SHARING A MOTEL WITH TAYLOR SWIFT

It had been physically one of the most demanding days of my life.  The temperature broke into the three digits by mid-afternoon and when you factor in the "road heat" that emanated from the tarmac, peddling into the wind was almost too much to endure.  By late afternoon, heat exhaustion had hit hard.  I wasn't delirious but dizzy as heavy sweat dripped from my body.  And I wondered at the swell of heat that seemed to pulsate from my body.  So, by 3 pm I limped into Stockton, Kansas.  My oasis.  

Stockton, Kansas sits along the Solomon River on Hwy 183 in Rooks County and clings to a population of 1480.  Founded 1872 and thus in its 152nd year, this little town has been an island of refuge in an ocean of dust and heat.   And so has Linda been a friendly refuge, though for only four years.  Linda owns the M Motel.   "Fr., Been waiting for you.  I've already turned the air conditioner on in Room 3 and cleaned it real good."  She overlooked the obvious--I looked like a sweaty armadillo--yet she welcomed me as her lost uncle Fred.  And did she ever have cats!  M apparently stood for Cats.  She'd already given me the deal of the century even for a ma and pa motel.   Oh, I tell you what.  Don't pay a thing.  You're on a bike and come all the way from Norton (60 miles away) it's hot out there.  Just leave a tip for the girl who cleans the room.  I did pay Linda, but was moved by her generosity and her  desire to alleviate my discomfort.  We became passing friends; we later swapped stories, laughed and snickered and when she asked, I offered a bit of my faith journey.  

The picture below is what greeted me when I opened my door in the morning:  the glorious sun emerging on the eastern horizon point.  And then I noticed the sign.  "M Hotel." But I squinted to catch the blurb below it.  I call it the "dealmaker."  In smaller print, the line read, Taylor Swift Stayed Here.    When I remarked about this phenomenon, she bid me to her office and proudly presented me with a signed picture of Taylor Swift.  Linda gave me the backstory.  Taylor Swift was in Stockton for a county fair concert just when she was beginning to become famous.  Linda's eyes rolled when she added, and she told the crowd that she didn't want to be here!  That didn't set well with the local folks.

As I bid farewell and pulled out I yelled out to Linda, "You're going to have to change your sign now.  Taylor Swift and Fr. Tom stayed here!"  Blessings on Linda.  May you get a good price when you sell your beautiful retro motel with the letter M for Cats. 

IMPERIAL, NEBRASKA--SOMETHING TO SEE HERE

One of my recent stops for the night was in Imperial, Nebraska.  I don't think it's known for much of anything.  One of those through towns on the way to full-service towns.  So you might think, nothing to see here.  True, except  or the miracle on West 7th and Broadway.    Tucked away right behind the police building on the corner of 7th and Broadway is the most extraordinary cubbyhole of art I've ever seen in a town.  They call it "Art Park" and it's getting a reputation and just getting started.  

So, because the outside police station walls are the canvas where the paintings "hang," I talked to Sergeant Chad Ostmeyer to get the scoop on this amazing outdoor art.  Sergeant Chad said, Behind our police department was this huge ugly dirt patch.  It was really an eyesore.  Then one day the town administrator proposed an idea: Let's turn that dirt patch into an Art Park!  The idea caught on and the little town of Imperial came together and raised $30,000 to create this extraordinary, beautiful, permanent art gallery and park.   Soon art was in the air . . . and on the walls . . . and over the dirt patch.

Four artists came together for the project--an artist from Denver, another from Omaha, and two local artists to create this Garden of Eden.  Through their efforts an eye sore has become a feast for the eyes.  Children now gather in the park to play on a jungle gym, horticulturists have laid beds of flowers, and the Art Park has drawn the community together and breathed new life into the town.  

May we also see possibilities where others only see a dirt patch and an eyesore.  May we spread beauty and truth with our faith grounded in the Creator and Artist whom we love and serve.  The pictures below are gigantic murals, at least 15 feet tall.  Enjoy!

