Well, after my last correspondence, the day generally turned to shit. Before leaving Pueblo, I stopped at the Chamber of Commerce to pick up a new state road map. I guess I left my other one at the shelter. The woman that provided the map was incredibly friendly. She was older, probably in her sixties or seventies, and had obviously traveled quite a bit. She was curious about my trip, and we talked about traveling, living in small towns and big cities, and places of interest in the southwest. I would have loved to talk with her all afternoon, but I needed to be scooting along.

While on the internet earlier, I had looked into frontage roads along I-25 to avoid being on the interstate as long as possible. I had found a decent route that would keep me on side roads for at least a few miles, and I thought I had memorized the route fairly well. As I approached the end of town, however, I came to a T in the road, and I chose the wrong way. I went about a mile and a half before I realized my error, but I decided to stop at a Family Dollar and get a can of soup before turning back around. As I locked up my bike outside the dollar store, I noticed a thorn sticking out of my rear tire. The tire was still inflated, so the thorn was obviously plugging its own hole. I had two choices: take the thorn out and have the tire go flat right then, or wait and let the road take its coarse and work the thorn out down the raod, maybe 100 yards, maybe 2 miles. No telling. So I removed the thorn, thinking this was a decent spot to patch the tube. I let the air drain out then went and purchased my food. I ate the can of soup in about 20 seconds, and decided to pull my bike to the side of the building to do the work, out of the way.

After I had patched the hole and was beginning to put everything back together, I realized that I did not have my waist pack on me. It wasn’t around my waist, and it didn’t seem to be in my pile of bags on the ground. It had been sitting on top of my rear rack when I rolled my bike through the parking lot, and it must have fallen off then. I started getting terribly worried. It had been about 15 minutes since I left the storefront. My heart sank at the prospect of losing my wallet and camera. Just as I was about to frantically round the corner of the building, a car pulled up next to me with a family inside. A girl in the back asked my name. I had seen them in line in front of me in the store. When I told her the name on my IDs, she produced my pack from the floor at her feet. Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you. Washed with relief. After they drove off, I checked to make sure everything was still there, although I knew it would be. I can’t imagine they would have sought me out if they were going to take anything. I only had about three dollars in my wallet.

So with my tire inflated, I set back down the road in the correct direction. The day had become hot. A sign I passed said the temperature was 77. Riding down the frontage road was relaxing, but it didn’t last long. Soon I had to get back on the freeway and join the traffic. I was tired, but I pedalled away. There was nothing along the way except farms for miles and miles. I reached a rest stop at Colorado City around five, and took a water and bathroom break. My destination of Lathrop State Park was still another 25 miles, and the sun was just about to retire behind the mountains. I took a look at a map, and the nearest camp ground seemed to be more than ten miles to the west. I weighed my options. Going west would be a shorter distance, and I might have a chance of reaching the camp before dark, but then I would be ten or more miles out of the way, and I would probably have a lot of uphill. Continuing south to my initial destination would take quite a while, at least two more hours, but probably more. That would mean riding in the dark on interstate 25. But I would be keeping my course, heading in the right direction.

I’m not sure why I felt it was the best choice, but I decided to continue on to the south, to aim for Lathrop State Park. I knew there was nothing in between where I was and the park, save the town of Walsenburg, which is just a few miles from the park. So it was all or nothing. I went for it with gusto! Somehow I found some reserves of energy and strength to push myself along down the highway, up some big hills. The sky grew dark within about a half hour and a starry and moonless sky watched over me for two hours. My bike light does not throw adequate light to safely navigate the debris-littered shoulders of an interstate, so I had to hold another flashlight in my hand to light the way. Passing cars and trucks also helped in my endeavor. Throughout the darkness, I was only snagged by one road gator, and I noticed it just before I hit it, so I was able to swerve and only catch a small tail of it.

By the time I reached Walsenburg, I was utterly exhausted and starving. My energy was waning quickly. I debated stopping in at a restaurant and getting a hot, cooked meal. In the end, I figured it would be faster and I could get to bed more quickly if I just rode the rest of the way to camp and cooked while I set up my hammock. So I passed through town, passed the bar-b-que place, passed the family restaurant, passed the old-style tavern. I thought to myself at one point that if I were to come across a mexican restaurant still open, I might change my mind about stopping. Everything was closed.

I passed out of town, and the streetlights ended. I pulled my flashlight out again and began climbing uphill toward the campground. About a mile out of town, I heard a strange noise as I weaved over the while line on the road. I stopped to check things out and noticed that my rear tire was losing air. Another flat. I was in complete darkness, save my flashlight and a slight glow from the stars above. I had no idea what was around me, and there were big trucks coming through, even at this time of night on this smaller highway. I decided quickly that there was no way in hell that I was going to deal with fixing my flat there on the side of the road. I had noticed a motel just before the edge of town that had rooms for 40 bucks. I figured that was probably the cheapest around, and I turned myself around and began walking my bike back toward town.

It took me about 20 minutes to walk back to the motel. I stopped in and requested a room. The owner there noticed my flashing rear bike light and said he had seen me going down the interstate. He and his wife were very friendly, but they did not offer a discount. Damn. I didn’t really expect it, but one can always hope. I put the room on my credit card. The room was decent: two beds, a tv, fridge, and shower. That was all I needed. I cooked some food on my stove in the room and ate a big meal. Then I took a long, hot shower. By the time I got to bed, it was nearly midnight.

