Right now I’m in Telluride CO. sitting on a couch, which reminds me how the Playground Tour all began. Last winter, I was doing nothing, writing like I am right now, only I had no story to tell. Recently graduated from college, I was living at my parents’ home trying to figure out how I could make life more interesting when Brandon Wade’s documentary “Paving the Way” aired on PBS one night. The documentary told the story of the rogue crew traveling the National Park-to-Park Highway established almost a century ago. Back then, roads were still third-world equivalent and automobiles weren’t exactly as reliable as they are nowadays. Needless to say, I was intrigued.

The documentary aired in two parts, and I only caught the first half (I still have yet to watch the whole thing), but it was enough to get the ball rolling. I wanted to recreate the journey. Of course, I considered driving the route, but that’s boring. I was looking for an adventure and the luxury and reliability of an automobile just wouldn’t hack it. Instead, I decided cycling the Playground Trail (nickname for the National Park-to-Park Highway) would surely get me into some trouble.

When Cali Bagby decided it was a good idea to join me, I was both excited and relieved. I had spent the last couple months half-assedly trying to convince some of my close friends it would be a good idea. I realized then that I had too many smart friends and I had prepared for a solo trip into the unknown.

Cali had just returned home from reporting on the war in Iraq for 11 months and in
August, she would be leaving for Afghanistan. A less serious adventure would be good for her.

I carried memory of the first day with me throughout the whole tour. Cali and I loaded gear onto our bikes for the first time in our lives and I offered Cali pointers on riding with clipless pedals; after all, I had nearly five days experience using them.

It didn’t take us long to get lost, but there were plenty of weekend cyclists pedaling that day; the kind covered in so many logos you’re not sure if they’re sponsored or just buying into the hype of team spandex. We decided the longer scenic route with shoulder sounded best, paying no heed to the added uphill we’d endure. Cali and I soon learned our pace discrepancies and decided to meet at the top. I was feeling good initially, but as the ascent carried higher, I began to question my acclimation technique. Living at nearly sea level, I knew the elevated Rockies would require some adjustment, only time was a limiting factor. We wanted to cease anticipation and get on the road quickly. So for the three days we stayed at my friends Kevin and Andrea’s apartment in Boulder, I always carried an open beer. If I can carry myself drunk at this altitude, I’ll be fine. So went my philosophy. Pushing up to Allenspark, my fatigue increased rapidly. My strategy eventually reduced to one minute on the bike, five minutes off. Finally I could get no more oxygen to my muscles and collapsed on the side of the road where I tried to figure out how I’d tell everyone at Wend and all my sponsors that the trip was off. Two hours later, Cali came crawling up the hill, a wretched look painting her face. Twenty minutes pass before we’re able to get the REI Half Dome pitched. Cali leans out the side, desperately refraining from puking; the only water we have is in our stomachs.

Despite the fact we both thought how pathetic it was that we’re going to die the first day of the trip, quitting only reverberated in our heads and was verbalized. The next day we woke up and began pedaling, and we continued to do so for the next five weeks. We quickly realized the value of traveling by such vulnerable means. We received free meals, had our bikes fixed for free and enjoyed the hospitality of people we’d never met.

Soon we were averaging 75 miles a day, no sweat. When shit hit the fan, as it inevitably does when you’re traveling by bike for so long, we’d fall back on that first day and laugh off our current predicament. Laughter became the very essence of what kept us pedaling.

After July 4th in Idaho, Cali and I parted ways. It was time for her to prepare for Afghanistan. My first night alone I was overwhelmed by loneliness when I received a message from Cali saying, “Buddy, you’ve got the memories.” I spent the rest of the night laughing and looking forward to the rest of the journey. Cali later rejoined me for the ride from Rainier National Park to Portland, OR.

Originally, I was slated to pedal from Portland to SoCal alone, but my girlfriend, Staj, had decided to ditch her job, end her lease and learn how to fix flat tire. I’d always believed women were more rational than men, but the only people willing to participate in my outlandish tour were women. “Girls just wanna have fun,” I guess.

Once again, the first day of leg II set the stage for the trip. Glancing down towards the Clackamas river, we spotted a pristine swimming hole. We’d stop nearly every day to swim for the rest of the leg.

Staj and I had only been dating for three months (one of which I was on the road) before the trip and people thought we were crazy. One day over halfway through the trip, my Pops asked if we were still together. Yes, I told him. “Tell her I’m totally impressed,” he responded.

