© Copyright Jeremy Chu - www.jeremychu.com

There is a lake in India, which at one time was the largest and cleanest lake in all of Asia. It is surrounded by over 120 villages and 40 years ago the people of these villages had an easy life. They would drink the lakes pristine water straight from their hands. The men would paddle small wooden boats, out into the lake and catch fresh fish. Families would also grow rice and vegetables and together they would eat 3 healthy meals a day. It was a livelihood handed down through the generations.

In the 1970′s, the Kolleru Lake lifestyle began to change. The Indian government determined that because of it’s massive size and the wealth of life within it, Kolleru Lake would support an industry large enough to feed fish and rice to the entire planet. And so over the next few decades, that is exactly what happened.

© Copyright Jeremy Chu - www.jeremychu.com

Kolleru Lake was divided up into cross-sections of raised land, creating rectangular ponds of stagnant water in which the rice and fish farming flourished. The people of the villages surrounding Kolleru Lake had a change in livelihood from one of self-sustenance to one of dependency on international industry. Kolleru Lake the sweat labor of it’s inhabitants provided inexpensive fish and rice to people around the world.

Life was different then, but it was still good. The villagers were making wages and with it, they were able to buy food and other things.

© Copyright Jeremy Chu - www.jeremychu.com

However, by the turn of the millennium, things were not looking good. The industry was taking it’s toll on Kolleru Lake. The chemical filled, stagnant water used in farming was repeatedly drained into the main body of the lake, which literally poisoned all of the life within it. Before the 1970′s there were over 100 species of fish in the lake and today that number has been reduced to a small handful.

India had an environmental disaster on it’s hands and the world had taken notice. Finally, under international pressure, the Indian government agreed to reverse the decision they had made in the 1970′s.

In 2005, in a swift, ill-forewarned and seemingly random way, an attempt was begun to return the lake to it’s natural state by demolishing many of the rice and fish farming ponds.

But it was too late.

© Copyright Jeremy Chu - www.jeremychu.com

The vegetation had changed. Most all fish had gone extinct. Birds had stopped migrating. And the water was absolutely contaminated.

The entire situation was a disgrace. And hiding in the shadows of such disgrace, was possibly an even sadder story…

The industrial livelihoods of the people in the surrounding villages had been erased in an instant. The water they once drank from their hands, was now unsafe to even bath in. Nobody had seen it coming and worse yet, the villagers were left with no options. There was no chance for them to return to the easy life they knew as young children, because the lake they once knew had literally died.

© Copyright Jeremy Chu - www.jeremychu.com

They had become dependent on a system which destroyed their lake and was then removed, leaving them with poisoned water and no livelihood.

Today people are struggling and suffering in the Kolleru Lake region. With no drinkable water, no source of food or income the villagers are migrating for work. Fathers are leaving to do income producing labor elsewhere, sometimes for weeks at time. Mothers are leaving for months to serve as household maids in far-away countries, sending meek savings (often of $100 or less per month) back to their families.

© Copyright Jeremy Chu - www.jeremychu.com

The water issue is a most massive disgrace not only because of what happened to the lake, but also because the water is pumped into large government holding tanks, which then feed the water taps in the villages, and these tanks are not being maintained. Many tanks have broken stairways, a painful visual reminder of the Indian government’s negligence. Villagers tell that the tank’s filters have not been replaced in years, which explains the green water coming from their taps.

For those able to afford it, they now buy their drinking water in bottles or plastic sachets. For those who can’t afford that, but have some savings, they pay to be taken by boat each day, across the lake to taps which supply water that is less green. For those who can’t afford or have no option for a boat trip, they bath in and drink the only water they have access to. The water is causing sickness and skin disease. Many children’s feet in the village are visibly spotted with sores.

© Copyright Jeremy Chu - www.jeremychu.com

With parents off working, children are also missing and dropping out of school. In some villages drop-out rates are so high that schools have been completely abandoned or turned into shelter for animals. Many families have abandoned their homes too, some leaving doors locked and others leaving them wide open – a sign of no hope for return.

Unfortunately little attention is being paid by the Indian government to the people of Kolleru Lake. All of those who lost their livelihood were promised compensation, but most have received nothing. Government schemes have been put into place to guarantee work and provide food subsidies to these villagers, but little has been done to get any of this information to them.

© Copyright Jeremy Chu - www.jeremychu.com

This horrific and sad situation in Kolleru Lake was far too much for one man to simply stand by and watch happen.

In 2005 Ravi Kumar and his organization, the Association of Relief Volunteers (ARV), took on the task of standing one village back on it’s feet. The Gummallapadu village was suffering all of the pains in the Kolleru Lake region.

ARV provided this village with a teacher, who now spends after-school hours with the children, making sure they are doing their homework and attending school regularly. For some children, ARV also provided books, pens, paper and school bags.

ARV built 84 cement houses to replace those bamboo and thatch dwellings which were frequently washed away with heavy rains.

© Copyright Jeremy Chu - www.jeremychu.com

ARV held community meetings to raise awareness with the villagers about human rights, entitlements to compensation for the removal of their livelihood, guaranteed work schemes, food subsidies and health care programs. ARV brought in the proper paperwork and helped villagers to fill them out.

ARV hand delivered applications to government offices and advocated on villagers behalf, calling over and over again to check on applications and going to meet with officials to tell the stories of unjust suffering. They have had great success in supplying the people of Gummallapadu with registration cards guaranteeing work, providing food subsidy and health care and even some of the compensation promised them.

ARV even convinced the government to supply children with one nutritious meal per day. Now each morning before school, 80 children in Gummallapadu eat a healthy breakfast.

Unfortunately, one of the largest problems, clean drinking water, is something ARV has yet been able to help with, because they have lacked the funding necessary to properly research and provide a solution.

Since 2005 Ravi Kumar and ARV have done an incredible amount to begin helping one of the Kolleru Lake villages back on it’s feet. They now have their sights set on 22 more villages to begin working with this year.

Ravi is a highly educated man, holding multiple Masters degrees in different areas of human rights. He works tirelessly, 7 days a week, seeing his family infrequently, though they understand and are inspirationally supportive. “My dad is a hero” tells Ravi’s son.

To date, all Ravi and ARV has accomplished has been funded by Longitude, a lone-star 501c3 USA non-profit organization founded by teacher and traveler Shawn Rubin. Since 2005 Longitude has been sending ARV international volunteers and money gathered through small donations of friends and family. This has helped ARV to accomplish a lot, and at the same time the size of Ravi Kumar’s dreams require much, much more.

ARV is an ill-funded organization, not because they are anything less than effective – they are in-fact incredibly effective with the little money they have – but because Ravi Kumar and his small staff are still quite unknown.

iPartner India, aUK based charitable organization, has recently taken on ARV as an organization to support, because they share Ravi Kumar’s dreams for human rights in India.

With the proper funding, ARV can help thousands more people of Kolleru Lake to be made aware of their rights, to register for their deserved benefits and compensation, to have work, food and clean, drinkable water.

© Copyright Jeremy Chu - www.jeremychu.com

At a meeting on Friday, August 21st in Gummallapadu village, representatives of the 22 villages ARV is now focused on helping gathered to listen to Ravi speak on his hopes, dreams and plans to help them. Each representative got a chance to voice their concerns and ask questions. Before the meeting adjourned, there was a vote on the three biggest issues facing the villages. In order of importance, their results were:

1. Employment Opportunities
2. Clean Drinking Water
3. Children Education

Ravi and ARV have plans for helping with each of these issues.

1. Employment Opportunities – Advocacy & awareness, networking to help villagers take advantage of India’s National Rural Employment Guarantee Act, which promises 100 days of work to each Indian citizen.
2. Clean Drinking Water – Currently seeking funding to bring in professional advice on the best solution.
3. Children Education – Provide an after-school teacher in each of 25 villages and provide school supplies to the children.

© Copyright Jeremy Chu - www.jeremychu.com

The story of Kolleru Lake and the lives of the people who call it home it is a sad and unfortunate one. The story of Ravi Kumar and his organization ARV is inspirational.

Send your financial support and you can be part of relieving the suffering in the Kolleru Lake region.

