The Ends of the Earth

Missoula, Montana. Saturday, June 1, 2024.

Missoula was just too cool a town to leave after one day, and I decided after yesterday’s big push I deserved a down day. I lined up a Warmshowers host, finished my belated blogging, and went out to explore.

The first thing you notice is a big white M looming over the town.

I figured it stood for Missoula, but it’s actually Montana, after the university. I went to the center of their quad, the oval, and there it was, hovering above University Hall.

If you zoom in, you can see switchbacks leading up to it.

Turns out the mountain has a name, Sentinel

and I very much wanted to go up there. But time was short. Missoula is a foodie paradise, it was Saturday night, and the University was hosting 3 high school graduations today. The lines would be long at the restaurants if I didn’t head right over.

I did climb high enough to get a view of Grizzly Stadium

and got downtown in time to score a great meal at Zoo Thai. Last night it was El Camino (no, they wouldn’t give me a discount for having walked it) and both times the line was out the door as I left.

Bette Midler’s platinum debut album was The Divine Miss M. I often call Mt. Mansfield, Vermont’s highpoint, only 18 miles from my home, The Divine Mount M for its many beautiful trails and views, it’s also the site of Stowe ski area and the Trapp Family Lodge, of Sound of Music fame. But I think Missoula has its own Divine Mount M. I was sorry to miss the birds eye view of the city, but in the end my stomach won out.

There was a consolation prize. The town’s river, Clark Fork, had a rapid with a standing wave. Three guys with wetsuits and surfboards put on quite a show. I wish I could embed videos here.

My Warmshowers host, Erin Dozhier, is at the University to study for a career in social services, and we shared many stories about health care and helping the unfortunate. Overall a lovely evening, a lovely day, a lovely city.

Distance 12 miles, 1,256 total. Time 4 hours with stops. Elevation gain 300 feet

©️ 2024 Scott Luria

Lochsa Lodge, Idaho to Missoula, Montana. Friday, May 31, 2024.

My favorite Joni Mitchell song (actually, I like the Tom Rush version better), but not such a fun memory this morning. I worked out the time and realized I had to leave here before 6 AM. The temperature was 31°. WTF!? It’s May 31 for God’s sake! Not only that, but I discovered the warm gloves and the special waterproof gloves I’d exchanged at Showers Pass in Portland, were nowhere to be found. Must be sitting in some motel somewhere, overlooked in my rush to pack. All I had were my lightweight cycling gloves, good to about 45°. My Urge for Going was getting weaker by the minute.

But it had to be done. I had an 1800 foot climb to Lolo Pass, not as formable as the climbs to Paradise and Timberline Lodge, but I’d done those on a bare bicycle. The first 8 miles were a continuation of the gradual uphill I’ve been doing for the past few days, but the last 5 miles were 8% grade, typically more than I can handle on a loaded bicycle.

“I think I can, I think I can” was my mantra as I cranked slowly uphill. My granny gear is as low as you can go, but at those speeds it’s really hard to keep from weaving all over the road. At least the traffic was minimal this hour in the morning. I had to stop to rest three times, and in the last half mile I full-on bonked and had to walk. As I rounded the final bend to the visitor center at the summit, I got back on my bike so as not to appear too pathetic. I limped in at 8:47 AM, and a ranger took my photos.

But it was really 9:47 AM, this was the Montana border and Mountain Daylight Time. I was so focused on the time because I wanted to make the Adventure Cycling Association (ACA) headquarters by 3 PM, to have an hour with them before they closed for the weekend. I still had 44 miles to go, but it was mostly downhill. Freezing at the beginning, but improving as the altitude diminished and the day got warmer.

Montana! I was in Montana! The state has always had a mystical allure from me, home to Glacier and Yellowstone National Parks, the headwaters of the Missouri, Little Bighorn, and the Unabomber. The only state highpoint, Granite Peak, that required rockclimbing skills. And, most importantly for me, the ACA headquarters.

For an atheist, I seem to make a lot of pilgrimages. I talked about the REI flagship store in my Seattle post. I did the mother of all pilgrimages, the Camino de Santiago, in 2019 (an incomplete blog is in the menu above). I had driven through Missoula before, but avoided stopping by the ACA headquarters, felt the only way to arrive there was by bike.

And there it was, just as I hoped it would be.

The doorhandles were wrapped drop handlebars, how cool is that?

