Every Tuesday I pedal away from the office and treat myself to some BBQ at the joint about a mile down the road. It’s a nice escape from brown bagging it at my desk. Why Tuesdays? The BBQ joint originally lured me in with cheap cider specials and mediocre beans, but I have always had an affinity for celebrating Tuesdays. They are the forgotten days. Not a buzz-killing bummer like a Monday and not as optimistic as a “hump day”. It’s like the forgotten middle child of the week.
The ride over there is short but it can be a little spicy. Two busy streets intersecting with no bike lane or shoulder. One of those situations where you have to be traffic just to stay safe. In less than a mile I was yelled at by some redneck about splitting lanes and some basic soccer mom tried to scold me for not wearing a helmet. Not being the biggest fan of unsolicited advice, I arrived at my lunch spot a little worked up. I sit down at the bar and order a whiskey-ginger with some beans and greens. Whiskey because I was mad. Well whiskey because my standards are low.
Normally I use this lunch time to listen to an audio book or read the news. Pretend I’m a productive member of society and all that. But lately I have been listening to a lot of Gram Parsons in my alone time. I already have a whiskey in front of me, might as well put my headphones on and crank up the tunes. You ever wonder who that guy is at the end of the bar sipping whiskey, listening to tunes and grinning like a creep? Now you know.
It’s bitter cold outside, even at noon, and it snowed a little last night. Just enough to dust the tops of the brown grass and make a little ice in the gutter. I look outside from my seat at the bar and the snow is blowing around like sawdust on the street. It’s the kind of dry snow you see in the high desert. The snow and the tunes take me away to memories of bitter cold days spent wandering around Joshua Tree. Sleeping in the dirt, dodging rangers, climbing rocks until there was no skin left on my hands and then riding bikes to all the remote corners of the desert while the skin grew back. A special place that shaped me as a man. A place where Gram’s buddies tried to cremate his body to honor is final wish. They fucked it up and got caught. But damn, those are some good friends. They don’t make them like that very often.
My bike is outside leaning against the window and the wind blows just hard enough to make it move. The bartender hears the brake lever screech on the glass and she gives me a death stare. Saying with her eyes “How man times do I have to tell ya not to lean that thing against the window!”. I take advantage of the eye contact and order another. She smiles.
I pay my tab and throw the rest of my drink in my water bottle. Sufficiently warmed from the drink, I unzip my jacket and let the cold hit my tshirt as I stomp on the pedals. Gram is still singing in my ears. I sing along like a madman cutting through parking lots and hopping curbs to avoid the car bound people. Nobody yelled at me this time. If they did, I didn’t hear them. The desert winter might be two thousand miles away but it is also right here with me on this ride. I’m on a time machine. An hour ago I was in Appalachia and now I’m temporarily in the Mojave. I smile and squint into the sun. Damn, I rode too fast. I’m almost there and “Return of the Grievous Angel” isn’t over yet. I swerve to take a longer bum trail across the train tracks. Standing between the rails, I slam what’s left in my water bottle. The song hits that final verse:
Oh but I remember something you once told me And I’ll be damned if it did not come true Twenty thousand roads I went down, down, down…
It’s time to play grownup for four more hours. Then I will do it all again on the ride home.
Autumn, feels dirty to me. Especially here in the southeast. The falling leaves littering the ground everywhere combined with the constant moisture and smells of mold just feel filthy. Tourist come from far and wide to ogle at the decay. Crawling from their suburban Florida and Georgia homes just to drive through the hills and have a look. I prefer the smell of dust and generally tidy nature oft he open desert. But this new found filth has me curious. I set out on a little bike ride to track down some photos of the decay. They do a pretty good job of keeping it out of sight in an affluent place such as Asheville. But it’s out there. The filth is always there.
I found myself in El Paso, TX the other day. I like that town. It has character and some damn good mountain biking. I was only passing through, but I decided to head on over the line to Juarez, Mexico to ride the Chupacabras trails. No pedal through Juarez is complete until you stop for a few drinks and I must abide.