The Sierras are a tenacious mountain range. Every day there was a new pass to climb. Sometimes there were two. In the three days riding from Truckee, CA. to Yosemite, we climbed over 11,000 feet. The day we reached the 10,000′ Tioga Pass (4,000′ climb) we had already climbed two summits and traveled 60 miles. We took a shot of whiskey and climbed the pass in two hours. Neither of us had been to Yosemite before, and to experience America’s most iconic landscape under our own power was overwhelming to say the least. We mocked European tourists pulling over at scenic vistas to smoke a cigarette before returning to their rented convertibles blasting techno. Passing RVs would do a double take at the faces we’d make in passing. Sometimes they’d honk when I’d drop my trousers.

Nearly ever National Park we visited was undergoing road construction. In Lassen we had to throw our bikes in the back of the pilot truck. We had to take a 3-hour detour in Glacier. But none was more prolific than Yosemite. Thirty miles of construction forced us to take a detour along the Merced River. Parked on the river bank, a hot red Harley burned into my mind. Later, pieces of the motorcycle spread shattered across the highway; the riders in no better shape. Staj and I were some of the first people on the scene of a triple-fatality accident. A trail of blood and oil traced back to an SUV, the driver hanging half-way out with her head split open. A cowboy boot tangled in green glass and red plastic rested 20 yards away from a woman wrapped around a barrier. Her partner wrapped around another. For the first time on the tour, I cried. It was powerful. I’ve been asked if I took photos. I didn’t, but if you ask me, I could paint a picture.

Later that night, camped in the nearby county fairgrounds, Staj and I were awoken by a freak rain storm. Racing to put on the rain fly, I stripped off my clothing to avoid soaked trousers in the morning. Galloping naked through the midnight sprinklers was strangely invigorating. In combination with the day’s earlier trauma, I felt more alive than ever before.

Memory of the accident remained vivid for days afterward, but we carried on. Life can be fleeting, and we were thankful to be living out a dream; an experience often lost in the throes of the societal rat race.

There’s a feeling when traveling by a bicycle, or any human-powered transportation for that matter, that camping fees should be expelled. When traveling by such difficult means, it should be one’s privilege to rest their head free of charge. But money-hungry government entities don’t see it that way. I’ve engaged in countless debates with rangers and camp hosts about this and they’d often give me the bullshit excuse, “doesn’t matter whether you walked in or have a 20′ trailer, a site’s a site.” In most places, this couldn’t be further from the truth, and none were more apparent than the trailerpark campground in Sequoia National Park. On a gravel island surrounded by a concrete river, the wonderful rangers designated a bike-only campsite the size of dinner table, incomplete with picnic table, fire pit and a discount. With our tent pitched two yards from the road, Staj and I were lulled to sleep by the broiling generators. In two days we’d be returning home for a short hiatus and, “some peace and quiet,” we joked.

The bicycle promised-land of Zion didn’t live up to it’s hype. Construction prohibited bicycles traveling through the park, but since no one offered to pick us up (including rangers) after an hour of hitchhiking we were left with no choice but to pedal up the dirt road anyways.

The highways of southern Utah are desolate; both in traffic and inhabitants. It was both a blessing and a curse. The lack of passing trucks was a nice change from the crowded roads of California and the peace and quiet fostered rhythm in riding. But the rivers and creeks were dry as a keg at a fraternity party. I had a water filter, but it was dead weight and we battled with water conservation as we rode through 90 degree heat in a region where water sources are 75 miles apart. I paced myself: one sip of water every mile post.

We took a four-mile detour to Natural Bridges National Monument to fill up on water. There we met Ted, a dirtbag who cooked us a wok full of curry and pre-sunrise egg breakfast.

By the time we reached our final park, Mesa Verde, the fall weather was beginning to roll in. For more than two months our rain gear remained packed in our panniers. No longer. Dark clouds and lightning guarded the nearby San Juan Mountains where we’d be finishing the tour. At night, huddled in our tent the explosive thunder made us feel small, but we were ready to battle it out. While the final two nights kept us hunkered in our tent, the daytime was like a picturesque postcard. During the casual climb to the top of our last pass, the 10,222′ Lizard Head, I counted down the mile posts. According to the mileage signs, the pass should have been another four miles from where we actually reached the top, but I’ve learned over the past 4,000 miles that the actual distances are always overshot. The final pass was one of the highest, and certainly the easiest.

