Coffeeneuring 2015 Wrap-Up

This is a post with the sole purpose of recycling and recounting. Shameless self-promotion. "Hey, read my blog posts again!"

Recylcing (links to original posts):

It's over.

Shop 1: Devout Coffee (previously visited ...recycled)
Shop 2: The Cool Bean Cafe
Shop 3: Panama Red
Shop 4: Sunol Railway Cafe
Shop 5: Sugarie Bake Shop (previously visited ...recycled)
Shop 6: Pacific Bay Coffee
Shop 7: The Bubble Tree Cafe
Control Card: Here

Recounting:

Except for the Cool Bean, all the coffee shops were relatively close to home.

My Top Three Overall (coffee and "the experience")

1. Devout Coffee - cool place, cool people, good coffee, happy to talk about coffee, nice town
2. Sugarie - cool people, good pastries, good coffee, close to home
3. Cool Bean - cool place, good coffee, cool people, halo effect from Yosemite trip

Total mileage: 130 miles

And the answers to the questions you all want to ask:

What's with the duck?

Mendo, and the stunt-doubles

Well, really it's a failed attempt at doing something clever. I have a stuffed monkey that I take on cycling trips and have created a whole story around him. I cloned the Coffeeneuring interactive map and use it to track his travels. Next I plan to find his original owner and return the monkey along with this amazing story of where it's been. Cool, eh? Mendo the coffeeneuring rubber ducky was a spontaneous idea along the same lines. The monkey was scheduled to be elsewhere for much of the coffeeneuring challenge, so I couldn't use him. So the duck substituted for the monkey. 

Sorry you asked?

Why Coffeeneuring?

CycloMonkey loves coffee!

This is Mary's question to all of us. Two years ago, I was not a coffee drinker. But my cycling hobby had evolved to be my primary mode of transportation. So I was waking up at 5am for a two-hour commute a few times a week. That left me rather sleepy at work, so I started with a half-cup of coffee for the caffeine and grew from there. I figured if I was going to drink coffee, I'd rather drink good coffee and had better learn about it. That's one part of the answer: I wanted to learn more about coffee. A forced taste-testing event served that purpose.

A second part is that I'm a little nerdy (perhaps geeky) and have an abnormal affinity for checklists, accumulating logs of things, record-keeping, or most any form of organizing things. Much like my involvement in Randonneuring, I like to look at the list of things I've accomplished. So here was a chance to display my list to others who also might appreciate a list.

Part and parcel with my nerdiness is general introversion, introspection and creativity in need of an outlet. Facebook and blogging allow me to pretend to be extroverted at a nice, safe distance. So I suspected that I might get a captive audience in this Coffeeneuring group and I might get some pre-made topics on which to write. More practice at writing. More practice at cell-phone photography. And low and behold, I may have gained some friends ...well, acquaintances. Can I get a "like" or a "+1" for that?

Why Food Pairing?

Coffee, like wine or beer, can be very complex and varied. I've had good food with good coffee and the combination made both taste a little off. Look it up, it's a thing. I'm a believer. When is the cycling and donut challenge?

Was There a Theme Within a Theme?

Yes, did you miss it? Actually, I had hoped that one would evolve. So I sub-titled my rides with something and the name of the coffee shop. Nothing clever evolved. So no, there was ultimately no theme within a theme - except for the rubber ducky. If you can find some creative theme, leave a comment.

Thanks for indulging me.

CycloMonkey's Weekend in the Valley

As a certain monkey makes friends and becomes more popular, it's nice to have a quiet weekend at home. But not this weekend. No. If you look at a map of California, there's a big emptiness between the ocean and the mountains. That's the Central Valley.

Almost Yosemite

With what seems like millions of other people, CycloMonkey, my wife and I hopped in the car and started driving towards that barren wasteland of nothingness that straddles Highway 99. Stop. Go. Stop again. 20mph. Stop. Big trucks. Less and less civilization. Less and less trees or even signs of life. Then uphill. Yes, this would make a nice bike route if there was a shoulder, fewer cars and cooler temperatures. Finally, we arrive at Oakhurst, California, at the intersection of Highway 49 and Highway 41.

Oakhurst is a gold-rush-era town on the southern edge of Yosemite National Park. We are here for two reasons:
1. The Yosemite Half Marathon, which my wife will run.
2. Ride #2 of my Coffeeneuring Challenge

Coffeeneuring features another anthropomorphized friend of mine: Mendo, the rubber ducky. As you might expect, CycloMonkey should avoid caffeine. So he is less than ideal for a partner in this. And with his recent surge in popularity, cannot be counted on to clear his calendar for these sedate little rides to coffee shops.

But he's rather unselfish and was happy to endure the long hours in the car. The first order of business, of course, is the half marathon. And that meant waking up before 4am so that my wife could catch the bus taking the runners up into the mountains for the start.

The upside of waking up well before dawn in a town with clear, mountain air and no smog, is the view of the planets aligned outside our hotel window!

The moon, Jupiter, Mars (faintly), Venus (bright) and Regulus (very faint) - taken with my cell phone!

Many of the establishments here are named Southgate Something due to the proximity of the south gate into Yosemite. And there are bears everywhere! Fortunately, the live bears hide up in the hills, so mostly there are just these carved, wooden bears that seem harmless.