I slept fantastically, woke up around 7:30, had some free breakfast, courtesy of the hotel, and fixed my flat. By the time I packed up and set out on the road, it was a little after ten. I left town and headed up the hill again. I thought about how I was pretty glad I had stopped where I did, that I had avoided climbing this hill the night before. It turned out to be quite a bit further to the campground than I had thought, and it would have taken me at least another half hour to hour to reach the place from where I got my flat. Best to keep the positives in mind.

The rest of the day was incredibly tough, but I was fairly relaxed throughout, after my night of great sleep. The day took me into the mountains, reaching a summit of 9413 feet, my highest point of biking yet. Reaching that point was grueling. I had to take it one stroke at a time, stopping at least every half hour for a short break. The sun was hot and the wind was in my face, making the climbing even more exhausting. I reached the summit of the pass just before three, and I felt that was fairly good time to have climbed the 3000 feet up some steep grades. At the top, as I was setting up to take a picture of my bike next to the sign proclaiming the elevation, a guy in a passing truck flipped me off. He was a young guy, around my age, sitting in the passenger seat of a pickup truck. Such a stupid and meaningless gesture, given the context, but it’s funny how something like that stays with you. It’s not that it made me mad. I didn’t take it personally. But the incident constantly reentered my mind throughout the day. I kept wondering to myself why someone would do that and why those kinds of people have to be dealt with. Oh well, it’s not worth dwelling upon now.

With the summit reached, I was looking forward to some sweet downhills. And there were. Unfortunately, the wind did not allow me to enjoy them. The fruits of my labor were bitter, and I had to pedal all the way down the other side of the mountain. I stopped at the entrance of a park at the bottom of a big hill to enjoy a snack. As I was just about to head back onto the road, a man in a pickup truck pulling out of the park road stopped and asked if I was headed up the pass. I told him I had just come over it, was heading toward Fort Garland, and asked how far it was. He said it was ten miles and asked if I wanted a ride. I debated in my mind for a minute whether I wanted a ride. I was surely tired, but I knew I was capable of making that ten miles and the fifteen more to San Luis, my destination for the day. Still, this man seemed friendly, I was exhausted, and I was a bit worried about making my destination before nightfall. I did not want to ride in the dark again. So I took the man up on the offer, and we threw my bike in the back of his truck.

He was a friendly man, a real estate agent in the area. We talked about homes and land prices in the area. He dropped me off in the heart of Fort Garland and handed me ten bucks before he left. He suggested I try to find a ride down to San Luis, but I opted to ride. I figured it was going to be fairly flat, and I was right. The last sixteen miles of the day went along nicely, with the sun beginning it’s tired descent toward the low-lying mountains to the west. I was very glad to have taken that ride, as I would not have made it to town before dusk.

In San Luis, I had a place lined up, courtesy of my aunt Karen. Getting a hold of the man, Thomas , however, was very difficult, as his cell phone does not work at his house. I had made contact with Thomas earlier in the day, but I had no idea where he lived. I asked around in town, and the two people I asked knew the general location of his place, but not exactly. They knew he lived several miles down a side road, out towards the mountains. I still couldn’t get a hold of him, so I had no choice but to just set out in that direction and hope for the best. It would be dark very soon. Luckily Thomas knew I coming and met me only a mile or so down the road. We threw my bike in the back of his truck, and he drove the last six miles or so to his house.

Thomas owns a ranch with plenty of acreage. His house is a work in progress, but very beautiful, with some fantastic art inside. When we got there, his friend (whose name escapes me at the moment, and I feel terrible about that) was preparing dinner, incuding homemade tortillas, chili, and a corn and pork stew. (The name of the dish also escapes me; I must be tired.) It was all delicious. Afterwards, we watched a movie then went to bed. This morning, his friend cooked a fantastic breakfast. Thomas insisted on giving me a ride that day to Taos. I felt fit to ride, but I thought it might be alright to just take the ride. I probably needed the day off from riding after crossing the mountains, and Thomas and his friend were so kind to offer.

So we drove down to Taos, stopping at a hot spring next to the Rio Grande along the way. Now I am in Taos, at the library. I have had some decent tacos and some good chili. Now I am heading down to Rancho de Taos to stay with a friend of Brother Sebastians. I should get going. I think the library is closing. Tomorrow I am heading further south to Santa Fe. Hopefully I will be couchsurfing there.

Tonight I am staying at a hostel in Santa Fe and having serious thoughts of catching a train to California. My rear tire is flat, and I walked about four miles with the flat tire to get to this hostel. I’m tired and feeling broken.

The last two nights have been nice, staying with a family in Ranchos De Taos. The Medinas, Fidel and Hope, are an older couple native to the area. I was connected with them through Brother Sebastian, who stayed with them for a while when he went to art school out here. The Medinas were kind enough to invite me to stay a second night, and their son, Leo, showed me around the area on the second day, taking me to the bridge high above the Rio Grande Gorge and up to the Taos ski area. It was a beautiful day. The entire stay was completely comfortable, and the Medinas treated me like family. They even taught me some Spanglish and bestowed some elk and antelope jerky and dried apricots and dates.

