Paul E. Fallon's Blog, page 57

Trip Log – Day 198 – Tempe, AZ to Goodyear, AZ

January 12, 2016 – Sun, 55 degrees

Miles Today: 38

Miles to Date: 10,180

States to Date: 26

Back on the road again…

Getting back on my bike required a slew of transportation modes. Seems like I used everything except automobiles. During the eight weeks I was home visiting family, doing construction projects, and gaining ten pounds eating my housemate’s incredible cooking, Landry’s Cycles in Tempe refurbished Surly. When they called to confirm the repairs they explained the kind lady from the airport did, indeed, deliver the bike lock that TSA rejected when I flew home in November. Therefore, first thing I did upon landing at Sky Harbor Airport was to check information. Sure enough, Glenda was working. I had the pleasure of thanking her in person and feeling that my trip’s good mojo was intact after my hiatus.

Glenda explained that the Metro Valley bus drivers were on strike. Light rail was running as usual and managers were operating buses on half schedule. My motel was near the trolley, but I rose early the next morning (jet lag and all) so had plenty of time to make slow bus connections. There was no sight of the Sixteenth Street bus and I am too impatient to sit on a cold bench in the dark (sun rise is very late in Phoenix this time of year). I decided to walk between stops and keep an eye out for the bus.

 

The neighborhood proved fascinating, full of cool murals. My walk became a hike. No buses ever came. Ultimately I walked full eight miles to Southern Blvd. But the morning was crisp and bright. I had all kinds of time, and just one pannier on my shoulder. Still, I was glad the eastbound 61 came along Southern Blvd and transported me ten miles to Landry’s. Distances in Phoenix are crazy long. Eighteen miles in Boston would get me near the I-495 outer loop. In Phoenix, eighteen mile is just a portion of the seemingly endless gird of wide roads.

Surly! It was so great to be reunited with my bike. She’s practically new: new wheels, tires, bearings, derailleur, chain, sprocket, you name it. Thank goodness bike repairs run about 10% of car repairs. We didn’t have time to dawdle because I had a 2:00 p.m. presentation at a charter school in Goodyear – a mere 34 miles.

Beside being immense, Phoenix is also pancake flat and easy to navigate. The sprits gave me a tailwind. I was so pleased to be back on the bike I covered the distance without a break. I arrived at BASIS Goodyear in time for a tour before a raucous hour talking about my trip and my question to some of the most engaging ten year olds I’ve ever met. I answered every lingering question (my favorite: Do you carry soap?) and talked with faculty. By the time I realized I forgot to eat lunch, it was already four.

No problem. I took my short ride to my hosts, Becca and Mike Beaulieu. I’m pretty good at logistics, but their coordination skills dazzled me. Mike is the Operations Manager at the brand new BASIS Goodyear, Becca teaches kindergarten there. Daughter Elena attends BASIS. Son, Nolan, is just three months old, in his second day of home day care since Becca returned to work. And, they just moved to a new house. Nonplussed by anything, they invited me to stay with them. Becca made a delicious dinner, while supporting baby Nolan on her hip. Afterwards Mike and I played with Candy Land with Elena. It seemed appropriate that I came in last. After all, I am colorblind.

The Value of an Older Brother

I suppose younger brothers have their merits. Bill Fallon, who turns 65 today, had three of them. Pete, a year younger, was his buddy. They shared friends, sports, and were comrades in crime and prank. I was four years junior, a tagalong kid too small to be useful in play, but an easy target. Tim was a dozen years younger than eldest Bill, which practically put him in another generation. Tim was our mascot, our toy.

Bill never received the value of having an older brother. On a day-to-day basis, older brother’s wreck havoc in a young boy’s life. Bill and Pete punched, flicked, and teased me constantly. But every once in a while, my older brother could do things that justified all my pain.

Bill always had flair and style beyond his means. The summer I was in seventh grade, he owned a Porsche. The chronology of this makes no sense, since he would have still been in high school in a town where few high school boys owned cars, let along Porsches. But I know for truth he owned a vintage Porsche, because he gave me the ride of my life.

Middle school was time to ask girls out on dates. I was horrified by the whole idea, but if there ever was an eager conformist, that was me. I called Gale Gibadlo and asked her out to a movie. Yikes, she said yes. My palms started sweating the moment I put down the phone. For the next four days I worried about every possible problem. What would I say to her? What if I popped a zit? Did I have to hold her hand throughout the entire movie? Wouldn’t the armrest get in the way?