MEET THE NEIGHBORS

 Meet Dwight in Imperial, Nebraska 

I arrived early this morning in Imperial, Nebraska.  With 42 miles pedaled by 9 am, I would use the extra time to finally rid myself of my 3-second tent.  (Cool tent.  You just lay it on the ground in the shape of a square and then grab the middle of it and pull it up and presto!  It rises into a full-sized tent.  In. Three. Seconds.)  The problem, however, wasn't the time-saving tent set-up but the cost of parking it in RV campgrounds.  In most campgrounds, needing electrical for my batteries moves me to a full-cost electrical set up and that can run anywhere from $35 to $60 a night.  Ergo, I could crash in bottom-feeder motels for the same price. So, on this morning I entered the local hardware store.  "I need a box cutter thingy and a box to stuff my tent into it."  When the clerk told me he couldn't help me, Dwight came up with a solution.  Hey, Gene, we just got them office chairs--he could use one of those boxes.  So, I'm out in the back of the hardware store cutting this big box down to size when Dwight comes back with an even better solution.  Hey, let's just stuff your tent into a empty screen box.  (See picture above.)  So, he spent about 20 minutes working with me.  How can I pray for you, Dwight?  I'm an Anglican priest and I can pray for you tomorrow while I pedal."  He looked dumbstruck.  Never been asked that before.  No, I think things are good.  Perfect.  So I told Dwight I'd pray for his life to continue to be blessed by God.

Meet Brian in Kimball Nebraska.

The name on the motel sign looked suspicious: "King's Inn," it read.  I noticed a small cross over "King's" and a crown of thorns over the "Inn."   Hmmm.  As I entered, there stood big Brian, the man in charge.  As I took in a 360 of the room, I noticed Christian symbols, and framed biblical quotations on the walls. When I pointed this out to Brian, here's what he said.  "Someone gave us money to buy this motel.  So now we rent it out to people in "transition" mostly.  You know, people with addictions, folks out of work, people in a bad place.  We offer them low-income rent until they get back on their feet.  That includes professional counseling, developing a plan of action, and required church attendance."  I was astounded by this explanation.  But this charity motel is probably operating at a low-budget level.  I'll be lucky to have AC in my room.  Yet, when I walked into my room, it smelt fresh and clean, a little piece of candy was on my pillow, the bathroom and sink were immaculate and little bottles of shampoo and soaps and washcloths were neatly arranged.  And about the door of every room in the motel was the driving force of their ministry:  "Come unto me you who labor and heavy-laden and I will give you rest.  And of course, the PW for wifi was "matthew1128."  Prayers for your ministry, Brian!

THIS OLD HOUSE

I once watched an eerie movie called, "A Ghost Story" (2017) that in a way tells the story of the life cycle of a house.  There's more to the movie, of course, but that's what I remember.  A young husband is tragically killed leaving his wife behind.  But now as a ghost he cannot interact with his family.  So he remains in the house unnoticed.  Eventually, she remarries and they move from the house.  But this ghost doesn't move.  For decades he just roams the house as families come and go.  Eventually, the house is demolished and a high rise towers over where this house once stood.  Only he knows the whole history of the house.

As I bicycle through the country, that's what I see.  Hundreds of ghost stories.  Houses that have lived through generations of families and housed hope, fear, abuse, great joy, faith, and secrecy.   The pictures in this post are from my travels over the last two weeks.  

The most dilapidated of them no doubt harken back to the first Homestead Act 1862 signed into law by none other than Abraham Lincoln.  Homesteaders were given 162 acres, so go for it.  And these pioneers did go for it.  By the millions.  In a dry and dreary land.  Crop failures were inevitable.   Folks were set up for failure.  So eventually nearly all of these pioneers left this dry land for greener grass.  Yet as I pass by these broken houses, I wonder who lived in them?  Most of the houses stand in the middle of nowhere.  What happened in those houses over the years?  And why were these homestead houses eventually abandoned?   

I imagine that these houses once reverberated with the laughter of children playing on the bare floor with homespun toys and straw dolls.  I hope that many of these houses echoed a family praying in the evening or engaging one another around the dinner table after a long day's work in the field.  Maybe some of these decrepit, wooden houses outlived their dwellers.  A young couple who have lived their whole life in the house, raising a family, and in the end they still sit around a homely table, now aged, but still together next to empty chairs.