I have developed a soft spot for Sotol over the years and West Texas/Chihuahua is the place to find it. In all its peppery, smokey gut rotting goodness. I love every drop. If you ask enough barkeeps in Juarez, you are bound to find some unique homemade goodness lurking behind the counter.
I’m a creature of habit and I find myself frequenting one bar in particular that was shown to me a few years ago. An unassuming whitewashed building with a narrow swinging wooden door. The inside is covered floor to ceiling with old Playboy centerfolds lit up by a purple and red neon glow. There is only enough room for maybe 25 people and it feels like home. I belly up to the bar at the last remaining stool and realize I still have my helmet on when the bartender Chuey looks at me funny. I haven’t been here in over a year and he greets me like an old friend. I order my round. A Sol and a sotol. It’s almost guaranteed to spark up a conversation at the bar when a gray bearded gringo is sniffing around for Sotol, and this time was no different.
There is some guy in the back corner making a scene, thinking he is some kind of baller and ordering rounds for the entire bar. I hate those guys and I instantly regret sitting down. A small crowd has developed around him. As tends to happen when you are handing out free booze. He is holding court in his khakis and tucked in polo shirt. Talking over the music about how great he is in one way or another to his newly purchased friends. Then he shouts at me and the barkeep saying that my round is on his tab. I nod and raise my shot to him in appreciation. A seat opens in the corner and I relocate to the shadows where I am more comfortable. The old timer to my left starts talking to me about my drink of choice. Then, from left field, asks me “You are American right? So what’s up with this Trump thing?”
As a rule, I don’t mix politics with booze. So I gave him the most polite and concise response I can think of “I don’t know, man. I didn’t vote for him”
We made a little more small talk then, as he was paying his tab, he dropped some bar stool wisdom on me.
“Sotol doesn’t care what side of the line you are from”
I’m just going to say it right from the start, I like Kathmandu. I love all its dirty, grimy, crowded, noisy mess. It has as much character as any major city anywhere in the world and is filled with sights, sounds and flavors that I have never experienced. If you travel to Nepal, chances are you will pass through Kathmandu along the way. For most travelers, myself included, it is a place to sleep off the jet lag, get supplies, permits and visas before moving on into the mountains. I have noticed that it’s become somewhat fashionable amongst travelers to hate on Kathmandu. Much like somebody from the country would hate on a big city. I feel that is a lazy opinion, but I can see where they are coming from. The difference between the peace and beauty of the Himalayas versus the mayhem of Kathmandu is staggering. The mountains have crisp clean air, blue glacial rivers and livestock quietly grazing about in fields of Marijuana. The city has busses and scooters belching sooty exhaust, a river that more closely resembles an open sewer and cows eating piles of garbage in the street. It’s enough to drive any nature lover crazy. But there is just something about Kathmandu that draws me in.
This past trip to Nepal, I had a lot of down time in Kathmandu between trips to the mountains. I found myself going for a lot of rides and walks through town. Getting lost in the maze of narrow streets and taking in as much as possible. Being a night owl by nature, I most of these walks happened after dark. It is at night when Kathmandu transforms. By 7pm there is a lot less traffic, people are already where they need to be. The sound of laughter and conversation rivals, and sometimes overtakes, the revving engines and honking horns. After 10pm, the shops and cafes are closing and people are heading home. By midnight, the city is nearly silent. Only the barks of stray dogs and the occasional scooter motor can be heard. Sometime around 2am there is a sweet spot where it’s as if time has stopped. The streets are post apocalyptic and silent, it is a special time to be awake. By 5am, the city is coming back to life. The sounds of prayer bells greet the rising sun and the cycle starts all over again.
I’m not a photographer but I like to make a lot of photos. Here is a sampling of what my camera saw while walking around Kathmandu at night.
So far, this little writing experience has taught me a whole lot. I’m only five posts into this project and I already skipped the past two weeks. Sure, I could have recycled some drunkcylist post or phoned in some kind of Buzzfeed style list, but I want to make better stuff than that.