After my second sleepless night I realized entirely new problems – logistical ones. Gale lived four miles away; the movie theater was in the opposite direction. How was I going to pick her up and deliver her back home? I couldn’t take my bike.

I was stowed away in the basement, quivering on my balance board doing my eye strengthening exercises, when Billy popped downstairs. “Why are you so quiet, Shorty?” We lived in a house where silence was a sin, if not a downright crime. I was so worried about my upcoming date (which I considered to be nothing less than the inevitable nuptial bond between Gale and me, though I hardly knew her and wasn’t at all sure I liked her). I told Bill my dilemma. “No problem, Shorty, I’ll drive.”

Immediately, my palms dried. Two days later we showed up at Gale’s in Bill’s Porsche convertible. She was impressed. My cheerful chauffeur picked up the small talk whenever the conversation lagged. Since it was a two-seater, Gale had to sit on my lap, which seemed appropriately intimate. I had never been so close to a girl. I’m sure she felt the uncontrollable lap pressure thirteen-year-old boys endure all day and most nights. I figured she’d take it as a compliment.

Thanks to Bill, the date was a complete success. Gale and I went out a few more times that summer. The first girl I kissed tasted like lanolin. We never gained enough traction to bother breaking up; I have no idea where she is now. In keeping with his feast or famine manner, Bill lost the Porsche. He had other cars; lost a few of them as well. Nothing remains of my first date but memory, and gratitude for having an older brother.

 

New Years Greetings – 2016

New Year is a time of fresh starts and resolution, the determination to do things better than last year. But 2016 feels different to me, as I am in the middle of things. Rather than seeking the new, I look forward to finishing what I’ve begun.

On January 12, 2016 I will continue my 48-state bicycle trip. I’ll pick up in Phoenix and travel along the Deep South: Tucson, El Paso, San Antonio, Austin, Houston, New Orleans, to Miami. In the spring I hope to travel north through Georgia and the Carolinas and then pedal the ‘inner loop’ back west to visit Atlanta, Nashville, Birmingham, Jackson, Memphis, Little Rock, Fort Smith, Oklahoma City, Dallas and on to Levelland, TX where I lived many years ago. My route gets zero points for efficiency.

If I still have steam, I will continue to Albuquerque and back to Denver in time for the 2016 Courage Classic in July before the final stretch back east through Kansas, and Missouri, the Mid-West, Virginia and finally, up the Eastern Seaboard.

As always, I appreciate suggestions of people to interview or stay with along the way; and am happy to vary my route accordingly. Please send any referrals my way and I will seek out friends, family, and friends-of-friends along my route.

On New Year, I would like to share this poem that Mark Jussaume sent me about the nature of travel. Whether 2016 takes you far afield, or allows you to stay tight at home, I wish all of you and your families a very Happy New Year.

The Art of Traveling by Wilfred A. Peterson

When you pack your bags to explore the beauties of your own country or to travel around the world, consider these keys to a happy journey.

Travel lightly. You are not traveling for people to see you!

Travel Slowly. Jet planes are for getting places, not seeing places. Take time to absorb the beauty and inspiration of a mountain or a cathedral.

Travel Expectantly. Every place you visit is like a surprise package to be opened. Untie the strings with an expectation.

Travel Hopefully. “To travel hopefully,” wrote Robert Louis Stevenson, ’is better than to arrive.”

Travel humbly. Visit people and places with reverence and respect for their traditions and ways of Life.

Travel Courteously. Consideration for your fellow travellers and your hosts will smooth the way through the most difficult days.

Travel gratefully. Show appreciation by the many things that are being done by others for your enjoyment and comfort.

Travel with an open mind. Leave your prejudice at home.

Travel with curiosity. It is not how far you go, but how deeply you go that mines the gold of experience. Thoreau wrote a big book about tiny Walden Pond.

Travel with imagination. As the old Spanish proverb puts it, “He who would bring home the wealth of the Indies must carry the wealth of the Indies with him.”

Where is The Awkward Pose?

Greetings Readers –

The Awkward Pose is taking a break through December and into January, when I plan to continue by bicycle journey and continue writing the Trip Blog again.

If you are interested in reading responses I’ve received to my question, How will we live tomorrow? check out www.howwillwelivetomorrow.com, which has hundreds of individual responses and profiles about the most intriguing people I’ve met.

