I found my way home.

This must be Florida; the swelter clings
to windows, begging to find
relief inside.

Home on my patio I'm mugged by subtropic miasma; yesterdays rain rises in today's sun as my backyard jungle is a cacophony of  cicadas, overgrowth blocking all horizon, its leaves rustling softly in the moist breeze. Lizards dart, squirrels chatter, and my dogs romp after them as well as imagined critters, just as before and always. How is it Tuesday in Florida, when I left Oregon Sunday? Ah, the "red-eye" from Portland robbed me of my hard earned hours and redeemed my miles. Bicycling westward warps of my sense of time. Another fascination I have is with sundials, rooted in my interest in celestial navigation. Our daily progress toward the setting sun offered a perspective of relationships between time and distance that I was very aware of as we progressed; the days kept getting longer, for the sun set and rose later, yielding a precious bonus hour of sleep as we changed time zones twice from my starting point in Chicago. After flying all night I came home and slept all of Monday, rising for to eat steak and cake during the evening hours, and then sleeping well into this Tuesday.

So long ago and far away seem our last days of riding. I prefer to write when the impression of the trek is as fresh on my psyche as the impression of the bicycle seat is on my butt; the last days were too full to gather on this page. I must do it now before it is washed into this strange familiarity.

I found Bigfoot's bike.

Beware of bears in the berry patch.

We pedaled from Packwood to Longview WA with a net loss of 1000 feet that included enough climbing to yield 3,300 of change through the 95 miles. I rode alone near the end of the pack. I took it pretty easy during most of the trip this year, especially nearing the end. Along the way I came by Alice and Justin picking the abundant blackberries found in this region, and later found out Justin was harvesting to make pies. Later as I came across Justin picking again I stopped to join him, enjoying what I plucked that wasn't offered to the bucket.

We were guests of Father's House Church in the commercial district in downtown. Unfortunately Dan's bicycle was snatched from where it was parked just inside the door, for as in any metropolitan area this can happen. We had grown complacent in our mobile utopia, for in the world we were visiting we felt a security foreign to reality. Fortunately our support driver Tom had his bicycle along and Dan was able to finish the last ride with that. After dinner we had warm blackberry pie and ice cream, with a bit of pie left over for breakfast the next morning.

Emotion began simmering with the morning's coffee. The last day of the ride lends itself to sentimentality, especially for those who started on the beach of Atlantic City. We received instructions for the day that included a stopping point prior to finish so that we could ride en masse as we approached the Pacific. As always, on cue we cheered "Oyee" before departing, and I noticed a bit of sniffling and choking after the final cheer. Spirits were high as hearts sank.

The road rolled toward the end, again lined with blackberries I had to stop and gorge myself on. It was to be a short day, just over 50 miles. "Short" is relative, just like hills are to mountains. I found the climbs to be inconsequential, where just weeks before they would have been notable. We gathered at the assigned location, and took a casual ride to the end. I must say we are an impressive sight when grouped so.

Cresting into the Pacific

Our last turn was made down Sunset Lane and a couple of miles remained. We
 rolled on, and suddenly crested a hill where the Pacific Ocean came into view.  There were numerous cars parked there, with a small crowd on the beach cheering us onto the shore. It was no race; instead as the sand softened riders dismounted to carry or walk their bikes to the surf. The celebration began as the ride officially ended. Some ran into the surf while others were swamped by it's teasing the shore. I enjoyed a long tearful hug from my daughter Cherisse, who seemed inspired by the goings-on. We then assembled for a group photo, and then circled up for final prayer and devotion in song led by Gerry.

It ain't over 'til the Scotstrailian sings.

After all that, we had ten miles to ride to our host destination where Mehai's family had prepared our feast. Mehai is a sausage maker extraordinaire, and his extended Romanian family provided the side dishes and deserts. It was a great finish before the bittersweet farewells began.

It's hard to say goodbye. It can
cause back trouble.

Hugs, kisses, wishes, promises and gifts were distributed as we dwindled. Bikes were disassembled and boxed. Some departed while the rest of us spent one more night. Cherisse drove us into town for a few last minute gifts and shopping before retiring. Others of the group traveled by way of our support van. Having spent so much time in isolated towns over the past months the energy of this tourist town seemed a bit overwhelming and exhausting for some, while others relished the nightlife, choosing to celebrate a bit more.

Sunday came and we went. Cherisse, Susan and I traveled to the

Arron, Susan, Me, and Grampy John
at the airport.

airport 3 hours away, while others took the van. We had a bit of reunion there as some waited for our late flights. First John left, then Susan, and fortunately Arron had a flight before mine so he had to let go. I have to let go, and despite my best intentions am having trouble. It will take some time to readjust, but I've been through this before so know the best way to do that is stay active with volunteering. First, I'm going to Disney World and see how they've done without me. I have my church to return to, along with another fellowship; there are my oldsters at Emeritus Assisted living I will resume playing bingo with, and then continued efforts with the Fuller Center for Housing of Central Florida, Disney VoluntEARS, and the Westgate Foundation to keep me occupied. If nothing else I can go for a bike ride.

The last of the sages

Years ago I went to my first pow-wow, and was surprised to smell what I thought was some rather strange marijuana. I quickly found out it was sage and raw tobacco being burned as a traditional incense. I purchased a bundle of what was described as "white mountain sage" and grew more fond of the burning aroma with use. Whenever I found it in flea markets I'd buy a 6" long and 1" thick wrap of it, usually for around $6, but I've seen it sold for more.

Traveling through the West sage is found everywhere. Cattle don't eat it; it simply grows in poor arid soils as the weed it is. I picked some up near Little Big Horn and carried it for hundreds of miles as it dried tied to my pack, only to be lost somewhere along the way. That was good, for I had to harvest more. It so happened it was in the vicinity of White Mountain Wyoming, so what I thought was "white" sage grown in the mountains was actually a preferred variety from this region. It was apparent the plant itself was more frail, and more pleasant than what I had previously harvested.

I was lost so asked here for directions.
No help. I asked for teriyaki. He said
his wife wasn't here. We found Teri
somewhere else.

Yesterday I harvested some sage along the way to Yakima, Washington. That ride from Richland was interesting for the changes along the way. More farming where the arid landscape is irrigated. Southeast Washington is growing rapidly in the wine industry, but also has peaches, apples, pears, plumbs and other produce. The vineyards are massive cabling systems to hold the grape arbors. The peach harvest is pretty much over, the grapes are still green, the apples are being picked and the pears look ready. It was tempting to pull over and sample, but coming from Florida I am well aware that picking fruit along the road is just wrong.