Riding out of Taos this morning was a gorgeous route. The clouds in the sky made for great picture-taking conditions, and passing by the Rio Grande River Gorge was overwhelming. The entire time I just wanted to stop there and spend a week next to the river. While north of here most of the trees have already shed their leaves, along the river many of the trees were glowing with full, bright yellow folliage. About half way through the day, I reached the town of Espanola, which doensn’t seem very nice. I stopped and ate lunch there and headed out, but the rest of the day found me on busy highways away from the river. The relaxation was gone.

In Santa Fe, I was hoping to couchsurf, but unfortunately none of the people I contacted got back to me. As I neared the city just before five, I was not at all sure where I was going to stay. Just about two miles outside of town, on a busy highway with a small shoulder, I struck a big rock while rolling down hill. There was really nothing to be done to avoid the rock, save swerving out into traffic or into the dirt and guard rail. Hitting the rock left me with a flat tire. There was no way I was going to attempt changing the flat on the side of that busy highway. That would be far too dangerous. So I decided to walk to town and hopefully find a bike shop. I am so tired of getting flat tires, and I resolved a few days ago that at the next opportunity I would buy a new tire. These last two I have had on the rear have not been working out. I think the last few days have given me more flat tires than I had in the first month and a half of riding. So I will go back to what I had before.

So I walked into town and began searching for a bike shop. A young woman walked by me, and I asked her about finding a shop. The only place she knew about was REI. She was walking that way anyway, so she walked with me over there. We had some great conversation about politics and Santa Fe and California and Oregon. She has been working on the Obama campaign there in Santa Fe. We parted at the REI and I checked out their stock. Unfortunately they do not carry the tire I want, and I am set on getting that particular brand of tire. I don’t feel like trying something out new again. Tried and tested, that’s what it has come to. I asked an employee there about other bike shops. She referred me to another shop but said they were probably closed. It was just after five. This town shuts down early. While talking to the employee, the young woman, Laurie, came in. I had asked her about cheap motels, and she suggested a hostel in town. She knew the general location but not the name or exact intersection. She felt bad about leaving me with such little information and since she was walking in the direction of the hostel, she said she would walk me part of the way and set me in the correct direction. She walked with me for six or seven blocks and we talked more. She was very friendly, and I was hoping that she was going to offer me a place to stay, but she didn’t. In the end we parted and she set me in the direction of the hostel. The street I walked down was busy with the sidewalk disappearing intermittenly. Of course I was still walking my bike with a flat tire, and I have probably done some damage to my rim.

After about a half hour of walking, I found the hostel. For $25 I have my own room. I just have to clean it up myself in the morning. There is a kitchen here and some free food. I ended up cooking my own rice. I arrived here very tired and a bit frustrated. I had the strong thought of catching a train tomorrow all the way to LA. In the end, I think I am going to go camping around here for a day or two and think things through. I don’t know if I am ready to end this trip, but I am tired and need some rest, to get away from the stress and be alone with nature. So I will not be on my computer for a few days. Now I need to go. They are closing down the common area. Good night.

Tomorrow afternoon, at 4:45, if all goes according to plan, I will board an Amtrak train in Albuquerque, New Mexico, en route to Los Angeles, California.

I left the hostel in Santa Fe just after noon and headed southwest along I-25. My destination lay thirty miles ahead at a campground on Cochiti Lake. After my flat tire and exhaustion and thoughts of ending the whole trip, I had decided I needed to take some time off, to clear my head, and think through my decision. I chose a campground not too far from the city so that I would not spend my whole day riding and have some time to set up and cook dinner before dark, which comes just after five now. Cochiti Lake seemed ideal, being right by a lake and at a relatively low elevation.

The weather was fair, but the winds kicked up toward the end of daylight, providing a steady headwind for the last hour or so. The beginning of the ride ran on a frontage road paralleling the interstate, but that road ended due to construction, forcing me to walk my bike through some dirt onto the interstate shoulder. The last twelve miles found me on a small highway heading north. I passed through vast open country, some farmlands, and small signs of civilization, including a buffalo farm. Sometime before five I reached my destination: Lake Cochiti campground. The place was fairly quiet, with only a few RVs around. The campground is divided into two loops, an upper one containing electrical hookups, and a lower one without. I chose the lower loop, as it was four dollars cheaper and was completely unoccupied. I wanted to be alone. The site I chose seemed to be the only one optimal for hanging my hammock. Nearly all the sites have covered shelters with a picnic table, but only mine had a larger shelter with narrower, wooden support beams, ideal for tying my hammock to. The rest of the support beams were made of stone and much wider. The shelter also had four picnic tables, which may seem excessive, given that I am just one man, but I figured I could spread my stuff out and use each table for a different purpose. Since I was planning on staying two nights, I figured I might as well be comfortable.

I wasted no time setting up my hammock, as I was racing the sun. Once that task was completed, I set about scrounging for twigs to build a fire in my new tomato can wood stove. I had only tried it once before, just after I made it in Denver, and I had been eager to try it out for real and cook with it. Well, I wasn’t really cooking so much as heating up a can of chili that I picked up at a Trader Joes before leaving Santa Fe. The stove worked well for making my chili nice and hot as the setting sun took his ambient heat with him.