Inside were a cyclist’s lounge, with ice cream and cold drinks, lots of ACA memorabilia from the Bikecentennial glory days, a photo wall of all the cyclists who’d passed through, and Sam and Geoff, who knew more about cycling in these parts than anyone.

I monopolized their time for an hour past closing. They gave me state cycling maps with info about shoulder quality and traffic densities, critiqued and made suggestions for my proposed circuitous route to connect the highpoint “parking lots”, gushed over my bike, weighed it on their special scale (126 pounds with no water!), and got a professional photographer to shoot me for the back cover of Adventure Cyclist magazine. I was reminded of that inane song by Dr. Hook and the Medicine Show:

(Rolling Stone) Wanna see my picture on the cover
(Of the Stone) Wanna buy five copies for my mother (Yeah!)
(Stone) Wanna see my smilin’ face
On the cover of the Rolling Stone!

Yeah, exactly like that. We’ll see if I actually make it into the mag.

Distance 60 miles, 1,244 total. Time 7 hours with stops. Elevation gain 2,627 feet

©️ 2024 Scott Luria

Wilderness Gateway Campground to Lochsa Lodge, Idaho. Thursday, May 3, 2024.

I was delighted to see how the tent kept me dry in the steady rain all night, not so delighted with the situation when I woke up. The rain had stopped but the rain fly was soaked. Despite a clever apex ventilation system, the inside of the fly had condensation on it, so if it touched the inner tent, that would get wet also. Some of it dripped down on my top quilts.

Normally in this situation I would wait until the sun dried everything out, but it was mostly cloudy, and that probably would’ve taken hours. I didn’t have that time to spare. I folded the wet panels in on themselves, and tried to put everything away without making it wetter, but it was no use. My sleeping gear was pretty damp all over.

I had a visitor while I was packing, Dustin Gould, a full-blooded Nez Perce who, like the traditions of his people, had been migrating up and down with Clearwater and Lochsa valleys the past few months. He gave me some insights into the audiobook I was listening to about the Nez Perce, and demonstrated how they got their name. They did not pierce their noses—the gestures they showed Lewis & Clark when asked for directions made it appear that’s what they were doing.

Otherwise, the ride was the same as yesterday, seemingly level, but following nonstop churning rapids, which indicated I must be going uphill. Periodically trails would take off across the river via dramatic suspension bridges, which offered better views of the rapids.

At one of these I met Ed, a motorcyclist heading in the opposite direction, doing an 800 mile loop from British Columbia in three days. It was interesting to compare our experiences.

As Billy from the B&B had informed me, Lochsa Lodge was the only accommodation in this stretch, and the only place that had Wi-Fi. It was the weakest Wi-Fi I’ve ever seen, taking many minutes to load a single webpage, but I was finally able to reach Jane. There was also a pay phone at the general store (how long has it been since you’ve used one of those?) where you could talk as long as you liked for four quarters (I kept waiting for the operator to say “40 cents more for the next three minutes”).

At the store, I met Chris, a forestry inventory specialist from Mount Kisco, New York who trained at Binghamton University and traveled to various gorgeous locations to assess the health of the local flora. We chuckled that he was following his dream while many of his classmates were selling insurance.

Also fun to talk to was Tony, another northern New York native who’d moved to California but loved to visit gorgeous places like this. He’d played hockey for the UVM  Catamounts in the sixties. Small world.

I dried out all my camping gear and got to bed early. I went to make it over Lolo Pass and into Missoula while the Adventure Cycling headquarters is still open. This is where Lewis & Clark crossed the Rockies. A major challenge for them, sure, but at least they didn’t have to deal with truck traffic, or with losing an hour crossing into Mountain time.

Distance 40 miles, 1,184 total. Time 6 hours with stops. Elevation gain 1,493 feet

©️ 2024 Scott Luria

Kooskia to Wilderness Gateway Campground, Idaho.    Wednesday, May 29, 2024 

[note: the next three posts are coming all at once, since I was off the grid for three days. They are a little bit less tightly edited than the others, my apologies in advance.]

Heading off today felt more formidable than my last accommodations desert, at least then I had a cell signal. I somehow thought that being on the Transamerica Trail would bestow this route with biker friendly services, but I was mistaken. I didn’t see another bicyclist all day. What I did see was lots of rafters, the Clearwater had turned into an unbroken rapid. It was exhilarating to cycle along it, and even more so to watch the kayakers and rafters negotiate the churning water. We waved and hooted encouragement to each other. Gratified that my bicycle and body were behaving themselves in the steady uphill grind, I was vexed by the intermittent rain.