I won't bore you with details of the race, the coffee or the hot, dry ride home. With Saturday in the books, we turned out attention to Sunday. Rest up, because we are heading back to the Central Valley again!

Bike Ride

At 6:30am on Sunday morning, CycloMonkey and I headed out in the cool, crisp air to meet our riding partners for the twelfth of my twelve consecutive monthy 200km randonneur rides. This ride would qualify me for the R-12 award. This would also be CycloMonkey's very first 200km ride - mostly due to my preference to carry food rather than monkeys in my limited number of pockets. But now I have a small bag for my top tube which freed up my middle jersey pocket. It's the perfect size for a limber and compressible monkey.

Since my jersey fabric wicks moisture away from my body, I worried about CycloMonkey absorbing said same moisture. So his "jersey" was a old plastic newspaper bag. One shot of espresso and we were off!

The streets were relatively quiet at 7am. CycloMonkey's view out the back consisted mostly of our familiar riding buddies. Will was there on the day CycloMonkey found us in Santa Cruz. Steven took CycloMonkey to Europe, so they're old friends. Bumha and Kenny would become old friends by the end of this long day.

The 200km "permanent" rides follow a predetermined route with specific control stops. The controls are usually spaced out about 30 miles apart or whenever it is convenient. The trip over the hills and into the Central Valley leave long gaps without much civilization, so the first control stop was about mile 45. By the second, at mile 61, we were almost halfway - time for a soothing creme soda.

Not frozen today.

Halfway would generally be a good time for lunch. But the control at roughly two-thirds is an oasis in the wilderness called The Junction. It is located where three roads meet: Del Puerto Canyon (our route from the Central Valley), San Antonio Valley (south to Mount Hamilton), and Mines Road (back to where we started). The little grill there serves beer and basic lunch food but it tastes awesome after many hours in the saddle. And you just can't there without spending many hours in the saddle. So we opted to skip lunch and head up the canyon.

From our control stop at the Patterson exit off Interstate 5, we headed west into the hottest, driest part of our ride. On my Garmin, I recorded 107 degrees (F). We went for miles and miles with very little shade or vegetation, slowly climbing. The road has huge numbers painted every mile, to aid airplanes in rescuing dehydrated cyclists. My memory has already faded in three days, but I believe around mile 18 or 19 is a natural spring. There is a small spigot of cold water (free!). Apparently, you'll get your daily requirement of magnesium from this water - but it tastes great.

A mile later, the climb got steeper, unrelenting for several more miles. But no bother, The Junction is right over the top! With the proverbial monkey on my back, I crested the summit before my compatriots. And I wanted the first beer. Somehow, I managed to hold off the chasers and arrived at the locked gate first! Wait, locked? Oh no! They are closed! I knew the owner had recently had surgery and was not keeping consistent hours - but how could this be!

Cheers on your accomplishment

Undeterred (because we had no other option), we carried on back to civilization. That meant about 30 more miles, however. Along the way, we hatched a plan to visit Altamont Beer Works in Livermore (thank you, Will).

Some may think that drinking beer during a long bike ride is crazy. I'd say "crazy refreshing!" CycloMonkey is of the opinion that it isn't wise. And he resisted. But as you can tell, there was plenty of cheering for CycloMonkey's first 200k. Well, it was rather hot. And he wasn't driving. And the "brown" was served with nitrogen instead of carbonization if that matters (looked cool, anyway). So he thoroughly enjoyed it. Perhaps the second was ill-advised.

Back in his newspaper bag and back out into the heat we went. Fortunately, the remaining few miles were flat and the headwind was minimal. Except for Bumha's flat tire, the day was a complete success.

Finally, we arrived back at the Starbuck's where we had started. This was also the finish control. One cookie for me, one cookie for CycloMonkey.

Personally, I'm rather tired. The day would end for me with slightly over 142 miles. But one of those last miles was a detour to drop off CycloMonkey at our friend John's house. Seems that John has a little surprise for which he wouldn't provide any details. Is it some exotic trip? Is it to meet a man in a yellow hat?

Curious?

Skyline Ramble 200k

Today’s route takes us from the cool, hip, coastal city of Santa Cruz down to the hot, dusty town of Watsonville, then straight up the Santa Cruz Mountains and along the ridge, aptly called Skyline Boulevard, for about 40 miles before dropping down to the Pacific Ocean and glorious Highway 1 back to Santa Cruz. It will be a 125-mile loop and include well over 8,000 feet of climbing. Of course, CycloMonkey was up for it yet slightly concerned since this would be the farthest he’s ever ridden.

Background

The “Skyline Ramble” is a so-called permanent route for randonneurs. That means it can be ridden whenever you like, so long as you make appropriate arrangements with the route’s owner beforehand. August 16 was the chosen date with the assumption that it would be hot in the East Bay and cool on this route – perhaps downright cold along the coast.

Like brevets, a permanent has a specific route with specific checkpoints – called controls – that must be proven with a time stamp (receipt from a local store) within a certain time window. Going too fast is never my problem, but I can’t afford to spend too long at the stops either. In places were civilization is lacking, answering a question may substitute as a control stop albeit without a time stamp. Such is the wrinkle of riding with randonneurs.