By the time I finished my meal, the sky had turned to black, and the quarter moon and some stars were already shining down. It was still only six, and I had no idea what to do with the rest of my time. I knew I wouldn’t be able to go to sleep for at least a few hours, but most options for activities would require a flashlight, and for some reason that did not appeal to me much. I decided to stretch and try to unwind. The stretch did wonders for mellowing me out, and I wrote a bit in my journal. Always on my mind was the decision I had come there to make. I didn’t want to forget.

Writing and walking around a bit and looking at the stars, among some other small activities, managed to pass about three hours, and I decided I was ready to go to sleep. The forecast called for a low of only about forty degrees, so I wasn’t too terribly worried about staying warm. I wore a few layers, but not all of them. Inside my bag was actually quite warm at first. Before falling asleep, I read a bit of my current book, Travels With Charley, but sleepiness came fairly quickly, and I didn’t read much. I can’t say how much time passed before I awoke the first time. The wind had picked up considerably and was whipping the rainfly on my hammock with fury. Constant cracking as the cover flapped violently in the gusts. I’m not sure how long it took me to get back to sleep. I’m also not sure how many other times I woke up in the dark, or how long I actually slept for. Every waking minute seemed an eternity as I listened to the sound of the wind, but I also seemed to be only half-conscious.

The call of nature, as well as the wind, woke me for good around seven-thirty. The sun had already established his presence in the day, but clouds obscured his direct rays. The morning seemed rather temperate, but after washing my hands in the spigot of cold water, I realized how chilly it actually was. I put my fleece and a pair of gloves on and ate a cold breakfast of oatmeal with powdered milk. After breakfast I decided to scour the area around my campsite for arrowheads. Since coming into the southwest I had been hoping to find one laying around. I have always been fascinated by Native American crafts and weapons, and I wanted to find a relic of those simple but inventive people. I searched for about a half hour, but all I found were what appear to be volcanic rock- shiny and black, almost like glass.

After my search, my hands were starting to get cold. While the wind had stopped for a bit after I awoke, the blowing had continued and kept the temperature rather cool. I decided to build a fire in my stove and cook some more breakfast. So I set about searching for twigs again and got my fire going. I heated up some grits and added a packet of instant oatmeal, as well as some powdered milk. With the gusty winds, my fire was quite ineffective for cooking, so while I managed to get the food warm, my grits were not properly cooked. I ate them anyway. My second breakfast done, I looked around the area some more for cool rocks. I had decided that I wanted to try my hands at making my own arrowhead. I thought the volcanic rock might be a good substance, but I wanted to find one that was already near in shape to the final product. The wind was blowing still, but all of a sudden I felt some moisture. Now I had felt a few drops of rain carried in on the wind the night before, but it only lasted about a minute. This seemed to be the same at first, but as I stood and felt the moisture coming down, I realized that it wasn’t actually rain but snow. Some flakes landed on my gloves and remained for a minute before disolving to water. Well, I thought that was pretty exciting- a little bit of snow out in the desert. Within a minute, however, the winds had kicked up into something fierce, and all of a sudden it was almost like I was in the middle of a blizzard. The snow was getting heavy and the winds were strong. The shelter provided no relief as the snow came in sideways and was beginning to wet my gear. The wind flapped up the rainfly on my hammock and some snow was hitting the bottom. I scrambled to get all my bags covered with my tarp. Once all my bags were covered, I stood and watched the phenomenon and laughed. What a strange sight, all this snow blowing in on the wind among the tumbleweeds and sagebrush and small pines. The snow lasted about ten minutes and left just as quickly as it had entered, leaving the picnic tables and concrete ground under my shelter completely covered in moisture. The sun came out, and I knew it would all evaporate with an hour.

With no where to sit, I decided to take a walk down to the lake and check out the view. The sun warmed things up, and the day seemed quite pleasant. That lasted for about a half hour before the winds kicked up again. They roared through, kicking up dust and offering resistance as I walked back to my site. I ate some lunch of trailmix and decided to set about making that arrowhead. With a real hard rock, I set about trying to chisel the black, glassy rock into a sharp point. In trying to make the point really sharp, however, I managed to break off the whole tip, thus making that rock no longer suitable for my endeavor. I tried another rock that was a bit thicker, and had some moderate success for a while, but in the end that one suffered a similar fate.

It was afternoon now, and the winds had picked up considerably. At some point during my walk back from the lake, I had lost my gloves; they had fallen out of my jacket pocket or I set them down on a table. I knew there was pretty much no chance of finding them. In any other situation, I could simply retrace my path and figure I would find them somewhere along the way. With the wicked wind, however, the gloves could have been a hundred yards from where I dropped them, and not even knowing where I dropped them, I figured it was hopeless. I walked around a bit anyway, and I did come across one of my handkerchiefs, which I hadn’t even realized I was missing, but I saw no sign of the gloves. I was a bit upset about that. I do have another pair, but his pair was a bit thinner and thus more ideal for activities requiring some level of finger dexterity.

