off. Afterall, it was who he had become to me after our exchange at the top of the hill. As he continued to talk, all excited about Brockway, a small, but very noticeable, brownish drip of saliva formed at the corner of his mouth and began to run down his face. He must have been munching on some granola or an energy bar - at least that's what I told myself. I have no idea what his name is, but he looked like a Larry - Larry in his spandex shorts and white Schwinn bike cap that made is head look even tinier on his already skinny body. Thank you Larry for unabashedly bringing some humor and character to my day!

Finally I had reached Copper Harbor. My mom was about to lose her mind with worry. Apparently they never saw me on the road the whole way. I told them I bet they passed me in Calumet where I had pulled off for lunch. It was the only time I had been off the road. This whole trip I have always felt confident and comfortable navigating my way. I understand a mother's worry the best I can, but so far *knock on wood* things have been pretty easy navigation wise - and weather-wise for that matter *knock on wood again.* I opened the door to my hotel room, and aside from it being huge, I noticed the jacuzzi tub in the bathroom. Perfection! Tomorrow I'll have a shorter ride - 56 miles from Houghton to Silver City. I am hoping for some pasta there to carbo load for my near 90 mile ride the following day into Ashland, Wisconsin. It will be my last long ride. I'm almost home!

Breakdown

Memory:

I'm 12 years old and sitting uncomfortably and impatiently in the hospital waiting room. I'm sure I'd probably been there all day, and for a 12 year old, I think even the most boring subject in school would have been more fun. I feel like it was spring sometime. I can't do the math quick enough to figure out what year it was when I was 12, but it was a long time ago. My dad had just had a heart attack and needed open heart surgery. While I watched my mom talking with the doctors, only being able to pick out certain parts of the conversation that made sense, in my impatience and innocence of being 12, I still new the situation was dire.

I barely remember being in my dad's actual hospital room right before he was wheeled into surgery. I know we were though. We probably visited. I don't remember any major disruption to any conversations that were had or unfamiliar emotion shown by either of my parents. In hindsight, I am sure they were trying to remain calm for my sister and me. Their seeming unflinching nature caused no concern for me, other than the fact that I knew my dad was sick, I knew the surgery was a big deal, and I knew it wasn't normal for children's parents to be in the hospital.

Eventually, we were asked to step out of the room so they could prep my dad for surgery. They had to practically shave all his hair off including his bushy red beard which I had always known him to have. He looked so different when we walked in, but he assured us it was still him. As the doctors and nurses began to gather around, they reclined the bed, released the stops, and slowly began to wheel him out of the room. We walked with him for a few feet. My sister gave him a small white teddy bear that he held on to. I don't remember if any words were exchanged at our final parting, but I noticed a single tear fell down the side of my dad's face. My dad. This big strong guy that coached our ball teams, created beautiful art, built and fixed things, took us camping, was always working in the garage or the basement, and sometimes who had a scary temper, but never cried - was crying. To my 12 year old eyes I saw the fear on his face and there was nothing I could do except look on with worry, panic, and sadness as he clutched that little white bear.

At first my mom had said Cassie and I would have to go stay with Chuck and Helene. Helene taught with my dad for many years and their family has been good friends with our family through the years. I begged my mom to let me stay - that I wanted to be there when dad came out of surgery. For the longest time she remained steadfast in her insistence that I go to Chuck and Helene's. Finally, after more begging and pleading, she relented. She talked to me and told me how it might look scary when he came out of surgery. He would have all sorts of wires and tubes coming out of him. He wouldn't be awake and I wouldn't be able to talk to him or touch him. I understood and still wanted to remain. I felt relieved. With all the commotion my anxiety and fear had risen. I had always been afraid that something would happen to my parents. With this major event, I needed to be there to see for my own self that my dad would be okay - especially because the last image of him I had was how scared he was.

At the very last minute, and I don't remember how this happened, I was forced to go with Cassie to Chuck and Helene's. I don't know if my mom got word that something had happened or if she had just changed her mind. I was deeply hurt and devastated. I felt helpless because I was. I had no power in the matter. My worst fear and the thing that caused the most childhood anxiety was happening and I was forced to not be there. I didn't understand it. I still don't today. This was 19 years ago and I still feel the pain of it when I think about it. For some reason this memory stuck with me for most of my bike ride today. My eyes welled up with tears as I remembered and as I was pedaling down the road into a decent headwind, they were carried off as fast as they fell by the August breeze.

The last handful of days have witnessed a slow deterioration in my mood. Emotionally I have been raw - always on the verge of tears. Mentally I have been frustrated and crowded. Physically I am exhausted and while some pain has subsided, there have been plenty of other ways that my body reminds me that it is not young anymore and that old sports injuries never heal 100%. All of this culminated to a silent breakdown last night in Ishpeming, Michigan. During my ride yesterday I was baking in the sun. I think I got too dehydrated as I started not feeling well about three quarters of my way through the ride. The sick feeling stuck with me all night. I tried to go to bed early because I didn't feel well and I hoped to get an early start today to beat the rain and wind. Once again, sleep did not come easily. I laid there in the dark trying to zone out into the music in my ipod. The tears came and I silently cried into my pillow. I was absolutely wrecked in all ways that I could be wrecked. And, while I tried to find my mantra, "I believe I can do this," it was buried too deep. I have 5 days of biking left. I am so close to done, so close to home, and I breakdown.