Many years ago, I rode the “Tour d’Organics” in the Santa Cruz area. That was a red-letter day because it was over 110 degrees in the East Bay and over 100 degrees in Santa Cruz, itself. It was a brutal ride and afterwards we got news that some older folks who lived in Santa Cruz had died due to the heat (air conditioning is rare in the city). Today was shaping up to be a similar day!

Sage Advice

Never try something new on a long ride. I got a new pair of gloves and a new pair of shoes a few weeks ago. I put a few hundred miles on both, so no worries. I did experiment with how tight my shoes were and had that all dialed in. Except for an odd squeak from my left shoe, everything was perfect.

Hydration would be important, at least for me; stuffed monkeys don’t need any. For humans, hydration starts several days in advance. It’s not just about having water in your belly. It’s about getting every single cell in your body saturated with as much fluid as it can hold. Because during the ride you’ll need those cells to carry nutrients to your aching muscles and you’ll suck every last molecule of fluid back out of those cells. Of course, if you are basically cotton like most stuffed animals, then the goal is anti-hydration – not absorbing sweat from your companion. So CycloMonkey was duly protected in my back pocket. I also wanted to be as light as possible since carrying a few less pounds up that mountain would be appreciated. Fortunately, I had lost the four pounds I had picked up in the past few weeks and still managed to top off my fluids. Surprisingly, even four pounds is noticeable on the climbs.

Departure

I packed my bags, preflight; zero hour – 5am. CycloMonkey did not wake up but he was in my bag full of gear and food (the bag was; CycloMonkey was full of anticipation). We slipped out of Pleasanton in the pre-dawn and surveyed the unremarkable sunrise as we headed toward Santa Cruz. No traffic at this time of the day, so soon enough we parked at the Safeway on the north side of town, nursed the requisite café Americano and suited up for the ride. 7am, time to traverse the length of town and escape out the southern end before the locals awake and the throngs of Silicon Valleyites start rolling over the hill. Peaceful town while it’s sleeping – exaggerated by the silence of the Prius that waited with us at the stoplight by the town clock.

Navigational Errors

I’ll lump all my screw-ups in one paragraph to minimize the drag on the story. (#1) Having ridden in Santa Cruz a handful of times, I turned onto Bonita by rote only to realize I shouldn’t have. After retracing my path and going a half-mile further, I gave the Bonita directions to an Aussie cyclist who was heading to Moss Landing and had missed his turn. Fair enough. (#2) I was using a GPS route for course directions that I exported from Roland Bevan. Up in the mountains where satellites are concealed by trees and canyons, I kept saying out loud, “where are you going, Ro?” as his GPS track darted hither and yon – I assume mine was doing the same. There’s only one road, so I trust it and keep rolling. (#3) I almost overshot Highway 84 but only by a hundred yards or so. (#4) Then I completely missed the Stage Road shortcut at San Gregorio and enjoyed the scenery along Highway 1 with hundreds of cars. I had to back-track to Pescadero. Otherwise, I did reasonably well in the navigational department.

From the Redwood Forest

Temperature Profile

It was barely 60 degrees at 7am when I started. I opted for a base layer, arm warmers but no leg warmers. Not knowing if the weathermen might be completely fooled, I also brought along my vest. Twelve hours from now, the fog might roll in and make the coastal return leg miserable – was not to be. The temps climbed slowly as I went down to Watsonville and then up Eureka Canyon to the top of the hill. I switched from arm warmers to arm coolers. By the time I hit the first clearings in the trees up there, the temperature was mid-80s and dry. CycloMonkey was unfazed. The whole Highland Way – Summit Road – Skyline section of the ride continued to climb both in altitude and temperature. The stretches of clearings got longer and longer and pretty soon we were baking in near-100 degree heat. And just like the elevation profile, once we turned downhill at Highway 84, the temperatures dropped appreciably – which I appreciated! Of course, it was still reasonably warm – back to the mid-80s. Even after 6pm, when we rolled back into the Safeway parking lot, it was still comfortably warm.

Memorable Moments

It’s interesting how the memory works on such a long day. There are no abrupt transitions so everything blurs together. You occasionally realize that hours have gone by. The soundtrack for the day was the last song I heard on the radio: Cheap Trick, Surrender. “Mommy's alright, Daddy's alright, they just seem a little weird” recurring throughout the day as if it were normal. It would drive you insane if you actually heard the same lyrics all day long, but if your mind serves up the song then sanity is secure.

Certain sections that I’d ridden before had been repaved. The pavement up Eureka Canyon to Highland is still dreadful, unfortunately. It’s almost like off-road and I worried about breaking a spoke or worse. I wasn’t completely conscious of the county lines but I assume the differences in pavement quality vary significantly by county and the tax brackets of the inhabitants. The views were amazing from the ridge, except for some haziness which may have been due to the wildfires burning hundreds of miles to the north. There was also aggressive haziness in the form of diesel soot and smoke from a truck along Summit Road – apparently I annoyed him. At times I was aware of the filtered brightness on either side of the road – through the trees were expansive views of mountain valleys, confirming that I was on the ridgeline.