I decided to take some time and relax, as I wasn’t really sure what activity to get into next. So I lay down in the road and looked up to the sky. The wind rushed over me, and I just stared at the blue sky and passing clouds. I was thinking about my impending decision, about whether to hop a train. My mind had been pretty much made up that morning, and I knew I was going to be following through with that plan, but after talking to a good friend, who happens to also be my ex-girlfriend, I was feeling a bit apprehensive about being back in southern California. Doubts began to swirl in my mind, and I wondered why I was going there, what I was going to do when I get there, and what I really wanted to be doing. I knew I was done biking, but all of a sudden I was not feeling good about going there. I had to write it all down and get my head straight, so I took out my journal and wrote a bit. That seemed to help.

The wind was still blowing fiercely and flapping my rainfly violently. I needed to find a fix for that so I would be able to sleep peacefully tonight. I made some adjustments, and instead of tying the support strings to the picnic tables, I gathered a few large, heavy rocks to tie the strings to, thereby giving me more flexibility in the angle of the cover. That seemed to help with the noise and violent flapping, but one side was pushed into the side of the hammock with major force. I decided I should try out lying in the hammock to see how this was going to work out, so I could make adjustments. Lying in the hammock, one side of the netting and the rainfly were pushed in so hard that there was no escaping them pushing up against my face. I got out and tried to make some adjustments, but there seemed to be nothing I could do to avoid that problem, save loosening up the fly and submitting it to tormenting flapping. I became frustrated.

In the meantime, the temperature had seemed to drop. My hands were beginning to go numb. Some flurries of snow had come in here and there, but nothing lasting longer than a couple seconds. I looked up to the sky, at the gray clouds on the horizon, I felt the wind blowing at a steady pace of at least ten miles an hour, probably fifteen, with gusts that must have been around thirty miles an hour. I thought about my numbing hands, the forecast low of twenty degrees for the night, the gray clouds promising more snow, and the unavoidable problem of my rainfly. In a flash of certainty, I made up my mind for the entire situation. I was going to get the hell out of there right that minute. I was going to head to Abluquerque and catch the train the next day. There was no way I was going to put up with that crap there at the campground. I wasn’t in the mood to deal with it. It was two o’clock, and a terrible time to be deciding to leave and begin a fifty mile ride, but I felt that was my only option. So I packed up my gear and loaded up my bike. This all took about a half hour, due to the incredibly difficulty of folding and rolling objects like tarps and sleeping bags with such an unrelenting wind. I loaded up my bike and took off, leaving the campground behind, looking back just once to catch a last glimpse of my site, now empty.

Heading back to the interstate, the wind fluxuated, sometimes at my rear, sometime straight at my side. It was an unstable ride, but the boosts helped. Back on the freeway, I found myself staring straight into a setting sun and a fierce headwind. Every pedal stroke was a marathon, even going downhill, but I was determined to find somewhere warm to lay my head for the night. A few exits early on offered some hope of a short day, but they proved to be just small roads leading off to small towns and pueblos, no signs of motels or hostels, no passing strangers offering rides or hospitality. I pressed on. In the end, after a few hours of riding, one of them in the dark, I finally came to the suburbs of Albuquerque and found myself a hotel. I was able to talk the guy behind the counter down ten dollars on the rate, which made me feel much better about paying for lodgings. I had arrived exhuasted and cold, and I was terribly happy to learn that the hotel has a hottub and free breakfast. I took advantage of the hottub tonight and gave myself a nice warm shower afterwards.

Now, sitting in my warm room with king-size bed, I think about what is to come next. I still feel some apprehension about being back in soCal, but I have reminded myself that the future is largely what I make of it. There is no reason why I have to get stuck in my old ways there, to find myself in the same funk I left behind six months ago. It’s funny, I began this trip four months ago thinking I would come out if with some direction, some idea of where I wanted to be and what I wanted to be doing. I have none of that now. I can think of plenty of places that are nice, plenty of reasons to be in some places, but nothing comes to me to drive me to those places. I find myself completely lacking direction. So for now, the comfort of warm and sunny southern California, among friends and ex-lovers, will have to suffice as I continue on some kind of quest to at least figure something else out. I don’t think my days of bike riding are quite over. I still have a few destinations in California that I had intended to spend some time at and which I still intend on visiting, including Joshua Tree and the Salton Sea. I also still need to make my way down to San Diego and out to Las Vegas to visit more family

So the plan for tomorrow is to ride the remaining twenty miles to downtown Albuquerque, find a bike shop so I can box up my bike, and catch the daily train out west, heading to that old familiar place to see some old familiar faces. I’m looking forward to seeing friends.

I would have loved to have slept the entire morning away, but I had a mission to complete on Thursday and a limited amount of time to complete that mission. After waking, I began packing up and went downstairs to check out the complimentary breakfast. Pretty standard- cereal, muffins, danish, juice, and waffles. I ate quickly and returned to my room to finish getting ready. I had just over twenty miles to ride that day to get to downtown Albuquerque, but the tasks I needed complete once I got there were not necessarily going to be easy.

I called Amtrak the night before and learned that my bike needs to be boxed up to be taken on the train. My hope was that I could just load the bicycle as is on the train, with all my bags still hanging on the side. That way I could just load on, enjoy the train ride, and unload and ride away in Los Angeles. Under these conditions I needed to box up my bike, consolidate all my possessions to two or three bags to avoid extra charges, and somehow get my boxed bike and luggage to the train station from wherever I boxed the bike. The closest bike shop to the station was about a mile away. Not too far, but that would mean probably dragging my boxed bike as well as some big bags (which I did not have yet) down the sidewalk.