I have to think in many endurance challenges like this, there comes a breaking point. Maybe that's just me. You work hard to get ready. All the anticipation and excitement to get going powers you through the first part. The pain and toll on the body sets in in the middle. It all builds and builds until it breaks you - or tries to. We dig deep to find our strength, our drive, our inspiration, our mantra. Sometimes we find it. Sometimes we don't. Sometimes we have it for a little while before we do battle again. This morning after breakfast, through misty eyes, I took a good long hard look at the map. I thought seriously about changing my route - perhaps knock a day off or take a more direct route with less miles to bike each day. As I sat at the table in our hotel room, illuminated only by the dreary gray rainy day outside - perfect weather to match my mood - I thought how ridiculous this is. Whatever this funk is, it can't beat me. Not after all of this. It won't beat me!

What is it that keeps me going? Why continue if I feel so miserable? I'm not doing this for any kind of fame as I certainly am not the first person to complete this journey by bicycle. I'm not doing this for any kind of fundraiser or awareness-raising campaign. I'm not doing this to gain widespread attention in some kind of narcissistic scheme. Where's my fuel? What's the inspiration? I've written before about this trip and how it's about finding self, place, and peace. It's about healing, mourning, growing, pushing, and discovering. It's about emerging on the other side victorious in accomplishing a large and challenging goal I set for myself 4 months ago and trained hard to be as ready as I could be. It's about recognizing my own limitations and pushing myself far beyond them even if it means I breakdown. Perhaps a breakdown is not a bad thing. Perhaps the frame should be a breakthrough.

So, who will I be when all is said and done? There's no way to tell. Will I have established a new sense of self, found my inner peace, and gained insight on my place in this world? I have no idea. What I do know is that I am 5 days from home. I've completed almost 900 miles on this journey in 15 days of non-stop biking. I have endured incredible physical pain and exhaustion, emotional turmoil, and being almost defeated mentally. I have experienced heightened presence and serenity. I've witnessed the ruggedness and breathtaking beauty of the ever-changing landscape of the Lake Superior shores. I've felt peace and groundedness with a mere glimpse of the lake through the thick patches of forest. I've allowed the magical powers of it to embrace and envelop me as I've enjoyed long stretches of cycling just off the shoreline. I've met some very nice people with stories of their own on journeys of their own. I've been constantly cheered on and supported incredibly by my sag team and by perfect strangers on the road who give me a honk and a wave or a thumbs up.

I left Duluth 15 days ago surrounded by my family as I embarked on this trip of a lifetime. I'll re-enter Duluth in 5 more days greeted only by my mom and Helene who have provided me with so much on this trip as they've trekked around the lake with me in the "sag wagon." Nothing fancy. Nothing big. I slipped out quietly and I'll slip back in quietly - content with the quiet and lack of ceremony of my return. Content with the accomplishment. Content with knowing that even at my lowest points, I, and many others, believed I could do this.

The Flats of the UP

I pushed off from the sleepy town of Grand Marais, Michigan this morning. It was probably around 10am, but it felt alot earlier. As I coasted through town on this cloudy start to the day, the air was a bit heavy from the rain that had fallen over night. Near the bank, I hung a left on to H58, the highway that would carry me to Munising some 48 miles west. Just out of town, I entered Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore. The first handful of miles brought me up and down a rollercoaster of hills - a much welcomed change in terrain from the flat roads I have been on since entering the Upper Peninsula of Michigan 3 days ago. The road wound itself through thick deciduous forests. The trees arched over the roadway and with the muted light from an overcast day, the green was more brilliant and crisp. The forest floors were covered with ferns and Queen Anne's Lace speckled the roadsides gently swaying and bowing in the breeze. I eventually came up out from the depths of the forest. The road flattened and straightened out. I rode along the coniferous landscape. Cat tails and wild daisies lined my path. The tall grasses and reeds from the swamps on the sides of the road danced in the wind as the sweet smells of nature were swirled around me.

Many miles of flat, straight, narrow concrete laid out before me. My route became almost identical from my ride yesterday from Paradise to Grand Marais. As I was descending a small hill, I began to think about how yesterday (August 16th), one year ago, I was on my way home from my journey back to Korea. I remember feeling so estranged from my life back in Minnesota after my 2 weeks in Korea. I felt nervous, sad, and confused about how my life would make sense once I was back home. I had left so much of myself in Korea and I let Korea in so deeply to my core that it felt like a great loss to have to leave. Today would have been my first full day back in St. Paul. I remember sitting in my apartment in a haze of exhaustion and sadness. I couldn't move. I couldn't process. I felt like so much had just been ripped away from me. It took a couple of weeks to regulate my sleep cycle and my emotions once I returned. Today as I was cycling along I felt it somewhat odd and disconnected that while one year ago I was struggling with coming home, today I was very much looking forward to coming home. Every turn of the crank I was just a bit closer to being back in my hometown, my house, my own bed, and surrounded with those things and those people that mean the most to me.

This trip has been lonely at times. I often wonder what it would have been like if I would have been completely on my own. Would I still feel as lonely sometimes? Would I enjoy the solitude? It's hard to say. What I do know is that I miss my friends and family back home. It's nice to be able to stay connected via technological outlets, but it's not the same as being with them. I've always struggled with connecting to people. I could name many reasons as to why I think this is. My biggest fear with attachment is the loss that will inevitably happen - someone moves away, someone dies, someone stops engaging, dynamics change. Rolling with the ever-changing ways that relationships of any kind ebb and flow has always left me feeling terribly unsettled. I worry that through these changes, I will inevitably be left behind. I've experienced tremendous loss in important and crucial relationships in my life. The impacts of these losses are pain that I very much still carry with me today. One thing this ride has made me realize is my intense need for a sense of belonging and security. There are wonderful people back home who, without even trying, allow these feelings to come forward. It's not something I experience with everyone I cross paths with. Biking for anywhere from 4 -9 hours or more a day by myself, it puts into perspective for me how much I love and need those who I have allowed to get close to me. I miss them. Their faces, our stories, and other random memories of all of them keep me company on my ride. I am looking forward to getting together once I am back home.