From the top it was smooth sailing to the boxed-in town of Telluride where Staj grew up. We had the luxury of cruising in on a bike path and we were greeted by Staj’s enthusiastic mother wearing tie-dye pants and snapping photos.

The final few revolutions of the crankarms to our final destination is like a near death experience. Memories of the trip quickly flashed through my mind. In one single moment, I wanted to laugh, cry, sigh, whatever. But most importantly, I needed a beer.

“I am German, you know. It is time for beer.”

I break my focus from pitching the tent and squint up at Guenter, the sun flaring above his head. I nod in approval, but notice he’s drinking Coors. Should I be more upset about the fact that Guenter’s perception of American beer is indubitably skewed by drinking this swill or the very idea that a German has chosen to drink this sad excuse for beer?

“This is piss beer,” he notes. At least he knows. I take it upon myself to buy quality Oregon brew. This is Guenter’s first trip to the states, he ought to know we make good beer here too. I join Guenter during a break in the afternoon thunderstorm to tie a couple on and talk story. You don’t have to be German to drink under the sun, I tell him.

Guenter is currently on sabbatical and traveled from Stuttgart, Germany to pedal from British Columbia to Baja. How he got here, 200 miles inland, explains his travel philosophy. For several days prior, Guenter had repeatedly run into three cyclists also pedaling the coast. The trio, wanting a break from the saddle and eager to see Crater Lake, had rented a truck and were loading up when Guenter came rolling up. They offered him a ride and ten minutes later he was on his way. Guenter plans each day one pedal at a time. Waking up and riding his bike is all Guenter plans. Where he ends the day and begins the next is uncertain.

My girlfriend, Staj, and I wait outside Cali’s house. Minutes go by and no one answers the door. It’s the morning of Cali and I’s first of one practice ride before our 1,000 mile, month long bike trip together. I’m an hour late and wonder if she took off alone to teach me a lesson.

Five minutes later, the door swings open, Cali looking like she’d just been run through a clothes dryer full of sandpaper. We sit down and she tells me she’d spent the night puking after a jaunt through Silverton’s bar scene. She’s not sure about riding to Eugene today.

This is Staj’s first impression of the woman I’ll be spending the next month of pedaling through the Rocky Mountains with.

“I think your trip is going to be hard enough as it is…” I Iook at Staj and grin. I understand where she’s coming from, but I’ve spent some of my most brutal backcountry experiences laughing with Cali.

The Playground Tour would be no different, and we quickly realize it on the first day of the trip. We have a combined bike touring experience of zero days and we’re both riding clipless pedals for the first time. Altitude shouldn’t be a problem; we gave ourselves threes days of acclimating in Boulder, CO since leaving Portland, OR.

At six o’clock and 26 miles into the trip I lie on the shoulder of the road for two hours, wondering how I’m going to tell Ian, Wend’s marketing director who’s helped make this far-fetched trip happen, that I’m calling it quits on the first day. Another hour goes by and Cali finally shows up, walking her bike. We share a look. The look. Neither of us says anything and we commence trying to set up our ultralite tent, but its complex 3-pole system is beyond our capability and takes us 30 minutes to pitch. Inside the tent, I pat Cali on the back while she’s leaning halfway out puking. It’s all I can think to do, and we begin laughing hysterically.

Quitting right then and there ran wildly through both our minds that night, but neither of us verbalized it. We pushed on.

When things can’t get any worse, they have to get better. That’s the natural way of things and we relied on this theory. After day one, we never wanted to ride our bikes again, but the next day we saddled up and did whatever it took to make the other laugh and continued to do so for the next month and 1,500 miles. We’d sacrifice dignity if that’s what it took to keep morale high, and while I can count the heinous moments on one hand, the abundance of good times is immeasurable. More often than not, the adverse situations were the best.

Unfortunately, Cali’s time on the trip concluded halfway through. On August 3rd, Cali boarded a one-way plane to Afghanistan where she’s reporting as an embedded journalist with the Marines. She’s still there right now and according to the last update I received, she’s solo in the most dangerous area of the country. It’s a scary situation, but Cali’s probably in a foxhole laughing with her sock puppet.

Cali lies fetal in the front yard. Her parents are on their way to visit us in Missoula and I prepare myself for the well-deserved interrogation that awaits me. It was my idea to achieve our first century day today, and judging from her night spent puking out of the tent, I knew full well that maybe Cali wasn’t physically fit to ride a hundred miles… at least not today.