But eventually everything changes.  And the houses are abandoned.  Who was the last to shut the door that final time?  Maybe families finally eked out enough from the harsh land to move to the city and better opportunities.  Thousands did that.  More often though, failure closed the door for the last time.  And these pioneers walked away into the night.  

A closing thought.  In 1954, Stuart Hamblin saw something closer to home than just some old abandoned houses.  Wrote a song about it.  "This Old House.'  Here's one of the verses:

This ole house once knew his children

This ole house once new his wife

This ole house was home and comfort

As they fought the storms of life

This ole house once rang with laughter

This ole house heard many shouts

Now he trembles in the darkness

When the lightning walks about.

St. Paul, thinking of houses said, "We do not lose heart, for though our outward "house" (self) is wasting away, yet our inward self is renewed day by day" (2 Corinthians 4:18). Over time the house with our name on it, the one that walks around, goes to work, loves his spouse, and blesses his kids, will become more and more like those houses standing alone in the Great Plains.  One day the door will shut for the final time.  Yet, here's the hope.   On that day we will be present in our new house.  Jesus promised his Church a new dwelling place where tears will be banished and love multiplied.   "In my Father's house are many mansions . . . "

So next time you pass one of these old crumbly houses, remember the promise--"we ain't gonna need this house no longer" because we will be with the Lord.  

 

TIME FOR AN ADVENTURE

                                                6 STATES-----24 DAYS-----1070 MILES

A GYPSY PRIEST'S PILGRIMAGE: 

SPOTTED HORSE 2 OK CITY 

For those who might want to follow the precise itinerary plan of my upcoming bicycle tour, I have included an abridged day-by-day view below!

07/15    SPOTTED HORSE, WY (pop. 2) to Gillette, Wyoming-----40 miles

0716    GILLETTE    TO Wright, WY-----40 miles

07/17    WRIGHT, WY  to Douglas, WY-----75 miles

07/18    DOUGLAS to Lusk, WY-----55 miles

07/19    LUSK, WY to Harrison, NE-----31 miles

07/20    HARRISON to Mitchell, NE-----56 miles

07/21    DAY OFF IN MITCHELL

07/22     MITCHELL, NE to Bridgeport, NE-----44 miles

07/23    BRIDGEPORT, NE to Sydney, NE-----42 miles

07/24    SYDNEY, NE to Julesburg, CO-----45 miles

07/25    JULESBURG to Wray, CO-----70 miles

07/26    WRAY, CO to Burlington, CO-----55 miles

07/27    BURLINGTON, CO to Cheyenne Wells, CO-----40 miles

07/28    DAY OFF IN CHEYENNE WELLS

07/29    CHEYENNE WELLS, CO to Granada, CO-----56 miles

07/30    GRANADA, CO to Lakin, KS-----60 miles

07/31    LAKIN, KS to Cimarron, KS-----60 miles

08/01    CIMARRON, KS to Meade, KS-----36 miles

08/02    MEADE to Beaver, OK-----40 miles

08/03    BEAVER, OK to Woodward, OK-----82 miles

08/04    DAY OFF IN WOODWORD

08/05    WOODWARD, OK to Watonga, OK-----72 miles

08/06    WATONGA, OK to Oklahoma City, OK-----70 miles

08/07    Pack Bike up and send it home

08/08    Fly Back to Spokane, Washington / Post Falls, ID

I'm off to my long-distance tour in a few days:  6 states . . . 24 days . . . 1070 miles.  I've logged about 600 miles in training to help me get ready for this tour.  But that's not enough training in my book.  Still, it's better than air training.  And what lures me to take such a crazy tour?  Questions, mostly that I ask myself.  When was the last time you spotted a horse in Spotted Horse or smelled elk musk in east Lusk or ate granola in Granada?   So, every once in awhile, it's a healthy thing to break from the norm and venture into new adventures.  For starters, I hope you'll whet your appetite for your new adventure by traveling vicariously with me from Spotted Horse to Oklahoma City!   

More to come!