I knew that I would lose weight on this ride. Biking as much as I knew I would be and not being able to consume that many calories, there was no question in my mind. I weighed myself before I left. I am getting really curious as to what I will weigh when I get back. I've noticed changes in my body almost daily - the way my shirts hang, the way my shorts fit, how I notice definition here or there where there hadn't been as much, or any at all - my neck near my collarbones, my back, my arms, my legs. I've been on an intentional kick to lose some weight for about 2 years now. While the results have been constant, they've also been slow. For the past 4 months as I trained for this ride, I experienced more obvious results from weight lifting. For the past 13 days since being on this bike ride, I feel like there have been drastic changes that are happening right before my eyes. I think about life post ride. I'll have a few days to relax and then my doctoral program will begin. I start my research assistantship on Monday, August 29th and the following week, classes start. I know it's going to be a busy and challenging year. After biking at least 48 miles a day, but mostly the average has been around 60 miles or so, I think about how all this will change once I am home and once school is in full swing. As the polar opposite of a morning person, I may have to suck that up and try and train my body to become a morning person so I can get my workouts in early. I've got a couple handfuls of weight to lose to reach my goal weight and after the weightloss I experience on this trip, I don't want to gain it back. This trip has definitely put into perspective the "long" bike rides I did when I was training. It also puts into perspective the notion of "hills." Yeah.

I've got one week (7 days) left of this ride - a few more days in Michigan and a couple days in Wisconsin before crossing the bridge to Duluth, where it all began. I'm hoping the scenery changes. Michigan has been very flat - boringly so. I miss the lake. I haven't seen much of it since I've been here. It gives me energy and fuels my thoughts and processes of my ongoing quest of finding self and place. Last night, in Grand Marais, being able to walk along the shores of the lake and dip my feet in every now and then allowed me to connect as intimately as I can to this great lake. I felt the energy move through my body and was immediately overcome with a sense of intense serenity and balance. Even as I've ridden along, when I can catch quick glimpses of the lake, the effects are immediate and an instant calm and sense of becoming re-centered take over. All seems right and I feel connected and established in who I am, where I am, and that I am to be doing what I am doing right there in that moment. It all makes sense. I need the lake.

Sensing the Lake

I've re-entered the US on day 11. We crossed the border in Sault Ste. Marie, Ontario into the Upper Peninsula in Michigan. I had a 56 mile ride into Paradise, MI. The first 10-15 miles were fine. I enjoyed a very flat route today through Brimley and into Bay Mills. This area is largely Native country - lots of federal government buildings and services for the populations in these small towns. I was upset by the poverty in the towns and knowing the history of the way the US government has treated Native Americans and then just on the outskirts of town, riding past all the lakefront homes/cottages/cabins owned my wealthy and privileged enough people to have them in the first place. Each home has either a creative name or the family name on a big carved or painted wooden sign near the street - "Tumble On Inn," "The Whitelaw Family Lakehouse, est. 1973," "The Johnson's Best View Cabin."All the owners were named Bob and Judy, Cindy and Dave, Ed and Carol - good old white American names belonging to heterosexual married couples no doubt. Privilege, privilege, privilege! The stark contrasts were unfair and I wondered if the owners of these beautiful lake shore homes knew and understood what they had compared to their neighbors just a few yards down.

While I enjoyed much flatter terrain today, it did not work for my feet. All that time in the saddle blocks the blood flow and standing up and getting out of the saddle didn't make a whole lot of sense on flat ground. My bike would coast to a standstill in seconds. Needless to say, the pain today was concentrated in my feet. The other horrendous pain that has consumed too much of my experiences on this trip so far has finally subsided quite a bit. I am so incredibly thankful! I know the foot issue is a combination of spending too much time seated and having shoes that aren't the best for riding like this. They aren't terrible, but what I really needed was bike shoes that are designed for touring with a very firm sole and a wide fit. I could have spent the money before the trip to get a pair. In hindsight I should have, but I was worried about not having enough time to break them in and get used to them before I left, thus, potentially creating a bigger issue for my feet. I make it work though. I just need to spend more time out of the saddle whether it's standing up and pedaling on the flats or just getting off my bike altogether and walking around for a few minutes.

I followed the Curley Lewis Highway on my way to Paradise today. Through Brimley and Bay Mills it was an interesting ride, however, after that, for almost the rest of the way until it intersects with highway 123, it was flat and boring. I couldn't see the lake, just trees to both sides of me and long stretches of narrow flat road. While I should have been grateful for the easy pedal today, with the unchanging scenery, I grew impatient and had a hard time motivating myself to go faster so I could get through it more quickly. As I grew more bored, I got more impatient until I was just down right crabby. I took a minute and tried to concentrate on just calming down and enjoying the trees, the tall grasses, and the concrete. I thought about how, in our lives, most of the world is trained to go from point A to point B as quickly as possible whether it be in traveling from destination to destination, in completing tasks, in thinking thoughts - we want to get through whatever it is we're doing fast. Time, especially in Western culture, is linear. It moves in a line from start to finish and everything that we do, think, say, etc., moves along that line - always forward. I knew this was my attitude on my ride today - just hurry up and get done and when I can't go faster, get crabby about it.

I tried to just tune into what was going on - the way the breeze felt, especially when sudden brief bursts of colder air washed in from the lake just on the other side of the trees, cooling my body as it evaporated the perspiration. I listened for how the wind rushed by my ears. I felt the warmth of the sun on my skin. I listened to the way the leaves rustled and I watched the tall grasses sway. I followed the grasshoppers as they took flight before me as if leading the way for a short distance. I heard and felt the hum of my tires on the pavement, as well as the soft clinking of my gear in my bike bags as my bike dipped over small cracks spreading across the pavement. I had seen one snake already today - the first one of this ride. It was dead, but grossed me out nonetheless. My legs grew wobbly, my arms lost their strength and I about fell off my bike. I broke into a cold sweat as my heart raced and a wave of nausea came over me. Yep, I'm scared of them! For the rest of my ride I kept an eye out, growing panicky at every twig in the road thinking it was a snake. You'd think that would have provided enough adrenaline to get me moving through 40-some miles of very long, very flat, and very boring road. No such luck.