Tell your friends and family these stories and you can be part of Ravi Kumar’s inspiration.

Donations over  £100 received before September 30th, 2009 are eligible for 100% matched funding by the Reed Foundation.

If you are considering helping then please donate now, because even a little bit will help.

The relentless doubt…the inner battle during the mountain climbs and the long stretches of hot black pavement…was a serious mental challenge.

I got to know my mind better. I often found myself to be an observer, floating over my bike, watching the argument between the strong and weak parts of me and their arguments with the bike and the road.

You take something from every challenge you face and when you focus on one challenge for long enough a period of time, having to face it repeatedly, day after day, you will take exponentially more from it. Distractons strip away and you are left only to focus on the raw polarity of the problem at hand.

And from the cycle of those thoughts, around and around and around, burns a new pattern in your neurology, which you can take with you into a new and better life after the ride.

I was also incrdeibly moved by the tragic stories of genocide and systematic destruction of educated role models I heard while I was in Phnom Phen.

That’s why I choose to fund the construction of a library for kids in Cambodia.

The experience and success was, for obvious reasons, incredibly rewarding. In addition to the undeniable satisfaction from helping people, I also cherish the learning and self development that came from adopting what was then such a lofty goal – raising US$14,000 for something simply because I believed in it.

I learned people you thought would join you and help, wouldn’t. And people who you wouldn’t have expected to care, to care and help a whole lot.

I learned inspiration is the most powerful way to affect change. Some teachers were inspired to inspire thier students to inspire their friends and family to help. The change there was a lot bigger than just the donations. It was the space between the dollars that I was also very excited about. The learning, curiosity and emotions experienced by those who took the time to listen and consider…and maybe even inspire others.

Learning first hand how to move people to move others, even without the unmatched rewarding feeling, easily makes raising funds to build a kids library in Cambodia one of the top 100 things I’ve done.

Construction of the children’s library I decided to raise money to build in Cambodia has finally been completed. It is located on the grounds of Hor Nam Hong Preay Nhear Primary and Lower Secondary School in Batheay District, Kampong Cham, Cambodia.

In the story that drove the fundraising I explained why I believed there was a drastic need for such a library in Cambodia specifically. (You can hear this story via the YouTube video at the bottom of this post.) Thanks to Room to Read and a long list of people and organizations, over 1300 kids in Cambodia now have access to books in both English and Khmer.

“We really appreciate Room to Read and their donor who brought this project to our community. We thank them for providing materials and resources for building the room, and I pledge that we will do our best to run and maintain the building. This is a very important addition to our community. We want every one to know that they can read books in the library and also at home. This is the first time that the school and community have had a beautiful library building and library resources. This would not have been possible without Room to Read.We hope the colorful illustrations in the books will inspire the students to stay in school.”
- Hor Nam Hong Preay Nhear School Director

“I am so happy to have a library building. I never dreamed that I would have access to so many books and knowledge. I am especially excited to read about the world and improve my reading skills. By studying, I hope to further my education.”
-12 year old student

I won’t personally accept praise or thanks for making this happen. It would have been impossible without even one of the number of people or organizations involved.

What I will say is that I saw a problem in the world, I sought a solution I believed in and then when I found it, I did my best to inspire others to believe with me.

The lesson I learned…

Inspiration is a currency of change.

I hope that you will take this with you. I hope that you will take the time in your own life to become an active proponent of inspiration and change in your community, your country or your world.

Thank you all so very much.

Live, love & travel well,

- JP Morgan Jr

The dedication plaque affixed to the Constructed Reading Room.

The Constructed Reading Room has enough space for the students to comfortably gather and read the new books.

The children are excited to grab new books from their library.

In addition to books, Room to Read provided educational games and puzzles.

This student has selected a new book to read.

This young girl has found a quite corner in which to read a new book.

A student reads her favorite book.

This student has selected her favorite storybook.

The students gather in the library to read and play games.

Even the youngest students enjoy the colorful picture books provided by Room to Read.

The AMAZING PEOPLE & ORGANIZATIONS that made the 85% funding of this library possible:

The story that drove the fundraiser at OneOldPen.org
Pro-bono video production by friend Eric Anagnostis at BLAMO! Studios.
Pro-bono music by friend Mike Gertrudes.

These words I have set down in many an autograph collector’s book.

They are, I think, true words. I know that through travel I have possessed the world more completely, more satisfyingly than if I had acquired the whole earth by purchase or by conquest. There is no implication of selfishness in the kind of possession of which I speak. Whoever possesses the world through travel takes nought from any man. No one is the poorer because you have made the whole world yours.

You have gained everything, but you are no monopolist. The wealth is there for all to share. It is not yours alone. You may invite all men and women to travel with you in imagination and they too may feel that they, like you, are rich in vivid mental pictures of places worth going to, of people worth knowing, of things that are world famous.

I have tried to convey to others with the spoken word the enthusiasm for travel that has been mine. I have done my best to make my hearers SEE the things that have thrilled me in the course of my more than sixty years of travel.

Now I am asked to do this without the aid of pictures glowing on a screen, without the help of the spoken words which can be made to mean as much by a shading of a tone or the stress of an inflection. Now I am at work with nothing but a sheet of paper and a pen to help me re-create the atmosphere of “otherwhere,” to help me make real to those who have not seen, the things which I have seen and can still see so vividly with the mind’s eye.

Word pictures are hard to paint. We are told that “words are the only things that last forever.” Therefore words should be the most durable pigments with which to paint pictures of the things that have seemed worthwhile, the things that have become one’s property, in the sense in which travel endows one with a title deed to the entire world.

One great advantage of possessing the world through travel is that one may enjoy all the satisfaction of possession without the responsibilities of ownership. Now, in days when our most valuable assets become or threaten to become our most crushing liabilities, it is good to contemplate property which cannot depreciate but must increase in value, property which cannot be taxed by federal government, or state or city authorities, property which calls for no repairs or alterations.

Everything from real estate to diamond tiaras has had its vaunted worth reduced to pitiful and sometimes complete inconsequence. Stocks, bonds, and all manner of gilt-edged, beautifully engraved certificates of value, to secure which we have slaved and saved and denied ourselves the joys of travel, may sink in worth to such a point that it will seem absurd to pay the rental charges on a safe deposit box.

The only things which are still worth what they have cost me are my travel memories, the mind-pictures of places which I have been hoarding like a happy miser for more than half a century.

I have done my best to convey with “word pictures” the things I have seen and can still see. I have been aided by all the increasing wonders and beauties of photography. I still recall with pleasure my first camera, a heavy clumsy box with six double holders for 4×5 glass plates purchased in 1883 with my life savings of $10.00.

In the past I have reproached myself for my extravagance, my lack of foresight, for my disregard of proper provision for the future. My wise friends saved and economised, went without things they wanted, denied themselves the costlier pleasures of the table, the bouquet of vintage wines and the, to me, supreme joy of going places and seeing things.

And now where are we? We, they and I, are all at the same dead-end of life’s highway. They are weighted down by all the leaden burdens of their golden hopes gone wrong. They have their memories, but these are memories of wise, dull and frugal days of piling up with hard earned dollars in safe places where those dollars would increase and multiply and be there to console for all the pleasures that their owners had denied themselves and all the fun that they had missed.

I, too, have nothing but my memories but I would not exchange my memories for theirs. I have a secret treasure upon which I can draw at will. I can bring forth, on the darkest day, bright diamonds of remembered joys, diamonds whose many facets reflect some happy dream come true, a small ambition gratified, a long-sought sensation, caught and savoured to the full, a little journey made, an expedition carried to success, several circumnavigations of the world accomplished.

Yes, it has been a good life. And it is good to rest, with nearly all of one’s dreams realized. Dreams of going, seeing and doing most of the things that seemed worthwhile – good to know that I have, in my own way, possessed the world.

- Burton Holmes 1953

—

Howdy!

My name is Luis Lopez, on June 6, 2009, I will climb to the summit of Long’s Peak (14,255 ft.) in the Colorado Rockies to raise money that will benefit at-risk teens nationwide. I am participating in a Summit for Someone climb as part of a benefit climbing series supporting Big City Mountaineers, a 501(c)(3) non-profit recreational mentoring program for at-risk teens. Big City Mountaineers provides urban teenage youth in need of positive adult mentoring with a challenging and safe wilderness experience led by qualified adult volunteer guides.