The Bagby’s silver sedan pulls up to the curb. Bill, Cali’s father, exits the vehicle, crosses the yard, and steps over his daughter, anxious to greet his old-time friend. I introduce myself. Bill gives me a firm handshake, his jaw is clenched with vigor accentuating his lower mandible, giving him an archetypal story-telling voice.

He asks if I’ve been taking care of his daughter. I give a half smile. Sarcasm? I wonder. Maybe Cali always lies fetal. I nod in response.

“Well, good,” he tells me and then begins sifting through his mind which stories he wants to tell. We’ve got three days, and judging from his wife Carla’s expressions, I’ll hear them all.

Bill is the type of person who’s great to have around a campfire or pull up a stool next to a bar. He’ll tell you stories of oil rigs in Nigeria or the reckoning of the White Devil as you drive through the mountains of central Montana.

Cali’s always been a storyteller herself, and now I understand why.

Seeking zen–achieving our chi–is what Cali and I envisioned our climb up Big Hole Pass would be. One yoga pose every mile is the key to hill-climbing enlightenment, we were told the night before.

The only thing we achieve is unnerving frustration and a skin that reeks of garlic and looks like a geologic hot spot of minuscule volcanoes. Out here in the Bitterroot Mountains, you best not forget your “Big Hole cologne,” or Deet.

Cali later finds out from Ken, one of the two yogis who suggested the technique, that he and Meaghan would not perform yoga at every mile post in the apocalyptic presence of mosquitoes. Cali and I were not that smart. We were so devout to seeking our balance that we rubbed whole cloves of garlic over all exposed skin to repel the blood-thirsty nuisances. We couldn’t quite put our finger on the logic behind drenching ourselves in garlic, but it probably has something to do with vampires.

This is not what enlightenment is supposed to look like.

Although we could not appropriately offer the sun our salutations, check out the video to find out what inspired us so much to think we could.

Packing a Bier stein on a 4,000 mile bike tour is impractical, but it sure would have been nice to have at the Lander Brewfest. Instead I’m deduced to admiring the off-white porcelain mug with a intricate pewter top of a Lander local.
He asks where mine is, and I explain my situation to which he introduces me to Mike Lowham. With an extensive touring resume of his own, Mike is also the founder and former owner of Laramie, Wyoming’s most devout bike shop, the Pedal House.

“During the Winter of 1989-90 my brother Doug called and asked if I would like to open a bike shop. One of Laramie’s existing shops had finished its ride and we figured we would get rich doing what we loved. We have not got rich, but we are still doing what we love-fixing bikes; selling bikes to new and old riders; building bikes for ourselves, friends and family; and of course most important still riding bikes!”

For the past week, a broken shift lever on Cali’s bike has demanded we manually shift her gears, reducing us to a debilitating speed on the rolling hills of central Wyoming. “It’ll be a miracle if we find a bar end shifter here,” I tell Cali.

The rain-soaked brewfest on the Lander High School soccer fields turns out to be a place where miracles happen, as Mike invites us over to his home workshop. Light dances around the full wall of bike parts Mike’s collected over the years while the old wood stove dries our pruned fingers. We drink and share stories as Mike drunkenly fidgets with an old bar-end shifter. He files, twists, pushes and pulls, but clouds of smoke and cold beers interrupt his concentration. He hesitates to throw in the tall and continue in the morning, knowing full well the incomplete project will dance around with heavy feet in his conscious all night.

Last night’s gravitational pull keeps me wrapped up in my sleeping bag till 11 a.m. the following morning. By the time we pick up donuts and find our way back to Mike’s house, Cali’s bike hangs in the bike stand, shifting perfectly. Mike won’t accept any money in return, he’s been in our situation before, and the satisfaction of getting us back on the road is payment enough.

The twilight hour is upon us and we’re speeding up the Going-To-the-Sun Highway towards Logan Pass in Glacier National Park to catch Montana’s big sky magic.

Only tonight, the we failed the troll’s riddle and we weren’t allowed over the pass. Shane, one of our hosts, had told us they were closing the pass at 10:30pm for construction purposes. Ty, a boat captain for “Montana’s Mountain Navy” on Glacier’s St. Mary Lake, has heard no such thing.