The description and warnings for this route mentioned a well-placed hot dog stand at the Saratoga Gap. And like a parking lot oasis, Mustard Mike was there. CycloMonkey needed something cool and refreshing. Despite the idea that we’d be riding along the ridge at nearly constant elevation, it seemed like there was relentless climbing along Skyline. The profile shows it peaking around Highway 9 but it didn’t feel that way! Knowing these roads are world-famous for cycling, I was surprised by the general lack of cyclists throughout the day. There were a few but except for Woodside, there weren’t many out in the heat. And speaking of Woodside, the crowds of tourists and motorcycles were unbelievable at Alice’s Restaurant and the deli across the street where I ate. Testosterone, unburnt gasoline fumes and unmuffled exhaust – the weekend alter egos of middle-aged men distinguishable only by their destination Harley Davidson T-shirts (Virginia was the farthest away that I saw). Heading down the west side, the traffic on Highway 84 went at pretty much the same speed as me, so they weren’t bothered by the lack of passing opportunities. I should mention how utterly beautiful it was, although I got increasingly blasé about the jaw-dropping scenery. But nature has a way of correcting even the most jaded. Once clear of the trees on Highway 84, the scenery becomes dominated by meadows which lull you into a false sense of drowsiness until you snap to attention at the first sight of the Pacific Ocean. And then the wonderment returns. Such a spell the sea holds over you (and your monkey)!

CycloMonkey at Mustard Mike's

CycloMonkey at Alice's Restaurant

Henry Weinhard's Root Beer

The return route takes some inland roads parallel to Highway 1, which could be in any flyover state – sparse, gently rolling hills with no indication of the vast ocean to the west. We return to the coast briefly until the cruelty of Swanton Road forces me inland up a steep climb. It’s nothing compared to the morning’s climb but after 110 miles I’m in no mood for it. CycloMonkey is always in the mood for climbing, of course, and my legs are actually not screaming. It’s mercifully short and I’m looking for the fire station and the last control stop. Then back to the coast to pass the tiny town of Davenport and then another 45 minutes until Santa Cruz. Davenport was the finishing town for the first day of the Heart Across America ride. Finishing a big ride makes me crave beer so CycloMonkey and I had an ongoing debate about stopping in Davenport for beer. I’m not opposed to having a cold one during a big ride, especially when the remaining miles are relative easy. If Davenport were a control stop, the receipt would have been for beer – but no.

The final miles of a big ride give you a brief bit of renewed energy. Either that or the belief that there’s no reason to save the energy so go ahead and hammer away. With the warm sea breeze at my back and the fresh blacktop, I was rolling about 25mph when I could. The route guidance counted down the miles until the finish and before I knew it, we were at Safeway again. Ah civilization! People buying way too much stuff and leaving their shopping cart in the parking spot instead of the cart corral just 20 feet away. The impressive diversity of the Santa Cruz citizenry. I buy the long-awaited beer. But it will have to wait even longer until I get home – even in Santa Cruz they don’t want people chugging a brew in the parking lot, and imbibing while driving is stupid as well as illegal. So I crank up the air conditioning to keep it cool and head for the highway home.

Return

Lest you think driving home from Santa Cruz is unblogworthy, well, you apparently don’t live around here. Nothing can be worse than traffic over the hill on a super-hot Sunday afternoon or evening. I thought it was going to be okay, just loose traffic and 40mph heading up the hill. But once the sun caused the visors to drop and the road leveled off in anticipation of the downhill turns – brakelights. Stop and go and no more than 15mph for close to an hour. Ugh. Now I can feel my tired, achy legs. Now I can feel the heavy eyelids. Fortunately, my last remaining Clif Bar was a caffeinated Cool Mint Chocolate flavor. It’s not much but it helped. Finally the constipation subsided and 70mph was the norm. 

Home by 8:30pm; beer on ice while I shower. Strava. Catch up on the events of the day with my wife and enjoy my beer. Another 200k in the books.

The Adventures of CycloMonkey

[ Interactive Map of CycloMonkey's Travels ...or... Scroll to the bottom for links to the stories!]

Monkeys are not native to North America. They are found mostly in zoos throwing feces, in silent movies grinding organs and tagged for sale along with Smurfs, unicorns and talking Elmos. If they are lucky, they can find work inciting rallies at baseball games. Clever as the dickens, they sometimes escape their captors and pursue their individual quests. That's how I met CycloMonkey.

Of course CycloMonkey is not his real name, but he endures it. CycloMonkey is from back east and lived in some high security laboratory. The sight of the Empire State Building triggered some genetic PTSD and he had to get out. He made a daring, nighttime escape of which he doesn't want to discuss. He spent a summer accompanying a long-haul trucker named B.J. MacKay before parting ways in Winslow, Arizona. Too hot and too dry, he hopped in an open freight car and rode the rails to Bakersfield. Wishing he was still in Winslow, he immediately found a blue-haired old couple driving an AMC Eagle heading for "The Mystery Spot."

Early one morning while enjoying a banana latte, he heard the siren sound that calls all monkeys and men alike: the sewing machine symphony that is the peloton. Yes, the high cadence sound of cyclists. Not the fixies and beach cruisers so common on the coast, but carbon masterpieces with dérailleurs and other French-sounding parts. Randonneurs. Monkeys are drawn to all things yellow - bananas, men with yellow hats, the maillot jaune. And perhaps there is a genetic reason as the more advanced of our own species share this trait. But I digress. CycloMonkey sought out my vehicle after spotting my ultra-hi-viz cycling kit, attached himself with his four velcro hands to the side-view mirror and waited. After my 200km ride in Santa Cruz, that's where we met. Although we couldn't communicate with words, I could see in his opaque, plastic eyes that he wanted to follow me wherever I might be going.