I am summiting for youth that I feel a genuine understanding for. My experiences with the wilderness during my youth were few and far between, I realize now that they were among the most important factors of making me who I am. The truth is, all it really takes is a few genuine experiences for a profound positive impact to grow out of. My own experiences were so powerful just the few of them were enough to ignite the desire inside of me to constantly challenge myself, the physical challenge of climbing a real mountain makes you want to take on all the rest of life’s mental, emotional and financial challenges. For the at-risk teens who will participate in Big City Mountaineer’s programs, the feeling they will have at the top of a mountain is what will empower them to strive for the excellence they otherwise won’t aim for. These kids can grow up to do great things, but they need a taste of greatness to inspire them first.

Now more than ever, when the world is realizing the true importance of Nature and our place within it, Big City Mountaineers is repairing the disconnect between our youth and the world they belong to by making the wilderness available to those who otherwise wont have the opportunity to know the world beyond their own neighborhood. The programs that Big City Mountaineers provides open up an entire world outside to inner-city youth, and you’ll agree that just as importantly, they open up an entire world inside of the youth themselves.

I will be climbing Longs Peak with 5 other people and a guide. This challenge will test me physically, emotionally and mentally. To reach the summit will take me three days and two nights of climbing, so I will be training for the next 6 months in order to prepare for the climb. I am excited to be committing myself so strongly and to be giving so much towards something so real, worthwhile and valuable.

You and I may know the sublime awe of participating in the grandeur of nature, the thrill and wonder of exploring untread wilderness, the healing contrast between an overcrowded city and a pristine forest. You and I may know the taste of triumph and it inspires us to produce the best in ourselves –the teens you will help do not know this privilege yet, after your support they will.

To do my part, I have committed myself to raising $3,600 for Big City Mountaineer’s valuable youth programs, and that’s where you come in. I think you’ll agree, it’s never a comfortable thing asking for money and supporting me will make a positive impact on the lives of many teens. We each put in what we can, and together we will solve big problems.

Be sure, even a little bit will help. Your tax-deductible support will take teens beyond the limits of the world they know, in turn, this will produce a tremendous effect. To give towards this great cause, click this link and donate to my climb.

When I reach my goal, standing above the clouds, looking over all the obstacles I will have overcome, I will feel something greater than my own triumph. I will look forward and see the countless other triumphs of the teens that will be empowered to climb their own mountains. The ones who will be provided with what troubled teens need the most, a true challenge to reveal to them their true untapped potential.

I want to thank you in advance for your supporting this incredible journey, on behalf of  myself and those teens who I am climbing for, who otherwise won’t have a chance to believe that they had the ability to ascend to great heights in life. I’m also asking that you take a visit to Big City Mountaineer’s website (www.bigcitymountaineers.org) to learn more about what they do for youth and to read the great response the youth are giving to the programs, and the Summit for Someone’s website (www.summitforsomeone.org) so that you will be inspired by their personal, dynamic and progressive fundraising approach. In addition to investing your own support please do this for me too, forward this letter to as many people you know, and talk to as many people as you can about my climb, because making more people aware of this awesome cause will help empower that many more at-risk teens to push themselves beyond their limits towards their greatest potential!

To give you an exact picture of how far your donation will go, here are examples of how much your money accomplishes:
$50         Supports a Teen for a Day
$100       Supports Two Teens for a Day
$250       Supports a Whole Youth Group for a Day
$400       Supports a Teen for His/Her Entire Trip
$2,000    Supports a Whole Youth Group for their Entire Group

For every $1 Summit For Someone Donation:
$0.77 – BCM’s Recreational Mentoring Program

$0.23 – For Someone Fundraising Program Costs

Climb on! & Donate Here!

I have another story for you… and this time I am asking for a favor in return.

Please continue to travel with me by supporting my project. It will be VERY much appreciated.

Even a little bit will help…

CLICK HERE -> OneOldPen.org

As for upcoming travel adventures…a friend and I are seriously considering a month-long rowing journey down the Guadalquivir River in Spain this spring…

 —

DAY 1 – San Diego to just south of Temecula (71 miles)

Written by Omar:

We didn’t start on our bikes until late around 10 or 11 our first day and soon as the noon heat began to hit we began the hundred turns and out of the way miles of straight-up straight-down hills it takes to get out of the city and towards the desert while avoiding major freeways. I saw a homeless man carrying his sleeping bag 10 miles into the ride and realized I’d forgot to pack mine. I decided not to turn back and instead hoped some cheap solution would pop up. We felt our first pains early and stretched ass-to-ass like turtles on our backs on the sidewalk for the benefit of everyone else stuck in traffic. We got a few happy honks and then kept going, stopping at every McDonald’s on the way to steal free Powerade, we moved inland then backtracked towards the coast across Del Mar, then back inland again for good, climbing a long uphill through Escondido to Old Highway 395 that runs along the side of the 15 North. John began breathing hard and soon couldn’t swallow any water so we stopped at a 7-11 for a break and using webMD via his iPhone John self-diagnosed himself with EIA (exercise induced asthma). In the parking lot two girls ran into a car backwards pulling out of their spot. The stout troll in the hit car got out in a rage, cursing the world first for his bad haircut, his shitty flat-top that made him shorter and fatter, and then for the 3 inch smear on his maroon 1995 Saturn. It was good theater and we rode off again until after dark trying to reach Temecula but ended setting up camp in a burnt out patch of dirt between the freeway and some golf course and all night the semis croaked their Jake brakes over our tent and down the hill to Temecula. I wore all of my clothes and borrowed John’s silk liner bag and was warm enough.

DAY 2 – Temecula to San Bernardino (79 miles)

Written by John:

With the morning light we found ourselves in a Tim Burton movie. All the trees were black and leafless and the patch of dirt we had slept in was really a patch of ash.

It was a long downhill to Starbucks where we took over an outside table to share our only spoon and bowl for mixing up some granola with Powerade stained water and chunky peanut butter as a milk substitute. While hunched over the aluminum bowl of mush, an as-seen-on-TV California blond came strutting out of Starbucks, locked my eyes and wished me a wonderful, wide smiling “Hello…” then paused for a response to which I responded with a blank stare as she kept her gait and exited with “…have a nice day.”

“Have a nice day!” I called to her swagger.

Hmm…maybe it’s the dirty sweater cyclist thing…??

“Hey Omar, do you want to just stay in Temecula today?”

It took us forever to get up the 79, passing lots of small insignificant desert towns.

We stopped in one outdoors shop that had no front door and shared space with a real estate office to buy a sleeping bag for Omar, but seeing as he was already on a relatively tight budget of fourteen cents per day, he opted instead for the “Space-Material Emergency Blanket”which was nothing more than a ten square foot sheet of Reynolds Wrap folded into a silver brick the size of a bar of soap.

“You’re crazy dude. You don’t even have a sleeping pad and now you’re going to sleep on the ground wrapped in that thing?”

“Yea, these things are warm, Ellie and I slept in Yosemite in the snow in one and we were fine.”

“You’ll look like leftovers.”

At a Vitamin Shop we bought some Accelerade and flirted with the cute girl at the counter who didn’t know where Rhode Island was. We road on again along the straight and long long long 79 with a sweet tailwind that pushed Omar ahead of me until he was too far to yell for with the pump, tubes and patches in his bag and I got a flat right next to a Mexican guy setup with a taco cart in the parking lot of some commercial buildings and a custom wheels shop.

Omar wiggled away into the heat on the horizon. The taco guy was convinced I had stopped for him and he didn’t speak English so everything I said he assumed had something to do with the tacos he was sure I wanted. He was waving his spatula around speaking to me in Spanish and I was wishing I hadn’t quit the Spanish audio course when I decided not to ride into Mexico. Omar was gone for about 15 minutes and the tent over the taco cart was the only shade around, so finally I ordered a couple chicken tacos when just then he rolled up assuming I was so damn hungry I had stopped to eat without telling him so that he could realize it ten minutes later and double back into a headwind. We ate tacos in the shade, drank warm Powerade, fixed my flat and rode on.