I bear-ly made it this far...

In Yakima we went for teriyaki, sat under a sycamore, and slept in a Catholic cafeteria. I was in bed by 8, for these 4 am wake-ups are taking their toll on me.

Well rested we head out at sunrise into a brisk wind. Within the first hour we had gusts over 20 mph; not a good sign in the morning for usually the wind picks up as the day goes on. After the first break things calmed down and we climbed 4,000 feet over 50 miles to White Pass.

Bike valet service

No sage grows past here.

As we proceeded the sagebrush gave way to pines, and I had failed to pick a sample of sage. When I realized this I looked harder for some, but the environment apparently was getting too moist for it. Then, just before going through a tunnel I found some alongside the road, growing amongst the rocks. I harvested a bundle, and that was the last I saw any growing. It is a very pleasant and strong sample, quite different from the one I picked just yesterday. This peaks my curiosity as to how many varieties there are, and their qualities. More research is in order, but I'm pretty sure my sampling is done this trip. It grows in higher, dryer elevations than we will find this side of the Cascades.

Upon arriving at White Pass the distant snow capped Mt. Rainier quickly came into view. The ride down the mountain was exhilarating, with 6% grades at two points. I took my time, not going over 40 miles per hour. I don't trust my bicycle for speeds over 50 that could have been attained, and furthermore the views were just too beautiful to pass by. I stopped numerous times to just take the distant views in, as well as look over the edge of the road into the lush forest. This was my favorite ride of the trip.

Tonight we are guests of the Packwood Presbyterian Church. Tomorrow is close to 100 miles with a net loss of elevation by the time we reach Longview; downhill but still another early morning.

Wherever "here" is

I arrived, as most riders did, before noon today. Where I am I'm not really sure of, for I wasn't paying attention. Okay, so it is the West Side Church some 72 miles from where we woke up this morning, so long ago- Dayton was it? We started over arid landscape, then there were grain fields followed by potatoes, corn, some hills, headwind, grapes and apples, then poplar plantations where we changed direction a bit so the wind was behind us and we rode some more with ease. On some roads there was plenty of shoulder, others we were shoulder-to-shoulder with truckers. Then there was a bike path, miles of it along a river through industrial areas and then neighborhoods, under bridges, then over a bridge crossing the river, then more bike path, a couple of turns and we arrived here. Here we got into a van that took us to Gold's Gym for showers and we came back to make stacks of laundry. I phoned my daughter about meeting her in a few days when (rumor has it) this will all end somewhere down the road, but we're not there yet.

Yet down the road looms over us. We are condemned to reality; there will be no appeal, no pardon. As it was today I have been reminded of details of that stark truth- I have responsibilities I ran away from 6 weeks ago that must resume. I didn't do so well with this part last year, or any time I go through the culture shock of return. I adapt well to change, but can't seem to do as well returning.

The challenge is to not fight it, but return to my reality and share the lessons and inspiration I gained here rather than burden my world with melancholy from yearning for this. To look at the world around me with the perspective and amazement of a missionary, seeing what is right, so to encourage it, and doing what is right to encourage other to follow suit. While working overseas I was constantly amazed with the sensory overload found in foreign land, whereas the natives nodded off on the subway, headphones in their ears, fingers poking phones, oblivious to their amazing surroundings. Then I realized how I am in my reality- no different than them in theirs, so I resolved to return home and try to see my world  through foreign eyes.

It's easier said than done. One thing I look forward to back home is my volunteer work. I admire those of the Fuller Center for Housing of Central Florida who tirelessly engage in working with others. It is far different than touring across the country with bicyclists, being treated so generously everywhere we go, and doing a bit of actual work along with the cycling. Our Covenant Partners do the actual work, rarely noticed outside the recipient and a few neighbors. There is where lasting impact is felt. The Fuller Center Bicycle Adventure is an important part of that, raising funds and awareness toward the general cause and our foundation, but it is a temporary commitment the cyclists make. It is hoped each of us can cause a slight ripple in our communities by continuing volunteer work in some manner, drawing on our experience here (wherever it is) to push onward.

I asked around, and it so happens we are in Richland, WA. We suffer from what anyone on the road suffers when it comes to constant change- it becomes a blur. What remains a common thread is that here, wherever it is, the people are good, caring and involved in their community. I can find that at home. I can be that at home.

The long and lonely hill

We started our last week of this adventure this morning leaving Lewiston after breakfast provided by our hosts. It was a good rest day Sunday. First we attended churches of our choice, had a picnic lunch in the park along the Snake River, and later that day a number of us were invited to dinner at a private home. Our hosts for dinner were Chris and Angela; Chris is a deacon of the All Saints Catholic Church. This always makes a visit particularly memorable, for the generosity of such people is inspiring. We all had a great time.

We started our 60+ mile day and I had a noise in my rear wheel. I stopped to check, and thought perhaps my wheel cleaning the day before was too thorough, washing the grease out of my hub. I had just repacked them two weeks ago, and reviewing how I cleaned my bike yesterday thought that just couldn't be the issue. Another mile down the road I had a flat, so presumed the noise was instead caused by road debris hung in my tread. After fixing the flat I proceeded and had noise again. I opted to have Tom pick me up an take me to the 20 mile rest stop where the support van/trailer was, and there I repacked my bearings. They didn't look particularly good, but they are all I have, and are noisy. We aren't anywhere near a parts supplier, so this is what I'll ride for the next few days. I'm afraid the damage is done, though. No big deal; I have a lot of miles on this bike and it is just wearing out.

I proceeded from there across the arid east of Washington. Starting fresh down long rolling hills and flats made progress from there average over 20 mph to the next break. The later part of the day was uphill and hot. Uphill, gradual grades, for miles.

It is the hill that separates us. Yes, we all ride up together, but each is on his own. Progress is between 5 and 10 miles an hour, the difference measured in tenths that quickly decline as the ache increases. Muscles are used up, so we stand to use up the others, then fall back to the saddle exhausted, dropping to the lowest gears to spin. Speed decreases and your riding partners pull ahead or fall behind slowly. My mind is all I have at this point to make the hill with. I think; I've given my body water and food. I'm not struggling for air, my joints are not too painful so no damage is occurring- I have to ignore the pain and push forth, with new resolve that gains me sometimes a top speed of 10, maybe 11 for a burst, that fades quickly for the pain wins the argument between mind and body. I fall behind. I don't like the distance growing between the rider ahead, the distance shrinking between the rider behind. They can do this, at least at that moment, so I reason I can too. Another burst of resolve dissolves almost as soon as it is applied to the machine. It gets lonely, for each of us is in our own battle with ourselves climbing this hill.