The years of itinerant living must have taken a toll, for he collapsed in the back seat for several days until my son borrowed the car. Sensing mortal danger, he relocated under the passenger seat and lived there for several months. Slowly he gained confidence in himself and trust in me and began to venture around the jungle that is my garage. Finally, he decided it was time to ride. The stories of his rides will be linked below, but each time he gets more comfortable and willing to go farther. We've got some plans but it's obvious to both of us that my middle-aged lifestyle will not be enough for him.

It was one of those moments where each of us wanted to bring up the subject without hurting the other's feelings. I broke the ice. I could sense the relief. Yes, we (well, just CycloMonkey) should see other people. He's not looking for a lifelong human companion, at least not right now. He wants to go with someone who travels. And if they've got another friend who likes to travel, then he's happy to go with them ...and then someone else. And I'm fine with that.

Want to Ride with CycloMonkey?

CycloMonkey has a free and independent spirit. He longs for adventure. He belongs to the world and I am not his master. But he can't drive and doesn't have a credit card. Despite four thumbs, he can't even text. If you would like to take CycloMonkey on an adventure, please contact me. We can arrange a drop-off or send-off or a FedEx tracking number. All I ask is that you keep him safe and dry, share the adventures on Instagram (#CycloMonkey), write up the story so I can continue it here and let me know where he goes next. 


If you love something, set it free. Then blog about it.

Come back to this post for updates!

• June 27, 2105: Sunol, CA
• June 28, 2015: Livermore, CA
• June 30, 2015: Milpitas, CA
• July 4, 2015: Juneau, AK
• July 5, 2015: Skagway, AK
• July 18, 2015: Sacramento, CA
• August 9, 2015: Los Angeles, CA
• August 16, 2015: Santa Cruz, CA
• September 2015: Europe
• October 3, 2015: San Jose, Theater, and Big Sur, CA
• October 11, 2015: Central Valley, CA
• October 12, 2015: Ride with Jens Voigt
• October 19, 2015: Japan
• November 8, 2015: Rome

...to be continued.

Recounting the Natchez Trace Parkway

It's good to be home with access to a real computer.  Rather than edit my previous posts with observations in hindsight and in pixels, I'll consolidate them here.  I know you won't go back and re-read the day-by-day, blow-by-blow.  But if you insist, here's your portal:

• Before the start
• Day 1
• Day 2
• Day 3
• Day 4
• Day 5

The pale blue line represents the whole trip, including
the little circles near Gulfport the previous week.

A year ago, "Natchez" was the name of an old-time riverboat on the Mississippi River - that's all I knew. But Greg tipped me about a special road that the Heart Across America ride would take, and I hatched a plan to visit my parents and do this Natchez Trace Parkway. 

I rode the start of the ride back in March (1, 2 and 3) and had a full range of experiences. It was overwhelmingly positive and optimistic and wrapped around the cause. Five days in Mississippi would be completely different.

It was still wrapped around the cause as we took every opportunity to share it with people, but there weren't that many people. Being just the two of us on bikes - and solo at the end of the week - made it quieter, with time for reflection.

The Magnolia State

Southern Mississippi

The actual Trace, a footpath

The city of Natchez was established in 1716, Curtis told us that - they've got an anniversary coming next year. At 300 years old, it is older than most cities in the United States.  Who knew?

Dave heard that the whole Natchez Trace Parkway covers five degrees of latitude. The changes in geography were perceptible as we rode day after day.

The Natchez Trace Parkway is a National Park, roughly 800 feet wide and 444 miles long. The trees on either side of the road are thick enough that you cannot see or hear what may be on the other side until you exit. Sometimes there a county road or state highway with strip malls, gas stations and hospitals.

Overlook from Jeff Busby

Texas and Montana are big states.  Not only do they cover massive area, you can see forever. Mississippi is a relatively big state.  But on the Trace, because of the trees, your sight is limited - making Mississippi a small state. Only on rare occasions did the Trace rise up and offer expansive views. And even then, you can't see from the Trace itself - you need to take a short road to the edge of the park. And if you sprint, you might take the KOM.

Otherwise, the southern third of the Trace offered a canopy of trees to shade and protect us. That was welcome, but it focused our impressions to that of the road and immediate surroundings.

Mid-Mississippi

My bike, with everything I brought stuffed in that pack, looking out from Baker Bluff

Aside from the suburbs of Jackson and the area around Tupelo, the towns are small. The history of the Natchez Trace as a means of travel were constrained to the early 1800s as far as written history is concerned (written by people of European descent). It improved from a trail to a passable road. With the advent of better roads elsewhere and steam power to travel north up the Mississippi River, it became obsolete. The consequence was that no major cities grew.  The towns we stayed in were classic little towns with a court building in the center, surrounded by nearly empty storefronts along the square and then a strip of fast food places nearest to whatever state highway aimed toward the interstate.

Dave and Dennis on the square in Houston, MS

The middle of the the state has slightly more elevation change, but still hardly any hill above 4% grade or 600 feet elevation above sea level. There is a perceptible change in density and type of trees. It's more farmland. But there is still plenty of water: swamps and at least one slough.