It was so freaking hot that day. Tailwinds are great for making good time, but when you’re going 20mph with a 20mph tailwind, there’s no breeze to relieve the scorch of the sun. I ran out of water and was getting dizzy, so we stopped at a random house on the highway. I knocked on the door and a little girl answered.

“Hi. Can I use your hose for some water? I ran out…” I said pointing at the spigot by the door.

“Yeah, OK” she said snapping the door shut and peaking at me through the window treatments.

Steep climbs before a long downhill into the ass-end of San Bernardino passing abandoned lots, bail bondsman offices and defunct tire shops. At the extreme north-end of the city, literally a block from the foot of the mountains, we reached the home of Lettie – a spunky 50 year old couch surfer. We showered, drank Lettie’s orange juice and traded stories about our travels until her striking young daughter Desiree arrived home from work to drive us for more taco’s and tell us of her obsession with London.

Desiree slept with Lettie in Lettie’s bed and I slept with Omar in Desiree’s bed which had fresh non-girly sheets on them courtesy of Lettie. I was already used to sleeping close to Omar as we’d shared space in the children’s book section while we were both living at Shakespeare & Co bookstore in Paris, but it was strange being next to him on a big comfy bed in pink room with posters of boys on the wall, a life-sized cutout of Marilyn Monroe staring at us and the sweet fragrance of perfume in the air. Although the thoughts only lasted minutes.

DAY 3 – San Bernardino to Hesperia (44 miles)

Written by John:

It was late morning in a flash and we were back in the kitchen drinking more of Lettie’s orange juice and eating our granola with her real milk. It was a short ride from there to the foot of the first serious mountain range we’d have to cross. Automatically I pulled into the first McDonald’s I saw. It needn’t even be said anymore as we’d stopped at so many already. We’d park the bikes, Omar would pull out his bent and dirty, super-sized plastic McDonald’s cup, I’d pull out my iPhone to check my email and he’d go in to fill up and buy a hamburger. Then he’d come out and we’d drink Powerade and then we’d take turns going back in for more until my water bottles and his Camel-Pak were filled.

“Shit, I forgot my iPod at Letties” said Omar, standing there with his cup of Powerade.

“I’m not going back man. I’ll wait here.”

I sat in the shade waiting for him and thinking “Damn, this kid is forgetful. I wonder how much stuff he’ll lose before the end of the trip…”

The view during the 3000 foot climb was amazing. After only a mile we could see all of the flat suburban grid that is San Bernardino. The road snaked itself through thin forest up the mountain and we followed it with blue skies above. A car would pass every few minutes, but for most of the time it was just us and the sound of our tires crunching over the sand and sticks on the dirty shoulder.

It’s funny pedaling uphill all that time. You’re going slow enough to have a conversation, but your heart is pumping so much blood to your legs already that you can only spare the oxygen for a handful of words before you’re lungs start to heave. So we kept to our thoughts, which went around and around with the pedals.

The sun got awfully hot during the second hour. I started to wonder if I’d really be able to handle the heat of Death Valley. After 90 minutes I really started to struggle. We were taking breaks more and more often. At every sign of shade or turnoff we pulled over to rest.

“How far was that…one mile?” Omar asked.

I clicked the mode button on my odometer to show the distance, which I’d hidden so I wouldn’t have the watching water boil effect as we climbed.

“Nope, just four-tenths….”, I replied.

And then, three miles before where I calculated the summit to be, I came around a bend ahead of Omar and saw the a bunch of buildings and a sign on one of them that said “Summit Pizza”. I started pedaling feverishly, burning up all the energy I’d been saving. I looked back to see if Omar had realized I’d started pedaling like a mad man. He had and was pedaling wildly too.

The challenge was grueling, but we took it well knowing this was just a small test of what was to come.

We locked the bikes outside a small family owned cafe and sat down for a long lunch and then ordered the all-you-can eat soup…over and over again.

“I wish I’d tried this while I was in France…” said Omar with his face in the bowl.

“You’ve never had French Onion?”

“Nope.”

“Weird…”

I watched two hippies outside milling about near our bikes while I spooned food into my mouth and felt the nutrients digest out of them and travel straight into my legs.

We ate about eight servings including all of our last because after we had ordered it and then tried to cancel and the home-schooled, attractive, yet socially awkward 19 year old waitress told us they had just cooked a new batch because we had unexpectedly eaten all of the French Onion soup.

Written by Omar:

Coming down the North side of the mountains was plunge-climb-plunge-climb with mobs of mosquitoes catching up to our faces during every slow climb and though I spun a goddamn tornado out of my low gears it was never enough to outrun those thirsty bugs not until a last series of drops and ess curves that proved my brakes we worth nothing. On my last turn I saw myself slide off the road and into the dirt on the edge over a wooded cliff and somehow I stayed on my bike while I skid in all directions for 20 feet before ending up on the road again. John asked what I saw when my life flashed before my eyes and I told him I didn’t see or think anything I just kept myself from falling and I thought maybe should I ever get that flash I would know it would be be that flag that its too late. Then, I laughed since I still hadn’t bought a helmet and after this what could ever come along that I would need one.

The rest of the day was easy rolling past Lake Arrowhead and some fun invisible yokel did some bird calls and yelled to John and me from up in the trees, “Hey!….What’s going on?” and I yelled back, “I don’t know, I’m riding a bike!” and that was good enough for him. A long giant road during sunset into Hesperia and we stopped at Starbucks to eat our granola and think of a place to sleep. The girl behind the counter was afraid of me I don’t know why, I scared her when I asked her for a spoon and she jumped backwards into the coffee maker, the rest of the night she gave wary side glances from across the room, seemed like she wanted to make sure I wasn’t creeping behind her. It frustrated me having to deal with so much fear and having to tiptoe like a Frankenstein out of politeness so I decided to go all the way when the place was empty right before closing I killed the silence and asked her, “Hey do you have a lawn?” She asked, “A lawn?” and I repeated, “A lawn! Like with grass!” and she murmured a confused yes and then she tried to hide herself inside of the cash register. “Well could my friend and I pitch our tent in your lawn?” She went into the back and never came back out until John and I were outside loading our bikes and she locked the doors to the café and watched us hatefully through the glass. I hadn’t skipped a please or a thank you and I wasn’t even wearing my horns that night. She was just some weird weird bird who is afraid of the ground and afraid of the sky and is praying everyday that her branch doesn’t break.

John and me ended up chaining our bikes behind some strip mall and climbing the fire ladder to the flat gravel roof on top of some dentist’s office and we hauled all our bags up in one two-man donkey pull using some carabiners and rope and we were set for the night. Semis throughout the night and some long train that sounded like a whirlwind and a real rough wind blowing but just above our heads and it was like going to sleep inside storm without rain. It felt good to sleep above everything and hear it all going on just below, all the rigs and the itinerant desert graveyard traffic all unaware of the two men sleeping right above them. It was good to be tucked away in the middle of everything but unseen, and it was good to sleep amongst people and buildings but still have a giant unbroken sky of stars for a roof. I used my foil emergency blanket that night and slept in all my clothes again and I rolled around the grit of the roof that night like a fetus over sandpaper.

DAY 4 – Hesperia to just south of the Red Mountain (78 miles)

Written by Omar:

I woke up looking over the sunset and morning traffic. When I looked over at John the first thing he said to me was “I’ve been up since 4 in the morning. I’ve slept 3 hours and that iced chai from last night is still in me. Let’s go!”

Written by John:

Sleeping on the roof and not getting caught was exhilarating and I was wired. This was the closest I’d ever been to living the life of a secret agent. I was picturing Tom Cruise in Mission Impossible as I hopped over the roof ledge and climbed down the ladder to hang for a moment on the last rung by one arm a with my feet dangling a few feet above the ground before dropping with a thud that made me worry someone might of heard us. I scurried quickly around the side of the building leaving Omar to deal with whoever might come to see what the sound was. When I came back around with the bikes, the coast was still clear.

“Hey, where are my sandals?” I asked Omar.

“I don’t know…when is the last time you had them?”