This web site has already been extremely educational. It has tought me that I only write when I am at rest. I can only get thoughts out of my head when I’m home, in between trips and generally bored. If I’m doing it right, I am too busy and/or too tired to make any kind of quality words while traveling. Journaling when I am really in the thick of traveling has never worked. So I try to remember everything that occurs and hopefully not forget about it until the next time I’m bored. I have the utmost respect for my friends who are professional writers, photographers and journalists. Being able to crank out creative work while still being immersed in their hobbies and passions is unfathomable to me. It is only when I finally stop, that I can quiet my brain and reflect on all of the things that have happened to me.
I rode my bicycle across the country this summer while towing a trailer. I brought the kitchen sink. A two person tent, a comfy air mattress, all of my camera gear and even my laptop. The idea was to shoot as many photos as possible, every day. Then when I made camp, journal all of the stories and edit the photos from the day. This was great in theory when I was planning the trip. I envisioned Hemingway-esqe moments in my tent, titanium mug of whiskey by my side, tapping away at the keyboard making a classic memoir. Singing the praises of slow bike travel across my great country. In reality I would eat some food and fall asleep half dressed, using my unpacked sleeping bag as a pillow because I was too tired to even take it out of its stuff sack. But when the pedaling was over and I finally arrived at my destination, the thoughts and words flowed out of me. I would sit on my couch with numb fingers and toes, pecking away at the keyboard. My body was too worn out to play but my mind was wide awake. I started to remember all of my interactions with people along the way. Memories like bad weather on the plains and bike troubles in Illinois all finally started to rise to the surface of my mind. Compared to the previous months, I was now bored. And boredom is my muse.
When I return home from a trip, I tend to be anti-social and quiet for a while. I don’t do very much and I am hard pressed to leave the house for too long. I stay up all hours of the night and I sleep very little. I enjoy being awake when everyone else is asleep. I like the quiet that 3:00am brings, it’s good for me. There is that fine line where late night turns into early morning and I find that I am most productive in that sweet spot. In what I consider to be one of the more classic TED talks, poet Buddy Wakefield says:
“If you see me being quiet, don’t ask me what’s wrong. I’m just practicing”
I seem to be practicing a lot more lately and I like the results that I see. I have been comfortable just waiting for the boredom and creativity to happen on its own. But this web site is about breaking out of my comfort zone and pushing through barriers to be creative. I just didn’t think that barrier would present itself so soon. I must jump the fence, break down the walls, and take a running leap at the obstacles in my way. I have been fortunate enough to spend the last two weeks in Arizona riding my bike and sharing stories with old friends. But being distracted and constantley on the move has left me uninspired. Burning the candle at both ends tends to only leave me with only small blob of melted wax to show for it. I will find time to be bored, to create. I will practice being quiet even though I am constantly distracted and lured in by the sirens of the road. Stay tuned. This could get weird.
adopt or be in a position in which one’s weight is supported by one’s buttocks on a staircase rather than one’s feet
Stoop sitting is one of my favorite past time. It is 100% free and requires no accessories or special equipment. It takes nothing more than a set of stairs, a hind end and some free time. You can add snacks, a smoke or beverage if you like, but it’s not imperative. Home stoop sitting is ideal and a good stoop is the number one prerequisite when I am looking for a new place to live. Although stoop sitting is believed to have originated in major urban centers, it can be done in any environment you find stairs.
Just to be clear, I don’t have anything against front porches, I think they are just fine. They are protected from the elements and usually have rather comfortable furniture. But the view from a porch will often be obstructed by railings or shrubbery. The existence of the American front porch has been on the decline since WWII, leaving a country filled with countless stoops to sit on. They are all around us and mustn’t be ignored.
My friend Brendan once said there are only two kinds of people in this world, Soakers and Non-Soakers. He used hot springs as an example to differentiate between people who relax and people who don’t. It isn’t necessarily about relaxation. Just because you aren’t doing something with your hands or fidgeting with an electronic gadget, doesn’t mean it is unproductive. I believe that everyone is a Stoop Sitter on the inside. I like to believe that many great decisions have been made and problems have been solved from the perch of a good stoop. The world could be a little bit better place if we all practiced more stoop sitting.