 

I look forward to posting again after the new year.

Trip Log – Day 197 – Scottsdale, AZ to Tempe, AZ

November 18, 2015 – Sun, 65 degrees

Miles Today: 39

Miles to Date: 10,142

States to Date: 26

My hosts, Janice and Stew, are long time Scottsdale residents who suggested I visit Pablo Soleri’s studio, only a few miles away from their home. Soleri was an architectural darling back when I was in graduate school. His writings about ecological architecture and constructing Arcosanti, a self-sustaining city in the desert north of Phoenix, were visionary.

  

Unfortunately, they still are. Soleri is now best known for his beautiful bells and wind chimes, which craftsmen devotees still create by hand at his Pleasant Valley Studio. As I strolled through the fascinating but weird place, I couldn’t help but think about my question. Soleri had great insights and ideas, but he dealt in the future, promoting ideas untethered to contemporary reality. Forty years on, his devotees are still hawking bells to finance construction of a conceptual city. I’ve always been more interested in tomorrow, which is always a direct outgrowth of today and starts from where we are.

I left Soleri’s fantasy world to grapple with a hard reality that all tour cyclists fear – motorhomes. I’d sent an interview request to Camper World, one of the largest dealers along Mesa’s RV mile. But sales people and managers hot pototoed me until I stopped bothering trying to get any perspective on the RV industry and just enjoyed touring the models. Van conversions are nifty but feel like camping. Small motor homes, in the $100,000 range, have plastic laminate partitions and dingy showers. If you want top of the line, with extensions to make your ride twelve feet ride when parked, luxury leather sofas, and a full French door refrigerator, the list price is $405,000. From now on, when these behemoths storm me down the road, at least I’ll know I’m being unbalanced by a whole lot of dough.

  

Since today was my last riding day for some time I indulged in Golden Corral Buffet, two hours of pretty good food that, cumulatively, constituted a pig-out. When I couldn’t delay any longer, I rode my bike to Landis Cyclery, checked Surly in for a major overhaul, changed into street clothes, caught one bus, then another, transferred to light rail, and got to the airport.

Everything was smooth until I reached security. The TSA agent analyzed my bike lock and decided I couldn’t carry it on. At $25 each way, it was hardly worth checking. I considered locking it to an airport bike rack, hoping it wouldn’t get hacksawed off in my absence, until an Information agent offered to deliver it to the bike store for me. Glenda and I became fast friends. I learned all about her grandkids, her daughter-in-laws spending habits and growing up in Pennsylvania. Even though I was separated from my trusty Surly, Glenda proved to be yet another bicycle Samaritan. At least I hope so. I won’t know for sure until I return to Phoenix and see if my lock found my bike.

A misplaced bike lock is the lame cliffhanger to this chapter of my journey, a journey that will never grace the silver screen because my mishaps are dramatically trivial compared to the goodness and light I have experience everywhere.

This is my last Trip Log until I return to Phoenix in January. I hope readers will continue to enjoy profiles and responses. And if you haven’t contributed your thoughts to my question, make that your end-of year resolution. How will we live tomorrow?

Trip Log – Day 196 –Scottsdale, AZ

November 17, 2015 – Sun, 60 degrees

Miles Today: 26

Miles to Date: 10,103

States to Date: 26

Lifestyles of the rich and famous! I loitered all morning at my hosts’ house, overlooking the pool and golf course in the backyard. Madeline was gracious to let me stay so that I could take my radio interview on Nature Bat’s Last from her house instead of having to find a quiet place for my call-in on the streets.

Afterward, I took off to explore Arizona’s tony neighborhoods and was not disappointed. San Francisco, New York, LA, even Seattle may have higher real estate prices, but they can’t match the pizzazz that Scottsdale’s and Pleasant Valley’s immense lots and sprawling homes deliver. True, some houses are ill proportioned; you can’t make a successful 10,000 square foot statement by just pumping up a 2,000 square model and adding a string of garages. But many of the residences are architecturally striking; with corrugated metal, weathered steel and crisp stucco that fits the desert well. Although the scale of these low-lying mansions is conspicuous beyond reason, I appreciate that most people in Phoenix don’t succumb to the California penchant to grow lawns where they don’t belong. The gravel, sand, and native plant landscaping is terrific.