“They were strapped to my bike when we ate lunch at the summit yesterday.”

“Maybe those hippies grabbed them?”

“Ahh sheot! They must have. They couldn’t have fallen off, they were clipped in. Bastards. Hippies love sandals. Man those were nice ones…”

I’d been wearing a broken pair $4 red Old Navy flip-flops for two months before I sprang for some nice sandals at Berk’s in LA.

“Now I have to wear my cycling shoes for the rest of the trip…” I said, already missing the comfort of changing footwear in the evening.

We stocked up with food at Albertson’s, both left a stink the Subway bathroom, and Omar jammed a foot-long meat menagerie into the heaving bag on the back of his bike.

Another long rolling East to West traverse across Hesperia before cruising north on a flat 395 with another beautiful tailwind for miles and miles.

At a truck stop intersection creatively named “Four Corners”, we sat down in another Subway where I ate a fresh 6” and Omar ate half his smushed and soggy foot long meat ménage à trois.

It was so damn hot after lunch and only getting hotter that we agreed hitchhiking 10 or 20 miles North would be a fair idea so we hung out for another hour but all the people we asked either said a quick no or just jumped back in their car and peeled out. It was even hotter still when we got back on our bikes.

We didn’t make it to Johannesburg by nightfall as we had wished, so we walked our bikes off the road a couple hundred feet and camped in the desert where there were billions of stars and the milky way spilled brightly from one horizon to the other.

In the tent, we did shots of Accelerade to ensure our incredible gas-passing remained in full-effect and split the remaining half of Omar’s wet-pressed foot-long meat monstrosity. Beyond the texture, it was actually pretty tasty.

DAY 5 – Just south of Red Mountain to Ridgecrest (10 miles)

Written by John:

“Shit, Omar…you were right.”

”What?”

“We shouldn’t have walked our bikes through the desert…I’ve got a flat.”

We pulled seven hundred thorns out of our tires and spent an hour fixing tubes before two guys in a massive, glimmering red pickup packed for a fishing weekend pulled over.

The driver hopped out full of positive energy.

“You guys OK?”

“Yea, we were just fixing a flat..”

“All right, sure you don’t need anything?”

“Nah we’re good…”

“All righty then..” he said turning back to his door.

“Actually…” I shouted, “we could use a ride North to make up for lost time.”

“Hop in!” he shouted back excitedly.

The fishermen hoisted our gear on top of their tackle boxes and coolers and then off we were with AC rushing between our ankles and hopes for how far they’d take us passing through both my and Omar’s minds. I watched the red dot glide along the map on the GPS and listened to the driver talk business into his handsfree while the passenger chatted with Omar.

They dumped us at the top of a massive downhill and we waved them goodbye, glad to have made up the lost time and ready for a warm glide down into the next valley.

We hopped on, clipped in and started rolling. Omar’s rear tire made one full rotation before it exploded with a snap and hiss and then we were back on the shoulder with the bags open, tools out, bikes upside down and a wheel off.

Written by Omar:

This guy shows up on a moped and stops to see if we’re alright. He looks like an extra out of Mad Max with his blond dog-hair and the first thing he tells us is that this very morning the Apocalypse has begun. Banks going under and the Russians rallying their nukes and food riots breaking out in all the major cities, this guy Marty says we did not show up on his doorstep in the middle of the nowhere by chance. John and I decide to play the part of willing converts so as to get a ride into town, we tell Marty how we agree God must’ve put us here to find out “the Truth” and arm ourselves with Bibles and Marty agrees, says carrying Bibles will stop us from getting flat tires. He goes home and comes back with his truck and the preaching begins.

It only takes a ½ hour to drive into Ridgecrest, Marty crams it full of his conspiracy theories and his hatred for established religion. He says none of the churches preach the real word of God whose real name is YHWH so he’s set up his ranch as a retreat from the world to study the Bible for the rest of his life and there he’ll be when Armageddon comes down and he’s so happy he says that its finally come, he’s been waiting for it his whole life and now he finally gets proven right, I wondered how long really into the end of the world would he be so happy that he’s right.

We get to T.J. Frisbee’s bike shop and it looks like the bike shop in Pee-Wee’s Big Adventure. We unload our bikes and bags of gear and John and I feel like we’ll be all set from here on out and we’re ready to say thanks to Marty and stock up on supplies and keep going. But I realize I’ve lost my personal bag with all my money, my emergency blanket, Motrin, toothbrush and a borrowed iPod and I must’ve left it on the side of the road. Its another brainwashing journey with Marty for me while John stays to get his bike fixed and buy food.

Written by John:

“How much water do you think we’ll need to ride from here to Death Valley?” I asked the teenage bike shop clerk.

“Aww geeze, probably eight gallons.”

”Eight gallons, damn! There’s no water stops between here and there?”

”Nope, there ain’t nothin out there. Nothin.”

“How the shit am I going to carry eight gallons of water and all my gear over a mountain range?” I wondered.

I rode to the supermarket and bought 4 one gallon jugs, the most I could carry, as well as a bunch of cliff bars, some rice and pasta and a carrot.

“Where the hell are these guys?” I thought when I got back to the bike shop. I was sure they’d be waiting for me as I was gone about an hour and it’d taken us less than a half hour to get into town from where Omar left literally everything he had brought with him besides his pants.

The shop owner Steve was finishing up putting the thorn guars in my tires. He was nice enough to offer to do the install for free.

“Hey Steve, have you seen my friend?”

“Nope. Half hour turned into an hour and a half huh?”

“Yea, I guess so. When they come back, can you tell them I’m over at the Burger King?”

”Will do!”

Written by Omar:

“We’ll take a shortcut,” says Marty and for a second I believed him that a shortcut would be a shortcut. Perhaps on paper we might’ve driven a shorter line, but he took me through 2 ½ hours of man-made desert back roads bumping along at 5 miles an hour, showing me dozens of abandoned gold mines and emphasizing over and over how easy and hopeless it would be to fall in and get stuck in one. Then he drives me to the trailer setup on his ranch asking me a hundred times to stop in and have some much needed tuna for protein but I tell him I am farting enough with protein shakes alone.

We get to the spot where he picked us up and the bag isn’t there anymore. “Maybe a crow picked it up and flew away with it,” says Marty, “I seen them taking off with big things before… like rabbits.”

Back across the shortcut I’m angry at having lost what few things I brought and my brains and my eyes and lips are all dried up from not drinking anything out of Marty’s paint buckets of water and I don’t have the heart to stay in character and pretend to care anymore. Marty goes on and on about looking for a righteous woman to marry, winning over Satan’s temptations on occasions that floods have washed up half-naked women to his doorstep in the middle of nowhere, the benefits of a heavy-tuna diet, the classic “rock and roll is the devil” and the parts of his life spent as a Jehovah’s Witness and as a God-hating drummer. The funniest thing Marty said was, “You know, I’ve always had this one beef with God though… I always think, aw how come when you sent Jesus you had to let him get put up on that cross? Why couldn’t he’ve been it? I mean why did he have to do this to me I mean, we could already have had Armageddon and the Kingdom of God could be in place now and I would get to live in Paradise on Earth instead of… aw… I guess its okay…”

Getting back to Ridgecrest John asked us what took so long and Marty joked that we’d stopped off at some bar but John saw my face and knew what had really happened. Marty left us each with a Bible, John and I each tried nonchalantly to get the other to throw them away, then we both confessed that though neither of us was religious we couldn’t get over the stigma bred into us of defiling the Bible, instead we left them on the table at a Burger King. We washed our hands of the entire situation like two Herods and I told John what Marty had said to me walking in the street just before he left, which explained a lot about our evangelist chauffeur.

“Marty you eat a lot of tuna don’t you? How much do you think you eat a day?”

“I don’t know, I guess I mostly eat when I’m hungry.”

“Doesn’t tuna have a lot of mercury in it? I think you’re only supposed to eat so much of it or else it’s bad for you.”

“You know I’ve heard that…”

“Well how do you know you’re not eating too much mercury? How do you know whether the fish you’re eating is full of mercury or not?”