Then I reach the top, or what I thought was the top, and beyond- another climb. Okay, well for a moment there is a relief as we are able to regroup and share misery. We encourage one another once the bile is out, and continue. Hit the hill as fast as I can, maintain standing as long as I can, and then slump to my saddle and lower gears for the long grind. Some days there is but one, others there are more. Not little hills, mind you, but seemingly endless hills as we approach our destination.

There is relief, though, for the towns are in the valleys that typically follow. We are welcomed and rewarded with a downhill that makes the climb and pain retire to memory, and the anticipation of rest and shower fills us. I napped today, so am up late finishing this post, but must rise at 4 am to do this again, and again fail to give proper treatment to tonight's hosts, Dayton United Church of Christ, who house and did a wonderful job feeding us.

Build Day in Lewiston

We were able to sleep in, for breakfast was at 7 am. We were split up into 6 teams to hit various projects. Not all the work we do is for Fuller Center for Housing; we typically partner with whatever charities in the area need labor. One of the teams was assigned to help out at a food bank, the rest were build, paint, yard work, repair, etc. The team I was on was assigned to build a wheelchair ramp for a woman whose daughter couldn't visit due to the inaccessibility of the home.

We worked with Bob V. of Interlink Volunteers. They provide various services for the Lewiston ID and Clarkston WA communities. This is the same man I had the good fortune to work with last year. He is very patient, allowing novices the opportunity to play with power tools. That makes me nervous, but nobody got hurt and things went amazingly well. Toward the end of the day crews from other jobs arrived to put a coat of paint on our work (video).

The building team was taken back to the church while the painting team continued their work. We cleaned up and had a dinner of lasagna, pizza, and salad. It's an early night, and I suppose some of the team are heading into town to find entertainment, but I think I'll just hang out here. We are staying in various buildings of the Presbyterian complex, the one I'm in a guest house of the church. Tomorrow is a rest day, with church and then whatever else we want to do. Monday we start six days of riding, to the end. Going by a church today I saw a sign that is most appropriate for this time, "Don't count the days; make the days count." Today is still good.

I started last, went fast, and lasted to second upon Lewiston

It was a great ride, once I got started. We awoke before 4 to get a jump on this long day. Now that we are in the Pacific time zone the mornings come earlier. Getting out at sunrise assures us less heat and wind potential.

I found my tire flat when retrieving my bike. Apparently I picked up a small wire yesterday, causing a slow leak. As the team was getting briefed on the day I was taking care of that business, so failed to take a cue sheet of the day's directions. No problem, for I glanced at a map the day before, and the roads to Lewiston were southbound and limited.

It was cool, but not as cold as usual, so I wore my tights and jacket. I had a full night's sleep, for I turned in before lights-out. I felt strong, so took the first hour hard, averaging 18.9 mph in the first 21 miles. My goal was to catch Steve. I spoke with him as he was leaving the break stop, but that doesn't count for I wanted to catch him on the road. It was the last I would see him.

I wasn't aware of that at the time, of course, so set off on the next 20 with great hope. I passed more riders. At 40 miles I kept my stop short, for that was the only way I'd gain time. I was feeling good, and keeping my average speed over 18. I was pulling a few other riders, one of which was Mike. As we approached a hill he passed me, and showed me how to climb as I drafted behind him at over 18 mph. I don't climb at that speed, but can now that he showed me I can. Cycling distance at speed is merely a state of mind and skill at this point for all the riders, for after these miles all are physically conditioned enough to do so; it's a mental state that keeps us from not performing to our potential. We all can learn and gain strength from one-another.

I almost missed the 60 mile break, only noticing it for Tom yelling to me, attracting my attention. I wasn't keeping track of anything but cadence and speed up to that point. At the short break I asked who was ahead; Steve, of course, and Dan, who I saw pull out of the stop. I told Tom my goal was to catch Steve, and he said "I think you can." I wolfed down a banana, picked up a couple pounds of water, and head off after them.

I didn't see either for the next 20 miles. These two are strong riders. At the 80 mile mark Dan was taking a casual break. Tom shook his head at me and said "I though Mark Major was making a comeback." I wasn't done yet. I left with Dan, who let me pull ahead, and now it was just Steve I had to catch.

Old Spiral Highway requires intestinal fortitude to take at speed

At the top of Old Spiral Highway I stopped to reset my camera to full video (still editing at this point). Having climbed up out of Lewiston last year I knew what we were headed down. It's a 2000 foot drop over 10 miles of 64 curves. I did my best to not feather the brakes, but there were just some turns that were too hot to handle at those speeds. When I reached the bottom there was Steve's chalk mark indicating the turn into town.

I was in trouble once I got into town, for I got on a bicycle path that took me off the course I had no instructions for. I waited for Dan, who guided me in. It wasn't noon yet. Dan's data said he made the 94+ miles in just over 5 hours. My average speed at day's end was 18.3 mph.

Clean laundry strewn for collection

Then...laundry duty! Figure 38 people, 34 of which sweat profusely every day, and it has been three ride days and one work day of accumulation and fermentation. I figure between 200-250 lbs of rancid spandex and cotton. I'm okay with that until I get what I call "the vapors". A good whiff and I'm reduced to a involuntarily retching mess. I hate it, but it's not a bad gig really, for it means we only have to do our real work on that day; we are excluded from meal preparation and loading and other daily tasks. It's a great bonding experience, but you tend to get to know the team a little too well. Just too much information can be shared through derriere detritus.

Dinner was provided by our hosts here at Congregational Presbyterian Church of Lewiston. A number of the group spoke for our hosts, sharing fun times, and Laurie's share was especially heartwarming as she described her week's experience with us. This entire movement is powerful, changing all who experience it. I know how I felt my first experience, and this year has shown me greater examples of what I witness every day as a result of being shown the goodness of humanity.  Just as with cycling is our ability to serve; all are physically conditioned enough to do so; it's a spiritual state that keeps us from not performing to our potential. We all can learn and gain strength from one-another.

Coeur D'Alene is French for the best trail ever!

Today's ride was trail only. The Trail of the Coeur D'Alenes is a 73 mile rail-to-trail project, the most beautiful I've seen. We traveled part of it the other day, but today's 50+ was from Kellogg to Plummer, the trails end. Rail beds never have more than a 4% grade, so whenever we travel on, or along them, the ride is relatively easy.