The ride itself was decent, mostly through suburbia. I just let myself get lost in thought as I passed down the highway until I came upon a bike path. The road I had planned on riding into the city was closed off completely for construction, and I had no idea of any alternative, given that I had just written down some simple directions from looking at a map online. The bike path looked to parallel the closed road, so I took a gamble and headed down the path. If nothing else, it would be a relaxing break from riding on the streets. Fortuitously, the path completely paralleled the road and brought me exactly where I wanted to be, and all while riding along the Rio Grande. How nice.

Once I reached downtown, I had three objectives to complete in order to make the train and be on my way to sunny southern California. I arrived around 11:30, and the train was scheduled to depart at 4:45. I figured that gave me about four hours to accomplish my tasks and still ensure no chance of missing the train. First objective was to find a thrift store and buy some luggage for all my goods. I would need to consolidate my five bags of possessions into about three bags that would be easy to carry. I had written down the location and directions to two thrift stores that morning, a Goodwill and a Salvation Army. The Goodwill was not actually there anymore or maybe never was there. The Salvation Army was where it should be, but they did not have what I was looking for, just some small duffel bags and some old, hard-case luggage. Not gonna cut it. So with my only two documented potentials unsuccessful, I needed to find some new resources. I asked around at the Salvation Army, but no one could tell me an exact location, just vicinities, and everywhere else required climbing a huge hill. Still, I had no choice; I had to make this work.

I climbed the giant hill that went on for miles. It was steep at parts, but the worst part was the traffic. I got the feeling that drivers in Albuquerque do not care too much for cyclists. No specific incidents worth mentioning, I just did not feel terribly safe on those roads. So up and up I went, keeping a keen eye out for thrift stores. Passed strip mall after strip mall, but nothing appeared. Just as I was about to give up in that area and turn around, I spotted a big sign that merely said ‘Thrift Store.’ Perfect. The store was fairly large, filled mostly with women’s clothing, as most thrift stores generally are. I found the section with luggage and scored big time. The place had exactly what I was looking for. The first piece is a large duffel bag. I knew it was easily big enough to fit my sleeping bag, as well as my other large items. In addition the bag also had a telescoping plastic handle and two wheels on the other end. That would make it much easier for getting down the street to the train station. Then I found a smaller duffel bag, perfect size to carry easily and bring onboard the train with me. And wouldn’t you know it, both bags were nearly matching, almost looking as if they came from a set. Basically, they were both black and red. It is almost as if they were there at that store just waiting for me. At the register I had another great surprise as well. That day happened to be half-off day, and everything was fifty-percent off. So for a mere five dollars and fifty cents I purchased exactly what I was looking for, and quite easily.

With just a little work, I strapped the new bags onto my load and set out for a bike shop. I had written down the locations of the two shops closest to the train station, and made my way to the closest one. I needed to pick up a box to put my bike in. The train station usually has boxes, but they charge, and usually bike shops are more than willing to dole out free bike boxes. The shop I stopped into, Two Wheel Drive, was quite friendly, and not only did they give me a box, they let me use some of their floor space to save me from doing the work outside on the cold asphalt of their parking lot. One man was particularly friendly, and we chatted for the entire time I was there. He asked a lot of questions and more than once explained to me why he loved Albuquerque so much. He is the only person I have talked to that has spoken so highly of that city.

It took quite a bit of work to break down my bike enough to fit in a box with all my racks and some accessories. After I finally got the bike packed up and transferred all of my possessions into those two new bags, I finally had to stop for a moment and begin to consider how the hell I was going to get all this stuff down the road to the train station. The bike box is not terribly heavy, just terribly awkward to carry. The box is quite long and has handles cut in the side that really only make it conducive to carrying with two hands. I needed to be able to handle that one with one hand. Then I had the large duffel bag, which could be rolled, the smaller duffel bag, which could either be slung on one shoulder or stacked on top of the larger bag and rolled along. Then I had a backpack, which housed my essentials for easy access on the train- some food and electronics. The bike shop employee also racked his brain with me on the best option for transport. He said he would just drive me down there, but he didn’t have his truck there. He had the great idea to cut another handle into the box at the halfway point on the side, instead of on the edges, thus making it somewhat possible to carry with just one hand. Still maneuvering the sometimes narrow and busy sidewalks of the city was not going to be easy. I said I would just go for it. I think the time was only about three, which really gave me an hour of comfortable time to get down there. I figured the distance was not much more than a mile, which, even with the difficulty of toting that baggage, shouldn’t be tough to manage within that large window of time. Another employee, however, suggested asking the guy next door, who owned a used book store. He has a truck and maybe would be willing to give me a ride. I figured it was a long shot, given that this man had not met me and would probably have no incentive to interrupt his day to give a stranger a ride down the street. I was wrong, and the guy was willing to help me out. So we loaded all my gear into the back of his old 4-Runner, and he took me down to the station. What a nice guy.

