Missoula, Spandex capitol of Montana

I was just in Montana. I have yet to see Brokeback Mountain so my preconceived ideas about rednecks and cowboys there were still intact. The fact that Missoula is a university town and that there are more bikes than cows there has me thinking that this may not be your average Montana burg. What made it special for me (and the reason I went there) is that the epicenter of the self-contained long distance bicycle touring world is here. Adventure Cycling Association headquarters here was giving a seminar on bicycle tour leadership. Hmm, you mean I might actually find a way to get paid to naval gaze and wonder why I was born if only to cycle and die?
Sure I'm barely employed and broke but did someone say "road-trip"? It was weird to be on the open road again after being 'home' for the past few months. Actually it was awesome and I love the way a road, yes even I-90, lays out ahead of you into the distance like a long welcome mat. "Come on in the adventure is right this way"! The weird part of it was having the bicycle over my head instead of under my butt. I kept looking up longingly through the sun roof (OK for all you people who actually like to drive safely with your gaze fixed ahead...or for any liability attorney's...yes I realize driving is an inherently dangerous activity and one should drive with both eyes on the road at all times and with the utmost prudence) as bugs splattered my bikes head tube and handle bars. I thought about the difference between travelling by car and by bike and wished I could have pulled over and just started pedalling. Smearing moth and yellow jacket carcasses across my windshield I felt my sore back and flat ass melting deeper into the seat as I brushed off the crumbs from my most recent snack. I used to get a sore back and sore ass from cycle touring too but felt alive getting them. In my Subaru I felt like the passing scenery was a TV show behind the windscreen as my heart rate stayed steady at 60 beats per minute. And there is something that happens on long car trips that hasn't been discussed much. Something that I'm willing to risk embarrassment and self exposure to get out into the open. After a few hours in the car it feels like something foul has crawled into my mouth... and then died. It's weird. I can go a whole day on a bike without brushing my teeth and feel fine...OK, looking for a toothbrush by then but not desperately. But travel by car for over 6 hours and I begin scanning for the next rest area and a razor as my teeth have grown a five o'clock shadow! Is it just me? Maybe it's that cheap greasy-spoon Folgers you had two hours ago (Seattle coffee snobs, just say no). Maybe it's the 5th Hostess Ho-Ho you just ate justifying it as "energy" to keep going. Whatever, it's wrong and it had me once again wanting to be cycling instead of driving up those rolling hills of Eastern Washington.
But that's not what I wanted to write about...at all. It was great to be surrounded by people who not only wear lycra shorts and really loud jerseys but who talk eat drink dream discuss (ad-nauseum) and obsess over bicycling and the world of bicycling. I'm still not a gear head, nor in the same league as most of these folks, but what a joy to be discussing the finer points of packing a pannier or the road conditions of Malaysia with people who have been there and packed that. We spent a lot of time in the class room going over the finer points of touring and personality conflicts that arise when people are pushed out of their normal routines. We talked about how to organize camping gear and how to find the next campsite. But the big issue of cycle touring seems to revolve around food. People need to eat...a lot apparently, when they ride thousands of miles in a summer. Five thousand calories/day to be more scientific. We learned by doing. We had a budget and went to the store and shopped for the number of cyclists in our group as if we were on a tour. We prepared the food as if we were on a tour...2 cooks per meal. The problem arose when we ate as if we were on tour. Five thousand calories per day is a lot of food. Especially if you are sitting in a classroom. By noon after gorging a huge multi-course breakfast, my belly would just begin to feel normal again. LUNCH TIME! By the time dinner came around we were all feeling bloated. And yes we then overate again. For three days the food orgy continued until we finally went on a 35 mile ride with the group. I can blame the massive meals or I can blame the strong headwinds but I think I need to come clean and blame my lack of riding the past 2 months for feeling so wimpy on this ride. It's not like I was the last to arrive or that one guy on a trip that everyone is always waiting for (while passively-aggressively glancing at watches as he crawls in). It's just that I felt weak. It happened when I was leading the pack into the wind. I was starting to breathe really hard and must have been a bit wobbly because Rod (who is the director of the tour dept. and also a bicycle racer so give me a break already) blew by me. It's not the fact that he blew by me that had me going...it's how. It was no stomping/standing move where a guy throws his bike side to side to fly uphill. That would have been easier to take. It was subtle and beautiful and so relaxed that was devastating. I realized right then how hard cycle racing must be. When you are suffering and hurting and working at a maximum it can't be good to see someone just slide by as if they were sauntering past your dinner table with a martini in hand. I wondered just how many more journeys must I take until I can look so smooth on a bike. Apparently, a lot more journeys and a lot less 5000 calorie food days!

This is it

Today is the last time I'll set foot in a spa. That is until I make it big and can afford a $135 hot stone massage and a $75 pedicure. My nails will look like crap for a while and that thought wrecked my sleep. I'm up early and putting on my 100% polyester uniform also for the last time. A person should never wear polyester against their will. Actually upon deeper thought, a person should never wear 100% polyester at all. The slinky way it rubs against my skin. The way it avoids wrinkling even though I ball it up and stuff it in the envelope drawer at work every night before closing only to put it on unwashed the next morning. The passive aggressive little bitch in me actually likes this feature because I somehow feel subversive and alternative by seeing how long I can wear a uniform before washing it. I know this is a rather disgusting and inappropriate {and pointless} thing to do but I like the cognitive disonance of it all. Like in the opening scene of David Lynch's Blue Velvet where the camera shows a normal "beautiful" suburban scene and slowly pans down under the perfect lawn to the slithering wormy substance it's all built on. A perfect analogy for the spa. So I stand behind the counter in my own little personal funkiness to remind me that it's all a sham. There is so much toxic energy and stress behind the thin veneer of polyester and fake smiles that my cheeks (and soul)hurt just thinking about it. That's what really has me running for the exits. I want a life of authenticity. I want a life not veneered over by "niceness" and pretty smells. The stench of an open sewer in some back alley of Phnom Penh isn't my favorite thing either, but walking through it I knew I was alive. Better yet so were the people living in it. Not just existing but living and selling and buying and hustling and bustling and laughing and crying and crapping in the streets. People there hang out with family...and struggle. The cake eaters (thank you for that term 'anonymous islander') here don't really struggle and still feel the need to take a "spa vacation" to get AWAY from their kids. Again I think of the words of the Dalai Lama who notes that income level and happiness are inversely proportionate.
But back to polyester. It's an amazing substance and so unnatural I can feel the sking tumors growing, slowly growing, throughout the day. It also reminds me too much of my first "real" job at Jack In The Box. But instead of coming home smelling like a double cheese bacon jack and french fries, I arrive home to Sheryl smelling of canteloupe/lime infusers or jasmine/burnt sugar candles. Agreed, it is a step up but if I account for inflation I probably made as much or more at 16 years old than I do now. The deep fat fryer is looking better all the time...