WRIGHT NOT WRONG

DAY  3:  WRIGHT (not RIGHT, RITE, or WRONG), WYOMING

The road that leads from Spotted Horse to Wright, Wyoming is arrow straight.  A few undulations of height occurs along this straight road as it gradually rises to maybe a ten feet incline but that will take a full half a mile of  pedaling to reach those ten feet.  Then just as gradually the road begins to ease back down to its original height.  

The scenery in this part of Wyoming is deceiving.  And so it would be convenient to brush past this seemingly desolate ecosystem at 70 mph and think that the landscape is "boring."  Au contraire!  This land bustles and vibrates with life unique to the high plains and the land bears unmistakable evidence of ancient times past.  As far as the wildlife goes, Wyoming is by far the largest habitat for the Prong-Horned Antelope.  About 500,000 of them dot the Wyoming plains to eat grass, mate, bear young, and forage.  This morning a mother antelope and her three fawns were on the patch of ground that lies between the fence line and the highway.  She understandably was concerned that I was so close to her young as I pedaled  on the shoulder.  So she paralleled my bike staying just a tad in front and to the right of me.  In a single bound she'd clear a ten-foot sage brush plant while her little ones would dart around it.  Just to observe these magnificent creatures is an amazing thing!

Once in Wright, I was planning to tent at the Sagebrush RV court, but they wouldn't allow tents.  So in the meantime I happened by the Community Center of Wright, not Wrong.  I'm hardly in the doorway when Dana pops into view: "Welcome to our Senior's Center.  You're just in time for our daily luncheon!"  And soon a small brigade of Wright's zaniest senior citizens filed in--Bruce, Joe, Janice Leena, Sarah, Dana's husband, Rich, and Dale.  All were retired and most of them for decades.  But on this day they were at the top of their game and acting zany as if they were on elementary school summer vacation.  Joe was the first one in and the most talkative.  "You own that bike out there?  That one of those new battery bikes?  I have a 1980 Ford truck; 117,000 miles on it.  Purrs like a kitten."  I asked, "So, Joe, are you a rancher in Wright?"  I had noticed his weathered face.  I pride myself on pinpointing people with their careers.  Hence, he's a rancher.  "Hell no.  I'm no rancher, I'm a banker  from New York.  Came here maybe twenty years ago.  Decided to stay."  Okay then, good.  

Leena and Joe

Dana (center) and her husband and Sarah

"Yeah, I've been in banking all my life; in fact I even started a couple of banks in Wyoming.  And I'm a preacher and started up a couple of churches too.   I  can do just about anything."  Well, okay then.  Still, I couldn't imagine Joe being a pastor, but if he could start banks, why not churches?  

Sarah was casting eyes at the newbie to the Wright Community Center.  A couple of off-color, double entendres got thrown my direction, but when I didn't pick up the ground balls, she launched into her work as a city council member and the golf fundraiser they had held last month.  A big success, apparently.  Janice wouldn't let me take her picture and Leena wanted to know what we were doing when JFK was shot.  

These wonderful folks accepted me as their Wright Community Center Senior Citizen  roving member and thought the bike was quite cool.  But I still needed to find where I'd be laying my head that night, so I blessed my friends and was off in Wright, not Wrong, Wyoming.  All Wrighty, then.   

BUSTED

DAY:  8: Cheyenne, Wyoming to Kimball, Nebraska

ACTUAL ROAD DISTANCE:  65 miles

TOTAL DISTANCE:  N/A

I was on the road at 6:30 am and headed for the Wyoming and Nebraska border.  With a hefty sixty-five miles ahead, I wanted to break the run into two parts:  Cheyenne to the border (40 miles) and the border to Kimball, Nebraska (25 miles).  Fortunately, I wouldn't be climbing but actually descending throughout the day.  Part One was relatively easy to get through.  But Part Two--from the border to Kimball--would be a first in all of my long-distant adventures.  