I’d been lulled in into a sense of insouciance by the semi arid climate I’d enjoyed since the Columbia Gorge, no rain except for that one stormy day in Umatilla; I was in the rain shadow of the Cascades. But now I was approaching the Rockies, the Bitterroot and Sawteeth ranges were creating their own rain shadow, and I was on the wet side. My Showers Pass gear rose to the occasion – I was never uncomfortable – but I had to camp tonight and I hate setting up camp in the rain.

Billy and Bonie at the B&B had been invaluable in giving me the lay of the land. 40 miles in was a campsite, with running but no hot water, 40 miles after that was Lochsa Lodge, the only creature comforts before historic Lolo Pass (where Lewis & Clark crossed their highest pass in the Rockies). The next stop would be Missoula, college town of the University of Montana and headquarters of Adventure Cycling.

The steep forested sides of the canyon the Clearwater had carved for itself were unrelentingly beautiful, but impossible to capture in a photo. I wished I had taken my GoPro, to record a continuous video, and perhaps relay the sense of awe I felt coming around each bend. But that awe was undercut by constant vigilance, I could rarely take my eye off my rearview mirror. One huge truck whooshed by frighteningly close. You’d think a road this popular with cyclists would have decent shoulders. Apparently they’re coming, in fact the construction I’ve been warned about is to widen the shoulders. Too late for me.

Jane is constantly worried about me , and now has no way of tracking my progress or getting updates about my safety. Highway signs announced old-fashioned call boxes at intervals, I stopped at one and considered using it to reassure Jane I was all right. But the sign said it would connect me directly to Idaho State Police dispatch, and it seemed an egregious misuse of emergency services. I wandered around the campground hoping to find someone with a satellite uplink or Wi-Fi or something, but no luck. It’s bad enough, abandoning Jane for all these months, but especially harsh to be incommunicado like this. I remembered I felt this way on Denali, knowing two people had died on the mountain, and being unable to reassure Jane.

The rain paused just long enough for me to be able to set up my tent without getting the insides wet. Apparently there’s a way to set up the rain fly first, but I didn’t want to learn how to do it under these rushed circumstances. I used my camp stove for the first time to prepare Mountain House chicken pad Thai, it wasn’t half bad; Bonie had joked I was eating MREs, or K-rations. I hope to find kindred spirits in the campground, but the only people I encountered were drunken revelers from a wedding. Nothing to do but take a baby-wipes “shower”, go to bed early, and be thankful that this new tent is keeping me bone dry in the rain, and that my top quilts are keeping me warm at 40°. Nighty night.

Distance 44 miles, 1,144 total. Time 6 hours with stops. Elevation gain 1,524 feet

©️ 2024 Scott Luria

Orfino to Kooskia, Idaho. Tuesday, May 28, 2024

Today, finally, I will be joining the legendary Transamerica Trail, the original coast to coast bicycle route that was begun by a group called Bikecentennial in 1976 as an offbeat way to celebrate the nations bicentennial. A grassroots effort spread by word-of-mouth, it attracted over 4000 cyclists. They were mostly in their 20s, rarely wore helmets, and typically rode discount store bicycles. I had just graduated college and was considering joining them, but just couldn’t swing three months without generating income at that point. These photos capture the esprit of the group, and of the times.

The route endures today as the centerpiece of the Adventure Cycling Association (ACA), whose maps and advocacy I have often touted in these pages.

In my mind, it is as iconic as the Appalachian Trail and I have often dreamed of following it. I envisioned scores of cyclists also going that way, eagerly anticipated the sense of community. And here was my chance to join it.

I awoke to the soothing sounds of the Clearwater River right outside my tent, and followed that river upstream all day. I was getting used to the shoulderless Route 12, and happy to see that on a very gradual uphill, with no wind to aid me, I was averaging 10 mph. I’ve been warned of construction along this route, and the traffic guard at the first stoppage, Symphony (I kid you not, that was her name) warned me that the contractors at upcoming work zones were more surly. At Kooskia, I joined the Transamerica Trail, but didn’t see any cyclists today. A sign warned that there were no services for the next 93 miles, so I stocked up on groceries. Thunderstorms and a half inch of rain were predicted overnight, so I stayed at a B&B 7 miles out of town. I was greeted by this sign

and the evening went uphill from there. My hosts Bonie and Billy served me wine and a lovely charcuterie, and we talked for hours. Bonnie is a retired nurse, and Billy a search and rescue specialist who has assisted at many hot spots around the world. He gave me lots of advice about the upcoming road, and how to cope with the challenging conditions.