Stoop sitting is for any occasion. The stoop can be a meditation room or a therapy session. It can be a great place to have that morning coffee or someplace to relax after a hard day. When you can’t afford to go to that concert you wanted to, brown bag a beverage and listen to the show from a nearby stoop. Or you finish a ride or a run and don’t want to go inside yet, post up on the stoop to cool down. Maybe you know a good stoop that faces west, wander over and check out the sunset. Or sometimes you just head out the front door and take a seat for no reason at all.
I don’t know what exactly makes this simple act so rewarding. Maybe it’s the fresh air or the comfortable ergonomics of just the right stairs. Or maybe simply zoning out and watching the world go by provides a much needed reprieve from the hustle and bustle of our adult lives. Whatever it may be, it is good for the soul and should be done whenever possible.
Don’t have enough time for Stoop Sitting you say? Make the time. But don’t worry, the stoop always waits.
It’s a fairly amusing way to make conversation at the bar, but it is also 100% true. When you ask me what I do, I’m not going to tell you how I make a paycheck. Because bicycles rule my life and they are the one thing that I identify my existence with the most. Before I was a college student, a scientist, a skateboarder, a rock climber or even an unemployed traveler (as I am now), I was a cyclist. But what is a cyclist? This is a question I struggle with on a regular basis.
To me, it is a simple answer. A cyclist is a person who rides a bicycle. But somewhere along the way we have lost sight of the simplicity and started breaking up into different tribes. Like some kind of lycra and flannel clad Lord of the Flies. There are roadies, singlespeeders, commuters, downhill, BMX’ers, touring riders … and so on. I’m not sure what causes this compartmentalization. Maybe it is society, human nature or even marketing. But I’ve never thought it was very healthy. Sure, it’s nice to differentiate between disciplines but it shouldn’t be so polarizing.
I am constantly being judged and told that I don’t “look like a cyclist”. Granted, I more closely resemble a fire hydrant or a tree stump. But what does a cyclist look like and what the hell does that have to do with me being able to pedal a bicycle? I wonder how many other people this happens to. I can’t be the only one and it probably scares a fair amount of people away.
You see, I have an agenda with all of this social media blabbing and internet writing I do. I want to be a fun-enabler and get more people excited about riding bicycles. There are a lot of great organizations like Trips for Kids and Ride for Reading that work to get children on bikes. There are also groups like World Bicycle Relief and Portal Bikes who are doing amazing things in developing nations. But who looks out for our friends, relatives and neighbors?
This is a call to arms for all cyclists around the world. A mission to find one person around you and put them on a bicycle. Do you have a friend who “used to ride” and wishes they could get back into it? Well then take them for a ride. Does your significant other want to go for a multi-day bikepack in the Rockies? Give them a high five, a map and get after it. Maybe your buddy at work has always wanted to do a backflip on a BMX bike. Help him find a ramp, take it to a lake and give it a try. The possibilities for spreading this cycling addiction are endless.
I understand that cycling is an inherently selfish endeavor. I have been in this game long enough to know that it’s just you, some calories and a machine. But I also feel that part of being a cyclist is sharing our love of bicycles with others, no matter what discipline we participate in. Most of us have been riding bicycles since we were children and it should still be just as fun and welcoming today as it was back then. Hopping curbs, skidding, riding with no hands and splashing through puddles are there for everyone to enjoy. It’s up to us to break down the barriers, bring more people in and create more cyclists. We are incredibly fortunate to be using a form of transportation as recreation. Let’s not take that for granted.
I published the original version of this story on drunkcyclist and Expedition Portal in March of 2013. I decided to blow the dust off and re-post it here. I think it tells a lot about me and even more about the desert Southwest that I love so much.