My ability to tune out of my need to just get done for the day and tune into paying attention to each moment during my ride came in sporadic episodes. Usually the pain in my feet or my neck from not cinching up the CamelBak would yank me back into wanting to just be done riding for the day. I reminded myself again of how accustomed we are to hurrying through life. I will be the first to admit I am not a patient person. I think today was a lesson that is just beginning to be learned. Tonight, we ate dinner at Camp 33 - a restaurant and pub near the upper Tahquamenon Falls (about 14 miles up the road from our hotel) and named because it was the 33rd logging camp the Barrett Logging Company constructed (I'm assuming the Barrett Logging Company constructed many of the camps in the area back in the day). The 14 mile drive to Camp 33 gave me a preview of what about the first quarter of my ride tomorrow will be like - long, flat, trees, concrete, no lake. I thought about downloading a book on tape or something and putting it on my ipod tonight so I could listen to it tomorrow, but I forgot the right cable to do that. I only brought my charger. I think it's a sign for me to once again quit thinking about how many more miles it is and just enjoy the ride for what it is, where it is, and what it means to me as a chapter in this entire journey.

I'm just over halfway done at day 11. With 662 miles completed and being back in the US, just 9 more days stand between me and and the end to one epic journey of a lifetime doing what I love most around a lake that has much significance and meaning to me. All in all I couldn't imagine experiencing the entire shore of Lake Superior in any other way. I've connected with the lake, the land, and myself in so many ways already. We'll see what the next 9 days have to offer!

I Biked the TransCanada Highway...and LIVED!

Lack of internet in some of the small Canadian towns I was in have kept me from updating the blog. Have no fear, I am still very much alive and well. I biked the last 45 miles of the TransCanada Highway today from Batchawana Bay to Sault Ste. Marie. It was probably the easiest ride I've done so far this whole trip. There was one section in the middle that was a bit challenging. A couple of the staff people in the restaurant at the resort we stayed at in Batchawana Bay lovingly referred to it as the "mile long hill." They weren't kidding. After almost 20 miles of nice flat, even gradual downhill riding, I saw it reaching up into the sky. I slowed my pace to save my legs. I knew it'd be a workout. Up I went - eyes to the ground so as to not get disappointed by seeing how much I had left to ride up. It could have been worse, but it was definitely an unpleasant disruption to a very flat and pleasant ride. Once I reached the top, it was a steady downhill ride into Sault Ste. Marie to bring day 10 and my ride through Canada to an end.

Days 8 and 9 were pretty horrendous for various reasons. Day 8 brought me from White River (where Winnie the Pooh had its origins) to Wawa. It was the last of my couple-day flatter rides as I knew the route from Wawa to Batchawana Bay would be through several mountain ranges (as indicated in my Google research a few nights ago about the area I'm biking through). I was pretty deflated by the time I reached Wawa. I was extremely hungry and had no energy for anything. Once we ate, I felt better, but then the pain and discomfort hit. As soon as the pain comes, my mood drops in an instant. I got super crabby and just wanted to fall on the ground and scream and cry because I was so uncomfortable. Every little thing irritated me. I needed to go back to the hotel (where I had my own room - a VERY good thing that night) and just be by myself and go to sleep. I was snapping at my mom and being really crabby because I was in so much pain and just so fed up with it. Hurting that bad made everything worse. I wanted to give up, be done, go home, and screw the rest of the trip.

The next morning I was really no better. I knew that I had a possible century ride on day 9 (yesterday). I met up with my SAG team for breakfast - didnt say much. Had a hard time getting motivated and ready to go. Finally I got the move on, packed up my bike, and headed out. I got into the groove pretty quickly and all the pain eventually subsided. Usually I am finding about 15 - 20 minutes into my ride, everything gets into its own rhythm and/or numbs up and I can go for awhile relatively pain free.

Most of my ride I tried to convince myself that if I had to throw in the towel at Montreal River Harbour (70 miles into the ride), that it would be ok, especially because of the terrain I had to bike. I didnt want to hurt my body more and risk injury or some kind of long-term issue (which may happen anyway). I ate Cliff bars and Hammer gel packs for an on-the-bike lunch. It didnt provide much and the hunger I felt was taking its toll. I could barely even move. I am not sure where I even found the energy to keep turning those cranks over. I struggled up even the smallest hills - again having my speed reduced to 2.5 - 3 mph. I caught up with my mom and Helene in Montreal River Harbour where I ate two ham and cheese sandwiches, some chips, a yogurt, and a cookie. I felt instantly better, though still exhausted. I decided to keep going. I asked that they do 10 mile checks with me for as long as I could go. I was more worried about losing daylight than I was about not being able to make it, although I wasn't completely convinced I had it in me.