Tomorrow will have no cell service and only primitive campgrounds, it will be a couple of days before I can post again. Wish me luck.

Distance 38 miles, 1,100 total. Time 6 hours with stops. Elevation gain 761 feet

©️ 2024 Scott Luria

Lewiston to Orofino, Idaho. Monday, May 27, 2024.

Astute readers of this blog will recall I’ve used this line before, for Highway 41 in “The ultimate hypotenuse” post in Michigan on 5/30/21.

The US highway system is the forgotten stepchild of American road building, largely subsumed into the interstate system, only a few remain intact in our imagination, like Route 1 down the East Coast. The legendary Route 66, Steinbeck’s Mother Road, is mostly gone. Route 20, from Boston to Newport Oregon, is the longest road in the United States.

Route 12 is still with us, stretching from Aberdeen, Washington to Detroit,

it has been my companion since Wallula Gap. It has generally behaved itself, with wide, reasonably smooth shoulders, but 10 miles east of Lewiston those vanished. I’d been forewarned, and thankfully today was Memorial Day, so truck traffic was minimal, but constant attention to the rearview mirror kept me from photographing the beautiful scenery I was riding through, along the Clearwater River, which had carved a minor canyon for itself.

I did get a shot of a stereotypical Expedition statuary, with Clark, Sacagawea, and Lewis planning their route,

and a photo of my campsite along the Clearwater at the end,

but that’s it, folks. Sorry.

The saddle saga continues. My makeshift rail splice remained intact, but the tension bolt broke, I only have a couple of replacements. What we’ll do for a comfortable place to park your keister.

At least the weather was nice.

Distance 44 miles, 1,072 total. Time 7 hours with stops. Elevation gain 1,216 feet

©️ 2024 Scott Luria

Pomeroy, Washington to Lewiston, Idaho. Sunday, May 26, 2024.

This script almost wrote itself. I should’ve known better. If I wax poetic about my dream bike, if I gush with pride, something is sure to happen.

The seat had been squeaking more than usual, so I got down below it to apply some lube. I was immediately taken aback.

Oh no! The right seat rail had broken, just as in the seat before, but this time I couldn’t blame the seat post clamp, it was brand new and much more supportive than the previous. I noticed this early Sunday morning of Memorial Day weekend, and for a moment, I was at loss about what to do. I called Jane, who talked me off the ledge.

I was in this tiny town, Pioneer, with the only establishment being a small grocery store. No handy garage with a welder, no service station at all. I looked for bike shops, only one showed up on Google maps, 32 miles away in Lewiston, Idaho, where I’d already reserved a room for tonight. It was open from noon till four today, then not again until Tuesday. Other than that, there were no bike shops at all until you hit Missoula, Montana!

Take an Uber to and from the bike shop, Jane suggested. I was skeptical Uber would even come here, in the middle of nowhere, but apparently I could do it, for $170 round-trip. Or I could see if I could squeeze the bike into the Uber and save one leg. But that would of course “break the chain” of a coast-to-coast bike ride, and my sea to summit mountain climbs.

I could see if the motel proprietress, Rhonda, knew a welder in town. I’d survived the shower, so she’d morphed in my mind from Norman’s Mother to Help Me Rhonda.

These were sensible suggestions, but none sounded too appealing. I futzed around a bit and was able to slide the seat backwards, so that the clamp acted as a splint across the break.

Maybe, if I was very ginger on the bike seat, I could ride the bike to Lewiston on my own. Jane was rightly skeptical. What if this MacGyver job failed, and I was really in the middle of nowhere, out of cell range, with no chance of making it to the bike shop before it closed? I’d be up the proverbial creek. Get the Uber, she said.

What do you call a man with half a brain? Gifted. The old joke echoed in my head as I torqued the clamp bolts to 10 Newton meters and cringingly headed down the highway, trying not to put too much weight on the seat. There was a thousand foot climb to Alpowa Summit, then an exhilarating 10 mile descent to the Snake River, averaging 32 mph. I tried to stand on the pedals, did not want the seat to fail here. When I reached the river, it took a minute to unclench my teeth, and pry my fingers from the handlebars.

The seat seemed intact. I dared a look.

Could it be? It looked like the gap was smaller! Could I have taken the half brained option and gotten away with it?

Anyway, I could relax a little and notice the Snake and the scenery.