Shortly before launching into Nebraska, I had texted Dixie a message stating that it was legal to ride a bike on the shoulders of interstate highways.  I had written. "Now it's legal!"  And so, I pedaled down I-80 east toward Kimball.  Maybe ten miles into the second part of my day's ride, I noticed the sign:  "Road Work Ahead" and "Fines doubled in work areas."  So, I entered this work zone horrified at what I saw.   The interstate had been halved from four to two lanes.  And the shoulder on the eastbound side offered no more than thirty inches of space.  As I pedaled on this dangerously narrow shoulder, my bike would sway whenever a semi-truck swooshed by.  I was now inches from truck grills and mirrors.  This would not do, but I seemed to be trapped between a shoulder and a hard place.  Semi after semi roared by, some barely missing making contact with me.   Fortunately, I happened to glance across the westbound lane and noticed that the shoulder on that side of the road was the normal twelve-foot shoulder.  So, when the lanes were free, I darted across the two lanes and ended up pedaling eastbound on a westbound shoulder! 

Two miles out of Kimball I got busted.  The blinking blue lights stopped right in front of my bike preventing me from going another foot.  "Is that one of those ebikes?  Where have you come from? How far do you go a day?  You can't ride a bike on the interstate."  He was friendly, curious, and firm. "Can I see your identification, please?"  Assured that I wasn't a recent got-away from the southern border, he called the county sheriff.  "I can't get your bike into my car, but the sheriff will bring his truck."  

So, two miles from Pizza Hut, I and my bike and Burley trailer got transported by a police truck to Kimball.  "I'm not going to arrest you," the first officer said.  I thought, "this guy has a sense of humor."  But he then said, "the county sheriff might, but I won't."  He wasn't kidding.  Fortunately, both cops were kind and the sheriff of Kimball County and I had a great conversation.  "I'm a priest you know, but I've always wanted to ride shotgun with a sheriff."  He replied, "I know a lot about Anglicans; my best friend was an Anglican priest."  "Oh really?" I responded.  "I'd like to talk to him."   "He's dead."  Oh, okay.  The county sheriff dropped me off in Kimball and then asked if I could take his picture beside my bike.  "I want to post this on our county law enforcement website."  

Great.  "Anglican priest caught pedaling this bike on the interstate."   I'm in Kimball at a dilapidated motel and not a jail cell, though the latter might be cleaner.  Prayers for our law enforcement officers.  Prayers for  those who put their lives on the line every day.  And today I was delighted to be a Nebraska law-enforcement officer assistant.  

 

CHEYENNE MOTEL

I was coming off a windy, hot 70+ mile day.  But with the inevitable comedy of errors, I arrived in Cheyenne, Wyoming during the biggest event of their year, the "Cheyenne Frontier Festival."  Bustin' broncos, bull-riding, calf-roping, clowns, and top tier entertainment including Jelly Roll and Machine Gun Kelly ensured a large attendance.  The town of 60,000 I'm guessing must have swelled to over 100,000 people.  So, where do you put 40,000 cowboys and visitors?  Well, they stay in motels.  And every single hotel and motel and every spot in the rv campgrounds was jammed.  Not to worry, I thought,  I'll just GPS the way to my motel.  The sweet voice said, "your destination is 268 miles from here."  Really?  Five miles maybe.  So, I checked my booking agent email again.  "Your room is waiting for you at Cheyenne Wells, Wyoming."  Cheyenne Wells?  Gulp!  Sure enough, my non-refundable room was indeed waiting for me two hundred and sixty-eight miles away.  

Frantically, I googled hotels/motels in Cheyenne.  "Sold out."   Upper tier hotels were charging anywhere from $500 to $1200 per night, per room.  Things didn't look good.   At last, the concierge behind the long desk in the lobby of a motel that was full, offered to search for lodging.  "Okay, there are two rooms left at the Cheyenne . . ."  So, I set punched in the name of the motel on my GPS and pedaled across town.  As I was checking in, the manager said, "Oh, I'm sorry.  But you're not booked here!"  What?  You've got to be kidding.  "This is Cheyenne Inn and you want to go to Cheyenne Motel.  It's on the other side of town."   He could just as well as said, "It's on the other side of the tracks."  

Cheyenne Motel is a rundown seedy motel.  It sits across the street from a storefront that shouts in blazing red letters, MASSAGE with a phone number below it.  Well, I was sore in my muscles, but not that sore, I decided.  Several beat up cars and a truck or two had their hoods up and the owners were working on their engines.  Every once in awhile an engine would rev loudly as if the pedal was floored.