Once I reached my first 10 mile mark for a check in, I was determined to make it all the way. I was hungry to finish this century ride. After all the riding I had done so far, I NEEDED to make it to the very end, even if I was crawling and dragging my bike all the way there. I ended up making it to the turn off street in Batchawana Bay for our resort. I was told it was 4 miles down the road. I decided to keep biking it. A few miles in, I saw my mom's truck off to the side of the road. I knew that couldn't mean anything good. As I pulled up, she told me it looked like it was another 3 or 4 miles down the road. My heart sank, my hopes sank, and I wanted to fall off my bike and just lay there - maybe cry too. I pushed through all of that and luckily, the resort was only about another mile up the road. We got in around 8/830pm. I checked my mileage - something I hadn't done all day so as to not upset the delicate balance of my biking psyche. 103.5 miles in 9 hours and 40 minutes. I couldn't believe it! I had done it! I had completed my century ride just as I said I was going to do! And through the freakin' mountains! We unloaded our stuff in the room and the owner of the resort told us if we got an order in soon, they could cook us dinner. Being a German resort, we feasted on pork schneitzel, green beans, potatoes, bread, and salad. It was divine!

The 103.5 miles from Wawa to Batchawana Bay took me through some mountainous regions of Ontario. The ride was extremely hilly. While there were no mountain passes like there were a few days ago on my ride, the hills were constant. They were very long, very steep, and happened very often. My whole ride was going up a long steep hill, followed by a very brief flat that was usually a false flat anyway and was still just at a slight incline. Then, I would go up another long steep hill and the pattern repeated itself for 70 miles. I enjoyed a few downhills, but not near as many as the uphills unfortunately. It was a beautiful ride, but the relentlessness of the hills was obnoxious. There was just never a break!

Today, on day 10, as I was biking to the Soo (Sault Ste. Marie), I took my time. I knew this was the end of the Canadian leg of this trip. It's been quite an epic experience and I felt sad to know that I was almost done. I was more than happy to be done, but at the same time, given what I have endured during my 8 days in Canada, quite an attachment was formed and it was hard to know that it was ending. Bittersweet for sure. Day 11 will be back stateside in the UP of Michigan. I'll be headed to Paradise for my first ride back in the states. I'm halfway done with my trip having logged just over 600 miles so far. Ten more days through Michigan and Wisconsin along the South Shore of Lake Superior, then across the Highway 53 bridge to Duluth where my ride will conclude. I find much relief knowing that I will not be riding anymore 100 mile rides nor will the rest of the route be nearly as hilly as what Canada gave me. I'm looking forward to seeing what the South Shore has to offer.

The TransCanada Highway

The 56 miles from Marathon to White River was so much better than the last two days. I enjoyed a MUCH flatter ride today - just a couple of rolling country hills. Although nowhere near the mountain passes I had endured the last two days, these hills were long slow climbs - enough to still reduce me from an easy cruising speed of 16 mph to about 5 mph. Annoying. Lunch was on my bike. It consisted of a mini Cliff bar and a chocolate Hammer gel pack. I managed to be only in moderate pain today as compared to horrendously severe pain the last couple of days, so I didn't want to get off my bike. In the last couple of days, that's when the really bad pain usually hits - after a long break from my bike for lunch and journaling. Getting back in the saddle is beyond brutal. Although the breakless bike ride today helped with the discomfort in the saddle, my feet started to hurt as I had starved them of consistent circulation from sitting so long. I just can't win. Anyway, I made it my 56 miles in about 4.5 hours - pretty decent time given the weight I was carrying.

I was thinking today about the TransCanada Highway - the only artery through Canada. I did some Googling when I got to the hotel and wanted to post a bit of information about it on my blog. The info below I copied and pasted from this website:

http://transcanadahighway.com/general/highwayhistory.htm

Early Canadian Exploration

Canada is an interesting country. Considering its vast size, as the second largest nation in the world (after Russia - still), it amazes people from other parts of the world how we are so similar in language and in our daily lives. There are few pronounced regional dialects (the Newfoundlandic English is the most unique) because---despite its size-this country EXISTS because of efficient transportation. Few areas feel isolated, despite their distance from other parts of the country. We all feel like part of a single country (Quebec may occasionally feel like the exception)

Explorers and settlers arrived in Canada as early as 1500 after sailing only a few weeks from Europe. Fur traders could reach far inland and back by canoe from either the French settlement of Hochelaga (now Montreal) or from the English "factories" along the Hudson's Bay. Before the railroad, crossing Canada took three months by oxcart, horse and boat, as Sir Sanford Fleming did in 1872 travelling from Toronto to Victoria to determine the course for the proposed trans-continental railway to link to the new province of British Columbia. The railway brought coast to coast travel time to about a week, after 1885.

In the late 1800s, steamships brought European immigrants to Canada in only two weeks, and trains quickly delivered them to the prairies to homestead in Canada's "Last Best West". The diverse linguistic and cultural mish-mash melting pot of Canada'settlers intermingled into a surprising homogenous culture and language. Much credit should go to the public school system which taught immigrants English so they could talk with their neighbours (usually from another country) in a 'neutral' third language.

In the 1900s, the biggest force in Canada's growth was the rise of telecommunications. The telegraph came with the railway, and moved information to move coast to coast in minutes. Towns and cities soon got newspapers, which created a shared experience in news, opinions, products and fashions. At the turn of the century the telephone began to dominate interpersonal communication, even over long distances. By the 1920s radio gave a common sense of music, professional sports and news, leading to the rapid rise of jazz music, big band and later rock 'n' roll. The moving pictures and later the "talkies" meant that Canadians absorbed the influence of American culture.

The Motorized Era (1900s)

About that time, the automobile moved into common usage. First mass-produced by Henry Ford in 1903, it enabled the Americans had cross their country from San Francisco to New York in 1906. Canadians had to wait until 1912 when Thomas Wilby crossed from Halifax to Victoria in 2 months, though he covered much of northern Ontario by railcar or on the deck of a steam ship, since there where still no cleared roads there yet.

Between the wars, airplanes began to speed transportation in the country and across it. They could fly across the Great Lakes and over mountain ranges in a straight line faster than any land-based transportation. Planes had their biggest impact in Canada's North where settlements previously several day's canoe trip or dogsled run from the nearest town were now an hour away by plane. Float planes landing on Canada's myriad lakes and rivers connected small or isolated communities that could not justify expensive roads and railways.