Marty stopped and thought very hard before putting forth his diamond of logical reasoning…

“Well I guess it would depend on whether the fish I was eating had mercury in it, or not.”

…and then he smiled at the sky and started walking again, so so content with having answered yet another of the world’s riddles.

Written by John:

“Do you know we’re going to have to carry 8 gallons of water into Death Valley?” I told Omar.

“Eight gallons??!”

“Yea, the kid at the bike shop says there are no water stops.”

“Ahh…fuh-cack!”

We went back to buy Omar some spare tubes to replace the ones the crow’s flew off with, and feeling like a regular by then, I walked straight into the back room to talk with Steve again.

“Hey Steve…”

”Yea?!”

“Hey, do you know if there are any water stops between here and Death Valley?”

The teenage clerk I’d asked the same question of before eyed me from behind a bike hung on a rack that he was working on.

“Ah, sure. There’s one every 30 miles or so.”

“Oh yeah?”

The kid went back to the bike.

We ran bungee cords through the plastic handles on the six water jugs and slung them over our bikes and then road into a furious head wind to the police station where Omar was hoping some desert Saint may have turned in his bag of cash, iPod and things. No dice and characteristically, they weren’t very nice. Then one of those plastic handles that attach under the cap (the kind which when carrying a water jug by always feels as if is about ready to give way) snapped and the jug went flying off Omar’s bike, skidding across the police station parking lot. It was obvious we couldn’t head out of town like that, so back we went towards the bike shop in search of another solution.

Omar had room to add panniers to his bike rack, but the cheapest set was well over $100. Quite a price just to carry water. Brainstorming.

“How about we the reusable shopping bags at the market?” Omar suggests after I finish giving Steve the bad news.

“That’ll work…if you’re clever!” said Steve, birthing a catch-phrase for the rest of the trip.

Before we even made it to the market, we got the idea of using shopping baskets instead as they’d fit way more stuff, but neither of us had the immoral aptitude of a homeless person to steal blue plastic shopping baskets from a supermarket.

“What about milk crates?”

We circled behind the building and found a small pile of milk crates by the back door of a doughnut shop. It was as if they’d just dropped from the sky at our request like the garbage can or phone booth in Bill & Ted’s Excellent Adventure. Less than an hour later we had two milk crates harnessed to Omar’s rear rack using some rope and a piece of wood I snapped off of a pallet in the K-Mart parking lot. This setup made Omar’s bike look like it had two fat wings, but it was solid and could hold four gallons of water no problem. We were ready to go.

In the ecstasy of our success, up we looked over the plaza parking lot to a red setting sun. It was dusk and despite our valiant efforts and determination, we’d still only pedaled 11 feet that day.

It made more sense to spend the night in Ridgecrest, so we leaned our bike’s against the wall of the doughnut shop. After being turned down by the Asian doughnut-rista for a place to relieve ourselves, we brought two glazed doughnuts and went back outside to lie on the pavement, eat the sugar and talk about our time in Paris, the girls’ we’d been with and where we’d go next as darkness came and the heat began to reside.

A strong wind came with the nightfall and it pushed us around the parking lot we were starting to feel at home in. We parked our bikes next to a thrift shop, so Omar could go inside and look for a used helmet. He was in there for awhile and I started to worry he might have bumped into Marty again, so I went in after him. When I found him, he had a light blue youth small helmet strapped to his head and was busy charming the two attractive African girls working there, while his cheeks bulged through the straps and 90% of his head was visibly unprotected.

“What do you think?” he asks me.

“Dude, it’s way to small. It looks like a yamaka attached with zip-ties!”

”No it’s not, I think it fits good!”

“Hah! Maybe you could return it at K-Mart and get a new one.” I said half-jokingly.

“Yep, you can do that. But you didn’t hear it from me,” said one of the thrift store workerss.

Omar paid his $4 and back outside I found the wind hand blown my bike over and from the distance travelled, judged that it must have done a full flip.

Twenty minutes later Omar walks back out of K-Mart with a brand new boxed adult helmet and a story about he used the skills I’d been teaching him to hypnotize the Customer Service clerk into letting him return a used helmet without a receipt and best of all, of brand they didn’t even carry.

“I just kept staring into her eyes and telling her ‘It doesn’t fit and it gives me headaches. I just don’t want to have headaches anymore….’”

Seeing as Omar had no wallet or money since the “Marty incident”, I bought us a Dominoes pizza for dinner and we sat to eat it outside at our now favorite urban oasis; Starbucks.

Omar noticed a bike outside probably belonged to the tall cute red-headed barista. When she came outside, I tested his theory by asking if it was hers and taking the credit for noticing I then began to tell her the story about our day from the flats in the morning to the fishermen to the exploded tire to Marty to the bike shop to the lost bag to the missing Omar to the bike shop to the water jugs at the police station to the bike shop to the doughnut shop and milk crates to the thrift shop and kmart and Dominoes and then to her. We end up talking with her for her entire break. Tall and thin and in Omar and my fine opinion being a likely candidate for modeling career, Jessie’s also an artist and is training to do the century ride in Death Valley. She tell us she rides 140 miles a week (supposedly not enough for her to feel justified in having a piece of pizza) and drinks enough water while riding to drown a whale. Before we left, she kindly brought us a bag of Starbucks snacks for our trip.

We setup camp a couple of miles out of town to be in good spot for the morning. We shared some Accelerade and opened the bag of treats Jessie had given us.

“Oh wow, she individually wrapped the snacks!”

“Awww….”

“Awww….”

DAY 6 – Ridgecrest to Panamint Springs (74 miles)

Written by John:

“You ready to go?” I asked Omar.

“Yup”

“Oh shit…” I said, looking towards his bike.

“What?”

“Your tire’s flat…”

“Aahhh fuh-sheeeet…really?”

“Hah…no, just kidding! Let’s go…”

Written by Omar:

Three things made up this day for me…

Half an hour of nonstop downhill riding through Mars for breakfast riding alone through red rocks and heat and holding my breath pretending I was on another planet arriving in skeleton egg-fart Trona to feast on Jessie’s pastries.

Written by John:

I’d been to that sorry town before. It was the egg-farts that reminded me of it. But last time I was in a car with my now brother-in-law who at my request nervously weaved our economy rental car through the neighborhood so I could steal some images of the people there. I wish I’d had my camera that day on the bike tour when we stopped at the gas station for some shade and lunch so that I could have taken a picture of the large Mexican woman caked in face makeup who was working there. Her breasts were the biggest I’d ever seen. They took up the whole cashier vestibule. Incredible.

At the counter there was a bowl of apples the size of plums and a single mango the size of a pineapple. I bought the biggest mango I’d ever seen over the miniature apples and asked the massive breasted woman if there was a place we could fill our water bottles with drinkable water. Her and the man spending his paycheck on scratch ticket after scratch ticket both resounded a confident “Yes” while pointing outside to the garden hose snaked across the pavement.

“Is it drinkable?” I asked smelling the egg-farts and questioning their understanding.

“No” they said.

“Then why would I put it in my water bottle?” I asked accusingly.

They stared at Omar and I blankly and then the man looked back down towards his gray stained fingertips that held his unlucky penny and went back to scrapping away at the Mega-Truck-Millions lotto card.

Written by Omar:

Burning in the desert all the rest of the day a horizon apart from John loving the long long nothing and vacuum of the land and leaving behind a good portion of my troubles in the sand just pedaling and pedaling on top of pedaling and pedaling and giving myself up into smoke underneath the Sun and losing a lot of pains and flying too fast for them to jump back on me.

Written by John:

“It’d be nice to have a sweaty shirt and then stop in the shade,” I thought. The heat and the hot wind dried the water off you as fast as it came out of you. I kept riding and riding and looking back to see if Omar was still behind me and then forward for shade, but all there were were bushes too small to sit beside, though as the miles passed I began to picture myself curled up next to one….with just the right position I may have been able to get most of my body out of the sun for a good ten minutes at a time.

Written by Omar:

Ending the day in a freezing dining room where some lifelong waitress feeds me a pound of French fries and a gallon-mug of beer twice the size of my brain.

Written by John:

I had the Salmon and for twice the price of Omar’s beer I drank an apple juice the size you get in an elementary school cafeteria.