  

I wound my way to the Arizona Biltmore, Frank Lloyd Wright’s lavish 1920’s resort. Everything about it is classy. The staff was very accommodating to a guy who clearly wasn’t registering for a room; the valet kept a personal eye on my bike. The Biltmore turned out to be one of my favorite Wright buildings, beautifully conceived and exquisitely executed. It may be the best example of his two dominant aesthetic ideas, as it was built toward the end of his Prairie / Usonian work and at the beginning of his larger scale, surface ornamented work.

The Biltmore plan and massing grow out of the Prairie tradition, albeit with a Southwest sensibility, while the wonderful use of decorative modular block precursors his work at Marin County and the Guggenheim. In addition to the great architecture, there are cool photos of Clark Gable, Rita Hayworth, Bob Hope, and other glitterati to cement Biltmore’s cultural status. Every President since Herbert Hoover has stayed there.

  

On the way to my second Scottsdale host, I stopped at the Barry Goldwater Memorial. Though he doesn’t merit a Presidential Library, the affluent citizens on this area have erected an elaborate memorial to their favorite son, which includes two marble paths with inlaid bronze letters. Problem is, the quote about the natural beauty of the West is banal, while the one about preserving our nation’s security is fearfully bellicose. Like all of us, Goldwater reflected his origins. In his case, individualism and emphasis on private property led to a logical preoccupation with security. I am glad to be rolling along with everything I need and little that anyone else wants.

Trip Log – Day 195 – Sun City, AZ to Scottsdale, AZ

November 16, 2015 – Clouds, 55 degrees

Miles Today: 48

Miles to Date: 10,077

States to Date: 26

When I was a pudgy seven-year-old with a girder & panel construction set and a binder full of house plan sketches, Del Webb was on the cover of Time Magazine. This meant that Del spent a week in the center spot on our coffee table. I read every word in the five-page spread about the master developer who built casinos, museums, missile silos, and, ultimately, turned raw desert into an entire community dedicated to adult play. Despite building Las Vegas’ Flamingo Hotel, the LA Museum of Art, and our country’s first enclosed shopping mall, Del Webb’s boldest stroke was Sun City’s curved streets lined with pastel cottages. It wasn’t the houses so much as the idea. Retirement wasn’t an end; it was a beginning; another opportunity for Americans to reinvent themselves. I studied the photos of grey-haired men playing shuffleboard and the big-haired women laughing at bingo. I didn’t know anyone like them, but I liked the idea of escaping my childhood home of too much noise and too many stairs, of living in perpetual sun with a pool and golf course in my backyard. I didn’t know then that swimming makes me claustrophobic or that I’d never break 140 in golf.

Three years later my grandmother, recent widow, became the first resident of Leisure Village in Lakewood, NJ, a pastoral gated community with lakes and pools and ceramics studios. In no time I stretched the limits of my bicycle adventures and rode ten miles from Toms River to spend the afternoon with my beloved grandmother and her newfound friends; all single women. A world of flowered print dresses, root beer floats, and afternoon bridge that I adored.

I’m almost the same age as my grandmother when she joined the active retirement community she lived in for 28 years; the longest she lived any place in her life. In the past 55 plus years we’ve all come to consider retirement a distinct phase of life, a phase that gets longer every year. Sun City, and the thousands of other 55 and older communities across our country, played a significant role in shaping that view. Of all the ‘Utopian’ communities I’ve visited – Oneida, Seventh-day Adventist, Chrysalis Cooperative – none has had as broad an impact on how we live today, and tomorrow, as Sun City. Ironically, Del Webb wasn’t trying to do anything utopian at all. He was just trying to make a buck.

I spent a leisurely morning with my Sun City hosts Trudy and Larry. Larry had to leave for a 9:10 tee time. Trudy was around until Ukulele club in the afternoon, followed by her first ever voice lesson and a small group for dinner. I pedaled through acres of winding streets of single story homes to interview the Director of the Sun City Visitor Center. Like everyone who works in Sun City’s seven recreation centers or eight golf courses, Paul Hermann wears a loud Hawaiian shirt. Who knew Trader Joe’s stole their uniform concept from a retirement community?

I visited the Sun City Museum, located in the first model home. It was boxy and small, not nearly so spacious as my youth envisioned. Still, the midcentury modernity appealed to the times: 100,000 people visited Sun City on opening weekend and Del Webb sold 12,000 houses within the first year.