World War II and its aftermath put Canadian growth into overdrive. The Alaska Highway was built in months to connect isolated Alaska with Edmonton, Alberta to help defend America's northern outpost against a threat of Japanese invasion. In the 1950s the American government began its massive interstate highway construction program with 4 lane twinned roads in all states (even Hawaii has "interstate" highways!). The jet plane meant it was possible to cross the country in a day, and hop across the Atlantic overnight, and made flying affordable for the middle classes. Television added a new way to communicate over distance, but also created a dramatic way to share experiences, news and emotions. The advent of satellites in the 1960s made it possible to instantly bounce TV signals around the world. It was Canadian media guru Marshall McLuhan who coined the phrase "the medium is the message".

The Post-War Boom

After the war, Canada was bursting at the seams from the millions of new immigrants from all corners of the globe. In the 1950s, the railway was still king in Canada's transportation system, but the country was working to build and pave roads between the major cities fueled by the post-war growth of automobiles in Canada's cities. By 1949 the Trans-Canada Highway act was passed by Parliament right after.

Newfoundland's decision to join Canada. It became important to connect all the provinces together by highway, and build the Canso Causeway to join Cape Breton to the Nova Scotia mainland and speed travel and shipping time to Canada's new island province.

Trans-Canada Highway Construction

After the war, Canada was bursting at the seams from the millions of new immigrants from all corners of the globe. In the 1950s, the railway was still king in Canada's transportation system, but the country was working to build and pave roads between the major cities fueled by the post-war growth of automobiles in Canada's cities. By 1949 the Trans-Canada Highway act was passed by Parliament right after.

Newfoundland's decision to join Canada. It became important to connect all the provinces together by highway, and build the Canso Causeway to join Cape Breton to the Nova Scotia mainland and speed travel and shipping time to Canada's new island province.

Highway Construction

By 1956, the federal and provincial government came to a cost-sharing agreement to encourage the provinces to upgrade existing roadways to "Trans-Canada" standards, and receive 90% of the cost of building new stretches to fill gaps in the roadway. This was most notable in mountainous British Columbia, the rugged Canadian Shield north of Lake Superior, and across much of Newfoundland. The goal was to connect all 10 provinces by paved road by 1967, Canada's centennial year.

By 1955, much of the roadways designated as part of the Trans-Canada was unpaved, and significant sections were not even yet built as a rough roadway. The total cost for completing this was going to be $212 million (in 1955 dollars).

The two sections of greatest difficulty were alongside Lake Superior between Sault Ste Marie and Wawa, a gap of 265 km (165 mi), and a 147 km (91 mile) section over the Roger's Pass between Revelstoke and Golden in BC.

In Ontario, a right of way needed to be cleared through virgin forest for 98 of the 165 miles and 25 bridges needed to be built, but in September 1960 that stretch was officially opened.

The Rogers Pass route followed some of the early tracks of the trans-continental railway that were abandoned years ago as too steep for trains, with the addition of a number of snow sheds to protect the highway from the many winter avalanches (the area gets about 200 ft of snowfall each year) and rockslides This stretch was opened June 30, 1962, and marked the official completion of the Trans-Canada (though at that time about half the 7,770 kilometres was still gravelled). BC continued work to improve the highway through the canyon along the Fraser River by blasting several tunnels, with the final two opening in 1966. By 1963, according to the accounts of traveller Edward McCourt, most of Newfoundland was still in the process of being paved.

Over recent years, much of the focus has been on "twinning" which puts at two lanes in each direction, divided by a median. This is equivalent to the standards for the US Interstate system. All provinces have twinning programs underway, starting around major population centres. Alberta's stretch is the most complete (missing a few kilometres in Banff National Park that is under federal jurisdiction and passing through Calgary on a busy city street with many traffic lights). New Brunswick has been aggressive, opening a new stretch in 2003 that lopped an hour off the travel time through the province.


I think I had mentioned before the Terry Fox Memorial Highway. A portion of the TransCanada Highway is named after Terry Fox. Here is story about him. I am only putting the first part of it here. Definitely check out the website though. It's pretty incredible what he did! Here's the website:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Terry_Fox

Terrance Stanley "Terry" Fox CC OD, (July 28, 1958 – June 28, 1981) was a Canadian humanitarian, athlete, and cancer research activist. In 1980, with one leg having been amputated, he embarked on a cross-Canada run to raise money and awareness for cancer research. Although the spread of his cancer eventually forced him to end his quest after 143 days and 5,373 kilometres (3,339 mi), and ultimately cost him his life, his efforts resulted in a lasting, worldwide legacy. The annual Terry Fox Run, first held in 1981, has grown to involve millions of participants in over 60 countries and is now the world's largest one-day fundraiser for cancer research; over C$500 million has been raised in his name.


And here's some info I found that talks about the segment of the TransCanada Highway I am biking on (Thunder Bay to Sault St. Marie). I took this from this website:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ontario_Highway_17

Manitoba to Nipigon

Highway 17 begins at the border between Ontario and Manitoba, where a large installation greets drivers in both directions. The highway is two lanes wide and travels over and between the surface features of the Canadian Shield; further west into Manitoba the highway widens into a four lane divided expressway. To the east, the highway travels through thick boreal forest towards Keewatin, where the grade-separated Kenora Bypass, Highway 17A, splits to the north. Through the town of Kenora, Highway 17 is signed, but maintained under a connecting link agreement between the town and the province. Full provincial maintenance resumes at the eastern town limits. Further east, the highway merges with the Kenora Bypass. It meets the northern terminus of Highway 71, then makes a gradual eastward journey through the lake-dotted Kenora District to the town of Dryden. Here the highway encounters one of the few agriculturally-sustainable areas of northern Ontario. The highway begins to zig-zag southeasterly, passing through several minor settlements before entering the mining town of Ignace. Shortly thereafter, it begins to curve to the south. It meets Highway 11 475 km (295 mi) east of the Manitoba border.