I have always just called them long rides. I never felt the need to classify them as anything other than that. Pick a spot on the map, load up the right bike for the job and take off for a few days. I was doing them long before I started thinking of myself as a story teller and I will keep doing them until I can no longer turn the pedals. They are my meditation, my classroom, my time to think and sort stuff out. Sometimes I think about heavy shit like the loss of a friend, a break up or money problems. But more often than not, I wander through the desert and just think about random stuff. Stuff that isn’t particularly important, like how awesome Black Sabbath is, how many different plants I can see in 100 miles, or what would make the perfect mash for my whiskey still. But this one particular ride was for educational purposes.
Back in 1854, the US government drew a line in the sand that is now our current border with Mexico. There has always been some kind of fence along the border but it was mostly to keep our cattle herds separated. Over time, there have been various attempts at making bigger walls and fences. But in 2006 a huge push was made to secure the entire border, all 1,969 miles of it. It is now a monstrosity of steel and concrete stretching to the horizon. Only interrupted in places where the landscape is too rugged and too remote for modern machinery to easily build it. I understand the reasons why it is there, and I am not here to argue politics, but I hate that wall. To me, the desert, in all her rugged and thorny beauty represents everything that is free. To have a wall there just seems wrong. Every time I cross the border, whether it be Tijuana, San Louis, Lukeville, Nogales, or Juarez it is there staring at me. I have never been able to put my feelings about the wall into words. So I did the only thing I knew how. I went for a ride…along the wall
I decided that riding for a couple days in one of the more remote sections of the border might do me some good. Maybe I would be able to find those words I have been looking for somewhere out there amongst the cactus, Mesquite and sand.
My journey started with a bus ride to the border town of Nogales, AZ. I didn’t have much of a plan or even a good route, all I wanted to do was wander and learn. I had a compass, a big ugly wall on my right, 3 days worth of food, and 2 days worth of water. Let’s point it east and see what happens.
I got off the bus and headed straight to the wall just past the port of entry. I was quickly met by a Border Patrol agents sternly advising me to move to the outskirts of town before meeting up with the wall. I took their advice and rode east through a neighborhood before finally hopping on a dirt service road for a few miles. I eventually merged onto the road that parallels the border. Smooth and hard as pavement, I covered a lot of ground in a hurry thanks to a killer tail wind.
As I rode along, I couldn’t help but notice that there were doors in the fence every so often. Now why would a fence, which is designed to keep people out of our country have a door in it? Granted it was secured with a giant steel beam, but was this some kind of sick joke?
After a while, the road and the fence abruptly stopped and was replaced with open desert and what I could best describe as giant steel saw horses. It reminded me of pictures I have seen from the beaches of Normandy, or war footage from Afghanistan. What the hell is this for? To stop the tanks?
This seemed like a good place as any to stop for lunch, so I sat right down and used the re-purposed railroad steel as a back rest. It then occurred to me that there is really nothing but a little barbed wire fence keeping me from being in Mexico right now. So I hopped on over. I did a little dance, threw some middle fingers in the air, and hoped that some eye-in-the-sky was watching me do it. Maybe some poor bastard in a command center somewhere was getting a good laugh out of it.
By this point the road was gone and it was replaced by a faint doubletrack made by ATV’s. I rode that for quite some time, always staying as close to the border as possible. Conditions degraded until there was no more track to follow and I was left to bushwack. I stood on a fence post and glassed the horizon to see if there was any reprieve in sight. There wasn’t, so I made the decision to turn back and reevaluate. I got back to the road about an hour later and was greeted by the Border Patrol. We had an interesting conversation:
Border Patrol (BP): Where ya headed?
Me: Trying to get to Bisbee in a couple days by following the border.
BP: Well, you aren’t going to be able to get there along the line, it’s some pretty rough country. It’s gonna be dark soon and you don’t want to head up into the mountains. I suggest you just turn around and head on back to Nogales.
Me: Well sir, I have a bunch of food and 2 gallons of water. So I think I will just see what I can see around here for now.
BP: I knew you would be OK, I could tell by the way you are dressed. It’s the boys we see down here in the spandex that we worry about. You armed?
Me: Yes sir.
BP: Good. You have a nice night.