  

I pedaled east along the Arizona Canal Path, through Glendale, Phoenix, and Paradise Valley into Scottsdale. I left the over 55 crowd behind and stayed with a group of PA students in the their 20’s. The weather was unseasonably cold and overcast. The sun finally broke through very late in the day. Odd that it never shone in Sun City.

Trip Log – Day 194 –Wickenburg, AZ to Sun City, AZ

November 15, 2015 – Rain, 55 degrees

Miles Today: 38

Miles to Date: 10,029

States to Date: 26

I arrived in Sun City in the rain. Which only goes to proves that wherever I go in this country, the weather is off kilter. The ride was easy and uneventful, which is the best one can hope for on a day more akin to New England spring than Arizona autumn. No matter, because I arrived at my hosts’ safe and on time, took a warm shower, enjoyed a great meal and even better conversation, toasted surpassing my 10,000 mile mark, and watched the Arizona Cardinals snatch victory from the Seattle Seahawks. Sorry to be fickle Seattle; my allegiances move along with me.

 

Trip Log – Day 193 – Quartzite, AZ to Wickenburg, AZ

November 14, 2015 – Sun, 70 degrees

Miles Today: 94

Miles to Date: 9,991

States to Date: 26

The distance was great but the road was smooth and oh, so straight. The sun was bright but not hot, the breeze benign. The rises steady, the falls gentle. The little towns harbored quirky Western charm. Except Aquila, which is too poor to enchant. Coyotes and quail, snakes and jackrabbits crossed my path. Cacti and thistle spread out for miles cottonwood and sage lined the washes.

By midafternoon my legs churned mechanically. My mind drifted from the pavement. I thought of everything and nothing. It’s a Lazy Afternoon spun in my head. The miles clicked by.

      

Trip Log – Day 192 –Yuma, AZ to Quartzite, AZ

November 13, 2015 – Sun, 70 degrees

Miles Today: 76

Miles to Date: 9,897

States to Date: 25

There is no way to champion the wind. It must be accommodated and respected. Seventy-five miles with a moderate grade through gorgeous desert could be pleasant. But when you’re facing the prevailing wind the entire day, all you can do is plan for a slow-go and endure.

Fortunately I planned well. I was up before down. My couchsurfing host Michael made the most exquisite breakfast. I was on the road by seven, before the sun peaked over the mountains. The only malady I’ve had this trip has been a persistent scratchy throat, the result of so much air rushing through me. I try to ride with my mouth closed, but my throat is still coarse at the end of each day. This morning, after two days in the desert, my scratchy throat turned into a full-blown cold despite ten hours sleep. I had runny nose, clogged head, and whisper voice. Fortunately, it wasn’t flu – no achy legs – so I pedaled off.

 

The light breeze from the north turned into a steady wind by nine and a flag stiffening current by ten. The invisible force came at me strong and consistent, but I kept moving. I hit the halfway point at noon and sat for ten minutes on gravel in the sun, downing a bottle of water and finishing off a bag of trail mix. Ten miles further on I came upon the day’s only services – a seasonal burger and ice cream stand. I enjoyed my first date shake and rested with the proprietor, a man of many stories. Feeling the sun begin to descend, I pulled myself away for the final thirty miles.

 

I reached Quartzite at five. Surely one of the oddest places I have been. Quartzite’s a tiny town along Interstate 10, but in winter the population swells to a hundred thousand with snowbirds who camp inexpensively. In Yuma, a place to park your RV for a winter month costs several hundred dollars, which includes the social center, shuffleboard, and a pool. Folks park their RV’s in the desert around Quartzite for an entire season for $125. They aren’t connected to anything. Freelancers refuel generators and empty sewer connections. You make whatever community you want. Closer to the freeway, RV’s sit on paved lots, like a drive-in theater, with posts for electricity. No trees, no green; just a field of concrete for motor homes.

  

Quartzite is just coming alive this time of year. Portable buildings and big tents will become hardware stores, vape shops, even gun permit stores. Snowbirds flock south, Quartzite swells, and next spring it will contract again.

I stopped at Love’ Country Store before heading to my Super 8 for the night. The place has absolutely nothing country about it, but it’s a fascinating view of Interstate America. Traveling families, gangs of guys, homeless people in cluttered cars. I decided to celebrate my success in navigating the wind, and soothe my scratchy throat, with an ice cream dinner.  Excellent choice.