The two highways travel concurrently towards Thunder Bay at the western lakehead of Lake Superior. Though it originally travelled through what was then the twin-cities, the highway bypasses to the northwest on the at-grade Thunder Bay Expressway.

Nipigon to Sudbury

Within Nipigon, Highway 11 and Highway 17 cross the Nipigon River. Along with the railway crossing immediately to the south, and another on the northern shore of Lake Nipigon, this forms the narrowest bottleneck in Canada between the Atlantic and Pacific oceans.^{[citation needed]} On the eastern shore of the river, Highway 11 separates and travels north towards Geraldton and Hearst. Highway 17 continues east along the northern shore of Lake Superior. Near White River, the highway enters Algoma District and turns southward. It meets the western terminus of Highway 101 near Wawa, which provides for a shorter route to Sudbury via the Sultan Industrial Road.

South of Wawa, the highway enters Lake Superior Provincial Park. After proceeding through several mountain ranges, and crossing numerous rivers, the highway enters Sault Ste. Marie. Here a border crossing into the United States is provided via the Sault Ste. Marie International Bridge, which connects with I-75 in Michigan. As the highway exits Sault Ste. Marie to the east, a newly constructed segment of four lane divided highway branches north; Highway 17B (the only remaining business route of Highway 17 in service) continues east through Garden River. The divided highway bypasses Garden River and passes south of Echo Bay before curving south and merging with Highway 17B.

Shortly thereafter, it turns to the east and travels along the North Channel of Lake Huron towards Sudbury, passing through numerous small towns, including Thessalon, Blind River, Massey and McKerrow. At Sudbury, the highway widens into a freeway through the Walden area of the city until reaching the Southwest / Southeast Bypass at Lively, where it narrows again to a Super 2 road. This segment is currently undergoing an environmental assessment, with plans to upgrade it to a full freeway in the next ten years.

Finally, I am biking through the Canadian Shield. I remember learning about this probably in like 4th grade geography, but until I Googled it, I couldn't tell you what it was. Anyway, I'll just post the Wikipedia website for it here rather than copying and pasting everything:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Canadian_Shield

Tomorrow it's 56 miles to Wawa. I'll have my own hotel room there which will help tremendously with sleep and healing of important areas. The following day I hope to complete my one and only century ride on this trip. I'm not so sure if that will happen given I'll be traveling through several mountain ranges (as indicated in a section above about the segment of the TransCanada Highway I am on). I'll do my best!

Today is a Metaphor

A BIG thank you to my mom for getting me my own hotel room for the night! I am hoping for a good and restful full night of sleep. I haven't had a decent sleep yet since I started. I know the cumulative exhaustion has taken its toll on my body. I need some major healing in order to make it through the next two weeks!

This morning was a rough one. Day 6 brought much pain to the usual area. In addition, my quads were screaming all through the night. Having biked up and down mountains yesterday really left its mark. This morning I felt so hopeless, again. Having had a very restless night of sleep and being in agonizing pain, tears welled up in my eyes as I tried to get down some soggy hashbrowns, toast, and rubbery eggs my mom had brought back for breakfast. She and Helene had volunteered to go get me breakfast so that I could sleep. I think the hour or so they were gone was the most I'd slept consistently since starting this ride. Once again I didn't know how I was going to manage another 50-some miles sitting on that damn bike saddle. Talk of medical attention entered into the conversation. I keep entertaining the thought but am sure there's nothing that can be done other then the doctor telling me to rest for a few days and let things heal up. I know at least ONE rest day would do me wonders, but I didn't budget for it in my planning. Stupid on my part, but I had no idea. Lesson learned...the hard way.

I took my time packing up, wanting to delay my start to the day as much as possible. The ever familiar thought of, "Am I really going to be able to make it to my next stop?" ran in and out of my head all morning. Since everything was soaking wet when I arrived at Terrace Bay yesterday evening due to the freak rain shower, my gear was spread out all over the room. Finally everything was packed and the last thing I did was to change into my bike shorts. I did the usual slathering of the same concoction of 40% zinc oxide and A + D ointment, and tiger balm on my quads and sit bones. More Ibuprofen was downed and away I went. Today, I got a nice headwind. Great.

I knew that I would need to use all my remaining energy to get out of my body and into my head if I was going to last. My body was going to do what it was going to do. As painful as it is, this comes as no surprise anymore - only horrendous disappointment. But, the show must go on as I have said before. As I was biking along I thought much about Stephanie and relationships. I raced through the laundry list of challenges that I face in relationships. I've written about this before. I've also connected it to being an adoptee, from an attachment perspective. So, biking about 10 mph into a headwind and up more hills, I pondered this and connected it to this trip and part of the reason I am doing this bike ride. And in almost an instant, the picture became so clear to me. It was shocking and mildly entertaining. I had to chuckle at how it all came together.

I wrote a few days ago about the biking constant in my life. I do it for fitness, I do it to learn, I do it to heal, I do it to become, I do it because I love it. Today biking became a metaphor for relationships - in fact pretty much the whole first part of the day was one giant metaphor. Here's how it all shook out in my head. The road is a relationship. It can be long, short, or anywhere in between. It can be rough or smooth, or some of both. There are small cracks and cavernous ones the size of small canyons that can flatten a tire or dent a rim in the blink of an eye. There are hills - mountain passes - winding curves, and descents that are gentle and rolling, or a steep drop. There are others on this road. Some of those others cheer you on, some do nothing, others suck you in, while still others try and push you off the road. Sometimes there are unforeseen barriers - road construction, freak rainstorms, severe storms, flat tires,...other times, you get miles of a gentle descent with beautiful scenery, and for a little while, there seems to be no pain in your body.