My room measured 8 x 15.  That's okay except when you have to house your long ebike and store your trailer inside.  I now empathize with sardines.   At about 6 pm, little Meh-hee-ko came to life outside my door.  About seven migrant workers who call the Cheyenne Motel home had finished another week.    These undocumenteds are  cheap labor for Microsoft.  So every week they gather with their two boxes of beer--Modelos, of course--and crank their boom box to double fortissimo and enjoy their Mexican music.  (It does sounds to me like a Spanish variation of Polish polkas with that tuba in the background, only really LOUD.)   Eventually, the music stopped around midnight, the beer downed, and the laughter fading.  

Still, we began to engage one another.  I teased them a bit, though most didn't speak English, and they gave me a beer.  And when I couldn't get the cap off, they thought that was the funniest thing they'd ever seen.  Gringo can't even open a bottle of beer.  Hah, hah, hah.  But that started a bit deeper relationship.  I'm coming out the door of my cave next morning when I hear, "Hey, amigo, let meee ride your bike."  I looked at him doubtfully and and he quickly confirmed that he had never ridden a bicycle.  "I was teeeezing."  Touché.  So, we continued to talk and laugh together.  And then I told Jesse, Jose, and Antonio that I was a priest and how could I pray for them?  It grew quiet.  Jose was first.  I have familie in Georgia; a wife and keeds.  And I away four months.  Please pray for them."  Turns out that the other two were blood-related.  Antonio was the father of Jesse.  A father and son.  A son who will know to do nothing else but sit in the Cheyenne Motels of this world drinking beer and playing his Mexican music.  What a life.  These two don't even have a street address.  They just follow the construction jobs.

So, maybe in the end, all of the broken plays of this weekend happened to bring me to the Cheyenne Motel because Someone wanted me to be there.  Because some one loves all the children of the world.    So, that's my assignment for this week.  I will pray for my friends, Jose, Jesse, and Antonio.  What's your assignment? 

 

DAY ONE: SPOTTED HORSE, WYOMING

Spotted Horse, Wyoming

Spotted Horse, Wyoming.  Pop. 2.  This eclectic spot along US Route 14/16 may be unknown to the world, but it is nearly iconic in Wyoming.  Once a year motorcyclists 100 strong stop in at Spotted Horse for a beer on their way to Sturgis and what bride would not want to tie the knot in the idyllic setting setting of a rearing Appaloosa stallion next to an original Standard Gas sign?  In my case, Spotted Horse would also become the perfect place to launch a long-distance tour: the spirit of Sturgis mixed with the romanticism of adventure.  

Nevertheless, Dixie and I tried to imagine what town life might look like in Spotted Horse, population 2 . . .

Dixie: I think they once held a beauty pageant in Spotted Horse.  The whole town showed up.  Sven strode the catwalk wearing the latest fashions while Ole snapped the pictures.  Unfortunately, there was no one left in the audience.  

Tom: And come Sunday, Ole delivers the homily and Sven chimes in with "Amen!  Preach it!" to encourage Ole.  But Sven is also the head usher, the greeter, head of discipleship, ass't pastor, adult Sunday School teacher, and chair of the church board.  Like St. David's, the community church in Spotted Horse always has an after-church potluck.  And it's always ham and mashed potatoes--the town's favorite dish.  

Tom: Unfortunately, the original Spotted Horse Community Church split into three factions.  Preacher Ole now pastors Spotted United Methodist Church and Sven is the lay pastor at Horse Fellowship.  However, with no preacher or congregation, the third faction closed shortly after opening.  

Regrettably, Spotted Horse--I mean, the entire town--is closed on Mondays.  So, we bid adieu to this almost-famous cowboy town.  I jumped on my own metal steed and reared up and off into new adventures further south in Wyoming.  