Kin of Hopper

The day started with breakfast provided by the American Lutheran Church, and we were on our way. The trail is rather remote, most of it inaccessible by car, so we were unsupported until our first break at 20 miles. There were moose who left their muddy tracks on the trail, and we saw one about a quarter mile down away, but it disappeared into the woods before we arrived.

The ride was casual as we made our way. All of it is good surface, with shade over most of it. At times we seemed to just hang on the edge of mountains, with extreme drops to the valley below. Then it was along lake and river, then over on converted rail bridges. We took our second break in Harrison, a small tourist community on the lake. I had a large huckleberry ice cream cone, and then finished the ride. I think I picked up more calories than I burned today there alone.

Ceremonial drink upon arrival

Here in Plummer we are the guests of Christian Life Fellowship Church. We were given a financial gift by a benefactor recently who specified that we use it to buy dinner for the group on night a local church wasn't feeding us. Well, tonight we are on our own, and this town is too small to accommodate our group in any of the restaurants. Instead, Justin stocked up at the grocery store and taking it all back to the church kitchen to make dinner for 38 people. Now, there is where the "diverse skill set" I mentioned in yesterday's blog is beyond mine. I can't imagine feeding that many people properly, but Justin has been a chef in Chicago and Nashville...this should be good!

Tomorrow will be rough. Not because is it around 90+ miles, but because we have to get up at 0330, pack and clean, breakfast at 0430, and on the road at sunrise. We entered the Pacific time zone when we entered Idaho. Rumor is we'll be reaching the end of this trip soon, but not today. Today is all that matters, and it's been good so far.

Build Day in Kellogg

I think I may have awakened at 5 but couldn't bear to get out of my sleeping bag. A few of us had camped out on the baseball field. I was freezing in my tropical weight sleeping bag though I was wearing cycling tights, shorts, t-shirt, windbreaker, and had a sheet on top. My sympathetic comrades threw a jacket and another sleeping bag over me before leaving me alone out there. I eventually warmed up enough to make my way out of my cocoon. We were treated to breakfast at a local restaurant, and bused to the work site.

There we found our assignment; install siding on a triple-wide manufactured home. Essentially it was a salvaged double wide with a construction trailer between the halves, and a pole building style roof over the entirety to shield it from weather. Much work had been done already in bulldozing the land, assembling the sections of the home, installing utilities, building the overhead structure, installing storm windows- and those were just the things that were apparent to me. I'm sure there was much more. The entire square footage seemed suitable for the family of 12 making it a home.

We are a well-oiled machine when it comes to getting ourselves on the road and attending to the tasks of bicycling and speaking, but the build part...let's just say we have a diverse skill set, some of it suitable for construction. Volunteers are eager folk, but really need close supervision and direction or they'll sort of scatter about with the tools, doing things with them they weren't intended for. A few of them know what they are doing, so start at the task, arguing until opinions align and the work begins. Help is needed and appreciated, but when orders are barked at nearby groups of malingerers there is an immediate "deer in the headlights" look followed by scurried collisions and then things start happening. After a while folks find their niche and the well-oiled machine chugs right along. I've worked in the trades for so long most things are second nature and I have to remind myself I wasn't born with these skills and they didn't come quickly. Patience is the key.

After lunch things really got rolling, and we worked until we ran out of materials. (video link) Part of the crew was taken to another site to do some roofing, so all were being better utilized. Just prior to 4 pm we got back on the bus, and were headed back to the school for showers; some opted to go to the Coeur D'Alene River for a refreshing dip.

Dinner was provided by the local Fuller Center for Housing covenant partner with the help of the Seventh Day Adventist church ladies. I love church lady food, and they love us, as Agnes stated to Marge a few dinners back down the road, "we'll do anything for a pot-luck!" After tonight's rhubarb crisp and huckleberry cake it occurred to me that if I do this again I'm going to feature local recipes in my blog.

There is so much more to write about. Every day is such an inspiration, and exhausting. It can be hard just finding the time to write. It's getting late. Tomorrow we head 50+ miles to Plummer ID, all of which will be on trails, mostly downhill. It will be nice to get back on the bike. Speaking of bike, mine is needing a bit of work...not quite a well-oiled machine lately.

Montana is for Badasses

I got that the title of this post from a t-shirt I saw in a gift shop in St. Regis Montana. We were in St. Regis last night doing laundry, 15 miles away from our overnight in Superior, because the Superior laundromat is closed on Mondays. Go figure. We have 38 cyclists now, so laundry is quite an ordeal. The laundromat was part of a conglomerate corporation that included a tow-lot, junkyard, parts store, and of course the laundry. They had 8 machines we overloaded, so breakers were tripping, machines were malfunctioning, and we were putting soaking wet clothes with soap still on them into dryers just to get the job "done" so we could get back for dinner provided by Superior United Methodist Church. After dinner we took the clothes that were still wet and hung them out on a fence to dry.

Brett, drying laundry. He's an engineer.

You'd have to be a different
kind of ass to pay $24.95 for
this.

 We're in Kellogg Idaho. We got here after the last 50 miles of Montana, and 20 more after the line. It seems like we've been riding through Montana forever, and I've been a bad-ass since Iowa. "Enough about your butt!" some readers might think. Sorry. It's just a common topic of conversation when you get 30-some of your closest strangers together and ride across the country. Young, old, male, female; "how's yer butt?" is a conversation starter. After that you might get more intimate with a question like "what color is your pee?"

Today's ride was an adventure, for sure. Some last minute changes to the route included an additional climb through the woods on virtually untraveled roads. For a climb it was most pleasant, since the trees kept things cool and we were able to use the road at our leisure, riding alongside able to carry on conversations. Eventually we had to hit Interstate 90, for through the mountains the roads are very limited. That included a harrowing construction zone as well, with two lane opposing traffic with less than 2 feet of shoulder up against concrete barriers. Tom Weber blocked traffic for us as four of us traversed, but the rest were left to on their own, and fortunately there were no mishaps.

The climb to Lookout Pass was long and rather warm. Either there was no wind, or it was traveling our direction at our speed. Going up I realized I wasn't feeling any altitude fatigue, which seemed odd for we were going over a pass, but at the top found that it is only 4,710 feet and I'm used to that elevation now. I was expecting over 6k feet, not having reviewed the provided information the day before. I don't always check conditions, for I've found it more interesting to just discover my way instead of worrying about what it entails. No worries ever changed anything.

Road conditions downhill weren't the best for speed. Under good conditions 50+ mph would be easily attained, but I decided to keep my speed under 40. It was a good thing, for I hit one joint in the road that crushed my tire against my rim, pinching my tube. I didn't know it when it happened, but decided to stop after the severe jarring to inspect my wheel. It flattened as I was stopped.  Thanks, God.