Clearly, I recommend that you ride the Natchez Trace, it was a very positive and memorable experience. If you go, don't go alone - it's more fun with friends.  And when you book your rooms, contact Randy from Natchez Trace Travel. Trust me.

Northern Section (Mississippi, Alabama, Tennessee)

The Trace runs northeasterly, veering away from the Mississippi River which goes past Memphis. The area near the river is the "delta" where the "delta blues" come from. The Trace, however, finds hilly territory and apparently "hill country blues" originated here.

Like a bad billiard shot, it misses the corner of Mississippi and crosses into Alabama near Muscle Shoals. The spelling is correct, although the intention may be a reference to mussels - Wikipedia is unclear. You'll recall, of course, The Swampers - they've been known to pick a song or two.  The Muscle Shoals Sound (from the recording studio, FAME, founded by The Swampers) influenced Sam Phillips before he started Sun Records.

I only spent an hour or so in Alabama, before I entered Tennessee. But it took me another day and many steep hills to get to Nashville.

Numbers

A personal quirk of mine is a mild obsession with numbers. Strava gives me plenty of fodder - although I have not yet purchased a power meter. (I'm fond of saying "there's always somebody crazier" and those are the people with power meters.) Recently, I upgraded from the Jawbone UP24 to the UP3. It's basically a step counter and a sleep timer. A new feature in the UP3 is a resting heartrate measurement.  While I sleep it checks my pulse and estimates my resting heartrate overnight.

The four dots towards the left are the nights before my trip, 44bpm. The next three are the visit with my parents; I think I needed to adjust to the humidity. The high point of the week (the worst point) was the night before the first ride in Natchez. I attribute that to the two margaritas and two beers - that's more than I usually drink in a whole week. As the week went on, I got better. Thursday and Friday were more strenuous days on the bike which seems counter-intuitive, but that's the data. And the last data point is home sweet home.

Cool, huh?

I didn't weigh myself during the ride.  But by the time I returned home, I had gained five pounds. Considering how much I ate at regular meals, especially once I got to Nashville, it's not surprising. I doubt it was the instant oatmeal for breakfast every day. My body is used to burning this many calories and I'm less concerned about what I eat after a few beers.  And on the flight home, since I gained two hours, I managed to gain an extra meal, too. And that't probably why I gained weight.

I failed in my desire to have catfish or a po' boy (or a catfish po' boy).

The Natchez Trace Parkway is 444 miles; we diverted around a few. Adding in the ingress and egress miles, I logged 469.3 miles overall. Before that, I did 107.5 miles over three days in Gulfport, MS, where my parents live.

In addition to the missed catfish, there were also missed Brewvet opportunities. That's "brew" like in beer, and "vet" like in the French word brevet.  In Gulfport, my hotel was only a couple miles from Mississippi brewing - but it seemed weird to go out for a beer on my bike instead of visiting with my parents. But at the time I thought I'd have plenty of opportunities along the Trace. But aside from a Negra Modelo at Bel Piatto (yes, an Italian restaurant), there were precious few good beer drinking opportunities

If you ever need to prove you know obscure Fisch Facts, mention Dave's "Crazy Ivan" maneuver at the bottom of the hour. Okay, not *exactly* at the bottom of the hour and probably not even once an hour, but Dave gets out of the saddle simply to change his position - even on flat roads. That can be a surprise when you are drafting him. I almost ran into his tire several times.

Grinders Stand (like a motel), where
Meriwether Lewis died
(of Lewis & Clark)

Bridge at Birdsong Hollow

I've become a coffee drinker because of cycling. This was not a good trip for coffee. The hotel rooms tended to have one-cup coffee makers with single-serving packets of "regular" or "decaf" - very descriptive names.  Less than inspiring.  Unlike cycling *outside* of a National Park, there are no coffee shops along the way for that mid-morning recaffeination.

If I think of anything else, I'll edit this and make you read it again!

Natchez Trace Day 5

My body aches from the previous day's effort, so I didn't sleep well. It wasn't the fault of the bed, however - Miss Monetta's Country Cottage was wonderful. I had a double oatmeal, pop tarts and coffee for breakfast, compliments of Miss Monetta's. While I put on my sunscreen, I take inventory of aches and of the dozens of bug bites I've accumulated.

I had a nice little chat with Larry Butler (half of Miss Monetta's, with Dianne Bulter) about working at Murray Manufacturing Company (bicycles, lawn mowers, etc.) in nearby Lawrenceburg before they sold out.

It's a nice, cool morning but Larry thinks it might rain. Doesn't matter, I've got no options today. You've probably noticed there's no "Heart Across America" in the title today. Dave and the goose are 60 miles back in Belmont. I'm on my own.

I roll out to the Trace and search in vain for that easy rhythm. Everything hurts. It feels like I've already been in the saddle for six hours. My wrist hurts; Dave had noted that I move my elbow when I ride - that probably strains my wrist. My knee hurts; it's not exactly stable during my pedal stroke. My neck hurts; I have a big head. And I don't have much power. Not a good start.

But it's a nice, cool morning and the road continues to be immaculate. I have no options. Today becomes a tale of a tailwind. I can hear the breeze in the trees. I can see the bottoms of the leaves as the wind turns them over. But there's no roar in my ears. Just the hum of the tires on the pavement and the quick clicking of my drivetrain. I wanted to say "Cicadian Rhythm" for the drivetrain because of the Cicadas we've been hearing for days. But I was thinking *circadian* rhythm, about a daily rhythm - which happened about two hours in. Once I got warm, the pains subside. The power isn't really there but I attribute that to the lack of a drafting partner.