The bike is your set of tools that you have to negotiate and navigate the road (metaphor for relationship). It takes alot of work to use the tools that you have. You have to know when to shift gears, when to get out of the saddle and push hard up that climb, when to coast and loosen your grips on the handlebars. You have to know when to brake and when to get off and take a rest. The bike needs to be taken care of so it can take care of you. It needs constant attention and maintenance. You have to know when to take the clues and cues. While all of this is going on, you are powering the bike. It can be draining and down right miserable at times. It also can be very rewarding and fulfilling other times. But the work is constant in order for it to keep going. For me, I bike because I love it. It gives me a sense of being, of belonging, and of necessity. It allows me to connect, intimately, with myself and what's around me. Even through the hard work and pain, I do it because I love it. In relationship, the bike is a collection of things such as communication tools, negotiating skills, compromises, compassion, forgiveness, trust, and love. They are all necessary for successful relationships, they all take work - hard work at times, and they always require ongoing practice and fine tuning.

The pain that has settled deep into my body is like the baggage I have with me all the time. We all have it. Most of the time, while always aware that it's there, I don't feel it. I just know it's there. Other times it comes surging forth with raging violence. I moan, I scream, I cry, I curse into the air. I want to give up. I want to quit. I am reminded of the pain my body carries and I am reminded with a vengeance. Sometimes in relationship, our baggage is triggered and it comes surging forward. Try as we might to hold it at bay, we are no match for the residual cumulative emotions of hurt that we have carried with us for so long. It's until we embrace this pain and bring it into the presence of each moment as part of that moment, and learn the ways to gently heal it, that we will always carry the same pain with us. Currently on this ride, I am just starting the process of embracing the pain. When it hurts so bad, it's hard to imagine bringing it in and allowing it to be a part of me and a part of this process when I want nothing more than for it to go away. It's a work in progress.

The wind represented forces that cause tension and stress in relationship. While in my face it nearly stops me from progressing. I get down in my tuck trying to get out of it as much as possible in order to keep pushing on. It steals away the enjoyment of a downhill after laboring up a mountain pass. It nearly wipes me off the edge of the cliff as it bursts into my side. It roars in my ears - screaming and mocking relentlessly. The sweat pours down my face, the curse words come out, the breathing becomes anguished, and the burn in my quads is unbearable. But, I push through because the wind will not defeat me. Then, with one turn, what was once my enemy, my stress, my misery, is now my aid, my coach, my power. I am carried up the hills by its friendly push. I am cooled by its gentle fanning. I am carried along almost effortlessly by its guiding currents.

As this whole metaphor played out before me, I began to again think about Stephanie and my relationship with her. We're doing the long distance thing because of her job in Louisville. I think we're still in the adjustment period and with me on this bike trip and Stephanie still settling into her life in Louisville, I think we've been plenty distracted. I know a long distance relationship will be a big test of my abilities to navigate the relationship road with all of its challenges and rewards. As I think back on past relationships and critical formative experiences, I know I have been hurt, I know I have hurt others, and I know I have hurt myself. I don't think that means I am damaged goods forever, but it will take me and only me to make those repairs and keep up with the necessary maintenance. My heart is happy with Stephanie and it feels good. Even though we are far apart, I feel good about our communication and our negotiating of the time we can spend together. While far from perfect, I try hard to not carry in old wounds. That's something that still needs more work, but I do trust her and since we are faced with having to do a long distance relationship, I can't think of anyone else I'd want to do this with and feel fairly comfortable about it. Don't get me wrong, it's still far less than ideal, but we do what we can with what we're given and we work hard and because we are committed, we make it work. I want to continue in this relationship and work through whatever curves might come up in our road, steep mountain passes we have to climb, semi-trucks almost running us over, etc., together because I know we can do it together. I have a confidence in this like I haven't felt before. As I was thinking about all of this and smiling, and feeling my heart smile at just the thought of Stephanie, I said aloud, "I believe I can do this."

"I believe I can do this" is a mantra I kept repeating to myself all through the ride today. I believe I can make it up this hill. I believe I can make it to my next stopping point. I believe I can conquer my pain. I believe I can make it until the end of the week. I believe I can make it to the end of the ride. I believe in myself that I can do this! And in keeping with the metaphor of this bike ride to relationship, I believe I can do this relationship and do it well with Stephanie. I felt a surge of reassuring optimism and emotion course through my body. My eyes welled with tears - good ones this time - and I just felt like this moment, this trip, this relationship, me - this is all right and good. I can have coaches and cheerleaders. I can have motivators and inspiration. I can heal and grow. But, at the end of the day, if I don't believe it for my own self and in myself, those coaches, cheerleaders, inspirers, etc., are only going to carry me as far as their words. "I believe I can do this" is a mantra that has to go beyond being said aloud. It has to be felt and lived to every word, to every moment, all the way through.

My biking constant gave me high clarity and presence of mind and body today. It connected the physical with the emotional and I felt grateful and humbled. The panoramic scenery of Lake Superior and the pine covered mountains only added to the visible component of the grandeur of the whole day. I stopped for lunch at the summit of a climb, perched on a rocky outcropping watching the cars and trucks trapsing up and down the hill. I journaled about my thoughts while, once again, partaking in a peanut butter/banana/honey sandwich and granola. I'm just over a quarter of the way done with the ride. Day 6 is now done. I have 14 days left - 3 days left in Canada. It's been an epic ride so far!