Repairs made I head down the road, gingerly. The thing about a quick change roadside is that I don't always trust the inflation, especially when using CO2 cartridges. Not a big deal on flat terrain, but on this hill speed was an issue still, so I kept my speed reasonable. All went well, and I was able to take in more of the scenery. That has been my approach this ride. Last year I was big on speed, but this year I'm taking it a lot easier, and enjoying it more. The only thing speed gains one is first choice of sleeping quarters at the destination.

More soothing than Gold Bond!

The Coeur D'Alene River runs through this area, and that is where the railways, now trails, follow. The water is clear, cool, and swift; too tempting to avoid near day's end. Others opted to just soak their feet, but I dunked my Montana Badass for a thorough cooling. With the remaining miles downhill there wasn't much sitting or pedaling, so I enjoyed further cooling as I rode side-saddle.

I showered, and napped. I'm not a napper, but today I just went to sleep for a couple of hours. We are here to work with the local Fuller Center for Housing covenant partner who has arranged a work day tomorrow, as well as our lodging at the local school, and meals provided by St. Rita's Catholic Church. Ah, a workday; a day out of the saddle! We have two of those this week, and I don't mind taking our time through Idaho. This was my favorite state last  year, and we're taking a circuitous path through it this week. Time to go to bed- an adventure tonight, for the air handling system just shut down automatically for the night. Maybe I'll sleep outside.

First Communion

Billy cows clinging to a slope goats shouldn't.

Saturday's ride to Missoula was 86 miles downhill with no headwind, so easier that Friday's 50+ miles, and about the same travel time. Under those conditions the scenery is much better, for we're able to keep our heads up and take it all in. Arduous rides result in too much time looking at the white line in the draft of another rider.

We are the guests of the local Missoula Catholic Schools, being housed in the Sister Rita Mudd Activities Center. Upon arriving Tom Stergios of Advanced Technology Group had a couple cases of local beer and plenty of food waiting. ATG is a strong supporter of the Fuller Center and associate of one of our riders, Molly. Another treat of the area is huckleberry pie. (Side note: a great word, "huckleberry", with slang applications I hope to employ soon.)

Gerry, flattered by the imitation Celts.

After enjoying what Tom had provided some of us went out for dinner (hey, we eat a lot, okay?) and then visited the local Celt Festival. Our token Celt, Gerry, kept me from buying a kilt, for his authority gave me the impression these were not fitting for proper representation of my ancestral Clan Stewart. (I don't know; I may go shopping for a skirt anyway.) Upon returning to our gymnasium floor I set up my camp in an obscure corner and overslept into today.

Melissa researched a number of churches for us to attend. God knows I'm lazy, so I chose the closest. It was the First Presbyterian of Missoula where Pastor Dan Cravy said something that moved me. Nobody noticed, but I took Communion for the first time in my life. The act is something this sinner hasn't been able to reconcile until today, the reasoning now behind me and the subject for another treatment.

My church family in Missoula

After services they had a social time, where I met Hal and June. I was able to share a bit of what the Fuller Center for Housing doing, and they offered to take me to breakfast. There I met other members of their group. It just so happens one of the couples knew Millard Fuller, founder of our organization, through an expedition they accompanied him on in Glacier National Park in the early '90's. Afterward my hosts returned me to our current home.

Sorcerer of quilts.

With plenty of day left I decided to go out and find a source of kilts. It just so happened they removed the Celt Festival and replaced it with the March of Dimes, and the sorcerer of quilts. They didn't have the Stewart tartan. Oh well, the world is a better place without me in a skirt, and with the money I saved I was able to buy a pair of mittens, locally made from recycled materials. Mittens in July? Yeah, come the top of the Rockies some morning they will come in handy. Already, at 4,000 feet we've had mornings of 45 degrees when starting out, and my lower temperature limit for riding in Florida is 48 degrees.

Tomorrow we ride just over 61 miles to Superior, MT. It will have a net elevation loss of 500 feet (despite some challenging hills) as we travel along the Clark Fork River. We have picked up a number of riders and this will be the largest group of the trip. More family!

The Stone with Seven Eyes

“I’m in the Montana State Prison” I told Leslie during our three minute phone call. “What? What are you in for?” was her shocked response. “Ten dollars. It’s a museum they have here in Deer Lodge.” She then began to chastise me for my sick sense of humor, eventually laughing. Some readers may know, others not, that Leslie has received many a call from me when in tight spots. I've never been to jail, but only because some of those past behaviors were mere misdemeanors and borderline felonies the authorities simply didn't want to deal with, leaving any correction to her.

Today’s ride from Helena was just over 50 miles, but again the wind made it challenging. The first fifteen miles were a 2000 foot climb, where at MacDonald Pass (elevation 6,312') we were buffeted by 30+ mile and hour winds. Try going up a 6% grade with that in your face and 6 mph is considered good speed- we rarely reached that. Another rider and I were performing sweep duty, so had to stay behind the last cyclist. It was a calamitous day for us, and that’s all I’ll say about it for now. Some stories are better left untold until the scabs fall off.

The remainder of the ride was downhill, but with the wind picking up all day wasn't easy. Another rider recently put it well, “it’s not a downhill if you have to pedal it.” The wind was such that if I tried to coast I’d just come to a stop. Then we changed course, getting on I-90 (bicycles are allowed on interstates in Montana) where we had a good stretch of speed in the high 20’s for the tail wind and downhill, and such a relief.

We arrived at St. Mary’s school around 1 pm. This is an expansive building we can spread out in. I’m in a basement room, maybe 10’ x 10’, a single light bulb in the center of the ceiling lighting green walls that are barren, except a crucifix and “Hail Mary” hand-written tacked on the wall, paper so yellowed it probably would crumble to the touch. To get here there are a couple winding pathways and one can only be reminded of catacombs. It is summer and the place has been cleared for renovation in preparation for future students. It sparks the imagination, for it is dead silent, except for a distant banging pipes. Spooky.

The prison was spooky, too. This local territory originated from gold

"Galloping Gallows" used throughout the state until 1939

mining, which attracted all sorts, good and bad. It got to the point they couldn't lynch everyone, for not all crimes were so severe to warrant that, but they did need to warehouse those not good enough to hang. It started as a simple building with a wooden stockade, but that kept rotting and falling down and they decided to build a stone wall. There has never been adequate funding, so from that point onward the building of the prison was left to inmate labor, and the stonework is quite impressive given they made even the quicklime for the mortar between stone and bricks they fashioned. There were notable inmates through the years, one of which painted a bird’s-eye view of the facility, titling is work after the Bible passage  Zechariah 3:9, interpreting the "stone" of that passage to mean the prison and the "eyes" the towers, of which there are seven.