The Snake River, the major tributary of the Columbia. I would follow it for only ten miles before it veered off to its eponymous Canyon, site of the infamous Evel Kenevel Skycycle jump so long ago. I’d been so anxious I failed to notice my odometer rolling over to 1,000, and missed the chance to belt out, as I had in the rain in 2021, the thumping Proclaimers song.

And. I. Would. Bike. Five. Hundred. Miles. And. I. Would. Bike. Five. Hundred. More. Just to be. The. Man. Who. Bikes. A. Thousand. Miles. To. Fall. Down. At. Your. Door.

It was just ten more miles to Clarkston, my last town in Washington, which seemed little more than a commercial strip, then across the Snake to Lewiston, Idaho, much cuter and leafier. The town name reminded me of BFF Brian and Frank’s college town in Maine. Bates was the classic New England small college, so beautiful, such a contrast to the sterile halls of MIT; I would escape there whenever I could. Funny it was surrounded by the gritty town of Lewiston Maine, site of Muhammad Ali’s “phantom punch” defeat of Sonny Liston in 1964

and much later, the largest mass shooting in Maine’s history.

But I digress. I failed to notice that Lewiston and Clarkston were named for my old buddies Meriwether and William, and belatedly purchased the Audiobook Undaunted Courage, Stephen Ambrose’s classic biography. And I’ve been on the Lewis and Clark trail for three weeks. D’oh!

The bike shop, Follett’s Mountain Sports, was still open, and Scott was very helpful.

He is a collector of Lionel model trains, and showed me a photo of his awesome home set up. He mentioned he had met Evel Knievel at a convention, he seemed a rather withered old man. He warned me of a hazard in these parts, goathead thorns, cause of many flat tires. And he sold me a classic Avocet touring bike seat for only $15.

I remember these from the 1980s, the first of the anatomically padded bike seats. Avocet was more famous for their adorable little cyclometer, so simple and light, came in many colors, all of the Tour de France riders sported them back in the day.

Since the MacGyver job seems to be holding I think I’ll keep the Brooks Saddle until it fails, having the Avocet on hand. I texted Simon Firth, the Brooks guru in Philadelphia, for his ideas on why the rails keep breaking. Scott at the bike shop has never seen that happen. Meantime, Jane will mail my other Brooks Saddle, the one Simon repaired, once I figure out a good pickup spot, and I’ll send this one to Simon. And so the triangle trade continues. Maybe, as I lose further weight, this dance can stop. Not ready to give up on Brooks yet.

The hotel was full of baseball players, from Indiana University Southeast campus, I had fun chatting with Ben, their coach. Lewiston is the site of the NAIA World Series. I wish them luck.

Idaho. One of my least visited western states, although incongruously I have climbed the highpoint, Borah Peak, twice (don’t ask). Famous for potatoes, Sun Valley, Hemingway’s suicide, and the Ruby Ridge debacle. For me, notable for the Idaho Stop (Idaho was the first state to allow bicycles to use stop signs as yield signs) and for an inane childhood riddle.

If Mrs. Ippy leant Miss Ouri her New Jersey, what would Della Wear?

Idaho. Alaska.

Distance 34 miles, 1,028 total. Time 6 hours with stops. Elevation gain 1,243 feet

©️ 2024 Scott Luria

[Heads up campers, this post is going to get deep in the weeds about my bicycle. Normal people, as opposed to bicycle geeks, should feel free to skip this one.]

“The bicycle is the most efficient machine ever created. Converting calories into gas, a bicycle gets the equivalent of three thousand miles per gallon.” — Bill Strickland

My love affair with bicycles began when I turned six, my father let go of the back of my bicycle seat, and I felt like I was flying. It’s never stopped. In my freshman year of college, a seminal article came out in Scientific American that touted the efficiency of bicycles compared to any animal or machine (sorry it’s so blurry).

How cool. In terms of energy (measured in calories) per kilometer of travel, the bike stands head and shoulders above (or in this case below) any other form of transport. Five times more efficient than a person walking. It helps balance, it’s good for your weight, good for your knees, good for your heart, and good for climate change. What’s not to like?