Before bed we light up the stove at the picnic table by our tent which was pitched in a dirt parking lot dubbed the Panamint Springs campground. I had been promising Omar soccer ball sized explosions emitting from my stove as, curiously enough this was the actual warning language used in the Instructions Manual, and plus I had actually witnessed it the last few times I’d used it. Maybe it was the wind or the fact that I didn’t way over-pump the canister, but there was no explosion at all that time.

Unimpressed, Omar mixed up some Accelerade while I cooked way too much pasta and canned turkey chili that we tried to fit inside us anyway as the climb the next morning would be the biggest challenge yet. We couldn’t fit it all though.

When we laid down in the tent, I could hear the Accelerade doing something strange to all the food in my stomach. Normally I wouldn’t like that kind of activity happening inside me, but seeing as I was in the middle of some super-human adventure, the chemical reactions seemed somehow appropriate.

DAY 7 – Panamint Springs to Furnace Creek (58 miles)

Written by John:

Woke up at 5am, on our bikes by 6am. Record time. The sky was clear. The air was a delightfully cool mid 60 degrees. There were three miles of downhill before the twelve mile climb. Good to get the blood flowing. We carried 6 gallons of water….me with two strapped to my rack and Omar with four in his wings for balance.

Written by Omar:

It was hard for me to tell whether these hills were harder or not than the San Bernardino mountains. I loved them more though because of a magical stretch of climbing where the road lined up directly with the Sun up into it, and I remembered the story of Gilgamesh where the road of the Sun is in complete darkness and I laughed because here I was pedaling into the eye of the Sun and I couldn’t see a thing either, I had to look at the ground the entire time. Then of course I tried to explain it out of breath and delirious mumbling it in spurts to John as if he had been inside my brain the whole time and he had absolutely no idea what I was talking about.

Written by John:

I had no absolutely no idea what he was talking about. Almost everything Omar says is a little odd, but I can usually pick up what he’s sayinig, which I think is one of the things that have made us such good friends and which is what I thought about as his mouth moved up and down spewing out all the stupid thoughts that cycle through your brain when you pedal straight uphill for hours and hours directly into the quick rising sun on your way towards the center of one of the hottest places on earth.

And it was heating up. You could literally feel the temperature change with each new breeze.

Written by Omar:

18 miles of downhill into an oven. I do not want to try and describe it besides like falling from hell on a mountain top, down into heaven in the valley, but where heaven is hotter than hell.

Written by John:

Nobody understands what 18 miles of constant downhill is like. Especially coming after a climb like that. I would definitely put that 45 minutes in my top fifty life experiences. The road rounded over the top of the mountain and tipped gently downward. The turns were long and wide. The pavement was so flat and smooth, noticeably smoother as my tires were silent even with the speed. The wind was behind us, so the breeze in our ears was quiet as well. The bikes just rolled and rolled and rolled and there was nothing out there in the desert ahead of us. It was early and only a few cars came, so most of the time it was just us, alone.

I stood high on my pedals and leaned forward, so that I was up over the handlebars and raising my chin high, the bike disappeared from my periphery. I was floating seven feet above the ground. I was flying. I felt my cheeks widen and my mouth open and that just made me smile even wider.

“Freedom isn’t an idea, it’s a feeling” I thought. “This is freedom.”

The mountains rose behind as Death Valley swallowed us in, cracking and chapping our lips, burning our skin, making our clothes so white and stiff with salt that by the time we reached Furnace Creek Resort we were stripped down to just out matching black spandex bike shorts and sneakers, which were a set of new Specialized cycling shoes for me and a pair of old spray-painted gold Nike’s for Omar. I’d been to Furnace Creek before too, but this time, without the petrol and the freon working for me, I saw the place as a real oasis.

We had enough energy left to befriend everyone at the resort check-in and turn “no available room” into a deluxe room at 50% off the normal $200/night rate.

Written by Omar:

I was so glad John sprung for the room. The rest of the evening I lived in the pool and read and practiced shitty slight of hand. I had a hamburger and a pizza and a beer in the same day. I watched the Simpsons. I read the Gideon’s Bible and I slept in a bed.

DAY 8 – Furnace Creek to east of Pahrump (87 miles)

Written by Omar:

I slept too much.

Written by John:

The beds were comfortable, so we took advantage of it.

When we opened the hotel door at 10am, it was already damn hot. We climbed for ages out of the valley, a long gradual climb. Less physically challenging and more Zen-like then the day prior. Still hot though. Hot, hot, hot. Lots of stops for water, sunscreen and Chapstick which I found myself sloppily applying in wider and wider circles until I was practically painting my face with it.

Halfway to Pahrump we stopped in a town called Amargosa (which means bitter) and talked to 50% of the population – four. We bought ice cream cookie sandwiches and flirted with the bleach blond 18 year old Samantha who lives in Pahrump, works in Amargosa at the historical theater/hotel/snack shop and wants to study in Vegas to be an nurse.

There were so many flies inside the hotel that we had to go outside to eat our ice cream cookie sandwiches. Samantha’s boss, a large older woman, told us she had never left California and teased us for not pedaling all the way to Vegas in one day. The other resident repeatedly encouraged us to visit the Gentleman’s clubs and brothels in Pahrump in that way that could both be taken as a joke and a serious recommendation.

Pahrump sucks for cyclists. We rolled into town on a shoulderless road and almost got run over by carnival trucks.

By 3pm it was too hot to ride anymore so after eating sandwiches at a Quizno’s we spent three hours in the AC watching Derren Brown videos on my laptop.

At sunset, we started out of town at the start of a wide shoulder.

Then Omar got a flat and my new pump broke, so I yelled and I threw it hard into the air. It was quiet for a moment before the pump whizzed by my head and smashed back down right beside me. Not a very good toss. Then some guy and his girlfriend appeared out of thin air right in front of us asking hurriedly if we were OK. I was confused at their urgency.

Haven’t they ever seen someone working on their bike before? Man, this town really does suck for cyclists.

“We heard someone yell…” said the guy.

“Oh, yeah sorry, that was me. The pump broke. It’s the second one. I just bought it.” I answered.

“Oh.”

Then they told us the prior night a truck had flipped over in their front yard and the driver had died. I watched the cute girl standing there while fumbling with the tire and a third mini backup pump.

 I wonder if she’s his girlfriend?

He finished telling his story.

“Have you ever seen a dead person before last night?” I asked him.

“Yea” he said.

“I mean, not at a funeral?”

“Oh…No, I guess not.”

“Was it weird?”

“Yea, kind of.”

And then he want back to cleaning the office building at night with that girl who I guess was probably his girlfriend.

We rode some 20 miles uphill in the pitch darkness on a decent shoulder along highway 160. Omar had had his safety lights and headlamp inside the bag he had left on the highway so the only light left was mine. I rode behind him so that my flashing tail light warned oncoming traffic and far enough to the right so that I was able to shine my headlamp ahead of him without casting his shadow directly in his path. When I got lazy and dipped my head or turned the wheel, Omar would suddenly be riding in pitch blackness and then I’d hear him hit the rumble strips so I’d jerk my head or bike back into alignment. We were trying to reach the summit before going to bed, but we didn’t make it. So we camped off the side of the road next to a fence on the hardest ground on the planet, which was ten times harder for Omar because he was still sleeping directly on the earth with no sleeping bag. I can rough-it pretty well, but compared to Omar I was travelling in luxury. I thought a few times about offering him my sleeping pad or bag, but I kind of enjoyed respecting his hard-core-ness.

DAY 9 – East of Pahrump to Las Vegas (38 miles)

Written by John:

“Hey Omar…”

“Yea?”

“Evidently carrying our bikes off the road last night didn’t save us from the cactus thorns…”

“Aaaaahhh sheeeot!”

“Yep, both tires…:

“Oh, come on!”

“Yep, sorry dude….becaaaauuuuuse I’mmmmmmm…… JUST KIDDING!”

Ten more miles of constant uphill after waking up. We didn’t stop pedaling once until the summit at 5500 feet.