Tennessee is different than Mississippi. Hills, deciduous trees, visible rocky uplifts, and fewer historic sites dedicated to Native Americans. At Jack's Branch, I meet a nice German couple in their Mercedes van. I'm efficient, so I move on and see them at the next stop ...and one more time on the road.

I spend a bit more time at the Meriwether Lewis Memorial. I'm conscious of taking 100 calories per hour, exactly at the top of the hour. I'm less clear about hydration since I'm topping off the bottles at every fountain.

I meet a lot of people from Franklin, TN, today. One group has to contain three families; they were a swarm. I'm peppered with questions about my bike but I really want to pet their dog, Abbie. I stop often, scenic places like Baker Bluff, and solemn places like the War of 1812 memorial.

Did I mention the hills? Of course you know Tennessee has hills. Even as smooth as the Natchez Trace Parkway is, the hills are steeper here. I see 8%. Relentless, actually. More up than down. At the Tennessee Valley Divide, I figure it out. It's a misnomer to me ...it's a ridge, not a valley. It's a horizontal version of the continental divide on a smaller scale. Nonetheless, I'm looking forward to 30 miles of downhill. Nope, more hills - just more down than up now.

All day long I've been watching the mile markers. I choose to mark the fours (384, 60 miles to go; 394, 50 miles to go). I recalculate my arrival time: 60 miles, four hours ...2:30pm. Hey, I've got no one to talk to so I do math. Don't you?

I pass 404, 424 ...I'm so close. But where's that big huge bridge I need to cross? I stop at a rest area and see a group of elementary school kids. The teacher is from Moraga, CA. That's where I got married. She doesn't really know where the bridge is, because she always takes highway 96 underneath it from Franklin. Within a few miles, not that far from the northern terminus, I see a highway 96 sign. And there's the bridge.

It's not that terrifying. I don't like heights. But the sightlines are towards the horizon; you can't see down too much - not that I'm looking. It is certainly a long way down, but I'm okay. My wife is laughing at this; my son stopped reading long ago. On the northern side is a viewing spot, but it's too sheltered by trees to give you a sense of scale.

For the past few miles I see cyclists - probably doing out-and-backs from Nashville. They have little interest in yet another plodding tourist "doing the Trace".  I take a 9% hill in the big ring. It's longer than I thought, so I actually need to work or risk embarrassment. And I notice wet pavement - it's been raining here. Lucky me, I missed it. Finally, highway 100. I'm done.

A ceremonial double-chocolate chocolate milk at the Shell station then off to my hotel.

The long-forecast rain finally catches up with me about a block from the hotel. Big, fat raindrops. Enough that I want my jacket. I pull into a drive-thru bank for cover. While I'm putting on my jacket, a voice comes over the intercom, "crazy weather, ain't it?" That's not the half of it.

After a warm reception at the Hampton Inn (my bike box has apparently been a novelty), I head over to Jonathan's Grille. The waitress lets me taste test a couple of local brews and I settle on Yazoo Dos Perros. Perfect. I have one for Dave and Dennis, too. Nap time.

Heart Across America Day 54 (Natchez Trace Day 4)

Today is a big day for me. I'm combining the Heart Across America ride with a randonneur 200k permanent. That means 60-some miles with Dave, and the comfort of knowing Dennis is back there. And then I keep going until I complete138 miles, unsupported.

This is nothing new for me, but it still causes me a bit of concern. Locals have said the stretch around Tupelo during rush hour is the worst.

The water from the tap was rusty, so I fill up from the filtered tap in the breakfast room. Consolidation begins on my possessions, some things go. The rest needs to fit in my oversized seat bag. I saved enough Skratch Labs drink mix for Friday and put it in a Ziploc bag.  Do you think anyone would question the white powdery substance? Nah. Cheese Danish, instant oatmeal and "bold" coffee for breakfast. Dave's chatting up a couple out in the parking lot. She's got a German accent, he's surprised we aren't crossing the country on bike trails made from abandoned railways. Some guy in an orange T-shirt wandering away from the hospital next door asks us how to get to the gas station that he went to yesterday. Okay, well ...let's ride.

Since I'm doing a randonneur event, I need a timestamp from a place chosen by the organizer (Michelle Williams). Unfortunately in a town like this and the town in Alan Jackson's "Little Man", sometimes even gas stations go out of business. Texaco is gone, but there's an Exxon close enough. Now for worry #1, dogs.

We have several miles of side streets and country roads before the Trace. As soon as Dave mentions the mace he's carrying, I hear barking. It's a Chihuahua, but still. Dave tries to educate me about screaming "AARRU" because it sounds like a dog. Sure, a dog on a bike with tastey ankles. It's total paranoia. We're staring at every run-down home and trailers (profiling, I'm sorry). Then a pack of three dogs come charging from a rather nice home (profile failure). It could have been a hundred, but I was gone. Dave had dropped back and was riding beside the van (white goose). Nice dogs, actually. Mercifully, we reach the Trace.