Though the old prison was shut down in 1979 there is a new one five miles east of there, so they still consider themselves a "prison town". Over dinner provided by the Assembly of God I spoke with Jim and his family. Jim has been in corrections for some time so was able to answer some questions we had about so many anti-meth signs seen everywhere. He informed us that Montana has one-million acres of land per citizen of the state, so meth labs can be hidden anywhere quite easily. Furthermore, Canada has not regulated the ingredients used so they are easily brought across the border into the state. There has been an extensive, somewhat successful initiative taken in the by government and social agencies to curb usage, but manufacturing remains first in the nation. 

Tomorrow is downhill to Missoula, 85 miles west. There we take a day off.

Death

Our way to Helena, three deer were bounding across the yellow meadow at full speed. I was too far back to get Arron's attention to the show. The first came to the fence, jumping over it effortlessly, when I realized they were heading across the highway in front of us. The second leaped the fence when I saw the first reach the highway, and it looked as if it was on a collision course with Arron when a car overtook him. There was an explosion of their parts as the right front of the car slammed the right rear of the deer directly in front of Arron. The car came to a stop about 100 yards down the highway; the deer about 20 yards down the ditch. I pulled over to find the deer in throes of death, its front legs still trying to run, its head flailing and jaw grinding as it struggle with life's most difficult task. It seemed forever, and I couldn't stand to watch it suffer so I retrieved my knife from my bicycle seat pack in a desperate effort to do something where nothing could be done. I returned to the beast as I watched its last labored breaths, some trembling, and then it rested.

Death is the second purpose for highways. They are where the lifeblood of this nation flows as we scurry through our day-to-day. On a bicycle it is a thought that rides in the back of our minds as we deny feeling its breath from passing trucks down our necks. We smell death too often, for the remains of hapless creatures litter the right of way. We are reminded of those who met tragedy along them where the simple markers stand with withered plastic flowers, their depleted colors representing the faded grief of those who placed them. Here in Montana the small welded flat iron crucifixes painted white stand on steel rod above the sagebrush; single, double, triple. Presumably each denotes the body count of the event, and it is hard to imagine how so many die on perfectly flat, straight roads. Speed. alcohol, snow, complacency; all are culprit and witness to the murders.

I continued from this scene to find the entrails of car and beast in my path. I passed the car, glancing over at the relatively slight damage to it, angry at the driver. He was no more to blame than I, for he was practicing due diligence in paying attention to me and the cyclists in front of me. The deer was disadvantaged by that, and the fact they tend to blend with the environment- at least until they suddenly appear in front of you. I caught up with Arron, riding maybe 7 miles per hour, head down, blankly staring down the road. "Did that happen directly in front of you?" I asked. "Yeah." he replied. "Are you okay?" "Yeah," he lied.

Arron is 18 and new to the ride, having just met up with us during our stop in Billings. He is from Long Island, and just graduated high school, headed to college this fall. I felt a kinship to him upon meeting, and asked him over dinner one night if he was familiar with the MBTI. "Yes," he said, "I'm INFP." I informed him I was too, and we were pleased. Essentially this simply indicates we have distinct similarities in how we perceive the world, and empathy is a strong trait. We have difficulty witnessing suffering, and are best suited to aid others in dealing with it. Many clergy, nurses, counselors- idealists and healers, are of this type. That's how I knew he wasn't alright with what he just saw, because I wasn't. In my teen years I lived in a rural community, brought up by a father that took it upon himself to prepare his sons for the reality of war he experienced, so marksmanship practiced through hunting, indiscriminate slaughtering, and such were our lessons. Though quite familiar with blood sport I have long ago abandoned it, for it goes against my nature. I can imagine the horror witnessed by this young urbanite.

The macabre scene I witnessed played in my head, so I thought it best if I distracted him from his. "So, have you done any drafting?" I asked, in reference to a question he asked from reading my blog. "No" was his answer, once I made myself clear, for the wind made conversation below yelling difficult. We were going slow against this headwind, so I thought he could use some help from me blocking it, and it was an ideal time for him to practice. "Get close to my wheel, but never bump or cross it, or you'll go down. I'm going to keep a steady cadence. If I shift two gears higher that indicates I am about to get out of the saddle and stand on my pedals, so be prepared for a change in rhythm. Practice not braking, and keeping cadence. In a draft line you never stop pedaling to rest- it throws riders behind you off. Pedal even if there is no real effort."

We continued, slowly increasing speed as he practiced. Drafting isn't particularly easy, for it takes concentration when learning, and when with a rider or group you aren't familiar with. It can be tense, causing pain in the hands, arms, and shoulders. Over time and with familiar riders it becomes second nature, for you  learn to "read" their movements and can anticipate subtle changes so to not react drastically. It can be very exciting, for well executed it results in greater speeds and appears quite graceful as the head riders switch off their front position, falling off to the rear to rest as the next rider takes the pull. Anyone who performs this maneuver has a story of how it resulted in some kind of wreck and road-rash, and nobody is immune, no matter their expertise. Arron will be an excellent, powerful rider soon, better for today's incident- an experience he'll be able to use helping another. He'll be okay.

Bump in the road

I got goosebumps. I can't tell you exactly where I was so inspired other than it was upon cresting a hill and beholding the expanse beyond. Montana is showing more beauty with every mile. The Crazy Mountains, Helena National Forrest made our path today. I don't have the photographic equipment, skill, or time on the road to capture all that I'd like, but plenty of pictures are being taken and being posted on the FCBA Facebook page and by others linked to that page that are participating.

I've taken to collecting sage. I first fell in love with the herb while attending a Native American pow-wow years ago, where they were burning it with tobacco mixed in. That is a ritualistic offering, but sage is used for another ritual of cleansing one's home of spirits and such. These are pagan practices, of course, and I'd link to the process here, but a quick search hasn't produced desirable information. Personally, I simply use it as incense, for I enjoy the aroma.

So I have sage from Little Big Horn, and White Mountain. I don't think there is a whole lot of difference in any of them; they are simply a weed that grows all over the place at elevations of 3000+ feet (just my observation- something else to look up), and the cattle don't eat it, or much else I suppose, so I don't think they'll miss it. I've tried to grow it at home, but the Florida environment isn't quite to its liking.