Well, I came here to learn and I have never been one for listening to authority, so I ignored the warning and headed up into the mountains. I zig-zagged around the desert for a while following every piece of trail or dirt road I could find. Most trails were made by human feet and were littered with empty tin cans and water bottles. They headed north into valleys and sand washes, staying low to avoid detection. When they went too far off my route, I turned around and headed back to the nearest dirt road. It was a spider web of old ranch roads and they always seemed to dead end at either a corral or some kind of old farm structure.
I finally made camp around 9pm and settled in for the night. I was in plain view, near a large graded road and Border Patrol made plenty of visits. We talked quite a bit and they educated me on the activity in the area. They also explained the abnormal, almost monkey-like sounds that I kept hearing. They weren’t wild animals at all, but actually look-outs camped in the hills who were signaling border crossers below. I woke up dozens of times paranoid that somebody was in my camp, panicked but never actually seeing anyone. Come daybreak I realized that my paranoia was actually warranted. Because now there were new shoe prints in the sand over mine, and I was missing a water bottle. It’s silly, but the first thing I thought was they should have just woke me up. I would have given them some food or even the bottle with the high calorie drink mix in it.
It was a cold morning and there was a little frost in the shade. I sat in the sand and let the morning sun heat my aching body. When in the desert, do as the lizards do. I thought about everything I had already seen and experienced and concluded that one night out was enough. If I put in a good ride, I could probably make Tucson in 10-12 hours by way of the saloon in Patagonia. There was no need to take the most direct route and I decided to explore every side road I saw, as long as it was pointing in the direction I needed to go. The rolling hills seemed to go on forever. Every so often interrupted by grassy fields with bonsai-like trees scattered randomly about. It was like a scene straight from the African savannah and my imagination ran wild. I half expected a giraffe or an elephant to come walking by at any moment. I hit pavement just after sunset and rode towards the light pollution of Tucson. Just like that, it was over.
I went to the border looking for words and trying to find some answers. After two days of travel through this breathtaking countryside, I went home with even more questions. I guess that is the sign of a truly good teacher, and I guess this lesson is to be continued.
I was a bike addicted fifteen year-old when I first saw pictures of Nepal. There, amongst an old stack of National Geographic magazines on my grandparent’s coffee table was a story about Mt Everest. I didn’t care much for the words, but in some of the pictures, people were hiking over little pieces of alpine singletrack. These particular trails happen to be in the biggest mountains on earth and that made it even more exciting. I am a mountain biker, after all, and it was only logical to my teenage brain that I must go there and ride. It was an epiphany for me. It was then that I realized there had to be trails all over the world. In countries and mountain ranges that I never heard of. They might be made for walking and they might be really hard or even unridable, but they are out there. This excited me to no end, and it has led to a life long obsession.
Fast forward twenty years and I’m lying on a wooden bunk in a pitch black and drafty stone room, high in the Annapurna Himal. I have been on the go for two weeks and the biggest day of my trip, and possibly the biggest day of my life, is only hours away. I can’t sleep and, for some reason, I’m crying. Overwhelmed with emotion, sobbing and talking to myself like a goddamn lunatic.
“I did it. I fucking did it. I’m here. I’m really here!”
I got up and went outside to walk it off. Everything was blue. Blue in that way things get at night when you are up that high. It’s going to be a cold start to the day. My eyes are heavy and they stung from the cold but sleep wasn’t an option. I might as well pack up my things and get this day started. I promised the caretaker of the lodge that I would have breakfast before I left at 6am. So I waited out the final two hours, sitting on an old wicker stool, alone with my emotions. Staring at the silhouettes of the mountains around me, I still couldn’t believe that I was actually going higher into the hills. Significantly higher. Four thousand feet higher. It’s already hard to breathe here, what is it going to feel like up there? What if I get altitude sick, what if it is too cold?
Breakfast took a little longer than I would have liked but, despite the language barrier, I think we both enjoyed the company. With my belly full of bread and tea, I rode on up the hill. Six hours of wheezing and pushing my bike later, I found myself staring at a beautiful turquoise lake. For months, I had been dreaming of what this lake would look like. It was like nothing I had ever seen and it didn’t even look real. It was like staring at a painting. A giant 3D mural at the end of the trail. But wait, something isn’t right. I looked at my map and looked out at the lake and then checked the map again.