From where the man let me off, I still had a block and a half to walk to the station, but I managed alright. Then it was only a matter of buying my ticket and checking my bag and bike. That all went fairly smoothly and left me with nearly an hour of time to kill before departure. I occupied the time with some reading and people-watching. The train was on time arriving but late departing by at least a half hour, but I didn’t care. I had nothing to do but get comfortable and settle in for a sixteen hour ride to a destination that probably would have taken me at least that many days to reach by bicycle. As I settled into my seat by the window, as we finally got moving and heading west, I thought it a good idea to try to reflect upon my recent decision, on the reality of the end of a long journey. This trip was not an outing or a vacation, it was my life for four months. It was a lifestyle completely different from the norms of our society, and I felt that I would be better off putting the ending into perspective before attempting to assimilate back into some semblance of ‘normal’ life, life not on the road. These thoughts made me sad, but I knew that was for the best. With any loss or major life change, grief is and should be a natural process, a healthy way of accepting that what was once so physically prominent in our lives will now only remain in thought and memory. The memories always remain, especially with the valuable resource that has been this journal. With these writings I can revisit my entire adventure or any segment at any time and relive part of the amazing experience. And to think that I originally did not want to keep a journal like this. The main reason why I decided to do it was so that I would not have to get on the phone every day and notify family that I was still alive and where I was and how things had been. I figured it was worth the hassle of carrying a laptop and writing every day or so to keep people updated, instead of telling the same stories multiple times every few days. Looking back now, it was well worth the extra weight and bulk.

Could it be that I biked 4000 miles, traveled across the country over the course of four months, to get closure on a romantic relationship that really ended half a year ago when I moved away from California back home to Tennessee? I know in my heart that this was not the impetus that drove me to put all that work and energy into beginning this journey. It was not with that in mind that I built that rack and those bags, painted and rebuilt my bike, loaded myself down with an obscene amount of weight, and pedaled away from my house and out into the unknown. But by the time I reached Albuquerque and hopped on that train heading west, that notion was surely in my heart, and the prospect filled me with apprehension and dread. Subconsciously I knew it had to happen, the outcome was inevitable, given all the circumstances leading up to that point, but my conscious mind was holding out for other possibilities. When it comes to matters of the heart, the mind seems to have no misgivings with intentionally lying. Only when the shit hits the fan, when the situation presents itself in undeniable truth, does the mind finally admit its fabrications, that it knew what was to come the entire time, leaving the heart to carry the full brunt of the sudden emotional disparity. Thus a broken heart and a guilty, helpless mind. Quite a dangerous combination. So even though I already knew the reality of the status of this relationship before I arrived in southern California, I had to bear witness with my own eyes. Even if my mind had chosen to be honest, my heart would not have accepted second-hand hearsay as its own truth. Thus my journey, while not initially driven by this need, was destined to end here in California, to satisfy that curiosity.

The days leading up to the confrontation were tough. My mind was torn between hope and doubt, as I tried my best to quiet my emotions. The day I finally asked the question was a Tuesday, the 11th, Veteran’s Day. This day also happens to be my brother’s birthday. He would have been 27. There was nothing I could do to stop those emotions from surfacing. His birthday never fails to leave me deeply saddened, always serving as a reminder of the tragic loss. Usually my grief leaves me quiet, maybe a bit mopey, and contemplative. I lose my drive to be social. Anyway, that day and the day before I had been staying at her house, which was a mixed signal to begin with, but I was not feeling terribly welcome, like my presence there was not really anything special. The weight of the sadness of remembering my brother coupled with the lack of feeling wanted was too much for me to carry at the same time, and thus I forced myself to ask a question that I wasn’t terribly enthusiastic about hearing an answer to. ‘Would you rather I wasn’t staying here?’ Her response was all I needed to hear to know exactly where things stood. ‘It would be much easier for me if you were not here; I would be able to get work done at my own pace. I don’t want to throw you out on the streets with nowhere to go, though.’ It was too late at night to leave at that point, but I knew I would be packing up first thing in the morning and getting out.

The next day was incredibly tough. I couldn’t believe this was happening, that I was going to be walking out like that, that the relationship was really over. I know it sounds cliche or cheesy, but to be honest, the loss of the romantic relationship did not bother me too much. I will admit that after four months of being mostly alone, I was hoping for some kind of compassionate touch from someone I trust, even just an enthusiastic hug. Perhaps I set my expectations too high. Really, though, what truly made me sad, what brough tears to my eyes as I packed up my belongings, was the knowledge that I was losing a good friend, that someone I trusted and thought I could share everything with would no longer be in my life. I know this is all standard break up protocol; that’s the nature of the situation. I’ve just always been on the other side of things. Plus, her actions had clearly shown, and she even admitted, that she could not be an emotional support for me. She could not be a shoulder to cry on or even a sympathetic ear to tell my troubles to. That’s what broke my heart.

Lucky for me, though, I do have people I can turn to when times get tough. There are people I can call upon who do know how to listen, how to empathize, how to comfort. That doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt terribly to lose someone whom I thought was one of those people. I have already lost too many people that I loved due to death, so to lose someone who is still living seems like such a pointless shame to me. However, if someone can look me in the eyes and tell me that they cannot be there emotionally, that the stress of some work prevents them from being empathetic or compassionate, I find it difficult to find it within myself to find the drive to sustain that relationship in any form. It is difficult to try to take a step backwards in any relationship and make things work, and personally, degrading relationships, tearing down what has been built up without the intention of rebuilding, is not on my personal agenda.