We are in Townsend, MT. One of our riders brother came to visit and took a few of us out to lunch, and then took us to the grocery store to have us fill a cart with supplies. We eat everything in sight. Today's ride was estimated over 3,000 calories, so added to regular intake that's a lot of food. As a matter of fact, the Townsend United Methodist Church is preparing dinner right now, so I have to go. I'm writing from the public library, the only internet available to us, and they close in an hour. We are pretty isolated in our own little world out here on the road, and I really like it that way. I saw a newspaper two days ago and things aren't getting much better out there. I don't follow much more news than a few Facebook posts I have time for, and then I pull my head back into my shell. I can't do anything about any of it. I can do something here, so I think I'll post this and get to it.

Routine includes flats

What time we set our alarms for is determined by breakfast. For example, today breakfast was at 0630. That means alarms go off at 0530, we start rolling up our bed, don our cycling gear, pack our bags, load our personal gear on the trailer, fill the coolers, fill the drink coolers, grab breakfast, pack the remainder of the food, load it on the trailer, load the additional support vehicle, clean the church, and then assemble outside with bicycles for instructions, devotion, and prayer. Melissa then leads the cheer, "Roundup to Harlowton" and all answer "Oyee!" ("Oyee" is an African word of approval Millard Fuller learned from his mission work).

Then we hit the road, some sprinting to the lead to race to our destination, others forming groups to take a more casual ride. I'm usually last, just before the "sweeps", because I'm fiddling around with my camera, forget to take my cleat covers off so can't mount my pedals...whatever. I'm in no hurry, and once on the road find my pace and go with it. Some days I might feel inspired and head toward the front, chasing the leaders, or just somewhere in the middle or rear. We have riders that typically remain last so I rarely end up there, unless I get a flat.

I had a flat yesterday, and again today. I was doing so well, too, but the seal is broken. Last year I had well over a dozen in 3,700 miles. If near the rear of the group all will pass (offering help of course) and the sweeps will catch up. Their duty is to remain with the rider until repairs are made and is cycling, or arrange for a pick-up. I resumed my ride, and came across a group of riders stopped for one of them to repair a flat. As they were doing that, one of them had his second flat of the day- it was just one of those days. Other than that the roads were just fine, the climb very gradual, and the weather most favorable.

We are the guests of Harlowton Wesleyan Church. It is an older, modest building in an old modest western town, on the slopes of the Crazy Mountains. Our showers were at the community pool, in which I took a dip just to soak myself. For wi-fi we have the White Mountain Coffee Company shop a couple of blocks from the church. Routine. It continues from here; relax, repair inner tubes, dinner provided by the church and then we give our presentation, clean-up, and lights out.

Coffee shop is closing...gotta go.

No tax?

What a pleasant surprise it is purchasing something for $29.95 and paying exactly that amount for it. I strongly recommend shopping in Montana. Not that there are many retail opportunities here in Roundup, but there is a Radio Shack, and they sell wool socks, too. I already have two pair packed along with me, so as tempting it was, I refrained. Wool socks are just for rainy days.

Today was a rainy day, but not rainy enough to pull over and put on wool socks. Also, it was under 50 miles so just a warm-up ride anyway. We had a great time resting in Billings; some went sight seeing, but I opted to just hang around the church after sleeping in. Sleeping in means getting up after 6. We enjoyed church services and lunch with the most of the congregation afterward. It was as rejuvenating for them as it was for us.

After going to the store to get a new air mattress I was able to do some sorely needed service on my bike; shifter adjustments, re-packing rear wheel bearings, and putting new tires on. Heaven forbid I get a flat tire at 30 miles per hour.

Today's ride was a short 48 miles, and I felt great on my tuned up bicycle. Apparently John did too, for he bet me ten dollars he'd arrive before I would. I saw a sucker, for he's 11 years older. We rode together to the 25 mile point where we took a break; I cut mine short to get the jump on him (I figured he had something up his sleeve). It was 32 miles of climbing a gradual 1000 feet, and then 16 miles 1000 downhill into Roundup. Around 33 miles, when I was going downhill I got a flat doing 30 miles per hour. A piece of baling wire right through my new rear tire. Fortunately it was a slow leak, not a sudden burst so I maintained control. I made necessary repairs and was back on the road, but not before John blew by me, and then it started raining.

Resigned to being $10 poorer I didn't rush onward. I stopped at the town line and took a couple of photos, and then found my way here to the Emmanuel Baptist Church. We're spending the night in the basement; one of many I've found comfort in. Home made pizza dinner was provided by the youth pastor. Tomorrow we head to Harlowtown, 70 miles west and 1000 feet uphill, to 4200 feet. I'm going to challenge John to double or nothing.

Race to Billings!

I rode like my ass was on fire. After taking it easy yesterday, and being that today was only 50 miles, and Steven (our fastest) was busy with sweep duties I figured I could take the front. I took the lead early with a rider in my draft for some time, not sure who it was. I should have known; Dave, a daily front-runner, was riding my tail. Good thing, too, for he came in pretty handy, especially on the climbs. I'm not a strong climber so I found his draft advantageous for as long as I kept up. I'm great going downhill and do okay on the flats, but there was some apparent headwind of 5-7 mph that was tiring. We took turns pulling draft and were able to take a long break at 25 miles, leaving the rest stop just as the next riders were coming in. We continued onward through rolling terrain of increasing elevation to 28 miles. Then it was gradual downhill to the 36 mile point where we found Pryor Creek cut deeply through the rock. This area had apparently burned not long ago, so the stark contrast of the burnt trees on yellow hills cut in miniature canyons was fascinating.

From the valley to the rim overlooking Billings was a climb to 3922 feet- approaching my current mental wall of 4,000 feet, and up a 5% grade. Dave was waiting at the top as I arrived, for he had less trouble with the climb.

I took us downhill. Like I mentioned above I'm great on the downhills. Sure, that sounds easy, but try and keep up. Heavier riders on heavier bikes roll faster; it is factored by rolling resistance, inertia, surface to mass ratio that slighter riders don't have. Okay, that's my theory anyway. It was a great, steep, twisting, thrilling ride into Billings. This valley was cut out by the Yellowstone and Missouri Rivers, where they meet.

We made our way through town, and of course now that I enjoyed my only day leading, I didn't have chalk to mark the turns for following riders. One thing my fellow riders know me for is Gold Bond medicated powder. I don't recommend the stuff in the blue container- "maximum strength" foot powder to pour in your shorts, but it's all I could find. Anyway, "This stuff works!" is their slogan, and it does right well as a road marker even a blind man could follow for it's notable aroma.