Of course it helps if you have a dream machine. I can look back nostalgically and think of every bike I’ve ever owned, but they all seemed to be building to the current model, a Carver, designed by Davis Carver in Maine (using the specs from my custom-made* Seven), fabricated by Waltly in China. How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

Titanium. Sounds exotic, but it’s actually the seventh most common metal on earth, titanium oxide is the chief ingredient in white paint. Purified, not only is it much stronger for its weight, but it has a resiliency, a combination of rigidity and shock absorption that rivals steel, much heavier. Aluminum is light too, but rock hard, riding over bumps is a real boneshaker. Titanium doesn’t rust, looks pristine after winters of road salt and summers of sweat exposure. You don’t need to paint it, if you like gunmetal gray (I had my logos etched in, so there’s no decals to chip or peel off). The other high-end frame material, carbon fiber, is glued together and can’t be repaired. Titanium is welded (has to be done in an inert gas atmosphere, one of the reasons why it’s so expensive); I had a crack appear after 4.5 years and 20,000 miles, it was repaired under warranty, check out these before-and-after pictures.

Pinion drive. You boomers out there, remember our old Raleigh three speeds? The flimsy lever on the handlebars, the gears all inside the rear hub with the little chain coming out, pulled by the gear cable?

They had a narrow range and were clunky and inefficient, but totally protected from the elements. We all couldn’t wait to upgrade to ten-speeds with their fancy derailleurs. Over the years, these evolved to as many as 30 speeds. Triples up front, 10 cogs in the back, efficient but fussy, messy, needed constant tweaking.

Lovers of “loaded touring” like me need a very wide range, super-low granny gears for uphill, high gears so you wouldn’t spin out going downhill. To do that you needed that triple up front, but these were being phased out. After a while, I couldn’t get replacement parts, even on eBay. I saw the writing on the wall. Internal gears were calling me back.

Fortunately, the technology had advanced. I chose Pinion, a German company founded by two Porsche engineers, because the gears were in the bottom bracket, not the rear hub. The P1.18 had 18 of them, with a 626% range, in a sealed unit that needed no maintenance at all (well, you had to change the oil every 6000 miles).

Paired with a Gates carbon belt, that also lasted for 6000 miles, you could forget about your drivetrain; no futzing, no adjusting, no lubrication, just hose it off or let the rain clean it. This picture says it all. For all of my anguish in the ankle-deep mud in Wisconsin on 5/24/21, my gears were one thing I was not worried about.

You may ask, what on earth do you need 18 gears for? Pinion has them spaced out evenly, every time you shift, the change in effort is 11%, up or down. Especially with multiple chain rings, derailleurs can’t offer that evenness, often there is redundancy.

The design requires a grip shifter, which took some getting used to. Now that I’ve adapted, I love it. Cables control the shifter in both directions, there is no relying on a return spring to shift in the other direction. I have mine mounted on the end of my right drop handlebar, and it’s kind of like adjusting the temperature in the shower. You just twist it slightly to the right or the left until you get the exact ratio you want.

There are some downsides. It’s heavy, the gearbox alone weighs 6 pounds, the total setup is about 2 pounds heavier than an equivalent derailleur setup. You can’t shift under load, you have to ease up on the pedals for a fraction of a second to make a shift, although this becomes intuitive quite quickly. What you can do is shift multiple gears when stopped, a big advantage at stoplights. No internal gearbox can be as efficient as a perfectly tuned derailleur system, 90% versus 98% efficiency. But the fact is, most derailleur systems are not perfectly tuned, they get out of adjustment easily, and their efficiency plummets as the chain wears, the lube dries out, the cogs deform, the pulleys get rusty.

And of course, it’s expensive, and you have to have a specially modified frame. This puts it beyond the reach for the casual bike user, but for a guy like me, for whom his bicycle is his primary means of transportation, it’s worth it. Once you try it, you’ll never go back. They’ve just come out with an integrated motor system, this video is a little overblown, but I do think this will be the wave of the future. https://youtu.be/pHkrEpm5hcA?si=pIV4P8F4pIwVJybN

Für das deutsche Vaterland. The Pinion gearbox is German, I’m German, and Teutonic pride led me to choose a trio of German accessories.

My lighting system is by Schmidt, who makes the most efficient hub dynamos, paired with Edelux LED head and taillights

The lights are on 24/7, never burn out, and produce minimal drag. There’s a built-in capacitor called a standlight, allowing the lights to remain on for seven minutes after you come to a traffic light. Brilliant.

My panniers are all Ortlieb, all the time. Impregnated with Illuminite reflective threads, they kept everything dry in those days of constant Pacific Northwest rain.

Finally, the tires are Schwalbe Marathon Plus, heavy, slow, indestructible. I’ve had one flat in 7,000 miles. In winter, I use the studded version.