So we stay on Silver Dollar beach a while longer, picking perfect stones from the millions of flat rocks along the beach and skipping them across the glass. Cali, whom is yet to embrace the beauty of skipping stones, mimics our therapeutic practice. Many tries later, however, our focus is broken by her continuous giddy inquiry; “did you see that one!?”

Having chosen stones over guaranteed return travel back over the pass, we’re now locked into the confines of having to trace the southern border of Glacier – an extra hour worth of travel and our only way back home.

Shortly into the drive, the harvest moon appears atop a rolling hill, initially mistaken for a road sign until it continues to lift into the sky.

“The bloody moon. Wicked things will come your way,” Cali tells me. Maybe not so wicked, but it’s midnight, we’re still an hour and a half away and our rafting trip leaves at 7:00am.

Having been another long day on the road, Cali and I are both exhausted and Willie Nelson and Fleetwood Mac just aren’t cutting it. My eyes are struggling to remain fixated on the road after nearly clipping a horse’s ass several miles back but the weight of the day is adds to gravity’s pull. Thus begins story time.

An hour later and with a whole new perspective of my cycling partner, we make a left turn near West Glacier Grill, the home stretch, or so we think. We idle past long dark driveways, squinting our eyes trying to make out the silhouettes or recognizable houses. The only problem is we were only here once before and nothing seems recognizable.

We spend twenty minutes driving down long driveways with “Posted, No Trespassing Signs,” hoping one of them will lead us to our hosts, Shane and Hilary’s, home. But our strategy is to no avail and we resort to calling Hilary, at 2:00am.

We finally arrive, sleep depraved and embarrassed.

“Lost Cascadia, lost in Montana,” Hilary jokes. Now she knows where the name comes from…

I peek my head under the tent’s rainfly, carefully avoiding the cowpies. Immediately, I’m engaged in a stare down with a wet and disgruntled cow. There’s an entire herd of them surrounding our tent. Cali wakes up quicker than she has the entire trip, frantically begins packing and tells me to take my red coat off.

This is Wyoming. Natural shelter does not exist. Last night we’re camped in a cow pasture, fifteen yards from heavily trafficked railroad tracks. The night before we ate McDonalds french fries sandwiched between two trailer parks at the KOA in Laramie,WY.

In the first week of the Playground Tour, Cali and I are already neck deep in the oddities of bicycle touring. The day after waking up in a cow pasture, we’re drinking craft brew on the high school soccer field in Lander, WY with a hundred other muddy drunkards.

After making a quick comment on a surly looking fellows bier stein, Cali and I find ourselves in the workshop of the former owner of the Pedal House in Laramie, WY. Coincidentally, earlier that day I was explaining how much of a miracle it’d be to track down a bar end shifter in the middle of Wyoming. Now we’re drinking beers, shooting the shit and getting Cali’s bike back in top shape without spending a dime.

The road on two wheels is a funny, wonderful place.

Finally figured out what the pockets on the back of my Ibex Indie Jersey are for.

Some days on the road are magical. The road seems to constantly curve downwards towards the horizon where the sun be shinin.’ Other days, you push up one false summit after another was the wind slaps you in the face so hard you have to reapply lip balm every ten minutes.

Despite these differences, however, each day shares one commonality; the desire for a cold beer.

The Playground Tour is a petroleum-free (despite a lift here and there) trip to fourteen National Parks, but it cannot be considered “fuel-less,” for I run on beer. One of the beautiful things about touring the western frontier is the abundance of local fuel. So much so, that I limit myself to only the consumption of beer from the state I’m currently in. Thus far, the beer has been great, but that’s not without saying it’s not always easy to bypass the Deschutes Green Lakes, or Bridgeport IPA.

Mid-day stop at Oskar Blues Brewery. Lyons, Colorado.

So, with all the hoopla about mileage these days, you might ask what my MPB (miles per beer) is. Well, that’s where the days terrain and elements come into play. Often times after a clear day of downhill, all it takes is one relaxing beer in cahoots with the days natural high to put me where I need to be. Other days when my toes feel like pins and needles and the wind has made me its bitch, I need to knock back a few more to become my own man again.

Wrappin' up a hard days ride.

There’s an equilibrium to be achieved between beer and bicycles. One’s soul must receive the same lubrication as their bicycle chain in order for all components to function efficiently. So without further adieu, I’m off to the gas station to pick up a six-pack.

Cheers.