We are guests of Heights Baptist Church. We were able to dine with some of the congregation who put on a great pot-roast dinner for us. I learned of something I never heard of; fishing for paddlefish. They are massive, ugly things, but great sport from the enthusiasm of our host and pictures he shared. We retire in the large church basement for us to sprawl out in. Tomorrow we rest. I have a few errands to do (like go to Target for more Gold Bond) and work on my bike, which is a rolling mess. That concludes week six, my most anticipated, but there are three to follow I'm sure will be just as good.

Wyoming to Montana

After gradual climb for the first 27 miles today's ride was a negative slope for the remaining 60, making the light northern headwind more than tolerable. I took it easy today; I had prepared myself to volunteer to sweep the ride, but Melissa and Leah had already planned to. Yesterday's ride had taken a toll on me and I just didn't want to hustle today. I remained to the rear, riding alone.

We take rest stops at around 20 mile intervals. After the first break we reached the Montana line and stopped for pictures. It was a beautiful, clear day, and the north wind, though not particularly cool, was dry. For the past few days we've been starting the ride with additional clothing for the cold, but that was not necessary today.

Riding these distances alone is far different than with a group or just one other rider. It is meditative as I grind the miles away, keeping my cadence at 80 to 90 rpm as much as possible. At lower speed I keep my head up more, taking in the scenery. Lower speed also means more time in the saddle, which can detract from the moment, for the pain can rob me of pleasure. Still, the terrain is gradually changing and I'm looking forward to the scenery to come along our way soon.

I've been meaning to stop and harvest some of the sage which grows so abundantly, so did along the Little Big Horn River. Dried sage is a sacred herb that is burned as incense in traditional Native ceremonies, for purifying living space, and I really like the aroma. Little Big Horn area is the site of Custer's infamous "Last Stand", and the place this happened used to be called Custer's Battlefield. Then the local Natives pointed out you really shouldn't name the battlefield for the loser, so it is now just Little Big Horn Battlefield National Monument.

To the winner goes the spoils, so the region is Crow Indian Reservation land. As mentioned prior, the road was a negative slope, long and straight, making for leisurely riding. At one point a rez car (I'll let you look that up) was slowing behind me, almost matching my speed, so raising my level of alert. I ride in Florida- those natives aren't friendly, so I was pleasantly surprised when this gentleman got alongside and said "you're on the reservation- you need music!" He cranked up his stock audio system with blown speakers, which played what seemed to be some modern Native music. I had a special moment. At the next break spot I made mention of this to other riders as they arrived, and apparently he had been going down the road doing this for everyone along the way (at this point we are spread miles apart, so I didn't see anyone else get this treatment). Others shouted and waved as they drove by; it was just a nice ride through the reservation.

We are guests of Hardin Public Schools. We are housed in their wrestling room, with padded floors and walls. Early tomorrow we head 50 miles to Billings for two nights; a short ride followed with a day off. I need rest, and my bike needs work- I'm ready.

Sheridan Inn

One hundred eight miles, or 104, my butt can't tell the difference. We can't really count 108.5 miles, though that was our distance traveled. Before we reached 35 miles there were signs saying "Road construction ahead- motorcycles suggested to take alternate route". It didn't say anything about bicycles, so onward we forged. Around mile 35 we were stopped. We weren't allowed to continue down the road, and quite frankly, I'm okay with that. It wasn't really a road but a dirt path snaking through the countryside. It would have been incredibly difficult, especially with all the heavy equipment moving the road around as we traveled. We loaded five bicycles on the van and inside it, with riders, and had to wait about a half hour before we could proceed. It was only by following the pilot vehicle that any traffic could go, and it was one-way. The pilot picked up one more of our cyclists, and various other traffic of construction workers carried the rest of the riders 4-5 miles. Once on pavement we continued.

Shortly after re-starting, the Bighorn Mountains came into yonder view, still capped with snow. The countryside was rolling, light traffic and good roads. At mile 62 it gradually started going uphill and the day wore on. Not a cloud in the sky could be seen, and visibility was forever from the highest point at mile 92. From there it was much downhill, though a few more climbs, but we made it to Sheridan Wyoming early. My Strava recording malfunctioned, so here is a link to another's that gives similar statistics. Though we had some light headwind and the miles long it was an enjoyable ride, especially upon arrival at Sheridan's First Presbyterian Church. Showers are in the building, it has a kitchen in which we will be cooking dinner for ourselves, and plenty of room to spread out.

Some riders are napping, others heading into town for whatever they might find, others are writing their journals or blogs. Obviously I like to write, for it is a way for me to record this trip, and share it. Recording it is important, for the days are so full it all becomes a blur; often times by day's end we have to ask another what town we started in, or where we were yesterday. Sharing it is important too; perhaps it is presumptive to think anyone finds this stuff interesting, but a few do from time to time. The important part of sharing is to get the word out for the Fuller Center for Housing, and remind readers and myself of what this is all about. I'm learning much about all of this, and have many thoughts on the road regarding society's role in helping other people.

From fundraising efforts and sharing my enthusiasm for this foundation I have learned much about generosity. I have 25 donors, big and small, who provided toward my Fuller Center fundraising efforts. It is important to approach everybody, and do so without expectation- letting God and the individual decide how to help. I am very fortunate to have these people (you) behind me. We are constantly bombarded with requests- from our employer pushing the United Way toward us, our church, friends and family making requests, and then general solicitations. I was one of those who ignored most of them for years, essentially because of the sheer amount of requests numbing me to any cause, and basically I'm selfish like the majority of people. Being on the receiving end has changed all of that. I give when I can to various causes, without expectation. Sure, I'm prudent in researching the receiving party, but after that give what I can. I'm rather partial to my cause, and animal rescue. We all have emotional reasons motivating us. What I have learned to do is look beyond my personal interests and consider the heart of the solicitor- often my friend, and think about them. Though I may not be particularly interested in their cause, I am interested in them, and therefore make a donation to indicate support. It may not be much, but it is support and I know how that feels.

That is what I've asked many of my friends to do; make small donations. It's difficult to motivate people in that manner, though, so it ends up being a small number making all the contributions, some rather large. I'm still trying to raise what I promised to the Fuller Center for Housing of Central Florida. I'm asking everybody, for like I said I can't do this with expectations, for to do so would only result in disappointment. A small token of support sent via my fundraising page would help immensely in rationalizing (if not relieving) this pain in my butt. Any support is greatly appreciated. I thank you, the Fuller Center for Housing thanks you, and my butt thanks you for your support.