Brooks Saddle. I’ve already sung the praises of my Brooks B-17 leather saddle, when fully broken in there is nothing more comfortable. Now that I have a dropper post it’s even better, I can lower it for mounting and dismounting, raise it to my usual riding position, and even the higher for ultimate efficiency. The English company also makes my handlebar grip tape, indestructible.

Pedals. The Japanese component on my bicycle. Shimano has been making state of the art equipment for decades. My pedals are their XTR platforms, they clip into my SPD cycling sandals, but can also be used with street shoes. Many people are nervous, to have their shoes clipped in like that, but they pop out easily, ensure perfect foot/pedal alignment, and allow you to pull up as well as push down.

I should probably pause to explain here why I wear cycling sandals, subjecting the world to my ugly feet. They’re just so comfortable. Cool in the summer, they dry off quickly after rain, I hate cycling in wet socks. I can get pretty sore after 50 miles, but they have a textured footbed; if I loosen the straps, they massage my feet with every stroke. They’re not high-performance, but then, neither am I. When it gets cooler or wetter, waterproof socks and toe covers make them quite warm, good down to 35°.

Brakes. Spyre TRP mechanical disc brakes with dual pistons. Disc brakes are becoming the standard for all bicycles, an improvement over the classic rim brake, which can overheat on braking descents , and cause a blowout, they also wear out the rim. Disc brakes work in the pouring rain, are unaffected if your wheel goes out of true, and have much more stopping power for the same effort than traditional brakes. Hydraulic brakes offer better modulation and even greater power, but you need special tools and they have to be bled periodically.

Aero bars, AKA bullet bars, let you get into a fuller tuck in headwinds, and give your hands a rest. Conversely, you can also rest your hands on top of the elbow pads for an even more upright position. They also provide additional mounting space for my bell, phone, and the control lever for the dropper post. Which brings up the big advantage of drop bars as opposed to flat handlebars. I have five different ways I can grip the handlebars (numbered in the photo, to grip at # 5, you rest your elbows at #4), and I use them all. It really helps on long rides. I’m mostly at position # 1, down in the drops. It took some getting used to, but once my body adapted, I found it much more comfortable.

USB port. The Sinewave Cycles (Cambridge MA) Reactor lets you divert some of the dynamo current to recharge your phone. This is one item that works better in theory than in practice. I have my lights on 24/7, when you do that you have to go 10 mph to charge the phone. My average speed typically hovers around 10 mph, so the charge keeps kicking in and out, and every time the phone pings annoyingly and the screen lights up. I suspect this burns up more energy than I’m supplying. Might make sense to use on a long downhill, but I typically rely on power bank back ups for the phone.

Couplers let you break the bike in half to fit into a regulation suitcase, and save on excess baggage fees. The clever dragon-tooth mechanism is actually stronger than the frame itself, like a healed broken bone.

Fenders. We used to hate them: heavy, rusty, noisy, and ugly. The newer ones are plastic and quite light, make it big difference in the rain. No more black stripe up your back. If you’re going to get wet, better from the clean rain above than from the filthy grit kicking up from your wheels. I modified the front fender by trimming a second rear one, to give more coverage to my headlight. Planet Bike Cascadia, Wisconsin.

Frame-fit pump (mine is the classic Italian Silca) can fill your tires faster that a mini pump. Many use CO2 cartridges instead, but you’re stuck if you deplete them. Plus, CO2 gas is polar and diffuses through rubber more than room air; you need to top up more often.

Fork. Titanium forks tend to be too flexible, so I chose a carbon fork, a Spork 2.0 by Rodeo Labs of Colorado. It has fender and rack mounts, and internal wiring from the generator. I added the googly eyes.

Rear hub by Onyx in Minnesota, has a sprag clutch rather than traditional pawls; less drag and it coasts silently. Stealthy.

Rear flasher. The Edelux generator taillight is quite bright, and suitable on its own for most occasions. In the city, and on sketchy roads, I turn on my DiNotte (New Hampshire, a charge lasts 6 hours at full power) quad red flasher, so bright it’s almost obnoxious, even in broad daylight. I remember one Saturday night, a drunk yelled out his car window, “Turn off da f_ckin’ lights!”

There’s more, but this is enough. Minnesota. Maine. Colorado. Massachusetts. New Hampshire. Wisconsin. Germany. China. Britain. Japan. Italy. Switzerland (spokes). France (rims). My bike is a veritable United Nations, living in harmony. And the whole is greater than the sum of the parts.