Life returns to the surreal experience that has us spoiled for the whole week. Perhaps there are flaws, or perhaps we're bored, but I start to point out small dimples and discolorations in the road ...as in previous days. At one of the blur of historic stops about a once-proud native culture, Dennis spots some rather large nail-heads in the van's tire ...bolt-heads, actually - huge. So we send Dennis ahead to Tupelo to get it fixed and run some errands and find us some lunch.

Now Dave and I are alone and unsupported. Dave appreciates this feeling. I'm ambivalent. Along with being navigationally challenged, I quickly forget when the van is back there. I don't have a rearview mirror like Dave and on more than one occasion I've been startled by the van. Life is always interesting for me!

Dave detects a wobbles in his front wheel. A broken spoke. And we're unsupported. Before I thought to photograph the event, he had removed the offending piece, performed some rudimentary failure analysis, adjusted the other spokes to compensate and was ready to roll. I'd still be there.

I'm anxious to read Dave's blog because I thought we rode at a workmanlike pace. With the late start for worry #2, I was pondering worry #3, how long would it take me to finish. 6pm? Certainly well before 8pm. Honestly, I couldn't go much faster and still have enough for 138 miles. Tupelo traffic never materializes.

Around noon, we hit the big visitors'center. Incidentally, there must be a segment that ends near the bathroom instead of the main entrance, because Dave's got a 2015 KOM and I got nuttin' - 15 minutes behind. Dave's blog probably won't mention that I got there first. Anyway, I love that place. Books, maps, pins, giant maps made into the tile floor. But alas, we roll.

Eventually we hear a honk. Dennis is back. Lunch. Dennis got me a Turkey Reuben sandwich - he heard me say that I liked Reubens before I went vegetarian/ pescitarian (except on big bike rides when I'll eat turkey and drink regular Coke.) We are a laugh riot at small-town restaurants with all our quirks. Hopefully, Kenny is normal - my replacement for next week.

Soon Dave's exit arrives while mine is 70 miles further. It's tough. But it's what we had decided to do long ago. I look over my shoulder and watch Dave shrink out of view. Big exhale. Damn, miss him already. Okay, I hope I helped.

These memories will last a lifetime and I'm glad to share them with Dave. Many times, this poem has crossed my mind. Dave knows it by heart, or at least used to - as do I.

The True Gentleman is the man whose conduct proceeds from good will and an acute sense of propriety, and whose self-control is equal to all emergencies; who does not make the poor man conscious of his poverty, the obscure man of his obscurity, or any man of his inferiority or deformity; who is himself humbled if necessity compels him to humble another; who does not flatter wealth, cringe before power, or boast of his own possessions or achievements; who speaks with frankness but always with sincerity and sympathy; whose deed follows his word; who thinks of the rights and feelings of others, rather than his own; and who appears well in any company, a man with whom honor is sacred and virtue safe.

By John Walter Wayland

Back to part two. I'm tired, I've got no one to draft and I need to make good time. A pair of touring cyclists had passed, so I run them down. Two guys with Adventure Cycling doing the Underground Railroad tour. They're going to Toronto. One is a bluesman with a guitar on his back. (The other is not Ralph Macheo.) We chat until they exit. I pick up the pace again. A bit.

What's this? A hill. I flip my Garmin display to show elevation and rate of incline. 7%, ouch. Screw it, I've stayed in the big ring all week and I'm not downshifting now!

Not much of a descent. And another 7%-er. Where's Dave? Oh yeah, he's showered and having a beer about now. But the scenery has changed. There are rock outcroppings. And very light rain, and it seems darker. I'm feeling okay. It crosses my mind that Don Brennan might be with me. My smile surprises me.

We, I mean I, cross into Alabama. It looks different. There's more climbing, more differentiation. There's the Alabama/Tennessee state line and another historic marker. Now I'm in Tennessee ...seems like I was just in Mississippi.  Now I'm starting to focus solely on the mile markers. Whoa! Opening up before me after a welcome downhill stretch is the Tennessee River. Which means I've got a bridge to cross. Very cool, I thought this might be worry #4 or whatever it's up to. That was refreshing.

Back to the countdown. I'm really tired. My 17-18mph pace is now 15mph. I muster a few historic stops (to eat). I'm checking my water. Another mile marker. I pass a pair of touring cyclists. Wave.

I pass a guy heading south. When I stop to photograph a bridge (really just stopping to give my butt a break), he loops around. He's a local, trying to get back in shape. The Heart Across America story spills out. Time to roll, should be 45 more minutes.

In my focus on mile markers, I miss two things I wanted to see: the stepping stones at Rock Spring, and the Wichahpi Stone Wall. Oh well, nine miles to go. Four. One. Zero, and I'm still going. (No, it's not a navigation problem.) Okay, there it is. And no dogs.

Collingwood, Tennessee, is small. I find the Exxon station I need for my randonneur timestamp. Snickers and a chocolate milk. I ask for directions to Miss Monetta's Country Cottage while I pound down my purchase.

Miss Monetta's Cottages are basically single-family homes on the edge of town ...a B&B. It's awesome. So my bike is in the garage, I've woofed down the complimentary snacks and water and spent way too much time writing this. If I've shorted anything, it's Miss Monetta's. If I've neglected anything for PC reasons, it was dinner.

Summary: my wrists, butt, neck, ankles and every last muscle suffered today. It's been a long week. One more tomorrow. What's it been like for Dave?