So with a heavy heart and teary eyes, I left her place on Wednesday and headed first to a park to collect my thoughts and then to a good friend’s place just down the road. Like I said before, I am very lucky to have some really fantastic people in my life- good-hearted, compassionate people. My friend Betsy has been that since the very beginning, and she did not fail me this time. She gave me a place to stay last year when I finished my bike ride up the Pacific coast, when I had no money and nowhere to go. She gave me a roof over my head and even bought me a nice bed. The story of how we met and became friends is really an interesting one, but perhaps best told another time. The short version is that I gave her my cat when I graduated college, and we have been friends ever since. So in addition to having good company and someone to talk to, I also got to see my old cat, Soma, to whom I have always had a strong attachment.

I mentioned earlier that I had gone to the park first after leaving her place, and I am glad I did. While there, I was able to breathe a bit and put some perspective on the situation, to look past my initial reaction of grief and a crushed ego. I tried to look past the short-term consequences of the loss and focus on what this meant for my future, what my next move should be. As I began to look at the change from this different perspective, I began to realize what this closure had created for me. Suddenly I understood the freedom I had just been granted, a freedom that I had longed for while on the road but was never able to realize. My tethers had been severed. No longer did I have any gravitating ties to southern California; I was now free to go anywhere. The lack of closure on that relationship, that constant wondering ‘what if’, had inevitably led me back to Orange County, but now I had an answer, now I had nothing to wonder.  All throughout my journey I longed to feel that kind of freedom, to know that wherever I was could only be exactly where I needed to be, but I never felt it. I knew I couldn’t be free until I found out for sure that it was over. Only then could I move on from California and completely focus on where to go next. I genuinely worked up some excitement thinking about all my new possibilities.

So the past week has been filled with mixed emotions. I still feel saddened over the loss, and despite being surrounded by friends up in L.A., there still remains a penetrating feeling of loneliness.  It is hard not to remember the relationship we had before and yearn for some semblance of the emotional companionship. At the same time, I am excited to begin something new. One of the goals I set for myself when I began this long journey four months ago was to try to find somewhere new to live. I had hoped that by the time I got to Los Angeles I would have a strong idea of where I wanted to go to settle down for a bit. When I arrived here just over a week ago, however, I felt completely void of any idea on the matter. Thus I had concluded to stick around here for the winter and give myself more time. Now with this sudden change that has developed, I find myself with ideas I didn’t think I had. I think I have decided what my next move will be, where I will go. Funny enough, it isn’t even somewhere I visited on this journey. For the moment, my mind has settled on taking my life to Nashville, Tennessee, in the near future. I hadn’t even been considering moving there at any other point, really, but somehow the idea popped into my mind a few days ago, and since then I have been thinking about it nonstop. After much thought, the whole thing makes sense, and I am ready to take action. When I consider the factors of what I am looking for in a residence, Nashville seems to fulfill my needs. I realized that I want to be in a city, somewhere with a diversity of people and opportunities. At the same time, I do not want to be locked in a concrete jungle anymore, like Los Angeles. I also must find myself in a place with friendly people, somewhere not overrun by pretension and insecurity. Nearly everywhere is cheaper than southern California, so that was a pretty easy standard to fulfill. And then another factor, one that has only recently been brought into consideration, is proximity to my dad. I genuinely want to try to improve my relationship with him. He’s all I have left as far as immediate family goes, but since my mother died seven and a half years ago, our relationship has not been terribly fulfilling. It has been incredibly tough, but I am finally at a point in my life where I am willing to work to make things better. I can’t stand having a strained relationship anymore, and I believe that I have the understanding now to try to facilitate the necessary changes. Being back home in Knoxville earlier this year has proven to me that there is no way for me to move back there, living in the same house with my dad or not, but Nashville is only about a three hour drive from Knoxville. Close enough that visiting would not be a difficult or expensive trip, but still far enough away that I can be on my own, independent, and start something new for myself. I hope to have a little bit of space where I can set up workshops, areas for sewing and woodworking and painting. I have not had much outlet for creative energy for the past few months, and I am in desperate need of some release. I want to make clothing and build furniture and paint everything. The thought of all this gets me really excited. I look forward to beginning fresh. I do know a few people in Nashville, but I am excited about meeting lots of new people as well. I see a lot of possibility in this move.

For the next few weeks, however, I plan on staying out here in California. There are still people to reconnect with and places to visit. I must make it out to the Salton Sea and go camping. So who knows, maybe I will end up spending the better part of the winter out here, as long as I can afford it, as long as I am enjoying myself. At least now I can take great comfort in knowing that I have created some new direction for myself. I haven’t solved all of my problems, far from it, but I have a new excitement that allows me to take each day one by one and continue to move forward. I am beginning to put this journey into some kind of perspective. Every day I find myself gaining more and more understanding of what I have just been through. I still hope that soon enough I am able to comprehensively revisit this entire adventure and consolidate all this documentation into a book. I think it is a really good story, and I have tried to be as honest as possible in relating my account of it all. Plus, there is so much more that wasn’t written here. If for no other reason than for my own memories and to show my kids one day, I really want to turn this whole bicycle trip into a cohesive narrative, a truthful and emotional account of my journey, of all the great people I met along the way, and all the wonderful tidbits of life that come along with that. For now, I must continue to process what I have just been through and where I am going next. Lots of pictures coming very soon!