Bike Packer's Packable Kingdom

The multiple-day bike tour is looming ahead.  And you want to know what to bring along on the trip besides socks.  Good question.  This is where most rookies make their first big mistake:  they overpack.  I've traveled--albeit slowly--with cyclists whose packables weighed in at 150 lbs--excluding their body and bike weight.   Try pedal-pushing 400 pounds up Mt. Pisgah.  So, shortly into the tour, my overpacker friends will dump their unused, well-it-looked-good-in-the-Adventure-Cycling-Mag stuff into a box and ship it back home.   That would be around $30-40 postage.  

Of course, others occasionally underpack.  A pair of underwear and a toothbrush won't get you too far down the road, although I once met a crazy Czech guy traveling through Alaska in nothing but a tee shirt and speedo underwear.  Happiest biker I ever met as if it didn't register with him that he'd forgotten to put his pants on that morning.  The drawback of traveling so lightly is that we're forever stopping in at the RX or Walmart or convenient stores to pick up some item that they desperately need.  

As a long-distance packer, here's what I normally assemble for a long-distance tour:

•  a blue Sea to Summit bag for toiletries 
•  a green Sea to Summit for all things electrical (hubs, cords, etc.)
•  a yellow Sea to Summit bag for "civilian" pants and shirt and two bike shorts /shirts, additional     underwear and tees
•  a dark-green Sea to Summit bag for bike battery charger
•  an orange Sea to Summit bag for maps  books, journals, notebooks, reading material
•  a small front bag for wrenches and tire repair tools and pump
•  a small rear pannier saddle for snacks and to quickly store "unlayered" clothes

Of course, there are more items to place under the miscellaneous or honorable mention categories like . . .

a tent (I use the 3-second tent--google it!  Pretty cool!), a self-inflating air mattress, snack bars, electrolyte powder (like Skratch Labs, considered to be one of the best out there), a power strip, a small amount of duct tape wrapped around a wooden pencil, an extra pair of shoes (optional), Mountain House freeze-dried foods, a hydration bladder, bike tour towels, and several pairs of disposable gloves for chain derailment or flat tire repair. 

Remember, long-distance cycling is all about the long haul.  So, don't skimp nor overload your metal steed.  You're not on a race or setting records at the Tour de France.  You're simply going from Point A to Point B and enjoying everything and everyone you meet in between.  

FRAGMENTS: On the Bike Again . . .

I do most of my best thinking while pumping pedals on some sort of cycle machine.  Never stationary, I've pedaled Schwinns, Raleighs, Treks, BikeFridays, Bacchettas, TerraTrikes, Cruz Bikes, and  Threesixzero bikes.  Now I'm on (when not exercising my thumb bicep on the throttle) an Aventon Abound from the popular Aventon ebike manufacturer.  Thus, through the years I've stretched my body out on hammock-like recumbents as well as the classic upright bikes.  

All of that adds up to about 20,000 miles of bicycling in my lifetime.  I've made some significant long-distance tours like Alaska to Montana, Mexico to Canada, and the Pacific to the Atlantic.  But most often it's the small, short runs that have eaten up a hefty number of miles.  

And all this riding hasn't come without its bumps and scratches.  I wear internal jewelry in my left foot from a dumb left-lane turning accident in Missoula and broken ribs et al and several days in the hospital from a crash in Whitefish.  About seven years ago, even worse happened.  I had crossed the Golden Gate Bridge and was beginning a tour from San Fran to Pueblo, Colorado.  At the front end of this thousand-ish mile tour I suffered a massive heart attack.  Did an ambulance run red lights to get me to the ER?  No, but my BikeFriday did.  After open heart surgery and a triple bypass plus  recovery time, I was back on another bike pedaling through North Dakota farmland.    

So, the adventure continues.  I've just finished a nine-person tour in Montana and currently, I'm prepping for another long distance tour from Montana to Oklahoma.  So, I thought (while pedaling) that I should chronicle the tour for others who might be contemplating a long-distance tour.  Maybe others could benefit from my efforts.  That's referred to as a  "community of practice," where we learn from each other "between the formal" business meetings.  Thus, if you are a cyclist thinking about long-distance touring, maybe we can be occasional conversationalists or offer our own Q and A community of practice.   Whatever it is that keeps you coming back to my blog, may you vicariously enjoy the fragments of adventure that is sure to emerge with each new post. 

God Bless,

Fr. Thomas+