No, this can’t be right. It was simple plan to go south of the lake and then over another pass to cross the range. Where I’ve heard rumors of an hour long downhill that would take me into a large village. An oasis for the weary traveler filled with cold beer and hot showers. Instead, there is an angry looking glacier directly in my way. To the north, a fair amount of snow and another pass to climb. I sat down on a small boulder and assessed my situation. I’m not going anywhere near that glacier and I just don’t have enough food or warm gear to spend a night above 16,000 feet in the snow. Summit fever is strong in a man alone in the high mountains. Two hours passed before I finally made the decision to turn around and go back the way I came. To this day, it is the hardest decision I have ever made.
The descent was steep and exposed and seemed to be over before it started. The squealing of brakes and chattering of my tires echoed through the entire valley. A downhill this fast and exciting should feel like a victory lap, but it only felt like defeat. I arrived back at the base camp building in the late afternoon, much to the surprise of the caretaker. I dropped my bike in a small grassy patch and sat with my back against the sunny side of the building. Completely shattered from the effort and the defeat. I took a deep breath and made myself take in the scenery. The valley was now filled with a large herd of Yak. The bells around their necks dinging as they slowly moved over the scree fields in search of vegetation. It is a mesmerizing sound when combined with the afternoon wind. To my left, about twenty feet away, two herdsmen were setting up their camp. Through a combination of charades, broken English and Nepali I told them what I had just been through. They shook their head in disbelief and offered me a cup of tea.
That evening, a few of us gathered for dinner. The caretaker, the Yak herders, a couple Nepali guides and myself. The guides spoke good English and helped translate the conversation for me. We huddled around a small wood stove in the kitchen and downed countless glasses of local moonshine, Raksi. One of the Yak herders asked me what it was like to ride a bicycle through the Himalayas. I said that is has been a dream come true for me. My favorite part has been when the village children run after me yelling “Cycle Man! Cycle Man!” as I ride by. We all laughed, clanked glasses, and toasted to Nepal. The caretaker, a small and quiet man, said something in Nepali and everyone laughed. I asked if they could translate it for me. But he kept talking and everyone kept laughing. Finally, one of the guides brought me up to speed.
“He said that you should not be called Cycle Man. Your name will be Yak Man. He has been watching you, and you move through the mountains like an old yak. You are big and strong and always keep moving. Even if it is not so fast”
This is my fifty two week homework assignment. A mission to create and share one thing every week for at least one year. This is something that I have wanted to do for a while and, as cliche as it may be, the new year seems like the perfect time to pull the trigger. It also makes keeping tract of that one year nice and easy.
The Reichel Cycle name goes way back. When I was younger, kids on the school bus would mock my last name with songs like:
“Reichel Reichel motorcycle used a fart to make it start”
As a 30-something I now find that hilarious, but as a 12 year-old it stung a little. In all reality, who wouldn’t want a motorcycle that ran on flatulence? Talk about a renewable resource! As I got older I would use it to help people pronounce my last name “Reichel, rhymes with cycle”. People always seemed to remember it after that.
This is not me leaving my roots as “Dirty Biker” on drunkcyclist.com. But as my friend SnakeHawk once said “it’s just a new gallery to hang my art”. Over the years, I have collected stories that were either incredibly personal to me or just not the right fit for that snarky yellow page. I would also like to share experiences and thoughts about things that aren’t necessarily bicycle related. This will be the home for those stories. But there is no denying that bicycles and bicycle travel rule my life, and that’s what the majority of this page will be about.
I want to experiment with not just words, but photos and videos as well. This simple, bare-bones page will be my blank canvas and I am going to throw a lot of random stuff at it. I don’t consider myself a photographer, videographer or even a writer. But hopefully, through this exercise, I will get a little closer to those titles. I don’t think it is going to be easy, but I do think that it is exactly what I need in my life right now.