All those parts add up, the bare bike (with racks) weighs 35 pounds, surprising for a titanium bicycle. But it handles like a thoroughbred, managing the bumps silently, with no chain slap or derailleur rattle. I’ve ridden it almost every day, through five Vermont winters, and it still looks pristine.

My steed. My machine. My bike.

©️ 2024 Scott Luria

* For my 50th birthday, Jane gave me a custom-made bike from Seven Cycles, a high-zoot builder in Watertown MA. Their local representative, David Porter, spent hours measuring (it seemed) every bone in my body, making a mock up and having me ride it around for half an hour, then making further adjustments before sending the specs off to the factory. It was like getting fitted for a bespoke suit on Savile Row. Fits me like a glove. The trouble is, once you’ve ridden a custom bike, it’s hard to ride any other.

I loved that Seven, still do, but the triple derailleur is wearing out, I can’t get a replacement, and Seven doesn’t do Pinion-compatible bikes.

Dayton to Pomeroy, Washington Saturday, May 25, 2024.

OK, this fleabag wasn’t that creepy, and there were only 11 vacancies. But it was in the ballpark.

The office was behind the windowed door, and my room was the one just to the left. I didn’t see any peepholes. The proprietor was an older woman, not an intense young man, but it could’ve been his mother. I guess I’ll take a shower anyway*.

It was a cap-off to a slightly weird day. Dayton was having its Memorial Day parade, and the main street was blocked off. I convinced the sheriff to let me go through anyway; spectators lined the sidewalk but the parade hadn’t come through yet, so it was just me, going the wrong way. I sheepishly tried to wave, but had visions of a similar scene in Easy Rider. Those guys wound up in the hoosegow.

There was a strong southwest wind, 20 to 30 MPH with higher gusts, indicated by the blue arrow I drew over my Ride with GPS track for the day.

As you can see, mostly a tailwind, but sometimes a buffeting crosswind, that threatened to blow me right into traffic. The way it whipped around the Palouse hills reminded me of sailing regattas in the Charles River, surrounded by skyscrapers (at least there were no traffic helicopters hovering overhead). I had to keep an iron grip on the handlebars, and by the time I hit Pomeroy, I was pretty tapped out. As is common in this neck of the woods, there was nothing, nada, zippo, no place to stop for 37 miles. I thought maybe I’d go another 30 miles to Lewiston, but felt it best to stop here, even if the Pioneer Motel was creepy.

I arrived at 2:05 PM, the only restaurant in town had just closed. So I stocked up on groceries for lunch, dinner, and the following breakfast. Another string town, pretty dead, although the Garfield County Courthouse was interesting.

Distance 38 miles, 994 total. Time 5 hours with stops. Elevation gain 1,850 feet

©️ 2024 Scott Luria

*In one of my more egregious examples of bad parenting, I let my daughter watch Psycho at age 9. For the next 10 years, she would not take a shower unless our dog was in the bathroom.

Walla Walla to Dayton, Washington. Friday, May 24, 2024

Low-key day today. Accommodation spacing, mountainous terrain, and Memorial Day weekend crowds have dictated that I take a trio of 30-mile days. Knowing this, I tarried with the Brannans, we had lots of fun sharing experiences, talking about our kids, careers, the airline industry, bike rides, contracting, and the whole Warmshowers experience. We shared jokes and videos, and could’ve talked for hours more. As it was, I didn’t leave till noon and got this farewell photo, unfortunately slightly blurry.

I toured downtown Walla Walla and Whitman College, both very attractive, but not particularly photogenic. What struck me most was the Palouse.

Stepbrother in-law Thom had told me of this place, a land of rolling hills covered in wheat, vivid green this time of year. They were made of loess, a predominantly silt-sized sediment that is formed by the accumulation of wind-blown dust (basically fertile sand dunes) like the Loess Hills on the border of Iowa and South Dakota I encountered on 7/15/21. Centered about 100 miles north of here, it extended as far down as Walla Walla. Some of you may remember it as the Windows XP wallpaper, called Bliss.

Not remarkable or spectacular, but extremely soothing to look at. On the Middle Waitsburg Road, I found myself surrounded by these hills, and despite the challenging ups and downs, felt eerily at peace.

Dayton, Ohio, home of the Wright brothers. Dayton, Tennessee, site of the 1927 Scopes monkey trial. Dayton, Washington, a tiny town in the Palouse.

Distance 32 miles, 956 total. Time 6 hours with stops. Elevation gain 1,650 feet

©️ 2024 Scott Luria