Another long downhill into red rock canyon. In itself it was amazing, but we were already spoiled from the downhill into Death Valley and plus there was a headwind that kept us from fully enjoying the gravity. At the first gas station on the outskirts of Vegas, we tore off Omar’s wings and threw them in a stinky dumpster and dumped some of our water weight on our heads.

We rode then through flat-as-a-lake Vegas from the far south to the far north end where my good friend Harry has been living for years and is now trying to escape from. Harry was at work, so I climbed in through his back window and opened the garage doors. Being inside of a house was a bit surreal. I felt awkward and out of place as we stuffed our stiff stank clothes into the washing machine and then showering it all off I felt comfortable and normal again.

We took a city bus to the strip. My cycling shoes clicked on the clean floors at the Rio Hotel & Casino and I wished I had my sandals.

Since his wallet and money was still somewhere in the California desert, I paid for Omar when we arrived at the entrance to the infamous Carnival World Buffet.

I felt the burn in my legs as we slid into the booth. I rubbed my cracked lips together and looked at how brown my skin had turned. I looked at Omar. His face was tired, yet it glowed of achievement.

“Remember what the people in Hesperia said?” I asked Omar.

“Yea, and the people in San Bernardino…and Marty…and those guys at the bike shop…”

“Everyone thought it was crazy.”

“It was crazy…but it was awesome.”

“True.”

“We can’t stop here you know. This is just the beginning.”

“I like that. Let’s do something crazy and awesome every year.”

“Definitely, we have to now.”

“Definitely.”

We spent over four hours dreaming up our next adventures over seas and down rivers. We stuffed ourselves with every kind of food imaginable and drank juice after juice brought to us by our Thai waitress Sariwon (Sally-One).

“Khob koon krub Sally one! Isaid excitdely, “We’ve been here for a long time huh?!”

“OK! You wah maw on-juice now?” she replied, totally dodging my question.

“I don’t think she’s impressed,” Omar commented as she walked off.

“Yea well, maybe this is routine for her.”

And maybe it was routine.

But the past nine days certainly hadn’t been.

Not for me. Not for Omar. And not for most anyone…

On an Oregon State Park beach after watching the Pacific sun dim to a bearable brightness and then slide behind dark gray clouds coating the horizon a Canadian kid came over to me and said hello. Comeau was too touring by bike. He’d been on the road over a month cycling from Edmonton, Canada to Vancouver and then down the coast. He carried a fraction of the gear I had and barely enough cash to buy a bus ticket home.

Comeau showed me some of his low-budget travel maneuvers. We walked into Best Western’s along the coast, filled our stomachs with eggs, waffles and pastries and our pockets with fruits and granola bars for the questionable price of a confident posture and coy smile.

Most of the Oregon coast was a beautifully scenic ride along ocean cliffs and through forests as we traveled from small surf town to small industry town.

In a particularly unaccommodating community characterized by the logging industry and dune buggy rental shops, my Canadian friend and I visited a small diner called the “Cozy Kitchen”.

Comeau asked our waitress Lisa for some hot water with which to mix his oatmeal. Despite my concern with asking a business to supply hot water so he could eat for free at their table, she kindly brought a steaming kettle along with honey and brown sugar on a glimmering silver platter.

Considering the sun was setting and the ugly little town didn’t have much to offer for a place to setup our tents, I wondered how far Lisa’s kindness might go.

“Maybe she’ll let us camp in her yard?” I posed to Comeau.

“Do you happen to know anyone who lives south of here who might let us set up our tents on their front yard? We’re cycling the coast and there’s no parks around here…” I asked Lisa when she returned.

A bit dumbfounded, she leaned her arm against my booth as she perused her memory.

“Well I’ve got an Aunt, but she’s might not be too…umm….”

“It’s OK, my mother wouldn’t be comfortable having two dirty guys sleeping in her yard either!”, I interrupted. “I just figured I’d ask, because you were so friendly… “

Not yet discounting our luck, I watched Lisa pace back and forth behind the counter on her mobile phone. From the frequent peeks over her shoulder, it was obvious she was making a private call she didn’t want us to hear.

“I just talked to my husband. He could put your bikes in his pickup truck and take you to our place if you’re interested. We live just a couple of miles from here.”

“Aww…he doesn’t have to do that”, I said noncommittally.

“Oh it’s no bother, really!”

“Well, OK then! Thanks!”

Dan came quickly in his rusty Ford F150 and with one beefy arm, lifted our heavy bikes into the truck. Smiling, I opened the door for Comeau so he could sit between Dan and I on the leather bench seat with his legs awkwardly placed over the center axle hump on the floor.

After effortlessly hoisting our bikes back out of the truck, Dan offered us the option of pitching our tents on the spare lot next door, a 500 square foot patch of crushed stone and weeds, or on his giant front porch. We chose the later.

While setting up camp under the glow of an exterior house light sourced by an extension cord, we took breaks to ask the names of each of the fifteen cats darting around the yard.

We chatted with Dan’s teenage son, quite a friendly chap, who seemed to be missing a fair bit of general knowledge as well as a number of teeth.

Our friend Dan, the lumber truck driver, responded to most statements and questions with the same two words. “Mmmm hmm.”

There were two memorable exceptions to this. The first was on the ride home when I asked Dan where he had met Lisa.

“Right there at the Cozy Kitchen!” he exclaimed sitting upright in his old Ford.

“Really?” Comeau and I both sounded.

““Mmmm hmm.”

The second exception was later that night on Dan’s porch. Comeau inquired as to whether there were other industries in the area besides logging.

““Mmmm hmm. They all get shut down though. It’s those environmentalists…” Dan responded.

Leaning on his wobbly railing, he peered out over his little city lit by the yellow lights of the lumber yard, while below his cats scurried around back and forth and through a window behind him his son’s face strobed white, blue and green from the glow of a five foot flat-panel TV taking up their living room wall.

It was obvious the three of us didn’t share the same ideals.

We stood in an awkward silence wondering what each other was thinking. The space between us, that space Dan and Lisa’s kindness and hospitality had done such a fantastic job of narrowing, began to widen…

I looked out over the city. The yellow lights were blurred to large bulbs in the daze of my thoughts. Taking a step back and a breath that said it was time to get some sleep, in that elegance of ambiguity, I broke the silence concluding our converse…

““Mmmm hmm.“

I’d been running pretty regularly and I didn’t believe the mid 50’s woman cyclist I’d chatted with outside the ACE Hardware store who told me that running 30-40 miles per week didn’t mean anything when it came to cycling hills. Climbing mountains on that first day put a blazing fire in my legs I hadn’t felt since my years of self discipline conditioning in martial arts classes.

Thought it felt as if hot knives were being driven into my thighs with each down stroke, the cognitive battle was even worse. The first day was truly a test of spirit.

Should I have started extended bicycle travel without any training? I can’t do this. Maybe I should take a break? Am I really fit for this? Do I really want to be riding my bike across countries? Cycling isn’t necessarily for everyone. I’m probably better off backpacking. People make mistakes; maybe I just made a mistake. This isn’t just my mind; I’m actually reaching the limits of my physical ability!

Maybe my higher self prevailed or maybe it was the $4,500 I’d spent on the bike, clothes and camping gear, but I completed a couple thousand feet of ascent in the first day.

That evening when the road finally flattened out, somewhat mechanically I pedaled onward. The coast being the only goal I could focus on, I continued to push myself towards it. After six and a half hours of continuous riding over seventy five miles, both dusk and rain fell.

I ducked into the woods off the side of Highway 101, chained my bike to a tree and pitched my tent in a spot hidden by some thick brush. Sat up with a small hunch, feeling the cold bite and dampness of the outdoor air, listening to the cars rush by and the rain patter against my new tent, my head began going through more automatic patterns.

What the hell am I doing out here? Why am I sitting in a tent on the side of a highway? Do I really want to be all alone again? I like being around people. Damn, this is lonely…

I’ve found I always go through a stage of thinking these things when I embark on a new solo travel adventure. The truth is that at times, traveling by myself really is a lonely thing.

Yet I was able to let the thoughts float through me this time. I knew it’s that push away from loneliness and that pull towards human connection that leads me to socialize and interact with strangers.

And that un-stranging of strangers, my curious exploration of humanity, is why I’m on the go again…